The Swim Club

by Anne De Lisle

  When we enter the dining room, Wendy says, ‘This is stunning.’

  And so it is. Everything is white. White walls, white blinds at the windows, the old pine table and chairs are painted white. Even the floorboards have a coat of white paint, more of a wash really, with hints of the wood finish still visible.

  ‘Not exactly a roast beef and Yorkshire pudding sort of a room,’ says Karen.

  ‘More your seared scallops and salmon pearls,’ says Doug.

  ‘And a chilled Moët,’ I add.

  ‘You’re making me hungry,’ says Wendy.

  ‘And thirsty.’ Karen, holding up an empty glass, starts walking back to the gathered guests.

  Among the throng, I find Lee and congratulate him. ‘I don’t know who’s responsible for your decorating,’ I say as he refills my glass, ‘but everything looks amazing.’

  ‘Anya mostly. This place is her baby.’

  ‘And so is this, I take it.’ There’s a little girl attached to one of Lee’s legs. A fair-haired doll, wearing the remnants of what looks like chocolate round her mouth. ‘Hello,’ I say, ‘you look like you’ve been eating something tasty.’

  ‘This is Mabel,’ says Lee, and pulls out his handkerchief to wipe her face. ‘And I think she’s been at the fondue pot.’

  ‘Lucky girl. Nice to meet you, Mabel. I think your house is awesome.’

  Lee thanks me, but I get the sense he’s striving for an enthusiasm he’s far from feeling, and wonder if Anya is right – that he is miffed at being obliged to live in a place he didn’t design. I hope I’m wrong. It would be disappointing to find that Lee is not the easy, uncomplicated person I’ve taken him for.

  Keen to change the subject, I say, ‘Are you and Doug competing in the Mid-Coast this year?’

  The cloud lifts from his face. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for quids. Don’t know about Doug though, you’ll have to ask him.’

  His words surprise me. I’d assumed Doug and Lee were training partners as well as business partners, given that they are always at the pool together. Though when I think about it, what other time is there to swim if you need to fit in training before work? Perhaps it is necessity not design that has had them showing up at the same time. Thinking on, I realise I’ve never actually seen Doug and Lee having the kind of animated conversation you’d expect from friends and partners who have known each other for a long time.

  ‘Lee to Charlie … Are you still there?’

  I realise I’ve been miles away. Lee’s smiling at me, Mabel’s giggling. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘I asked if you were all going to be at the Mid-Coast.’

  ‘We are. Goodness knows how I get talked into these things, but I’ll be there.’

  ‘You’ll love it.’

  His enthusiasm brings a smile to my face. ‘It’ll be a huge challenge for me, and you know it. Last time, I got beaten by a ninety year old.’ He laughs loudly, and I don’t feel at all embarrassed.

  ‘You might surprise yourself. The adrenalin will give you a kick along.’

  ‘I expect I’ll end up walking most of the run.’

  ‘Loads of people do that, you needn’t worry.’

  A few short words, but I’m immensely reassured. ‘Your daddy is very kind to his guests,’ I tell Mabel. Then I catch Lee’s eye again. He’s looking at me strangely, as though he wants to say something but can’t. ‘I should let you circulate now,’ I say, ‘be kind to your other guests.’

  I float about with a glass in my hand. As a single mother I don’t go to a lot of parties. It is only this last year that I’ve been willing to leave Mikey and Dan on their own in the evening, and only then if I’m just up the road with my mobile phone propped at the top of my bag. Even before the twins I was never much of a party animal, preferring small groups of intimate friends to large quantities of near strangers. Tonight, half the people here are locals, the other half I’ve never seen before. Surprised to find I’m enjoying myself, however, I circulate, chatting, drinking, gravitating towards familiar faces when I’m able, conscious of Doug’s continued presence in the groups I slip in and out of.

  It’s flattering, of course, to have a man on your trail who’s talented, beautiful and who’s got to be at least two years your junior. But at forty years old, I’m far too mature to succumb to mere flattery. It’s more than a year since that first clumsy lunch with Doug at Marc’s, and I’m still waiting for a glimpse of real depth: a lure that might intrigue me and give me the courage to take a risk.

