by Daisy Waugh
It was a lovely room, small and square, with a large, east-facing window, through which the early-morning sun streamed in. The walls, painted yellow, were crowded with artwork from different centuries and different corners of the globe. An old Tabriz rug covered most of the wooden floor, and in the middle of the room was a round oak table on which Sabine had laid newspapers and food. Fanny was hungry, she realised; actually, she was famished. She hadn’t eaten properly since the day before yesterday. Now, freshly sliced mango, lime and papaya gleamed at her enticingly beside a basket of giant croissants. There were saucers of strawberry jam and marmalade, and a jug of steaming coffee.
‘Wow!’ she said, staring at it. ‘Is that for me?’
Sabine laughed again. She said the children weren’t due to get up for at least another hour, and that anyway they only ate Coco Pops. ‘Solomon said you’re skinny. But all his ladies are skinny!’
‘Actually, Sabine, I’m not—’
She ordered Fanny to sit down, and disappeared into the kitchen to fetch bacon, sausage, mushrooms and scrambled egg.
Between them, Fanny and Brute ate everything, making Sabine, when she came in a little later, rock with laughter yet again. ‘Nothing funny,’ she said again, wiping her eyes. ‘No no. Nothing funny! All the other ladies just pushing it here, pushing it there. But you – not like the others. You more like a boy, I think.’
‘I’m not,’ snapped Fanny. ‘Actually, Sabine, I am not one of Solomon’s “other” ladies. I’m not…And I’m not like a boy, either. I’m just a – person.’
‘OK, OK. Whatever you like. Person.’
‘Anyway, I shared it with Brute.’ She glanced at her watch; still only six o’clock. ‘So – anyway. Anyway…’ She felt a fool for having reacted so strongly. ‘Thanks for a lovely breakfast…D’you want a hand with the washingup?’
Sabine said no, but Fanny felt uncomfortable leaving her with it, so they went together to the kitchen and stood side by side at the sink, washing and drying in an oddly companionable silence, interrupted only by the occasional guffaw from Sabine.
Fanny couldn’t quite face the children, so at the sound of their rising she left Sabine on her own, and went to hide out in the spare bathroom. She was lying back in a richly scented bubble bath, revelling in a first-of-the-day cigarette, when Sabine yelled at her through the bathroom door to pick up the telephone, attached to the wall beside her.
It was Solomon, calling from the motorway.
‘It’s beautiful, this place,’ she said. Relaxed and warm and well fed; much too comfortable to remember to be angry, or even miserable. The world and her troubles all seemed a very long way away. ‘I’m having a cigarette in the bath.’
At the other end of the telephone, Solomon nodded. Smiled to himself. ‘Glad you like it. Sabine tells me you enjoyed breakfast.’
‘Yes.’ Fanny exhaled, watched the smoke from her cigarette mingle with the rising steam. ‘Don’t know why, she thought it was hilarious.’
‘So. Have you done any thinking?’
‘What? Oh.’ It brought her back down to earth. She sat up.
He heard the water dripping from her; put the image aside. ‘Have you done any thinking yet?’ he said again.
‘Er, no. Sort of been eating breakfast and things,’ and feeling weirdly, eerily disconnected. Exhaustion, perhaps. But she couldn’t remember having felt so mellow in years. What was the matter with her? ‘So I’ve not quite—Shit!’
‘Ah-ha!’ said Solomon, who knew only too well. ‘That’s what comes of smoking in the bath.’
She laughed.
‘So,’ he said yet again. (Always keen for a plan, Solomon is. Action Man. Doesn’t believe in – is incapable, actually – of allowing situations to fester.) ‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do?’
‘By the way,’ she said, ‘it may not sound like it at the moment, because I’m in the bath, but I am extremely – incredibly – angry with you. You had absolutely no right to—’
‘Obviously. If it weren’t for me you’d be sitting in a motorway café somewhere between here and Bridgwater, I imagine, crying your heart out and wondering why the bloody hell, at the age of thirty-three, or whatever you are—’
‘Thirty-four.’
‘—your life is still in such a total fucking mess.’
He was right, of course. If she weren’t so exhausted, and so well fed and so damn comfortable, she’d be sobbing now. In fact, she didn’t understand why she wasn’t. Lying there talking to Solomon, hearing his voice, making herself at home in his bathroom, she felt as though nothing much about her life needed improving. She wished she could be motivated to pull herself together.
