Where we met before, he said. I can always come to you. The bottom gate, from the Embankment, is always open, even on Sundays. I’ll bring the car, pick you up. Easy on Sunday. Then we can go wherever you’d like. We could lunch, we could walk, I could drop you at home.
Proprietorial, organised.
Do not ever get into cars with strange men. No. Certainly not to be brought home. That would mean he would know where Ivy lived. Wasn’t that the whole idea?
No. What was she thinking of? He could always have found out where Ivy lived or had lived, if he wanted. Grace would have told him, if he had not been avoiding Grace. Maybe he did want to know where Ivy was.
In the long reaches of the night, when she woke from the dream of the rat being pursued across her own room, she tried to think it through logically.
Carl had long since abandoned his wife. He did not want to know her family. He might have remarried, repartnered. He was doing all he could to prevent his son from seeing any of them. It would be better for him all round if Ivy and her kind did not exist. Maybe Rachel was acting the role of the ferret, flushing him out of his hole. Maybe she was the decoy, the deliverer of prey. Maybe she was not helping Ivy or Grace at all. Maybe she was simply exposing all of them.
She had put out of her mind the memory of the panting policeman who had interrupted them on the bench, the one who wanted a word with the judge’s wife. Did they intend to frame her for something? Why would a policeman want a word with Ivy? Was he the judge’s pet poodle?
Had Rachel disturbed a hornets’ nest? She remembered with shame the careless way she had revealed to Carl that Ivy shared her flat, and the deft way Carl had sidestepped the policeman to deny she had any knowledge of where Ivy was. It had been smooth; it had somehow felt kind, at the time, as if he was sparing her something, and yet it was only proof that he lied with ease, whatever the purpose. Still, she treasured that memory, alongside that of his courtesy in court.
By the time she arrived at the Embankment gate to the Temple, she could no longer admire the view of the river behind her and the narrow cobbled road which led into the labyrinth of courtyards before her. She was wishing she was not there, uncertain of why she was there, feeling guilty, suspicious, nervous, impertinent, and yet, through it all, she did want to see him again.
As he pulled into the entrance and jumped out of the driving seat, neither his car nor his clothes was designed to impress. An old Ford, with a conspicuous dent in the rear left wing. He was dressed for the sticky, humid weather carelessly, in the clothes of a man who wore a daily uniform and did not otherwise care. A half-pressed check shirt, creased cotton trousers, shoes, no socks, no obvious thought behind what he wore. The clothes were clean and solid, like himself. They fitted his bulk. He smiled that radiant smile of his, the one which so discommoded the defendant in the dock, even when it came from behind that ridiculous wig. It was a grin which said, I know what you mean, and she hated herself for responding to it. She had a painless flashback to the last time she had got into a car with a man. Her lover would have selected every item of his expensive apparel with care, concentrating on the overall effect. The car would have to be a BMW, at least. He had liked money too much.
‘I didn’t bring the Porsche,’ Carl said, ‘in case it got wet later.’
A joke, she realised. He looked better suited to a tractor than a Porsche. ‘My son is so ashamed of this car,’ Carl said, opening the door for her, ‘that he almost refuses to borrow it. Almost.’
They could have been a man and a woman interested in one another, going out for a drive and a meal, like thousands of others across the city and beyond. Simply seeking entertainment. Could have: it was a nice illusion. She was trying to guess his age. Mid-forties, minimum, the kind who improves with age, except she could not imagine there had ever been anything callow about him.
‘Was it him or you who backed this heap into a wall?’ she asked.
He manoeuvred the car back into the slow Sunday traffic, across three lanes, turning back at the next junction to go in the opposite direction, entirely certain of his route.
‘It was him this time,’ Carl said. ‘But for the sake of good neighbourly relations, it’s always better to be me. I thought we might find somewhere near the river. The Tate? A view of the water always helps.’
She was not being given a choice, and since she was so confused about the nature of the occasion, she was glad to have decisions made for her, simply nodded, fine.
