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  The thought also sickens. I feel the profound chill of shame, regret. I loathe the knowledge that for ever more the familiar trio of Isabel, Carlotta and I will never be the same. Carlotta and I are now bound by a secret that Isabel must never discover, though the idea of my wife being the ignorant party is too appalling to think about. For my unforgivable betrayal I’ll be punished for years to come.

  Dazed, shaken, I got up very early, tidied up the things from last night. I didn’t want Gwen to think I’d been entertaining while Isabel was away. Sylvie came down at her usual time. Intent on finding some lost book, she pointed out that it was odd to find her father putting a bowl of cornflakes on the table for her – not a normal practice. I managed a laugh, relieved to see she appeared her normal self. All the huffiness of last night seemed to have disappeared.

  I switched on the radio, so there was no need to talk. When I dropped her at school she gave me a particularly firm kiss on the cheek. What, if anything, was going through her mind?

  Home, I took a couple of aspirin before going to the office, and remembered that today I was to have lunch with Bert. Should I, in the most oblique way, tell him about the disaster last night?

  ‘Of course not, you fool,’ I told myself. Men don’t have those kinds of conversation. Bert wouldn’t want to hear of my idiocy any more than, in truth, I would want to confess. And besides, confession is an unreliable way of easing guilt. No: we’d talk about his life, his plans, laugh about some of our misdemeanours in the past – funny how, recalled, elaborated, they still amuse us. Part of the pleasure, of course, is recognising each other’s embroidery.

  Lunch with Bert would be the one cheering thing in the day. What a bugger is remorse.

  ISABEL

  I’d forgotten the kitchen clock was permanently ten minutes slow, and mistimed my call. Dan was leaving the house. Sylvie was already in the car. So only a brief word, but he was fine. No news. We’d speak this evening.

  The long day rolled emptily ahead. Being a creature of habitual discipline, I find a curious kind of alarm underlines the pleasure of such days. Mornings are the problem. Mornings, in my scheme of things, are for work. I like the routine of early rising, getting down to my masks as soon as Dan and Sylvie have gone. I like keeping at it – the four hours pass so fast – till lunchtime, when I feel I’ve earned the slacking off in the afternoon and the change of occupation. What a ridiculous, puritanical concept, I tell myself so often. Were I not bound by it, I would enjoy holidays much more. As it is, during the obligatory holiday in France … or Italy – or wherever – in a rented house or hotel, mornings confound me. What can I do with that stretch of time if I can’t work? I join in with whatever the plan for the day is, of course, but it never feels right. And the afternoon, unearned, is less rewarding. But obviously I can’t take all my mask-making stuff with me, or even bring it here for a few days. So I’m left with the problem of unstructured hours till lunch. Alone in my parents’ house, there’s no need to shop. On my own, I scarcely eat. The relief of not having to think about food is immense. I promised I’d take Chancer for a walk twice a day, and deadhead the roses if I felt like it. When I came down for breakfast she was asleep under the kitchen table. No need to disturb her just yet. I went to the drawer in the hall chest where the secateurs were kept. In it I found a couple of metallic marbles, a single gardening glove in a state of such rigor mortis it could never be worn again, various lengths of string and a pre-historic torch. They were all there when I was a child. My mother never throws anything away. But she would scoff at the obvious idea that things past their prime might come in useful one day. Her reasons for her serious hoarding are far more inventive, convincing, funny. And somewhere within me, too, lurks her disposition for hanging onto useless things. I understand the feeling. It’s a sort of security: material links with the past. Reminders. My mother’s habit encourages friendly scoffing from those who love her. Sometimes I even join in the laughter myself, but really I’m on her side.

