‘But we can’t leave now!’ Lara said too quickly. What might she lose if they did? ‘This could be your big break, remember? Surely you can convince James he’s wrong about the accents?’
Marcus shook his head. ‘He’s adamant. I think I’ll just leave.’
‘But it would be more than depressing to go back to an unemployed August at home, after all the looking forward we’ve done for this. I mean, until today, you thought everything was going swimmingly. If it’s just about the accents …’
‘And the kilts,’ Marcus said. He stuck his lower lip out so that he looked like Jack when he didn’t get what he wanted. ‘And the bagpipes.’
‘No.’ Lara tried to suppress her smile. ‘Bagpipes?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
Having finished his water, Dog sat up and whimpered, fixing Marcus with his eye.
‘He looks hungry,’ Marcus said, and Lara felt sick at the thought of what might once have sated the creature’s appetite. ‘Have you got anything for him?’
‘He knows a soft touch,’ Lara said as casually as possible. She went into the kitchen to rummage in the fridge.
On the way back, Jack called her over to look at a game he had found on the website. She watched him play one round, and allowed his joyful absorption in the task to settle her.
As she went out again, a cold sausage in her hand, she heard a bellow of hearty laughter from Marcus. What, she wondered, could have lifted his bleak mood so quickly?
Lara’s place beside Marcus had been taken by Selina Mountford, who swung her honey locks round when she heard the fly screen bang, her eyebrows raised over her symmetrical, strong-featured face. She was tall and athletic, really quite striking. If there were a complete opposite to Lara’s small, doll-like roundness. Selina had it.
‘Hi Lara,’ she said, detaching herself from Marcus’s side and rising, her hand held out. ‘So pleased to meet you again.’
For a nation famous for mastering the casual, it seemed to Lara that Americans relied on a surprisingly elaborate code of gesture and politesse in their everyday encounters. She wondered what they had to hide. She tossed the sausage to Dog, who gobbled it up with gratitude then left, his mission accomplished. Then she wiped her hand on her skirt and greeted Selina.
‘Selina’s my stage wife,’ Marcus said from his chair. Nothing overchivalrous or elaborate about
him
. ‘Mrs MacB.’
‘I know. We met this afternoon, remember?’ Lara said.
‘Oh yeah. Must be more pissed than I thought.’ He scratched his beard.
‘I was just letting Marcus know that I’ve solved the accent issue,’ Selina said.
‘Good old girl, she is.’ Marcus winked to Lara. ‘She had James wrapped round her lovely little finger.’
‘We’ll be doing it in American now,’ Selina said.
‘Thank God
I’ve
got an ear for accent, at least,’ Marcus said.
Having heard his attempt at Brooklynese in the Palace Theatre, Westcliff-on-Sea production of
A View from the Bridge
, Lara was inclined to disagree with this, but she was glad the Scottish issue had been resolved.
Lara dragged up a wooden chair from the other end of the porch while Selina bent forward in the swing seat and let Marcus light her long, slim cigarette. Lara noticed her French manicure and glanced down at her own grubby nails. She would keep them that way, she thought. If Marcus saw her as shabby by comparison, it was all to the good.
‘I invited Selina over for supper tonight,’ Marcus said. ‘What are we having?’
‘I haven’t given it a moment’s thought yet,’ Lara said, peeved at Marcus both for doling out invitations on the spur of the moment and for his automatic assumption that it was she who would plan and cook the meal. ‘And Gina’s invited us round for a bonfire party tonight.’
‘Gina?’
‘My new friend. Remember? The woman from the library?’
‘With the children with the stupid names?’ Marcus said, shuddering no doubt more at the memory of Chicken Licken and Foxy Loxy. ‘Well I’m sure she won’t mind if Selina tags along too. She’s quite miserable in her digs, aren’t you lovey?’
‘I am,’ Selina said, nodding her glossy head. ‘Have you got a corkscrew, Lara honey? I brought this,’ she said, holding up a chilled bottle of Chablis.
