Tamara looked up. ‘I’d love to meet Aranxto again! He was adorable.’
Beth grunted. The one time she had managed to effect an apparently casual introduction a few weeks before, Tamara exquisitely dressed and entranced, Aranxto had been in a hurry.
‘What do you think?’ Beth had asked him the moment she could.
Aranxto shrugged. ‘One of those small-time divas. High maintenance. Quite fun.’
‘Oh! I somehow thought you’d be intrigued by her.’
Aranxto looked bored.
‘Don’t you think she’s beautiful?’
‘No. She thinks she is. You are more. She’s not one of your nutters, is she?’
‘No, she’s a shrink!’
Aranxto had nodded and began to discuss his latest boyfriend.
***
Now, back at Little Canal Street before she began her painting, Beth picked up the landline, so rarely used, and listened to messages left there. Sol had rung. Hi. Bet. I’d suggest you don’t need to come out for the second part of the vacation. Beth’s heart slammed into a new gear. She listened to the beginning again, absorbing the date. My thought is that you will be in agreement with that? Well. He coughed, a Sol cough, an unapologetic bark. Fern is good, petitioning to go to Long Island with the cousins. Uh … it would kind of suit me in terms of work. We can both uproot there and Mom visit from Newport. Get back to me.
He had rung the landline intentionally. Beth called him, and got only his voicemail. Darling, can we talk? xxx, she texted him. She gulped water, and rang again, but went straight on to his voicemail. Her voice shook.
‘Sol,’ she said. ‘Please please call me. I want to explai— talk. Please. I love you,’ she finished spontaneously.
***
For the first time, Beth wasn’t summoned back to Tamara’s, and she made herself return later than she wanted to. From a few houses away, laughter and protest were audible, floating up from the basement on the last light. She let herself in at the back through the reek of dying blossom heated by the day, and though silence was unnecessary, she crept towards the passage that led on to the kitchen, where a section of the room was visible from the shadows. Tamara was out of her sickbed, and red-lipped in a tight black Holly Golightly dress with bare feet; she sat in candlelight against the dusk that pooled from the area at a table covered in napkins and wine glasses with several guests, the majority of whom were men, though Beth could only see one side of the table. The weak voice and gestures were quite gone. It was apparent that the guests were colleagues, or in the same profession, and there was some pretend competition involving the man who appeared to be Tamara’s beloved Head of Services, bargaining with a psychologist from a different organisation for Tamara’s future employment, each upping the stakes in goats, camels, shekels, bullion. The prize of Dr Bywater on their team was finally deemed to be beyond rubies. Beth felt sick. With the exception of an older woman who remained impassive, the guests were primarily focused on Tamara and the almost theatrical light that hovered around her, and she appeared to take it as her due, her combination of warmth and flirtation and the ability to instil confidence in others clearly keeping her Head of Services tense with hope. Then her expression altered as she turned to the older woman and began to talk very seriously to her, and without pause she was the professional psychologist, an expert in NHS and government mental health policy, frowning and nodding and changing the tenor of the room so that the others were temporarily lost, then talked quietly among themselves.
Beth tried to steady her breathing. The far end of the table was quieter, but now a voice could be heard, more measured and understated than the others, and Beth froze. The voice was known to her. David Aarons. She listened. His wife Sofia was clearly beside him.
‘Jesus,’ Beth muttered aloud, and still she stood there, pinned, as she strained to hear. IAPT, primary healthcare trusts, Ann Penrose and others whose names Beth didn’t know, were all discussed or gossiped about, and the Head of Services made a joke about Tamara and transference that clearly delighted her. Sofia Aarons was possibly mentioning going home, but her words were drowned in other conversations. Beth shrank back into the darkness. She willed Sofia to leave.
‘I need the loo. Pause the conversation! Not a word. You are all too fascinating to miss anything,’ said Tamara suddenly, and Beth backed off towards the consulting room as she heard David telling Sofia he would follow her home.
Tamara turned and caught sight of Beth along the passage. ‘Oh, hello, darling! I didn’t hear you. How are you, my love?’
