The Swim Club

by Anne De Lisle

  Doug suddenly appears at my side. ‘Charlie! You look great.’

  And you don’t look too bad yourself. Doug is in jeans and a shirt as white as his smile, looking like the main attraction in a toothpaste ad. And he seems so very pleased to see me. Suddenly it’s easy to tell myself that the arrogance I’ve detected in him is born of insecurity. Maybe he needs a flash car, needs to show how fast he can swim. Maybe he needs to shout about his efficiency in all things in order to feel like a man. In which case I should display a bit more tolerance, be a little more charitable in my opinions. Suddenly I’m willing to believe that I’ve been too hasty, too judgemental.

  Maybe Karen’s right about needing more practice. Maybe lips unkissed for so long might take a bit of warming up. It’s a beautiful night. It’s New Year’s Eve, the night of free kisses. Seeing Doug smile down at me so appreciatively, it’s easy to believe in all sorts of possibilities.

  The lights are dimmed and the music is turned up. The pulse of the beat vibrates through the soles of my shoes. Wendy comes over. She’s looking like a nymph with her hair newly cropped, and wearing a baby blue halterneck dress that finishes an inch or so above her slender knees. A young woman’s dress, fit for a teenager, I can’t imagine anyone but Wendy getting away with it over the age of forty.

  ‘Look at Pete and Cate.’ She’s having to shout to be heard above the din of the Stones’ ‘Honky Tonk Woman’. ‘Pete adores her.’

  It’s an uplifting sight. In the dull amber glow that is the living room, Cate and Pete have started dancing. Others begin to join them. But Cate and Pete’s eyes are only for one another, and it’s impossible to believe that all won’t be well with them in the end.

  ‘Come on,’ says Doug, taking my arm, ‘let’s dance.’

  I’ve never been keen on doing uninhibited gyrations round the dance floor, wriggling my curves like Cate is doing. Slow shuffling is more my style. ‘Maybe later,’ I say. ‘If the music settles down to something less excitable. Wendy might though. She’s been tapping her toes since we got here.’ I give her a little shove towards him, and off they go.

  My glass is empty and I wander away in search of a refill. I find Lee at the bar. ‘How are you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘Good,’ he says, topping up my glass. ‘And you?’

  ‘Better here. It’s a bit quieter. I’m not much of a party person. I love friends and I love eating. Not so good at the deafening music and the crush of the dance floor.’

  ‘Me too,’ he says. ‘Rather cook up a feast for a few close friends.’

  My eyes drift to said dance floor. ‘Cate’s radiant, isn’t she? It might be Pete’s birthday, but it’s Cate’s night.’

  ‘You girls are a close-knit bunch, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Genuine friendship,’ he says. ‘You’re not worried about who has the biggest bank balance, the most kudos with their work.’

  ‘The thinnest legs, the best husband.’

  ‘You don’t have a husband, a partner, do you?’

  ‘No. Not for a few years now.’

  ‘Very independent of you.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’ I take a sip of champagne. ‘It wasn’t exactly by choice. Sometimes things are thrust upon you, things outside your control.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  I’d like to ask what he’s implying. Here’s an attractive man with a beautiful wife and child, a rewarding career, good health. It stretches my imagination to believe that ugly things have been thrust upon him.

  Laura drifts over and gives both of us a kiss. She pats her tummy.

  ‘Are we allowed to tell?’ I mouth.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she says to Lee. ‘Shocking isn’t it?’

  His smile would melt an icecap. ‘Not shocking in the least. Am I allowed another kiss?’ She lifts her cheek. ‘Congratulations,’ he says.

  ‘I’m forty-two.’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  I beam at Lee. ‘That’s just what I said.’

  ‘Feeding babies,’ Laura groans. ‘Sleepless nights. At my age.’

  ‘Anya was forty-one when Mabel arrived.’

  ‘You could always express,’ I say to Laura. ‘Then Sam can do the night shifts.’

  ‘I’m tempted. But Sam’s going to be doing a lot of the day shifts too.’ She sips her juice. ‘You see, I don’t want to give up work.’ She hesitates for a minute, as though she’s going to say something else.

