It’s not an exact science because it’s not a science, I imagined Gayle saying, but then I remembered Lara’s expression when I’d raised the issue of shallow-water blackout, that flicker of scepticism, as if Molly’s lack of progress all these years might have had something to do with my mollycoddling (the pun had not passed me by). Not for the first time it struck me that there might very well be people – my own mother, perhaps – who suspected the original episode had been all in my mind, the ensuing drama some sort of drawn-out Munchausen syndrome by proxy.
No, I had no choice but to try to do as Bryony and Lara advised, and as Ed was already succeeding in doing: trust.
The student left and another arrived. After that, Ed started making noises about packing for the holiday. ‘D’you think you might be able to start on it?’ he said, and I couldn’t confess I was too keyed up to tackle the task. When, by four thirty, Molly had still failed to make contact, I phoned, only to find that the group had left the lido and decamped to Georgia’s house. I volunteered to drive over to pick her up.
‘She’s lost the use of her legs, has she?’ was Ed’s only remark, but I could tell he thought I’d done well to last as long as I had. ‘Don’t be long,’ he added. ‘There’s masses to do.’
At La Madrague, the terrace was the usual sunlit, hedonistic scene and, once I’d reassured myself of Molly’s survival (‘Uh, yeah, I’m fine’ – this uttered with the breathtakingly dismissive gall of a true revisionist), I surrendered to it with relief. Angie was there, sharing a bottle of rosé with Lara, Choo circling their chairs and snapping at insects. He approached me, tail swinging, recognizing me now.
‘Just one more, ladies,’ Lara said. ‘Miles is taking me to Claridges for our anniversary and I ought to make an effort of some sort.’
‘Yes, your standard vagrant chic won’t wash there,’ Angie said, with characteristic irony. ‘We can’t let you disgrace yourself in public again.’
‘How many years have you been married?’ I asked Lara.
‘Oh, I forget. It was before Georgia – terribly conventional of us.’
‘Well, you know the date and that’s what counts,’ Angie said, giggling. ‘I wonder if Stephen knows ours?’
Ed knew ours, of that I was certain, though here and now the fact did not present itself as one to admire.
‘Where’s Alain this afternoon?’ Lara asked me, and I thought briefly of Gayle; what with the new complications of accompanying Molly to the lido, we had not been able to co-ordinate our own swims since Monday.
‘Alain is packing for les vacances.’ The ice-cold wine, combined with the relief that Molly’s excursion had been a success, had produced an elation I’d rarely felt before. ‘We head off tomorrow.’
‘I forgot you were going away as well,’ she said, in flattering dejection. ‘Angie goes to Italy on Monday. That’s a bore.’
The Channings, I knew, were not going on holiday until after the bank holiday, Westbridge’s start of term being later than the local schools’, which allowed them to bypass the August bun fight.
‘La?’ Miles was at the terrace doors, frowning mildly in his wife’s direction, presumably on account of her lateness in preparing for their date. Unheeded by her (of the three of us, I alone looked up), he appeared for a moment a little lost. It occurred to me that, for all the time I’d spent thinking about the Channings to date, I had not asked him a fraction of the questions I had his wife and the little personal information I did know had come from her (or the internet) – his age (two years younger than Ed and me), his Kent childhood, his relatively early marriage and young fatherhood. Seeing him in the shadows, perplexed and diminished, I understood suddenly Ed’s assertion that he was not enigmatic, just dull. An ordinary man with the trappings of wealth and glamour, the reflected glory of a dazzling wife. Imagine if he lived at Kingsley Drive, if he wore Ed’s or Craig’s clothes and not his own, a small man in a small house doing a small job. Married to a small woman.
Not an epiphany to share as the first and only drink inevitably became a second.
‘Claridges,’ I said, after Lara drifted indoors after him, leaving Angie and me alone. ‘I’d love to go there. It must be so nice to have such a besotted husband. I bet Miles would do anything for her, don’t you?’
Angie lifted her sunglasses and looked at me as if trying to gauge my intended degree of sarcasm. ‘Do you really think so?’
