‘It’s not his wife’s fault, either,’ pointed out Caroline. She took a gulp of coffee and lit a cigarette. ‘Christ, I’d go barmy if Patrick did that to me.’
‘You don’t know what Charles did,’ said Ella.
‘No, but I can guess.’ She gave a wicked cackle.
‘It’s nothing,’ said Ella, spreading her hands deprecatingly. ‘Over.’ She poured herself a glass of orange juice. ‘Poor Charles,’ she added.
‘Over?’ said Caroline suspiciously.
‘Maybe over,’ conceded Ella. ‘Maybe not. It’s funny, I’d half-forgotten what he was like. I had a different image of him in my mind. Perhaps I’d created it on purpose. But now I feel I don’t know him as well as I thought I did. And I would quite like to know him again. Know him as a person, rather than as a lover.’ She gave a little smile.
‘But what about his wife?’ insisted Caroline.
‘What about me? Where’s the symmetry in all this? I might have a husband, or a partner that no one knows about. Charles might be the other man as much as I am the other woman.’
‘Have you got a husband?’ asked Caroline curiously. ‘You can’t have. You don’t look married.’
‘No, not a husband,’ said Ella, smiling down into her orange juice.
‘But someone. There is someone.’
‘There is someone,’ agreed Ella.
‘And don’t you feel bad, betraying them like that?’
‘Betraying? I’m not betraying anyone. A quick fuck isn’t the same as betrayal.’
‘Ah!’ said Caroline triumphantly. ‘So you did sleep with him.’
‘I didn’t sleep with him,’ said Ella. ‘I fucked him. Something else altogether. His wife slept with him. Or so I imagine.’ Caroline looked at her slightly puzzledly for a moment, then leant forward.
‘And what’s going to happen now?’ she said, lowering her voice unnecessarily to a confiding, gossipy tone.
‘Now?’ Ella’s voice rang like a bell through the garden. ‘I’m going to have some more coffee.’ She smiled at Caroline and reached for the cafetière. Caroline took a deep drag of her cigarette and looked around the garden. Ella obviously wasn’t going to settle down to a good girly chat. She frowned in slight annoyance, and stretched out a tanned leg from under her dressing-gown, admiring the smooth, brown skin against the white satin.
‘Oh I don’t know,’ she said suddenly, heaving a great sigh. ‘What’s it all about, anyway?’
‘It?’ Ella looked at her quizzically.
‘Life. You know.’ Caroline waved her cigarette vaguely in the air. ‘Where are we all aiming?’
‘Well, that really depends on your point of view,’ began Ella.
‘I mean, take Patrick,’ interrupted Caroline. ‘All he wants to do is earn money.’
‘And all you want to do is spend it,’ suggested Ella.
‘Well, yes,’ said Caroline, in slight surprise. She caught Ella’s eye and gave a sudden cackle. ‘But what do I want to spend it on?’ she added. ‘That’s the difference.’
‘You’re not having a mid-life crisis, are you?’ said Ella, her eyes twinkling.
‘Christ, no,’ said Caroline. She took a deep drag. ‘The thing is, Patrick and I had a bit of a scene last night. About us paying Nicola’s school fees. It just made me think.’
‘What sort of scene?’
‘He was furious with me for landing him in it. Which I suppose is fair enough.’
‘Hadn’t you talked about it already?’ said Ella in surprise.
‘Oh no. It was completely spur of the moment. Anyway, if I’d asked him beforehand, he would never have agreed. Patrick’s basically a stingy bastard.’
‘Well, I think it’s a wonderful idea,’ said Ella firmly. ‘Not that I approve of private education in principle. But Nicola’s a little bit different. And surely you can afford it?’
‘I would have thought so,’ said Caroline. ‘I mean, what if we’d had two children? We would have been able to afford it then, wouldn’t we?’
‘Or three children,’ said Ella.
‘Or five,’ said Caroline. ‘Some fucking chance.’ Her face suddenly clouded over and she stubbed out her cigarette in silence.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
By one o’clock, Patrick was presiding over a barbecue.
