The Swimming Pool

by Louise Candlish

  ‘I’m amazed you haven’t built a pool of your own,’ I said. ‘You have space in your garden, don’t you?’ Through the upper rear window of La Madrague I’d seen a perfect square of formal French garden, with a generously proportioned lawn beyond.

  ‘Actually, I would have liked to, but Miles wasn’t so keen. I suppose that’s why I threw myself into the lido – in all senses of the word.’ She flicked the ends of her wet hair and laughed, lighthearted again. ‘He’s not a water-baby like the kids and me, though he is a water sign. But the weird one, Scorpio. The strategist. Jealous and vengeful.’

  ‘Right.’ Not even Lara was going to be able to interest me in horoscopes.

  ‘I’ve noticed you’re here almost as much as I am, Natalie. I’m impressed. It’s not so long ago you thought it wasn’t going to be possible, because of Molly.’

  ‘It still isn’t,’ I said, ‘at least not as a family. But I hope it will be, one day.’ My ear caught a familiar shower of laughter: Georgia, here with Eve and Josh in their regular spot. Lying with their heads together, they rolled on to their stomachs, a muddle of bent knees and elbows.

  Lara followed my gaze. ‘It will be possible, and not “one day”, soon. Trust me.’

  I do trust you, I thought. I don’t know why, but I do. ‘Anyway, with Ed at home to keep an eye on Molly, I can come on my own.’

  She regarded me approvingly. ‘Have you always swum? Did you swim as a child?’

  ‘A bit. Nothing like you, but there was one summer when I swam pretty much every day. It wasn’t a proper pool, just a pond in the woods, but it was quite big and deep in the middle. We’d spend hours in it, till our skin wrinkled.’ I wondered why I was telling her this, when I spoke of it so rarely, so warily. ‘It would probably be banned, these days, considered too dangerous for kids to swim in.’

  ‘Where was that? I don’t think I’ve asked you where you grew up?’

  ‘I grew up in Surrey, not far from Guildford, but the bathing pond was in a village in Hampshire called Stoneborough. That’s where my grandparents lived. I was banished there one summer when my parents weren’t getting on.’ To my horror, I felt a strong confessional impulse, an urge to disclose not the sanitized version that Molly – and, to an extent, Ed – had been fed, but the true, indigestible one. Then, seeing a flicker of recognition in her face: ‘You know the village?’

  ‘I know Guildford.’ Lara rolled her eyes. ‘For my sins, I was once in a play at the theatre there. It had terrible reviews. I shudder to remember it.’ A brief frown gave way to wickedness as her eyes found the vivid cluster of poolside manager Ethan and two of his male staff. ‘I do like the cut of those yellow vests, don’t you?’

  In fact, the sight reminded me of something more serious. ‘Lara, I was wondering if you know if anyone has ever spoken to the kids about shallow-water blackout?’

  Her smile faded: perhaps she was dismayed by the notion that a person might wilfully kill the mood like this. Nonetheless, she resigned herself to my lecture, gamely composing her features into something close to interest.

  ‘I was reading up on it. It can happen when someone is deliberately holding his breath; they call it static apnoea, or just swimming under water for a couple of strokes too long. You can pass out without any warning, you see. And some people deliberately hyperventilate first, which artificially lowers the level of carbon dioxide in the blood and fools the body into thinking it doesn’t need oxygen. Which makes it even more dangerous because it stops your brain thinking you need to take a breath. More of a teenage thing, I read, it can be a problem in competitive squads.’ I stopped at last, hearing the teacher in my voice.

  Lara squeezed a tube of sunscreen on to the back of her hand, using her skin as a palette as she applied the lotion to her face in luxurious, circular movements. ‘Natalie, you’re talking to a woman who used to swim lengths under water with her legs only. I know all about the risks of breath-holding exercises. Lung busters, they call them.’ She smiled, pinched her nostrils with her fingers. ‘The nose clip helped, mind you. But seriously, Ange said Josh’s club had a big talk about SWB last year after a couple of deaths in the States that were all over the press.’

