‘Knock, knock.’ Ro poked her head round the door to find Bobbi sitting on the bed, staring at the wall. ‘Hey.’
Bobbi turned at the sound, but her eyes were vacant.
Ro sat down softly on the bed beside her, squeezing her shoulder lightly. She was wearing a black suit that three weeks earlier had been vixen-tight on her, but now hung loosely on her hips, a string of pearls round her neck, flat shoes instead of her signature heels. Ro guessed she was going to find putting one foot in front of the other a struggle today.
A tiny, white scale model of the ‘stepped’ house she had designed for Kevin – the job on which they’d met – was on the dormer’s deep windowsill. Ro studied it from the bed. Now that the plot was laid out for Ro to see, she realized how compromised it was and how ingenious Bobbi’s solution had been. The house complied with regulations, looked beautiful and accommodated everything Kevin had wanted. The girl had talent. But had her ambition meant she’d overreached this time? In trying to secure the deal, she’d crossed lines she had no business dancing near. She’d gambled and lost, and everything she cared about was on the line.
‘The car’s here. Are you ready?’ Hump had ordered a black Chrysler to take them to the church. Turning up to a funeral in a bright yellow Defender didn’t seem appropriate, even to a maverick like him.
‘I just keep trying to figure out why,’ Bobbi murmured, as though she hadn’t heard Ro.
‘Bobbi, that’s something for the police to discover. You need to focus on looking after you.’
‘But maybe he said something . . . maybe he tried to warn me. Do you think he might have? I could have missed it.’
Ro paused, knowing better than try to get Bobbi to do something she didn’t want to do. And right now, she wanted to talk. ‘Well, did you ever get the impression he was frightened or being threatened? Maybe he was nervous or agitated? Couldn’t sleep, eat?’
Bobbi shook her head.
‘There you go, then. And even if he had known he was in trouble, he probably went out of his way to act normal around you. He wouldn’t have wanted you to worry, or to have become involved.’
‘Unless he didn’t know he was in trouble.’
‘In which case, that would have been a blessing,’ Ro murmured.
‘He was just so . . . so relaxed that night. I’ve been over it, like, a million times in my head, wondering whether I forgot to tell the police one thing, one detail that might make all the difference.’
‘They’re trained in interview techniques, Bobbi. They know how to get all the information they possibly can out of people. Whatever you know, they now know.’
Bobbi dropped her head in her hands. ‘I shouldn’t have let him go that morning. I’d tried talking him out of it the night before. I wanted us to have a whole weekend together, but I was so sleepy when he got up. I hadn’t slept well and . . . well, he said he’d come back. He wanted to meet you all.’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t even open my eyes when he kissed me goodbye.’ Her voice – her strong, bossy, don’t-mess Manhattan voice – was thin and reedy, climbing higher.
‘Bobbi, you couldn’t possibly have known. There was nothing you could have done. The police don’t think it was either opportunistic or manslaughter. Whoever did this knew they were going to do it. They had planned it. And if it hadn’t happened then, it would have happened elsewhere. He was a marked man, Bobbi.’
Bobbi was quiet for a few moments, her eyes fixed on a hairline crack at the top of the wall. ‘The police still think it was someone he knew through his business.’
‘I know.’ The local papers were feeding off titbits, anything to keep the story on their front page every day. Murder simply didn’t happen in the Hamptons.
‘So then maybe I knew him. I’m in the same business. Kinda.’
‘No! Now you listen to me. You’ll only frighten yourself talking like that,’ Ro said forcefully, remembering her own fear as Florence had asked her if she’d thought the murderer had seen her at the window. ‘You’re a creative. He was a wheeler-dealer realtor. There’s very little overlap in what you do other than you’re both trading in bricks and mortar. Besides, from what the papers are saying, I wouldn’t be surprised if the police already have a good idea of possible suspects. Did you read the piece in the Montauk Herald?’
Bobbi shook her head, focusing intently on Ro’s words.
