But the persona she had created and cultivated in her career has slowly, year on year, eroded in retirement. At times, she attributes this to both her loss of profession and of spouse, as if Jim had provided some unacknowledged backbone to her own resolve. She is more circumspect these days, avoiding conflict in the main and leaving most battles to her more combative sister. Injustice and prejudice still rouse her liberal soul, except that that these days her responses are more muted, less hot-headed. The iniquities of politicians revealed in the media or through their own maladroit words continue to prompt outbursts at the paper or the radio, but her days of active protest are long gone. Or so it feels. And with this growing powerlessness, imagined or real, certain events can assume irrational proportions. As now. Seated on an Italian hillside, surrounded on all sides by evidence of her personal good fortune, Harriet feels nothing short of despair. Were she younger, she might attribute her present mood to the vagaries of her hormones, but surely all that emotional and physical upheaval is now firmly behind her?
The speed with which Hester seems to have succumbed to Lionel’s charms—and she is not blind to his attractiveness herself—alarms her. She wonders if Hester’s behaviour is in part a provocation, a response to their ongoing estrangement, but at the same time her innate fairness acknowledges that there is no reason why her sister should not enjoy a romantic adventure. Nothing in the decision to share their lives following the loss of their husbands had precluded a love life—for either of them. And while Harriet has not met anyone to set her heart alight since Jim’s death, Hester’s previous fondness for Teddy Wilson, despite his appalling reputation and manifest untrustworthiness, suggests that under her snippy exterior lies an openness to the possibility of love. There, she’s articulated it: love. She ought to be rejoicing for her sister if so, not drowning in self-pity. Even as she acknowledges this, her eyes fill.
As is increasingly her wont, her mind leaps ahead. Suppose this is more than a holiday romance? Suppose Lionel is as susceptible to the lure of a relationship as Hester seems to be? Suppose he too is seeking companionship, closeness, something more than friendship . . .
The sun has moved around; her little piece of shade has shrunk to almost nothing, leaving her squinting in the brightness, the suspicion of a headache nagging away beside her right eye. She ferrets in her bag for her sunhat, then remembers seeing it lying at the foot of her bed that morning. Damn. The inside pocket produces a dog-eared Nurofen packet: empty. A tear trembles in the corner of her eye.
‘You okay?’ Mary staggers up the slope, sketchpad in hand. ‘Gervais is finally doing his rounds so I thought I’d scarper before he got to me. God, he’s a misery! How’s it going?’
‘It isn’t,’ says Harriet, rubbing the tear away swiftly with the heel of her hand and blinking furiously. ‘Gosh, it’s making my eyes water, this sun. Bright, isn’t it?’
Mary drops down beside her. ‘I love it. After the winter we’ve had . . . Mind, there’s still the odd cloud.’ She points across the valley to a clutch of wispy clouds threaded through the blue. ‘Anyway, I’ve just decided to stop mithering about my total lack of talent. I’m a lost cause.’ She holds up her rudimentary sketch in evidence. Harriet takes one look at the muddle of lines and shapes and starts laughing. Mary joins in.
‘Let’s see yours, then.’
Harriet displays the blank pad. Their laughter redoubles, nudging Harriet’s headache into the background.
‘Forgot my damned hat.’
Mary tuts. ‘You’ll have Regina on your back, you naughty girl.’ She laughs again, but when Harriet does not join in, she turns and peers into her face, before saying, ‘Always takes everyone by surprise.’
‘What does?’
‘People falling for one another at our age.’
‘Oh!’ says Harriet, startled by her companion’s directness.
Mary continues blithely ‘Seems slightly indecent. Don’t know why, really—feelings don’t stop as you get older.’
‘Er . . . no, I suppose not.’ Harriet’s discomfiture increases but Mary continues with a rueful smile, ‘I promise you they don’t.’ She scuffs her feet in the dust.
‘Can I tell you something?’ she asks, as though she’s just reached a decision.
