‘She still is,’ said Annie robustly.
‘Sweet Nicola,’ said Caroline. ‘She’s a darling child.’
‘Oh Nicola!’ chimed in Ella, from the sofa. ‘I love her to pieces!’
Ella had commandeered two thirds of the sofa and was reclining comfortably, shoes kicked off, head thrown back. The remaining part of the sofa was, as yet, unclaimed. Stephen was sitting nearby on the floor; Annie and Caroline were by the fireplace; Cressida was sitting on her own, on a low leather pouffe. Charles was the only one not sitting down; he paced about the room like a big cat, unable to keep his eyes from swivelling towards Ella every time she spoke or moved.
She was again pursuing the subject of the Silchester Mystery Play.
‘Really, Stephen, you must put it on,’ she insisted, sitting up and hugging her feet through the gauzy layers of her dress.
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Stephen, smiling at her.
‘Don’t just think about it! Do it!’
‘It may not be as simple as all that,’ he said. ‘These things take a lot of time, a lot of preparation, a lot of money. A serious amount of money, if you want it done well. Where am I to find that?’ Ella shrugged.
‘You can always find money if you really want it.’
Charles had been listening to this exchange. Now he came over and, with deliberate casualness, sat down on the bit of the sofa not occupied by Ella. She looked at him silently. There were only inches between them; her feet were almost brushing against his trousers.
‘If you wanted some money,’ he said, looking not at Stephen but at Ella, ‘we could always put some up. The Print Centre. It’s just the sort of project we should be involved with.’ Ella’s eyes held his insolently.
‘How much?’ she said challengingly. Charles’ breathing quickened slightly.
‘Five, ten thousand, maybe?’ he said. Ella didn’t move. ‘Fifteen?’ his voice cracked.
‘Fifteen thousand pounds?’ Stephen exclaimed. His voice rang through the room. ‘My word, Charles, that’s very generous!’
Cressida, who had been staring, unheeding, at the carpet, looked up. Were they talking about money? Was Charles promising fifteen thousand pounds to someone? The memory of the letter flooded into her
mind; a pang of alarm shot through her body. She had to speak. ‘Sorry, Charles,’ she said awkwardly, flinching as everyone turned to look at her, ‘what were you saying?’
‘It’s all right,’ said Charles, ‘it’s just Print Centre business. Nothing for you to worry about.’ He turned away. In a slight haze, Cressida took in the fact that he was sitting on the sofa with Ella. And yet when she had been sitting on the sofa earlier on, he had insisted on standing up. It was like a bad dream. And worst of all was the untold secret of the letter.
‘What sort of business?’ she persisted. Charles gave her an annoyed look.
‘A sponsorship deal. We’re going to back the Silchester Mystery Play. You can help to organize it.’
‘Oh,’ said Cressida. Waves of panic went through her. She had to tell Charles. Before he promised any more money. She had to talk to him.
Shakily she stood up, and flashed a smile around the room.
‘I think I’ll go to bed actually,’ she said. She smiled hard at Charles. ‘Are you coming, darling?’ Charles gave her a surprised, rather irritated look. He glanced at his watch.
‘It’s not midnight yet,’ he said. ‘Do you want to go so soon?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ said Cressida, staring at him with
what she hoped was a meaningful expression. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘Well, I think I’ll stay up a while longer,’ said Charles. ‘See you later.’ Cressida stood still for a few seconds, trying not to appear desperate.
‘You won’t be too long, will you?’ she said eventually. She was aware of how awful she must appear to everyone. They would all laugh at her when she was gone but she couldn’t bear another hour going by without having told Charles about the letter.
‘No, I won’t be too long,’ replied Charles evenly. ‘Good night.’ He turned back to Ella, leaving Cressida stranded in the middle of the room. She began to back uncertainly towards the door.
‘Good night, Cressida,’ said Patrick kindly. ‘I hope you sleep well. If you want anything, just shout.’
‘Good night,’ chorused the others.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Caroline, smirking. ‘We won’t keep Charles up much longer.’ Cressida flashed a smile at her, and hurried out through the door, tears stinging her eyes. They were all laughing at her. And Charles despised her for trying to rush him off to bed.