While Lara worked in the kitchen, scratching together a meal from Betty’s produce, Marcus and Selina sat on the porch and steamed through the wine. Deciding she wasn’t going to be beaten, Lara got stuck into her own bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
As she moved between cupboard and sink, fridge and table, she felt as if she had an audience. Since meeting Stephen again, she had been aware of being in his mind, in his regard. But this was more unsettling. Somewhere beyond the lens of the glassed-in porch, someone might be watching her, bearing her ill will. The way the village nestled in the dip between two hills – a feature she had previously seen as picturesque – now made her a sitting duck. This was how Stephen must have felt back in LA. Poor man. What he had to put up with.
She was grateful, whoever sorted it out, for the new locks.
The red roses in the blue vase were past their best. She should really do something about them. Half-heartedly, she topped up their water.
To escape from the heat and steam of the kitchen, she took a break and sat on the back porch, dangling her legs over the edge like she had on the first morning. She sipped her wine, newly chilled by another top-up from the fridge, and felt the burden of the house sandwiched between her and the theatrical joviality over on the front porch. The hill at the back of the house loomed in dusky darkness and for the first time that evening she wondered where Olly and Bella were.
Out having fun, she supposed. Did she need to worry about them? Surely though it was just her that Elizabeth Sanders was watching …
The lone headlights of a car panned across the dark ridge at the top of the hill and disappeared, the remote sound of the cranky engine just about audible against the cacophony of dusk insects. A dog barked in the distance, regular and reliable as a heartbeat. On the other side of that mountain, miles into the forest, Stephen sat in his house. She wondered what he would be doing right now, up there on his own. She added a little prayer to keep him safe.
A loud bellow of Marcus-laughter shot up over the house – the especially throaty sort he reserved for his theatrical friends. His basso profundo was followed up by Selina’s silvery trickle.
Lara hoicked a load of phlegm from the back of her throat and spat into the grass, something she usually only did when she was running. She looked at the big hire car parked across the tarmac and wondered what stopped her jumping in and driving up to be with Stephen and away from Marcus. The fact her husband didn’t even have an inkling something was going wrong made her despise him even more than she had when they arrived, and, if she was honest with herself, that was saying something.
Hot, tired and filthy, Olly and Bella got back just before she served up the ratatouille-based meal she had put together from Betty’s offerings. She was glad they were home, but something was not right between them. Bella seemed to be incredibly cross with her brother and refused to talk to or look at him. It was a far from unprecedented situation, though. That was the trouble with twins, Lara thought as she tossed the salad. So close they are always arguing.
If she weren’t so disturbed herself, she would have tried to find out what exactly was going on with Bella, but she guessed whatever stupid sibling battle it was would work itself out without her intervention. She had enough on her plate.
In any case, the table talk was dominated by Selina and Marcus’s business gossip and impressions of James in full creative flow. Selina had just finished working on a film with a director more famed of late for his strange familial set-up than for his waning oeuvre, and Marcus drew all the dirt out of her. Unusually, Bella didn’t show a spark of interest in the show business tittle-tattle. Instead she just sat, morosely picking at her food. Olly seemed to be enjoying himself though.
‘There’s a bonfire party down the road later on,’ Lara said to try to cheer her up.
‘Do you mind if I don’t come?’ Bella said. ‘I’m done in.’
‘Are you all right?’ Lara held her hand up to Bella’s forehead.
‘Probably too much sun. I just need an early night.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. Olly, do you want to come?’
‘Yeah, OK then.’
‘You could bring your guitar.’
‘Cool.’ He smiled. He seemed to be a bit twitchy, Lara thought. A bit all over the place. And he looked drawn. From what she could make out, he was spending all his time running around in the woods with his new friends. Perhaps he was burning off more than even he could eat.
She had a cold shower, put on her last remaining dress, then grabbed two bottles of wine from the fridge. Marcus and Selina took Jack and strolled across the road to buy more beers. While Lara waited for them she again entertained the fantasy of jumping in the car and driving out to see Stephen. But before she could even dismiss the thought as ridiculous, Olly appeared at her side, also freshly showered, his guitar slung across his shoulder.
‘I really need some more clothes, Mum,’ he said.
‘I’m going into town tomorrow.’
‘Good.’
‘Do you want some gum?’ He offered her a stick of Orbit.
‘No thanks. And do keep your mouth shut when you’re chewing. Oh look, here they are.’ Marcus and Selina came out across the garage forecourt. Marcus had the beers under his arm and they swung Jack between them.
