Swimming Pool Sunday (25 page)

And she’d looked at him with dark aroused eyes, and said in a soft husky voice, ‘It’s strange anyway … the first time. It wouldn’t really matter who it was with.’

Somehow the possibility that Daisy was a virgin had never before occurred to Alexis. He had always thought of her simply as … very young, unthinkably young. But a virgin, too? Wasn’t that taking things too far? For a few moments he froze, and it came to him that he must immediately call a halt to the whole affair; that the idea of seducing a young, vulnerable, teenage virgin
was disgusting, risky and morally unforgivable.

But a glimpse of Daisy’s unsheathed breasts in front of him, of her quivering lips and her warm pink cheeks, distracted him from his principles. Furiously he reminded himself that she was eighteen; that she could make her own decisions; that he had not, by any means, forced himself on her. And when she gently put up one hand to caress his chest, Alexis’s resolve had crumbled, his desire took over, and there was no turning back.

That first time had been painful, funny, unbearably moving. Painful for Daisy, funny for both of them, unbearably moving for Alexis. He’d left her in the early hours of the morning and driven home, staggered into the bathroom, and stared at himself in the mirror, in a kind of silent, elated, horrified amazement.

Since then the amazement had never quite gone away. Alexis sometimes found himself staring at Daisy, as though he were a stranger – taking in, as he had that day at the swimming-pool, her pale beautiful face, her hesitant manner, and her doubtful smile – and felt as though he had no right to be so close to her; as though he’d somehow tricked his way into a position of intimacy and would, any day now, be discovered, exposed, rejected.

And then he would begin, rather bleakly, to consider once again the huge chasm between their ages. Deliberately torturing himself, he would look first at her smooth face, and then at his own lined forehead; at her luxuriant locks and then at his own thinning greying hair. Her eyes were large and bright; his were small, hooded and weary-looking. He was old and jaded; she was fresh and new. A walnut and a peach.

Daisy shifted slightly and Alexis found his arms closing protectively around her.

‘What,’ she began softly, still with her eyes closed. ‘What are we going to have for supper?’

*

Alexis had been staggered to discover Daisy’s lack of culinary knowledge. He was used to women his own age, experienced cooks, who would tease him about his limited bachelor’s kitchen, allow him to chop an onion or two, but basically take over the cooking for the duration of their relationship. This, despite the fact that he was not at all a bad cook. He generally favoured straightforward food that didn’t take long to prepare: fillet steaks – charred on the outside, pink in the middle; grilled fish, basted with olive oil and lime juice; lamb chops, sprinkled with garlic and rosemary; roasted vegetables; interesting salads.

Daisy’s repertoire, as far as he could make out, extended only as far as dried pasta combined with bottled pesto sauce – and maybe a can of tuna thrown in. She seemed to live on this diet, together with bowls of Shreddies, chocolate digestives, and the occasional pink grapefruit. The first time he’d cooked supper for her, she had astounded him by saying, in a casual way, ‘Oh,
that’s
what garlic looks like.’ Alexis stared at her, almost lost for words.

‘You’re not serious? You’ve never seen garlic before?’

‘Oh, yes, of course I have,’ said Daisy quickly. ‘Strings of garlic. But I’ve never seen what they look like inside.’ She took in Alexis’s expression and added earnestly, ‘But I do love it. I love garlic bread.’ She thought. ‘Actually, there might be some garlic bread in the freezer.’

‘Daisy,’ Alexis had said, beginning to laugh, ‘there’s a little bit more to garlic than pre-packed frozen garlic bread.’

Now, watching Daisy as she inexpertly sliced a red pepper, Alexis said, ‘Haven’t you ever done any cooking?’ Daisy looked up and pushed back the sleeves of her pale cotton kimono.

‘Well, not really,’ she said. ‘At school … well, you don’t really cook at school. And then on holiday we
didn’t really cook either, and at home …’ She screwed up her face. ‘I suppose we must cook a bit at home,’ she said eventually, ‘but not very much. My parents often go out for supper, and when my brothers were at home they just used to phone up for pizzas and things like that. And if Mummy has a dinner party she gets in caterers …’ She tailed off and looked down at the chopping board. I’ve done the pepper,’ she said. ‘What shall I do now?’

Alexis stared at her, feeling a sudden anger at these parents who blithely left Daisy alone in the dubious care of two brothers and a pizza delivery firm. A thought struck him.

