Keeping Secrets (4 page)

‘Have you had a ghastly journey?' She was wearing white, a short sleeveless little dress that showed off a sunbed tan. Golden bracelets clattered as she pushed back her thin blonde hair. ‘Everyone's dying to meet you.'

‘Don't be silly,' said Hilda, kissing her, and followed her into the room, which was enormous. The evening sun slanted through the roof terrace doors and through the skylights and tall, cathedral-like windows inset above and below the gallery, lighting the polished beech floor, the shining heads of the other guests, among whom Alan, in a pale cream summer suit, was circulating with a bottle. He lifted it at Hilda, smiling brightly.

‘Hi there.'

Hilda flickered back a smile. Alan was getting a paunch from expense-account lunches, and his hair looked manicured. He moved smoothly towards her, still smiling. ‘How are you doing, Hilda?'

‘How am I doing what?' asked Hilda, taking a glass and watching it foam to the brim. She took a sip and nodded. ‘Delicious. Thank you.'

‘You look gorgeous,' said Fanny, as Alan moved on with his bottle. She looked at Hilda's black cotton dress, and the curving silver band around her neck. ‘How's the new flat?'

‘Different from this,' said Hilda. ‘You must come and see it. My neighbour is the widow of a Czechoslovakian antiquarian books dealer.'

‘She would be,' said Fanny. ‘I suppose you disapprove of all this.'

‘It's beautiful,' said Hilda truthfully, as the doorbell rang again. ‘Fanny, you don't need to look after me. I'm okay.'

But Fanny led Hilda towards a little knot of three, two men and a woman in flowing indigo silk, whose hair was loose and waving.

‘Can I interrupt?' she said. ‘I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine, Hilda King. Hilda, this is James Gibbon, the architect who designed our place …' James, large and dark, with a full face and beard, inclined his head. ‘… and Klara, his wife … and Stephen – Knowles? Have I got that right?' The other man nodded. He was lean, greying, with laugh lines; he wore a loose cotton jacket but his outline was, Hilda later recalled, well-cut and spare, and he stood like someone at ease. ‘Stephen and James have just gone into partnership,' Fanny told Hilda.

‘Really?' Hilda waited to hear about this and was told, by James, as Fanny disappeared, that he'd been looking for a while for someone with connections outside London and recently found Stephen, whose practice was in Norfolk. ‘It broadens our scope,' he said. ‘We've both found we have clients looking in different directions – a lot of people are commuting from Norfolk now, or thinking about moving out there, now Suffolk's got so expensive. And of course there are plenty of people who just want a pied-à-terre here.'

‘Yes,' said Hilda, ‘I suppose there are. How enterprising of you.'

James frowned, fleetingly, and held out a hand to his wife. ‘All right, sweetie?'

She nodded.

‘We had something rather unpleasant happen on the way here,' James explained. ‘I was telling Stephen.'

‘Oh?'

‘Well, Klara's pregnant,' said James momentously, and Klara gave a modest laugh.

‘Congratulations,' said Hilda. ‘What happened on the way?'

‘Oh, it was nothing really,' said Klara. ‘Just that a cat ran out into the road and was hit. I mean, normally that sort of thing doesn't really upset me unduly, you know, but since I've been pregnant – well, I suppose it makes you more sensitive, doesn't it?'

‘I wouldn't know,' said Hilda. ‘Was it killed?'

‘Oh, yes, I think so – straight away, thank God. But I was terribly shaken. I mean, I'm not a morbid person … not the sort of person to dwell on things at all, not usually.'

Hilda, before she could stop herself, said: ‘Does that mean you don't think?'

Klara looked at her in astonishment.

‘Forgive me,' said Hilda quickly. ‘That was quite unnecessary.'

‘Food, everyone,' said Fanny at her elbow. ‘Alan's terribly keen on cooking at the moment, he's been in the kitchen all
day.
' She nodded towards a long table set back beneath the gallery, laid with a linen cloth and pale pink china. Dishes were piled high with salads and seafood. ‘Just help yourselves.' She went over to another group, and Hilda, without surprise, watched James and Klara move unhesitatingly away. Beside her, Stephen Knowles said calmly: ‘Do you make a habit of talking to people like that?'