‘What a happy little family,’ Lara said, locking the front door to keep Bella safe.
‘Eh?’ Olly said.
The night cloaked Gina’s back garden in a bluey blackness, but, in the middle of the lawn, a little distant from the house, a group of silhouettes glowed around a crackling bonfire. Someone strummed a folky guitar song and another person sang something bluesy over the top. Fireflies danced deadly duets with the sparks rising from the flames.
As they drew close Gina rose to greet them, introducing her lanky English husband Tom and her assorted neighbours.
So, Lara thought, these were the people of the village, the invisibles who inhabited the world behind the fly screens. She was pleased to find she liked the look of them – all scruffy hair and worn jeans, sitting round the fire on mismatched chairs, drinking wine out of jam jars. They reminded Lara of the friends she used to go camping with when the twins were little and Marcus was away.
The Trout Islanders welcomed the Wayland party, moving around to let them into the campfire circle. In no time at all, Olly had joined the guitar playing, steering the repertoire in a more edgy direction. The last heat of the day had gone and the humid air had condensed into a heavy dew under a clear sky chock-full of stars. With the after-effect of her cold shower still on her nerve-endings, Lara huddled closer to the warmth of the flames, to the safety of the crowd.
‘I hope it’s the chill air making you shiver,’ Gina said. ‘Not lingering shock from my revelations this lunchtime.’
‘I’ve decided not to let Marcus and the kids know,’ Lara whispered. ‘Too much grief.’
Gina looked at her sideways. ‘Well, I won’t be the one to tell them, but I can’t guarantee they’re not going to find out. Jaws are slack in Trout Island.’
‘I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it,’ Lara said.
‘Wine?’ Gina handed Lara a jam jar and filled it to the brim. ‘Hey guys,’ she called over to Gladys and Ethel, ‘show Jack here how to make s’mores.’
Her two daughters pulled their visitor over to a table where they skewered up marshmallows and handed them out, showing him how to toast them and make a sandwich with two Graham crackers and a lump of Hershey’s.
‘Now, when have you got to return that car to the depot?’ Gina said.
‘Tomorrow. I guess I’ll get a bus back.’
‘Bus?’ Gina laughed. ‘There’s not been a bus to Trout Island in my lifetime. I’ll come in and we can give you a lift home.’
‘Really?’ Lara said. ‘That’s awfully kind of you.’
‘I need to go get the girls some new shoes anyhow. They just
sprout
.’
‘I’ve got to go shopping, too.’
Gina’s eyes grew large as Lara told her about the laundromat incident. It was only after she had mentioned the woman driver nearly mowing her and Jack down that she thought perhaps she had said too much.
‘She doesn’t sound like anyone from ’round here,’ Gina said, frowning.
Lara could see her mind working.
It was a convivial evening, a welcome respite for Lara. Marcus was in his element, regaling his generous audience with his theatre tales. Selina chipped in from time to time with her own hilarious experiences. It seemed, for these people – three painters originally from Brooklyn, a folk singer-songwriter, a carpenter called John, a couple of university professors and a few home-schooling mother friends of Gina’s – Trout Island Theatre Company was a lifeline.
‘The place would be a cultural desert otherwise,’ the folk singer said.
‘Do people come up from the city to see the shows?’ Marcus asked. The group round the fire laughed.
‘Only if they’re friends who come up to visit us,’ one of the painters said. ‘I mean, why would you come all this way when you’ve got like a hundred thousand theatres on your doorstep?’
‘It’s really just the community appeal,’ another painter said. ‘They sometimes even have local people in the cast. And that’s pretty neat. If not always quite as polished as it could be, eh John?’
‘I was in a show.’ The carpenter held up his hands. ‘And I fell off the stage.’
Everyone laughed except Marcus, who set about dealing with his growing disappointment in Marcus style by drinking until his speech slurred.
‘I think we’d better go,’ Lara said, after he reached for his glass and managed to tip himself out of his camp chair, ending up splayed out on the grass. The others helped her get him to his feet, and, after many kisses and handshakings and invitations out to visit and to have dinner and to swim in ponds, Lara led her family back home. Marcus slumped between her and Selina, an arm around each of their shoulders, stumbling over his words and his feet. Olly carried Jack, who was fast asleep and full of s’mores.