by Sarah Duncan
'Yes, we went last year with the Fowlers; they live the other side of Milbridge. He was at school with George.' Helen lowered her voice, although there was no one to eavesdrop. 'But it was ghastly. They kept on getting drunk and having arguments.'
'How awful for you.'
Helen started to talk rapidly, detailing the horrors of sharing a small chalet with the Fowlers. Isabel tried to appear interested in the gossip. This could be me, she realised with piercing awareness. If any of them finds out about me and Patrick... She pulled the belt of her coat tighter. It would be intolerable. Then she thought, but I could go and leave it all behind. I needn't know what people say about me. In fact, I need not see any of these people ever again. I could be sunning myself on the Italian Riviera, with Patrick lounging beside me, his body lithe and tanned. She realised it had been a very long week since they had made love, or rather, had sex, because Patrick had been angry with her. That week had not been good, and she had felt used. But she wanted him now.
She screwed her eyes up with longing, and when she opened them she saw Rufus loitering ahead, at the point where the path that circled the lake joined with the path to the small car park.
'Where's Michael?' she called to him, cutting across Helen's stream of gossip and speculation.
Rufus shrugged. 'Dunno.'
'What do you mean, "Dunno"? Isn't he with you?' Her voice was sharper than she had intended. Rufus shrugged again, put out. She walked faster, past the girls, and up to the boy. 'Where is he?'
'He raced me round the lake,' he said, pointing to the far side. Isabel strained to conjure up Michael's figure, but couldn't see it. The path on the far side didn't follow the lake edge all the way round, but looped into a small shrubbery, good in the summer for playing cowboys or robbers. Drat, Isabel thought. That's all I need now, Michael to play up.
'Sorry, Helen. I expect he's hiding in the shrubbery waiting to jump out at us. I'll go round and get him.' She set off briskly thinking, if I call him, he'll only sit tight, so I'll keep quiet and let him jump out at me instead.
The shrubbery was very still. Isabel walked through, feeling like a decoy and expecting at any moment to be leapt on with bloodcurdling yells. But the rhododendrons and laurels remained undisturbed. She reached the end. Looking back across the lake she could see Helen and the children gathered at the far side. For a moment she thought there were four small outlines, but no, only three. He had to be in the shrubbery. She turned and walked back, calling out to Michael this time. The walk became a run as panic grew in her.
'Found him?' Helen's face was anxious.
Isabel shook her head, not wanting to say the word no.
'Maybe he's gone to the cars?'
Isabel half walked, half ran up the path to the car park where their cars stood alone by a solitary oak tree. She scanned the car park. No sign of him there. She ran back to the others.
'Not there.' She bit her lip, unwilling to say more in case the jumble of fear spilled out. Helen patted her arm.
'Don't worry. He'll be around, somewhere.'
'Yes.'
They walked back, calling his name. Michael, Michael, Michael. The sound reverberated around the trees, bouncing off the glassy surface of the lake.
'He can swim okay?' Helen said softly.
'Like a frog.' Michael at the swimming pool, thin legs and arms working, head bobbing up and down, his expression one of concentration in order to beat the others to the side. Michael the fisherman, leaning over the edge for a better look at the water, Isabel looked at the reeds around the edge, reeds that even a competent swimmer could get entangled with. But the lake wasn't deep, everybody knew that. "A child can drown in a few inches of water" popped into her head. But not Michael. Not my Michael.
'He must be hiding,' Helen said firmly. 'There's nowhere else he could have gone. Don't worry.' She put her arm around Isabel's shoulders and gave her a quick hug. 'We'll find him.' She bent down to Rufus.
'Rufus, when you were running round the lake, did you see anyone? Or hear a car?'
Rufus shrugged. 'I don't think so.'
Helen knelt down in front of him. 'It's really important.'
'Maybe a car.' Isabel's heart froze. Rufus screwed up his face with effort, trying to squeeze out something helpful. 'Mike runs much faster than me, that's why he went the long way round. I didn't see him.'