‘Oh.’ Dammit. She didn’t want to say too much, risk upsetting Bobbi now of all times.
‘What did it say? Tell me.’
‘Well . . . it’s come out that Kevin upset a lot of people with his tactics when it came to getting commissions.’
‘How?’ A trace of irritation lined Bobbi’s voice.
‘It seems he didn’t simply wait for people to come to him wanting to sell; he liked to be more proactive. Apparently he was known to the regulators for trying to “induce” people to sell. But after Sandy, he became a whole lot more productive than that: he spent the first weeks in the immediate aftermath in the area, convincing the worst hit in the Montauk Harbor wharves to sell to him. He told them he knew Senator McClusky and that the senator had told him, in confidence, he was reporting back to Congress that Montauk – under the terms of local policy for strategic retreat – shouldn’t qualify for federal aid for redevelopment.’
‘What? But he’s all over the media saying the opposite.’
‘I know, and the senator’s madly disputing this conversation ever took place, but . . .’ She shrugged. ‘That was what Kevin told those people. It’s how he got them to sell. He said their businesses and homes were worthless and were to be left to the ocean, but that he alone would help them – he’d buy them out as a philanthropic gesture.’
‘Why would he do that? He didn’t have that kind of money.’
Ro shrugged. ‘Well, that’s what everyone’s asking, now that it’s all coming out. You see, no one knew that he was going round saying the same thing to everyone. He made every vendor sign a confidentiality agreement: each one thought he was doing them – and them alone – a favour.’ She watched Bobbi’s expression carefully, knowing that this wasn’t painting her boyfriend in a flattering light. ‘He bought up the entire area, paying peanuts for every premises, while they all thought he was the good Samaritan.’
‘So? He was enterprising,’ Bobbi said defiantly, her dark eyes shining. ‘Even if he did stretch the truth, those business owners were probably all more than happy to take the money and run; they’re on a hiding to nothing out there on that point. I don’t see how that justifies his being murdered.’
‘No. Of course not! There’s never justification for murder. I’m just saying . . .’ Ro sighed, trying to tread lightly. ‘He was an unscrupulous businessman, a man with enemies. Those people in Montauk may just be the thin end of the wedge, the ones we know about. Who else did he swindle?’
They sat quietly together, Bobbi absorbing Kevin’s underhand tactics that made her ambition – dating a client! – look positively bucolic.
Bobbi looked at her, a look of unbearable sadness written across her face. ‘I just can’t shake the feeling that I know.’
Ro put her arm around Bobbi’s shoulder. ‘You don’t, sweetie. You’re just very emotionally involved in a tragic situation. It’s normal to feel like you could have prevented it or done more. But the die was cast long before you and Kevin hooked up.’ Downstairs, she heard Hump coughing ‘discreetly’ in the hall. Ro squeezed her lightly. ‘And we really have to go.’
Bobbi sighed, her shoulders rolled forward, her back humped, all her yoga poise and Pilates control and New York fighting spirit gone. She stood up, wobbly on her coltish legs, pale beneath her tan, and Ro hooked her arm through Bobbi’s and led her down to where Hump was waiting for them. Ro had never even said hello to the man, but it was time to say goodbye.
Florence was outside the bookstore the following evening, just as she’d said she’d be, at 7 p.m. sharp. She was talking animatedly with another couple, her short white hair swept back from her face, her grey eyes vibrant and dancing as she made her point with extravagant hand gestures, her anthracite linen tunic swaying with her movements. No one passing would believe that she’d been – just a few days earlier – recuperating in hospital from a near-fatal accident (although Ro still believed there’d been nothing accidental about it no matter what Ted had said).
Melodie was standing a short distance away, with a separate group, all hanging on to her every word. Ro quickly checked out her hair.
‘Rowena!’ Florence called her over, and as she approached, she overheard her saying to her companions, ‘This is the girl I was telling you about.’
