Innocent

by Kinsley, Erin

  Tristan feels the awkwardness of inadequacy. While he has his enviable job and his beautiful wife and daughter, other people’s children are out there facing landmines and hostile gunfire, taking the daily risk of being shot dead, blown up or maimed.

  ‘That’s my mate Steve,’ says the soldier, pointing to one of the younger men. ‘He’s not with us any more. He lost a leg a few weeks ago.’

  ‘So where is he now?’

  ‘In hospital in Birmingham.’

  Tristan’s surprised to feel a tug of heartache. Since Flora was born, he’s become an emotional weakling.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Send him my best wishes, won’t you?’

  He puts his arm around the soldier’s shoulders, and the soldier holds up his phone.

  ‘Let’s do this,’ says Tristan. ‘Ready? Press that button, buddy.’

  Tristan looks into the lens, and ad libs.

  ‘Greetings to all of our friends out there in the Duke of Lancaster’s Regiment. This is Tristan Hart here with your very own Lance Corporal Simon Fisher – give ’em a wave, Corporal – and we’re here to let you know that all your families and friends are thinking of you, that they love and miss you very much, and that they can’t wait to have you home. Meantime, keep your peckers up, guys – and girls. You’re doing a great job most of us don’t have the balls for, so stay strong, and most of all stay safe. This is Tristan Hart, over and out.’

  The red light goes off, and there’s low-key applause from around the marquee.

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ says the soldier, grinning. ‘Thanks so much.’

  ‘It’s a privilege,’ says Tristan. ‘I really mean that. And I meant what I said, you guys stay safe. You know what, Simon, I’m just on my way to the bar. Come on, let me buy you a drink.’

  The delighted soldier follows him, turning back to give his mates an ebullient double thumbs up. His companions burst into excited chatter.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ the soldier’s girlfriend is saying. ‘Isn’t he just the loveliest man? Just like he is on TV.’

  Tristan finds a gap in the crush, and leans forward on the counter to try and get a bartender’s attention. Down the bar, he hears the pop of a champagne cork, and the excited chatter of women ready to have fun.

  ‘Simon, what are you having?’

  The soldier is still beaming at his good fortune. ‘Pint of Gold, please, Tristan.’

  The customer to Tristan’s left picks up his tray of drinks and moves away. Now Tristan can see he’s standing next to Dave Garner.

  Tristan takes one step to his left so no one can stand between them. ‘All right there, Dave?’

  Garner’s focus is on the blonde barmaid. When he hears his name, he looks round and acknowledges Tristan with a nod.

  ‘Listen, Dave.’ Tristan matches Garner’s pose, with both forearms on the bar. ‘I’m glad I bumped into you. Your brother’s still on the town council, isn’t he?’

  Garner turns to look at him. His breath is unpleasantly beery. ‘Last I heard.’

  The barmaid approaches and looks from one man to the other, not knowing who to serve first. When she recognises Tristan, she flushes in delighted discomposure and asks what she can get him.

  Garner scowls.

  ‘I think this gentleman was here before me,’ says Tristan, and the barmaid looks indifferently at Garner, who orders a pint of IPA and an Aperol spritz.

  As the barmaid turns away, Tristan says, ‘The thing is, you guys might be able to help with a programme we’re thinking of making.’

  Garner shifts his position so he’s looking straight at Tristan. Two of his front teeth are noticeably whiter than the rest. ‘Oh yeah? What’s that, then?’

  ‘Didn’t your company get involved last year in the refurb of the council chambers?’

  ‘We did that, yeah. What about it?’

  ‘And those repairs to the leisure centre roof, aren’t you doing those as well?’

  ‘Yes. A few more days and my boys will be done there.’

  ‘And the library extension, when was that, two years ago, three?’

  Garner’s eyes narrow. ‘What’s this about?’

  The barmaid brings his drinks. Garner pulls a roll of banknotes from his trouser pocket and hands one over, gesturing to her to keep the change.

  While she’s at the till, Tristan says, ‘A little bird told me your brother was active in pushing those council contracts in your direction. Pulling a few strings, you might say. That’s a criminal offence, in public office. He could go to jail for that, if it turned out to be true.’