‘What freed you up for today?’ he asked. ‘Nothing unpleasant, I hope. Nothing disastrous.’
Rachel had decided on sight of him that any kind of subterfuge or messing around was beyond her today, especially since she did not know what game she was playing. She had never been good at games.
‘I was at Midwinter Farm, with Ivy and her parents. My father was ill and I had to come back last night.’
‘Oh,’ he said, slowing down almost to a standstill. ‘I’m so sorry. Where does he live? Shall I take you there? Is he all right? I could take you, that’s what cars are for.’
It was so disingenuous, she laughed out loud.
‘He lives in Luton, and he doesn’t want me there today. An asthma attack. Nothing terminal. He just wanted me to know.’
‘You’re sure? My son was asthmatic; luckily he grew out of it. It’s terrifying. Are you really sure? Doesn’t matter where it is. I can take you.’
‘Yes. I’m sure. Or at least I’m sure he’s sure. If we’re going to Pimlico, it’s the next turning on the right, there.’
She was glad to be able to give directions, relieved that he had almost gone the wrong way. It made him fallible. In profile he looked so much like the photo of his father in the Wisemans’ underused living room. Carl the younger, the image of his dad.
‘What’s your father like?’ he asked as if guessing her thoughts.
She was surprised into replying.
‘Mine? Oh, stiff-necked, proud of it. High standards, low prejudices. Finds it difficult to relax. Has to be busy.’
‘Sounds a little like mine was. I wonder if we all make life difficult for our children. It’s the only reason I dread being old.’
The car was parked; they walked towards the river, another section of it with a different view. He was saying how he was never quite able to get away from the river, and wondered why. He hated getting wet, but there was nothing quite so wonderful as the spectacle of light on water, and had she ever been to the Tate at St Ives? Yes, she said, she had. She had been everywhere and seen nothing; the knowledge surprised her. Years before, she had gone. Maybe the drawing class had not been such a random choice. Even before Ivy she had always been attracted to shape rather than nature. The interest in drawing had always been there, or maybe she meant an interest in lines. She told Carl where she had met Ivy. I would kill to be able to draw, he said; my father thought any such thing frivolous. Mine too, she said. If he knew, even now, that I went to a life drawing class, he would think I was crazy. He’d say, what for?
‘Mine,’ Carl said, ‘would have said, for what? He took English as his second language very seriously. He learned how. Never put the preposition at the end, nor split an infinitive. I grew up speaking like a grammar lesson. Composing sentences in my head in advance. You must get it right. Don’t speak as I do, people will know. He never did get it right. If he were here now he would say, at which place lunch are we having? Let’s be sitting, shall we?’
‘Mine would say,’ Rachel said, laughing at his mimicry and the speed of his speech, ‘I don’t care where we go, because I’m not going to like it.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I hope the same thing doesn’t apply to you.’
They were under a blue awning on a balcony, the colour casting shade on their faces, before she remembered he was the enemy and that an ease of manner, masquerading as charm, was part of his profession. No, that was not true; she knew many an ill-mannered lawyer. It seemed a shame not to enjoy it: she wanted to postpone the shattering of the temporary illusion and the going back to the knowledge of what a shit he was, the picture of Grace weeping over the crumpled letter in the kitchen and Ivy working so hard so that she might be fit to see her own son. It would be nice to be out on a summer’s day with a man whose face she liked, and who, it seemed, liked hers, talking about fathers in the shade, with nothing to do but eat and fill in the blank spaces of each other’s histories, which in his case, right here and now, she would have liked to forget. She looked round at the place he had chosen, and remembered that Ivy would have to work two long night shifts to pay for a meal in a place like this.
‘Shall we get down to business?’ she asked more shyly than assertively as the waiter went away with an order. Just a drink for now, thanks.
He became businesslike.
‘My pedantic father would have said business always involves money. Everything else is personal. On second thoughts, maybe it is about money. Is that what Ivy wants?’
‘No. No.’
Rachel was immediately defensive. The pleasantness had been too good to last.