They all shook hands and made small talk, the group quickly swelling to almost twenty people, until Melodie checked her watch and clapped her hands quietly and they obediently followed her towards the first gallery: Robert Ingermann’s, in a studio behind Starbucks, off Main Street, which specialized in graffitied collages. Ro walked slowly along with Florence at the back of the group, insisting Florence held on to her arm. She was feeling energetic and bullish in spirit, but several weeks of almost complete bed rest, Ro knew, would have taken more strength from her than she yet realized.
As forewarned, Brook was already in there, wearing cream trousers and a panama, drinking the first glass of vintage champagne and holding forth with Robert on prices for Pollock. Ro hoped he would give Florence a wide berth tonight and not corner her with town politics. Florence needed a night out and a night off.
Not that Brook stood much chance of getting anywhere near her. They had no sooner stopped walking than Florence was encircled by a group of mature-student women gardeners, all eager to hear more about her guerrilla seed-bombing of the dunes.
‘I’ll get us some drinks,’ Ro said to Florence, who smiled back apologetically.
Ro wandered to the drinks table and took a couple of glasses of rosé, stopping in front of a giant canvas that had ‘Ecstasy’ spelled out in newspaper print and overlaid on a blue and white striped background. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of it; personally, she preferred a pretty watercolour landscape that made her daydream.
Handing Florence her drink – over the heads of the faithful – Ro wandered around the room, one hand soothingly holding on to the straps of the camera round her neck. It seemed to her that everything was ludicrously overpriced, and she was sure she could have achieved the same results herself with a newspaper and a tube of Pritt stick. She walked around slowly, finishing her drink slightly too quickly – nerves – and getting a refill, reading every information card that had been positioned beside each piece and occasionally checking her brochure as though she was considering paying for one of them.
She stopped in front of a giant mural of a 1960s likeness of Audrey Hepburn, her back to the viewer, dressed only in neon-pink knickers, with the line ‘The sexiest curve on a woman is her smile.’
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’
That voice. Ro didn’t need to turn her head to know that Melodie had come to stand beside her. Thank God. She had been standing here on her own for almost twenty minutes – although, she was surprised to realize that it didn’t bother her as it once would have done.
Ro laughed. ‘Yeah, right!’
The laughter gurgled in her throat as she took in Melodie’s expression.
‘Oh God, you were being serious. I’m so sorry. I . . .’ She swallowed, mortified. ‘I . . . uh . . . It’s just not really my thing, But I can see, maybe, how . . . uh . . .’ Audrey Hepburn in pink knickers? That cheesy line? Was she kidding? First the hair, now this . . . Ro felt the foundations of her world begin to shake.
Until Melodie winked.
‘Oh God! Melodie! You cow,’ Ro hissed, slapping an arm over her body and folding over with laughter. ‘I so thought you were serious. You totally had me.’
‘I know. I’m good, right?’
‘The best. Bloody hell, I was dying on my feet.’
Melodie leaned in, lowering her voice. ‘We only stop by here because Robert’s one of Brook’s biggest cohorts. He’s loaded and wants to put his money where Brook’s mouth is. He keeps urging Brook to run for senator next term.’ She rolled her eyes dramatically.
‘How depressing that it has to hijack your night,’ Ro said, remembering Melodie’s own words that she wasn’t defined by her husband’s job. Wasn’t this exactly a case in point?
‘Tell me about it. But then, I feel like a bad wife for not supporting him and . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I figure, how much does it really hurt for me to try and oil the wheels? And at least the champagne’s vintage.’
‘You are too selfless, Melodie. Sometimes you need to be a little more selfish –’ she nodded towards Audrey ‘– for all our sakes.’
Melodie laughed, but it wasn’t her usual sound – it was high and hollow, drawing Ro’s attention more closely. As ever, she looked exquisitely exotic, wearing a fluid teal silk-jersey harem all-in-one suit with gold mesh cuffs, her dark hair exploding in a riot of frizzy curls behind her headband, but her skin didn’t have its usual just-buffed, gold-dipped lustre, and she seemed a little on edge, her eyes constantly flitting around the room, making sure everyone had a drink, the canapés were warm, chequebooks were being opened.