‘Well, yes. I do.’
As her pale eyebrows rose, she let the glasses drop back on to the bridge of her nose. I had never known a group so committed to their use of sunglasses as theatrical props. ‘How funny. I see it as the other way around. She’d do anything for him.’ She chuckled. Everything she discussed was an amusement to her, which made her very easy company. ‘He’s obviously never asked you to do anything for him. If he had, you’d know what I mean. I shouldn’t be saying this, but La and Miles, they’re both, you know …’ When I failed to respond, she lowered both her chin and her voice: ‘They may be celebrating their anniversary, but they’re not always as observant as they might be about their marriage vows. They have an agreement.’ Her chin was up again, voice back to normal: ‘You didn’t hear that from me.’
I tried not to show how taken aback I was. If this was true then neither Ed nor I had gained a correct impression of Miles. As for Lara, well, I had to admit, it was easier to believe. ‘I read a piece in the Guardian about open marriages. It suits the man better than the wife, as a rule.’
‘There’s a surprise.’ Angie laughed. ‘It doesn’t help that men continue to be found attractive long after we’ve been retired from the game. Isn’t that a demoralizing thought?’ She paused for a deep medicinal swallow of wine. ‘Sometimes I think this could be my last year of having anyone want to sleep with me. I should make the most of it.’
‘Hmm.’ In light of my own peculiar responses to her husband, I felt it best not to comment on their marriage. A thought struck: what had Lara said at the pool after our movie night? You don’t want to know what we got up to … Did that mean Lara and Stephen, Miles and Angie? Wife-swapping? My face burned.
‘Do you feel that?’ Angie said, peering at me.
I hesitated. My better judgement distorted as it was by sun, alcohol, maternal relief, it was tempting to confide that Ed and I had let the sexual side of things lapse a little in recent years. It was nothing uncommon but, in this company, seemed shameful, something to mark me as predictable. Less desirable. Lara – and Angie too perhaps – enjoyed extramarital adventures while I barely enjoyed marital ones. When a cool breeze from the park touched my hot skin, it seemed to me it contained the faint threat of summer’s end, an elemental reminder of approaching old age. No wonder people rushed to seize the day, I thought, to act on the horrible knowledge that nothing lasted for ever. I promised myself there and then that something needed to change, that this group had right what I was getting wrong.
‘I do a bit,’ I admitted, finally. ‘I’ve definitely been feeling older lately. It keeps hitting me, not how I feel physically, but more how other people treat me. I wondered if it was to do with having a daughter growing up.’ Off balance, I asked Angie a question I had not intended to ask: ‘What you just said … about Lara.’ I lowered my voice. ‘Do you think she has her eye on anyone in particular?’
The sunglasses came up again and I saw Angie’s eyes widen with new interest.
‘I don’t mean Stephen,’ I blundered, ‘obviously.’
She cocked her head, smiling. ‘Are you asking me if I think you should be worried about your husband?’
‘No. Yes.’ I saw that she looked rather impressed by this answer.
‘I would say no,’ she said. ‘Don’t waste your energy. Because if that’s what La wants, then that’s what she’ll try to get, and there’ll be nothing you can do about it.’
‘Wow.’ I wasn’t sure what to make of either the opinion or the utterly matter-of-fact delivery of it.
‘She and Miles have that in co
mmon. They go for what they want. They’re heat-seeking missiles.’ Angie paused, reflecting. ‘But it’s never anything personal.’
Returning with Molly to Kingsley Drive, I was aware straight away of a dangerous calm. In the hallway, two large holdalls, so plump with Steele possessions that they strained their fastenings, sat accusingly alongside a bag from Sarah containing items for Inky.
Ed was in the kitchen, prodding a wooden spoon at a dish of bolognese sauce. At the sight of me he said nothing, did not return my greeting, but turned on the gas under a pan of steaming water and began feeding handfuls of spaghetti into it with a pointedness that spoke volumes. It was only then that I realized how late it was, almost eight thirty. How had I let that happen? I had left to collect Molly before five. Miles and Lara would be in their taxi headed for Claridges.