She came up, kissed Beth rapidly on the lips, then set off back to the toilet. Beth grabbed her shoulder. It felt intrusive, and she cringed.
‘Sorry.’
‘No, no, nice! Massage me there later?’
Beth gazed at her through the shadows. ‘What in hell—?’ she said.
Tamara threw her dazzling smile at Beth. ‘I need to pee!’
‘So you knew about this dinner party and didn’t even think to invite me?’
‘This is my ultimate boss …’ said Tamara in a hiss.
‘So?’
‘He would be distracted by you because you’re so pretty. I need all the ammunition I have!’
Beth gaped, and Tamara slipped into the toilet and shut the door.
‘You are the Belle fucking Dame Sans Merci,’ said Beth when Tamara reappeared. ‘You truly are.’
Tamara paused. ‘I’m sure you have some choice references, but—’
‘You wanted me out of the way. This man clearly thinks he’s about to cop off with you,’ said Beth. ‘You manipulated me into going. What the hell are you doing?’
‘Darling, don’t be silly,’ said Tamara under her breath, warm against Beth’s neck. ‘I’m very boring really, I only sleep with Angus.’
‘But I thought …’ Beth began, a familiar refrain. ‘I thought you didn’t,’ she snapped, so much of her conversation seeming to consist of quoting what Tamara had said before or catching her out.
‘Well,’ she murmured calmly, ‘I think we probably have more sex than most dully married couples. I must get back in.’
‘But – but—’
Tamara said nothing, and leaned towards the kitchen. The sounds of Sofia Aarons leaving, calling out thanks, came through the door. ‘Too soon!’ Tamara called back at her, and blew her kisses.
‘You said you haven’t had sex with him for years,’ said Beth in a mutter, trying to stop herself.
‘Oh, did I? Take no notice of me. I never know what I say or have said. Angus is completely used to it – I always say to him, “Judge me on what I do, not what I say,” and he knows that’s right.’
‘So you do have sex with him.’
‘Sometimes we make love, of course. He doesn’t excite me, but …’ Tamara was leaning further towards the kitchen, poised in her impatience to return. Then she looked at Beth with a radiant smile. ‘In a rational world, you would all belong to me,’ she said, reaching up to Beth’s face. ‘My darling dull husband too.’ She kissed her. ‘I meet far too many adorable people, and all this jealousy about it seems ridiculous to me, as long as everyone’s content and thriving. What’s the point of being possessive? Sweetheart, I really have to go in. Come to me later.’
‘I just can’t believe this,’ said Beth, barely able to speak. ‘You said you wanted to make a go of it with me.’
‘And I do!’
‘Well—’
‘I do. I do. But who knows how long it’ll last. You’ll grow out of me eventually, darling Beth. You’ll want to get back to nice hubby and offspring. Or you’ll find some handsome young artist. And then where will I be? I always think, perhaps I’ll grow old with Angus after all. But for now, I really don’t want to tie myself down. Life is too short.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Beth spat, and she stormed back to the consulting room, shouldered her bag and pushed her way through the jasmine to the street. She walked, her heart thumping, in the direction of the Tube. At that momen
t, all she wanted was to bump into Sofia Aarons, question upon question raging through her mind. She gazed at a night bus that passed, its passengers picked out in yellow, but David was rich, and Sofia would have taken a taxi. She slowed her pace.
She felt sickened, as though in all those months of solace, she had been taken for a ride. Did shrinks, then, switch on an identity, personality as professional tool? If so, Tamara Bywater was highly skilled, her muscles tight, her performance exemplary. Some element of Beth’s precious past experience was whipped away. She could barely summon that level-headed professional in the mercurial, damaged creature she witnessed. Yet her body reacted to her as her logical mind now rebelled. Tamara’s perfume was detectable somewhere near Beth’s mouth, and even now – even now – it propelled a current of desire.
A car engine slowed behind her and she veered away from the kerb.
‘Beth!’ called a voice. ‘Jump in. Lift home?’
Beth heard her own small whimper, and she clambered into the warmth, and Sofia kissed her, Beth pulling away before the second kiss and laughing awkwardly.
‘What are you doing in this godforsaken area?’