  The barmaid returns, with a big smile for Tristan. Garner picks up his drinks, but he doesn’t move away.

  ‘What can I get you?’ asks the barmaid.

  ‘I’ve a long list.’ Tristan turns round and touches the soldier on the shoulder. ‘We’ll start with a pint of Gold for my friend here, and a pint of Champion, please, my love.’

  Pink-cheeked, the barmaid heads for the pumps.

  ‘My viewers are interested in stories like that,’ Tristan says to Garner. ‘They’re fed up with the creeping sickness of corruption in everyday life. They want to get back to the days when the people who are supposed to work for us, do work for us, and not for themselves. You understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ says Garner, as he walks away.

  ‘Better mend your ways, or we’ll be coming for you, Dave,’ Tristan calls to his retreating back.

  Three

  A blob of chocolate mousse Laura dropped during the meal has left a greasy mark. The designer label at the back of the neck was one of the reasons she chose the dress, and while she can’t imagine she paid even a quarter of the original price tag, she still spent significantly more than she would ever normally consider for a dress, so it will be worth the cost of dry cleaning. For now, she has an easy solution to cover the mark with a quick switch of her brooch – a genuine piece of sixties vintage, once her mother’s, whose pink glass gems are a perfect match for the fabric’s showy peonies.

  Laura sees no reason to worry about leaving Aidan talking to Izzy. Izzy has eyes only for Tris, and if she did ever think of straying, Laura imagines she’d choose an artist or a writer or an actor, not – poor Aidan – an ex-copper and committed sports fan whose favourite topic is how United performed in their last game.

  As Laura reaches the powder room, she hears voices, and before she touches the door, it swings open.

  Gemma was laughing at something her friend Hannah was saying, but seeing her mother, her laughter stops.

  ‘Hi, sweetie! Are you girls having fun?’

  There’s a moment of silence, where Laura reflects that, for God’s sake, the question wasn’t difficult.

  ‘Yes, thanks, Mum,’ says Gemma, eventually.

  ‘I think the dancing will be starting soon,’ says Laura. ‘I see Darren’s here, Gemma. Might be your chance to kiss and make up.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Mum,’ says Gemma, pushing past. ‘You are so embarrassing! I’ve told you a million times, I don’t even like him any more.’

  As she goes by, Hannah raises her eyebrows in sympathy for Laura.

  ‘Darren’s going out with Rosie Stainforth,’ she says. ‘Anyway, Gemma says she likes someone else now.’

  ‘Oh? Who?’

  Hannah shrugs. ‘I asked her but she won’t say.’

  ‘Well, it’s news to me,’ says Laura. ‘By the way, I hope you two aren’t drinking.’

  Hannah shakes her head.

  ‘Only Coke,’ she says as she follows Gemma, but there’s something about the careful way she’s walking in her absurd heels which makes Laura doubt she’s telling the truth.

  In front of the powder room mirror, Laura switches the brooch from left side to right. It’s hard to imagine her mother ever wearing such a frivolous
thing; she never seemed the type for pink sparkles, and as she grew older, the only items of jewellery she wore were her wedding and engagement rings and the string of fresh-water pearls she kept for special occasions. But people change. Tell Gemma and Josh that their mum used to wear cowboy boots and bubble skirts, and they’d laugh in your face.

  Thinking she’ll touch up her lipstick, she searches for the gold case in her handbag. A toilet flushes in a cubicle behind her, the door opens, and in the mirror Laura sees a tall, thin woman, too old for the short, crushed-velvet dress she’s wearing. Phyllida Gaze.

  ‘Hi, Philly.’

  Philly takes a few moments to focus, betraying the amount she’s had to drink.

  ‘Is that you, Laura? I didn’t recognise you, all gussied up. Oh. You’re wearing my dress.’

  Laura glances down at her front, and a hot blush spreads across her face.

  ‘Bang to rights,’ she says. ‘A second-hand bargain. Don’t tell anyone.’

