We walked through another small wooden door out onto a narrow cliff top path, which led through a dense thicket of gorse bushes and brambles to a small clearing. We stopped there and looked out over the vast expanse of slate-gray sea, stretching far off into the hazy horizon beyond.
It was, indeed, spectacular. The tide was out, and below us was a dizzying drop down to the exposed seabed, a sheet of cratered rock like a slimy brown moon, pitted, turreted, treacherous. Around it hung a curtain of yellow cliffs, the soft limestone layered like mortarless bricks on a half-demolished building.
Without thinking, I caught my breath and took a step back from the edge of the cliff. There was no form of fencing or hedging between us and the abyss, and I wished there was.
“I know,” said Arianrhod. “It’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “As long as I keep away from the edge. I don’t have much of a head for heights, I’m afraid.”
We gazed out in silence at the sea. Then I looked down and noticed there were some steps and a handrail cut into the side of the cliff, leading down to a jetty that stuck out over the rocks below.
“Can you get down there?” I asked. “Not that I’m thinking of trying.”
Arianrhod laughed. “It’s safer than it looks, actually. We often go down and swim off the jetty out there in the summer. Even at this time of year, if the weather’s good. The sea’s warmed up by now. I mean, when I say warm . . .” She laughed again. She seemed to have a habit of ending, or rather not ending, her sentences with a laugh.
She led me over to the top of the steps, and I peered down at them cautiously. Now that I was close up to them, I could see they were cut quite deep into the rock. With one hand on the rail, they’d be fairly safe, if a little slippery. Even so, it was a very long way down to the sea.
“I really must be getting on,” I said. “I’d like to be home before it gets dark.”
“Of course. It’s getting late. I hadn’t realized . . .” Another unfinished sentence. Another laugh.
I was about to turn and go when I noticed there was a little plaque at the top of the steps, with a name and a date inscribed on it: ELSA LINDBERG 1971–1990. Below it some words in a foreign language. A Nordic one, by the look of the As with little circles on the top, and the Os with umlauts over them.
“What’s this?”
“Oh.” She paused a moment. “Very sad. A young girl, a tourist from Sweden, I believe. It was a long time ago. There’ve been a few casualties here over the years, I’m sorry to say. Mostly people who swim out too far. The currents can be very treacherous.”
There was something offhand in the way she spoke that contrasted with the usual intensity of her manner. I wondered whether the accident had upset her more than she was letting on.
“I can imagine.” For a moment an image of the girl, and of her cold, lonely death out there in the slate-gray waters, flashed through my mind. But it didn’t do to dwell on it, so after a moment I added, “Come on. Let’s go.”
As we walked back up the path I took a last glance down at the steps and out to sea. In the short time we’d been there the tide seemed to have moved in, stealthily, without me noticing, so that the water was now approaching the bottom of the cliffs. I shivered involuntarily. I was glad to be leaving.
6
When I got home, after a tedious drive back up the motorway, the house was empty. I checked my phone and found two messages. Bob was working late—no surprise there—and Nella had gone out with her friends. Rose, I knew, was off on a school outing to see a play. They’d both arranged for Bob to pick them up on his way home. There was nothing for me to do, no one who needed me. I could relax if I wanted to, please myself, have some “me” time, as the women’s magazines call it: pour myself a drink, take a long, hot bath, cook myself a dish the girls don’t like—risotto, perhaps, or soup—read something undemanding, and get an early night.
Tonight, however, I didn’t want any “me” time. I wanted to be out and about, with people around me, lights, noise, chatter. Anything to prevent me from thinking too hard, to dim the memory of my trip to the Morgan place: that odd house, those odd people, and my odd part in their lives. And, luckily enough, it was Friday.
