Rebound (12 page)

‘This is the best I could do.’ He produces a bottle of McGuigan Shiraz out of a Tesco bag.

‘It’ll do nicely,’ I tell him as I go back to making the sauce and he opens the bottle and pours us some wine. He peeks over my shoulder and I can feel he’s dying to take
over.

‘Do we have some chillies, darling?’

I tell him he can find everything there is in the fridge and sit down at the kitchen table with my glass of wine. I get up again when Michael demands an apron, pointing to his light linen
trousers and immaculate shirt. I find him one, a present from my friends in Australia, and he puts it on. Sipping my wine, I watch him whizzing around my kitchen, wrapped in an Australian flag, and
I feel warm and cared for. He’s busy putting fusilli into a pan of boiling water when my doorbell rings again.

It’s Tom, in his running clothes. I look at him, surprised.

‘I thought I’d just stop by to say hi. What a terrible tragedy on the Heath . . .’

‘Yes, absolutely awful,’ I answer, not sure what he wants.

‘Makes you not want to go there for a while. But if you ever feel like venturing out that way again and—’ He stops when he sees Michael in his apron, coming out of the kitchen,
a glass of wine in his hand. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had guests.’

‘No worries, Tom, this is Michael; Michael, this is my neighbour Tom.’

‘Coming in for a glass of wine?’ asks Michael as a way of introducing himself.

‘Oh no, that’s very kind but I have to get back home – it’s the kids’ bedtime.’ He flashes his bright smile at us and is gone.

Michael looks at me, raising his eyebrows.

‘No, no, no, definitely not,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘He’s really just a neighbour, nothing more.’

‘That’s nice. Very neighbourly.’ He gives me a look. ‘And very good-looking.’

He disappears into the kitchen and I follow him. The pasta sauce smells divine.

Michael helps me clear the table and load the dishwasher. We hold on to our ice-cream bowls, not sure if we want some more dessert. I go to the wine rack in the hallway, pull
out a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, get a corkscrew from the kitchen and put it in front of Michael, stretched in an armchair in the sitting room.

‘Michael, I have a confession to make.’

‘It must be serious,’ he says, looking at the wine bottle. ‘But in the absence of the Pope, I’m prepared to listen, my child.’

He opens the bottle, sniffs the cork and, satisfied, pours the wine into clean glasses. I sit on the sofa facing him and take a deep breath.

‘I have been having sex with a stranger on the Heath.’

He puts his glass down and stares at me in silence. I feel a hot wave of embarrassment rising from my neck onto my face, something I haven’t felt since I was a teenager.

‘And now I don’t know if I should go to the police about it,’ I blurt out. ‘Oh, Michael, what a mess . . .’

He raises his hand to calm me down.

‘OK. Start from the beginning.’

‘Remember the conversation we had at the Spaniards Inn?’ He nods slowly. ‘I wasn’t just curious about your experiences . . . I was actually trying to understand my own
feelings.’

He nods again, waiting for me to continue, and picks up his glass.

‘I’d bumped into this guy on the Heath. There’s something about him, I don’t know, something straight out of
The Great Gatsby
, some kind of elegant decadence . .
.’ I stop, knowing that what I say sounds silly, as if I’m trying to dress something quite basic and dirty into some lofty guise. ‘OK, I fancied the pants off him, literally, and
it just happened.’

‘What makes you want to go to the police?’

‘I don’t know . . .’

‘Do you have any reason to believe it’s him?’

‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘I honestly don’t.’

‘So why would you want to report it?’

I’m already regretting telling Michael about it because he’s making me face the truth. But I have to plough on now.

‘I saw this policewoman on the news. She said that anyone who’s had a similar experience on the Heath should come forward.’

‘Similar to what? Getting raped?’

‘No,’ I whisper.

Michael puts his glass down.

‘Anna, has he raped you?’

I’ve never seen him so serious.

‘No, of course not.’ My laugh comes out a bit lame. ‘He’s never done anything I didn’t want him to do.’

‘Are you telling me the truth?’

‘Yes, yes, I am.’ I look him in the eye. ‘I swear. He hasn’t hurt me in any way, everything we did was totally consensual. I instigated the whole thing and it’s . .
. developed.’

‘Are you still seeing him?’

‘No.’

Michael visibly relaxes.

‘What you’ve been doing is quite dangerous.’