  Philly crosses to the basins and begins to wash her hands.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it, darling. Between you and me, mine came from the same place.’ Laura doubts Philly’s telling the truth; she and Jerry are loaded, and Philly’s always off to London for a spot of retail therapy, as she calls it. But bless her for trying to make Laura feel better. ‘And I have to say it looks a million times better on you. You’ve got those fabulous boobs to show it off. It hung like a sack on old ironing-board me. Jerry’s always admiring your boobs. If he could ever be bothered to get off his arse for a bit of extra-marital, you’d be his first port of call.’

  Laura smiles.

  ‘Good to know. I think Aidan’s got a soft spot for Izzy.’

  Philly waves a dismissive hand before presenting it to the hot air of the dryer.

  ‘If he’s not hiding it, then have no worries. Can I borrow a spot of lippy, by the way? Gorgeous colour, thanks. Anything they’re doing in public has no serious intent. It’s when they go underground you need to worry. Those deep, dark passions you know nothing about, that’s where the danger lies. Sex has a lot to answer for in life. People say follow the money, but I say sex trumps money every time. Speaking of money, this little do will be costing Dennis an arm and a leg, but doesn’t Suzie look fabulous in that gown? Makes me wish Jerry and I had had a proper wedding, instead of a registry office and fish and chips on Brighton beach. Didn’t do us any harm in the long run, though – thirty-two years we’ve put up with each other. Maybe when it’s Gemma’s turn, you’d be better pushing her in the cheap-and-cheerful direction, save the money for a down payment on a starter home. Is she still seeing that Ferris boy, by the way, what’s his name, Derren?’

  ‘Darren. That seems to be well and truly over. I think she’s taken it hard, to be honest.’

  ‘Plenty more fish in the sea, though. I’m sure she’s beating them off with a stick.’

  More kindness from Philly. Gemma’s still at the ugly duckling stage, and knowledge of the fact cripples her fledgling confidence.

  ‘According to Hannah, Gemma’s got a new one she’s keeping under wraps.’

  Philly pats Laura on the shoulder.

  ‘Mums are always the last to know. If I were you, I’d grab a great big shovel and start digging him out. Young girls and secret boyfriends never end well. Anyway, I’m so glad to see that gorgeous dress found a good home. Time for another drink, I think, don’t you?’

  Four

  When the cake’s been cut, the bride and groom take the floor for their first dance, gazing into each other’s eyes as they sway to Brad Paisley’s Then. Ed and Suzie grew up at opposite ends of town, were a year apart at school, first held hands at the church hall youth club. When Suzie went away to university, Ed stuck with his electrician’s apprenticeship, never looking at another girl, waiting for Suzie to come home, which she did after only a year away from him and Sterndale. They’re true soulmates, faithful as swans. Izzy reaches under the table and squeezes Tristan’s hand.

  As the track comes to its end the DJ ups the tempo, and the dance floor starts to fill.

  Flora is fast asleep on Izzy’s chest.

  ‘Bedtime,’ says Tristan. ‘Bridget will be here by now. Why don’t you girls help get the party started?’ Tenderly, he picks up his daughter, and holding her against his shoulder, carries her from the marquee.

  With its grand Regency façade and Palladian columns, Sterndale Hall’s architecture is too staid and uptight for Tristan’s taste. His preference is for extravagant Victorian Gothic, towers, turrets and arches, yet on this glorious summer’s day, he’ll admit the hall makes a fabulous backdrop for a flamboyant occasion. His wedding to Izzy was a small affair, trying to duck the press attention which Izzy’s never welcomed. Now he’s thinking it might be fun to hire this place and do it again much bigger and better, call it a renewal of vows. When his work commitments let up in the new year, he’ll talk to her about it.

  As distance grows between him and the marquee, the melody of the dance music fades, so only the pulsing club beat is audible, incongruous in the silent formal garden. The heat is finally losing its grip on the day, reduced to that delectable blood-heat warmth of Mediterranean August evenings. Midsummer is next week, so dusk is still an hour away, but the light is beginning to change. At intervals, the box hedge has been cut away into alcoves where marble nymphs stand on lichened plinths, their blank faces hidden in shadows. A blackbird flies up from a nearby tree, chattering its annoyance at being disturbed, and startled, Tristan pauses. Were those footsteps behind him on the gravel? When he turns around to see, no one is there.