‘It was a question,’ he said, ‘that’s all. A question. An entirely pragmatic question. You aren’t on trial. It’s me who’s on trial. I never thought of you as an emissary with instructions, and I have thought about you, incessantly. Maybe because you’re beautiful and I liked you on sight. As I said, you’re brave.’
‘Oh.’
Crisp white wine under a shaded sky. Praise, of a sort. Rachel steeled herself. Praise instead of criticism; being listened to, waited for. The preposition was in the wrong place. She knew her weaknesses, rallied to attack.
‘There’s nothing brave about it. It’s … necessary. And no, it’s not about money. It’s about dreams. I love them, you see. Ernest and Grace and Ivy, Ivy first.’
‘And I,’ he said, ‘have loved them longer. Since I was a boy, and my father before me.’
‘You’ve a fine way of showing it.’
‘When you have children, you might, just might think differently. You have to have priorities. Them first and always. If there’s conflict, something has to go. The child is always first. You must keep their innocence as long as you can, I think. Even if you have to sacrifice someone else.’
Now she was really angry, inhibited because she didn’t really know, had no experience to quote, except her own. She felt ignorant; the selfish, childless one who only dreamed of having children.
‘When I married Ivy,’ he said, ‘it was the most natural thing in the world. Shotguns weren’t necessary, although the gun had been jumped, if you see what I mean. I wanted Cassie. My father wanted Cassie. I wanted lots and lots of Cassies, boys and girls. I’m an only child of an orphaned child. Boys for my father, boys for Farmer Wiseman, girls for me. Success for me, so that I could keep them all. I don’t know how much you know about all of this, but …’
‘Quite a lot. From Grace. Just tell me the story.’
She was reasserting some semblance of control. He looked away. The sky beyond their blue canopy darkened.
‘Ivy was eighteen, I was twenty-seven, when Cassie was born. Ridiculous. She was the most beautiful thing, they were the most beautiful things. I wasn’t a good father, not with babies. I didn’t know any more about shared responsibility than Adam and Eve. Old-fashioned, work-obsessed. I didn’t understand why Ivy still wanted to kick over the traces. Go out, behave like eighteen, as if motherhood changed all that, instead of imprisonment, stretching away, for ever. I don’t know, I wish I did. Sam was born the next year. I really had put her in prison. We were a big old battleground. Cassie clung to her, Sam to me. We fought.’
Like cat and dog, she finished. Something came into her mind. Ivy practised on the cat and the dog. Can’t risk having pets.
It had become warm and muggy. Maybe Ivy and Grace would have gone back to the sea. Or down to the lake. She must swim in that lake. She wanted to dive into the dangerous river Thames, get cool. It was pre-thunderstorm, oppressive heat.
‘All I want,’ she said, ‘is for you to meet Grace and Ernest. That’s it. That’s all I have to do, all I want to achieve.’
‘All? And for what purpose?’
She had thought about this, scaled down the ambition of whatever it was she had wanted.
‘Ernest is getting old and uncertain. He dreams of you, or your father, coming back. I’ve done the sums, unofficially, on the farm. It loses money. Grace has a bed-and-breakfast business which just about keeps it afloat, but not for much longer. It might … reconcile him, them, one way or another.’
‘It might enrage him. He might ask me for money, in advance.’
Money, again. She knew what judges earned. Not bad, but not mega-riches either. She could not help but be interested in the money aspect of everything. It was her job. It was natural to be preoccupied with money.
‘What do you mean, in advance?’
‘Ernest has always known that if I die, prematurely or otherwise, half of what I own will go to them. My money, such as it is, is never mine. Unfortunately, everyone has to wait until I die, and I’m only forty-five. Ancient, I know. That was a provision in the will I made when I married and I haven’t altered it. Prudent people make wills when they marry, as you know.’
Yes, prudent accountants always advised it.
‘I made that provision because of my father. He wanted me to look after them. He said we owed our start in life to the Wisemans. It was his home, you see. But I can’t help them yet. What I earn is earmarked for Sam.’