  I know what she’s thinking, and slide an arm round her shoulders. ‘No one’s going to think you’re a bad mother, Laura. Just because you’re a woman and Sam’s a man doesn’t mean you have to be the one at home.’

  ‘I know, I know. But people judge.’

  ‘You mean Sam’s mother will judge?’

  This draws a laugh. ‘I expect so, but she won’t be the only one.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re worried,’ says Lee. ‘It’s logical for each member of a couple to do what they do best. There are loads of happy house-husbands these days.’

  ‘I could do with one of those,’ I say, then look down at my drink, a bit embarrassed. Now Lee will be thinking I’m desperate for a man in my life. ‘Actually a secretary would do, a PA or someone to organise everything for me.’

  Laura leans towards Lee and lowers her voice. ‘She lives in chaos, you see. More clutter than I’ve ever seen in my life.’

  I throw her a grateful smile. ‘My environment is very different to yours, Lee.’

  ‘The antithesis,’ says Laura. ‘But it’s very endearing.’

  He grins down at me. ‘A lot of creative people are clutterers.’

  ‘But you’re not.’

  ‘Different sort of creativity. Most of the time architecture requires control, neatness, order, precision.’

  ‘You make it sound very military,’ says Laura.

  He laughs. ‘Well in reality it is more maths and problemsolving than sitting about drawing pictures. I could easily envy you, Charlie, being able to let loose your creative instincts. In my world we have to learn to subjugate ours to the client’s taste. Lots of architects are frustrated artists.’

  I lean forward to top up Laura’s orange juice. ‘Funny how professions end up being not at all what you expect when you start out. When Laura first qualified, she thought she’d be moping up blood, setting broken limbs and delivering babies.’

  ‘But in reality,’ she says, ‘I spend most of my time talking to patients about their marital problems.’ She looks at me. ‘You thought you’d have your feet up writing stories all day.’

  ‘I wish! I do a lot of the time, of course. But when a book comes out I have to self-promote. Suffer neurosis and nerves, do interviews and give talks at bookshops and festivals. Standing up, blowing my trumpet, telling the world how great my work is. Which is not always easy for someone who prefers the privacy of her own home and the company of her pen.’

  They both laugh, and Lee says, ‘I don’t think I’ve met a professional author before, not one who actually earns a living from writing books. How many books have you had published?’

  ‘Not as many as you might think,’ I say. ‘My latest book has taken me two years. And it’s my seventh, so you’d think I’d have it down to a fine art by now.’

  ‘Not your seventh romance though,’ Laura points out.

  ‘My first three were historical biographies,’ I explain. ‘A few years ago I switched to writing historical romance.’

  ‘More financially viable?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And more interesting to read,’ says a voice from behind me.

  It’s Doug, returning from his exertions on the dance floor, having swapped Wendy for Anya at some stage of the proceedings. It’s hard to squash a return of the embarrassment I suffered when I first discovered Doug had been reading Lord of the North.

  I distract myself with Anya – who’s as immaculate as ever, pencil slim in a silky black sheath of a dress and killer heels t
hat have her standing as tall as Cate – giving her a kiss on the cheek and saying, ‘You look lovely tonight, very elegant.’ Then turning back to Lee, I continue, ‘They’re women’s books really. Most unusual for a man to pick up a romance novel.’

  ‘Not one as interested in women as Doug is.’

  Doug laughs, but I detect a note of disapproval in Lee’s voice. I catch Laura’s eye, and see she’s heard it too. There’s a short silence. Doug pours Anya a drink, I sip my own, wishing someone would speak. Laura’s usually so good at this sort of thing.

  In the end it is Anya who breaks the silence. ‘Yours is an unusual way to earn a living,’ she says to me, and I fancy there’s more than a hint of smugness about her words. It’s a reaction I’ve come across countless times over the years, yet it still has the power to make me bristle: the notion that writing romance novels is a most inferior business to be involved in. That anyone with the slightest bit of talent would be composing work of a far more elevated nature. It’s literary snobbery, and I’ve encountered it more often in readers than fellow authors – other writers are usually just impressed at how many copies my books sell.