  Flora’s growing impossibly heavy, and he’s wishing he’d listened to Izzy when she suggested bringing a buggy. By the hotel’s rear entrance, three men in morning coats – one of them the father of the bride – are smoking cigars and drinking whisky from crystal tumblers. Tristan has no appetite for either smoking or Scotch, so to avoid an invitation he’ll have to decline, instead of going the quickest way to the car park – through the rear entrance, across the lobby and out of the main doors – he follows a path around the hotel side.

  He finds himself in a gloomy shrubbery overcrowded with rhododendrons, where the air is clammily cool. The walls on this side of the building have the acid-green tint which comes from never seeing sunlight, but after the heat the dankness is welcome, and he pauses again to rest, listening for any repetition of the footsteps he thought he heard in the gardens. All he hears is the distant beat of music and the clatter of dishes from the kitchens.

  He goes on, passing the foot of a rusting fire escape, looking in the windows of an empty ballroom where the unused chairs and tables are stacked away and the chandeliers are covered in dust-sheets.

  The car park, when he reaches it, is full. Bridget has parked the tiny Fiat 500 – a car Izzy insisted they offer as part of the nanny’s benefits, because it’s unreasonable to expect someone to work unsociable hours at Foxcote Lodge without transport – in front of his Range Rover. She’s sitting in the driver’s seat, tapping the steering wheel to music only she can hear, but as he emerges from the shrubbery, she senses movement, glances in his direction and removes her earphones.

  Bridget gets out of the car, smiling when she sees Flora blinking sleepily in her special dress and ruined slippers. Bridget’s dressed as always in baggy black, making no concessions to the heat or the occasion, and brushes her dark hair off her face, still winter-pale at midsummer. Tristan’s often wondered why she doesn’t make more effort, leave the Goth look she’s too old for behind, put on a dress, paint her nails red or pink or even yellow instead of that Bride of Dracula purple. And if she lost a couple of stone, she’d be a great-looking girl.

  ‘Look who’s here,’ says Tristan to Flora. ‘Someone’s come to take you home.’

  ‘Hey, poppet,’ Bridget says quietly, holding out her arms to take the child, who goes to her willingly. ‘She’s exhaus
ted.’ Bridget’s accent is southern Irish, though she was born in Liverpool, and she insists there’s plenty of Scouse in there, if you know what you’re listening for.

  ‘Why don’t you take the Range Rover?’ suggests Tristan, handing her the fob. ‘Her car seat’s already in there.’

  Eyebrows raised, Bridget gives him the keys to the Fiat. ‘Wow. What did I do to deserve this?’

  ‘I promise we won’t be late. I know it’s your day off tomorrow.’

  ‘You go and have yourselves a good time, and don’t worry about us,’ says Bridget. ‘We’ll be just fine by our ownsomes, won’t we, poppet?’

  He watches her drive away, then decides while he’s close by, he might as well pay a call to the gents.

  As he walks down the aisle between the parked cars, a stone bench comes into sight, placed to give a view of the parkland which fronts the hotel. Sitting on the bench is a man, stout and balding, no suit jacket, his tie stuffed in his trouser pocket. Somehow, he looks familiar.

  ‘Hello, Tris. Long time no see.’

  Tristan recognises the voice before the face. The guy’s put on a load of weight.

  ‘Hello, Murray. What the hell are you doing here?’

  Murray stands up and walks forward, proffering his hand, and Tristan looks at it, wondering how much offence he’ll give if he doesn’t take it. In the end, he decides he doesn’t need the aggravation, and gives it a brief, loose shake.

  ‘I knew it was you, soon as I saw you,’ says Murray. ‘I was watching you playing with that little girl. She your daughter, is she? And haven’t you gone up in the world? We see you on the telly, from time to time. What’s that programme you’re doing now, Take Hart? Great title. You come up with that one, did you? Is that why you chose that name, so you could use all those lousy puns? Take Hart, Hart of the Matter – bit cheesy, aren’t they?’

  ‘It’s just a stage name, Murray. That’s what people in my line of work do, they use stage names.’