A group of my friends, all women, meet up regularly on Friday nights for a drink at our local arts center. Sometimes we eat there, or take in a film, but mostly we just sit around talking, winding down at the end of a busy week. There are about six of us in all, but often one or two of us are missing. It’s a relaxed, simple arrangement: you go if you feel like it, and not if you don’t. I made a quick phone call to a friend, Mari Jones, to check whether she would be there, and when she told me she would—but later, after she’d eaten—I decided to do the same.
When I got to the arts center it was already getting on toward ten. The place was packed, but my friends had found a table in a quiet corner of the foyer. I said hello, asked if anyone wanted a drink, took a couple of orders, and went up to the bar. After a moment’s deliberation I decided to have a half of Reverend James, the local brew, named after a Victorian saver of souls with a sideline in selling beer.
I brought my drink back to the table and sat down. The conversation was in full flow, dominated as usual by Mari. An actress with a steady career in Welsh-language theater, television, and radio, she was loud, and funny, and glamorous; and if sometimes she talked a little too much and laughed a little too long, I made allowances for her, because she was warm and expansive, and generally larger than life. Sitting next to her was Sharon, an American academic who worked at the university. The polar opposite of Mari, Sharon was quiet, thoughtful, and bookish. The others who had turned up that night were Polly, a full-time homemaker—well, it’s better than “housewife,” isn’t it?—and Catrin, who ran a vintage-clothes shop in the Arcades and was the source of many of my outfits.
I listened as Mari held forth, laughing with the others as she mimicked the absurd pomposities of the theater director she’d been working with that week. As time went on, the conversation around the table became more animated, but I found it hard to join in. My head was full of what had happened that day. I couldn’t discuss what I’d seen of Gwydion and his family life, of course, because he was my client, but I couldn’t put it out of my mind either. So, instead, I began to probe Mari on the subject of the Morgans’ place in the acting world.
“Your director. He’s not this guy Evan Morgan, is he?”
“No.” Mari gave a wry grin. “Why d’you ask?”
“Oh, no reason. He’s the only Welsh theater director I’ve ever heard of, that’s all.”
“I wish it was.” Mari sighed. “Evan’s brilliant, absolutely brilliant. Best director I’ve ever worked with, actually.” She paused for a moment. “Strange guy, of course. Used to have a terrible drink problem. Vile temper at times. And he’s a dreadful womanizer.”
She hesitated. I waited. I knew there was more to come. Mari isn’t the soul of discretion, which I suppose was the reason I’d been pumping her for information.
“In fact, I had a bit of a—” She stopped in mid-sentence, a coy smile playing about her lips.
I didn’t say anything. I had a feeling she wouldn’t need prompting.
“It was nothing, really,” she went on, after a brief pause. “Just a quick fling, years ago. There was no future in it.” She sighed again. “A lot of fun, though, at the time.”
I waited again. And there was more, as I knew there would be.
“Haven’t seen him for ages.” She hesitated. “There was some kind of scandal, I seem to remember, a while back. Something about . . . I don’t know, a young girl. Surprise, surprise. Anyway, it was all hushed up. He’s doing incredibly well for himself these days—up for a knighthood, apparently.” Another brief pause. “But he’s not a terribly happy man, by all accounts. Dreadful marriage. His wife’s one of those posh Anglo-Welshies from up the borders.”
Mari stopped, took a sip of her gin and tonic, and c
ontinued. “Arianrhod Meredith. She was very young when they got together. Very beautiful. Evan had great ambitions for her at first, but she ended up just being his wife, giving parties for his friends . . .”
I felt a stab of sympathy for Arianrhod, but Mari was in full flow now and I knew better than to interrupt.
“And then, when she got older, and lost her looks, that was it. She dropped out of sight completely. Stopped socializing, everything. She’s pretty much of a recluse these days, I believe. But she and Evan are still together. And he’s still putting it about, so I hear.” She frowned. “Shit relationship, but somehow it’s lasted.”
“Any children?” I shouldn’t have asked, but my curiosity as to what she’d say got the better of me.