‘You look tired,’ Ro said quietly. ‘Is everything all right?’
Melodie looked surprised. ‘You’re sweet to notice. I’m not sleeping well at the moment. Brook’s all wound up about the federal-aid application and he’s talking about it every waking minute. I’ll just be so glad when the damned proposal gets voted through and we can get back to our own lives.’
‘I bet.’
Melodie dipped her head lower to Ro’s, her hand on Ro’s arm. ‘An amendment to my previous advice the other day: never marry an older man or a politician,’ she said quietly. ‘And definitely don’t marry an older politician.’ She laughed her exhausted laugh again.
A beep came from Melodie’s watch and she smiled. ‘Oh, thank God. We can get out of here and go see some real art. That’s where the fun really begins. A lot of the regulars have learned to skip this stop and join us at the next one.’
Ro finished her drink in one go and they wandered outside, everyone joining them like sheep as they walked back onto Main Street and towards the old pharmacy, Melodie’s arm looped proprietorially through Ro’s this time. She looked around for Florence, but she was walking in a slow huddle with another group and seemingly in her element to be part of the wider world again.
The light was fading fast as night blew in and the street lamps were beginning to glow. There were plenty of people still milling in the streets. It was after eight now and some of the boutiques had only just closed; other people were enjoying window-shopping in the cooler temperatures, hands and noses pressed to plate glass as they eyed python-print dresses and fluoro bracelets, moss-stitch cotton sweaters and pressed shorts. The well-dressed, lightly lubricated group attracted plenty of stares from the kids in the queue at the cinema, even absorbing a few more passers-by along the way as they headed to the next gallery.
From the windows, Ro could see this one specialized in bronzes that didn’t look bronze at all, but rather had been powder-coated in matt colours. Most of the forms were from the natural world and true to life – much to Ro’s relief – such as a trio of baby owls on a branch, a leopard sleeping in a tree, a dolphin mid-dive, an antelope mid-skip . . .
‘I’d better be a good hostess now,’ Melodie said reluctantly, squeezing her arm.
‘Of course. I can’t hog you all night.’
Ro accepted another glass of wine – sauvignon, this time – and sipped it quickly as she looked at the sculptures thoughtfully. Now this was art. This she could do.
She walked slowly round a life-sized bronze of an antelope, its skittishness captured in the frisk of its legs, the angle of the head, eyes dark and unreadable and innocent. She held the camera up to her eye, not to take a picture, but to gaze at it through the lens.
‘I don’t think photographs are allowed,’ a female voice said beside her.
‘Oh, it’s OK. I wasn’t going to . . .’ Ro looked up, startled to find Julianne beside her.
Julianne looked back at her with faint surprise too, dull recognition glimmering in her kohled eyes, although Ro looked a different breed from the girl she’d been when buying beers at the Maidstone on the night of Fourth of July, now she was groomed for the night in an olive-green miniskirt and a fluffy cream waffle jumper.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Ro said quickly, her eyes flitting like butterflies around the space. Where was he? Was he here?
‘I love it. So . . . sculptural,’ Julianne murmured, clearly trying to place her.
‘Well, yes,’ Ro answered, thinking how Marina would never have said anything so stupid. She smiled vacuously and tried to move off like a seasoned networker, but Julianne stopped her with a question.
‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’ Julianne asked, turning her body towards Ro and compelling her to stay put.
‘Um . . . oh yes, yes, I think you’re right. Was it the . . . ?’ She put her finger to her chin and stared up at the ceiling, trying to convey an impression of an overloaded social diary. ‘Oh, was it the Independence party at the Maidstone?’
‘Yes. I think so.’ Julianne nodded slowly, the expression in her eyes cooling. ‘And the fundraiser in Southampton too. You wore the red dress.’