‘Carl the elder,’ she said.
‘I see you know the history. Or some of it. Why are we talking about money?’
‘It’s always … relevant. But not the point here. Ernest has to work out what to do, and dreams get in the way, perhaps. As for darling Grace, I think if she clapped eyes on you, all would be forgiven. If she could get to see her grandson, once, all would be forgiven. There would be an ending and a beginning, and from there you could all work out how to get Ivy and Sam together.’
It sounded depressingly optimistic and naïve, even as she said it.
‘And Ivy would have no part in this initial meeting?’
Rachel shook her head, sure that that was right.
‘No. She wouldn’t know. It would be a … strategic meeting. Tell her afterwards. Let Grace tell her.’
He poured more wine into her glass, scarcely touching his own. He did not fidget. She noticed the way he applied his full concentration to everything she said, and everything he said himself. Not a man for the ill-considered remark. Rachel was trying to remember his cruelty. Beyond the awning, the sky darkened.
‘All right, I’ll do it, on those terms.’
‘What?’
‘I said, I’ll do it. Or at least I’ll consider it, as long as you do too, because there’s something you have to understand. Wisemans don’t do forgiveness, at least not the female of the species. I don’t think Ernest would ever forgive me either; God knows, I’ve a lot to be forgiven for. And Ivy herself may never forgive you at all for your part in it. The result could be as hurtful as the hurt it intends to avoid. Especially if I have to explain that Sam is so absolutely adamant that he does not want to meet his mother, or his grandparents, that he resorts to deceit to avoid it.’
She did not believe him. How could anyone not want to know Ivy and Grace? How could anyone not be better for knowing them? This was the man who had virtually killed his own child by neglect, left her to drown, blaming his other child for not wanting to make amends.
‘It’s always useful to have someone to blame,’ she said.
‘You could,’ he said, ‘apply that to Ivy as well as to me. Are you sure she would like this to happen?’
All of a sudden, she wasn’t. She fell back on it being, feeling, the right thing to do. It was all too easy. He was too damn straightforward, too likeable. The images simply didn’t fit with that of a man who had thrust his wife out into the cold because she was mad with grief. But then she herself had loved a man corrupted by greed, and that had not shown either.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘will you come home with me? I’ve got better wine than this, and if you really do want to remain involved, there’s a couple of things I’d like to explain. You might meet my son, although I doubt it on Sunday. Alternatively, you can back out now and we never had this meeting. Ivy need never know.’
She did not want to go to his home with him, and yet she did. It seemed an insane, risky thing to do, but the curiosity was stronger. So was the challenge. She had wanted to be involved, and that meant being willing to be involved up to the neck. What kind of friend backed out now? And there was that inconvenient visceral thing. She did not want to leave him yet, not for a long time. He smiled that smile which had surely duped dozens of people into thinking he cared about them. She hesitated. Going back alone to the house of a man with a record of violence was a stupid thing to do, and she shouldn’t even think of doing it. Better stay on neutral territory. Then she thought, sod the risk, don’t flatter yourself, and besides, he’s already conceded a lot, so why not? She thought of all the things Ivy would risk for her without counting the odds. Ivy would jump into a pit of rattlesnakes for her. Besides, she dearly wanted the explanations, whatever they were. She wanted to give him a chance. He saw the hesitation.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘As a judge, I have a reputation to keep. I shan’t do anything nasty. Not to a successful professional woman who would report me anyway.’
But you would to a woman with no qualifications or status. Like a wife.
The thought was ironic but reassuring. She was protected by a certain status; shameful that Ivy never had been. He had too much to risk. She made up her mind. The whole scenario was bizarre; let it be more so. She was helped by the conviction that this simply was not planned.
‘By all means phone someone and tell them where you’ll be, if it makes you feel safer.’
She shook her head.
‘Where do you live?’
‘The other end of the river, by the water. Not far, on a Sunday.’
It began to rain. He took her arm as they ran back to the dented car, and she shivered.
