CHAPTER EIGHT

Cressida shifted uncomfortably, took another sip of champagne and gazed out of the window at the sun setting over the glowing fields. She felt marooned and rather miserable. The leather sofa she was sitting on was soft and very squashy, and having sunk into it, she didn’t think she would be able to get out of it without an effort. Charles, who had been sitting next to her, had sprung up to examine an antique cricket bat which Patrick was showing to Stephen, and so far no one had taken his place. Caroline and Annie were giggling at the far side of the drawing room, lingering at the built-in bar while Caroline poured out a glass of champagne.

Caroline’s raucous laugh rang out through the room, and Cressida flinched. She couldn’t bear Caroline’s rowdy spirits at the best of times; least of all now, with the worry of that letter still in her mind, and still unshared. She hadn’t been able to find a suitable moment to take it out and show it to Charles; first of all she’d felt too nervous to bring the subject up, and then Martina had appeared with the twins, wanting to know if they could use the Jacuzzi in their bathroom. Charles had suggested this, it transpired, and he spent the rest of the time before dinner romping in the bathroom with the twins, covering the floor in bubbles, and thoroughly over-exciting them.

In the end, Cressida had retreated to a bathroom that she’d found at the end of the corridor, which no one else seemed to be using. She’d gone through her usual routine mechanically, using the same make-up that she’d been taught to apply at the Lucie Clayton grooming school fifteen years ago and had never digressed from since. She had brushed out her hair, sprayed on scent and smiled bravely at herself in the mirror. But now she felt cold inside her dress, and her smile stopped at her lips. Hadn’t she once read somewhere that babies learnt to smile as a defence mechanism? That was all her smile was tonight—a defence, to stop people looking too closely, or saying ‘Cheer up’ in that dreadfully hearty way.

Her mind kept veering between optimism and despair. Of course, the letter must be a mistake. As soon as she told Charles about it, he would reassure her, point out the error, put his arms round her and say fondly, ‘You really haven’t got a clue about money, have you?’ It would be like the time she decided to pay some bills herself for once, and ended up paying them all twice. That had happened just after they’d been married, and Charles had been so amused. He actually seemed to like it when she made blunders and didn’t understand things. And just as she thought she’d got something sorted out in her mind, she would try to make an intelligent comment and he would burst out laughing at her. She was always one step behind. So, of course, this letter must be another mix-up. There would be something she hadn’t thought of, or didn’t know about, that would explain it all. They would both be laughing about it tomorrow.

So why did the thought of it make her feel sick, and anxiously swirl the drink round in her glass? She recalled the sum of money mentioned and shuddered. She was rich, of course she was. But was she that rich any more? Could she stand such a demand for money? She willed herself to remember what Mr Stanlake, her portfolio manager, had said at their last meeting. She could remember his thin-lipped smile; his clean, cool handshake; the view from his window and even the face of his well-groomed secretary who always brought them coffee. But what had been said? How much was left of her assets? She fingered the fabric of her dress. Perhaps she could find out what her financial situation was before telling Charles about the letter. It would take time, but then, this house didn’t seem the right place to tell him. Especially not now. Not now that girl—woman, whatever she was—had arrived.

Right from the start, Charles had always been unwilling to talk about Ella, and Cressida certainly hadn’t wanted to rake up his past. She knew hardly anything about Ella, apart from the fact that Charles had lived with her for at least five years in that house in Seymour Road. In fact, before this afternoon, Cressida had never even known what Ella looked like. Somehow she’d been surprised when she saw her. She had imagined her slightly fatter, slightly less … she searched for a word in her mind … exotic looking.

She was jolted out of her thoughts by a sudden burst of laughter from Caroline and Annie. Caroline was brandishing a bottle of Malibu.

‘Annie, you haven’t lived if you haven’t tried this,’ she shrieked. ‘It’s great stuff!’ Annie’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright.

‘But I’ve still got some champagne,’ she protested, as Caroline began pouring it out.

‘So what?’ Caroline looked around wickedly and then put the bottle of Malibu to her lips.

‘I once did a promotion for Malibu,’ she said, wiping her mouth. ‘Or was it Piña Colada? We all wore grass skirts and loads of fake tan. Really orangey stuff. I got it all over the sheets when I went to bed that night.’ She paused. ‘But then, if I remember rightly, they weren’t my sheets, so I didn’t give a shit.’ She broke into bubbling laughter again.