‘Didn’t you have cookery lessons at school?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Daisy. ‘I made a swiss roll, but it broke when I tried to roll it up. And then I was given extra piano lessons instead, and I didn’t have cookery any more.’ She looked at Alexis anxiously. ‘And I can’t remember how to make the swiss roll.’

Alexis laughed.

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ he said. ‘Swiss roll is one of my least favourite things.’ He opened the fridge, took out a bottle of Chardonnay, and briskly uncorked it. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘school isn’t where you should learn how to cook.’

‘Where should you learn?’ said Daisy.

‘In your own kitchen, of course. You should learn to cook by cooking for people you really like,’ said Alexis. ‘Family, friends, lovers. That’s how I learned. Not by making swiss roll in a classroom.’

He handed a glass of wine to Daisy, who stared into the bottom of it for a minute or two. When she looked up, her cheeks were burning red.

‘Who did you …’ she began hesitantly. ‘Did you ever … have you been …’ She broke off and looked away. For a few moments Alexis stared at her in puzzlement. Then his expression changed.

‘Are you trying to ask me if I’ve ever been married?’ he said gently. Daisy’s head didn’t move.

‘The answer’s no, I’ve never been married,’ said Alexis carefully. He sat down on a kitchen chair. ‘I had a long-term relationship with a woman I met through the law,’ he said slowly. ‘She was the same age as me and very ambitious. I asked her to marry me, but she didn’t want to; she wanted to concentrate on her career.’

He stopped and took a slug of wine.

‘Wh-what happened?’ asked Daisy timidly.

‘She left me after twelve years and married another man,’ said Alexis. A sudden bleak expression came over his face. ‘They’ve just had their second baby,’ he said quietly.

Daisy stared at him in horror. She didn’t know what to say.

‘That’s awful,’ she whispered.

‘It was pretty bad at the time,’ said Alexis, ‘but that’s a while ago now; years, in fact. I’ve completely recovered.’ He grinned at Daisy and took another huge gulp of wine.

Daisy gazed at him silently, unconvinced.

‘Oh, Daisy,’ said Alexis, ‘don’t look so upset.’

‘I’m not,’ protested Daisy. ‘I’m just …’ She broke off and looked at the floor.

‘Talking about the past is never a good idea,’ said Alexis easily. ‘Now, why don’t you go and play the piano? You said you needed to practise,’ he reminded her.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Daisy. ‘I do.’ She looked at Alexis. ‘But what about the supper?’

‘I’ll manage,’ said Alexis, glancing at the ragged slices of red pepper on Daisy’s chopping board and trying not to smile. ‘I’ll finish off and then come and listen.’

When she had gone, he worked quickly, assembling a fragrant chicken casserole, popping it into the oven and
putting on a pan of rice. Then, refilling his glass, he went through into the sitting-room.

Daisy was practising the Brahms concerto which she was due to perform soon with the Linningford Symphony Orchestra. She was playing through the second movement, and had reached a passage of thundering chords which Alexis recognized. In the weeks that he’d heard her practising them, the chords had become louder, faster and more assured. Now she was hitting the keys of the piano with a confident power which staggered him.

As he watched, her hands pounded furiously up and down the keyboard, filling the room with blazing sound, until suddenly her fingers tripped up on the sleeve of her kimono. Impatiently, she pushed the sleeve up and began again. The music got louder and more impassioned. All of a sudden her fingers tripped on the kimono sleeve again; this time, without pausing, she shrugged off the kimono altogether. The two empty cotton sleeves dropped down to the floor behind her, and seemingly without missing a beat, Daisy kept playing. Her bare arms moved with even more vitality; her fingers thundered out the tune of the concerto; and her clouds of dark hair rose and fell around her naked shoulders. And Alexis watched her playing, oblivious of him; oblivious of anything else, and thought that in his whole life, he had never felt such overwhelming happiness as he did now.

Cassian was feeling very pleased at the way things were progressing. Louise’s case seemed more promising every day; evidence was mounting up nicely, and the senior partner at the Linningford office had personally praised him, in a large meeting, for having spotted the litigious possibilities of the situation so quickly. This had been followed by some light-hearted joshing about Louise and her father, Lord Page, which Cassian had taken in good spirit. The chaps were obviously impressed, both by his work and by his connections.

