Swimming Pool Sunday (9 page)

They could drink white wine, sitting in Cassian’s pretty little cottage garden, and talk business discreetly, and perhaps stroll around the village. And then he could introduce Desmond to Louise. Desmond would be impressed by Louise. The daughter of Lord Page, no less. The Honourable Louise Kember.

Kember. Cassian frowned. Such an ungainly name, like its owner. Why on earth had Louise taken on the surname of that oaf? And why, more to the point, had she married him in the first place?

Cassian liked to think that he had spotted the potential of Louise even before he’d been informed of her relationship to Lord Page. He’d noticed her immediately, he told himself; he’d seen at once that she was stifled, bored and suffering from a lack of stimulation. She was intelligent and educated, yet she was expected to have no interests above those of her children, the village, and that insufferable boor of a husband.

A picture of Barnaby’s face swam into Cassian’s mind: dim and brutish, with the suspicious stare of an ill-educated peasant. Those huge hulking shoulders, those clumsy hands, those boots, always caked in mud. And the inarticulateness of the man! Cassian recalled their very first meeting at a drinks party. He had attempted a number of pleasant conversational gambits, and Barnaby had seemed incapable of responding with anything more than a shrug or a grunt or a monosyllable.

Louise, on the other hand, had positively sparkled with wit and charm and important names. Cassian recalled, again, the
frisson
he’d received when she’d casually referred to current cabinet ministers by their Christian names; when she’d spoken, with the disparaging tone of an insider, of Commons food; then, later, after a few more drinks, when she’d related the story of the time the Prime Minister telephoned and she was the only one in, and she thought it was a hoaxer and didn’t pass the message on.

Little idiot! Cassian gave a small grin. For all her knowledgeable veneer, Louise had, he’d soon discovered, less of a grip on the world of politics than she liked to think she had. Her mind revolved, he often observed, along the peculiarly feminine parochial grooves which he had noticed in female colleagues at
work. They all had the same insistence on knowing irrelevant details; the same ability to take an episode of grave political or legal import and turn it into a trivial anecdote; the same fixation on names, faces and people, rather than issues, concepts and theories.

But no matter. What Louise did have was an effortless ease with the workings of British politics, a grounding in the party political system, an awareness of the lifestyle of a Member of Parliament, and, perhaps most importantly, experience of being involved in a successful political campaign. She had the background, the breeding. She would make an admirable politician’s wife. Any selection committee in the country would love her.

At this thought, Cassian began to breathe slightly more quickly. He looked down and saw that his fingers were clenched tightly on the steering-wheel. Carefully, he loosened them and took a deep breath. He mustn’t rush things; he mustn’t ruin his chances. He knew what people were saying about him: that he was a home-breaker; that he’d lured Louise away from her honest husband. People must think he and Louise had been conducting some kind of torrid affair. At this, Cassian allowed himself a small smirk. As pretty as Louise was, it was a kind of girlish breathy prettiness that held no attraction for him. But that wasn’t the point; she would make a lovely suitable bride.

As he began to imagine their smart London wedding, bristling with important people from both politics and law, perhaps with the two little girls as adorable photogenic bridesmaids, the telephone in his car rang. He switched it on to speaker-phone. A young anxious voice filled the car.

‘Cassian? It’s Jamie.’ Cassian frowned with annoyance. Jamie was one of the newest trainees at the Linningford office.

‘How the fuck did you get this number?’ he snapped.

‘I-I phoned your secretary at home. I’m really sorry to bother you. It’s just that …’

‘What?’

‘Well, I’ve been searching all weekend, and I still haven’t tracked down that case for you. And I … well, I was just wondering, did you have any more information about it?’

‘What case?’ said Cassian impatiently.

‘The one for the letter to Simmons Ltd. Y-you wanted me to check the details.’

‘You haven’t done it yet?’

‘Well, n-no. I’ve been trying to find the case …’

‘Jamie, I don’t need this crap. That letter was urgent!’

‘I know! I’ve been looking for the case. I’m in the library now, but you didn’t give me very much to go on …’

‘Well, that’s just tough! You fucking well find that case, and you have the letter ready on my desk by tomorrow morning. All right?’

‘All right.’

‘And you don’t ring me on this line again, OK?’

‘Y-yes. I’m really sorry, Cassian …’ But Cassian abruptly switched off the phone, cutting Jamie off mid-flow.