It was my turn to cook.
‘No issues with the lido outing,’ I said in a regular tone.
‘I told you there wouldn’t be.’ His eyes were reluctant to make contact, his tone bitten down, familiar signs of short-term sulking; if I avoided making any provocative remarks, he’d be fine in about an hour. I felt a rush of tenderness for him, for his being so transparent to me, so legible. There was something to be said for knowing what you were dealing with.
Only when satisfied that every last strand of his spaghetti was submerged did Ed turn to face me. ‘What on earth took you so long? We’re going on holiday in the morning, or have you forgotten?’
‘Of course I haven’t. Sorry, the time just flew. Thank you for packing for us. And for cooking – I feel like I haven’t done it for ages.’
‘You haven’t.’
I resisted the urge to pour myself a glass of wine. ‘Shall I grate the Parmesan?’
‘Already done.’
The table was laid too, water poured. Seeing no way in which I could help, I took a seat. ‘I’m really looking forward to getting away.’
‘So am I.’ There was a sullen pull of breath. I saw I’d underestimated his mood and what it would take to improve it. ‘To be honest, I think it might do you good to have a break from your new crowd.’
‘Do me good?’ I echoed. ‘And what d’you mean, my crowd? They’re yours as much as mine.’
‘I would dispute that,’ he said, tone grim. ‘For me, they’re clients first and foremost.’
I would dispute that, first and foremost: pompous, Ed-in-a-mood phrases. First and foremost, we were teachers, role models in a society full of drug-users and big personalities. First and foremost, we were topping up our pension. That initial affection soured somewhat: how had I not noticed before what a killjoy he could be? Was it because – oh, goodness – was it because I had been one too?
A feeling of disobedience overcame me, an urge to shock him as if he were parent and not partner. ‘D’you know what Angie just told me? The Channings sleep with other people. Miles and Lara, that is. I obviously don’t mean Georgia.’
Having been about to extract a string of spaghetti with a pair of tongs, Ed’s arm halted. Steam flew up, enveloping his fist, but he did not flinch.
‘So watch out, “Alain”. You know how much she likes you, eh?’ It was naughty to tease but, really, he needed to lighten up.
But when he turned, his expression was as righteous as I’d ever seen it. ‘You’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?’ In his fist the lid was poised like a cymbal and I imagined him crashing it against his own head – or mine. ‘This isn’t the Bloomsbury Set, whatever Lara likes to think. Quite apart from the fact that there’s something totally fucked up about that mother-daughter relationship, I’m not interested in being unfaithful to you. I’m sorry if that disappoints you.’
There was a catch in his voice that both squeezed my heart and, faintly, despicably, stirred disenchantment in me. Couldn’t he at least imagine illicit impulses, have a little fun joking about them, even if he – neither of us – had any intention of acting on them?
‘I wasn’t saying that,’ I said. ‘I was just gossiping, that’s all. And hang on a minute, there’s nothing fucked up about Lara and Georgia. They have a fantastic relationship.’
‘You really think so?’
‘Why wouldn’t I? Or do you mean what you said about her being tough on grades?’
‘I’m not talking about grades. Open your eyes, Nat. The only time they spend together is when Georgia is acting as a maid for her. Serving drinks, babysitting her brother –’
‘Helping your daughter with her crippling phobia,’ I interrupted. ‘She’s doing that because Lara asked her to, I bet she is. You know how they stick to their peer groups at that age – someone like Georgia Channing isn’t going to befriend someone like Molly for no reason.’
Ed was silent.
‘We of all people know how dangerous it is to presume we know what’s going on in someone else’s family,’ I continued. ‘Georgia strikes me as a very self-possessed individual and nobody’s fool. If she wasn’t, then we wouldn’t have let her take Molly to the pool today, would we? Come on, you said it yourself – don’t you remember?’
‘Said what?’
‘That she’s the real deal. She’s special.’
Ed turned off the heat, put on oven gloves to drain the pasta over the sink. ‘Can we drop the subject, please, and get on with the hundred things we need to do before tomorrow? Call Molls, will you? This is almost ready.’