Harriet tenses. She’s not sure she’s up to someone else’s confidences right now. Mary hugs her knees and turns to look into Harriet’s eyes. She’s really rather pretty, thinks Harriet, taking in the faded blonde hair, the blue eyes, the quirky smile. I wonder why I didn’t notice that before.
Mary says, ‘I’ll tell you my secret. You tell me yours.’
‘I don’t have a secret.’
‘’Course you do. Everyone has secrets. Okay, then. If not a secret, then tell me what’s bothering you.’ Without waiting for a response, she says, ‘I’m having an affair. With my neighbour. It’s been going on for two years.’
Harriet flounders for an appropriate response for a moment, since Mary’s quizzical look seems to be inviting one. ‘Are you married?’ is the best she can muster, prompting an immediate thought: What does that matter?
‘Yes.’
‘Is he?’ Harriet’s not sure why that’s important: she has no intention of judging Mary either way.
‘She. Yes.’
‘Oh!’
Mary laughs, a rich, deep-throated laugh, her hand up to her mouth. ‘Have I shocked you?’ She watches with amusement as Harriet digests the information.
‘No. . .’ says Harriet uncertainly. ‘Surprised me, I think.’
‘I know,’ says Mary, unfazed. ‘I look like a proper little hausfrau, don’t I? All WI and homemade cakes. I was as surprised as you obviously are when it happened. So was Rhona. But, oh, Harriet, the joy of it! You have no idea!’ She stops. ‘You haven’t, have you?’
‘What? Oh,’ says Harriet, realising. ‘No, I haven’t. Not that I . . .’
‘No, well,’ says Mary cheerfully, ‘that’s why I told you. I just needed to tell someone. Thanks.’ She sighs happily and then without any warning yells at the top of her lungs, ‘Life is too bloody short! Seize the day!’ Her shout echoes around the valley, followed by a cry from below: ‘Are you okay up there?’ Slightly shamefaced, Mary gets up and shuffles over to the ledge’s lip and waves down reassuringly, then returns to sit beside Harriet. She grins. ‘Frightened the pants off them. Nothing beats a good old yell, trust me. There. The heavens didn’t fall in. Your turn now.’
Harriet stalls. ‘Why did you come on holiday by yourself?’
Mary screws up her face to the sun. ‘Thinking time.’
‘Oh?’
‘Things are coming to a head. The kids are all settled, don’t need us any more. Time to regroup. Consider the options.’
‘And have you?’
Mary’s trainer kicks a pebble away. ‘I think so.’
Harriet waits.
‘Nope,’ says Mary, grinning. ‘Not ready to say it just yet. Not out loud. Your go.’
Harriet shakes her head.
‘Okay, then,’ says Mary. ‘I’ll make an educated guess. You’re scared.’
‘Mary, I—’
‘I know; I should mind my own business. But I like you, Harriet. I think under different circumstances, we might be friends.’ She registers Harriet’s frown. ‘I mean, if we hadn’t simply met on holiday. Chances are, we’ll never see each other ever again after this little interlude. So—’ she shrugs ‘—you’re unhappy and that saddens me.’
‘I can’t see why.’
‘Jesus, you are having a wallow, aren’t you? No, don’t get on your high horse. It’s your sister, isn’t it? All I’m saying is, give her a chance. Let her have her bit of fun. God knows how few chances we get at our age. Possibilities shrink by the minute.’ She glances sideways at Harriet. ‘I’ll shut up now.’
Silence falls, but it’s not uncomfortable. Below them, they hear the light buzz of voices, presumably Gervais skewering some hapless student.
‘You’re right,�
� admits Harriet reluctantly. ‘I think perhaps I’m jealous.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘No, not jealous exactly. Frightened, I suppose. I’ve suddenly realised that the things I took for granted—well, they’re not as solid as I’d thought. I don’t begrudge Hester a chance of fun, of happiness—’
‘Good.’
‘All I’m saying is, it’s made me think about . . . what it might mean. You know, if it were serious . . . Hester and I live together, you see.’
‘Ah. I didn’t know that. That complicates matters.’
