Scarlett turned to Matt. “Posey says he wants pizza.”
Matt sighed. “That rabbit is a megalomaniac. God save us all if he develops any political ambitions. Pizza it is.”
Patrick wondered how Matt had the energy to keep humoring Scarlett. But he remembered his own son, Jack, had become particularly attached to one blanket and had, over time, started referring to it as “Clive.” But that was only for a brief period, and at least the blanket hadn’t stuck around long enough to develop actual opinions.
Patrick felt a pull in his stomach. If he brought Clive up with Jack now, would Jack even remember? Or would he look at Patrick with disgust for bringing it up?
He hoped he’d been as tolerant with Clive as Matt was with Posey.
Matt chatted amiably to Scarlett as the two set off down the road. “There’s a joke about a rabbit ordering bar food.” Matt adjusted Scarlett’s hat. “Toasted sandwiches. Do you know it?”
Scarlett readjusted her hat. “No.”
Matt paused. “Do you know what myxomatosis is?”
Scarlett shrugged.
Matt gave her plait an affectionate tug. “I’ll give it a few years.”
The two walked together toward the park center. Scarlett took a little skip every fourth step.
Matt didn’t have a clue.
Sometimes Matt treated Scarlett like she was a toddler, but then—megalomaniac. And myxomatosis.
It wasn’t Matt’s fault. When Claire left Matt, she took away his experience of early parenthood. And now Patrick got to live with Scarlett instead.
Did Matt resent Patrick for that on the inside? And if not, why not?
He definitely, definitely should. It was only fair.
Alex appeared down the road, dawdling. Patrick did a dramatic lunge. He sank forward into a deep stretch, lifting his arms a little from his sides to keep himself from wobbling.
When Alex reached him, Patrick stretched into a lunge on the other side. “Matt and Scarlett have gone to the pizza place.”
“Thanks.”
Patrick put his hands on his outstretched knee. “You could probably catch up if you scurry.”
Alex said nothing for a minute. “Where’s Claire?”
“She’s at the spa.” Patrick looked at his watch; the movement made him wobble and he put a hand on the wall to right himself. “In fact, aren’t you due there now? I booked you in for two P.M.”
“The spa. How could I forget? Which direction is it in?”
Patrick pointed.
“Thanks.”
Alex trudged off in the direction Patrick had pointed.
Patrick stepped his front leg back. He sank into a lunge on the opposite leg again. “Alex?”
She turned.
“If you’re having a spa you’ll need a swimming costume.”
Alex lifted her chin. She headed back into the lodge.
A minute later, she re-emerged, plastic bag in hand. “See you in a bit.”
“Can I ask you a serious question?” Patrick said in a rush.
Alex turned to look at him.
“Does Matt mind that I get to live with Scarlett? Is he jealous of me? Angry on the inside?”
Alex paused. “Matt doesn’t get angry.”
“Never?”
She paused. “Never.”
Alex set off walking, her plastic swimming bag flapping against her leg.
Post-shooting interview. Claire Petersen, 39.
Witness to the shooting.
Telephone.
Still at the hospital.
It’s fine, we can talk now. I know they say you’re not meant to use phones in hospitals, but it’s got nothing to do with the machines. People love rules, and it’s so stupid. I make a point of using my phone at petrol stations.
I’ve already told you everything I know. I’m surprised you haven’t got better things to do tonight. Aren’t there loads of burglaries on Christmas Eve, or is that just what the papers say?
I don’t remember any arguments this weekend, but there may have been some. We’re a family, on holiday, at Christmas.
We get on fine. Alex is a good friend in her own right.
Yes, the four of us were at the archery, I told you that. And Alex wasn’t at the training beforehand because she took Scarlett to her dance class.
Yes, burlesque class.
I was fine with it. Kids are kids, they experiment all the time, and they don’t know something’s sexual unless you tell them. And why would you tell that to a seven-year-old?
Alex and Scarlett had just been for ice cream. It’s good for Scarlett to get to know Alex as a person, these things can be hard for the stepmum. Patrick’s kids barely acknowledge me, though that’s their mum’s fault entirely.
My parents’ phone number? Why?
I don’t want you speaking to Scarlett. She wasn’t even there. She’s distressed enough.
If you really need to speak to her, get a warrant or something.
I’m not being unreasonable. But let’s be clear—I’m not going to let you upset my daughter any more today, just because some bored staff have been gossiping in a holiday park.
37
“The changing room’s that way.” The receptionist beamed at Alex, her cheeks bunching. Her face was heavily contoured with makeup, the hills and valleys drawn out with a mapmaker’s precision. “You can pick up a robe and slippers on the way past.”
Alex didn’t move straightaway. She watched people amble past at quarter-speed, all wearing matching teddy-bear-plush robes and complimentary slippers. After a moment, she pushed open the door to the changing room.
“Alex!” Claire waved to her from a fluffy dry corner of the room, the area segmented from the rest of the wet room by what looked like a wall of towels. Claire stood blow-drying her hair, white-blond streaks sheeting out behind her as she moved the hairdryer round.
