Swimming Pool Sunday (34 page)

Louise and Barnaby listened as he walked furiously out of the house, slammed the door, and started up his car. Then, as the sound died away, they looked at each other.

‘Well,’ said Louise, ‘I wonder if he got the message.’

The next morning Meredith woke at seven o’clock. She looked at the clock on her bedside table, cursed, and flopped back onto her pillows. The night before she had taken a herbal sleeping draught, to give herself the chance of a good night’s rest. But now, although her body felt heavy and sluggish, her mind was racing, as alert as ever. Impossible to go back to sleep. She turned over angrily, and tried to remember a Buddhist chant she had successfully used before in moments of anxiety. But even as the words formed in her mind, she was remembering, with a pang, Hugh’s pale face and frail form as they’d led him out of the hospital the evening before.

Before leaving, she’d spoken with Hugh’s consultant, trying desperately – irrationally – to get a promise out of him that this wasn’t going to happen again. But instead of giving her the blank reassurances she craved, the consultant had taken the moment as an opportunity to explain to her exactly what changes Hugh must make to his lifestyle, exactly what state his arteries were in, and exactly what all the family could do to help. He’d pressed on her a cheerful educational poster depicting food groups in bold cartoon characters, and suggested that she put it up on the fridge. She’d stared back at him, wondering how he could be so obtuse. It’s not the fucking food! she’d wanted to shout. It’s the fucking court case!

They’d had a cautious evening at home, trying to act normally. Ursula had carefully prepared supper out of
a recipe book given to her at the hospital, and they had all exclaimed with forced cheerfulness over the poached salmon without hollandaise sauce and raspberries sprinkled with orange juice instead of cream. Hugh had automatically reached for a bottle of wine, then stopped, hand still outstretched. And Meredith had wanted to weep. Not because of the wine, or the hollandaise sauce, but because, behind the jollity, behind the united pretence that they all suddenly felt like drinking lemon squash instead, loomed an unspoken fear, an unforgettable, permanent shadow.

Abruptly, she pushed back the covers and got out of bed. From behind the curtain were peeping tiny dazzling rays of light; the promise of another bright day. She pushed up her window and breathed in the fresh air; still summery, still mild, but with a hint of autumnal bite. Meredith didn’t know whether this made her feel sad or relieved.

‘What a fucking awful summer,’ she said aloud. She leaned out and squinted down at the silent, dewy, glistening grass. She took a few deep breaths, closed her eyes and felt the breeze on her face, and suddenly the heavy torpor seemed to leave her legs. She turned back into the room and began quickly to get dressed. Before breakfast; before the beginning of the day and the return to real life, she would go for a walk. A long, fresh, cleansing walk.

At half-past eight the phone in Louise’s bedroom rang. She picked up the receiver, listened for a few seconds, then said, firmly, ‘I don’t think so, Cassian. I think we both know it’s a bit late for that.’

She listened for a few more moments, then, with deliberate care, she replaced the receiver. She lay back and stretched luxuriously.

‘That’s the first time I’ve ever done that,’ she said. ‘Cut
someone off mid-flow. I have to say, it’s a wonderful feeling.’

‘What did he want?’ said Barnaby sleepily.

‘My body,’ said Louise.

There was a rumpling sound from next to her, and Barnaby’s head appeared from under the duvet, tousled and still half asleep.

‘Are you serious?’ he said.

‘No,’ she said, in regretful tones, ‘I don’t think so. He was just generally grovelling. I think he was hoping we’d changed our minds about the case.’

Barnaby regarded her for a moment, then flopped heavily back down onto his pillow with a thump that made the whole mattress quiver.

‘I don’t understand you,’ he said. ‘I thought you were in love with him.’

‘I know,’ said Louise. ‘I thought I was, too.’ She sighed. ‘I realized something was wrong when we started talking about calling off the case. I found myself thinking that it would probably mean the end for me and Cassian, and instead of feeling upset, I felt … relieved, more than anything else.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t really understand it.’

‘Well, it doesn’t matter,’ said Barnaby contentedly. ‘What matters is that we’re back together again.’

‘Are we?’ said Louise sharply.

‘Aren’t we?’ Barnaby sat up abruptly and looked at Louise with a puzzled frown. ‘I mean, after last night, and … and everything …’ He gestured vaguely around.

