Harriet stares levelly at her sister, wondering what is going through her mind now everything is out in the open. Well, not quite everything . . . For herself, the fact that they are now on speaking terms and the events in the garden the previous night have been revealed is a huge step forward, but the hurt and bewilderment induced by Hester’s extraordinary conduct remains. Why the secrecy? Why hadn’t Hester—the minute Stephen’s letter arrived and, opening it, she realised her mistake—why hadn’t she confronted Harriet there and then? She can almost hear Hester’s astonished tones: What on earth is all this about? Harriet? What’s going on? Why hadn’t she reacted in her customary way, leaping in with both large bony feet, all bombast and umbrage? Saved herself the weeks of suspicion and worry, and Stephen and Harriet the awfulness of that midnight confrontation?
‘Why, Hetty?’ she says softly, and Hester is felled by that familiar diminutive. Her eyes prickle; she sniffs desolately, snatching a broken breath. Her fingers shred a withered leaf, its fragments skittering around the table with each downward exhalation.
‘I don’t know.’
Harriet stiffens. After all the trouble and heartache she’s caused! ‘Not good enough.’
Hester thrashes about for the words, any words, that might go some way towards explaining what propelled her down this catastrophic path. Finally, shamefacedly, brokenly . . .
‘We’d just had a bit of a row about Ben—another row, I should say—about you covering for him . . . something to do with Isabelle, I can’t remember exactly, something Ben was keeping from her. It got rather heated. You said I was being a prig: “What harm will it do? She needn’t know.” And I thought: you’ve changed your tune, goody-two-shoes who hates to tell a lie. And then—look, I know how stupid and petty it seems—but I went into the larder and all the biscuits had gone. And I thought: why do I bother? Why do I try to stop you piling on the weight—it’s not good for you, not at your age, you know what the doctor said—when all you do is go behind my back, shovelling all the wrong things into your mouth, and—’
‘This is all down to some biscuits?!’
‘No! You’re not listening. I’m trying to explain.’ Hester’s customary bite begins to bubble up through the self-flagellation. ‘I’m trying to be honest.’
‘Try harder.’
Hester’s voice toughens. ‘All right!’ A pause while she damps down her rising temper. ‘Look, I was shocked. The letter. You’d gone out to the supermarket or something. With Ben. I read it and I felt sick. I had to sit down. I mean, why would anyone contact you out of the blue, unless it was true?’
‘Unless it was—’
‘Okay!’ A deep breath. ‘Please. Look . . . you’ve read it. It’s . . . heartfelt. Convincing. It convinced me, anyway. But I was shocked to the core! I wanted time to think about it, so I . . .’
‘Concealed it.’
‘. . . delayed telling you.’
‘And never once in the days that followed did you think to say: “Look at this, Harry”?’
‘Of course I did! But the longer I delayed the more impossible it got. Besides, things were so tricky between us . . .’
‘And now we know why!’ Harriet snatches up her glass.
‘I persuaded myself that you’d buried this, you’d purposely kept it a secret—and I was sure you’d just deny it.’
‘Why would I?’
‘I don’t know! I haven’t felt myself for months. The slightest thing . . . I was angry with you, jealous—’ The hot, tangled mass of emotions are tumbling out now, as though a dam has burst.
‘Jealous?!’ Harriet’s glass stops halfway to her mouth.
‘Yes! I know how stupid it sounds.’
‘Too bloody right! Jealous of what? What on earth is there to be jealous about?’
‘Everything. You, your relationship with Ben, with Daria, Milo . . .’
‘Hetty! What are you—’
‘I know, I know! I can’t explain it. I hate myself. I look in the mirror sometimes and I think: who is this woman? I used to be so sure of myself, Harry—too sure at times, I know. Bossy old Hester, never knows when to shut up. No, don’t laugh. Don’t you ever have those horrible thoughts in the middle of the night: What am I doing? I lie there and it’s all so . . . frightening. What’s going to happen to me? If I start losing my mind, if my health goes . . .’
‘Oh, Hetty . . . you silly, silly . . .’
Harriet is up, she’s round the table, she has Hester in her arms, that familiar bony frame now shaking with sobs, and she’s cradling her sister as they weep together, a single knot of grief and regret.
