Geraldine Adams looks rich. She is in her early forties and her hair, short and brown, with tasteful russet lowlights, is exceptionally well cut. She and her husband Clive used to be as important as Geraldine’s haircut still implies but in actual fact, eighteen months ago, the Adams family joined that annoying group of former yuppies which newspapers call the ‘downsizers’.
They’ve even been the subject of a newspaper feature themselves. (They have it framed in their downstairs lavatory.) There was a massive colour photograph of Clive and Geraldine and the son, Oliver, leaning smugly against a fivebar gate, with the village of Fiddleford nestling behind them. In the article Clive and Geraldine swear that they have never felt happier, and that their ten-year-old son Oliver is so happy with the new rural life that he’s taken to voluntarily switching off the television.
‘Ollie’s got to the stage now where he can’t stand processed food,’ Geraldine told the journalist, called Richard. ‘He simply won’t eat it, Richard! Fortunately for us there’s a marvellous commercial vegetable garden here in Fiddleford, so every morning before school, off Ollie and I trog to Messy
McShane’s Organic Kitchen Garden. You know who Messy McShane is, of course, don’t you? Absolutely!
Wife of.
Quite right! The notorious Grey. He’s
charming
, actually. A sweetie. But for heaven’s sake don’t get me on to that. Where was I? Yes, Ollie and my little trips to the Garden – which allow him to play an active role in the choices about what he eats, and of course
choice
is what it’s all about, isn’t it, Richard? Messy talks Ollie through the vegetables that are in season, and then Ollie says, “Ooh, Mummy, I could murder a beetroot today,” and so off she trogs, and picks it! Or whatever…You know what I mean. Picks it
up
. Picks it…
away
from the beetroot’s…growing place. So to speak. Anyway, Messy’s happy. I’m happy. Ollie’s happy. And Ollie’s eating beetroot! Who ever heard of a ten-year-old boy eating beetroot in this day and age! Ha!…No. No, I can honestly say to you, Richard, my only regret is that we didn’t make the move sooner!’
Clive and Geraldine used to be partners in a firm of City solicitors. They used to live in Hampstead. Between them they used to earn not far off £1 million a year, if you included bonuses. They used to work twelve hours a day and pay their Australian nanny £600 a week. They used to do all that, and then rush off to the gym, and then have dinner with clients, where they would talk coyly and knowingly about the son they so rarely had time to see – and in truth they used to enjoy it that way. The life suited them perfectly. It probably suited Oliver, too. Because the £600-a-week nanny was usually too busy reading
Heat
magazine to forcefeed him any disgusting vegetables and, except when she could actually hear Geraldine at the front door, would absolutely never have been so cruel as to stop him watching television.
But Clive and Geraldine couldn’t help worrying that they were somehow living life wrong. What with the return of
terrorist threats in London, and a smaller-than-expected annual bonus from the City solicitors, the very distracting articles about downsizers in the newspapers, and then Geraldine, at forty-two, suddenly wondering if she ought to be wanting another baby, there came a time when Mr and Mrs Adams decided they had no choice but to take stock.
Geraldine’s best friend, impoverished and non-productive ‘children’s author’ Kitty Mozely, had already moved from London with her daughter, Scarlett, to a pretty cottage on the outskirts of Fiddleford. As part of their stocktaking process Clive and Geraldine went to stay for a weekend with her and, as they told her at the time, they were very impressed. Not only was Fiddleford a beautifully quaint little village, it was also at the heart of a ‘fascinating’ social whirl.
Kitty had pulled out all the stops that weekend, of course, because she wanted her friends to come and live nearby. She roped in people for dinner and for drinks, and managed to get them all invited out to lunch, so that by the end of the weekend, Clive and Geraldine had almost certainly experienced the peak of Fiddleford’s sociability.