Patrick had gone to fetch more of his cricket memorabilia, and as he entered, his eyes swivelled distrustfully in the direction of Caroline’s laughter. Then they fell on Cressida, sitting alone on the sofa. She immediately flashed him a bright, rather desperate smile, and willed him to rejoin the men. She intuitively felt that Patrick was the sort of man who would realize that something was wrong and wheedle it all out of her with no effort at all. He looked at her half-empty glass and called to Caroline.

‘Sweetheart, some more champagne over here, I think.’ He smiled at Cressida, and she smiled back, even harder.

‘Lovely view, isn’t it?’ she said, gesturing out of the window. Her eyes fell on the fields and she strove for something further to say. ‘Lovely colours,’ she added eventually. Patrick nodded.

‘We do get a superb sunset here,’ he said. ‘I’ve taken some marvellous photographs. I’ll show you later.’

‘That would be lovely,’ said Cressida feebly. There was a silence, in which Patrick’s eyes seemed to penetrate hers. Her lips trembled; she looked down, and was aware of a pink tinge spreading over her cheeks.

‘Cressida,’ began Patrick, and moved a step closer. Cressida stared fixedly at her knees, unsure why she was blushing.

Then, to her relief, the door opened, and Don and Valerie came in.

‘Hello!’ hooted Valerie. ‘Are we late?’

‘No, no,’ said Patrick genially. He moved to kiss her cheek, and she ducked awkwardly towards him, so that they collided with some force. As his head rose, Patrick’s eye met Cressida’s with the briefest of flickers, and she found herself grinning down into her champagne glass, feeling ridiculously warmed. When she looked up, she saw Patrick shaking Don’s hand with a perfectly straight face and Valerie waving at her as though they were separated by several miles.

‘Ooh! I do love your dress,’ said Valerie. ‘It’s just like mine!’

This, Cressida realized, gazing at Valerie in slight horror, was not far from the truth. Both of them were in simple, tailored, navy-blue dresses. If Cressida’s was in exquisitely cut linen and Valerie’s in ill-fitting polyester, Valerie certainly couldn’t tell the difference.

‘I do love the classic look,’ exclaimed Valerie complacently, sitting down beside Cressida. Her white hand shot out and fingered the fabric of Cressida’s dress; Cressida suddenly and irrationally felt sick.

‘Yours is lovely,’ Valerie said. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘London,’ murmured Cressida.

‘Me too,’ said Valerie. ‘In the sales. Actually, it’s not quite the right size, but it was such a bargain!’

‘Drink, Valerie?’ said Patrick genially. ‘Champagne?’

‘Ooh, lovely!’ said Valerie. She settled back next to Cressida. Her legs, dead white apart from a strip of pink sunburn down the front of each, were covered in the minute red dots of skin which has been recently shaved and a plaster was flapping at the heel of her navy-blue patent-leather shoe.

Cressida glanced surreptitiously over at Caroline, who was now opening another bottle of champagne. She was a vision of yellow, with her buttercup dress, golden skin and bright blond hair, shining under the spotlights of the bar. She had too much make-up on, in Cressida’s opinion, and was being her usual vulgar, outrageous self, but at least she looked vivacious with it. And Annie, in her richly patterned Indian sarong dress, looked flushed, happy and animated. She had caught the sun on her cheeks, and had twisted her hair up into a knot. Cressida had never seen her look so attractive.

Looking down at her navy-blue lap, and at Valerie’s, Cressida suddenly felt as if she were back at school—and she and Valerie were the misfits of the form. Her dress—beautiful and expensive though it was—seemed both dowdy and over-smart at the same time. And she was the only woman in the room wearing tights, she noticed. She took a miserable sip of champagne. Everything about her seemed wrong. Yet she had worn exactly the same outfit a few weeks ago—to drinks with the Marchants—and felt entirely at ease.

Patrick had made his way over to the bar. Caroline was sitting alone on a bar stool, sipping a huge cocktail with her eyes closed.

‘Sweetness,’ he said, ‘people are waiting for drinks.’

‘Here you are.’ Caroline eyed him balefully and gave him the open bottle. ‘You can take this round.’ Patrick gave her an annoyed look.