Back through the centre in the pouring rain, keeping to the river, then into the hinterland she had never known, all of it obscured by the rain on the windscreen. Diving into the half-empty streets of the banking district, which she knew, out the other side towards the east. The territory of old markets, tide upon tide of immigrants who stayed and colonised, laid waste, rebuilt, moved on. She had never quite understood the romance of the East End and the old Docklands, apart from it being a route somewhere, and looking at it through the rain, she could understand why it impelled each new generation to get out.
‘This was where I grew up,’ Carl said. ‘At a time when no one was quite sure what nationality they were, or wanted to be. The main division was white and black. There were two many races for anyone to be racist. It was a good beginning. My father was a cleaner. Rose to supervisor.’
That jolted her. The judge had come a long way.
‘Did your father ever go home?’
‘He had no home. He never wanted to go back to see the ruin of what had been his. Berlin was razed to the ground. He thought it would make him feel angry, and he couldn’t afford that. Something he taught me. Keep your anger dry, boy. Otherwise it rots you.’
She forgot the route, and once the decision had been made and caution put to the back of her mind, she felt oddly comfortable in the passenger seat, being taken somewhere she did not know, like a patient, curious passenger on a coach trip. Nothing to do except say, Oooh, look at that, and wait to arrive. The destination, any destination became desirable as the rain increased into a torrent, beating against the car. There was a moment of anxiety when they entered an underground garage which looked like a prison, reassuring to find it light. She followed him up endless stairs into his flat, stifling the recurrence of unease, thinking how clever he was. This would be hard to find. It felt like entering a fortress.
A comfortable fortress, with attractive minimalism, the bare necessities of furnishings, wooden floors and rugs, enough clutter to show signs of life, and the luxury of silence. It was both domesticated and orderly and made her feel better. She scarcely noticed the details except for the cool clarity of it all, the balcony and the mesmeric presence of the water beyond that big window. That did it. Assessing it simply as a place, Rachel could have gone home, packed up her bags and come to live here tomorrow. She almost said so.
He came back from the kitchen with wine, olives, roughly cut cubes of bread and cheese, the work of minutes. Better than lunch, a mere relaxing ritual. The eating of something made her feel better. So did the realisation of knowing that it was he who was nervous and anxious to please, and what he provided was leftovers. Kind, but hardly part of a grand master plan. This was not quite what he had expected to happen. He was not used to entertaining at home. No rings on his fingers. The bathroom she had used was notably free of feminine smells. The wine had gone to her head. Stop it, she told herself. Listen. Remember who he is. He is trusting you. Now you know how he lives, it makes us more equal.
Why is he being so nice to me?
Carl wiped his hands on a napkin.
‘What I wanted to explain is something you may not know, but it is the clue to rather a lot more. Ivy is …’
‘If you’re going to badmouth Ivy to me, forget it. I won’t hear it.’
He drew breath patiently.
‘I was going to say Ivy’s complicated. I’ve never criticised my wife, least of all to another woman. I’ve had to point out certain features of her, but that’s not the same thing. I don’t criticise her to my boy, or to anyone else. I tell people she had her reasons, as she still has. You’ll know better than me about that. But I do want to point out her unreason. If Ivy ever worshipped any god, it would be the great god Pan. Or some marvellous creature of a mythological world, Thor, or Diana the Huntress. A vengeful god at any rate, one with the power over life and death, although I suppose all gods have that. What I mean is that hers is a primitive soul, with all the sophistications that follow. Conventional morality simply does not matter.’
Rachel tried to stop him.
‘That doesn’t prevent her from being the kindest, most generous person alive,’ he went on. ‘But her head is full of images you and I might not be able to guess at. And a binary set of rules. She loves you or hates you. White or black, no shades of grey. Perhaps because she’s never mastered more than rudimentary reading – and no, I could not make her do that – she has less chance of analysis. There’s nothing to mitigate a fixation. She was reared on fairy stories. Love, death, revenge. Unless you read, you don’t shift the imprint of what you’ve, literally, learned by heart. You don’t change your own maxims. Practice makes perfect was one of hers. I can see why now.’