  I took the secateurs and went into the garden. It was a fine morning, sun not yet warm, traces of dew still silvering the lawn. To reach the roses I had to go through a small garden enclosed by beech hedges. Here an intricate pattern of box hedges divided beds of white flowers, my father’s proud achievement. In its centre was a small but clever fountain of his own invention: a stone bowl, punctured with random holes, which produced feathery arcs of water. Designing this fountain had afforded him hours of entertainment. It was several years in the making, and by the time it was finished he’d become not only a skilled stone-cutter, but an expert on complicated drainage systems. The day it was finished, I remember, we drank glasses of pink champagne to match the pink evening: the bottle in its cooler stood in a bed of white pansies, squashing some of them flat. There was always an element of carelessness in whatever my father did which counteracted the enthusiastic energy he put into his projects. Praise for his fountain meant far more to him than did the medals he received after the war, or the praise accorded to him when he retired from his job as chairman of a company that made farm machinery. And, heavens, did my mother smother him in admiration that evening. There was no inch of the fountain that escaped her marvelling. I can see her now, in her old garden hat (still, thank God, hanging in the cloakroom), head thrown back, pretty eyes screwed up in laughter after her third glass of champagne, moved beyond words at my father’s achievement. In return he muttered about it all being ‘nothing much’. But I guessed he sensed that once something is finished the effort it has taken turns to dust. It’s hard to remember all the hours of striving. ‘Achievement,’ he once said, ‘is not half so sweet as trying to achieve.’ For all the laughter and the drink, there was a sense of anti-climax that evening. There were unspoken questions: what next? What now?

  But, years later, the fountain still bounces out its water just as merrily as it did that first night. I stood watching it for a while, listening to its arcs splattering against the garden silence. Suddenly an early swift swooped down, darted so fast between two curves of water that it was scarcely visible, then soared back to the safer expanse of sky. It had dared, I thought, in order to know. A sense of both wonder and absolute inadequacy swept over me. I moved on through the enclosed white garden to the coloured roses.

  Somewhere deep in the leaves of a bush of Maidens’ Blush, reaching for brown withered heads, avoiding the few remaining petals of fragile pink, a picture of Bert came to me. Bert and me in the cellar. And, again, the question: what had been the truth? My truth? His truth? When would the questioning stop, the picture fade?

  A walk up the hill with the dog, I thought. My father always said that when you’ve something on your mind that needs working out, don’t waste your money on bloody therapists, go for a walk. And don’t tire yourself thinking too hard. ‘Nature’ll do its work,’ he said. That belief, inherited from him, has been of immense use to me.

  I called Chancer and set off up the hill. By now the sun was up, but a breeze up-turned the silver side of the poplars, and against my bare legs the long grass of the orchard was warm and dry.

  CARLOTTA

  I’m gutted. Utterly and completely bloody well gutted. What an evening! I get nowhere with Bert, go round to Isabel and Dan to find Dan on his own. Do my best to fix supper for him and have a nice evening, good wine, then – I tell myself – he goes and spoils the whole thing by leaping on me for a quick snog. Dan! Of all the faithful husbands, he surely takes the prize. Don’t know what I was thinking of, really. Nothing, probably. I was a bit pissed. I got a bit maudlin, needed an arm round me. Dan provided that … and more. It was quite comforting, though. I could have gone on. If he’d said how about it? I daresay I’d have followed him upstairs, no thought of Isabel. But then that wretched little snivelling Sylvie appeared and we jumped apart like shot rabbits.

  I’ve no idea whether she saw us kissing and I don’t really care. At the moment I’m in such a rage about everything I don’t care about anyone. I suppose I should feel guil
t about snogging Isabel’s husband, but I don’t … possibly will later. The interesting thing now is, what will happen? What will happen when the three of us meet again? Will Dan, the most honest man in the world, feel bound to confess to Isabel, thus exorcising his guilt? Or will he say nothing, but avoid my eyes, hide from me what he would really like us to do? Then, will I tell Bert? Ha! I can just see that. Bert in a sea of colour charts. Me on the floor flicking though the Provencal blues. Me: ‘Bert, after I left you the other night I went round to Dan and we went at it hammer and tongs all night.’ No: I think not that. Bert would be shocked. He would see it as gross disloyalty. Rather than fire him up, the thought of me and Dan, it might have the opposite effect.