‘And I can’t help worrying—’
‘Harriet,’ says Mary, laying a hand on her arm. ‘One day at a time. They only met on Sunday! Whatever happens, you’ll cope. You know that deep down.’ Harriet shrugs noncommittally. ‘Don’t be such a Cassandra! Face your fears. Think about alternatives. Trust me, the worst thing you can do is let your worries control your life. Take control. Carpe diem.’
‘Oh, I know . . .’ says Harriet unconvinced, yet grateful for her companion’s concern.
Mary struggles to her feet and holds out a hand to help Harriet up. ‘Come on, you. Enough soul-searching. We can’t hide away forever. Time to go down and face the music.’
As they slip and slide back down the dusty path to join the others, her headache surging back, Harriet wonders whose music Mary has in mind: Gervais’s or her sister’s?
CHAPTER 12
If Ben thought he had problems before, they were nothing to the potential catastrophe now on his hands.
‘Shall I wash these for the weekend?’
Ben, unkindly wrenched from sleep at dawn (well, ten thirty), had groaned and shielded his eyes from the cruel sunlight pouring into his room from the landing window. His mother was standing in the doorway to his bedroom, ringed in brilliance, her features unreadable.
‘Wash what?’ he had mumbled.
His mother had waved a pair of his jeans—his best jeans, a pair of extremely tight-fitting Diesels—at him. ‘These, darling. They really could do with it.’ Isabelle holds them away from her with an expression of distaste.
Ben, befuddled as he was, was able to do a quick calculation. ‘They’ll be dry by Friday night, yeah?’
‘Oh, darling, now don’t be difficult. You’re not wearing these on Friday night!’
Ben’s stomach flipped. How the fuck did she know about Friday?
‘Why not?’ he croaked.
Isabelle sounded uncharacteristically firm. ‘I’m not having any nonsense, Ben, so don’t start. You are not wearing jeans to Auntie Lynn’s do. You will wear those nice chinos we got you at Christmas and that Ralph Lauren shirt.’
And with that she had pulled his bedroom door shut with, Ben thought, unnecessary force, leaving him curled into a ball of misery.
Auntie fucking Lynn! She’s not even a real aunt; she’s just one of his mother’s close friends who’s having some sort of party for her birthday. How could he have forgotten? His parents have been wittering on about it for weeks: Isabelle has, God help them, volunteered to provide a dish for the festivities. Please, please, please, let it not be her Coronation Chicken.
And it’s not just that the party is on Friday—it’s much worse than that. ‘We can make a weekend of it,’ his father had said brightly all those months ago when the invitation arrived. He and Isabelle had spent a happy evening scrolling through websites in search of what George considered ‘a good deal’, plumping eventually for a gloomy country house outside Bakewell. ‘Excellent walking country!’ he had exclaimed excitedly. ‘And, Ben, look, they even have a swimming pool!’ He had revealed this facility with great glee; Ben, looking over his shoulder, had been treated to the sight of an ancient pool, shrouded by trees, with a wonky diving board hanging forlornly over the leaf-strewn water. Even at the time he had regarded the whole weekend with dread and had promptly consigned it to the back of his mind, as he did anything he wanted to avoid. Except now it had come back to bite him, and with particularly sharp teeth. How crap is it that Auntie Lynn’s party should be taking place on this very Friday, the one day in his life when he might at last get close—perhaps very close—to the object of all his desires? How is he supposed to remember the date of every shitty thing his idiot parents try to inflict on him? Somehow, he’s got to come up with a reason why he has to stay behind.
‘Studying?’ hisses Jez into his phone, fully aware of his mother’s scrutiny through the patio doors. Other people may underestimate Deirdre Nairstrom, misled by the blonde hair, the ditzy manner and flamboyant clothes. But not her husband, and not her sons. She’s as shrewd an operator as Brian, controlling her small but extremely lucrative interior design company with absolute ruthlessness. Now, scarlet nails cradling a mug of coffee, she is staring implacably at her offspring as he wanders down the gravel path deep in conversation. Jez turns his back on her. ‘You could always say you’ve, like, promised to come over to mine to go over something together. My lot will be out at this poxy dance thing.’