But it is true, too, that there is a generous sprinkling of ‘fascinating’ people in the neighbourhood. Apart from the McShanes and the Maxwell McDonalds, there is Daniel Frazer, the world-famous hat maker, who owns a cottage on the road to Lamsbury. He and his American boyfriend come down most weekends, and can often be spotted in the Fiddleford Arms, living it up with their fascinating friends. And then there’s Annie Millbank, who was the love interest in lots of seventies movies and now stars in a series of coffee ads. She lives on her own, mostly drunk, in the Mill House about a mile beyond the Retreat. There are the peoplefriendly former government minister Maurice Morrison and his curiously hideous wife, who are renting the manor in the next-door village, and he can often be seen, sniffing around,
glad-handing the locals; Solomon Creasey the art dealer comes down with his numerous beautiful children and a different beautiful girlfriend at least every other weekend. He owns a large house hidden behind a high wall, bang in the middle of Fiddleford, and on summer evenings, when the windows are open, the whole street can be filled with the smell of his cigars and aftershave, and the sound of him – laughing usually, or yelling very large figures into a telephone. Solomon Creasey, though not yet forty, is a man with an inscrutable past. Nobody really knows where he came from, but the main thing is that he once discovered a Rubens at auction and has since held the British record for achieving the greatest profit on any single painting ever sold. One way or another he is very rich. Kitty Mozely (the non-productive children’s author) makes a courageous play for him every time they meet.
Anyway, after Clive and Geraldine’s weekend visit to Fiddleford, non-productive Kitty, whose writing career has long since ground to a standstill, and who is often bored and lonely, became increasingly determined that they should follow her to the area. She would ring up Geraldine in her City office and regale her with stories of all the glamorous people who dropped in for drinks (nor was she above a little lavish embellishment), and she would swear that she and her daughter Scarlett had never been happier. She claimed that since moving to Fiddleford Scarlett didn’t watch television any more. (Actually, enigmatic little Scarlett had never been that interested in television.) And she claimed that Scarlett’s new favourite dish was baked fennel, which was an outright lie. ‘I can honestly say to you, Geraldine, my only regret is that we didn’t make the move sooner!’
Geraldine was not – is not – a woman who likes to be outdone. Certainly not in the social whirl. And not even
over vegetables. So she and Clive finally blocked out an evening together to discuss their future. And by the end of dinner, in spite of all of Kitty Mozely’s efforts, in spite of the wonderful – and fashionable – savings they would make by sending Ollie to the local village school, they had pretty much decided to stay put, which was a great relief to both of them. They slept better that night than they had in months.
Two days later Kitty rang to tell them that the Old Rectory in Fiddleford was up for sale.
They only had to see it once. It was perfect for them; built 250 years earlier, as if exclusively with the requirements of third-millennium Hampstead downsizers in mind. It was a small, symmetrical, irreproachably pretty Georgian manor, with six little sash windows on the first floor and two on either side of a wide, stone-pillared front porch. It was set back from the village street, with a drive that curled through a small copse of trees and down into a little valley. It was private, elegant, and not at all cheap. Clive and Geraldine fell in love with it. Their Hampstead house sold very quickly, and for the asking price of £1.85 million, making them an encouraging £790,000 profit, much of which they blew on their extravagant ‘improvements’. They built the tennis court and the swimming pool, employed an interior decorator who specialised in a rustic-contemporary look, opened a small, exclusive practice in a converted town house in Lamsbury, and have been happily munching through Messy McShane’s Fresh Organic Vegetables ever since.
Or quite happily.
Or actually (unofficially speaking) not very happily at all. Downsizing, they have discovered, is not quite as easy as it looks. And though the piece in the Saturday
Telegraph
was fun, it couldn’t sustain them for ever, and there are times when Clive and Geraldine secretly feel quite breathless with
horror at the smallness of their new lives. They might glance up from some exclusively priced little conveyancing job and hear the hideous, monotonous cawing of the ravens outside, or the pitter-patter-plop of the soft grey English rain. They might glance out from their rustic-contemporary, newly shuttered Georgian windows, and notice that it’s already growing dark, and that the evening looms with only each other and the blip of Ollie’s computer games for company.
Recently, Geraldine has been finding it increasingly difficult to sleep. She lies awake at night, next to Clive, and she can feel the quicksand of Downsizers’ Oblivion closing in around them, sucking them in, and she wants to scream for help. And Clive, too, can lie quietly beside his wife, blinking in the absolute darkness, and he’ll think about the important cases he and Geraldine might have been involved in if they had stayed in London, and he’ll think of the humdrum papers on his desk, and of their practice, which is far from thriving and he’ll think,
This is hell
. This is not what we worked so hard for.
But they always put on a brave face in public. Of course. Not even Kitty Mozely – not even each other – would have guessed how difficult they were really finding it.