  I suppose what I must do is to ring Dan and see how he stands in the accusing light of day. I mean, if he’s planning to confess to Isabel, I’d better be prepared. My story will be to blame the drink – a silly moment fired by the wine. I’ll try to laugh it off, say half a dozen times I’m sorry for urging him on. Though I’m not at all. Two things Isabel must never know: Dan wanted me like crazy, and I wanted him back. Because now I come to think of it, it didn’t spoil the evening and it wasn’t a one-way thing. Bugger it, I loved every moment. I’ve fancied Dan for years.

  I rang him – trembling, I admit. It was a horrible conversation. I can’t get it out of my mind.

  ‘Dan?’

  ‘Carlotta?’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry.’

  Pause.

  ‘So’m I. One of those crazy things. We’d drunk a certain amount.’

  ‘Quite.’ Another pause. ‘Are you planning to tell Isabel? I mean, obviously you’ll say that I came round. But … nothing else?’

  ‘Planning to tell Isabel?’ He sound terrified. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘I just thought, having heard your views on the need for total honesty so many times … you’d want to.’

  ‘Well I don’t. Of course I don’t. And I hope you’re not planning to, either.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘No good could come of telling Isabel. It was just a stupid moment we should forget as soon as possible.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘And next time we meet, everything’ll be as always, right? No exchange of looks or anything…’

  ‘Dan, what do you take me for?’

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’m meeting Bert. D’you think Sylvie saw us?’

  ‘I don’t know. Sylvie was the last thing on my mind.’

  ‘You can be a real cow, sometimes, Carlotta …’

  ‘But you wanted me. Don’t ever pretend you didn’t.’

  Dan put down the telephone.

  SYLVIE

  This morning I got into trouble with Mrs. Beale. She said I wasn’t concentrating. She said why are you staring into space, Sylvie, not thinking about mathematics? As she calls it. I said I didn’t know.

  I was thinking about last night. When I came into the kitchen it was so weird. Papa was red in the face and his hair was rather skew whiff. He turned to me and looked flabbergasted (that’s my newest word. I like it. I’ve used it twice this week). Carlotta looked rather sort of sleepy and, like, dopey. They were standing apart but rather close, for people just standing, I mean. There were empty glasses and bottles of wine on the table by the window. They’d had quite a lot, I suppose. Mama and Papa never drink that much.

  Actually they both looked really goofy. But then I realised they weren’t just goofy, they were angry. They must have had a row. What about? I don’t know or care but I don’t like the idea of Carlotta and Papa having a row in our kitchen when Mama’s away. I hated that. Papa said he’d take me up to bed. I said I’d rather you didn’t, thanks, which is a very grown-up way of putting someone down. I didn’t mean to sound cross, but Papa was so peculiar I didn’t want to have anything to do with him. On my way upstairs I heard Carlotta banging the front door behind her. I don’t just not like her, now. I hate her. For ages I couldn’t go to sleep, wondering what they’d been rowing about. Perhaps when Mama comes back I’ll ask her what she thinks.

  BERT

  Cricket, London, New York, Oxford, Rejection (I’m secretly worried this is another of Dan’s attempts, one that won’t have producers clamouring) – we ambled through subjects easily enough. But Dan seemed a bit down. Perhaps he’s always like that when Isabel’s away, loving spouse that he is. I offered him the best claret that I could find on the list, but he declined. Said he rarely drinks at lunch any more. So we both had mineral water.

  He’d cheered up a bit by the time we got to the coffee. It was then he told me Isabel was coming back this evening. She loves the idea of getting away for a day or two, but she loves coming home even more, he said. She was meant to stay in Dorset till Friday, but… He tailed off with a small smile. Had it been anyone but Dan, I would have called him smug. ‘Isabel said you went round one evening when I was in Rome,’ he then said. ‘Thanks for looking after her. She doesn’t like it when I’m away…’ he tailed off again. ‘That’s all right,’ I said, lightly as I could manage. ‘She cooked me a perfect dinner.’