‘There are other ways of learning and analysing. Like drawing and listening.’
‘Yes, sure.’
‘You’re saying Ivy’s thick and irrational.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m saying she has a very literal mind, even if it isn’t literate. She’ll choose a single track and stick to it. She’s had to fight her way to what she knows. She sticks with what she’s good at. You’re right. Of course I don’t know what she’s like now, and I’m only saying anything at all because I don’t want you to risk Ivy’s hatred. It’s awesomely determined, especially when turned on herself. Oh, hell. That isn’t what I wanted to explain, though, even if it might be part of it.’
He moved across to the desk which dominated the room and came back with a folder of photographs, selecting a couple as he moved.
‘I wouldn’t wish these on anyone,’ he said. ‘They aren’t exactly holiday snaps, but if you really want to stay involved – and you can stop, whenever you like – then you must know how my daughter, Cassie, died. It’s the only way to get a grip on who has to forgive whom, and for what.’
He sat beside her. Her skin tingled. She felt as if the sea salt lingered from yesterday.
‘Police photos. Only the setting is aesthetic. You know the lake. You didn’t know Cassie.’
A pale, dead face in close-up, turned to one side, blood in the nostrils, red-blonde hair, and a triangular mark on the neck. Rachel wanted to turn away, and disliked him for being able to hold the photograph with a steady hand. He withdrew the last picture and turned it face down on the table beside the remnants of the food, watching her reaction with concern.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve looked at these so often, and judges see photographs of injuries all the time, I forget other people aren’t used to it. One more.’
A photo of a piece of excised skin, pinned and stretched on to a grey surface, the same mark, stained brown. Revulsion was at war with curiosity. He pointed at the mark.
‘Exhibit A. A section of skin, taken from the neck. No one could understand why Cassie drowned. All right, she was left alone. I was in charge, impatient father that I was, half asleep, time for tea. She wouldn’t get out of the water. Sam was furious with her: she was ruining his afternoon and he was hungry. He went down to the edge and threw stones at her. Pebbles, really, pathetic aim, no chance he would hit her, but she swam further out. I caught him and spanked him, yelled at her to do what she damn well liked and carted him back home, yowling all the way. I didn’t worry about leaving Cassie. She would come out as soon as she wanted; she was like an eel and the lake was her playground. Not usually so early in the year, because it would have been too cold, but it was a May heat wave. I didn’t know about the swans. Ivy’s father’s precious swans, the descendants of those which Ernest and my father had reintroduced to replace the ones Carl and his hungry mates had killed to eat, years before. Another story that was always on his conscience.’
Carl the younger was speaking faster and faster, as if to minimise it without omitting anything and get it over.
‘There were no injuries to Cassie, no third parties. Only that mark on her neck. Ernest pointed the police in the direction of the swans. It was too early in the year … she went too close to the nest. They trapped the adult swans, made beak imprints. One of them matched. Daddy Swan had done for her. It took quite a while to establish that.’
He took a deep breath and steadied himself. There was a slight sheen of perspiration on his brow. Rachel wanted to wipe it away. He put the photos back into the folder.
‘Ivy stayed with her mother, who tried to calm her. It simply wasn’t possible. Sam wanted to be with her. He cried in her lap and told her about throwing stones at Cassie in the water. She went ballistic. I took Sam back to London with me. My father was dying, then. I was trying to comfort them both in my ham-fisted way, and trying to keep myself under wraps. I had to stay in control at all costs. Then, a fortnight later, when I finally heard from the police that Cassie’s drowning was caused by the swans, something in me snapped. I drove down overnight, got Ernest’s rifle – he had a licence for one then, never used it, someone else always had to do the killings; my father had taught me, like Ernest taught Ivy. Anyway, I’d lost my mind. I bribed the swans with crumbs, and blasted away like a madman. I shot them all.’
He stopped abruptly. Pushed the folder away and gave a short, mirthless bark of laughter.