  ‘It is unusual,’ says Laura. ‘But then Charlie’s a wonder. Very few people manage to support themselves as writers. The statistics are appalling, aren’t they, Charlie?’

  I’m not sure that I want to get drawn into this, but take a breath anyway and say, ‘They’re pretty bad. Publishers reject tens of thousands of manuscripts every year. It can take a huge amount of work and perseverance just to get your foot in the door.’

  Anya raises one eyebrow. ‘Even with romance writing?’

  ‘Even with romance writing. There’s a misconception in some quarters that just because something is easy to read it must have been easy to write and easy to get published.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ she says archly, ‘I can understand why.’

  Lee, frowning a bit, drumming his fingers on the stem of his glass, says, ‘I, for one, think it’s astonishing. I wouldn’t know where to start writing any kind of a book.’

  There’s an abyss of silence. For the second time at a party I appear to have caused tension between this couple. But Anya ignores him. Her attention is all on me, though I’ve no idea why she seems so fixated. ‘Don’t you find it awkward,’ she says, ‘to write books in a genre that goes so much against feminist ideals?’

  I can see Laura’s fuming, poised to defend me, but I’ve heard this one before plenty of times too, and know exactly what to say. ‘Actually, Anya, there’s an argument that romance is the most feminist genre around. Think about it. Your heroines are strong, capable women who know what they want and always get it: their ideal mate, their perfect life, not to mention all those multiple orgasms. As for the heroes of romance novels, if they even think about behaving badly toward the heroine they always end up grovelling.’

  Laura gives a shout of laughter. ‘I like that. Bravo Charlie.’

  ‘But still,’ persists Anya, ‘wouldn’t you prefer to be writing something more challenging?’

  Suddenly I spot Karen. She’s a treat of a distraction. ‘Look at Karen!’ I blurt. ‘Over there, near the door.’

  Karen is in the arms of a mystery man. They are dancing, slowly, and her head is thrown back in laughter. Two years ago I’d never have been able to dream up such a wonderful image.

  ‘She looks very happy,’ says Lee.

  ‘Who’s the man?’ asks Laura.

  ‘I have no idea. We’ll have to make it our business to find out.’

  ‘Pity him,’ says Doug, ‘if he doesn’t meet with your approval.’

  Laura catches Doug’s eye and laughs. ‘Is that what you blokes worry about? That we girls get together and discuss your pros and cons?’

  Though I’m relieved to have got Anya off my case, I’m dismayed by this particular turn of conversation – Doug has been subjected to precisely such discussions behind his broad back.

  ‘Vetting us for your friends? Wouldn’t surprise me,’ says Doug. ‘It can make a man feel outnumbered.’

  His obvious good humour settles me down. Though I do wonder just what gets discussed in the boys’ changing room. I took her out to lunch but, man, she was so uptight … Kissed her on your back deck. No, no good. Like kissing a dead fish …

  I sneak a look at Lee, horrified to think of him being privy to such information, at the same time very much aware of my grossly unjust double standard. Better make a New Year’s resolution to be more discreet about personal matters.

  The night wears on. Floating about the house, drink in hand, I feel truly happy, as though all the knots of the past two years are unravelling, not just for me, but for the other girls too. I find Sam and tell him what a wonderful father he’s going to make. I find Sharon Lewis and tell her I don’t mind at all about the baby, and wish her many happy years of grandmothering. Then I find Cate, who I’ve reserved my biggest hug for. ‘This must be everything you hoped it would be,’ I say.

  ‘It is. And more. I haven’t had time to tell you yet, but yesterday Pete and I had another talk, you know, a baby talk. He’s come around. We’re going to try.’

  I muffle my shriek against Cate’s shoulder, hugging her tight.

  ‘Not a word,’ she says. ‘I should let it actually happen before I go blabbing. I’ve never been pregnant before, maybe I won’t be able to.’

  ‘You will, you will,’ I say, ‘but mum’s the word. By the way, is The Sister here?’

  ‘Over by the bay window. White pants, red shirt.’