So. It is tea-time at the Old Rectory on the Monday after the Friday-night limbo party and Kitty Mozely and Geraldine, who have both made a highly competitive point of stopping their non-existent work in time to pick Scarlett and Oliver up from Fiddleford Primary School, are stretched out on the lawn in front of the house discussing the
sujet du moment
, as they have chosen to refer to it: Fanny Flynn. Fanny is not a popular woman in Fiddleford at the moment.
Geraldine Adams and Kitty Mozely had both been present at the shirt-stripping incident, when she had swept out of the village hall with Louis’s glamorous American arms around her, and they were still there afterwards, when she returned to the village hall with Grey. But neither has yet had a chance to speak to her, which is frustrating for them. It means they are unclear about exactly what happened to whom, and why, and are still, nearly seventy hours later, trying to piece the full drama together.
‘I notice she didn’t come out to the gate after school this afternoon. Did she? To have a chat with the parents – which she might have done. She ought to, really, every day. So the parents can get to know her. But really,’ tuts
Geraldine, sitting up slightly to stir saccharin into her tea, ‘after Friday…’
‘After Friday it’s the least she could do,’ Kitty agrees.
‘It’s all very well. But she does have our kids in her care. I personally think she ought to have sent the children home with a letter of explanation. Don’t you? I mean, so many parents were there at the limbo, witnessing…People like us can take these things in our stride of course but a lot of parents…’ Geraldine is briefly distracted by the sight of a chip in the Chocolate Plum polish on her toenail.
‘Absolutely,’ murmurs Kitty, lying back, eyes closed, exhaling cigarette, soaking up the spring sun. ‘That’s absolutely right.’
They lapse into silence, listening idly to the birds twitter, the gentle breeze in the trees. ‘Aaah…’ sighs Geraldine. ‘What a lovely day!’
From inside the Old Rectory they can hear Ollie and Scarlett talking animatedly, or – no, it’s only Ollie, actually. Ollie’s voice, yelling something angry, followed by a loud crash. The words ‘stupid ugly bitch’ ring out across the lovely lawn. But both women are relaxing, taking a well-deserved break from the stresses and strains of work, work, work and motherhood. They both pretend not to hear, and then, after a decentish pause, Kitty says (it could have been either of them; they tend to take it in turns), ‘Isn’t it marvellous how well the children get along?’
Scarlett Mozely is Kitty’s only child, the fruit of a passionate month with a Moroccan cab driver, who has long since driven away. Scarlett was born with lopsided facial features and a twisted back which, though she doesn’t need a wheelchair, means she will probably never be able to walk without crutches. She and Geraldine’s son, Ollie, are both at Fiddleford Primary, and both in Fanny’s class, although a year apart. They loathe each other.
‘But I get the impression the
chap
,’ says Geraldine, keen to stick to the
sujet du moment
, ‘that incredibly handsome American who whisked her away at the end—’
‘Louis,’ Kitty prompts impatiently. ‘He’s called Louis, Geraldine.’
‘Louis – he’s not actually her boyfriend.’
‘She must be mad. Why ever not?’
‘They didn’t embrace when they arrived, did they? They hugged in a sort of non-boyfriendy way, don’t you think?…Plus,
Dawn
was behind the bar at the pub on Friday night,’ Geraldine adds. (Dawn is Geraldine’s daily.) ‘She was watching them very closely. After all, she’s got Derek at the school, hasn’t she? Is he called Derek? I can’t remember. Skinny boy. In Ollie’s class. Ollie and Scarlett’s class, excuse me.’
Kitty has no idea. Nor any interest. ‘And the pub would have been empty, I suppose. With everyone being at the limbo. So she’d have got a good look…’
‘
Dawn
says Miss Flynn was knocking back pints of Guinness. With whisky mac chasers. Guinness and whisky mac chasers!’
‘Yes. And were they canoodling?’
‘She said
not
. She said definitely just talking. But Miss Flynn was crying her heart out at one point. She must have been quite upset.’
‘Christ,’ bursts out Kitty suddenly. ‘You don’t suppose he’s gay, do you?
What a waste!
’
Kitty adores young men.