  The phrasing was a little casual, as if the lives lost could be spared easily enough, but then this was Lara. She wanted to know about attractive people doing attractive things, and dying by accident was not attractive.

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ she said, ‘take it from me. Drills are all strictly controlled by the coach and no one trains alone now. That’s when accidents tend to happen, when someone’s stayed on their own after practice. They’re more exhausted than they realize.’

  ‘What about when there isn’t a coach? When it’s just a regular swimming pool, like here?’

  ‘There are always other professionals – just look at the staff ratio here. I went to one of the lifeguards’ briefings before this place opened and I can assure you it was all terribly serious. They scan continuously. If someone is seen motionless under water even for a second or two, they go straight in.’

  ‘But how can they always see?’ I persisted. ‘It’s so crowded all the time.’

  ‘They’re trained to see. They keep their eye on anyone behaving unusually.’ As if understanding were dawning at last, Lara put down her sunscreen and reached for my hand. Hers was warm and greasy, white lotion caught under the nails. ‘I know it must be hard for you with Molly. Believe me, I of all people understand. I mean, my mother was only a stage mother, she had nothing medical to worry about, not like your situation, but even so, I do get it.’

  I blinked. A stage mother? She thought I was wildly overprotective, clearly. Maybe she was even wondering which had come first, the chicken or the egg, Molly’s phobia or my hypersensitivity. Maybe she was wondering if the wife of her daughter’s new tutor had a screw loose.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘The lifeguards seem excellent. I chatted a while ago to the one called Matt …’

  ‘Ooh, good choice. I’ve slightly got a crush on him,’ she said, her girlish, confiding tone signifying that our serious talk was at an end. ‘Don’t tell Georgia, though, will you? Lusting after the same boy as your daughter, honestly, it would be quite – what’s the word? – unseemly.’

  ‘Yes.’ I couldn’t help wondering what Ed or Gayle would say to that.

  When I said I needed to head home, she decided to leave too, tucking her arm into mine and steering me on to the path leading to The Rise, the wrong direction for me. Did she know where I lived? Did she assume that anyone worth knowing lived on this, the more desirable, side of the park?

  ‘I go the other way,’ I said, finally.

  ‘I know.’ Her arm tightened, clasping me to her side with an endearing possessiveness. ‘Kingsley Drive.’

  Of course, she must have made it her business to know where her daughter went for her maths tuition. Georgia cycled over, as I recalled.

  ‘How long does it take you to walk from here?’ she asked.

  ‘About twenty minutes. It’s a nice wander, through the park, then under the railway bridge and along the high street.’

  ‘You have to cross the high street, do you?’

  ‘Yes, we’re one of the roads just off the north side.’ It amused me that she obviously hadn’t set foot across the divide herself. ‘You should come over some time and have a drink. You’d be very welcome.’

  I was instinctively vague, however, for when I pictured Miles and her turning into Kingsley Drive, with its hotchpotch of thirties semis and postwar buildings, finding themselves at the door of our downright ugly eighties building, when I imagined them entering the dreary common parts and traipsing up the stairs with bemused expressions, wondering if the building might be ex-council, well, it seemed not so much shameful as fantastical.

  ‘Sure.’ Equally non-committal, Lara released me. ‘Now, that reminds me. We wondered if you guys would like to come tomorrow evening for a movie.’

  ‘A movie?’ Did she
mean a trip together to the Picture House?

  At the sight of my face, she said, ‘Of course, you haven’t seen our new screening room, have you? It’s pretty cool. Our little treat to ourselves when we were doing up the house.’ (As if the rest of it were utilitarian and joyless.) ‘Say you’ll come, it’ll just be a few of the gang. A kind of celebration of our new local treasure.’

  Preposterously, for a second I thought she meant me and I blushed, but of course she meant the lido.

  ‘It will be La Piscine, in case you hadn’t guessed.’

  ‘I’ll have to check we’re free,’ I said, knowing we had only a provisional plan to drop in on Sarah for an early-evening drink. Two invitations to the Channings’ in seven days – how exciting to find ourselves in a social flurry after all these years. And there could be no objection from Ed this time, surely: he’d ended up having a lovely time at the lunch.