‘I can’t bear barbecues,’ said Caroline at intervals. She was reclining on a white lounger, eating a plate of chocolate-fudge cake and smoking a cigarette. ‘Bloody awful things.’ She glanced provocatively at Patrick every time she spoke, but his face remained calm.
‘Barbecues are lovely!’ protested Annie in amazement. She was handing out hot dogs in buns to the children and had a smear of tomato ketchup on her cheek. ‘They’re such fun. Those spare ribs smell delicious,’ she added encouragingly to Patrick.
‘They’re just about ready,’ he said. ‘Who’s for a rib?’
‘Who’s for a rib?’ echoed Caroline disparagingly. ‘Who’s for a burnt bone with a shrivelled-up bit of meat attached?’
‘Come on, Stephen,’ said Annie. ‘Have a spare rib. You’ve hardly eaten anything. And you need something after all that tennis.’ She giggled. The match between her, Stephen, Patrick and Caroline had been a desultory affair, undertaken only because of Patrick’s insistence. It had lasted a mere forty minutes, during which time Stephen and Annie had managed to win only two games, despite rallying cries from Don.
‘In a moment,’ said Stephen, taking a swig of beer. ‘You go ahead.’
Stephen wasn’t feeling hungry. Now that he had decided to talk to Patrick about backing out of the deal, he wanted to get it over and done with. He was sure Patrick would make him feel stupid for pulling out of such an opportunity; perhaps it would be easier to leave it till later or even phone him once they were at home. But the thought of prolonging his mortgage commitment—by even a few hours—made Stephen nervous. He had stood for a while by the barbecue, trying to seize his moment to talk to Patrick. But the barbecue was soon surrounded by children, prodding the sausages and asking for ketchup and no mustard and no onion and no lettuce.
He watched Nicola grasp her hot dog awkwardly and take a huge, unguarded bite, and he winced even before she did at the burning-hot sausage inside. She gasped, instinctively opened her mouth to breathe in cool air, and turned pink—not with pain, he knew, but with embarrassment at having been caught out. Stephen felt a chord of recognition within him. She was like him in so many ways. He would spill scalding tea over his hand at a tea party and smile as though it were nothing; he would turn down the wrong street and carry on rather than turn round. Of course, children always take after their parents, he thought, watching her as she quickly breathed in and out, trying to relieve the burning sensation in her mouth, then, adopting a casual air, took a great gulp of cold water. But what no one ever tells you is that your children inherit just as many of your deficiencies and foibles as they do your better characteristics. He smiled at Nicola.
‘Is that good?’ he said.
‘Delicious,’ she said stoutly. ‘Really yummy.’
‘Not too hot?’ he said, in spite of himself.
‘Oh no,’ she said, as he knew she would. ‘Just right.’
* * *
Charles and Cressida were sitting near each other on the grass. They had somehow staggered through the morning, communicating in short, polite phrases; avoiding each other’s gaze. When their eyes did meet, it was with disbelief. This couldn’t be happening to them.
They had arrived downstairs for lunch with an assumed unity; had mustered up smiles and excuses for their lateness with enough good cheer to stave off curious looks. But the others seemed intuitively to know that something was wrong. No one had come to sit near them; no one had attempted to bring them into the general barbecue banter. A tacit, perhaps unconscious, avoidance area surrounded them; even Martina and the twins were sitting away from them with the other children.
Cressida picked abstractly at blades of grass and took tiny bit
es of the chicken drumstick, which Patrick had pressed on her. The food was tasteless in her mouth; her mind was black with misery. She wanted to sit calmly somewhere and think it all out; but her thoughts were too confused; everything seemed to go round in circles. And there seemed to be a missing piece; an unexplained factor which, if she only knew what it was, would slot in to make things clearer. Something—a thought; a memory; an observation—kept tugging at her mind. She groped through her thoughts unhappily, but nothing tallied, nothing made her start with recognition.
She had almost successfully managed to block from her mind the scene last night. Of course Charles had not meant to hit her; he had simply been strung up. It was really her own fault for falling asleep and letting him discover the letter without her breaking the news to him first. In retrospect, it occurred to her, perhaps she should have kept it a secret until she had visited Mr Stanlake and checked that it wasn’t all some awful mistake. Perhaps it had been wrongly addressed to her. Perhaps it should have gone to some other client. She imagined Mr Stanlake smiling at her, tearing the letter up and promising her he would have a stern word with whoever was responsible for worrying her in this way. She would smile gratefully back at him, and ask him to make quite sure no mistakes like that could be made in the future. He would pat her hand and order tea.