The red dress? ‘That’s right.’ Ro nodded, looking around the room for Melodie, or Florence: rescue. She didn’t find it – quite the opposite. Her eyes were stopped in their tracks by Ted Connor, who was watching their fledgling conversation from across the gallery with two full glasses of wine in his hands and was clearly oblivious to anything his companion was saying. She hadn’t seen him since the Southampton fundraiser either and their conversation, everything they’d said – and more particularly, everything they hadn’t – swam through her mind.
She watched as he abruptly held up the two full glasses by way of apology to his companion and began to wind his way through the crowd towards them. She turned back to Julianne quickly. Not even manners could keep her here. ‘Well, it’s just lovely to see you again, but if you’ll excuse me, I was on my way to say goodbye to my friends. I’m not feeling too good.’
Julianne took a step back as though she’d said she had the plague. ‘Of course.’
Ro turned and moved into the crowd, just moments before she saw – in the reflection of the window – Ted appear at Julianne’s side, his eyes on Ro’s retreating back. She felt chased by him, somehow. Tracked and hunted.
She darted over to Melodie, who was in full flow with the group of overeager women who had taken Florence hostage earlier.
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go,’ she said, talking over them all.
‘No,’ Melodie cried, clasping her by the hand. ‘But we’re only just getting going.’
‘I have a headache.’
Melodie nodded sympathetically. ‘Poor you, Ro. Wine can affect some people like that.’
‘Yes, I think I need to lie down and try to get a good night’s sleep.’
‘You need to come back to yoga properly. That would sort you out. You slept soundly when you came to my classes – I could see it in your aura. Everything about you relaxed. But now—’ Frowning, she took both Ro’s hands in hers and waggled them. She tutted. ‘All your channels are blocked. I can’t read you. No wonder your head hurts.’
The women all looked at Ro pityingly, as though they too could see her blocked channels.
‘I’ll try and get there on Monday, I promise.’ Ro leaned forward and kissed her on each cheek. ‘Enjoy. This is a brilliant evening. Brilliant. Yet another string to your already overloaded bow.’
‘Well, Brook has his committees; I have mine,’ she shrugged lightly.
‘Have you seen Florence? I need to say goodbye to her too.’
‘Yes. Actually, she was talking to Brook last time I saw her – surprise, surprise.’ The flinty edge sounded in her voice again. ‘He accompanied her outside for some fresh air. I think the heat in here was getting to her.’
‘Oh, I hope she’s not overdoing it.’ Ro looked around, concerned. It was warm in here. ‘Anyway, look, I’ll see you tomorrow maybe?’ Checking the coast was clear again, she moved silkily through a small channel that had opened up between bodies.
‘Ro—’ She heard a man behind her say, a hand managing only to brush her fingertips – the touch like an electric volt – as she slipped through the door.
Way too close!
‘Florence!’ she cried loudly, propelled by panic and striding towards Florence and Brook with exaggerated bonhomie.
‘Oh, Ro, there you are.’ Florence smiled, taking Ro’s new vigour as a consequence of the free wine. ‘Brook and I are just wildly disagreeing on my proposals to the Town Board at the next meeting.’
Brook lifted his hat lightly, bending down to kiss her on each cheek. ‘And how are you, Ro?’
‘Fine, thanks. Headache, though.’ She put a hand to her forehead to make the point. She looked back at Florence. ‘I just came to say I’m off.’
‘What? No!’ Florence cried. ‘We haven’t gotten to Terry Sanger yet, and he’s always the most thrilling.’
‘Headache,’ Ro reiterated, placing her fingers to her temples for good measure.
‘But dinner?’
‘Still headache,’ Ro cringed.
Florence sighed, disappointed. ‘Oh dear. I really wanted to have a pleasant evening out with you, something to restore both our spirits.’
‘And we will, I promise.’
Florence scowled. ‘This is all Brook’s fault, of course, cornering me on this dratted proposal when I’m off duty.’