‘I know,’ said Louise patiently. She sighed. ‘Look, Barnaby, I’m not saying we can’t get back together, but you mustn’t think that just because Cassian’s out of the picture, everything’s suddenly rosy. We had problems way before he came on the scene.’ She pushed back her hair and pulled her knees up under the duvet. ‘The thing you’ve got to get straight’, she said deliberately, ‘is that I wasn’t having an affair with Cassian behind your
back. I wasn’t. I used to go and see him, yes. But we used to talk, that was all.’ In spite of herself, she could feel a note of resentment creeping into her voice. ‘When I tried to tell you, you wouldn’t listen. You just listened to your own suspicions and the village gossip.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t even have been talking to him,’ said Barnaby gruffly. ‘The creep.’

‘Barnaby!’ exclaimed Louise angrily. ‘You still don’t get it! I’m allowed to see and talk to whoever I like, whether they’re a creep or not. God, if you still don’t understand that …’

‘I do,’ said Barnaby hastily. ‘I do understand it.’

‘Do you?’ said Louise.

There was silence in the little room.

‘I think’, said Louise eventually, ‘that it would be a good idea for me to take the girls to London next week as planned. We’ll go on our own, and have a good holiday, and then we’ll come back and …’ She looked at Barnaby. ‘And then we can talk.’

‘Yes,’ said Barnaby seriously. ‘Good idea.’

‘I really need to get away,’ said Louise, ‘and I think the girls could do with a change of scene too.’

‘Yes,’ said Barnaby again. ‘Good idea.’ There was a pause. ‘Louise?’

Louise raised her eyes. Barnaby was looking yearningly at her.

‘I don’t suppose I could come with you?’ he said. ‘To London?’

‘Oh, Barnaby,’ said Louise. She began to laugh. ‘But you hate London.’

‘I know I do,’ said Barnaby, ‘but I’d like it if I went with you. I could take the girls to the zoo, and show them Big Ben, while you go shopping in Harrods. It’d be great. What do you think?’ He looked at her eagerly, a huge entreating smile on his face. Louise couldn’t help smiling back.

‘Maybe,’ she said at last. ‘Maybe.’

*

Meredith walked quickly, feeling the morning air filling her lungs and a pink tingling glow spread over her cheeks. The roads were empty of cars this early on a Saturday morning; most people seemed to still be in bed.

Without really noticing, she headed towards the church. The graveyard was silent and the headstones damp with an early morning moisture. She sat down on the single wooden bench, closed her eyes and tilted her face towards the gradually warming sun. She waited for a calming relief to spread through her body; for the natural power of the sun’s rays to channel her energies in a positive direction; for her mind to achieve a balanced position of acceptance. But when, a few minutes later, she opened her eyes again, nothing was different. Unless she concentrated very hard, she could not rid her mind of all her background whining worries – about Hugh, about Ursula, about the case, and shrieking loudly above the rest, her bitter, fruitless, constant feeling of anger.

Her mind flicked to Simon, and away again. She had been thinking of Simon more and more over the last few weeks; on the night of Hugh’s heart attack she had dreamed a long and happy dream about him, and had awoken to the realization that he was dead with a shock that almost reduced her to tears. But in her waking moments she was well used to fielding emotions about Simon. Now, in an automatic reaction, she got to her feet and thrust her hands in her pockets. It was way past nine o’clock; time to head home.

‘Of course’, said Louise, ‘the first thing we must do is tell Hugh and Ursula.’

Barnaby stopped in the middle of buttoning up his shirt and stared at her.

‘My God,’ he said, ‘I hadn’t even thought of that; I
hadn’t even thought what it’ll mean to them.’ He looked down sheepishly. ‘All I’ve been thinking about is us.’

‘Yes, well,’ said Louise, ‘that’s important too.’ She gave him a little smile. ‘But I think we ought to tell them as soon as possible, don’t you? We ought to go round there this morning.’

‘Or phone them, maybe?’

‘No,’ said Louise decisively. ‘We’ve got to tell them face to face. They deserve it.’

‘OK,’ said Barnaby. He looked at his watch. ‘Let’s go round there straight away,’ he said enthusiastically.

‘Now? Before breakfast?’

‘Why not?’ said Barnaby. ‘Good news can’t wait for breakfast.’

‘What if they’re not up yet?’

‘They will be,’ said Barnaby confidently, ‘and if they aren’t, we’ll wait.’

