‘God, no, she hates me.’
‘Why? What happened that night, anyway? She went to pieces the minute she saw you and then she left without a word.’
He gave a shrug, enough to confirm to me his interpretation of the encounter, if not hers: at some unspecified time in the past, he’d used her for the night and she’d resented her morning dismissal. ‘Some people say “No hard feelings” but then they go and have them anyway.’
It was clearly a pattern of behaviour he’d observed in his women.
‘When was this?’ I asked.
‘A couple of years ago, maybe. I’m a bit hazy on the details, but you of all people can’t give me a hard time about that.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ I said. ‘It’s a small world when you’re a man of easy virtue.’
‘Or woman.’ His palm glanced carelessly over my left breast. ‘Anyway, she’s given Kenny some sob story because he’s been off with me ever since that night.’
‘Sweet Kenny,’ I sighed. ‘He’s like Jeremy, he can’t resist a damsel in distress.’
‘That’s his excuse, is it?’ Rob murmured.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m just saying, I’m not sure his wife thinks he’s so sweet – or she certainly shouldn’t.’
I smiled, intrigued. ‘Why, what’s he been up to?’
He kissed my shoulder, ran his tongue along my collarbone until I dropped my shoulders and arched my back. ‘You can be hilariously dense for someone so clever.’
‘Oh, I know he’s got a bit of a thing about me,’ I laughed. ‘But nothing’s going to happen, don’t worry.’
Rob returned his head to the pillow. ‘I’m not remotely worried.’
‘So who then?’ I said.
‘Who’s Kenny –?’
‘No, who are you bringing to the party – stop changing the subject!’
‘I think Pippa,’ he said, as if plucking her name from an extensive list of hopefuls. ‘We’ve been getting on pretty well.’
‘You mean there’s someone you’ve seen more than once?’ This was the first time I’d heard Pippa’s name.
‘More than twice. Three times, four maybe.’
‘Four, wow, that’s practically an engagement for you, Robbie boy,’ I said mockingly. ‘I’ll have to dust off my wedding hat.’ If I was honest (which I was not, not then), I preferred the idea of him bringing a one-off date to the party, a Caitlin he’d dispose of after the event, not a genuine candidate whom the whole street would welcome into the fold.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard us,’ he said, idly twisting a length of my hair around his fingers.
‘Heard you?’
‘Yes, Pippa and me. I’ve heard you.’
‘I don’t see how.’
The strand of hair pulled a little at my scalp. ‘Your bedroom is directly next door to my living room, Amber, there’s just a layer of bricks between us.’
‘You’ve drilled a peephole, have you?’
‘I haven’t needed to. You and the silver fox go to bed earlier than I do and I’m guessing your bed is up against the inner wall, opposite the fireplace.’
‘God, you have drilled a hole. Have you got a camera rigged up as well?’
He smirked. ‘Oh, it’s easy enough to visualize, believe me. I know your moves better than anyone. I’m pleased to hear that the quest for procreation continues apace, though, admittedly, he sounds more enthusiastic than you do.’
‘That’s sick,’ I told him. ‘I’m going to forget you ever shared that pathetic little insight.’
He chuckled, thrilled to get a rise out of me. ‘“Pathetic little insight”? You really know how to put a man down, don’t you?’
He was so delighted, I couldn’t help laughing with him. ‘Just bring your little playmate to the party and shut up.’
And soon we were tangled up again, kissing and pressing and rolling and pitching, thrilled by how well matched we were in this hot, breathless rectangular realm, all third parties, spouses or otherwise, temporarily forgotten.
Jeremy and I invited everyone within a fifteen-door radius, both those we’d got to know and those we had not, as well as a smattering of friends. Every single person RSVPed yes, some even rescheduling return dates from holidays to be back in time, for it was customary among the families here to decamp for the whole of August to their second homes in France (already there was talk of Jeremy and me joining the Sellerses at theirs on the Ile de Ré the following summer). There were caterers and a DJ, flowers and fairy lights and lanterns and balloons. I’d even rented a small fairground carousel and candy-floss stand for the younger children and paid local teenagers to man them. At the last minute, I added a magician to the bill.