‘I meant,’ he said, ‘you could go round and talk to a few people.’

‘I’m talking to Annie,’ said Caroline obstinately. ‘She’s just gone to the loo. She’ll be back in a moment.’

‘Well, you can’t talk to her all evening,’ said Patrick, in an attempt at jocularity. ‘We do have other friends.’

‘Friends!’ mocked Caroline. She swivelled round on the bar stool and raised contemptuous blue eyes to Patrick’s. ‘Are you Annie’s friend? Are you Stephen’s friend? Well, if you are, Christ help your enemies.’

Patrick shifted uncomfortably. ‘I hardly think this is the place,’ he whispered.

‘Exactly,’ replied Caroline in a grudgingly low voice. ‘Neither is it the place to rip off people who trust you. Like they do. Like they did, perhaps I should say.’ Patrick peered at her with mounting anxiety.

‘Caroline!’ he hissed. ‘You bloody better not have said anything to Annie.’

‘Or what?’ Caroline’s smile challenged him.

‘Hello, Patrick!’ Annie’s cheerful voice hailed them and Patrick smiled uneasily.

‘You’re looking lovely tonight,’ he said.

‘I’m feeling wonderful,’ said Annie cheerfully. ‘It’s been a really super day! I can’t tell you how much we’ve both enjoyed it. And the children have been in heaven.’ She turned to Caroline, smiling. ‘Nicola worships Georgina even more than she did before. She’s insisted on calling their bedroom the dormy. And I think Georgina’s going to do her lights-out, go-to-sleep, head-prefect bit for them later on.’

‘My God,’ said Caroline. ‘We really have raised a little Hitler.’ Patrick frowned, and opened his mouth to protest, but then changed his mind.

‘Dinner soon, do you think, sweetheart?’ he said.

‘We’re still waiting for Ella,’ pointed out Caroline. Patrick’s frown deepened.

‘Oh yes,’ he said shortly. ‘Well, I’ll go and take some more champagne round.’

‘I’m sure she won’t be long,’ said Annie soothingly.

Charles was ignoring Cressida’s pleading looks from the sofa. She was stuck next to the dreadful Valerie—and for that he couldn’t help feeling sorry for her—but there was something in him tonight that couldn’t bear to sit tamely down with his wife. He felt an unspecified anticipation; a slight exhilaration; a mood of gaiety and energy. It was probably, he thought to himself, the combination of outdoor exercise, sunlight and champagne. He didn’t allow himself to wonder why this mood had only overtaken him after the surprise appearance made by Ella. He was used, after four years of marriage, to swiftly diverting his thoughts whenever they turned in the direction of Ella; remembering only the bad times; most of the time blocking her memory completely from his mind.

Stephen seemed in good spirits too, he noticed; more sure of himself than he had been that morning. He and Don were still poring over old photographs, programmes, score sheets, cricket balls, even a couple of old cricket pads. Patrick’s collection of cricket memorabilia was clearly fascinating them. Charles found it boring. The cricket bat had been interesting to look at, both aesthetically and as an historical artefact—but endless lists and photographs of bygone players were really not his thing. And yet he still hovered by them, studiously avoiding Cressida’s wan face. He was in far too good a mood to have to go and sit beside his miserable-looking wife.

Cressida’s spirits had plummeted even further. Her position on the sofa was uncomfortable and she could feel that her dress was rucked up; but to stand up and shake herself out would draw attention to herself—and at that moment, she didn’t feel as if she could bear anyone’s eyes on her. Her glass was warm from the clutch of her fingers; her stockinged legs were uncomfortably slippery against the leather of the sofa; and Valerie’s shrill voice was unending.

She had regaled Cressida for the last fifteen minutes with unsavoury pieces of gossip from the London office where she worked. She related each story in a detached, almost innocent voice, that displayed her complete ignorance of how these affairs might utterly destroy a marriage; ruin a relationship of trust; shatter a family. To Valerie, it was all fair game for entertainment.