‘Well … all right then,’ said Louise. ‘All right. Just let me get dressed.’

She reached behind her neck to fasten her dress and frowned, as she missed the button.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Barnaby at once. ‘Let me.’ He bounded over, seized the fabric from out of her hand, and attempted to fasten it.

‘Damn,’ he said, breathing heavily, and grasping the fabric harder with his huge hands. ‘It’s tiny.’

Louise automatically opened her mouth to say, Oh, for heaven’s sake, Barnaby, give it here, I’ll do it. Then, thinking again, she closed it, and found herself gazing silently, with a fondness bordering on love, at his serious frowning reflection in the mirror.

On the way home, Meredith took a different route from the way she’d come. She was walking briskly along, her mind full of abstract floating thoughts, and just beginning to feel hungry, when something ahead of her made her stop in her tracks, take a sharp inward
breath, and clench her fists inside her pockets.

There, unmistakably, in front of her, was Alexis’s car – smooth, green, and parked at a skewed angle to the road, carelessly, as though its owner had been thinking of other things as he parked it.

Before she could stop them, Meredith’s eyes moved from the car to the wrought-iron gate swinging casually open nearby, to the charming orchard garden and, only a few yards away, the front door of a pretty little cottage, stout and thick and shut tight against the rest of the world.

Daisy Phillips’s cottage. Behind that cosy front door, in some bloody cosy little bed, Alexis lay with Daisy Phillips, with a dumb teenager young enough to be his daughter.

Meredith didn’t quite understand her own reaction to this affair. When Frances had first told her about it, she’d been astounded at her own nonchalant attitude. ‘Damn!’ she’d said carelessly, swigging back her vodka. ‘Looks like I missed the boat.’ And ever since then she’d tried to maintain a semblance of cool indifference. She even thought she’d managed to fool herself. But now, seeing Alexis’s car parked so casually, so, so …
familiarly
, outside Daisy’s cottage – as though that was where it belonged – Meredith began to feel a raw hot feeling of hurt rising through her. Her cool, calm, sophisticated veneer felt as though it were being melted in patches, and her breaths began to come more quickly. Why did he choose Daisy? she found herself thinking, like an aggrieved five-year-old. Why didn’t he choose me? She felt suddenly exposed, vulnerable and, uncharacteristically, close to bursting into tears.

‘I’ve had enough,’ she muttered aloud, walking past Alexis’s car, looking away and trying to ignore the painful pangs below her ribs. ‘I’ve just about had enough.’

As she entered the drive of Devenish House, her stride
slowed down. She felt a sudden dread of seeing Hugh and Ursula; of having to summon up a smile and a cheery greeting. She took a few deep breaths and tried to focus her thoughts on something positive, but her mind batted relentlessly between disturbing images of Hugh, Alexis and Simon. Emotions surfaced in uneven, uncontrollable waves; there was no room for anything else.

She couldn’t face Hugh and Ursula while she was in this state; couldn’t face seeing anybody. For a while she stood completely still on the gravel of the drive, trying not to panic, trying to work out what to do, where to go. The friendly face of Frances Mold flashed through her mind, and for a moment she considered taking refuge in the unquestioning vicarage. Then she remembered that it was Saturday morning. Frances would be in church, busy with the flower ladies.

An unfamiliar, unwelcome feeling of loneliness began to spread through her. Where was her self-sufficiency? she asked herself furiously. Where was her independence? Where was her sense of humour? She bit her lip and pushed her hand through her hair, and wondered whether she should simply turn round and go for another long walk. And then the answer came to her: she would go to her studio and paint. She would paint until she had worked out of her system the anxiety, the hurt, the grief. She would channel the destructive feelings pounding round her body into something positive. She would make use of the moment.

Quickly she headed for the back of the house and towards her studio, then she remembered she didn’t have the keys on her. An uncharacteristic white-hot annoyance flashed through her body.

‘Fuck,’ she said aloud, and quietly opened the conservatory door. She would quickly get them from her bedroom and hope that no-one heard her.

But as she moved silently through the conservatory, she heard voices from the hall. She paused, mid-stride, and wondered whether to back out again, into the garden, but that would leave her stranded. So, taking a deep breath, she pushed unwillingly forward into the hall.

What she saw made her stop still and draw in breath sharply. There, by the door, talking to Ursula, were Barnaby and Louise Kember.