‘Like what?’ whispers Ben from under his duvet. ‘We’re not even doing the same subjects!’ He keeps an ear out for his mother; he wouldn’t put it past her to be lurking around outside his bedroom door. Anyway, he’s none too sure she or his father would be persuaded that any useful educational purpose would be served by Ben and Jez revising together; on the one occasion George and Isabelle had found themselves at the same social event as Jez’s parents, Brian Nairstrom had spent their entire short conversation banging on about both his sons’ slothfulness and the improbability of either of them having the gumption to succeed him in his multimillion-pound IT business.
‘We are so! English, French and maths.’
‘Yeah, but I don’t need any help with them, do I, you knob?! It’s the sciences I’m struggling with, dickhead, and you’re only doing biology—and you’re crap at that, anyway.’
‘Ta very much,’ says Jez hotly. ‘Just trying to help. Look, you gotta come up with something or we’ll have to go ahead without you.’
Ben goes cold. ‘You can’t do that! Jesus! Anyway, you haven’t got a key.’
Jez sniggers. ‘Don’t need a key, you div. Ryan’s coming, in’t he?’
Ben goes even colder. Ryan Riddell is famed for his ability to pick locks, having once accepted a challenge to open every locker in the changing room in under ten minutes. He’d done it in five. Ben fights his way up through his tangled sheets to gulp in some slightly less foetid air. He cocks an ear towards the door. Silence.
‘You know what, Jez? You are so not helping. ’Course I’m gonna be there! No way am I not gonna be there, am I? I just gotta think of something.’
‘Good luck with that, loser.’ Jez snickers. ‘Let me know how it goes.’ For a split second, he contemplates updating Ben on numbers, then thinks better of it. Ben’d only go mental.
CHAPTER 13
‘Where the hell is she?’ hisses Hester, peering around the foyer and down the corridors that radiate off it. ‘Did you check the garden again?’
Lionel nods, his face creased with concern. ‘No sign of her. Hester, my dear, you really mustn’t upset yourself. I’m sure she’ll be here any minute.’
‘Yes, well, she’s not the only one!’
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Just water,’ says Hester abstractedly, head swivelling anxiously. ‘Ah! Alfonso!’ as the manager appears behind the reception desk. ‘Thank heavens. Have you seen my sister, by any chance?’
The Italian, suave as ever today in a crisp striped shirt, designer jeans and loafers, checks his watch. ‘Due back very shortly, signora.’ He smiles winningly, teeth dazzling in his tanned face.
‘Back?’
‘Sì. Today is the mountain outing.’ At Hester’s frown, ‘Foothills, really. We say mountains to make it more . . . impressive. In the brochure, yes? But still, quite a climb. The painters always come back exhausted. But happy!’ When his smile fails to elicit one in return, he says solicitously, ‘There is a
problem? Can I help?’
‘No, no,’ says Hester. ‘It’s just I’d forgotten . . .’
‘About the trip?’
‘Yes. She did mention it, but we didn’t see Harriet at breakfast this morning.’
Alfonso, never one to miss a clue, registers the ‘we’. These English can be surprisingly fast workers. He tries to catch Lionel’s eye—no harm in giving him a congratulatory nod, one man to another—but his guest is now anxiously scanning the entrance for the party’s imminent return.
The reception phone rings. ‘Excuse me, signora, signor.’ He lifts the receiver. ‘Pronto.’ Starts. Raises a hand in alarm.
‘Please. Please. Signora Pegg, more slowly, please. Again, if you will . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . And the others? Okay. To be clear then. Signora Martindale, sì? And Signora Pearson?’
Hester spins around at the sound of her sister’s name.
‘What? What is it? What’s happened?’
Alfonso’s finger goes up to silence her. ‘Okay, okay. Thank you. I will pass on the news. The minibus should be with you—’ he checks the clock opposite ‘—in ten minutes. I am on my way too.’ He swiftly replaces the phone in its cradle, free hand reaching behind him for the car keys. ‘Signora Greene, I am very sorry, I have to go . . .’
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