Lionel, alone in the bar, his face inches from the glass, watches the two women embrace. His face tightens.
CHAPTER 26
‘What time you off then?’
Ben’s just got to the trickiest part of the recipe: turning the tarte out of the baking dish without leaving any of the caramelised pineapple stuck to the base. He holds the plate tight over the dish, turns it over swiftly, gives it one violent shake, places it on the counter and gingerly lifts the dish away. The inverted tarte sits exactly in the middle of the plate, every slice of pineapple in place, the pastry evenly risen and nicely browned. Perfection.
‘Oh, darling!’ gasps Isabelle. ‘That is magnificent!’ His mother, a stranger to the mechanics of the simplest of recipes, thinks all his cooking is brilliant, but even he has to admit this is one of his best. He whips his phone out and takes a photo, then sends it to Hester with a note: And I made the pastry! His aunt will appreciate the effort involved in making puff pastry from scratch. Only amateurs buy it ready-made, she has sniffed on many occasions. He’ll update his blog later. He knows he’s been a bit lax in recent months but Nats’ approbation, much as he hates to admit it, has rekindled his interest in it.
‘Tomorrow?’ he prompts.
‘Oh,’ says Isabelle, still lost in wonderment. ‘Mid-morning, I expect. Your father will want a swim in the afternoon, I dare say, and I’ll pop this over to your Auntie Lynn and see if she wants a hand with anything. Do you want to write a card or something?’
Ben doesn’t, but he supposes it’s politic to play the game. His mother ferrets in the study and returns with a gruesome notelet featuring two improbably fluffy kittens gambolling around a flower-stuffed basket. ‘Seriously?’ he says, appalled.
‘She’ll appreciate the thought.’
‘Yeah, but she might think I chose it.’
Isabelle laughs gaily. ‘Oh, you teenagers! It’s what you write in it that matters.’
‘Like what?’
‘Goodness me! Do you want me to write it for you?’ Ben thinks this wouldn’t be a bad idea, but realises that his mother is attempting sarcasm. He grabs a biro and scribbles: Dear Auntie Lynn, Sorry I couldn’t make your party. Have a good one. Hope you like pineapple!!! Bx. Somewhere at the back of his mind he remembers the aunts grizzling about exclamation marks but he can’t remember why. That’ll do.
‘Oh, Ben.’ His mother’s eyes are moist. ‘What a thoughtful boy you are. She’ll be over the moon.’
Anyone less likely to be over the moon than sallow, morose, hypochondriac Lynn he can hardly imagine, but whatever. He gives Isabelle a brief hug and sets off for his bedroom. He’s got some serious planning to do and he’s already running through recipes, ingredients and timings for tomorrow’s cooking. He leaves Isabelle to fathom how best to transport the large, sticky tarte safely to Derbyshire and closes his bedroom door firmly behind him.
He checks Facebook, reassures himself about the numbers for tomorrow night, has a quick look at his Twitter account, uploads the picture of his tarte, retweets a neat quote from a chef in California he’s following, then texts Nats to tell her he has the money and will give it to her tomorrow night. An instant reply: in her hand first thing tomorrow at the latest or no deal. Ben’s face bunches with exasperation and anger. Nobody in the history of the whole world has ever pissed him off so much. He knows what Nats’ ‘first thing’
means: no way is he going to get up early tomorrow. Not for her, anyway. He fires back a terse text saying he’ll be over right away. Be still my beating heart! comes the reply. What the fuck?! He grabs his jacket and wallet and thunders down the stairs.
‘Going out!’ he yells, making for the garage and his bike.
Isabelle hurries to the front door. ‘Dad’ll be home any minute! What about supper? What about your revision? And where’s your helmet? Lights!’
The reply is a perfunctory wave as Ben powers down the street and disappears from sight.