‘I woke up the General, by the way,’ Solomon continued, ‘and he’s filled me in on what happened yesterday. He says Robert White doesn’t have a leg to stand on.’
‘The General said that?’ Fanny was flattered by the General’s unconditional support, and touched by it. ‘Very kind of him. But he’s wrong. You’re not allowed to kiss the children. Or poke them on the forehead. I shouldn’t have—’
‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Solomon dismissively. ‘There’s a “For Sale” sign up outside the Old Rectory. Have you seen it?’
‘Is there?’ she sighed. ‘Beautiful house, isn’t it? Wasted on them…I wonder who’ll buy it.’
‘The Adamses have gone. Done a runner, apparently. Lots of rumours as to why. But anyway it means—Oh, bugger. Police car. Wait there. Incidentally, I think you should get out of that bath. Or add some cold water, maybe. You’re sounding as though you’ve had a lobotomy.’ He dumps the telephone on the passenger seat, waits for the police car to pass and picks it up again. ‘Gone. Good. Are you still in the bath?’
‘Yes.’ But she sounded alert now. ‘Solomon, if the Adamses have gone…’
‘Exactly. It means the boy won’t be around to back up Robert White’s story.’
‘But there’s still Scarlett Mozely,’ Fanny said quickly, to douse any sparks of hope – her own or Solomon’s. ‘And I did. I kissed her. I saw her work for the first time and I was so excited I kissed her. And she was mortified. I had to apologise afterwards.’
‘Does Scarlett like you?’
‘Well, yes…I would have thought so. I mean, yes. But Kitty doesn’t. Kitty hates me.’
‘But if somebody could speak to Scarlett…’
‘Scarlett’s completely under her mother’s thumb. Kitty’s going to tell her what to say, and she’ll say it. She’ll do anything Kitty tells her, poor little thing. In any case,’ Fanny added irritably, as if suddenly noticing she’d been drawn into the wrong conversation, ‘it doesn’t matter any more. They’ve suspended me. Or rather, I’ve resigned. And I’m gone. So that’s it. As soon as you give me back my keys.’ She made her voice light, tried to make it sound carefree. ‘I’ll stop smoking in your bathroom and leave. I’ll be out of your life completely.’
A pause. Solomon was thinking hard. ‘It’s my darts and croquet party tomorrow,’ he said, as if suddenly remembering.
‘Yes…I know. I’ll be sorry to miss it.’
‘Well, don’t, then. Stick around. It’s only one more day.’
‘What? No, Solomon. The last thing I want—’
‘At least you could say goodbye to people. Oh, shit. Got to go. The buggers are flashing me. They’re pulling me over. Must have been following me all this time. I’ll see you later, Fanny. Have a good day. Help yourself to whatever you want. Except the children, of course. I’d like to keep them.’ With a satisfied smile, Solomon hung up and sped right on towards London. There were no police anywhere near him this time, and he was making excellent time.
76
Louis. Post-coital. Relaxing, on top of Kitty. Noticing how old her neck looks from this angle, and feeling a twitch of distaste. His preliminary sketches for her book are strewn all over the bed, and so is a cheque for £10,000, written to Louis and signed by Kitty in advance, she says, of the publishers ever getting round
to paying him.
Moments earlier, Kitty’s noisy enthusiasm for the work he’d done had been jangling on his nerves. So it was he, most unusually, who had initiated the lovemaking. He eased the sketches from her paws, kissed her at the back of her neck, murmured ‘Shhhh’ into her ear, and finally, when that failed, placed his lips on top of hers, and kept them there.
He would finish the illustrating job. Of course. For £10,000 he’d be a fool not to, given his current financial situation. But it occurred to him, as he ran his tongue between her voluptuous breasts, and Kitty moaned ecstatically, that he should concentrate his efforts back on photography after that. It was more fun. He was better at it. And now that the commissions were picking up again –
‘Mmm, sweetie, angel, oh! Louis. Don’t stop…’
– he was feeling much more positive about everything. Well, almost everything…He’d learnt two important lessons this last month. Firstly, never fuck a friend you really care about. Secondly, never, as a freelance photographer, disappear on holiday without a mobile.