  Laura and Sam arrive – Laura’s late as usual – and I give them both a kiss. It’s the first time I’ve seen Sam since Adam’s funeral. He knows Laura has told me everything, and I think how hard it must be to hold your head high when you imagine the world is standing in judgement of you. I’m anxious for him not to feel judged, and say, ‘It’s good to see you, Sam. You’re looking well.’ Remarkably well for someone who’s spent almost two years in the purgatory of hoping to be forgiven his sins. He’s filled out a little, and there’s no trace of that restless air I noticed at Adam’s funeral.

  ‘Thanks, Charlie. Haven’t seen you in ages.’

  ‘No. Every spare minute we’re in the pool.’

  ‘I know. It’s a wonder, what you girls are doing.’

  Laura says, ‘Shows what you can do when you put your mind to it,’ and gives Sam a smile that is close to seductive. She’s looking suspiciously girly tonight. There are a couple of diamante clips in her wild hair, and the peacock green, wraparound dress she’s wearing does sensuous things to her curvy body. My long-cherished hope that Laura and Sam might reunite is leaping all over the place.

  Doug appears and I get a wink from Laura that makes me blush, turn my head and distract myself with a passing platter of delicacies. I choose a dainty morsel of salmon and lime slithers trussed up with strands of seaweed.

  ‘Doug is a fellow swimmer,’ I explain to Sam, who’s sizing him up, displaying a hint of protective old friend. ‘And Sam is an artist,’ I tell Doug. ‘With more talent in his little finger than most of us could dream of in a lifetime.’

  They ease into a discussion on the abundance of creativity harboured by our hilltop town, and Laura, leaning towards me, says very low, ‘There’s a glow about you tonight, Charlie. Don’t let any opportunities slip between your fingers.’

  ‘Ditto,’ I say, with a long, hard look at her.

  She smiles. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Stranger things have happened.’

  The night wears on. Laura and Sam make their excuses and leave. I’m on the verge of hunting down Wendy and Karen, in the hope that they’ll be ready to go, when Doug materialises at my side once more. ‘Thinking of leaving?’

  ‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘You haven’t seen the deck out at the back yet, have you?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘It’s the newest addition. You can’t go without seeing it.’

  ‘Well, I suppose we should complete the tour. I’ll get Wendy, she’s over by the door. Have you seen Karen anywhere?’

  ‘Don’t worry about the others. I think they’ve already been out there.’

  I hesitate, instantly suspecting a transparent ploy to manoeuvre me out onto the back deck under cover of darkness for a move. But if an excuse is to be made, it needs to be made soon, before the length of hesitation grows uncomfortably long. It’s not, of course, that I’m worried Doug might accost me, more that I dread the inevitable discomfort that will arise when I have to tell him to back off. But with three and a half champagne cocktails warming my blood, there’s always the possibility – remote though it might be – that ordering him off will not be my first choice of response.

  Besides, I’d feel like a gauche twit refusing to go.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’

  We find ourselves alone, of course. And suddenly I’m appallingly nervous. Thank God for the near-darkness which conceals tightening of facial expression, fluttering of pulses in throat and unflattering
alteration of complexion. Better say something about the deck. It is after all, why we’re supposed to be out here. ‘Unusual to build a deck that doesn’t face the view,’ I say.

  ‘The view to the mountains is south-west. Anya had this built to take advantage of the winter sun to the north.’

  ‘Which is why no one bothers with it at night.’

  ‘Which makes it a quiet spot. Charlie –’

  I make myself look up at him. He’s almost invisible against the black of the rainforest that backs onto the garden, just a shadowy outline and a blur of white shirt. He puts a hand on my shoulder. I don’t pull away. Now or never, I tell myself. Run now and you might never have the courage to do this again. It seems an eternity of suspense before he leans forward. I swallow the mad nervous giggle that’s rising in my throat. Charlie Tarrant, forty years old, feeling like a sixteen year old who’s never been kissed. His lips touch mine. Lingering. Nice gentle approach. No grabbing and squeezing. No tongues. Very restrained. But it’s neutral. I’m not feeling anything at all. Might as well have a Tussauds dummy pressed to my face. I give it another moment or two then step back. Doug’s watching me, confident no doubt, gauging my reaction.