‘You’re never off duty, Florence,’ Brook replied, clearly bemused by the thought. ‘You’re the least off-duty person I’ve ever met.’
‘Well, now, how can I be when you insist on proposing such outlandish ideas? Someone has to stand up to you.’
‘And it always has to be you, doesn’t it, Florence?’
‘Well, you agree with me, Ro, don’t you?’
‘To be honest, I don’t really know what you’re disagreeing about,’ Ro said apologetically.
‘Well,’ Florence said, shifting into a more comfortable stance and settling into her rhetoric, ‘if what the papers are saying is true, I’m firmly of the view that Senator McClusky should stand down from his post.’
‘Oh, come on, Florence! How can it be proven? It’s his word against a dead man’s! He has said he will attest on oath that he never said anything about blocking Montauk’s petition for federal aid. Hell, the man’s been its biggest supporter. He ran his campaign on it. It doesn’t make sense that he would then advise to the contrary in private. He’s being set up – it’s obvious! That murdered fellow, Kevin—’ He tried to remember his surname.
‘Kevin Bradley,’ Ro said helpfully.
‘Thank you. Kevin Bradley. Well, I’m sorry the man’s dead, of course I am, but let’s not rewrite history on account of the fact. He was a charlatan and a crook, and he had every reason to lie to those people about his so-called relationship with the senator. It was one man’s words against his, and those people were desperate – desperate, I tell you. They thought they’d lost everything. Kevin Bradley saw an opportunity to exploit them and he took it. It’s that simple. The senator’s got nothing to do with any of this.’
‘I agree we can’t know for certain, Brook, but the waters have been sullied. The fear is out there: is he blocking the region’s access to federal aid? Whether he is or not, their trust in him has gone.’
‘But, Florence,’ Brook interrupted, ‘do you not see that the very same could have been said of you after the deficit scandal? What if everyone had lost faith in you because of rumour and hearsay? The man deserves a second chance at least. There’s no evidence to support he ever even met the dead man, much less shared confidential Congress information. You know what these journalists are like – they’ll say anything for a story.’
‘There was a photograph taken of them together at some party!’ Florence refuted passionately. ‘They had certainly met.’
Ro caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Ted Connor was standing just inside the doorway. He had begun talking to someone, but Ro had no doubt the second she extricated herself from this conversation . . .
‘Well, if you want my honest opinion,’ Ro said, wading in with a passion she didn’t feel, ‘I think I probably have to agree with Brook. From everything I’ve read, Kevin Bradley sounded like the kind of person to say anything that suited his ends. He was a bit of a player by all accounts. I don’t think it’s outside the realms of possibility that he name-dropped Senator McClusky to strengthen his point and get those people to sell to him at rock-bottom prices.’
‘Precisely.’ Brook grinned at her, pleased to have her support. ‘I think you’re just going after McClusky to divert attention away from the real issue here. It’s going to be September and the end of the season here before we know it and then – boom, the storms are coming and we’re no better off than we were last year. We need to act, Florence. We need to start engineering the beaches in Montauk and that means some pretty big decisions have to be taken pretty damn quickly.’
‘Engineered beaches aren’t the only solution to this area’s problems, Brook, and you know it.’ Florence’s eyes were glimmering darkly, but with relish. Her fire was back. Politics was in her blood.
‘I do, but it’s the Coastal Erosion Committee’s recommendation. You know as well as I do that an engineered beach in Montauk is the interim measure required to make this area eligible for federal aid. Without the beach, there’s no federal money, and without that, there’s no hope. Homes and businesses will be lost – the economy and infrastructure there will collapse. And you know we can’t keep raising levies and taxes against the locals here.’
‘I still believe there are other measures we can adopt.’
‘Building dunes, you mean?’ Brook said, with a measure of disdain.
‘Among other things. We need to look at the dredging problems too. They’re exacerbating local erosion to a huge extent.’