Alex took a breath. She raised her hand in a wave and made herself smile.
Claire was clothed, ready to leave, her foundation on and eyes outlined with liquid liner.
“Fancy grabbing some lunch in the spa restaurant before you start?” Claire had to shout to be heard over the hairdryer. “Or are you itching to get going?”
“Do we have to wear dressing gowns to eat?”
Claire laughed. “I don’t think they force you.” She switched the hairdryer off and rested it in its holster.
Alex looked around. “Seeing all those people walking so slowly in dressing gowns, I think I’m in the dementia wing of a nursing home.” She looked around at the button-backed furniture, at the hand cream and complimentary single-use razors. “A nursing home for the super-rich.”
“You’ve really never been to a spa before?”
“I’ve really never been to a spa before.”
“Amazing. But then, I’ve never been to a festival.”
“Neither have I,” Alex admitted. She wondered what she’d been doing with the decades.
“I’ve always wanted to do a festival.” Claire shook out her hair. “Will I do?”
Alex looked at Claire’s minimal makeup: at her tight jeans and plain T-shirt, her messily dried hair falling in casual waves.
“You’ll do,” Alex said finally. “You look great.”
* * *
—
Claire ate a forkful of salad and smiled at Alex.
Alex crossed her arms over her chest. She smiled at Claire.
Claire pushed her plate away. She stretched her arms above her head and turned her neck from one side to the other. “It’s like my shoulders have melted. I’ve got a whole other person’s shoulders. A teenager’s shoulders.”
As Claire stretched, Alex noticed the definition in her biceps.
“You have great muscle tone,
you know.”
“Oh, Al!” Claire laughed and shook her head. “You say that to me, yet my daughter calls you ‘heavy.’ You’re a good sport.”
“Don’t worry.” Of all the things Scarlett had said to Alex, that was the one that bothered her least. “I’ve never understood why people give that kind of thing a second thought.”
“Do you mean that?”
Alex frowned. “Why wouldn’t I mean it?”
Claire laughed. “I really like you, Al. You’re so refreshing. I think it’s very good for Scarlett to be around you.”
Alex felt a little patronized, but she smiled back all the same. Claire wasn’t patronizing in other ways—she had never asked whether Alex wanted kids. Why she didn’t have kids already. Whether she’d ever tried to have kids. Whether Alex and Matt had talked about having kids.
Damn it. Claire was so hard to dislike.
“You know, I wasn’t so sure this thing was a good idea when Matt suggested it,” Claire said. “But now I’m pleased we did it.”
Alex looked down immediately. She grabbed the edge of the tablecloth and straightened it in front of her.
“We get on so well. We’re one happy little blended family, aren’t we?” Claire continued. Though not on the other side—Patrick’s ex, Lindsay, is a right cow. She’d better watch herself or I will gladly blend her head in a food processor.”
“What’s wrong with Lindsay?”
“Where do I start? She tells the kids I’m a bitch.”
“How do you know?”
“I can tell.”
Alex dabbed her napkin against her mouth. “And are you?”
“Am I what?”
Alex placed her napkin carefully on her lap. “A bitch.”
Claire smiled. “Only when necessary. Only to people who deserve it.”
Alex studied Claire. “Do you remember when we first met? In that restaurant? I thought you were so pretty.”
Claire pushed Alex’s arm in a get away gesture. “I thought you looked too good for that clown.”
“I hardly knew Matt back then. It was only our second date. Things happened so quickly. You know”—Alex licked her lips—“I never even saw Matt’s flat. When we first got together. He just moved in with me straightaway.”
“Ha! That’s because he wasn’t living in a flat. He did a Walshy and moved back in with his mum. Did he pretend he had a flat?”
Alex looked down at her napkin.
“I got that impression.” But then—had Matt actually lied? Or had Alex just made assumptions based on gaps in conversation? Alex longed to be back in her lab, where she could study empirical evidence, rather than working with these unsatisfactory hypotheses. She wanted to go back in time and digitally record and categorize every single conversation she’d ever had with Matt.
Claire shook her head. “That man. Honestly. The truth is nothing to him. It means nothing.”
Alex kept staring at her lap, looking at her pristine napkin. “So he just went from your house”—(Home, she thought)—“to his childhood bedroom to living with me?”
“His mum must have been relieved when he moved into yours. She hated having him under her feet. I think it was having Scarlett stay over all the time, as much as anything. Exhausting, at her time of life.”
Alex realized she was gripping the tablecloth; she relaxed her hands. “Poor Janet.”
“Poor Janet indeed.”
Alex had too many thoughts cramming in at once. She picked up her knife and fork and again tried to eat. “How are you finding this weekend so far? Is it what you were expecting?”
Claire gave a brisk nod. “It’s great.”
“Matt said you thought it would be good for you and Patrick to get away.”
Was that what he said? Alex wondered. What did he say? And what did I hear? And are the two even the same thing?
Claire raised an eyebrow. “Matt has a big mouth.”