‘And then you’ll never guess what,’ she was saying. ‘Michelle—that’s his secretary—went and called his wife by the wrong name. She nearly died!’ Valerie paused, and looked with bright eyes at Cressida, waiting, without much hope, for a response. Cressida was evidently a disappointment as a gossip partner. ‘But that wasn’t when she guessed,’ she continued. ‘The wife, I mean. It was about two months later. And it was such a stupid mistake. She saw his expenses list—and one of them was for a double hotel room. He just didn’t think on his feet. I mean, he could have come up with a story or something, but he just told her everything. Next thing, he was off sick for a week.’

Cressida was beginning to feel sick herself. She had never heard such a sordid catalogue of misdemeanours. She felt like weeping for the wife’s sake. For all the wives’ sakes.

‘Are you OK?’ said Valerie, becoming aware of Cressida’s downturned face.

‘I’m fine,’ said Cressida shakily. ‘I’m just a bit tired.’

‘I know what, I’ll get you a drink of water,’ said Valerie, suddenly self-important, casting herself as Cressida’s aide. ‘I’ll get you a nice glass of Perrier, shall I?’

‘That would be lovely,’ said Cressida. ‘And perhaps I’ll go outside on the terrace.’

‘Get some fresh air, good idea,’ said Valerie. She placed her clammy hand on Cressida’s arm. ‘You probably had too much sun today.’ Cressida fought off the desire to retch.

As Valerie made off to the bar, Cressida struggled to her feet. Her dress was, as she had thought, rucked up at the back, and the linen had become rather creased. Not only that, but a spare button or something inside the dress seemed to have been caught on her tights. She fiddled uncomfortably at the spot. The only solution was to go to the bathroom and see what was wrong. She put her drink down and made for the door. But it opened before she could get there. A husky, coppery voice cried, ‘Sorry I’m so late!’ and Ella made her entrance.

She was wearing a dress made from layers of floating chiffon in palest yellow, cinnamon and burnt orange. Around her neck was a long string of amber beads, on which was strung a large, ornate silver cross. Her cheeks were radiantly glowing and her hair tied up in a silk, coffee-coloured scarf. Her deep-brown eyes surveyed the room, and she smiled first of all at Patrick, who was dispensing champagne to Stephen.

‘I’m terrible,’ she said apologetically. ‘Once I get into a hot bath I just can’t get out. Am I shockingly late?’

‘No, no, don’t be silly,’ said Patrick. ‘Come in and have a drink.’ He led Ella in, until she was suddenly directly in front of Cressida. Cressida hastily stood up straight, stopped fiddling with her frock, and flashed her bright smile.

‘Hello,’ said Ella. ‘We didn’t really get a chance to meet this afternoon. I’m Ella Harte.’

‘Yes, how do you do,’ said Cressida in a colourless voice. She felt like a shadow beside this voluptuous, glowing figure. ‘I am Cressida Mobyn.’ She saw Ella flinch very slightly before taking her outstretched hand.

‘It’s funny,’ said Ella, looking round at Charles and Stephen, who were watching in uncomfortable fascination. ‘I somehow hadn’t taken in the fact that you’d be called Mobyn. I associate the name Mobyn, you see, with Charles.’

Her hand was warm, and as she moved closer, Cressida was aware of a pulsing, foreign scent. There was a split second of silence before Cressida spoke.

‘Well,’ she said brightly. ‘It was strange for me just after we were married. Having a different name. But I’m quite used to it now. I sign cheques without thinking.’ She smiled again. Ella looked at her for a few moments without speaking, and then smiled slowly herself.

‘I should think you do,’ she said. ‘Cressida Mobyn.’ She rolled her tongue round the name. ‘Well, I’m glad we’ve met.’ Cressida tried not to look surprised.

‘Oh, so am I,’ she lied, in complete incomprehension.

Caroline, roused at last to hostess-like behaviour, had hurried over to where Ella and Cressida were standing. Now she chipped in.

‘Come and get a drink, Ella,’ she said, leading her away from Cressida.

Cressida watched them go with an unfamiliar feeling of resentment. Ella was plainly a member of the favoured group. She wondered whether to go to the bathroom and straighten her dress. It might look as though she was offended by Ella being there. Which naturally, she thought briskly to herself, she wasn’t.

‘Hello, darling,’ said Charles, coming up to her with a rather unnatural smile. ‘I see you’ve been talking to Ella. I’m glad you two have met at last.’ Cressida stared at Charles in renewed incomprehension. Why would anyone be glad that she’d met Ella? She couldn’t see any benefit in it at all.