‘I know. But I’m fine. It’s just that whole thing on the Heath today has unhinged me and somehow I’ve felt compelled to do something about it . . .’

‘Was it unprotected?’

‘Yes, but I’ve had myself checked.’

‘Good.’ Michael smiles and pours some more wine for both of us. ‘Anna, the Heath harlot. Who would’ve thought?’

We laugh, a release of tension we both need. We chat for a while about Bell’s Vancouver adventure, my work, Michael’s holiday plans. Suddenly it’s almost midnight and I call a
cab for him. Once he’s left I lock the front door and put the chain on. I feel much lighter, as if a great burden has been taken off my shoulders. I’m glad I’ve told him, even
though, I realize now, he hasn’t given me any advice regarding going to the police.

I’m woken up by the persistent ringing of my doorbell. Wispa is barking her head off and I have to shout at her to be quiet, which she does, reluctantly. I grab a
nightgown that’s hanging on the back of the bedroom door and run down the stairs, combing my hair with my fingers.

‘Hello?’ I say as I unlock the door, leaving the chain on.

‘Hello,’ says a woman’s voice I don’t recognize.

Through the crack in the door I see a pale face and it takes me a moment to put a name to it. Samantha, Tom’s wife, the lovely doctor. I undo the chain and open the door wide.

‘I’m sorry to bother you so early, but I wanted to catch you before you go out to work.’ She takes in my nightgown and falls silent.

‘I’m actually off sick. How can I help you?’ I’m not sure if I should invite her in.

‘I was wondering if I could have a word with you.’

‘Sure.’ I gesture for her to come in. What’s it about, I think frantically, hoping they haven’t made a mistake with my tests. ‘Let’s go to the
kitchen.’

I lead the way, then ask her if she would like a cup of coffee. She shakes her head and sits at the kitchen table. Just to keep my hands busy I put a cartridge in the coffee machine and press
the button. She waits for me until my cup is ready and I sit at the table, facing her.

‘It’s about Tom.’

‘Tom? Has something happened to him?’ I say, feeling relief that she hasn’t mentioned my test results.

‘No, he’s fine.’ She looks away. ‘I’ve come here to ask you to leave him alone.’

‘I’m sorry?’ I’m not sure I heard her right.

‘I know you’ve been out jogging with him.’

I just stare at her, not knowing how to react. Let’s try to be civilized about it, I think to myself.

‘Look, Samantha, yes, I’ve jogged with him on the Heath once, because he joined me en route, and I called him once to ask for help with Alden who turned up drunk on my doorstep one
night. Oh, and I’ve been to your house, for your party. This is the extent of my knowing him. I can assure you there is absolutely nothing going on between me and your husband.’

‘I know,’ she says and she looks like she’s about to cry.

‘Look,’ I get up from my chair, ‘let me make you some coffee. Or would you prefer a cup of tea?’

‘Coffee would be fine, black, thank you.’

What the hell is this all about, I think as I wait for her cup to fill. Do I have a complete nutter in my kitchen? I put the coffee in front of her and she takes a sip.

‘I’m so sorry, Anna, I really don’t mean to upset you . . . or offend you . . .’ She seems a bit more composed now.

I sit down with my coffee, facing her. I don’t even know if I’m angry with her any more.

‘What do you want me to do?’ I say at last.

She sighs.

‘Obviously, it’s not going to be easy, because we’re neighbours . . . Tom’s always had a soft spot for beautiful women, a harmless, almost childish fascination I’ve
learnt to live with. But with you . . . basically, if you could try to avoid him . . . not encourage him . . .’

‘I’ve never encouraged him in any way.’

Suddenly I’ve had enough of her. I get up from the table. ‘I’ll do my best. But now I’d like you to leave.’

She gets up, not looking at me.

‘I understand. I’m so sorry . . .’

I open the front door for her and she leaves, hunched and frail-looking. What a weird woman, I think. Has working at a sexual health clinic somehow impaired her way of seeing the world? Or does
she really think I’m a total harlot?

This is all too much, I think as I go back to the kitchen and let Wispa out into the garden. My life has suddenly transformed itself into a dark farce and I’m not laughing. I feel
suffocated by the walls of my own house, by the village, by the whole city. I need to get out. I pick up my phone and call Kate, who left a message for me yesterday.