His temper improves slightly as he gets into his cycling stride. It’s only a mile or so to Nats’ place; he whizzes around parked cars and weaves his way to the front of the queue of traffic at the crossroads, then scoots across on a red, earning a furious horn blast from the brick lorry bearing down on him. The speed and the cool air rushing at him is invigorating and then it comes to him in a sudden, heart-stopping flash: where Nats is, there too might, just possibly, be Louisa. The thought of her—that hair, those legs, that intoxicating musky scent—erases her sister in an instant: he replays their recent encounter frame by wonderful frame, so caught up in it that he only just avoids ploughing into a bloke shambling across a zebra crossing. Slamming his brakes on, Ben slews to an ungainly halt and is about to shout some ill-deserved abuse when the startled man, now safely on the pavement, calls his name.
‘You’re in a hurry,’ says Ralph Pickerlees with commendable friendliness, given the fate he has just so narrowly avoided.
‘Sorry, mate,’ says Ben, breathless from both his exertions and the close shave. ‘Lot on my mind. Miles away.’
‘Ah,’ says Ralph kindly, ‘revision, eh? How’s it going?’
‘Yeah. Good. Well, you know . . .’ He puts his foot on the pedal, scanning the road for a gap in the traffic.
But Ralph’s in no hurry. ‘Any time you want to talk, I’d be glad to help.’
Ben’s face floods with colour as he recalls his deception. He feels a right shit. The man may be a nerd and boring as fuck, but he means well. ‘Yeah, ta for that.’ An idea bursts in his brain. Dare he? ‘Matter of fact . . . Ralph . . . I was, like, wondering. Coupla things I’m not sure about, you know, chemistry and that. Don’t suppose I could have a word sometime?’
‘Of course!’ Ralph smiles broadly. ‘I’d be only too delighted.’
‘Yeah? Say if I give you a bell Saturday?’
‘Saturday’s fine. What time?’
‘Two-ish?’
‘Brilliant.’
‘Awesome.’ Ben sketches a wave, starts to pedal away.
‘Ben!’
He stops. Now what?
‘My number?’
‘Oh yeah . . .’
Ralph reels it off and Ben taps it swiftly into his phone. Then Ralph insists on taking his.
‘Can you give me a rough idea what you’re struggling with? So I can mug up before we speak?’
Ben flounders around for anything remotely convincing. ‘Well, there’s, like, quite a lot of things . . .’
‘For instance?’
‘Er . . .’ He tries to conjure the jumble of books on his desk. ‘Dynamic equilibrium?’
‘No sweat. Anything else?’
What is this? An exam? ‘Er . . . Le Châtelier’s thingy?’
‘Principle. Okay. Honestly, there’s really not that much to—’
‘Ta ever so, mate. Gotta go,’ says Ben, desperate to escape before he’s called upon to remember anything else. ‘I owe you big-time. Laters.’ He pushes off; Ralph’s response is lost in the roar of traffic.
Ben smiles to himself: now he really does have a revision tutorial with the man, so he isn’t lying to his parents at all. And if he has to cancel, well, that’s how it goes . . .
‘You look hot.’ Nats smirks at Ben from the doorway and holds out her hand. ‘As in, sweaty, before you get overexcited.’
‘Been cooking.’ He shoves two tenners at her.
The smirk disappears to be replaced by something that might almost be mistaken for respect. Almost. ‘Like what?’
He describes the tarte tatin.
‘Nice. Should’ve brought some over.’
She’s made no move to invite him in. He’s trying to peer past her, listen out for voices; the television’s on and all that’s audible is the manic cackle of a studio audience.
‘Don’t suppose I could have a glass of water?’
Nats shrugs, a little smile playing around her lips. ‘I guess. Won’t be a mo’.’ She steps back into the hall and half closes the door. Ben seethes, ears pricked for the slightest evidence of Louisa’s presence. Seconds later, Nats is back with a glass, coming out onto the path this time to pass it to him, pulling the door nearly shut behind her. Eyeing him with amusement, she says, ‘Anyway, thanks for coming over. I could’ve dropped by on my run first thing in the morning.’
‘It’s cool. Needed to stretch my legs.’ He drains the glass, gives it back.
‘What time tomorrow? To go over to Daria’s?’
‘Meet you seven at the newsagent’s?’
‘Okay.’ She pushes the door open a fraction and slips into the house.
Ben reads this as a farewell and turns his bike around, flinging one leg over to walk it down the path. He sets off back the way he came, downhearted; someone calling his name brings him to an abrupt halt. ‘Ben? Babes?’