  Breaking my own pointless embargo, I texted Gayle as I walked home: Guess who’s invited Ed and me over tomorrow? The Local Celeb. When reporting on it afterwards, I would incorporate details from the first visit, thus solving the problem of my previous secrecy.

  Gayle’s response – You don’t mean Lara Channing? Why would she do that? – hurt my feelings a little, though I was not so deluded as to fail to recognize it as a reasonable question. For while no one would question my having been charmed by her, why she should have taken a shine to me was less plain. It couldn’t simply be to keep her daughter’s tutor sweet: she was paying Ed very well and presumably paid many different people for their services without inviting them to a private screening in their home. Had she made some sort of project of me, then, her compassion stirred by that story about my birthmark? Might I expect a makeover (I was the first to admit that I needed one)? Or was it Molly she pitied? ‘I’m determined to get her in the water,’ she’d said. Was the befriending of Ed and me part of that larger altruistic aim?

  Perhaps it was simpler: she just happened to like us – me. I imagined her saying to Angie, ‘I know I said I wouldn’t take on any new friends, goodness knows I don’t have the slots, but there’s something about Natalie, don’t you think?’

  And Angie would say, ‘I know what you mean –’

  Stop, I told myself, before I could script the whole conversation. There was such a thing, after all, as making a fool of yourself in your own head.

  15

  Saturday, 1 August

  ‘Do you think we should bring Molly?’ I asked Ed.

  This being an evening at the Channings’, there was a certain vagueness regarding arrangements. Not so long ago this would have vexed me, not least on account of the corners I’d have to cut with household chores to accommodate the impromptu date, but it seemed this was a learning curve I was scaling with enthusiasm. To hell with the chores.

  ‘I’m sure she’s welcome,’ I added, ‘but it might be a late night. I could ask Sarah if she can help out? We’ll be there beforehand anyway so she’d probably be happy to babysit if Molls stays up there.’

  But Molly bristled at both the term and the suggestion. ‘No, I want to come. Anyway, Georgia’s expecting me to be there.’

  It was news to me that the girls were directly in touch, though it was in no way surprising since the march of social media meant that, in spite of our most scrupulous parental blocks and spot checks, our daughter was in contact not only with complete strangers but also, in some cases, their pets. She had not had older friends before and I had mixed feelings about the development. On the one hand, older girls were a risk, what with all the inappropriate activities they might introduce to a younger child; on the other, they could be a good influence, a boost to self-confidence. And let’s not forget this was no ordinary girl: this was the daughter of Lara Channing. There’d be kudos for Molly if she socialized with Georgia and her friends (even if the word itself was no doubt disused and mocked).

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘We’ll all go.’

  ‘Are we having dinner there?’ Ed said.

  ‘I don’t know. Lara didn’t say.’

  ‘Can’t you phone her and ask?’

  ‘It’s just a movie, so probably not dinner. Maybe there’ll be popcorn. We’ll feed Molly just in case.’

  ‘Feed me? I’m not Inky!’ Molly protested.

  I sighed. ‘I meant we’ll lovingly prepare you a balanced snack so you’re sufficiently nourished.’

  ‘I’ll need to be sufficiently nourished as well,’ Ed said, digging his heels in.

  The two of them were driving me up the wall. ‘Why’s everyone fussing about food?’ And then I felt guilty for snapping, for allowing the excitement of a second invitation to the Channings’ to eclipse my domestic responsibilities. ‘Molly will make a cheese omelette for you both,’ I told Ed, which I knew would please him since we were of one mind that Molly needed to expand her culinary repertoire beyond a bowl of Shreddies and Marmite on toast.

  With that, I retreated to the bedroom to shower and change. It was oppressively humid again, the gentle slap of door on jamb the only clue that air was stealing through the open windows, and my make-up was melting even as I applied it. I dressed in a lucky find from the charity shop on the high street: a paisley print hip-length kaftan in black, purple and green that had washed and ironed beautifully. It was two sizes too small but the style was loose enough for it not to matter. I liked to think my denim skirt slid more easily over my hips thanks to the swimming, though there was no denying the way the waistband cut into my skin when I sat down.