This scene was so comforting, Cressida dwelt on it a little bit longer. After all, people made mistakes every day, she reasoned. They dialled wrong numbers often enough; why shouldn’t they have sent out the wrong letter? She glanced surreptitiously at Charles’ sullen face. How relieved he would be if she could tell him it was all a silly error. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that that was what it must be. The thought was cheering.
Charles, sensing Cressida’s eyes on him, quickly looked up, and saw a little smile cross her lips. She was eating her chicken drumstick determinedly, apparently unconcerned by the whole situation. A part of him wanted to work up an outrage that she could behave so naturally, when they were on the brink of ruin. But his senses seemed numbed; he felt blank inside. He couldn’t rouse himself to any strong feelings, one way or the other. When he deliberately reminded himself of the precise amount of money that they might eventually owe, and painstakingly translated that into terms of material goods, a huge grey terror filled him. But it was an abstract terror; it was almost as though he knew he should be terrified—so he was. In the same way that he had never quite been able to believe that all that money in Cressida’s portfolio was his too, so he was unable to relate a demand for a million pounds to himself. Other people dealt in that kind of money. Not him.
Every now and again, he glanced over at Ella. The first time he had seen her that day, the sight had brought back, with a stab, a memory of the night before. Now he couldn’t stop tormenting himself—prodding his own sore spot like a small boy with a bruise. But his senses were becoming numbed towards her, too. The more he looked, the more the pain was dulled. The passion of last night had slipped away; try as he might, he couldn’t recapture it. He reminded himself several times that it was only twelve hours since they had made love so frenziedly, that he had sunk into her eager flesh with a strange, mixed feeling of familiarity and newness, that he had shouted, that she had cried out, that he had felt like weeping. But the more he reminded himself, the more it all seemed like a dream. The sensations became more shadowy; the memories of her skin, her hair—even her lips—receded in his mind. He felt hollow and bland; a nothing.
Patrick, standing behind the barbecue, watched Charles, moodily staring at the ground, refusing to join in the party. He and Cressida had obviously had some sort of barney last night—probably over Ella. Patrick didn’t like to think what had gone on between those two last night. But even if the worst hadn’t happened, deciding to go for a midnight walk with an ex-lover wasn’t exactly normal behaviour for a married man. Especially a man married to such a lovely creature as Cressida. Patrick’s gaze transferred compassionately to her. She was sitting all alone, like a pale moth on the grass, fiddling with the same chicken drumstick he’d given her half an hour ago.
At the sight of her, Patrick’s antagonism towards Charles increased. He was still smarting from their encounter yesterday; still resentful at the way Charles had dismissed his offer. Since marrying Cressida, Charles behaved as if he had been born and bred into wealth; as if he was somehow superior to everyone else. Of course, it wasn’t his money, everyone knew that. If he hadn’t found himself a rich wife, he would still be in Seymour Road, relying on his pathetic hippy arts centre for a living. Cressida had pulled him up a few notches—and in principle Patrick didn’t mind that. But look at the way he was treating her! Letting her go upstairs to bed by herself like that last night; disappearing outside with Ella; even now, ignoring her completely.
Patrick eyed Cressida’s pale skin, her fluttering eyelids, her delicate hands. She was a real lady, he reflected. She wasn’t the sort to complain, or cause a fuss, or defend herself; she was the sort who would just suffer in silence. And she’d chosen as her protector that pretentious, arrogant Charles—who had only married her for her money, anyway. Patrick’s chest burned in silent indignation, and without looking at what he was doing, he knocked a sausage onto the grass.
‘Daddy!’ cried Georgina. ‘You clumsy!’ She shrieked with laughter, and after seeing what had happened, Caroline joined in.
‘Blast!’ said Patrick, bending down and trying to pick it up with the tongs.
‘That must be enough food now, anyway,’ said Annie. ‘Why don’t you sit down, Patrick? You must be boiled.’