For a moment he couldn’t remember what he had been thinking about. Then, gradually, a series of pleasant images began to filter back into his mind. A collage of blue eyes, feathery blond hair, a bright giggling laugh, a title, an important father and an easy entry into the world of high-flying politics.

As he neared Melbrook, Cassian decided he would go straight to see Louise, to relate to her the triumph of the weekend. Perhaps, he thought, taking the turning for her house, it was even time to move their relationship on to a new level. The rush of adrenalin from the weekend’s deals had not completely faded; there lingered inside him still a faint frustrating arousal. He
would get rid of it by taking Louise to bed, and simultaneously would get rid of the ambivalence still hanging over their relationship. It had surely been long enough by now. Barnaby had been out of the house for months. Louise must be ripe and ready; she wouldn’t refuse him.

Filled with a faint anticipation, he sauntered up the path, rang the doorbell, and pushed a hand back through his glossy dark hair. When the door opened, he began a sexy half smile, and stepped forward to give Louise a kiss.

But it wasn’t Louise who stood in front of him in the doorway, it was Mary Tracey, holding her baby. Automatically, Cassian frowned. Then, with sudden horror, he saw that her face was red and swollen, with bloodshot eyes and tear-stained skin. Immediately he thought of Louise.

‘Has something happened?’ he began in an alarmed voice. Mary’s face crumpled up and she gave a little sob.

‘It’s Katie,’ she managed, before dissolving into fresh, shuddering streams of tears. ‘She’s had an accident.’

Barnaby stood, clutching the door of the Accident and Emergency ward of Braybury Hospital, and shook with terror. Fifteen feet away, in a cleared space, lay Katie, unconscious, on a hospital bed. A plastic contraption was in her mouth; a battery of transparent tubes ran from her body to flashing green television screens; and now, looming over her immobile form, was a huge monster of a machine. Someone had explained to him in a clear careful voice, that this was the portable X-ray machine, and that he would, briefly, have to move away from the area of Katie’s bed. Louise was allowed to put on a lead jacket and stay, together with one of the nurses, but everyone else moved out of the radiation zone, leaving the small form of Katie briefly marooned, like a leper or a corpse.

‘OK.’ The machine began to move away; the voice of
the X-ray operator resonated through the tense silence and immediately, as though on starting blocks, the team of doctors and nurses waiting on the sidelines rushed forward again, each sure of where to go, what to do and how to do it. Only Barnaby remained motionless. A paralysis of helplessness anchored him to the ground. He could not think what to do, or what to say, or what to feel. Pictures circled again and again in his mind, and with them billowed clouds of pain and disbelief.

He’d got to Katie first. Amid the screams and shouts and – from those who hadn’t seen properly – giggles, he’d somehow got to the pool, dived in, and desperately groped in the water for her little body, and eventually managed to scoop her out and place her tenderly by the side of the pool. She hadn’t drowned; she’d seemed to be breathing, and everyone had said, ‘Thank God.’

Then the ambulance crew had arrived. And it was then, as Barnaby watched them wedging her head into a wooden frame, and placing her on a stiff board, and covering her face with an oxygen mask, and heard them radioing ahead to the hospital, saying, ‘Please alert trauma team’, that this feeling of unbearable, inarticulate panic had begun.

None of the ambulance crew had smiled at him, or said, Not to worry, or We’ll soon have this little lady on her feet again. They’d worked quickly and efficiently, while the taut silence around the pool grew heavier and heavier. Louise had kept her head, to some degree, organizing Mary Tracey to look after Amelia, and talking soothingly to Katie. But Barnaby had stood mute, still dripping from the pool, unable to speak; unable to look, almost, as these calm professionals packaged up his daughter and swiftly took her away from him.

Only one parent in the ambulance, they’d said. And Barnaby had stared back at them, in numb, stupid incomprehension. But Louise had turned, pale-faced
and hesitant, to Hugh, and even before she could ask, he was insisting on driving Barnaby to the hospital, behind the ambulance all the way. When they’d got here, the trauma team had been waiting for them at the door. And as the doctors leaped into their frantic work over his daughter’s unconscious form, Barnaby had stood still and watched, while water dripped down his neck and a terrible, unspeakable fear seeped through his body.