'I didn't hear a car when we were walking.' Helen hesitated, then turned to Isabel. 'Did you?'
'No.' I was too wrapped up in my own stupid thoughts to be paying attention to what Michael was doing. Please God, let him be safe, she prayed. She looked around, scanning the paths and trees as if willpower alone could conjure him up. But there was nothing. She could feel panic rising in her throat and put her hand over her mouth to keep it in. This can't be happening, this isn't happening. Please, don't let this happen. No. Stay calm. Think. She steadied her breathing.
'You go and check the car park again. I'll go back to where we were sitting.' She meant to walk calmly, but her feet broke into a run. The light was closing in and the shrubbery looked menacing, shadows and leaves merging, rustling as she ran past. Once she skidded on the slimy leaves, and instinctively grabbed at a branch for support. It felt hard and unforgiving. She ran on into the clearing, reached the bench where they had sat. No Michael slipped between the trees. High in the branches a pheasant cackled, let out for the shooting season. The noise echoed round the clearing like a ghost. Isabel swung around for a last look. Michael wasn't here. She started to run back, heart thumping, lungs bursting. She saw herself talking to the police, then pleading for Michael's safe return. Another missing child, another headline. His school photograph on the front page, hair neatly brushed, tie straight, gap-toothed smile, the innocent eyes. How long had it been since he had disappeared? Ten minutes? Fifteen? This isn't happening. Not to me. This happens to other people. Past the lake, the surface a dark glass reflecting the looming trees behind, back to the hedge where the others huddled in a small group.
'Any luck?'
Isabel shook her head, out of breath, gulping down the evening air. She hugged herself, clutched at her sides as if trying to stop herself fraying as the world disintegrated around her.
'What do you want to do?' I don't know, Isabel wanted to wail. I want my baby back. The other children were silent, faces white in the twilight, eyes dark sockets. 'I think we need to get help,' Helen continued. 'I don't have a mobile. Do you?'
Isabel shook her head again. 'No, I lost it. Stupid of me. Perhaps we can call from the village.' She said it reluctantly. To accept the need for help, for the police, meant that this was real, that it was happening. She felt in her pocket for her car keys. She didn't want to go, to leave Michael here. 'Stay where you last saw your mother and she will come and find you', that's what they always said to children. But she was going. She was at the car. She couldn't leave. She had to. She put the keys into the lock when:
'Yah!' Michael leapt out from behind the tree trunk and jumped at her back. She spun round, clutching her heart.
'Oh! Michael!' The shock of seeing him, the relief, made her knees buckle. He danced in front of her, delighted with himself.
'I got you, I got you!'
Isabel's arm swung back and clouted him across the side of his head so he staggered under the blow. 'Don't you ever do that to me again,' she shouted. 'Don't you dare.' Then she grabbed him to her, and hugged him, ashamed of her violence. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' she murmured to him over and over again. 'I was so worried. I didn't know where you were. I thought ... I thought . . .' His hair smelt musty, his cheek hot where she had hit him. His body was compact, so precious, the only thing that mattered. She started to cry, sobbing into his anorak, wordless sobs that came from nowhere. Crying because he was with her, in her arms and safe, and crying because, in losing Michael, she had found the answer to Patrick's question.
Chapter 14
Isabel creamed the butter and sugar together until the mixture was smooth and pale, al
most white. She could remember being a small child and stealing pieces of the mixture from her mother's mixing bowl, letting the intense sweetness melt on her tongue. But her mother had never beaten the mixture enough, never carried on until the right shade of paleness had been achieved. Isabel broke the eggs into a mug and beat them lightly, then slowly, drop by drop, added them to the creamed butter. By the end the mixture was stiff and foamy, not slack and floppy. She sifted in the flour, letting it fall in a soft covering. Then, using a metal spoon, she sliced and folded the mixture, minimising the number of air bubbles exposed with each cut. Finally she spooned the mixture into two tins, smoothed the surface and put them in the oven. The door closed with a satisfying clunk.