‘What dredging problems?’ Brook frowned.
‘The survey came in from the Army Corps of Engineers while I was resting up. I had nothing else to do but read the damn thing from cover to cover.’
‘Which survey is this?’ Ro asked, trying to remain in the debate, painfully aware of Ted Connor’s stare sweeping over to her every few minutes. What did he want?
‘It’s examined the severe erosion on the Sound-side view of Montauk Harbor jetties. They say there’s evidence the area has been over-dredged by at least eighty-six thousand cubic tons of sand.’ Florence looked back at Brook. ‘And that’s just the surplus! No wonder the area’s so vulnerable. I’m going to be calling for a review of the dredging companies operating in the East End area at the next meeting. The ten-year permits come up for renewal in October and I think it’s the right time to really sit down and examine who we’re giving the business to—’
Brook shook his head dismissively. ‘This is precisely the kind of time-wasting delay I’m talking about. People need action, not surveys. Winter is on its way round to us and we’re like sitting ducks.’
Ro put her hand up, feeling like she had to request permission to speak. ‘Uh . . . so anyway, my headache.’
Florence laughed, drawn out of her debate at last. ‘Oh, Rowena. You are too polite, standing there listening to us old warhorses battling it out while you’re feeling so bad.’ She gathered Ro in an embrace. ‘Let’s have breakfast and an early morning swim together soon.’
‘How are you getting home?’ Brook asked.
‘I’ll get a cab.’ She eyed the street for a lit taxi sign. Oh, what she’d do to see the Humper right now, but she knew Hump was settled in for a quiet night with Bobbi. She was still subdued from the funeral yesterday, and only Ro’s manners had propelled her out here tonight.
‘Nonsense. Take my car. My driver can come back for me. No doubt Florence and I will still be here disagreeing violently.’ He raised his arm before Ro could protest further and a driver stepped out of the silver Mercedes parked by the kerb.
‘Well, if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble . . .’ Ro said hesitantly.
‘Just make sure he doesn’t take the long way home. I do enough walking on the fairways without adding more miles to these poor feet of mine.’
‘Thanks. I really appreciate it.’
She kissed them both goodbye and walked quickly across the pavement, as the driver opened the door for her and she slid into the toffee-coloured leather seats and air-conditioned comfort. The windows were black-tinted and impossible to see into.
The driver was just getting into his seat when the passenger-side door opened.
‘Oh, you did not just do that!’ Ro exclaimed in alarm, as Ted turned to face her, like it was the most natural thing in the world that he should be sitting there.
‘You are trying to escape me,’ he said.
‘N-no!’ she protested, wild thoughts running through her head.
‘So then why did you go running when you saw me coming over to talk to you?’
‘Why did you come running over when you saw me talking to your girlfriend?’ she shot back.
‘Good question . . .’ He looked quizzical. ‘And I’m not sure.’
‘Ma’am, is everything OK back there?’ It was the driver, talking to her through the intercom system. The privacy panel was shut, but she could make out his silhouette.
Ted held up his hands. ‘I’ll get out if you want me to. I just thought we could talk.’
‘About what?’
‘. . . The children’s photography session?’ he said.
Yeah, right. The thought had clearly only just occurred to him. ‘Now? What about Julianne?’
‘She’s haggling over Bambi. She won’t notice if I’m gone for ten minutes.’
‘Ma’am?’ It was the driver again.
‘Uh . . . God, fine. Yes. It’s fine,’ she grumbled, doing a thumbs-up sign for good measure, not sure she had pressed the correct button. ‘Sea Spray Cottage, Egypt Lane, please.’
The car began to roll forward and she settled herself on the seat, legs away from him, while she fiddled with her seat belt.
‘It’s OK – you’re pretty protected in a car like this,’ Ted said, watching her fidget.
‘I don’t want to be an elephant.’
‘An elephant?’ he repeated.