Mary Tracey sat at the table in Louise Kember’s kitchen, clutched baby Luke to her chest and surreptitiously watched Cassian. He had led her gently into the kitchen, sat her down on a chair, and was now making them both a cup of tea. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he leaned casually against a kitchen cupboard, an elegant figure, even in off-duty clothes. Slowly Mary took in his tanned muscular arms, his thick glossy hair, his curved lips and white teeth. He was, she admitted to herself at last, quite something to look at.

Mary had always been fond of both Barnaby and Louise. When the rumours had begun she had stoutly disbelieved them; when they had actually split up, she had felt devastated. If such a wonderfully happy couple could break up, she had thought to herself, what hope was there for the rest of them?

And at the bottom of her heart she had blamed Cassian Brown. If he hadn’t moved into the village, she had decided, none of it would have happened. Never having met him properly, she had conjured up in her mind an image of him as an evil, lecherous character, preying on a happily married woman. Italian blood in him, she’d thought. No wonder. He was probably all mixed up with the Mafia. He was probably setting Louise up for some horrible life of crime.

Now she looked at him uncertainly, as he poured out a nice cup of tea for her and gave her a charming
smile. He didn’t seem such a bad person after all, she thought unwillingly. He was being very kind to her – he’d listened carefully as she told him all about the accident – and he was so good-looking. No wonder Louise …

‘Do you like sugar?’ Cassian’s voice caught Mary by surprise.

‘Oh, yes please,’ she replied. She looked down at Luke, and hastily wiped away a dribble from his little chin. What must she look like herself? she suddenly found herself thinking. All blotchy and crumpled … Then, with a sudden emotional swoop, her thoughts returned to poor little Katie. Her heart gave an unpleasant thump and she began to shift uncomfortably in her chair. It didn’t seem right to be sitting doing nothing.

‘I’ll take a drink up to Amelia in a minute,’ she said quietly. ‘Ask her what she wants for supper, poor little pet.’

‘I suppose Louise might stay at the hospital all night’, said Cassian, ‘if things are really bad.’

Mary looked at him in alarm.

‘H-how bad’, she faltered, ‘do you think they might be? Do you think …’ She tailed off, unable to say the words. Cassian looked at her soberly.

‘Head injuries are no joke,’ he said. He put the tea down in front of her. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘drink this.’

‘Thank you,’ mumbled Mary. She felt sudden respect for Cassian, a serious professional man. He was young, but he knew about things. He had the answers to her questions.

She sipped her tea and felt its sweet warming strength spread through her body. Cassian was still standing up, drinking his own tea. Suddenly he seemed to make a decision.

‘I think I’ll go along to the hospital,’ he said. ‘Unless you want me to help you here?’

He gave her a brief questioning smile, and Mary shook her head dumbly.

‘No, of course not,’ said Cassian smoothly. ‘I’m sure you can manage. And I’d very much like to er … make myself useful to Louise.’

‘Give them my love,’ said Mary. ‘And lots of love to Katie.’ Her voice began to shake, and she felt her nose start to prickle again.

‘Oh, sure,’ said Cassian, picking up his jacket. ‘Absolutely.’

Louise and Barnaby had been shepherded into a tiny room off the side of the ward, which was furnished with an oatmeal-coloured three-piece suite and a vase of plastic flowers. They sat in a white-faced silent blur, each battling with their own shocking, tormenting emotions.

Louise’s thoughts skittered through her mind in a circular, repetitious cycle. Katie bouncing on the board, Katie shrieking, Katie falling; that scream. A knife-like pain in her heart, then, rushing tantalizingly into her head before she could stop them, the crowding unbearable what-might-have-beens. If she’d told Katie to get out of the pool earlier. If she’d told the girls not to go on the diving-board. If Katie had gone fishing after all. If they’d all gone fishing. A picture of them all happily eating pizza. A fleeting, deceiving sensation of relief, and then, with a flash, the icy stab of reality; of Katie’s little body, unconscious, wired up. And immediately back to Katie bouncing on the board, Katie shrieking, Katie falling.

For the moment she could not wrench her mind from its repeating, circular pattern. Lurking in the shadows of her mind, waiting to pounce, towered emotions that were huge and frightening; that would consume and destroy her. For the moment they must be kept out. And so her mind raced around, lingering on no thought long
enough for it to develop; allowing no conclusions to be drawn; no speculations to be made.