She cleared the utensils away, running a finger round the mixing bowl to take the last smears of mixture. Uncooked cake tasted nicer than cooked cake, she thought, but you couldn't eat as much. Still, millions of calories with every lick. She quickly put everything into either the dishwasher or the sink, pouring on water to prevent herself from stealing any more. She'd weighed herself that morning and discovered that she'd lost nearly a stone. It must be the swimming - swimming and sex.
And she wasn't eating as much. While looking for the self-raising flour she'd come across a half-eaten packet of KitKats. Unheard of. And she hadn't immediately finished the pack off, just gently closed the cupboard door.
It's funny, she thought, but the more I have to do, the less I need to eat. It occurred to her that she wouldn't have a job anymore. Not that working for Patrick could count as a proper job, as she hadn't been paid. Partly her own fault, she knew: she hated to take money from him. His cheque, written in anger, was still folded in her purse. I should get a proper job, a real one. I can't sit around at home getting fat and depressed again. Or maybe I should do a degree. She pictured herself walking around a sunny campus with a pile of books under her arm. Then sitting under a tree with other students with shiny faces and beaming smiles discussing... What? Kierkegaard and Nietzsche? She wasn't sure how to pronounce them, let alone discuss them. Politics? History? Eng. Lit.? She loved reading, devouring classic novels as a child then rediscovering them as an adult.
She put the kitchen scales away. They were expensive ones, a present from Neil for her last birthday, Victorian-style but with polished silver pebbles for weights. She considered the balance: Patrick, sex and excitement on one side, Neil, Michael and Katie on the other. In her heart she knew that there wasn't any contest but she toyed with the idea of shifting the weights around to make the decision more clear-cut. The children couldn't go onto Patrick's side, but could sex and excitement go onto Neil's side?
She straightened up from putting the scales in the cupboard and looked around for something else to do. Restlessness, assuaged by vigorous cake mixing, began to creep over her again. Her fingers drummed on the immaculate worktop. She realised that as well as having dieting benefits, the more she had to do, the more she somehow managed to get done. The house was far cleaner and tidier now she had to squeeze the housework into two days a week. Perhaps I should study physics, the strange expansion and contraction of time according to how much you have to do. She had even got around to making chicken stock from the carcass the weekend before and poured it into ice cube trays so she could add little frozen cubes of concentrated flavour to recipes, just like the cookery programmes advised.
'I wondered where you were.' Neil stuck his head round the door.
'Making cake.'
'I'll look forward to that. You haven't made cakes for ages.' He leaned against the edge of the table, looking genuinely pleased at the prospect. She suddenly felt shy, as if seeing him for the first time. That first time, when he had saved her from the embarrassment of the disintegrating dress. She could remember him quite clearly, coming across the dance floor to her, taking off his jacket, his freckled face serious with concern.
'I felt like trying again.' Isabel filled the kettle with water, more to give herself something to do than from any overwhelming desire to make tea. Her overwhelming desire was for something quite different. It had been a long time since she'd been at Patrick's house. Nine days, to be precise. Could she show Neil what she wanted? She looked sideways at him, noticing that the paunch he had started to develop had vanished. He looked fit and well, full of energy. The children were still watching the video they'd hired as the solution to entertainment on a wet Saturday afternoon.
'Fed up with the ants?' she said.
'I expect you need a really wide screen to see the animation properly. Still, it's keeping the children happy.'
She went past him to get milk from the fridge, lightly brushing against him on purpose. She wasn't sure if he had noticed. She took out the milk and put it on the table. He seemed very close. Very masculine. Very different to Patrick's smoothness.
'Neil, the catch of my necklace seems to be caught in my hair. Can you look?' She turned her back to him, lifting her hair up and exposing the nape of her neck. She felt slightly guilty, as if Neil was forbidden to her, as if she was betraying Patrick. But excited too, and her breath quickened. His fingers touched her skin lightly.
'Seems fine.'
'Are you sure?' She leant back slightly so their bodies were close.
