by M. B. Shaw
‘What on earth?’ There was a clattering of glass. Dom’s horrified voice rang out like a clanging bell.
Ariadne was standing, as if in a trance, with blood dripping profusely from her hand. The champagne flute she’d been holding seemed to have inexplicably broken, slicing her palm and fingers in multiple places.
‘Darling! What happened?’
‘I … I don’t know. Someone bumped into me. It was an accident,’ she muttered.
Accident my arse, thought Iris. You squeezed that glass so tightly it shattered.
‘Mummy!’ Lorcan took one look at the blood and burst into noisy tears.
‘Is Doc Ingalls still here?’ Dom barked at one of the staff. ‘Someone go and fetch him. And turn off that damned music.’
After that everything blurred a bit. The party wound down rapidly, with the last of the trendy London limpets prising themselves reluctantly off the Wetherby sofas and armchairs, like barnacles off the keel of a booze-soaked boat. Graham retrieved Iris’s coat and helped her into it before fetching his own. Then before Iris knew it, they were outside in the freezing cold, watching everybody pile into their cars.
Graham unlocked his Audi and turned on the ignition to warm it up before saying goodbye to Iris.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you over to the cottage?’
No! the voice in Iris’s head screamed. I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore!
‘Quite sure,’ she said aloud. ‘If you’re driving all the way back to London tonight, you need to get going.’
‘OK. Well, thank you for a lovely evening, Iris. And merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas,’ said Iris.
They didn’t kiss again, or mention the kiss inside. No one said anything. Instead, after an awkward few moments, Graham hugged Iris briefly, got into his car and drove away.
Deflated, Iris walked alone back to Mill Cottage. By the time she’d undressed, found her pyjamas in the messy pile that was her bedroom floor and flopped into bed, it was well past midnight. Gazing upwards, the ceiling and walls with their quaint rose-print paper began spinning around her at a dizzying rate.
You’re drunk, Iris told herself.
You kissed another man.
She examined her heart for traces of guilt, but couldn’t find any. Her conscience had taken the night off, apparently. It was Christmas, after all.
Reaching out to turn off her bedside lamp, she suddenly caught sight of Dom Wetherby’s half-finished portrait staring at her from the chair where she’d propped it earlier. Something struck her. The way the light shifted over Dom’s pupils, it was as if he were deliberately avoiding the artist’s gaze. Her gaze.
Iris hadn’t intended to paint him that way, and indeed had never noticed the expression before. Not consciously, anyway.
It seemed important. In her hazy, drunken state, she cast around in her mind for a link between that look of Dom’s, guilty and avoiding, and the things she’d witnessed tonight: the drunk producer. Harry Masters’ rage. Marcus Wetherby’s fear. Dom’s boasting. Ariadne’s bloody hand. And before all of that, Billy Wetherby, driving angrily off into the night.
Was there a connection, or was it all a concoction of Iris’s alcohol-addled mind?
Too tired to care, she switched off the light, plunging Dom’s portrait back into darkness. Her mind turned wistfully to Graham Feeney’s face, and the fleeting thrill of his lips against her own. Then Iris sank into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Chapter Nine
The first thing Iris was aware of was church bells ringing. That beautiful, ancient, cascading melody of pealing bells that signalled Christmas morning.
Groaning, she pulled the pillow over her head and fell back asleep.
The next time she woke, it was noon. Her mouth was dry as dust and smelled as if a small rodent had died in it. Her head hurt when she moved, and her stomach growled so loudly she wondered if she might have swallowed the small rodent and was now having trouble digesting it. In short, Iris felt less than festive. But her need to pee overrode her deep longing to stay very, very still indeed. After making her way unsteadily to the bathroom, coffee began to feel like the next attainable goal. To the kitchen and beyond!
Well, perhaps not beyond. Pulling back the curtains and opening the kitchen window, she was immediately assaulted by a blast of cold air and the sort of crisp, blue, perfect Christmas Day that seemed to demand she pull her socks up and get into the spirit of things at once. She was about to redraw the curtains and beat a hasty retreat when she suddenly saw Lorcan, who saw her too and waved back enthusiastically, racing down the hill towards the cottage.