‘Kate, it’s Anna. You know I’ve been threatening to visit you for ages, so . . . what are you doing this weekend?’

‘Not much, do you want to come over?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Great, just text me when you’re on the way, so I know what time you’ll arrive.’

An hour later the car is packed and Wispa is sitting in the back on her travel bed, wagging her tail excitedly. She loves our trips. I negotiate a bit of traffic on the North Circular and soon
we’re heading up the M11 towards the gentle fields of Norfolk. Seeing the open space right past the M25 makes my heart sing. There is something comforting and reassuring in the amount of land
that hasn’t yet been turned into a concrete jungle. I get off the M11 onto the A11 and then I’m on the A1065 towards Brandon, Swaffham and Fakenham, my favourite stretch of the road. I
stop briefly at a pub on the way to let Wispa out and grab a stodgy, half-baked baguette filled with grated cheese that doesn’t resemble any cheese I know. Then we’re off again, both
looking forward to our seaside adventure.

Kate sold her London flat a few years ago and bought a charming cottage overlooking the sea in the picturesque village of Burnham Overy Staithe. She used to own a successful broadcast
recruitment agency, got burnt out at the age of forty-three, sold her agency to the highest bidder and moved to Norfolk, to practise her two newly discovered hobbies: photography and gardening. The
latter has developed beyond the hobby status as her allotment has grown from an amateur two-veg patch to a blossoming organic enterprise selling fresh herbs, salad garnishes and edible flowers to a
nearby Michelin-star restaurant. I tease Kate that she’d left London to retire and relax, but she’s never worked as hard as she works now. She laughs and says it’s an entirely
different kind of ‘hard’, the nurturing and fulfilling kind she’d never experienced running her agency. And it’s true: she’s never seemed as happy and healthy as she
is now.

We arrive in good time and Kate, tall, tanned and handsome, welcomes us outside her cottage. I’ve always envied her Mediterranean complexion, her black hair framing her face in lovely
curls and her striking green eyes. Since she’s been in Norfolk she’s developed the healthy countryside glow of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors.

Wispa is going berserk, running up and down Kate’s garden, quite an uncharacteristic expression of joy for the overweight old puppy that she is. But she loves Kate and loves to be here,
especially if there’s a walk on the dunes and a swim in the sea in store for her. I unpack the car and bring Wispa’s bed and bowls to Kate’s kitchen, which is lined with beautiful
stoneware tiles.

Kate suggests we go out straight away to catch the afternoon sun and we get into her vintage Range Rover and drive the short distance to Holkham Beach, the most beautiful expanse of sand I have
ever seen. We walk along a wooden boardwalk erected amidst the pine trees above the sand dunes and arrive at the salt marshes and the tidal foreshore. I have to stop and take in the view, which
always fills me with awe. We pass a flock of serious-looking birdwatchers in camouflage gear and walk towards the sea, which seems miles away. Even though it’s a warm day, the stretch of sand
is almost empty, dotted here and there with a few silhouettes of walkers. We turn left and walk along the dunes, our bare feet luxuriating in the fine sand. Wispa makes circles around us, her
chocolate snout covered in sand.

‘So, what are you running away from this time?’ asks Kate. She knows me well enough for me not to protest. As we stroll on, I tell her about my split-up with James, the assaults on
the Heath and the mind-boggling visit from Tom’s wife. What I don’t mention are my encounters with the Dior Man. She doesn’t say a thing, but I know she listens to my every word,
a consummate listener with years of practice.

‘Wow,’ she says when I’ve finished. ‘It’s quite a surreal story.’

‘I know. Even as I was telling you, I doubted it’d actually happened.’

‘It is quite weird of her to come to you. Why would she mind her husband jogging with a neighbour from time to time?’

‘I don’t know.’ I shrug my shoulders, then change my mind and tell Kate what had occurred to me when I was driving here. ‘Maybe she suspects he’s the Heath
rapist?’

‘But if she knew he was a rapist, would she be protecting him? I’d go straight to the police.’

‘Well, the lengths women go to stand by their men . . .’

Kate laughs. I think of her ex-partner Robert, a TV executive accused of molesting a teenage intern when she still ran her agency in London. She’d never said a bad word about him, but
divorced him almost immediately and moved to Norfolk shortly after. I don’t know if there’s anyone in her life now; she certainly hasn’t mentioned any men since she’s left
London.