“I didn’t mean to pry.” Alex looked down at her lap. “So what book did you bring with you? For family reading time?”
“I didn’t bring one. I relax much more by cooking.”
“But you told everyone to bring a book.”
Claire shrugged. “I didn’t mean me. I prefer cooking.”
This woman was unreadable. Was it deliberate? Or did she just change, from one day to the next? Or did she make rules and then think they didn’t apply to her?
“Matt says you don’t watch telly,” Alex said. “Or read newspapers or do social media.”
Claire smiled. “It’s not a point of principle or anything, I’m not that unbearable. I just don’t get round to those things.”
Alex tried to imagine how watching telly could be something you didn’t get round to. “But how does that even work?”
Claire shrugged. “I’m busy with my job and Scarlett. With my free time, I just prefer to do stuff. You know?”
Alex didn’t know. “But what about here? The spa? That’s the opposite of doing stuff.”
“That’s different.” Claire grinned. “Because that’s doing something, even if you’re doing nothing. See what I mean?”
“No,” Alex said honestly.
“It makes sense to me.”
“OK.”
“Are you relaxing here anyway?” Claire asked. “Is the forest air doing you good?” When Alex didn’t reply, she added, “Be honest. We’re friends now.”
Alex put her knife and fork down. “I’m finding things difficult with Scarlett. She hates me.”
Claire did a sympathetic head tilt. “She doesn’t hate you.”
“It looks like she hates me. She acts like she hates me.”
“The thing is, with kids—you just have to let them get over things in their own time.”
“But you did tell her that I was doing the merciful thing? She knows I don’t go around killing animals for fun?”
Claire smiled. “Of course.”
The lasagna Alex had eaten had been hot at the time, but it now sat cold in her stomach. She wanted to believe Claire. She really wanted to.
Claire looked at her watch. “I told Patrick I’d be back an hour ago. I’d better make a move.”
She opened her handbag and threw some cash on the table. Too much, Alex noted.
Alex went to protest, but Claire waved her away. “It’s fine. I’m so pleased we had this chance to catch up, the two of us.”
“Before you go…”
Claire waited, open-faced, for Alex to finish her sentence.
“I really like your perfume.” Alex dug her fingernails into her napkin. “Where did you get it?”
“How funny you should ask.” Claire grinned. “Matt got it for me one Christmas. He has great taste all round.” She gave Alex a wave. “Enjoy the spa!”
“I will,” Alex said. “Thanks.”
Claire stood up to leave. “Make sure you do the salt inhalation room,” she said. “That’s my absolute favorite. You can get super-cozy—it has blankets and everything.”
* * *
—
An hour later, Alex grabbed a plastic cup from the water station near the reception desk. She poured some water and took a sip.
It turned out spas weren’t her thing. As she’d always known.
Being always right, Alex reflected, was usually more of a comfort than it felt like this weekend.
Alex crunched her cup in her hand and threw it in the bin. She took off her dressing gown, hooked it on the wall next to the nearest experience room, and went inside.
She sat on the stone bench in a steam room. This one was subtly different from the others, because the air carried a hint of lemon, like someone had recently gone round with a cloth and a Flash kitchen spray.
Alex had discovered that the steam rooms were the best. They weren
’t too uncomfortably hot, and the air was helpfully opaque so you didn’t have to look at anyone else.
The worst room here was the sensory experience room. Alex had sat there in the dark while multiple screens flashed up pictures of woodland scenes, sound-tracked by perky music that would have felt more appropriate for a Tex-Mex restaurant. She’d listened to the mock-Santana guitar and watched the woodland pictures scroll: autumn leaves, frosty mountains, a shifty-looking badger.
She didn’t get it.
Alex swung her feet up onto the bench in the Flash Lemon steam room and lay down, stretching her arms above her head.
She’d just wanted Matt to tell her the truth. To make things clean.
Alex had never romanticized her relationships. She didn’t believe in the one, well aware of the statistical discrepancy of there being only one one, and that person happening to be about the same age and social background, and living within five miles of your home. She didn’t believe in love-at-first-sight beginnings—or sunbathed, camera-panning-out endings. But there was a difference between being levelheaded and rational, and being with a man who wanted to be with someone else.
Alex felt a cold gust across her back as the door opened. Two women entered the room and one sat on the bench next to Alex. She heard the wet squelch of thighs hitting stone, a fleshy vacuum formed and released in a second.
“The thing is,” the squelching woman said, “it’s all very well getting the dress made a size too small, but what if she doesn’t lose the weight? Because she’s troughing like a beast.”
“She can’t diet at Christmas, though. It’s impossible.”
“She’s only got six weeks. She’s signed a contract with the shop. She has to pay another three hundred pounds if she needs it altered.”
Alex listened to the chatter for a while, distracted from her depressing internal thoughts by these depressing exterior ones. Only when a man came in, sat down, and started slapping himself theatrically, sending perspiration flying, did Alex slip quietly out of the room and into the salt inhalation room.
The Adults Page 18