‘Merry Christmas, Iris!’ he boomed in that strange, deep voice of his, incongruously adult given his childlike nature. Seconds later he was standing outside the open window, panting like a puppy. ‘Did Father Christmas came?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Iris grinned. ‘I haven’t checked yet, but I’m not sure he comes to grown-ups.’
‘He comed to me and Lottie and Oscar!’ Lorcan announced delightedly. He often got his tenses muddled up, possibly because he lived so much in the present. ‘All my whole stocking was full.’
‘What was your favourite thing?’ Iris asked, forgetting her sore head for a moment in the face of Lorcan’s utter, unadulterated Christmas joy.
‘Chocolate coins.’ He pulled a half-melted one out of his trouser pocket and offered it to Iris through the open glass. ‘You can eat it. But save room for Mummy’s special lunch!’ He patted his belly, repeating the line he’d no doubt heard from Ariadne scores of times this morning. Iris could just imagine the feast she would have prepared today up at the house – organic turkey dripping with juices, pigs in blankets, truffle mashed potatoes, Brussels sprouts with pecorino cheese. Ariadne was an incredible cook, and not a woman to do things by halves. Iris wondered idly where her landlady’s perfectionist streak had come from. It was hard to picture her father, the diminutive and wizened Clive, as the pushy, demanding parent. Although perhaps he’d been different when he was younger.
Iris’s own parents had been poster children for 1970s liberalism, no more capable of ‘pushing’ their children than they were of holding down a job. Which probably partially explained why Iris’s Christmas feast would consist of a Pot Noodle and mince pies in front of the telly. Not that she was complaining. If she’d had to go up to the Mill now and sit through a polite gourmet lunch party, she’d have put a gun to her head.
‘Well, give Mummy my love. And merry Christmas.’ Iris leaned further out of the window and kissed Lorcan on the cheek.
‘After lunch it’s presents,’ he informed Iris merrily, by way of goodbye, before turning abruptly and scampering back up the hill the way he came.
‘Not for me it isn’t,’ Iris murmured contentedly, pouring herself a coffee and tearing a large hunk off the Marks & Spencer’s panettone that her mother sent her every year as a treat. ‘After lunch it’s back to bed.’
The answerphone was flashing. In a moment of madness, thinking it might be Graham Feeney, Iris hit ‘play’.
‘I suppose I should wish you a happy Christmas.’ Ian’s voice was so heavy with bitterness, each word sounded like it was choking him. ‘You’ll be out having fun with your new friends, I daresay. Ah, well. Take care, Iris. Have a good one.’
Take care. It was what you said to a stranger.
And was that sadness Iris heard, beneath the anger?
Incredible how a few short words from the man she was married to could turn Iris’s mood from happiness to something approaching despair. Like a click of the fingers, or a flick of a switch, he brought her down, back into the darkness. Back into the trap.
Forget lunch. She might as well go back to bed now.
* * *
‘“To Dom and Ariadne. With love, Graham.’”
Marcus handed the simply wrapped red package to his father. Dom smiled as he opened it, revealing an exquisitely bound early edition of Wordsworth.
> ‘Bloody hell, that’s generous of him,’ he said, examining the book briefly before passing it to Jenna to give to Ariadne. ‘Must have cost a small fortune.’
The whole family were in the drawing room, gathered round the magnificent Christmas tree for the annual present-giving ritual. When the boys were little, Dom had acted as master of ceremonies, but for the last few years Marcus had taken over the role, doling out gifts one by one while somebody else (Jenna, today) made notes of who had given what, for thank-you-letter purposes.
The room itself could have been a scene from a Christmas card. The tree was hung with three decades’ worth of decorations, some now desperately tatty but of sentimental value to generations of Wetherby children. The most dog-eared of them all, a crudely sewn Father Christmas made by Billy in his last year of primary school, before his teenage anger and paranoia had taken hold, was now so rotted and horrifying it had been nicknamed ‘Death’s Head Santa’ by Jenna and the name had stuck. This year Lorcan and Lottie had stuck cloves in oranges with Ariadne and tied them on with ribbons, adding another layer of sweet scent to the pine and woodsmoke. Cards from the family’s countless friends littered every available surface, after which more had been hung from strings over the door and mantelpiece. On the Egton chest was a wooden nativity set from the 1970s that had become a family joke, thanks to the donkey’s disproportionately enormous penis.