*   *   *

As Stephen went in to dinner, he felt agreeably content. He was relaxed and glowing after the day’s tennis; his appetite was sharpened by the sight of the plates of delicately arranged smoked salmon on the table, and he still had a lingering sense of exhilaration at the deal he’d done with Patrick. He glanced at the others, following him in to the dining room. They all looked sophisticated and cosmopolitan—even Annie. An image of their usual homely family suppers flashed through his mind. Annie always looked pretty, he thought loyally, even when she was hot and bothered over the stove, or coping with Nicola in a frustrated mood. But tonight her face was alive and excited, and she seemed to be laughing a lot. That was Caroline’s influence, of course. He’d forgotten quite how determined that woman was to have a good time.

‘Hello.’ A voice at his elbow caused him to turn round. It was Ella, her dimpled face creased in a smile. ‘I haven’t said hello to you properly yet,’ she continued. Stephen bent to kiss her cheek, which was smooth, glowing and smelling faintly of coconut.

‘You’re looking very well,’ he said, aware that he was dealing in clichés. But how else was he to talk? ‘Travelling certainly agrees with you…’

‘… or something,’ she finished, laughing. Her brown eyes searched his face. ‘And you? Are you happy?’ Stephen shrugged casually. He remembered now that Ella had always stood just a little closer than other people; asked slightly more penetrating questions; had always pursued a difficult line of enquiry where others would meekly have said ‘oh, I see’ and changed the subject.

‘I’m fine,’ he said easily. He smiled at her; his new, confident smile.

‘I told Caroline I wanted to sit next to you,’ said Ella. ‘I want to hear all about your thesis. I’m so thrilled that you’re doing it at last.’ She darted to the table, peering at the name places.

‘Here we are,’ she called. ‘We’re over here.’ Stephen joined her slowly, his confident air seeming to slip away slightly with every step. He had almost forgotten about his thesis. He had cast himself, this afternoon, as a leisured, moneyed deal-maker enjoying some tennis among friends. He had almost convinced himself that this comfortable and luxurious house, not the grubby libraries and teaching rooms of the university, was his natural environment. Was he now to be forced to go over in his mind his failed attempt at scholarship; to recall the unwieldy, uncertain mass of dubious information and half-baked arguments that haunted and mocked him in his dreams? He flinched at the memory of it. Look at Patrick over there. He seemed to be doing all right, and he’d never been near a university in his life. Let alone given up a relatively well-paid job late in life in the vain pursuit of some sort of academic recognition. Wasn’t this easy, leisured life what he really aspired to? He sank uneasily into a plushy, upholstered dining chair and smiled jovially at Valerie, who was sitting on his other side. But Ella was tugging at his sleeve.

‘Now,’ she said, shaking out her napkin, squeezing lemon over her salmon and looking seriously at him through her lashes. ‘I really want to know. How’s your research going?’

*   *   *

As Mrs Finch cleared away the plates from the first course, Charles looked over at Stephen and Ella again. What were they finding so much to talk about? Stephen was gesturing animatedly; Ella was nodding enthusiastically. She was leaning forward towards Stephen, clasping her hands, unwittingly pushing up her breasts until a full, golden-brown cleavage was on show. Or was it unwittingly? Charles looked away, and then looked back again.

‘But that’s amazing!’ Ella’s husky voice travelled across the table to him. ‘Absolutely fascinating.’ Charles could bear it no longer.

‘What’s fascinating, Ella?’ he asked in a hearty voice. The whole table stopped talking and looked at him. He ignored Cressida’s pale, questioning face, Caroline’s raised eyebrows, Patrick’s smirk, and ploughed on. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing that something was fascinating. I was just wondering what it was.’

Ella raised her eyes, slightly contemptuous, slightly amused, to his.

‘We were talking about Stephen’s thesis,’ she said. ‘It’s so interesting. But you must know all about it, I suppose. I’m hearing it all for the first time.’ Charles looked at Stephen. Everyone was waiting for an answer.

‘Of course,’ he said eventually. ‘Your thesis. Terribly interesting.’