‘Shall we make some injections and passports jokes?’ said Beth, and her voice was shaking. ‘What are you doing?’
‘You’re agitated!’ Sofia laid her hand briefly on Beth’s. ‘I’m escaping a dinner party. What’s the matter, Bet?’
‘Ha! Only Sol calls me that.’
‘Sorry. David must have got it from him and it spread to me.’
‘Well, Sof, so—’
‘Ha. OK, Elizabeth something Penn, so what’s up?’
‘Am I that obvious?’
‘Yes. Tell me.’
‘OK then. Why,’ said Beth, swallowing. ‘Why— Can you tell me why, people can be so inconsistent?’ She took a breath. ‘Bloody hell. Sorry. What’s the root of this? Say one thing one time, entirely another thing another.’ She paused again. ‘Busman’s holiday, sorry. I’ve just … been talking to someone. Blow hot, cold. They don’t seem to even notice the hypocrisy, the contradiction? Or care about it—’
‘Ambivalence? Avoidant personality?’
‘But why on earth would people be like that? Charm, retreat—’
‘Oh, that’s a vast subject,’ said Sofia dismissively. ‘Childhood attachment issues …’
‘Oh. Yes. But also, almost different personalities. And needing attention, focus, one way or another, shine the light on you, magical almost, confiding, inspiring, amazing, and then – oooof, whipped away … Suddenly cold, or even super-vulnerable. Jesus. OK, I’m gabbling, but someone’s driving me mad. My – my brother’s wife,’ she said, blushing into the dark.
Sofia laughed, making a sound of sympathy. ‘Irony of ironies, I’ve just left someone very like that. Dinner party as stage, limelight, very very fun and outrageous, but … You either love them or you see through them. Eventually.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Beth. ‘Yes!’ She touched Sofia’s arm. ‘I’d forgotten how easy you are to talk to! We just let the men grunt at each other. Why? Anyway, yes, absolutely. This – too – is a nightmare woman. So what does your friend have wrong with her?’
‘My friend?’
‘The one you’ve just escaped from.’
‘Ah,’ said Sofia. ‘I’m beginning to formulate ideas about this. So is David. But it would hardly be professional to … Anyway, one encounters people clinically along the same spectrum who make people like her look … so, I can hardly say “mild” because they are not, but … the need for attention as supply is at a more dangerous level. There’s a diversion before Prince of Wales,’ she said to the driver.
‘More dangerous?’
‘Oh, psychiatric issues, self-harming. My thesis was all about this. For all the glamour and show, they tend to suffer a lot of depression as well. But actually, it’s the partners, family, who are really affected. There to build up the weak self essentially.’
‘Tell me more!’ said Beth.
‘The problem is, NPD – this cluster – are always so convincing.’ She gave an irritated sigh. ‘Often some of the most vivid. Those who aren’t clinically ill. Can he enter Little Canal from here?’
‘No, we can stop on Bailhurst Street. Tell me? This helps!’
Sofia took a breath. ‘Where to start? Well. So. Poor impulse control, preoccupation with appearance, lack of empathy, inflated self-perception, manipulation …’ she said in flat tones as though pretending to read a list. ‘Control through sexual appeal, ludic relationship style … Ringing bells?’
‘Tell me more. What’s NPD?’
‘Ah, well, this is going to have to make us see each other, isn’t it? Narcissistic Personality Disorder. But I can hardly tell you about my patients. Just as I can’t tell you about my colleague – oh.’ Sofia froze. A thought visibly scuttered across her face and she blinked. She attempted to disguise her expression.
‘What?’
‘I’d better get on. You OK to stop here?’
‘Yes. Thank you. Next time.’
‘Soon,’ said Sofia.
‘A lay tour around lunacy. Great!’
She snorted. ‘I’ll call.’
***
Beth sank her head into her hands at the table in shame over all she had done. Sol. A chill came over her. She wanted him there, waiting for her. ‘I love you,’ she said in her mind to him, in a moment of truth. The landline had been rung several times, with the unavailable ID of calls from abroad. She rang him, and got straight on to his voicemail. She tried Ellie, whose phone was off; she called Killian, who shouted greetings from a pub and couldn’t hear her.