“Just one son, Gwydion. Absolutely gorgeous, like his dad used to be. Sex on a stick. Jesus, I wouldn’t mind . . .” Mari checked herself. “He’s a good actor, too. Could do a lot better for himself, if he used his father’s contacts, but he won’t. Apparently he absolutely hates Evan, because of the way he treats Arianrhod. You can’t blame him, really.”
I didn’t ask any more questions. Gwydion was my client, and listening to Mari’s gossip about his family setup made me feel curiously disloyal.
Sensing my reluctance to pursue the conversation, Mari shrugged, then picked up her cigarettes and her lighter. “Listen, I’m going outside for a fag. Back in a mo. I’ll get you a drink on the way back, if you like. What are you having?”
“I’m fine, thanks. I’m driving.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, take a cab home. Leave the car here. It’s Friday night, isn’t it.”
Leaving her car somewhere and coming back to get it next day was the sort of thing Mari did regularly. Now in her late forties, she was still drinking, smoking, staying out late, getting up late, pleasing herself. She was divorced and her children had left home, but she didn’t seem to be lonely. She was immensely sociable and continued to have various romantic liaisons on the go. In some ways I envied her, but I knew I wasn’t in the least like her. I like socializing, up to a point, but I also need peace and quiet, and time to think. And if I didn’t have a family to go home to at night, I’d definitely be lonely. Very lonely.
“I think I’ll get back actually,” I replied. “I’ll come out with you.”
I said my good-byes, apologizing to Polly that we hadn’t had time for a proper chat, but she didn’t seem to mind. She and Catrin were deep in conversation with Sharon and hardly looked up as we left.
Outside, it was raining. We stood under the eaves of the building, and Mari lit up, inhaling deeply. She held the smoke in her lungs for a moment and then exhaled slowly, with a sigh of pleasure. I watched, envious of her ability to savor the sensation.
“Can I have one?”
Mari looked surprised. “But you don’t smoke.”
“I know. But I’ll have one anyway.”
She offered me the pack and I took a cigarette. She held out the lighter and I bent forward, shielding the flame with my hand.
“Anything wrong?” she said as I straightened up.
“Yes,” I said. I sucked on the cigarette, then blew out the smoke, coughing a little as I did. “Bob’s been unfaithful to me. He’s slept with another woman.”
“Bloody hell. What happened?”
I hesitated. As I’ve said, Mari’s not the soul of discretion. But she’s not malicious, not in the least, and I needed to talk to someone. What’s more, I was still so angry with Bob that, to be honest, I didn’t care who knew what he’d done.
I took another drag on the cigarette, even though my head was starting to spin.
“Well, he went off to this conference a few weeks ago. In Munich. When he came back he was in a weird mood, and then, after a few days, he confessed that he’d had a one-night stand.”
“The bastard.” Mari was outraged. “Who was she?”
“One of the translators at the conference. German, I think. Younger than me, a lot younger. About thirty. ‘Someone of no significance,’ he called her.”
“Has he ever done this before?”
“No.” I paused. “At least, he says he hasn’t. Though I’m beginning to wonder . . .”
Mari didn’t reply. I knew why. She and Bob had never really got on. They’d grown up in the same valleys town together, moved to the city at the same time, but they’d never been close. Neither of them had expressed their feelings about each other to me in so many words, but I was fully aware of their mutual unease with each other. I put it down to a simple personality clash, along with the competitive spirit that sometimes exists between people who’ve come from nowhere and done well for themselves. And also the fact that, beneath her cheerful exterior, Mari was actually quite cynical when it came to men.
“He’s feeling terribly guilty,” I went on. “I wish I could talk it through with him, let it go. But I can’t. I keep imagining what she looked like . . . what exactly happened . . . what they did . . .” I stopped.
“I wouldn’t go there, if I were you, cariad.” Mari squeezed my arm.
“But why would he do this?” I went on. “After all these years. I thought we were OK together. I thought . . .”
“Was anything wrong between you?”
“No.” I took another puff of the cigarette. It was making me feel giddy, but I soldiered on.