‘Do you think so, Charles?’ said Stephen, grinning at him in mock-surprise, knowing full well that Charles couldn’t give a damn about his thesis. Charles forced himself not to glare at Stephen. He suddenly felt an irrational hatred for him, sitting next to Ella, breathing in her scent, touching her bare arms, sharing her jokes. But it was Charles that Ella was now looking at, twisting her amber beads thoughtfully round her fingers. He had to say something.

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Seventeenth-century stuff, wasn’t it?’

‘Fourteenth,’ said Ella. ‘You’re not telling me they were writing mystery plays in the seventeenth century?’

‘Mystery plays?’ said Charles in surprise. ‘Since when has your thesis been on mystery plays, Stephen?’

‘Since my original proposal was turned down,’ said Stephen, grinning. ‘Only about two years ago.’

‘I haven’t kept up,’ said Charles apologetically. To his surprise he did feel genuinely ashamed. He had a sudden flashback to cosy suppers in the Fairweathers’ basement kitchen. He remembered Stephen outlining his latest piece of research; eyes lit up with the thrill of discovery; gesticulating with a piece of garlic bread or a pasta-laden fork; pausing in his rhetoric only to swallow a mouthful of food or wine; then looking up to see Annie and Charles giggling at him. And Ella, of course. She had always been there.

‘I think the idea of our own local mystery play is wonderful,’ said Ella. ‘The Silchester Mystery Play. We should organize for it to be put on. In the Cathedral.’

‘We could do it for charity,’ said Cressida suddenly. She had been following the exchange with very little enthusiasm. She had no idea what a mystery play was and no interest in Stephen’s thesis. She did not trust Ella; she couldn’t think why Charles was insisting on talking to her, and she was longing for bed. But an instinctive desire to win back Charles’ attention, coupled with her belief that it was one’s duty to contribute to general conversation, forced her valiantly to speak. Having spoken, she sank gratefully back into her chair.

But Ella had fixed her attention on Cressida.

‘What a wonderful idea,’ she said, in an intense voice. ‘Could you organize something like that?’

‘Well,’ said Cressida faintly, ‘I’m on several charity committees. In Silchester, you know.’

‘It’s perfect,’ said Ella. ‘You can stage a show in the Cathedral. Get professional actors. It’ll be a marvellous occasion.’ She beamed at Stephen. ‘And wouldn’t it help your research? To see it actually performed?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Stephen. ‘I suppose it would.’

‘Of course it would,’ said Ella. ‘You must let me know when it happens. I’ll come back especially to see it.’

‘Back?’ said Charles in spite of himself. ‘Back from where?’ Ella gave him a curious look.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Didn’t I tell you? I’m starting a job. In Italy.’

‘Ooh, how lovely!’ exclaimed Valerie. ‘Imagine working in Italy!’

‘What are you going to do?’ said Annie.

‘I’m going to be assistant,’ said Ella, ‘to someone called Maud Vennings. She lives in Italy most of the time.’

There was a slightly stunned silence. Ella grinned at Caroline, who shrugged back. Ella had told Caroline about her new job earlier in the evening—but since Caroline had never heard of Maud Vennings, the announcement had not made much impact. Now Annie was the first to speak.

‘Maud Vennings? The painter?’

‘Yes, the painter,’ said Ella, delicately spearing a piece of seafood tartlet and eating it thoughtfully. The others gazed at her in awe.

‘We saw a programme about her, didn’t we, Val?’ said Don. ‘On the telly. Isn’t she a real eccentric? Lives all by herself in some huge castle?’

‘Yes, I suppose you could call her eccentric,’ said Ella. ‘She used to live all by herself. But now I’m going to be living with her. And we won’t be on our own. We’re starting up a series of residential workshops. Painting, food, wine, walking … that kind of thing.’

‘A package holiday, you mean,’ said Charles, unable to keep a sneer out of his voice. He was experiencing a feeling perilously close to jealousy.

‘Not really,’ said Ella, giving a secretive smile. ‘It will only be open to painters of talent. Graduates of the art colleges, that kind of thing. We might branch into music, as well. Maud knows a lot of musicians. And they’ll be guests of hers. It’s not a business. But she still needs someone to organize it all.’

There was another pause, as everyone took in the implications of this.

‘I suppose,’ said Don eventually, ‘she’s absolutely loaded.’