‘No,' said Hilda, ‘I don't know what got into me. Perhaps it has something to do with the weather.' She watched the party making its way, talking loudly, towards the food. ‘Do you know many of these people?' she asked. ‘How did you meet James?'

‘At a conference last year,' said Stephen. ‘I came down from Norwich this afternoon; I don't know anyone else here at all.'

‘Please don't feel you have to stay with me.'

‘Why should I feel that?' Stephen drained his glass. ‘I'm waiting for the next outburst.' He looked at her inquiringly. ‘Speculating on the last.'

‘I shouldn't bother,' said Hilda. ‘It must have been the wrong chemistry, that's all.'

Stephen raised an eyebrow. ‘Which leads one to speculate still further – what do you do when the chemistry is right?'

Hilda found herself unable to give a crisp reply. There was a brief silence, in which she further found herself acknowledging that she was interested in this man, as he appeared to be interested in her. The experience was unfamiliar.

‘I'll tell you something,' said Stephen, ‘I'm very hungry – I didn't eat before I left home. May I escort you to the supper table, Ms King?'

‘You may.'

‘Everything all right?' Alan appeared beside them with another bottle; he refilled their glasses. ‘How's it going, Hilda?' He gave her a wink. ‘Enjoying yourself?'

Hilda smiled at him sweetly. ‘I believe,' she said to Stephen as Alan breezed away, ‘that although he is vulgar and undeserving, Alan is a very good cook. Why did you not eat before leaving home?'

‘If I asked you that question you would tell me to mind my own business,' said Stephen. They moved towards the table, standing in line. ‘You are a puritan,' he continued. ‘Whoever said people got what they deserved?'

‘One is allowed to have one's views,' Hilda said primly.

‘And one clearly has plenty,' said Stephen. ‘How do you come to be here this evening? It doesn't seem to be quite your scene.'

‘It isn't. But I've known Fanny for a long time; she perseveres with her friends, and she wanted me to come.'

‘I see. But really you disapprove.'

‘Well … a little.'

‘Of money?'

‘Of the wrong people having it.'

‘And who are the right people?'

Hilda began to feel over-interrogated. They had reached the table, where Fanny was serving a plump salmon from a bed of lemon slices and fronds of dill. ‘I'm not very good at this,' she said, seeing Hilda approach, ‘but do have some.' She smiled radiantly at Stephen. ‘Have James and Klara deserted you?'

‘They deserted me,' said Hilda, ‘I was rather rude.'

‘Oh, God, Hilda, why?'

‘Sorry.' She took back her plate, on which Fanny had deposited a broken slice of fish, and began to help herself to salad. ‘Did Alan do the salmon? It looks wonderful.'

‘Yes,' said Fanny, serving Stephen. ‘I don't think I'll tell him that you've upset the chief guests. He wanted this party to be a sort of thank you to James: he did break a leg to see that the conversion wasn't a nightmare.' She smiled again at Stephen, handing back his plate. ‘You know how conversions can be.'

‘Indeed. Don't worry, I should think he'll recover.'

Fanny winked at him, turning to the next in the queue. ‘Dominic! When did
you
get here?'

Stephen and Hilda carried their plates and glasses across the beechwood floor to a pale grey sofa pushed back against the wall. There were two, facing each other, and large cushions at intervals between them.

‘Now,' said Stephen, sitting beside her, ‘Where shall we begin?' He took a forkful of salmon. ‘Tell me the story of your life.'

Hilda shook her head.

‘Come, come. What do you do?'

‘I run an English department in an underfunded college in Hackney.'

‘And where do you live?'

‘In an attic flat in the house of a lonely Czechoslovakian widow.'

‘Intriguing. And do you have a family?'

‘My father, died last year, last winter,' Hilda said steadily.

‘I'm sorry …'

‘It's all right. I mean, it isn't all right but I don't want to talk about it. My mother died quite a long time ago, when I was at school. I have a sister, who lives in Highbury.' She swallowed a mouthful of mushrooms. ‘Will that do you to be going on with?'

‘No,' said Stephen. ‘Tell me about your sister. Is she like you?'