‘Sweetie!…Ohhh.’ She came. He came. Post-coital flop.
And then his mobile rings.
‘Leave it,’ she orders.
He ignores her.
It’s the picture editor from one of the Sunday magazines with a big assignment; the biggest of his career so far. They want a series of full-page colour photographs to accompany a piece about a village deep in the south-west, which is on the brink of civil war.
‘Sounds like fun. What’re they fighting about?’
The picture editor chortles. ‘I’m going to email you the paragraph I’ve got. It’s complicated. Basically, it’s a piece about the New Village Life, OK? The impact of our new “Urban Refugees” on English country life. So it’s a – you know – gone-are-the-days, blah blah blah, when Farmer Higgins did whatever with his cows. God knows,’ she adds, from her seventeenth floor in Canary Wharf. ‘I don’t know what he did with them in the first place…’
‘The mind boggles,’ drawls Louis, stifling a weary sigh, because Kitty’s going down on him. Again. Gently, with a friendly smile, he pushes her head away.
‘The point is, there’s going to be some sort of garden-party sit-in, on the Saturday afternoon. Tomorrow, that is. Tomorrow afternoon. Very picture friendly, you can imagine. Old world meets new, etcetera. Organised by a London-based art dealer who has a house down there.’ She snorts. ‘He’s having a croquet and darts party, if you can believe it, for the entire village. Only it’s sort of transmuted into a quasi-political rally. Their head teacher’s been fired for abusing the pupils. I don’t suppose you’ve heard about it?’
‘Mmm. Uh-huh. Certainly sounds familiar,’ says Louis, swatting at Kitty. ‘I guess you’re talking about Fiddleford?’
‘That’s the one! We’ve had the woman who runs the Manor Retreat on the telephone most of the afternoon. She’s trying to whip up support for the head teacher.’
‘Jo Maxwell McDonald?’ he asks.
‘That’s the one. Nightmare. Unbelievably pushy.’
‘Not really,’ says Louis, feeling a rush of gratitude for her. ‘Jo’s kind of sweet, actually.’
The conversation takes some time after that. He has to disentangle himself from Kitty to fetch paper and pen, but as he leans against the chest of drawers, balancing the mobile between shoulder and ear to take notes, Kitty’s already dragged herself off the bed. She’s on her knees, burrowing away, trying to get at him.
Finally he hangs up.
‘For Christ’s sake, Kitty!’ He says it through his teeth. Louis never speaks through his teeth. ‘That was business. That was an important call. What the fuck is the matter with you?’
‘Oh, Louis. Don’t be such a baby!’ She laughs bravely but she immediately moves away from him. She pads back towards the bed for the cigarettes. Lights one. He notices her hands are trembling.
Downstairs they hear Scarlett, distantly, banging the front door as she comes in.
Louis goes to the bed. He sits, puts an arm around Kitty’s shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, Kitty. I didn’t mean to snap.’
‘Besides which,’ she exhales, ‘it’s awfully low rent not to be able to do two things at once. You’d make a rotten President Clinton.’
‘And is that such a terrible thing?’ He makes himself smile. He looks at Kitty: brittle and still wounded, but determined at all costs to keep her tone light. Witty and bright. He feels a wave of intense claustrophobia. Kitty’s old enough to be his mother. Almost. Not really. But old and crazy, and not only that but also an open, unabashed enemy to his only real friend…What the hell was he doing in here?
‘Kitty, honey,’ he begins…
He’s never done this face to face before. Not officially, with an actual, verbal declaration. He takes a deep breath.
‘Kitty,’ he says again. She knows what he’s going to say, probably even before he does. She’s heard it so many times. ‘I swear I’ve had some of the best fun with you, Kitty. You know I have. But…’
On his way out he knocks gently on Scarlett’s bedroom door. ‘Hey, Scarlett,’ he says, ‘your mom’s in a bit of a state. I’m sorry…I’m sorry to drag you into this. But maybe you could go see her?’
He leaves his sketches – and her £10,000 cheque – on the bed.
Later that afternoon, as Robert rests semi-conscious in a pool of blood on his otherwise very clean kitchen floor, and Fanny, Brute and the Creasey girls roam the garden, waiting for Solomon and looking for grass snakes, Kitty stays in her bed and cries.