‘Yes. In a car accident, if you’re not wearing a seat belt, the forward momentum of impact makes the person in the rear seat hit the seat of the person in front with the same weight as an elephant. It’s one of the commonest causes of death in traffic accidents.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Ted grinned. ‘Although I guess the driver’s safe today at least. There’s a wall between you and him.’ Ro arched an eyebrow and he quickly turned and grabbed his seat belt. ‘Principle, though, I agree,’ he murmured, buckling up.
They sat in silence for a minute, Ted intermittently looking across as Ro clasped her hands between her knees, trying not to jiggle.
‘So . . . you wanted to talk about shooting the kids,’ she said finally.
‘What?’
Ro laughed hard at his mistake. Too hard. Either her nerves were getting the better of her or the wine had gone to her head after all. ‘I don’t mean with bullets, you numpty. Shooting film. The photography session.’
‘Did you just call me a “numpty”?’
‘That’s right,’ she replied, trying to stop an unstoppable smile. Definitely the wine.
‘That some British word for a jerk?’
‘Something like that.’ She recovered herself, clearing her throat. ‘Sorry.’
‘No,’ he murmured, looking out of the window. ‘I rather liked it.’
She caught his profile as though she was seeing it through the lens – the straight sweep of his nose, the deep swoop of his lashes, the soft curl of his hair that needed a cut soon . . .
‘So . . . the children.’ He looked over at her, but she found it almost impossible to hold his gaze. She couldn’t lie like he could; she couldn’t hide behind a smile. She couldn’t pretend he was just a client when all the time she was trying to work out his hold over Florence, his motivation. He hid behind his manners all the while the facts stacked up against him in hers and Florence’s recent misadventures. But which was right: fact or instinct? Which man was he: the man on the films or the man on the beach? How could he be both? She felt she couldn’t trust her own judgement anymore. Everything was blurred, confused. ‘I thought we could do it on Shelter Island.’
‘Shelter Island?’ She’d heard of it . . .
‘It’s just off Sag Harbor. Not far as the crow flies, but we have to sail over. Obviously – being an island.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve got a place we can use. It’s pretty. There’s woods, beaches . . .’
‘OK,’ she nodded. ‘That sounds good.’
The car rolled to a gentle halt and she realized they were back at the house already. It was only a few blocks, after all. ‘Oh. This is me.’
‘I’ll walk you to the door,’ Ted said, quickly climbing out of the car before she could protest.
‘Thanks,’ she said reluctantly, as he opened the car door for her. They walked up the short path over the green, then through the gate and onto the porch steps. ‘Um, so when were you thinking for that? How’s Finn’s hair?’
‘Behaving itself finally.’ He stared down at her, his gaze so steady, so unflinching, so undrunk. ‘I don’t suppose you can do next weekend?’
‘I can’t think of a reason why not.’ She couldn’t think of much, actually. The wine really had hit her.
‘We’ll come pick you up at ten o’clock Saturday?’
She nodded. ‘OK.’
‘Great.’ And without warning, he leaned down and kissed her once on each cheek, his lips soft against her skin, his hands on her arms, their eyes locked in a momentary pause before he straightened up. ‘Saturday, then.’
Ro watched him go, utterly unable not to, so completely paralyzed it was like her feet had taken root. She watched him get back into the car and the car pull away again. She couldn’t see if he was looking back at her looking at him through the tinted windows. She carried on looking for at least a minute after the car had gone, trying to regulate her breathing, temper her erratic pulse, recover from the shock of his touch. It had been nothing, just a social kiss – no different to the ones she had so unthinkingly just given Brook and Florence.
No different. It was the wine, making everything feel . . . different.
Slowly, she turned – and stopped again. Hump was standing behind the screen door, frozen mid-step with a plate of pizza in his hand, watching her.
‘What?’
‘Still frightened of him, are you?’ he asked, as he turned and continued into the kitchen.
No, not frightened, she thought, as she put one trembling hand to her cheek. It felt singed by his touch. Terrified was more like it.