“Sex all right?”
I thought about it. “Well, OK. Nothing spectacular. But quite . . . serviceable, I suppose.”
There was a short silence, and then Mari laughed. “Serviceable, eh? Well, maybe what you both need is a bit of a shake-up.” She hesitated. “Why don’t you give him a taste of his own medicine? Have a little dalliance of your own.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I was taken aback. “I’d never do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . well, because I’m just not interested in other men.” I paused. “I used to be, of course. Rather too much, actually. But these days I never think about that kind of thing.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” For an instant a picture of Gwydion in his tight T-shirt flashed into my mind, but I dismissed it. “I’d never dream of risking my marriage. I’ve got the girls to think of. It would be completely irresponsible.”
“No one’s asking you to run off for good, are they?” Mari paused. “And Bob’s hardly in a position to complain. If I were you, I’d take advantage of the situation. You’ve got carte blanche now. Enjoy your freedom. It’s probably the last taste of it you’ll get for a long while.”
I was shocked. “But that’s childish, Mari. Childish and dangerous. Marriage isn’t a power game. And it isn’t just about sex, either.” I realized I was beginning to sound sanctimonious, but I carried on all the same. “It’s about love, and trust. And . . .” I did my best to finish the sentence, but the words didn’t come.
Mari gave a wry smile. “Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe things have changed since I last had a husband.”
She shrugged, taking a last drag of her cigarette. Then she threw the butt down beside mine, where it lay soaking in a puddle. Together we looked out at the car park, watching the rain running off the roof in front of us. Then she said, “Come back in for a drink, Jess. I think you need one. Or several.”
“No,” I said. I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’m tired. I’m going home. Thanks for listening.”
“Any time.” She put her arm around my shoulder and gave me a hug. “Let me know how things go.”
“I will.”
She turned to go back indoors, and I ran out into the rain, giving her a little wave as I went. Then I got into my car and drove home, down the dark streets to the house, waiting quietly for me in the rain, under the lamplight.
The following Monday, back in my office, I was waiting for Jean to turn up for her session. She was already half an hour late. Normally she’d have been there early, sitting outside in the waiting room, giving me a reproachful look if I happened to pass by,
as though to express her dissatisfaction that I couldn’t even give her an extra five minutes of my time. So I knew it wasn’t like her to miss a second of her session, let alone more than half of it.
I felt irritable, restless. Much as Jean frustrated and bored the hell out of me, I was discomfited at being stood up by her. The trouble is, when my clients don’t turn up for sessions, I never feel relieved, no matter how difficult they’ve been. I feel I’ve failed. That I’m no good as a therapist. And sometimes, of course, I worry that they may have taken a turn for the worse.
That wasn’t likely to be the case with Jean. She wasn’t the depressive type. Too angry, too indignant about the unfairness of her situation—becoming a widow, just as she and her husband had retired, were looking forward to taking it easy. Too furious with me, and my lack of ability to help her. No, Jean’s absence wouldn’t be caused by chronic depression; rather, it would be . . . I thought of what she’d told me, about her husband appearing to her in the dream, thin and pale, as he had been before he died. He’d been—what was it she’d said?—begging her not to forget him. Which meant . . . yes, of course. Obviously. That she was beginning to forget him. And feeling guilty about it.
I sighed and was just about to turn away from the window when I caught sight of my eldest daughter walking down the street toward the coffee shop. By her side was a man with auburn hair whose face I couldn’t quite see. He was taller than her, a grown man, not a schoolboy. I wondered what she was doing with him, and whether she was skipping lessons. Then, as he turned to open the door of the shop for her and went in behind, I realized with a shock that it was Emyr Griffiths.
I felt a rush of anger, and my heart began to thump in my chest. I had an urge to run downstairs and accost them in the coffee shop, ask Nella what on earth she was doing bunking off school, and order Emyr to leave her alone.
The House on the Cliff Page 6