‘I don’t know quite why I’m telling you this. It makes me a helluva lot more primitive than Ivy. As stupid and wicked as a seventeenth-century judge, presiding over the trial and execution of an animal, as they did. Sanctioning the hanging of a pig for harming a baby, the ritual slaughter of a goat for damaging property. I’ve never been more ashamed of anything. More ashamed than I was of leaving Cassie. I hated them and I shot them.’
Rachel was silent. She wanted to touch him. He turned to her, as if imploring her to understand. She thought she did. She wanted to take hold of his hand, and didn’t. The silence seemed to relieve him.
‘That’s what I wanted to explain, because I never have. And also to put your very kind master plan into perspective. Ernest took the blame. The police sympathised and did nothing except take away his licence for a rifle. Only handguns left with a three-foot range, I expect. I think of it every day when I sit on the bench. It’s not so difficult to forgive people really, not when you’re me. I not only let my beautiful daughter die in terror, I killed her ghost as well as Ernest’s swans …’
‘They’ve come back,’ she said. He was not listening.
‘So you see, there’s rather a lot to reconcile, more than possible, I think. And if you should ever meet my son for long enough, don’t ever mention he threw pebbles into the water at his sister. He’s a nice boy, he doesn’t deserve to remember that. It had nothing to do with anything in the end.’
He turned back into the considerate judge, clicking his tongue, tut-tutting at himself, agonised with apologies.
‘I am so sorry. I’ve burdened you with more than enough. You look pale. It isn’t fair. Look at the time. I’ll take you home. Public transport on a Sunday’s a bugger from here. I shouldn’t have invited you here. I’m amazed you accepted, amazed you listened. I don’t want you to regret it.’
She wanted to say, yes, I’m amazed at myself, and I’ve got no problem with anything you’ve said. I’m just gobsmacked that you trusted me with it and I don’t doubt a word of it. I’m lost. And I’m also thinking, I’ve got no issues with that piece of history, only with what you did next. Did you apply all that leftover anger to Ivy? Is that why she had to go? Is your son frightened of you? I would be. Ivy was.
There was the sound of a door slamming, a noisy entrance into the place, whistling, the banging down of something. Someone wanted to be noticed. The door to the main room of the flat burst open in response to a kick and he shambled in. He was, she thought later, a rather beautiful sight. Better than any view of the river. He was long and rangy with an elegant slouch, brilliant blue eyes, black jeans and vest.
His own view took in the scenery, from the rainswept balcony to the half-eaten olives and empty bottle of wine, to Rachel’s face, figure and clothes, right down to her feet. The boy and the man gave each other a look of quizzical affection. Sam winked at him.
‘Cool, Dad,’ Sam said. ‘Is this your new squeeze? About bloody time.’
He went over to his father and hugged him briefly. Then turned to Rachel, smiling.
‘I wish,’ Carl said. ‘Sam, this is Rachel, Rachel, Sam. She’s only my accountant, unfortunately. Recently demoted to being my confessor, poor woman.’
Sam shrugged his shoulder in mock despair.
‘Shame,’ he said to Rachel. ‘It’s been years. I have my hopes, but he never delivers. You’re very welcome. Are you sure you don’t like him? Even a little bit?’
Rachel found herself laughing. He was entirely infectious. He had his mother’s ranginess, and Grace’s outrageous smile.
‘Mustn’t keep you,’ Sam said. ‘I’ll get out of the way, just in case anything develops. Can I borrow the car?’
‘Not if you’ve been drinking.’
‘You joke. On the Sabbath? I mean, not yet.’
‘Depends on where you’re going.’
‘Up west.’
‘Fine. Provided you take Rachel home.’
Sam looked at her steadily and grinned. She could not help but grin back.
‘Cool,’ he said.
She turned to Carl, still grinning.
‘I promise I won’t reveal all your financial affairs en route.’
‘Feel free,’ Sam said. ‘I love gossip.’
‘Hope not. We’ll talk in the week about the meeting, when you’ve thought about it, if you like.’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Fine.’
He trusts me.