As his voice was engulfed by the sudden roar of the extractor fan, I stuck my head around the open door, only to find Molly just feet away in the hallway. She’d showered and was in pyjamas, her hair dripping on to a towel twisted around her neck, and it no longer felt a pipe dream to imagine her damp from a swim, not a shower. I hoped she had not been there long enough to overhear our discussion.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ I told her.
‘I ate something at Georgia’s,’ she said.
‘Then eat something here as well.’ I stepped towards her, spoke in a conspiratorial tone: ‘Blame me, not Dad. I shouldn’t have kept us out so late.’
The younger Molly would have fallen into line, wanted to please her father, but this new version just rolled her eyes. ‘I can’t help it if I’m not hungry,’ she said flatly, before walking, straight-backed and undaunted, into the kitchen. ‘I’ll tell him myself.’
19
Monday, 31 August, 7.30 a.m.
SOUTH LONDON FORUM
Accident at Elm Hill Lido
A local girl is in critical condition at Trinity Hospital following an accident last night at a party at the newly opened Elm Hill Lido. A second girl and a boy were treated at the scene. It is believed that one of the girls, a non-swimmer, fell accidentally and that her friends got into difficulties rescuing her.
‘A non-swimmer,’ I say, showing the first online report to Ed. ‘That’s all she is to the rest of the world.’ How we’ve planned and coaxed and agonized over the years in a bid to remove that ‘non’ from her label, to return her to the state of innocence lost that day in the paddling pool. ‘When you think about it, it’s amazing that we survived over a decade without something like this happening.’
Ed nods.
As Molly sleeps on, her physical, if not her emotional, strength silently reassembling, I read the comments below the report:
Angel78: Just walked past the lido a minute ago and the police are there.
R_robinson: I hope it doesn’t get closed down so soon after it opened!
Angel78: I just pray those kids are OK. What a terrible thing to happen. Where were the parents when all of this was going on?
My fingers are moving across the keyboard independent of rational thought and, focusing, I find I’m looking at visitor times for the critical-care ward at Trinity. At once I know what I must do.
‘If you think you’re OK on your own for half an hour,’ I tell Ed, ‘I might head up to the hospital and check on Georgia. Visiting hours start at eight.’
‘You’ve got to be joking,’ he objects, and I avoid se
arching his face for anything but the broadest response. ‘You can’t leave Molls now!’
‘Just for half an hour. She didn’t fall asleep until after midnight. I’ll be back before she wakes up.’
Inevitably, suspicion returns: ‘Where are you really going? Are you seriously leaving your daughter who almost died just for the chance to see him?’
‘That’s not it, Ed. Don’t go barking up the wrong tree again.’
But the barking is already in full voice: ‘You were with him, weren’t you? In the changing hut. I know you were.’
‘I was with Lara. I’m sure she would confirm that.’ But I flush and he sees my guilt.
‘I had a feeling, you know,’ he says. ‘Right from the beginning. You and him.’
That stuns me into silence.
‘The way he looked at you. And me, in a way. Like he was relishing the challenge of it.’
I shake my head, feel the soreness on the side of my face. ‘You’re wasting your time thinking like this. Please, just trust me.’
He watches, silently hostile, as I kiss Molly’s hot cheek, adjust the sheet a little, thank God again that she’s here and not in the place I’m about to go to. She coughs again and I wait for her to resettle before I leave the room.
Locating my jacket in the hallway, I hear Ed muttering to himself and when I return to the bedroom door, his face is filled with an anguish close to heartbreak. ‘What, Ed?’
At the sound of my voice, he starts, fails to hide his agitation. ‘I was just thinking, thinking I can’t believe I cancelled Paris for last night.’
‘Paris?’ I stand there arrested, bewildered. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I had a weekend in Paris planned for your birthday. I hoped it might help …’ The thought, the hope, disintegrates on his lips and his tone hardens. ‘But you were so keen on this bloody pool party I cancelled it.’
The Swimming Pool Page 16