  She’s dark-haired and tall, like Pete. Perfect posture, loads of confidence. ‘Looks like one of those women who feels compelled to wear every piece of jewellery she owns all at once.’

  Cate laughs. ‘You’re a loyal friend, Charlie. She is like that, but she’s been good about tonight. Helpful with preparations.’

  ‘Maybe she realises it’s time to accept that you’re here to stay.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Drifting on, weaving through the crowd, I’m looking for Karen and eventually find her sitting alone on the front doorstep. My excitement evaporates, and I drop down beside her. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Fine,’ she says, smiling. ‘Why so anxious?’

  ‘Of course I’m anxious. You’re sitting out here all by yourself.’

  ‘But I’m not. Dominic’s just gone to get me another drink.’

  ‘And who,’ I ask, feeling a great surge of motherly instinct, ‘might Dominic be?’

  She giggles. ‘Listen to you. All twitty when it comes to your own romances, but growling like a lioness when it comes to mine. Not that this is a romance. Dominic McKenzie. He was at uni with Adam. Don’t know how he knows Pete, but somehow he got invited. He knew Adam really well, so it was easy to get talking.’

  Dominic returns and Karen introduces him to me. He’s a big bear of a man, slightly chubby, with an open, friendly face and ready smile. I shake his hand which, like mine, feels as though it spends more time pushing a pen than swinging an axe. He doesn’t look half as fit as Karen. ‘Dominic’s just been transferred to Queensland, up to the coast here,’ she explains.

  ‘I hardly ever get to Macclesfield,’ he says. ‘Ridiculous, it’s only half an hour away.’

  No doubt he’ll be undertaking the odd trip or two now. It makes me want to smile and hug and kiss and jump about. Maybe I’ve had too much champagne. I get to my feet, leaving them to it.

  It’s close to midnight and I’m feeling pretty game, but am determined not to look as though I’m scanning the party for Doug. I find Laura. Suddenly the countdown is on. Sam joins us. Everyone is shouting: … Five … four … three … two … one … Happy New Year!!

  Sam and Laura are kissing each other, then kissing me. ‘Where’s Doug?’ she whispers in my ear.

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Bit slow of him.’

  ‘Can’t really blame him. Last time he made a move I told him to find someone else.’

  Lee appears. ‘Happy New
Year, Charlie.’

  I get a light kiss on the cheek that lingers a fraction – or was that just my imagination? His eyes are smiling and I feel suddenly sad, a tug of regret or some such impossible to fathom thing – then Wendy and Graham come up and my cheek gets lots more kisses. We all do the rounds. I find Cate and Pete, Sharon, then Karen and Dominic again. But no Doug.

  If he’s left without saying goodbye, I have no right to feel piqued. After all, I’ve been pretty much shunning him for more than a year now. But suddenly I’m tired. It’s well past midnight and I’d like to go home. I can’t leave without Karen, though, and I don’t want to curtail the fun of her night when it seems to have developed such potential.

  I excuse myself to go to the loo. It’s occupied. I wait for ages.

  ‘I think there’s another one outside,’ an unknown guest tells me. ‘In the cottage.’

  The moon is full, and there are a several lights dotted around the garden so it’s easy to find the cottage, which doubles as an office for Pete and accommodation for visitors. It’s the original dwelling on this section of old farmland: my sort of cottage, with a steep-pitched roof and little wooden porch running along the front. But tiny. Extraordinary to think that once an entire family lived in it. I mount the short staircase and stand on the porch, taking a moment to breathe in the summer night and the mouth-watering scent of gardenias growing on either side of the steps.

  Even out here away from the house, the music is loud, which is why I don’t hear a thing until I’ve opened the door and stepped inside. Two people are pressed up against the far wall and, though the light is dim – just a narrow shaft escaping from the partially open bathroom door – the rhythmic, breathy grunts leave me in no doubt as to what is going on. ‘Sorry,’ I say, appalled, and nearly trip over in my haste to back out of the door.

  There’s frantic scrambling. I retreat down the steps and into the garden, conscious of a tug of familiarity. Such a white shirt. Such dark hair. And almost concealed – but not quite – a sheen of black silk, a hint of fair hair.