Scarlett brings her toast and tomato soup, as she always does when Kitty has a break-up. She is kind. (Scarlett is generally kind.) But for once there is a hint of weariness about her, and Kitty senses it.
She says, ‘I don’t blame you, Scarlett. Of course I don’t. It’s just that ever since you came along…’
Scarlett lets out a sigh. ‘Come on, Kitty,’ she says. ‘Maybe it’s time you and I tried to get beyond that.’
Kitty, lying back on the pillows, glances up, startled. Frightened, actually. She changes tack at once. ‘So,’ she says brightly, giving Scarlett a watery smile. ‘How was school? Did you give your little statement to Robert? About the assault. I’m so sorry you didn’t feel you could tell me about it earlier. You do realise that, don’t you, Scarlett? I feel awful about it. Sometimes I think you forget it…perhaps we both forget it a teeny bit.’ Another half-smidgen of smile. ‘But darling, I am your mother.’
Scarlett looks away. ‘As a matter of fact, I didn’t go to school today.’
‘Oh.’
Silence. Oh. They both know what it means. When Kitty demanded the statement last night Scarlett hadn’t said anything; she’d stood up and hobbled out of the room. Kitty had been irritated, but said nothing. Back then, yesterday, Scarlett always did what Kitty asked her. Always. She shared her book credits with her, cooked her mother chickens, cleaned her mother’s dirty clothes. Last night Kitty had assumed that Scarlett would do this for her too, and so did Scarlett. But something happened to Scarlett while she was sleeping. Something shifted. Kitty’s last request had been the request too far, and she woke up knowing she wasn’t going to agree to it.
‘I like Miss Flynn, Kitty,’ she says, her voice low but clearly audible as she stands there, holding the soup. She looks Kitty straight in the eye. ‘And I don’t remember her kissing me. Or hugging me. Or whatever it is Mr White says she did. I don’t remember it at all. Miss Flynn has never laid a finger on me. She’s the best teacher I ever had.’
‘Oh.’ It is Kitty who looks away. For once she is lost for words.
77
Solomon doesn’t arrive back from London until almost eight. The Russian with bodyguards had taken up the entire morning, and then insisted on joining him for a long and heavy lunch, before leaving at four without parting with a single rouble. Solomon spent the long drive back to Fiddleford on the telephone, making frantic, last-minute plans for tomorrow’s party.
He finds F
anny and the children swinging croquet mallets, heavily involved in a discussion about where on the long-grassed lawn they should hammer in the hoops. He watches them for a while, unwilling to interrupt. She looks happy, he thinks. They all do. He hesitates, unwilling to ruin things, and imagining how her face will cloud when she sees him; she has, after all, every reason to be angry. Finally, he clears his throat and prowls silently across the space towards them.
‘We’re going to have to cut the grass before we put in the hoops,’ he says. They all jump. The children immediately throw themselves into a fresh argument about whose turn it is to operate the mower (a mini tractor variety, and the only one of Solomon’s many vehicles he allows his young daughters to drive). He and Fanny look at each other over the children’s heads. And Fanny, for no good reason at all, feels herself blushing.
‘Have you got a drink?’ Solomon asks.
‘No. Thank you. I don’t want a drink. I ought to go.’
Except somehow he and his daughters manoeuvre her into helping lay out the croquet lawn first. Which takes ages, much longer than Solomon has promised. Then the children insist she sticks around until they’re all in bed, and she feels it would be mean to refuse.
‘Everyone at school wishes you’d come back, you know,’ Dora says, as Fanny kisses her goodnight. ‘Mr White’s foul. Please don’t leave, Miss Flynn.’
Fanny doesn’t answer; she nods very briskly, straightens up. ‘Goodbye, girlies,’ she says. ‘Have fun. And go to sleep. It’s very late.’ She leaves them with Solomon.
She’s standing in the hall, holding a hand out for the car keys, when he finally comes downstairs. ‘Come on, Solomon,’ she says. ‘I’ve really got to get going now.’
He stands in front of her as if considering it. He puts a hand in his suit pocket. She hears a jangle of metal and feels her heart miss a beat. Please don’t, she’s thinking; please, please, please—