As might be expected, given her frolicsome lifestyle, Kitty has aged a good deal less elegantly than her rich, selfdisciplined friend, Geraldine. Kitty’s long straight hair has been dyed so often it’s devoid of any colour at all any more, and she’s put on stones since the early days, when she and Geraldine were at Oxford together, and she, Kitty, was meant
to be the sexy one; the doe-eyed Brigitte Bardot lookalike who was going to set the world on fire…
She still has the doe eyes, except nowadays they’re watchful and puffy from alcohol. She’s broke. Lonely. Lazy. She drinks like a fish. But she still has a certain blowsy allure. She dresses in white, always; wafts around in a cloud of musky scent and French tobacco, and when she flirts, which she does continually, she flirts with true and reckless intent. She’s good company but a dangerous friend. Fortunately for Geraldine, her soft-speaking, cerebral husband Clive has never appealed to Kitty – and nor (though Kitty might not believe it) has she ever greatly appealed to him.
In any case, Kitty’s action-packed sex life has always been a source of irritation for Geraldine. It’s one area where Geraldine has always felt outdone. Especially since she’s been married. She and Clive happen to have a strongish marriage (Kitty, on the other hand, has never maintained a relationship for longer than a few months). Clive and Geraldine work together, plan together, agree with each other on most things they consider to be important. They quite like each other. But they don’t have much sex. ‘Gay or not, my love,’ Geraldine says, annoyingly brightly, ‘young Louis is probably just a tad – too – young – for you, don’t you think?’
Kitty chortles. ‘I doubt that very much.’
‘Either way, you’ll probably never lay eyes on him again.’
‘Ah-ha!’ Kitty rolls over on to her belly, rests her chin in her hand. ‘Top Secret gossip: Mrs Hooper says he was asking at the post office about places to rent! Apparently, Ms Flynn isn’t allowed to know. But we are. He’s a photographer, Mrs Hooper says. From Louisiana. Of course one can tell. He’s got that innate masterfulness about him, hasn’t he? From all that slave owning, I imagine. They all have it. In the Southern States…I can never resist a
Southern
boy, can you?’ Kitty
says ‘Southern’ with a silly Southern accent, and doesn’t wait for Geraldine to reply. ‘Anyway, Mrs Hooper says he works freelance for some of the London newspapers. She says he’s looking for a place to live.’
‘Oh. Well then, I’m wrong, aren’t I?’ says Geraldine. ‘If he’s moving down here – if he’s keeping it secret from her
– then he and Fanny Flynn must be lovers. Or if not then he certainly wants them to be. Which rather knocks you out of the frame, old girl. Sorry.’
‘Not necessarily, it doesn’t.’
They fall silent a moment, recover their good nature.
‘I say, though,’ Geraldine says brightly, ‘you know Clive actually went up and talked to her, after she came back to the hall. And she’s obviously rather a troubled young lady, because when Clive told her he was a solicitor she wouldn’t stop talking about
stalkers
. Legal rights of. Imagine that!’
‘So she’s a stalker?’
‘Either that, Kitty, or she’s got a stalker. Which I think is the more likely scenario.’
‘Oh! But who could possibly be stalking her? In Fiddleford!’
‘Well, she wouldn’t say, would she?’
Suddenly Kitty gasps. She even sits up. ‘Geraldine! You don’t think –
Grey McShane!
’
For one delirious moment they will themselves to believe it. Without success.
‘One can’t help thinking, though,’ Geraldine moves blithely on, ‘if a girl
does
wander through life ripping her shirt off at the slightest provocation, she is running the risk of attracting unwanted attention from – you know – these sort of ghastly, obsessive perverts. Don’t you think so? I know it’s not fashionable to say so. But that’s just the way of the world.’
‘Exactly…Absolutely.’
‘Clive says she was being very obtuse. Absolutely wouldn’t go into specifics. But one can’t help wondering…I mean, it’s certainly intriguing, isn’t it?’
Just then Ollie comes rushing out of the house, screaming like a toddler. He, too, when he calms down enough to speak, remains stubbornly obtuse. Absolutely won’t go into specifics. But it turns out his PlayStation is broken, and that Scarlett is to blame.
‘Oh, baby,’ coos Geraldine, ‘never mind. I’m very proud you were generous enough to let Scarlett have a go with it.’
That isn’t quite what he’d said.
‘Yes, well done, Ollie,’ says Kitty. ‘Did Scarlett say sorry nicely?’