She went hurriedly through the hall and up the stairs, wondering if it was too late to run herself a hot bath. She walked briskly along the pale corridor, which seemed much longer now than it had been
during the day. But when she reached the door of the boys’ bedroom she paused. She had been preoccupied that evening, and had said goodnight to them in a rush. Now she carefully pushed open the door and looked into the moonlit room. Two little blond heads glinted on their pillows; Martina was gently snoring in the corner and the floor was carpeted in toys. She moved in a few steps, longing to pick up her babies and hold them tight against her chest, to feel their puny heartbeats and let their soft breathing soothe her. But a sense of discipline stopped her from doing anything so silly. The boys needed their sleep; she would disturb Martina; what would people think if they saw her? She stood a few seconds more, then reluctantly tiptoed out of the room and made her lonely way to her own bedroom.
There was a general atmosphere of hilarity in the drawing-room once Cressida had left. Patrick went round and filled everyone’s drinks; Caroline put a compact disc on the hi-fi. Soon, the rhythms of South American dance music were pulsing through the room. Charles leant back on the sofa and let the sound wash over him. Ella was tapping her foot and softly swaying. Then Caroline got up and began to dance. Her trained dancer’s limbs were still supple; her sense of rhythm faultless. Her hips
gyrated; her hands gently skimmed her pelvis and thighs.
‘Very good,’ applauded Ella. ‘That’s just how they do it.’
‘Did you learn any dancing when you were in South America?’ asked Annie, watching Caroline in admiration. Ella shrugged.
‘A little.’
‘Oh, go on!’ Annie’s eyes were bright, like a child. ‘Show us.’ Ella smiled, and uncoiled herself from the sofa.
‘I need a partner. Caroline?’ Caroline held out her hands to Ella, as if for ballroom dancing.
‘Closer than that,’ said Ella. ‘Much closer.’ She pulled Caroline towards her, grasped her firmly and began to move her feet, gyrating her hips back and forth. Caroline followed her movements hesitantly and Stephen, moving quietly to the hi-fi controls, turned up the volume of the pulsating music. Nobody spoke. The two women’s bodies moved around slowly as if joined by the hips; Caroline’s face intense with concentration, Ella’s stern and distant. Charles wondered with a sudden fierce pang of jealousy whom she was thinking about. He was beginning to feel unbearably aroused by the sight of Ella and Caroline; looking at the faces of the other men, he suspected he was not the only one.
The atmosphere was broken when the song ended, and Caroline collapsed onto a chair in fits of laughter.
‘Take me to South America,’ she cried dramatically, ‘If that’s how the men dance, I want to go there!’
‘It’s how the women dance, too,’ said Ella quietly. But everyone was looking at Patrick, who had stood up and begun to sway his hips in imitation.
‘I don’t think so, Patrick,’ said Stephen comically. ‘Better leave it to your wife.’
Patrick sat back down, adopting a disgruntled air, and Ella returned to her place on the sofa. The mood of hysteria seemed to have vanished.
‘I’ll make some more coffee, shall I?’ volunteered Annie.
‘I’ll show you where everything is,’ said Caroline.
Out in the kitchen, Caroline sat down on a chair.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure I know where everything is. Christ knows where Mrs Finch puts the coffee.’ Annie giggled.
‘You live in a different world,’ she said, opening and closing cupboard doors. ‘Not knowing where the coffee is in your own kitchen!’
‘Well, I usually leave it out on the side,’ said Caroline. ‘But that silly cow always puts it away. Try that cupboard. No, that one.’ Annie put the kettle on, put coffee in the pot, then came and sat down beside Caroline.
‘It’s been such a lovely day,’ she said. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’ Caroline smiled.
‘We should get together more often,’ she said. ‘I really miss all of you, being stuck here in this village.’
‘But it’s so lovely here!’ exclaimed Annie, surprised. ‘Especially for the children. Nicola’s had such a wonderful day. Well, we all have, really.’ She glanced at the door. ‘I think it’s done Stephen some good, too,’ she added in a low voice. ‘I didn’t actually realize he and Patrick were such good friends. But they’ve been chatting away all day.’ She beamed at Caroline, but Caroline had a slight frown on her face. She seemed to be thinking.
‘When does Stephen finish his thesis again?’ she said abruptly.
‘In a year or two,’ said Annie, looking slightly surprised.
‘And what happens after that? Jobwise.’ Annie shrugged.
‘He’d really like to go into higher education. Perhaps a junior teaching post at one of the universities, or a research fellowship.’
‘And do those pay well?’ Annie grinned.
‘No, they don’t. But it won’t be for ever. He’ll move up to better things.’
‘And meanwhile . . . ?’