‘Yes, come and sit down,’ said Caroline, in a mollifying voice. ‘Come and have a nice drink.’
As Patrick sat down, Don sidled over.
‘I’ve been looking again at the chart,’ he said.
‘Oh yes?’ said Patrick shortly. There had been a slight scene when Patrick announced that the finalists in the tennis tournament were himself, Caroline, Charles and Cressida. Don had looked shocked; Valerie had expressed voluble disbelief; Patrick had stalked off to light the barbecue.
‘I see the way you’ve worked it out,’ said Don. ‘I suppose that is a valid method, although it’s not one I’ve seen before.’
‘Oh good,’ said Patrick.
‘And I suppose, with Val injured like that,’ continued Don, ‘we weren’t likely to win all our matches.’
‘No,’ chimed in Caroline in a loud, sarcastic voice. ‘And you certainly wouldn’t have wanted to put her through a final. Not with an injury.’ Don flushed slightly.
‘What I was wondering,’ he said dolefully, ‘was whether you wanted an umpire for the final. Since I won’t be playing, I thought I’d volunteer.’ He shifted morosely from one foot to the other.
‘Yes, well,’ said Patrick. He looked around at the others for help. ‘What do you think?’
‘Oh, yes!’ said Annie. ‘That’ll make it really special.’
‘And since we do have an umpire’s chair…’ drawled Caroline.
‘Exactly,’ said Don. ‘It’d be a shame not to use it.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Patrick, feeling an increasing enthusiasm for the idea.
The authentic Wimbledon-green umpire’s chair that towered at the side of the tennis court had been an expensive purchase from a specialist sporting catalogue but was rarely put to use by anyone other than Georgina.
‘We could get along the kids to ballboy,’ said Caroline. ‘Georgina, you were volunteering yourself the other night. How about it?’
‘Actually,’ said Georgina, ‘it’s nearly time for us to do our play.’ She sprang to her feet, and called to the others. ‘Get everyone sitting in a row,’ she commanded Caroline.
‘What about the ballboying?’ said Caroline.
‘Maybe,’ said Georgina. ‘Play first. We’ll be down when we’ve put our costumes on.’
‘All right,’ said Caroline. ‘There’s no hurry!’ she called after her. ‘Why do kids always want t
o put on plays for their parents?’ she addressed Annie. ‘I was just the same.’
‘So was I,’ agreed Annie. ‘I used to love charades. And we had a wonderful dressing-up box.’
Patrick seized his chance. Sauntering casually down to where Cressida was sitting, he smiled gently at her and said, ‘The children are about to put on a play for us. Are you interested?’
‘Our children?’ Cressida seemed confused; her eyes darted about.
‘They’re inside, getting their costumes together,’ explained Patrick. ‘Georgina’s been organizing them.’
‘Oh, I see, yes, of course.’
‘They’ll be a while yet,’ said Patrick, and sank easily onto his heels. ‘Lovely day, it turned out,’ he said, looking up at the sky.
‘Yes, lovely,’ murmured Cressida.
‘I tend to lose my appetite in this kind of heat,’ said Patrick. ‘I don’t know if you’re the same.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Cressida vaguely.
‘And it makes it worse when you’re the one in charge of the cooking!’ He laughed pleasantly and eyed Cressida surreptitiously to see whether she was relaxing. He wasn’t quite sure what all this was leading to; but somehow he felt an obscure need to show her that not all men were like Charles; that there were a few she could trust, perhaps even confide in.
Cressida stared fixedly at her fingernails and felt a pink tinge creep over her face. It had just occurred to her that Patrick’s job was something in finance. Perhaps he would know whether the letter was a mistake or not. Perhaps she should ask him. It would be such a relief if he could reassure her. She opened her mouth to speak—and then shut it again. If she mentioned the letter, he might well ask to see it. Did she want him, a relative stranger, looking at her correspondence? Did she want him to know how much the demand was for? Could she perhaps bring up the subject in a more oblique way?
She glanced over her shoulder. Charles had got up, and was stalking off towards the terrace. No one was near.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘there was something I wanted to ask you.’ She blushed, and looked down at her skirt.
40 Love Page 18