'Yes.' His voice was more alert. She twisted around and kissed him, running her tongue over his lips, rubbing her aching body against his. Against her cheek his skin felt rough, his moustache tickling her soft upper lip, then travelling over her face with butterfly kisses, cheeks, eyes, forehead. She licked the base of his throat, salty to the tip of her tongue. A real person, known yet strange. The strangeness was exciting. They kissed, more urgently, losing awareness of their surroundings, concentrating on being together, now. She took his hand and pressed it to her.
'Touch me,' she murmured. His hand was tentative so she pushed herself harder at him. 'Like this.' She kissed him hungrily, deeper, more thoroughly, all the while pressing herself against him. She reached down and felt him hard, wanting her. She slipped her hand down the front of his trousers, heard him sigh as she clasped him firmly, moved up and down. He pulled away from her.
'Upstairs.'
Hand in hand they sneaked past the door to the sitting room, like teenagers stealing past disapproving parents. Then up the stairs, Neil's hands burning on her hips. She turned to him, wanted to do it there, but he pushed her on into their bedroom and shut the door.
Isabel kicked off her shoes and started pulling at her clothes, at his clothes, reaching for him, rubbing herself against his body as if she had a desperate itch all over. She could feel she was wet, aching for him, just wanting him to take her. They fell onto the bed, clothes scattered around the floor, hands touching, stroking, probing, mouths joined, sharing breathing, gasping. He slipped his fingers inside, and she yelped with surprise and pleasure, for it was unusual for Neil to touch her like that. His hand on her was delicious, but not enough. Fuck me, she ordered, fuck me now. He paused, as if surprised, but wordlessly he slipped into her and she opened for him, and for a moment they were still, suspended in time, caught on the moment, the rightness of what was happening. Then he started to move, slowly at first, withdrawing to infinity, hanging there like on the edge of a rollercoaster, then plunging back in. She shifted her position in the bed, as Patrick had taught her, bringing him deeper, making him move faster and faster, her fingers convulsively gripping his arms, as she lost all sense of self, of time, just alive to the sensations that were juddering over her, making her cry out as if in pain, awash with love.
They lay, their faces inches apart, sharing breaths, arms around each other, skin glowing under a slippery layer of sweat. Quiet voices, murmurs that buzzed softly around the still room, spoke of little things, trivia, inconsequentialities. Eyes fixed on each other, clear blue examining brown depths, searching and finding answers to unspoken questions. Gradually the world reasserted itself, colours losing intensity, outside noises returning, a child's voice calling. Slowly, reluctantly, they broke the magic circle th
at held them and returned to the mundane life of getting dressed. But not without flip comments and giggles as they remembered what they had done, smiles suddenly breaking out, bodies leaning towards each other.
Isabel took her cake from the oven, a little too brown, but not much, only enough to make a slight crunch against the teeth as the crust was broken. She spread it generously with raspberry jam that oozed out in glistening drizzles, dredged the top with icing sugar. At teatime they sat round the table, mother, father, munching children, boy, girl, lovers. Now and again Neil and Isabel's eyes would meet, sharing secret smiles. What's so funny, the children kept asking, and Neil and Isabel would smile again and say happily, nothing. It's nothing.
- ooo -
Isabel posted the video through the letterbox of the video store, hearing it drop onto the mat with a clunk. Now it had gone she had to face up to her decision. The Sunday papers were on the passenger seat, along with milk, golden syrup for making treacle tart and a bunch of supermarket alstroemeria, 'Specially selected by us for you', bought on impulse, guaranteed to last seven days. She wished it was seven days later.
Yesterday it had seemed clear. Her place was with Neil. But now she had to tell Patrick of her decision. She shrank from making any contact at all, just wished he would vanish into thin air so she could pretend it had never happened. But he wouldn't vanish; he was all too real.
She had seen this happen to women getting divorced. Having ditched their irritating husbands they breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that they could move on and leave the wreckage behind them. But ex-husbands were not like flotsam and jetsam, floating away on the tides; they had their own agendas, their own grievances. Grievances to be vociferously aired until so-called civilised behaviour degenerated into bitterness, ripping open half-healed scars so the wound was left knubbled and twisted in a livid streak.