Along with these and other kitsch touches – Dom’s American publisher had sent him a singing Rudolph one year that glowed and shuddered when you pressed its nose – there were more traditional adornments. A large sprig of mistletoe hung over the doorway, and each of the sash windows was decorated with simple but beautiful holly wreaths. Little silver trays of sugared almonds and Carlsbad Plums from Fortnum & Mason had been placed on all the coffee and side tables, and in the background ‘Jesus Christ the Apple Tree’ provided a soothing, spiritual soundtrack to this most soulless and commercial of Christmas rituals – and everybody’s favourite – presents.
‘What’s that? What have you got there?’ Clive bellowed from the corner, watching Graham’s gift doing the rounds. Ariadne’s tiny father was sinking into the soft cushions of a small velvet loveseat that was threatening to swallow him whole.
‘It’s a book, Dad. A poetry book,’ Ariadne explained patiently.
‘What?’ the old man barked, his deafness making him bad-tempered.
‘It’s poetry, Clive!’ Dom yelled back, momentarily bad-tempered himself. Dom’s father-in-law only ever came to stay at Christmas, but his visits were always a trial, not least for the strain they put on Ariadne, who wound herself up like a toy mouse whenever she was around him. God knows Clive Hinchley had been pompous and dull enough when he was middle-aged and a senior partner at Hinchley Crewe, the dreary mid-level accounting firm his father had founded. But age and its accompanying loss of faculties, most recently hearing, had made Clive’s company borderline intolerable. Dom had long held a private belief that Ariadne’s mother, Elise, must have died of boredom and not the brain haemorrhage so lazily cited by her doctors. Marriage to Clive was surely enough to explain the world’s worst headache.
Turning Graham’s book over in her hands – how strange that Marcus Feeney’s brother should be back in their lives, now of all times – Ariadne pressed the soft leather against her sore palm. The cuts from last night’s shattered glass were still livid and red, but the pain was a welcome distraction. Outwardly Ariadne had regained her composure, cooking up a storm all morning and laughing contentedly with her grandchildren and Lorcan as they played with their stocking fillers. But inside she was stretched taut like an over-tuned violin. Her father. Her husband. Her son. Each one of them slowly but painfully turning their respective screws. If life had afforded her the luxury, Ariadne Wetherby could happily have snapped at any minute. As it was, however, family life went on. Resting the poetry book calmly in her lap, Ariadne assumed an expression of peace and love and went on with it.
Billy, curse his wicked heart, had not come home last night, or this morning. Dom was typically dismissive, confident that their troubled son had holed up with a friend somewhere, that the whole episode was a master class in attention-seeking and that Billy would slink back home in a day or two with his tail between his legs.
‘He’s trying to ruin your Christmas,’ Dom told Ariadne, almost angrily, as he dressed for church, admiring his handsome reflection in their bedroom mirror. ‘Just don’t let him.’
Apparently it hadn’t occurred to Dom that his own behaviour last night, fawning over that producer girl, had already ruined Ariadne’s Christmas, or at least cast a long shadow over it. Afterwards, dear, sweet Harry Masters had helped her to dress her cut hand, while Dom had as good as ignored her, yucking it up with their remaining guests as if nothing had happened. Damage control had always been one of his specialities.
Looking at him now, ensconced in his favourite Victorian armchair beside the Christmas tree, gorged on the pitch-perfect Christmas lunch she’d just prepared, washed down with far too much Domaine Leroy Burgundy, Ariadne marvelled again at Dom’s ability to see only what he wanted to see and blot out the rest. As if life were a script that he could compose and edit to suit his own needs, a story he got to write and control. In his Grimshaw books, he managed to convey his hero’s selfishness as an almost endearing quirk. Gerry Grimshaw and Dom Wetherby were not the same person, but Ariadne sometimes felt they had more in common than Dom cared to admit. Both were possessed of a well-developed sexist gene, as well as the typical firstborn’s sense of entitlement; Detective Grimshaw and his creator both viewed themselves as the sun, around which other, more minor characters orbited like planets.