Louisa! Circling swiftly, he races back. Nats is standing at the gate. Alone.
‘What? What?’ He knows she knows what he was hoping for.
‘Just thought you might be interested. She’s out with Joe. At a gig.’
Nats retraces her steps to the front door.
Ben gulps. ‘Joe?’ he says to her retreating back.
‘Yeah. Anyway, see you tomorrow. ‘Bye-ee.’
The front door slams.
Nats listens for the click of Ben’s wheels slowly turning for home. The look on his face! Their American cousin Jo visits very rarely; she’s over on business, was offered two tickets for One Direction at the last minute and Lou and Nats had tossed for them. (Nats, to her relief—and Lou’s jubilation—lost.) Well, there’s no-one to blame but himself if he’s going to wallow in misery and jealousy all night. Shouldn’t jump to conclusions, should he?
CHAPTER 27
Hester feels light-headed and in a vague but not wholly unpleasant way purged, as though the boil of her suspicions and bitterness has been lanced. Her primary emotion, however, is one of horrible embarrassment. At her conduct, her misreading of the situation from the outset and, perhaps worst of all, at having succumbed to such a storm of weeping, clinging to Harriet’s comfortable bulk in mortification. She sniffs hard once more and fumbles for a fresh tissue. Harriet quietly eases the wineglass closer to her and Hester obediently takes a sip, waiting for Harriet to break the silence, conscious that this is the first time in months they have sat together so . . . well, companionably. God, how I’ve missed her!
Harriet, ostensibly looking out across the sweep of the gardens dappled in late afternoon sunshine, the distant mountains hazy, watches Hester out of the corner of her eye. The almost absurd melodrama of the past two days has exhausted them both; for the moment she is happy to let the silence wash over them, cleansing away the enmity—no, not too strong a word—that bubbled so viciously and swiftly to the surface. What does this reveal about the true state of their relationship? An irrevocable rift? Of course, she would be the first to admit that, like most people living in close proximity, they have had their differences in the past, some alarmingly vitriolic, especially where politics is concerned. But nothing in their history, those sudden irruptions of ill humour if not outright anger, had prepared her for the shock of Hester’s full-throated denunciation of her character, her morals, her integrity. It wasn’t so much the fact of the assault but the obvious relish with which Hester had delivered it, as though she had been storing up this mountain of bile for years . . .
And yet, and yet . . . tha
t attempt to articulate the inexplicable, the sense of life slipping by, anchors loosed, time rampaging into a dark and terrifying future, she can empathise with that. No-one, surely, is immune from those insidious thoughts that worm their way out of the recesses of the mind in the small hours: what have I done? What mark have I left? Rightly or wrongly, everyone wants their life to have had some scintilla of meaning, some influence, however tiny, on those left behind. She thinks: I should say these things. Tell her I understand. Tell her I forgive her—
‘We all need to matter, Hetty.’ Words come before she’s quite ready. ‘It’s part of the human condition.’
She might not have spoken.
‘Such a fool,’ says Hester, head averted, her voice harsh. She purses her lips as though trying to corral unwise words. ‘I never cry.’
‘Perhaps you should,’ says Harriet gently. She doesn’t like this defeated, deflated sister; she wants her old cantankerous sparring partner back. Hester’s diminution threatens her own sense of self, the certainties that keep the shivers under control.
‘It’s not just about us,’ she says.
‘Stephen.’ It’s not a question.
‘Yes.’ The pause lengthens. ‘I promised him. We owe him that.’
‘Do you know where to start?’
‘Oh, yes, I think so,’ says Harriet with a robustness she does not wholly feel. What she does feel, though, is the first stirring of indignation, if not anger, at being an unwitting pawn in a decades-long deception.
‘Care to tell me?’ The words edged with doubt, as though Hester does not believe herself worthy of her sister’s confidence.
Harriet hesitates. There is something about putting her surmises into words that worries her: what if she’s barking up not only the wrong tree but ferreting in entirely the wrong forest?
‘Fair enough.’ From the hurt in Hester’s voice, Harriet might just as well have slapped her.
Love, Lies and Linguine Page 16