She texted Sol, then emailed him, and to her surprise got an almost immediate reply. Can’t talk, shooting in NYC. Where are you?
Home, she replied. I love you.
You back collecting stuff?
No! Can we speak? When can you talk? Xxxx.
There was a silence.
I will come to the US tomorrow, Beth texted.
No. When are you off again?
There was a pause as Beth started several replies, then deleted them. How do you know I wasn’t here?
Aranxto told me.
Aranxto?? Why? How?
Your lights often weren’t on. I didn’t need him to tell me.
The total bastard … As soon as he can’t control me, he punishes me. He’s getting worse with his fucking troublemaking. Sol, please. We need to speak. I need to talk to you, xxxx.
When we can.
Darling, darling, please, I’m just mad, fucked up, stupid. Please. I love you. Please come back to me.
Talk soon.
Now! Please. Put your fucking camera down. As soon as you can? Please. I love you.
She burrowed into the back of the sofa. It smelled both of Fern’s bath products and a more subtle trace of Sol. She lay her cheek against it. She semi-slept, there on the sofa. After a while, Tamara pooled, oil-like, into her memory, smiling down, sliding down, and spreading shadows that pulled Beth to her so that she was chasing her, entering her. ‘Oh God,’ she moaned, trampling on the picture.
Her phone beeped. Come to my bed, Tamara texted.
***
Once the coots called from the canal at dawn, Beth took the bus to her studio and worked on the last river painting. She couldn’t stop herself, and the canvas was thick, a belching of mud, slime, translucency over the finest strands of hair, and she had no idea whether she could show it in the exhibition, or even to Sol, the only person who knew all of such horror.
Angus Bywater called early in the morning from Switzerland. ‘Tamara’s very upset,’ he said in his nasal monotone.
Beth took a breath. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘She isn’t well, and she needs help.’
‘She’s impossible.’
There was a long pause. ‘She can be what I call temperamental when she’s unwell. She’s very ill.’
‘Well that’s strange, because she was fine yesterday even
ing.’
Angus hesitated. He cleared his throat. ‘She is very upset that she offended you but the situation is worrying. I can come back, but I can’t get on a flight till this evening. She is now on Flucloxacillin because her Amoxicillin didn’t clear it and she has relapsed.’
Beth listened to further monologues in short sentences as she paced around the studio, nodding at Jack and Killian as they arrived. She sat at her computer. There was nothing from Sol or Fern, but an email popped up from Kevin O’Hanlon about her coming in to discuss her show. She smiled as she skimmed it.
‘I am very concerned about my wife. She’s very sensitive. If she gets upset, she suffers a great deal – she gives too much of herself – I think it’s not safe to leave her now. She is ill, and she can become very vulnerable. If you could perhaps go over and feed her and keep her company today, I can get a flight tonight.’
‘Jesus,’ Beth grunted. She ran her hand through her hair. ‘I’ll go when I finish my work.’
‘Could it be sooner? Mara needs help.’
‘No,’ said Beth. ‘Sorry.’
She ended the call, attempted to Skype Sol and left it on in case he tried her. And suddenly, Fern was ringing. Beth swiped so fast to answer, she turned it off. She cursed aloud, tapped straight back on, but Fern didn’t pick up. Beth left her a message, tried calling, WhatsApp, FaceTime. There was nothing. ‘Fern,’ she moaned. She tried Sol, who was unavailable.
She waited. There was nothing. It was night in the United States. Beth painted as she waited, more pond than river.
Try later, she had messaged Sol.
I will keep trying, she had written to Fern. I love you.
I love you. I need you in my arms, Tamara texted.
Please be so kind as to alert me once you are with my wife, Angus emailed.
Beth finally cleared up at her studio, and was about to turn off her laptop when the Skype icon appeared.
‘Fern!’ she gabbled.
Fern’s face appeared, jolting between frames, but Beth could see that she was breathing quickly before she spoke.
‘Lovely! How are you? I’m so pleased to—’
‘What did I do wrong?’ Fern asked in a blurt, her face blank with a clearly practised expression.
The Seduction Page 22