‘No.’
Kitty clicks her tongue. She wishes Scarlett would remember that she’s in Ollie’s house, playing with Ollie’s toys, and that really, given Scarlett’s physical and material disadvantages, she should count herself lucky that such a nice-looking boy with so many nice-looking toys is willing to have anything to do with her. Besides which, weather allowing, Kitty very much plans to place herself and her daughter beside Ollie’s lovely new swimming pool for most of the coming summer. It makes everything so much more awkward when the children refuse to get on. ‘Where is she, anyway?’ Kitty asks.
‘Inside, probably. Smashing something else up—’
‘Never mind, baby-boy,’ interrupts Geraldine hurriedly. ‘Never mind. If it’s really broken we’ll get you another one at the weekend. Fair?’
‘But it’s—What, the new one?’
‘If you’re good. As a reward for being so generous to Scarlett.’ Geraldine leans across to give him a cuddle but he shakes her off and runs quickly back into the house. Geraldine hesitates. There are times when she is embarrassed
by the contrast between Scarlett’s and Ollie’s fortunes, and this happens to be one of them. ‘Perhaps,’ she says, looking tentatively at Kitty, nervous that the suggestion might be thought patronising, ‘perhaps I could get one for Scarlett, too? As an early birthday present…’
Kitty doesn’t generally mind being at the receiving end of her rich girlfriend’s largesse. Actually, over the years Geraldine has helped her out more often than Kitty cares to remember. But even Kitty has her limits. There are a few things she will not – she cannot – accept from Geraldine, and a PlayStation for Scarlett is apparently among them. So Kitty pretends not to hear. ‘
Children!
’ she says irrelevantly. ‘Anyway, how’s work?’
‘Oh. Work’s OK. Work’s great!’
She and Clive have slashed their prices since they first opened for business, but they still charge too much for country solicitors, and their whole Big City manner is too aggressive. It doesn’t impress anyone around Lamsbury. So Geraldine’s office is in fact more like a graveyard – very far from great – and with every month, as the negative word continues to spread, the situation seems to be worsening. Not only that, with the nest egg gone, and the big fat salaries too, Clive and Geraldine are beginning to fear that cash flow may soon become a problem. ‘Work’s fabulous, Kitty. Thanks. I mean, it’s quiet, but we like it like that. And of course we’re still relatively new. I was actually thinking I might slim down the hours I put in there. Just for the summer. Spend a bit of quality time with Ollie before it’s too late, and we’re packing him off to university!’
‘They grow up so quickly,’ Kitty says automatically.
‘I was thinking I could take a couple of mornings and offer up my services at the school. They’re clearly in need of it.’
‘Mmm. Good idea. What fun.’
‘I can do a bit of reading with the kids. Gosh, you know – all the stuff other mummies get to do, who don’t have careers to worry about!…Because frankly, Kitty, what confidence I ever had in that establishment—I mean, never mind the three Rs. What about the others? What about Respect? What about Restraint? What about keeping your bloody clothes on?’
Kitty chortles.
‘It’s all very well having a young, attractive, spirited head teacher, and of course, in principle I’m 100 per cent behind her. One hundred per cent. But really…Personally, Kitty, I would have liked to have had some say in appointing her, wouldn’t you?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘It’s because we aren’t governors, Kit. Why aren’t we governors? We should be governors.’
‘Crikey, I don’t know about that.’
‘We should be. How does it work, do you think?’
‘I’ve got a nasty feeling you’d have to go to church,’ murmurs Kitty. ‘And suck up to that bloody awful vicar.’
‘
We
, Kit. Not me,
we
.’ The idea is growing more appealing the more she thinks about it. Anything is more appealing than sitting in that silent office, watching her husband bend diligently over work he’s too good for, listening to the ravens, waiting for the telephone to ring. ‘I’ll start by offering to do a bit of reading with the kids, I think. Don’t you think? And then sort of work my way in. Because frankly, Kitty, after that display last Friday night I’d like to see for myself what’s actually going on in that place.’
Kitty sits up suddenly. Mention of the Friday Night Display has once again reminded her of Louis, the masterful Southern boy, possibly not gay and possibly moving into the area; and she’s felt a shiver of adrenalin run right through her. ‘I say,’ she says brightly, ‘shall we open a bottle of wine?’