‘If this is a house-warming, I can’t wait to see what your children’s parties are like,’ Caroline said, as her own kids climbed onto the ride, squealing like monkeys for her to watch. She often spoke as if I were already pregnant, which would cause us to exchange a significant look. Naturally, I didn’t let her suspect that she was far keener for me to join the club than I was myself.
‘The dress looks good,’ I told her. It was a gorgeous style, a midnight-blue maxi, daringly low cut, and bought of course at my advice. While not wishing to give the impression of being a marital miracle-worker, I will say that since I’d become involved in her wardrobe marital improvements had been noted. Meanwhile, Liz, my other charge, was unrecognizable from the wild-haired lunatic I’d first seen on the Sellerses’ terrace. The cropped haircut had been the first of many gratifying improvements and this evening I’d supervised the sliding of her diet-shrunken figure into a vintage-inspired pink sundress with a full pleated skirt.
Both women had been taken for pedicures and bullied into the highest heels of their lives.
Not normally competitive about desirability, I had pulled out the stops this time with my own appearance and I knew very well that the object of my rivalry was neither Caroline nor Liz. No, that strapless ivy-green macramé-lace dress and those red peep-toe high-heeled pumps, that silky pin-curled hair falling on shoulders polished smooth in a Mayfair spa – it was all conceived to put one woman in the shade: Pippa.
Maybe it was that flippant little comment of Rob’s – ‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard us,’ as if their enjoyment of one another could not be contained, and which, turning it over in my mind with unhealthy frequency, had assumed the form of a taunt – but she had somehow gained a right of way to my thoughts that shouldn’t reasonably have been granted. Why had she been chosen over the others? What did she have that Caitlin and her ilk did not? Did she have something in common with me? I wished now I’d dug deeper.
She was, it transpired, a typical London girl working a mid-level marketing job: late twenties or early thirties, long blonde hair that had been teased straight when it would have suited her better to allow a natural wave, a mask of make-up that spoke of professional trickery and yet served only to conceal her true attractiveness, a summer tan and towering wedged heels: all the standard ingredients of glamour. She had charm too, was gushingly appreciative of the invitation and offered help several times; soon she had everyone eating out of her hand.
She deserved better than Rob, but I was unique in this circle in having insider knowledge of him and of course everyone else judged them to be perfectly matched.
‘How long have you been together?’ people kept asking, and, on ambushing Rob alone, ‘She’s really nice, could be the one, eh?’
My ear was tuned to the frequency of every last one of those happy exclamations. Liz, after one too many glasses of Pimm’s, even said she’d always thought how nice it would be for someone to stage a wedding in one of the gardens backing onto the park, in springtime, when the cherry blossom would supply the confetti.
‘Sounds charming. I look forward to an invitation to yours,’ Rob replied, which threw her slightly (her confidence had not quite caught up with the external improvements) and perhaps explained the sudden punch she l
anded on his arm. It was a rather heavier blow than she intended, I gathered, seeing Pippa scurry to comfort him, while Liz fussed about in apology.
‘It’s all right,’ Rob groaned. ‘I really don’t think there’ll be extensive bruising.’
‘Everything OK here, ladies?’ Kenny had appeared, his expression absurdly protective.
‘Of course,’ I giggled. ‘Liz was just beating up Rob – no less than he deserves, if you ask me.’
Still rubbing his arm, Rob winked at Kenny. ‘I do like an empowered female, don’t you, Kenny?’
Kenny smiled weakly.
I had made a point that evening of watching for evidence of ill feeling between the two men, but could detect nothing more than this unremarkable exchange. Either Caitlin had not substantiated her accusations or the two-week break in Provence Kenny had just returned from had mellowed him on the issue.
As for the only other neighbour I knew to credit with a suspicious mind – wise old bird and feminist Felicity – she also proved nicely gullible that evening, hovering proudly over Rob and Pippa like the mother of the bride.