‘Not in the least.' Hilda paused. ‘I suppose that when that woman – Klara – said she never dwelt on things I was irritated because it sounded so uncomprehending of people who do. My sister dwells on everything.'

‘Are you close?'

She shrugged. ‘Not really.'

‘But you certainly sprang to her defence.'

‘Yes,' she said, considering. ‘I don't quite understand why – Alice is so introspective it amounts to neurosis, quite honestly.'

‘And you're not. Introspective, I mean.'

‘I don't know. I suppose that must mean that I'm not. I prefer to get on with things. Anyway, Alice isn't so much like that any more, I think she's happy now. She's expecting a baby, it seems to have transformed her.' She shrugged again. ‘I don't know if it'll last.'

‘You're not very keen on babies?'

She shook her head. ‘I don't have any feelings one way or the other, I don't know anything about them. Alice says she's always wanted to have children, but I don't feel like that at all. Anyway – I can't remember the last time anyone asked me so many questions.' She bent down, putting her plate carefully on the floor at the side of the sofa. ‘I really think that's enough about me,' she said, re-emerging. ‘What about your life?'

Stephen leaned back against the sofa, and stretched out his arm along the top and, turning, Hilda for the first time noticed a wedding ring. Well, of course, she thought, does he look as if he lives by himself? And then at once: do I? And as in most encounters with men she felt a shutter, which had begun to lift a little, come down again, keeping her out of harm's way.

‘I've worked for myself for years,' said Stephen. ‘I specialise in restoration, rather than new buildings; it interests me more than commercial property, though that's where a lot of people work, of course.' He paused. ‘I suppose, if I think about it, restoration of private houses is the kind of thing you might disapprove of. I expect I should be working for a housing association, or a local authority.'

‘Perhaps you should,' said Hilda. ‘I don't think it matters whether or not I disapprove, does it?'

‘On the face of it, no.' He finished his glass. ‘Can I get you another?'

‘No, thanks, I've had plenty.'

‘Two glasses.'

‘Enough for me. But don't let me stop you getting one.'

‘You won't,' said Stephen, and Hilda found herself feeling awkward and ill at ease. Was she really so bossy and prim? She had an image of herself and her father, who at about this time on a summer Saturday evening might have been going round the garden after supper, pulling a few dead heads off the roses as the air grew cool and the bats flickered, squeaking, beneath the trees. Perhaps Alice and I should not have sold the cottage, she thought, but then, as she had done after their father had died, she tried to picture herself living up there without him, in a village full of families, and knew it would have been impossible.

‘What are you thinking about?' asked Stephen.

‘Oh …' She waved the question away. ‘Never mind. What about your drink?'

‘I don't want one. I'm quite happy sitting here – unless I can get you something else to eat? I did see strawberries and cream. Also trifle. May I …'

‘No thanks,' said Hilda. ‘I'm fine.'

‘You don't seem to be
quite
fine,' said Stephen gently, ‘if I may say so. Can I ask you what it is?'

‘I don't want to talk about it,' said Hilda, looking away. ‘I've told you. It doesn't help me. It wouldn't help me. I don't …' she spread her hands, with an expression of distaste. ‘I don't like all that. Personal talk.'

‘I wonder why.'

‘You sound like a shrink,' said Hilda. ‘Do stop it.'

‘I'm not at all like a shrink. My wife would probably say I don't talk about “personal things” enough.'

‘Would she?' Hilda felt part curious, part relieved to be talking about someone else. ‘Tell me about your wife: why isn't she here?'

‘She didn't want to come, she doesn't really like parties. I suppose if I'd insisted …' There was another pause. ‘If I'd insisted, I wouldn't be sitting on this sofa talking to you.'

Alan and Fanny had turned the music up. As if she hadn't heard him, Hilda said: ‘And so you have children?'

‘A son. He's eleven.'

‘Called?'

‘Jonathan.'

Across the room a few people were dancing; Alan, with another bottle, was circulating again, encouraging. He approached Stephen and Hilda, expansively full of booze. ‘Come on, you two, don't look so serious. It's a party!'

‘It's a very good party,' said Stephen. ‘We're enjoying ourselves.'

‘But come and dance! Live a little, Hilda, what's the problem?' He bent down, unsteadily offering the bottle. ‘Where's your glass, darling?'