‘Her paintings sell for hundreds of thousands of pounds, don’t they?’ said Valerie eagerly. ‘Those nude girls. I’ve a postcard of one of them on my wall at work.’

‘I’ve got a poster in the kitchen,’ said Annie.

‘I went to see an exhibition of hers in London once,’ volunteered Cressida. ‘I think it was for Save the Children.’ Charles shot her an angry look.

‘So, do tell us, Ella,’ he said, unable to contain his incensed curiosity, ‘how on earth did this come about?’

‘Well, it was quite simple,’ said Ella. ‘I wrote to her and said I was coming to Italy and would it be possible to visit her. I thought I might try to interview her or something. I don’t really know what made me do it. But she said yes. So I went to see her, and she invited me to stay for dinner, and that was it, really.’

‘She said yes, just because you wrote her a letter?’ Charles’ outrage was transparent.

‘It was quite a long letter,’ said Ella, consideringly. ‘I told her about myself, and my life, and why I was coming to Italy…’ She broke off and smiled at Charles. ‘I think she thought it all sounded rather interesting. And we got on really well, right from the start. She told me the other day that as soon as she saw me, she knew she wanted me to live with her.’

Valerie’s eyes widened.

‘It said on the programme that she might be a bit of a … you know.’ She broke off. ‘Lesbian,’ she whispered.

‘Did it?’ said Ella. She paused, fork halfway to mouth. ‘Well, you never know,’ she said. ‘Perhaps she is.’

*   *   *

Coffee had been served, Don and Valerie were making signs of departure, and the others were still sitting in the drawing room. The doors to the terrace were still open, and the sweet smell of night air mingled with the lingering aroma of coffee. Annie dreamily swirled a cognac round in her glass. It had been such a lovely day. Her muscles ached agreeably, her skin was warm with sunburn, and her stomach replete with food. She was also, she realized, quite drunk.

‘See you tomorrow!’ Don’s grinning face interrupted her reverie.

‘Sorry? Oh, yes, see you then,’ said Annie.

‘We’ll be along to watch your match,’ he said. ‘Bright and early.’ Annie clutched her head.

‘But I’ll feel dreadful tomorrow!’ she cried.

‘Drink a glass of water for each alcoholic drink you’ve consumed,’ advised Don cheerily. ‘That’s my advice.’ Annie felt a sudden, uncharacteristic urge to throw her glass at him. She deliberately took a large gulp of cognac, looked up, and spluttered as she saw Caroline grimacing at Don behind his back.

‘I’m such a child!’ she wailed, when Don was out of the door. ‘I’ve regressed thirty years.’ She looked accusingly at Caroline. ‘It’s all your fault,’ she said. ‘I was a sane human being before today.’

‘No you weren’t,’ retorted Caroline. ‘Remember apple bobbing at that Hallowe’en party? That got really out of hand.’ She and Annie collapsed into giggles at the memory.

‘I got completely soaked,’ said Annie.

‘We all did,’ said Caroline.

‘And Nicola kept saying, “No, Mummy, like this,”’ called out Stephen, who was watching Annie in amusement.

‘Poor old Nicola,’ said Annie, fondly wiping her eyes. ‘I don’t think she’d ever seen me drunk before.’

‘She was good at apple bobbing,’ said Caroline.

‘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 good night 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!’

‘I don’t know.’ Stephen was still frowning. ‘As Charles says, it is a lot of money.’

‘It’s all relative,’ said Caroline. She flashed a wicked look at Patrick. ‘I mean,’ she said deliberately, ‘think how much money Patrick deals in every day. What’s a few years’ school fees compared to that?’ Watching in impotent fury, Patrick saw this idea taking root in Stephen’s mind. Christ, Stephen was so fucking naïve. After today’s performance in the study, he probably thought Patrick dealt in sums of eighty thousand every minute. And Caroline knew it.

Stephen raised doubtful eyes to Patrick, and Patrick forced himself to smile.

‘Caroline’s right,’ he said, hardly able to believe he was saying it. ‘We can easily afford it.’ If we forget any idea of new cars, let alone a new house, he thought. And Caroline can fucking well get rid of her Barbados brochures.

‘Good,’ said Caroline. ‘That’s settled. I’m so pleased. We both are, aren’t we, sweetheart?’

‘Delighted,’ said Patrick, and knocked back another brandy.