‘I take my hat off to you, Amber,’ she said. ‘Of all the parties I’ve been to on this street over the years, I’ve never known him bring a girlfriend. And that’s if he decides to turn up in the first place. What’s your secret?’
Recalling that strange paranoid moment in her flat when I’d delivered the Victoria sponge, I studied her face for signs of ambivalence – to no avail. Like everyone else here, she was genuinely thrilled to see Rob so prettily paired. Whatever she’d intended in forestalling Gemma that afternoon, it had not been to protect the double lives of adulterers.
‘Oh, just call me Cupid,’ I told her, laughing. I was regretting my strategy, however: I’d intended some sort of beard, not a people’s princess – that was my job. And yet I couldn’t help liking Pippa myself, too.
‘Your house is the most beautiful I’ve ever set foot in,’ she told me, with adorable earnestness. ‘Your husband is so charming and funny.’ There could be no mistake that she was paying court to me.
No, there was no contest between us. And nor was there any between her and Gemma or Helena, both of whom had arrived dressed to seduce and both of whom understood immediately that they were too late. They surrendered unconditionally.
‘I can’t believe Rob’s off the market already,’ Helena complained, raising her voice above the jangle of the carousel. She was smoking, always a sign of defeat. ‘It’s only a few weeks since he said there was no one serious.’
‘Oh, they’re not serious,’ I said, refusing to admit to myself that I spoke for my own benefit, not theirs. ‘I’d never heard him mention her until about a week ago. You’ve still got a shot, girls, get to work!’
‘Amber, she’s a complete leech,’ Gemma said, bearing her imperfect teeth to tear at a stick of candyfloss. ‘There’s no chance for anyone else. Look how she keeps helping with the carousel to show what a brilliant mother she’d be! It’s so obvious. You watch, she’ll already be plotting to move in with him and get pregnant.’
I sincerely hoped not. I took a pinch of her candyfloss and let it melt in a gritty pool on my tongue.
Just as everyone was nicely inebriated, Jeremy made a little speech to say how lucky we were to have such tolerant and forgiving neighbours. ‘This marks a new tradition: every last Saturday in August we will hold a party, come rain or shine.’
‘Come rain or shine’ struck me as one of his old people’s turns of phrase, a thought I cast from my head as he went on to thank me for creating such a glamorous home for him, praise I gallantly deflected by pulling Hetty into the spotlight.
‘Really,’ I said, ‘I’ve done nothing.’
And Rob heckled, ‘No, really, she hasn’t!’ and in just the right tone for a neighbour and friend, as opposed to a lover who had only two days earlier immobilized me on the floor of his bathroom and torn my underwear so badly I’d had to throw it away.
Hetty was laughing, Pippa was laughing, Caroline was laughing, Felicity was laughing, everyone was laughing, and then there were cheers and whistles as the music was turned up and dancing broke out in earnest (and with some of the fifty-pluses, believe me, it was earnest). As I wove among my guests, beaming, I told myself I was not monitoring Rob’s whereabouts out of the corner of my eye; I told myself I did not yearn to separate him from his new mate and lure him out of sight for my turn. No, I knew better than to take risks of any kind at a function like this; they inevitably led to exposure. You hear about it all the time, the stolen kiss witnessed by a child who later tells his mother (‘The pretty lady with red hair was kissing the tall man with dark hair, it was yucky!’), or that crops up in the corner of someone’s photo, slightly out of focus but unmistakably criminal. With iPhones being brandished even by infants, there was as much surveillance as if we’d fixed a camera to a tripod and made a fly-on-the-wall documentary of the event. (How much easier infidelity must have been in the pre-digital age!)
Instead, it was the back of Pippa’s head that Rob steadied with his left palm as he leaned to kiss her hard on the lips, Pippa’s hips his fingers kept straying to, Pippa’s arched feet and tensed calves on which his eyes lingered.
My only private exchange with him that evening was anticlimactic, to say the least.