‘Meanwhile, we manage.’ Annie looked honestly at Caroline. ‘We’re very lucky, compared to some. No-one goes into academia to be rich.’ She glanced up. ‘Look, the kettle’s boiling.’
The drawing-room was quiet as Caroline and Annie came back in with the coffee. The music was soft again, no-one was talking, and the sound of the terrace door banging in the wind made them all jump. Caroline put down the tray, closed the terrace door and began to pour out the coffee. When everyone had a cup, she took a deep breath.
‘We’re all old friends here,’ she said. ‘We all know each other well enough to talk frankly. And now that it’s just us six, there’s something I want to say.’ Everyone’s heads rose interestedly. ‘There’s a . . .’ Caroline paused, searching for the word, ‘a particular matter I’d like to discuss. It actually only concerns Stephen and Annie – and Patrick and myself – but somehow I’d like everyone to hear it.’ She paused, took a sip of coffee, and gave a defiant glance at Patrick. ‘It’s a financial matter,’ she added. Patrick’s heart started beating faster. He tried to give Caroline a silencing yet unobtrusive stare, but she was ignoring him. The stupid fucking bitch. What was she going to say? What was she going to tell them? I’m going to kill her, he thought. I’m going to fucking kill her.
* * *
Cressida had undressed as slowly as she could. She brushed her hair, removed her make-up, rubbed moisturizer into her face with upwards movements and applied eye cream. Eventually, when she was utterly ready for bed, when there was nothing else she could do, she looked at her watch. Half-past midnight. And Charles was still downstairs. The ominous phrase ‘Don’t wait up’ floated through her mind. But tonight she had to wait up. She had to talk to Charles, urgently. She fingered the letter, which she had retrieved from her vanity case, and unfolded it. Then she folded it up again without reading it. She could remember what it said without looking. And Charles would soon explain it all to her.
She gazed at herself in the mirror. Her skin was taut with worry; her eyes anxious. Suddenly she missed her father. He had been a generous, comforting figure; mostly absent, but larger – and louder – than life when he was there. He had always been a welcome antidote to the peculiarly feminine air of worry that built up in the house when he went away. Her mother, who was prone to particularly feverish panic attacks, would pour out her woes as soon as he appeared through the door; he would listen apparently seriously to her worries, point out the flaws in them – and eventually have her laughing at herself. Cressida could remember his hearty guffaw; his huge, strong hands; his down-
to-earth air, which would cause her mother to cringe even as she was locked in his embrace.
But now he was dead, and her mother too. Cressida could feel the tears rising and took a deep breath. She no longer allowed herself to weep for either of them. She drank half a glass of water, switched off the light in the bathroom and went back into the bedroom. She paused by the side of the pink satin bed and made a few, rather inarticulate attempts at prayer. After a while, unsatisfied with herself, she stopped. She climbed into bed, shivering slightly, and sat up against the pillows, clutching the letter, waiting for Charles.
Patrick couldn’t quite believe his ears. He stared incredulously at Caroline, who beamed gaily at him.
‘We’ve discussed it fully, haven’t we?’ she said. ‘Darling.’ Patrick smiled feebly at Stephen and Annie. Stephen looked shell-shocked; Annie’s eyes were shining.
‘We couldn’t let you,’ said Stephen eventually.
‘Rubbish,’ said Caroline briskly. ‘We’ve only got Georgina to pay for. We might easily have six sets of school fees to fork out every year. One extra won’t make any difference. And it makes us mad to see Nicola’s talents wasted at that school. She needs a better chance in life. Patrick thinks’, she added, ‘that
Nicola should have riding lessons.’ Patrick’s head jerked in amazement. ‘He thinks St Catherine’s would do wonders for her confidence,’ she added blithely. ‘Didn’t you say that, Patrick?’
Patrick glared at her. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Wonders.’ He turned to pour himself another brandy and caught the eye of Ella. She grinned at him, as if she knew exactly what was going through his mind.
‘I think it’s a lovely gesture,’ she said. ‘I’m sure Nicola would benefit from private education. It’s very generous of you.’
‘Very,’ said Charles sardonically. ‘Six years of boarding-school doesn’t exactly come cheap.’
‘Well, of course, we’d pay as soon as we could,’ said Annie eagerly. ‘We’d think of it as a loan.’ She gave Patrick a wide smile. ‘All my instincts and manners tell me we must refuse your offer; but when I think of Nicola, of how much it would mean to her . . . I don’t think I can bring myself to.’ Her eyes began to moisten. ‘Look at me!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m pathetic!’