  The subject of Carlotta followed, as I knew it would. I suppose I was feeling faintly guilty about her, vaguely keen to share the guilt. It was I who brought her up, as it were. Confessed I’d behaved rather badly last night, not taking her out to dinner when she obviously wanted an invitation in return for bringing round all her decorating stuff. There was a long pause while Dan stirred his coffee more than a small cup of espresso needs stirring. Then that smile again, and he said I needn’t have worried – she’d dropped in, not knowing Isabel was away. ‘Had to ask her in for a drink, really,’ he said. ‘In the end she stayed for something to eat. In fact she even cooked it – she’s rather a good cook.’ I said I’d probably find that out quite soon. There was another pause. I hazily imagined their evening: Carlotta being kind and efficient, Dan perhaps feeling faintly uneasy due to Isabel’s absence – though after years of friendship with Carlotta, that was unlikely.

  I was bored of thinking about Carlotta. I didn’t want to talk about her. But there was just one thing on which I wanted Dan’s advice. I told him she had suggested I go and stay with her while the builders were in my house. Dan’s eyebrows raised so slightly the skin of his forehead scarcely creased. ‘I don’t have any views on that,’ he said. ‘Daresay it’d be all right. You could keep your distance if you really don’t want to be involved. Should you change your mind – well, easy access, under her roof, and all that.’

  My turn to smile. Dan began his hectic coffee stirring again. ‘Isabel did mention to me you’d need somewhere for a few weeks,’ he went on at last. ‘We’ve got a perfectly good spare room. We’d love to have you. You could weigh up the various advantages and disadvantages – Carlotta, or us? Couple of good offers to choose from…’

  I thanked him. I wanted to say much else, of course: ask for more advice. But it’s not the sort of talk men like Dan and I would ever consider.

  ‘I’ll be interested to see which you go for,’ Dan added. ‘The hurly-burly of Carlotta, or the unravished quietness of Isabel and me?’

  He gave me one last smile and I signalled for the bill.

  Chapter Seven

  SYLVIE

  Mama was there when I arrived back from school. Yippee.

  She’d brought baskets of stuff from Dorset as she always does. There were lettuces and mint and vegetables all over the table. They made the whole kitchen smell kind of green. I took one of the apples and shined it on my knee.

  She wanted to know what I’d been doing. I said nothing much. Yes, it had all been fine. We’d missed her but we’d managed OK – she likes to hear that sort of thing. The only odd thing, I said, was that Papa and Carlotta had had a row.

  What? she said. She didn’t know Carlotta had been round.

  Just dropped in, I think I said, expecting to find both of you.

  Mama was pulling leaves off a basil plant. She began to pull them a bit quicker and a bit more fiercel
y. Something was bugging her but I don’t know what. I mean, I specially didn’t mention that Carlotta wore her apron. She can’t possibly have been cross because horrible old Carlotta came round. Anyway, I went up to her and put my arms round her waist and my head on her chest. She smelt as she always smells, of some kind of wild flower. I hate Carlotta, I said. She pushed me away at once and looked at me so sternly I was really confused. Somehow it had all gone wrong and I hadn’t’ even got round to asking her what she thought the row might be about. Better not do that now, I thought. You can’t possibly hate Carlotta, she said. She may be a bit overpowering at times, but she’s kind and generous and clever and funny. And what’s more she’s my friend.

  I know she’s your friend, I said, and walked away. But you don’t like some of my friends, so why should I like yours?

  I just hoped that when Papa came home and we all had supper together everything would be all right.

  ISABEL

  Good to be home as always. I’d only got half the fruit and veg put away when Sylvie got back from school. She seemed as pleased to see me as I was to see her, and sat eating one of the orchard apples. She said Carlotta had come round last night and stayed for supper. Then she said she thought she and Dan had had some sort of row, or argument. I was sure she’d got that wrong, I said. It couldn’t have been anything serious, but they’re always bantering. They don’t share many of the same views. Then Sylvie declared she hated Carlotta and I snapped at her. Her all too apparent and intense dislike of Carlotta annoys me. Of course you can’t expect your children to like all your friends, but Carlotta’s never done anything to upset Sylvie as far as I know. Anyhow, she stomped off out of the room in one of her sulks. A taste of what we’ll be in for all too soon, I suppose – a few years of those boring teenage moods.