  ‘Off to Woodstock, are you?’ Ed said, when I emerged.

  ‘Very funny. You look gorgeous,’ I told Molly, who wore a tiger-print top with the shorts and tights combo favoured by her age group even in a heatwave. But compliments from mothers had little value these days, and she raised her eyebrows at me as if questioning a joke in poor taste.

  ‘Right, let’s go up.’ I gestured to the detritus from their snack. ‘Leave this mess, we’ll clean up in the morning.’

  ‘Oh, wow,’ Molly said. ‘Did you actually just say, “Leave this mess”? Is this, like, a miracle or something?’

  ‘Only one drink,’ I warned Ed. ‘It’s already six thirty, we don’t have long.’

  But this was one instruction too many and he frowned in resistance. ‘Calm down with the military precision, Nat. We can be a bit late leaving Sarah’s. She’s been in the diary a lot longer than this thing at the Channings’.’

  To my dismay, he had objected to the date – or at least been lukewarm.

  ‘But I thought you had fun at the lunch?’ I said.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘It was fine for a one-off.’

  ‘Well, at the very least we would have had to invite them back,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Hmm, maybe with Craig and Gayle?’

  ‘Maybe.’ How could he not see what a disastrous match that would be? Lara with her flippant remarks about attractive teenagers and Gayle with her determination to disapprove.

  At Sarah’s, there was happy commotion as Inky, having not seen Molly for some time, leaped like a yo-yo to lick her face before drawing her to the floor to wrestle. Though it meant I had to mop up a spilled drink, the routine heartened me: the day Molly stopped mucking about with Inky – on account of her hair, perhaps – was the day I’d really know she’d outgrown us.

  Amid talk of our taking the dog on our approaching holiday in the New Forest, my phone pinged and I saw it was a text from Lara: Just mixing the first Martinis. See you soonest! And I found myself going to the window, as if La Madrague were visible from it and not a mile and a half away on the other side of Elm Hill. Sarah’s armchair remained angled towards the junction with the high street – and I thought how lonely it looked, that single seat, compared to the collection on the Channings’ terrace. Sarah, like my mother, had divorced in the years following her children leaving home.

  Through the glass, the heat of the evening sun seemed to swell, not recede, the leaves on the trees powder-dry, utterly still.
/>   ‘Nat?’

  I looked up to find Ed and Sarah expectant of an answer to a question I’d missed. I returned to my seat. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I was just saying to Ed how well you’re looking,’ she said. ‘You’ve been swimming, he says.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been to the lido a few times. I’d forgotten how much I love the water.’ I was careful not to be seen to exchange glances with Ed for Molly was acutely sensitive to a ploy. It was all very well Bryony advising me not to make a big deal of my own swimming, but it sometimes felt that not making a big deal was the big deal.

  ‘Maybe we can all go together when I’m mobile again,’ Sarah said to Molly, and I knew Ed would be in silent agreement that it was ideal for the suggestion to have come from her.

  Not that Molly responded to it. Surfacing at last from games with Inky, she joined her father on the sofa. ‘Shall I top up your drinks?’ she offered.

  Like Georgia, I thought, and as she poured the wine Ed, to his credit, did not lecture her on the evils of handling alcohol.

  ‘Is there a plan yet for your birthday trip?’ Sarah asked us.

  My birthday was at the end of August and it was a tradition to celebrate it on the bank-holiday weekend with a couple of nights away. It struck me how horribly predictable we were when our neighbours knew what we were doing weeks before we did. ‘I haven’t checked which day it falls on,’ I said, in an act of small defiance. I did know, of course. It was the day of Lara’s pool party, the Last Day of Summer.

  ‘It’s a Sunday,’ Ed said, adding to Sarah, ‘I have a few ideas, yes.’

  He chatted on, oblivious to the time, until at last I felt I had no choice but to get to my feet mid-conversation. ‘Sorry to love you and leave you,’ I told Sarah, ‘but we’re expected somewhere for dinner.’