  Suddenly afraid he might lunge again before I have time to speak, I take a breath and say, ‘I think I need to tell you something, Doug. I’m very flattered by your attention, but I’m really not in the frame of mind to enter into any sort of a relationship at the moment. Not that I’m suggesting that’s what you’re after,’ I add, with an unwelcome return of twitishness. ‘A relationship, that is. Perhaps you just like kissing. I suppose what I’m trying to tell you is that I think you’re going to have to find someone else to kiss.’

  ‘You’re very honest,’ he says.

  ‘Maybe honesty is best.’

  ‘But I think you’re wrong.’

  He takes another step towards me. ‘You’re very ready for a relationship, Charlie. I think you’ve been ready for a long time, but for some reason you’re refusing to let it happen.’

  I detect a slight petulance: it’s the voice of a bad loser. And blame: an implication that there’s something the matter with me for not falling on him, overcome with gratitude that he was actually interested.

  ‘With all due respect, Doug, I think I know myself better than you do. But look, tonight was nice. This is nice.’ I lift an arm, taking in the night, the deck and the two of us. ‘But –’

  The door to the house opens and a flood of light catches us like two performers on a stage. It is Anya with a couple of her friends. I feel absurdly guilty. Like a schoolgirl caught snogging behind the locker-room cupboards. Not that we’ve been spotted snogging. We’re standing a good metre apart, and even if we were, as two single, consenting adults, we have every right to snog as much as we want. Nevertheless, I can tell that Anya is miffed even before she speaks.

  ‘Still doing tours of the house, Doug?’

  ‘There’s a lot to see,’ he replies. ‘Everyone’s very impressed with what you’ve done here.’

  His flattery falls on deaf ears. ‘Lee is looking for you,’ she tells him tartly, then wanders over to the edge of the deck where I’m standing.

  Doug retreats, and as if by some prearrangement, Anya’s friends melt away.

  ‘You picked a perfect night for your party,’ I say, trying to be nice.

  She pulls a packet of cigarillos from her bag and lights one. Resting her elbows on the railing, she gazes off into said perfect night. ‘I didn’t like you when I first met you,’ she says, then without looking at me, draws on the slender cigar in her hand.

  I am silent. No one has ever said quite such a blunt, rude thing to me before. How does one reply to such a comment? The feeling’s mutual? Or, Not as much as I disliked you? Dread of confrontation makes me want to walk away, but a mix of curiosity and anger keeps me there: I want to hear what else she’s got to say.

  ‘However, Lee speaks kindly of you,’ she continues, turning to face me, ‘and I do realise that first impressions aren’t always correct. Even if they were, I’d hate to see you get hurt,’ she says, and takes another deep suck on the end of her cigarillo. Suddenly her face, her immaculate grooming, her chiffon dress, are no longer the epitome of grace and chic. She looks hard, painted and inflexible. I feel like I’m in a cheap 1930s movie.

  I wait for whatever it is she intends to deliver. I don’t have to wait long. ‘Doug Bernhoff is bad, bad news. He’s been Lee’s business partner for years, which works very well, but when it comes to his personal life, he’s a disaster. You know he’s been divorced twice?’

  I nod.

  ‘All his fault. Both times. Totally without scruples or conscience.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘As a warning.’

  ‘It is quite unnecessary.’

  She takes a step towards me, flicking the ash of her cigarillo over the railing of the deck with a tap of one elegant finger. ‘I know what happened to you a few years ago. It’s a small town. People talk. I wouldn’t like you to get hurt a second time.’