And on the strength of all this, he’d persuaded some of the London boys to come down and get involved with the case. Just to make sure he wasn’t forgotten about, back in the London office. That very day, Desmond Pickering and Karl Foster, both personal injury experts, were in Linningford for a meeting, and Cassian had persuaded them to come along afterwards to Melbrook and meet up with himself, Louise and – unfortunately but unavoidably – Barnaby. They were going to discuss the case for an hour or two, then Barnaby was going to leave, and Louise would cook the rest of them dinner. The conversation would turn to politics. Louise would impress Desmond and Karl with inside stories of the former Cabinet. Cassian would glow in reflected glory. And the result would surely be that next time a partnership was on offer, his name would be remembered.

So far so good. Cassian’s one slight lingering annoyance was that he hadn’t yet managed to meet Lord Page. Meeting Lord Page, and becoming friendly with him,
was crucial to Cassian’s political game plan. To grind up to Parliament through a series of dreary local government posts was one thing, but if he had the patronage of a senior statesman, Cassian reasoned, he would naturally find himself on a quicker and more successful route into politics. What easier way to impress a selection committee and inveigle himself into the right crowd, than by appearing as Lord Page’s heir apparent?

And now that he was fully-fledged as Louise’s lover; now that he was spending whole nights in her bed; now that he was actually involved in a case which Lord Page was funding, he felt entitled to a meeting with the great man. But she had not suggested it and, until now, he had felt that it would be too crude to mention it himself. Now he was not so sure.

A thrill ran through him as he imagined developing a friendship with Lord Page; with a peer of the realm. In spite of himself, he had a sudden brief memory of his grandmother, attired in lurid pink, drinking sweet tea from a silver jubilee mug. Despite the Italian accent still lingering under her whining Macclesfield vowels, she had always been devoted to the British royal family, and, by extension, all members of the titled classes. She would have been overwhelmed if he had told her about Lord Page.

But Cassian didn’t communicate with his grandmother any more, nor with his parents, nor with his two stupid sisters. He had not been back to Macclesfield once since leaving for his first term at Oxford; and over the years since then, he had reinvented his background to such an extent that he now almost genuinely believed he came from some kind of Italian aristocratic stock.

He looked at Louise. The Honourable Louise.

‘Darling,’ he began pleasantly. Louise looked up from the paper banner she was making and flushed. She was still unused to sharing a breakfast table with Cassian, let alone hearing endearments over the toast.

‘Yes?’

‘I was just wondering how your father was.’ Cassian looked earnestly at Louise. ‘You mentioned a while ago that he wasn’t well.’

‘Oh,’ said Louise vaguely. ‘Well, he’s much better now. He’s got a private nurse who looks after him, so there’s nothing to worry about.’

‘You can’t have seen him for a bit,’ said Cassian lightly.

‘No,’ said Louise. She put down her marker pen and sighed. ‘I did mean to go over when he wasn’t well, but I just couldn’t bear to take the time out from seeing Katie. But maybe now we can all go over there together.’ She grinned at Cassian. ‘Isn’t it exciting!’

‘What?’ For a split second, Cassian looked blank. ‘Oh, yes,’ he added hastily. ‘Tremendously exciting!’ He glanced down at the banner which Louise was now decorating with flowers. ‘WELCOME HOME KATIE,’ it said, in bold multi-coloured letters.

‘And are you keeping your father informed about the case?’ persisted Cassian. ‘Does he know how hard we’re fighting?’ That ought to earn him a few Brownie points in the old man’s books, he thought complacently to himself.

‘Oh, erm, yes. I told him all about it.’ Louise flushed slightly and looked down. She could not tell Cassian that her father refused to take any interest in the details of the litigation, despite the fact that he was paying for it.

‘Bloody lawyers!’ he’d yelled, as soon as she’d begun to explain it. ‘Can’t stand the chaps. Just send along the bills and I’ll settle them, but don’t expect me to listen to their bloody claptrap! And don’t start trusting the fellows, whatever you do!’ Then, before she could gather her wits enough to interrupt, he’d told her at great length about his old chum, Dick Foxton, who was a marvellous lawyer, full of good sense, and why on
earth hadn’t Louise gone to old Dickie instead of these dreadful city chaps?

‘The thing is,’ Cassian was saying, ‘it would be great to meet him.’