Ariadne loved Dom, of course. She had to. It was too late for anything else. Their lives were as intimately entwined as the roots of a tree: twisted but unbreakable. And yet, on some levels, Dom didn’t understand her at all.
Couldn’t he see that if anything had happened to Billy, it would be her fault?
Dom didn’t understand guilt because he never felt it himself. He considered it a waste of emotion. Perhaps it was.
Closing her eyes, Ariadne imagined herself walking into her sculpting shed, pulling the chloroform mask over her nose and mouth, and allowing herself to slip peacefully away. To forget. To escape. How blissful that would be!
Marcus was still talking, announcing the presents as quickly as he could, but still not quickly enough for the children. He, at least, looks happy, Ariadne consoled herself, although the tension between him and Jenna remained palpable. When Jenna had opened Marcus’s present to her, a simple silver locket in the shape of a heart, she’d looked as if she might burst into tears, and was clearly only holding it together for the children.
Putting aside all Billy’s presents in a silent, reproachful little pile, Marcus finally reached under the tree and dragged out the biggest, and final box.
‘“To Lorcan”,’ he read aloud, grinning as his little brother literally jumped up and down with excitement. ‘“Merry Christmas and all our love, Mummy and Daddy.’”
Everybody watched indulgently as Lorcan tore at the wrapping on his gift like a starving child clawing at a bag of rice. Inside were two boxes, one containing an enormous bright red toy speedboat and the other a Scooby-Doo mystery-maker torch.
‘Remoke control!’ he exclaimed joyously. ‘It’s remoke control!’ Putting the boat down on the floor carefully, he flung himself into his mother’s arms and hugged her so tightly Marcus half expected to hear a rib crack. ‘Thank you! I love you, Mummy!’
Watching the two of them, Jenna found herself torn. Lorcan’s love was touching in its innocence. But she couldn’t shake the bitter, uncomfortable feeling that Ariadne didn’t deserve it. What was it that Lorcan and Marcus so worshipped in their mother?
‘Hey! What about Daddy?’ Dom asked, mock reproachfully. Lorcan bounced over to hug him, too. ‘Come on,’ said Dom, heaving himself up out of his chair with an effort. ‘I’ll put the batteries
in for you and you can take it down to the river for a spin. After that I’m going to go for a walk, I think. Clear the old head. D’you want to come, Marcus?’
Marcus, who was busy extricating Lottie’s Barbie from its Fort Knox–like packaging, looked up, surprised.
‘OK,’ he said, stealing a sidelong glance at Jenna. ‘Sure. I could do with stretching my legs. Mum?’
‘Me? Oh no, thank you, darling,’ Ariadne said, distractedly. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen, washing up. There’s so much to do.’
‘Who’s making a to-do?’ piped up Clive. ‘Have we missed the Queen’s speech?’
‘I’ll put it on for him,’ Jenna said kindly, offering the old man her arm. ‘Come along, Clive. There’s a television in the study. Come with me.’
* * *
When Iris woke again, the daylight was already fading. To her shame, she saw that her bedside clock said 3.15 p.m. Had she really slept away almost all of Christmas Day? How awful.
She spent the next twenty minutes in a flurry of activity, dressing quickly and then proceeding to tidy up the cottage, hoovering the downstairs room, cleaning the kitchen and bagging up the rubbish. Feeling virtuous, she carried two groaning bin bags out to the dustbins. At the top of the field, she saw a pair of figures walking together. In the failing light, it took a moment for her to recognise them as Dom and Marcus, no doubt walking off the excesses of lunch up at the Mill.
Wedging both bags as deep into the plastic bins as possible, to thwart the foxes, Iris suddenly heard someone cough behind her. Turning round, she could see no one there.
‘Hello?’ she called out. Then, more robustly, ‘Billy, is that you? Because if it is, I want you to know I don’t appreciate being followed.’