  There is a lot I could say. I could tell her that she’s wasting her breath as I have no intention of letting Doug get closer to me than he got tonight. I could tell her that her interference is absolutely out of line, that as an adult I can choose for myself whether or not to trust someone. I could tell her that throwing the nature of my marriage break-up in my face was cruel and unnecessary. I say none of these things. She’s not worth the effort.

  ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ I murmur, and turn on my heel.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE FIGHTING RAGED FIERCE under the gruelling Andalucian sun. Antonia, secure in her disguise as a squire, kept to the perimeters of the battlefield, making herself useful, holding fresh horses and preparing to assist the flow of injured who would inevitably stagger her way. The noise was tremendous: the air rent by the clash of blades and the cries of men.

  Among the hordes, she could see her Douglas with his sword arm high, bringing it down again and again, cutting a swathe through the murderous throng. At last, before the furious onslaught of the Scots, the Moors drew back and began to flee.

  A surge of relief swept through Antonia, her pulse resumed its natural pace. Their battle won, they would be able to cross the strait, make their way south to the Holy Sepulchre, complete their quest and return home to Scotland.

  Suddenly her heart picked up its rapid thud again. What was he doing? ‘James!’ she cried, but her voice was lost in the roar of the pursuit. ‘Let them go … let them go …’ she prayed aloud, but The Douglas was not accustomed to let his enemy escape him. He and a few others gave chase to the fleeing Moors.

  Separated from the main body of his men, James and his plucky followers were soon outnumbered. A body of Moors rallied, surrounding them.

  In horror, Antonia saw the harsh sun glint on the silver casket at her lover’s throat, saw it spin and cartwheel across the sky to land with a thud on the barren earth. ‘Now pass thou onward before us, as thou wert wont, and I will follow thee or die,’ James cried, and with that, the Moorish butchers closed in and cut him down.

  Antonia sank to her knees.

  Later, the Moors gone, she ran to the side of her fallen lover. ‘James!’ she cried. ‘My James …’

  But his life’s force had all seeped away, darkening the dusty ground where he’d fallen: the blood of Scotland to forever stain this wretched, foreign soil. Beside his body Antonia found the silver and enamelled casket that had brought death to the one she loved. Picking it up, she fought the instinct to hurl the cursed item from her lover’s side. Inside the casket lay the embalmed heart of her dead king, Robert the Bruce. A symbol so great, James had been willing to give his life for it. And though she hated the casket, hated The Bruce himself for all that had just come to pass, she knew she couldn’t separate these men in death, knew they must be carried on together.

  She stood up. Stood tall. Her Black Douglas was gone for eternity, but he had d
ied a noble death, died for what he had most loved and cherished.

  I lay down my pen, well satisfied. Death, but not without honour. A pity he had to die, but then James never was quite right for Antonia. She mightn’t know it yet, but a whole new future is opening up before her. One more chapter should wrap it up.

  ‘The Black Douglas kissed me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘At the party of course.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell us on the way home?’

  Laura, Wendy and Karen are with me in the changing room, stripping off. ‘Didn’t seem fair – wanted to tell you all together.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘First and last.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m not interested. Call me fickle, foolish, far too fussy for a forty year-old mother of two whose husband did the leaving, but I’m just not attracted to him.’

  ‘How can you not be attracted to Doug Bernhoff?’

  I wriggle out of my wet togs and reach for my towel. ‘Good question. But it seems I’m not. Guess I’m just abnormal.’

  I’m tempted to tell them about my encounter with Anya as well, but decide against it. Blackening Anya’s name to my friends strikes me as uncomfortably similar to Anya trying to blacken Doug’s name to me. It is possible that her intentions were good, after all, that she was genuinely concerned about my growing entanglement with a man she deems a love rat. Yes, and pigs might fly.

  ‘So tell us how it happened,’ demands Laura. ‘He must have got you alone.’

  ‘On the back deck.’

  ‘Lured you out there?’

  ‘Well, I was pretty sure why he wanted me out there, given that he dissuaded me from taking anyone else along.’

  ‘But you went anyway. Brave.’