‘I can’t do next week,’ he told me, as I refilled his glass at exactly the moment someone had caught Pippa’s eye and bombarded her with more breathless questions about where she had ‘popped up’ from. I misjudged and the champagne foamed onto his hand; as I watched him splash the drips to the ground before bringing his fingers to his lips to lick them, I felt a lurch of lust at my deepest core.
‘That’s a pity,’ I said. ‘Why not?’
‘I’m out of town for a few days.’
‘Then we’ll have to debrief another time.’
He looked directly at me then and that, at least, was a personal look – as if his definition of debrief was to strip you of your clothes and burn off the top layer of your skin – and a source of consolation I only realized I craved as badly as I did once I’d been given it.
All this considered, and not to mention what came after, I was admirably in control of myself that night. I refused on principle to be ambushed by unseemly emotions. With the carousel still turning and ridden now to illegal weight levels by the adults (Liz was, indeed, back in the saddle), the laughter growing louder, the late night and bottomless wine bottles drawing confidences from all directions, I remained, on the surface, measured, gracious, discreet. I was as deserving of Jeremy’s devoted gaze as I was the flow of compliments about my beautiful dress, accepting of the knowledge that it was he, my legal mate, my original choice, who would later remove it.
Chapter 15
Christy, July 2013
She’d finally made it to the second round for a job, a buying position at a media agency, not her established area but a junior enough role for that not to worry her. The woman who conducted the interview and would be her manager was younger than Christy and had a suppressed indignation about her, as if she’d expected to be doing something rather better at this stage in the game but understood that such desires were best masked. Especially when an ageing candidate who would have killed for her job sat in front of her, trying to remould her unrelated experience into something highly relevant.
That was life, Christy thought: you didn’t appreciate the value of a decent mid-level job until it was suddenly impossible to get one. But she knew she shouldn’t use words like ‘impossible’; that was not can-do, that was can’t-do. With nervous fingers she touched the silver bangle on her wrist, ran her thumb over the clasp. She couldn’t explain why she was wearing Amber Fraser’s jewellery to this interview; for the same reason that she’d appropriated the dragonfly key ring, she supposed, because it was costly and beautiful and she wanted such things to belong to her.
‘The salary is a lot less than you earned in your previous job,’ her interviewer said matter-of-
factly. It was commonplace for candidates to be casually demeaned like this – to expect anything more would be to arouse suspicion.
Christy agreed, it was less. All she could think of was the column of debits she saw when she pulled up her and Joe’s bank details online, that mortgage payment jumping out so horrifyingly it might have been scrawled across the screen in blood.
‘I don’t mind taking a cut in the short term,’ she began, but that sounded wrong. She feared that these occasional forays into the real world exposed her as slow-witted, a relic from a lost generation. In a matter of months the world had got younger, its cultural references a puzzle. To combat the effects of isolation, she’d begun walking to the train station most days for her copy of the free titles commuters read on the train, the daily bibles of office managers like this one. ‘I mean, I’m more interested in finding the right company than the right salary.’ That was a little better, if somewhat uninspired. ‘It’s lucky for me you had someone leave.’
‘Yes, well, babies will be born, won’t they?’ her interviewer said. ‘And in this case she’s decided not to come back.’
Something in her expression suggested that it was she who would have liked to have left and not come back, and Christy thought, How awful, all of these people wanting to live each other’s lives. Was it only women, or did men do it, too? Look how Joe had chased and chased his partnership; he’d seen it as a one-way ticket to Arcadia, only to suddenly declare his disillusionment because it did not resemble the destination of his dreams. And this was Joe, the man who never admitted defeat, Jermyn Richards’ ebullient ‘cheeky chappie’. If he was disenchanted, then what chance did the rest of them have? Overwhelmed for a moment with the insoluble sorrow of it all, she felt her features droop.
Evidently suspecting pitying thoughts in her direction, her interviewer flung her an insulted look and Christy knew then she wouldn’t get the job.
The Sudden Departure of the Frasers Page 19