‘Can I get out now?’ she asked after fifteen minutes in which she still hadn’t managed to let go of the side despite Luke’s repeated urging.
‘Ten more minutes.’
He turned from her, threw himself forward and started to swim, his arms rising and slicing cleanly into the water. She watched as he twisted his head from side to side, his wet hair flicking. When he came back he rose from the water like a seal.
‘We’re not leaving until you’ve let go, so come on. Time to be brave.’
She shook her head. ‘No. I’m not going to. I don’t like it.’
‘Don’t be silly. Swimming’s natural. Here.’
He started to peel her fingers away, one by one, standing behind her while she struggled. His chest hairs tickled her shoulders. When she fell back against him it was almost a surprise. He laughed, turned round with his hands under her arms and dropped her into the water beyond where her feet could reach. She shrieked, half in dismay, half in excitement, and sank, flapping her hands and feet, gasping and spluttering. She could see his feet, his legs, the undulating fabric of his shorts –and in her panic reached out and grabbed his waistband. He clamped his hand over hers and for a terrifying moment she thought he was going to hold her down there, but he pulled her against him and lifted her out of the water. Her knees rubbed against his chest.
‘Once more without holding on to the side,’ he said. ‘I won’t let you go.’
He made her float on her stomach and supported her with the flat of his hands again, but this time one of them slid lower. At first she thought it was a mistake and that he didn’t realize and then she knew he must do. There were other people in the pool now and she was too embarrassed to protest or fight him. Tears streamed from her eyes, mingling with the pool water, unnoticed by the other swimmers. It happened so quickly, barely a second passing before he set her down in the shallow end and grabbed the stainless-steel arms of the ladder.
‘Perhaps that’s enough for one day,’ he said abruptly. ‘How would you like some hot chocolate?’
She didn’t answer. She got out of the pool, still coughing up chemicals, her eyes stinging. She wanted to hurt him. She imagined digging her fingers into his eyes and gouging them. She imagined kicking him hard in the bollocks and making him double over in agony.
‘You’re trembling like a leaf,’ he said. ‘Go and have a shower. I’ll meet you in the foyer.’
She dried herself off and dressed; picked up the offending swimming costume and rolled it into her towel. Once ready, she stood behind the door, not wanting to come out. The noise of the pool had increased since they arrived, but the voices sounded far away, lost in the echoing space. On the back of the door, under the fire exit instructions, someone had scrawled Luke is a wanker next to a crude drawing of a penis.
14
Half-term Saturday, 20 February 2010
I AM FINE all day, actually looking forward to Jenny’s drinks party, and then at seven o’clock, after I’ve settled the children, had a bath and decided what to wear, it all goes wrong. It’s Polly who reminds me that all is not well in this house. She potters into my bedroom while I’m getting changed.
‘I don’t want a burglar to come,’ she says.
I lean closer to the mirror and run eyeliner above my lashes. ‘He won’t come, Polly. I promise.’
She looks at me in the mirror, big-eyed and trusting. ‘Has the policeman catched him?’
What do I say? That they haven’t caught him because I’ve lied about what he looks like? Do I now have to lie to my child? Yes, I do. I take a deep breath.
‘He can’t come back because he’s too scared and he isn’t in London any more. They know he’s hundreds of miles away because they talk to other police in other places and they’ve heard he’s in Scotland now.’ Poor Scotland.
‘I don’t want to go to Scotland.’
‘Well, you don’t have to. Back to bed, sweetie. I’ll come and tuck you in in a minute.’
It gets worse when the babysitter arrives. Magda is looking after Sophie Collins, so we’ve had to use someone else. She’s sixteen, or so I’ve been assured, but she doesn’t look more than fifteen, with her plaits and tatty jeans, sweatshirt and tired Converses.
The Forsyths live in a narrow Victorian mid-terraced house on Keats Avenue. Tom heads straight into the sitting room while I take our contribution, two excellent bottles of wine, into the kitchen where a girl who can’t be more than twelve is arranging canapés on a tray. I get caught by Jenny, who thinks I’m an expert on paint colours and wants my opinion, and by the time I get into the crowded sitting room Tom has found a home with Simon and Robert.
The noise is overwhelming, exacerbated by the lack of carpets and curtains. The floorboards show where they’ve been hacked about to make way for plumbing and electrics. At the back of the room, another pre-teen is serving drinks from a trestle table covered with a sheet. I make my way over and take a glass of white wine. To the right of the makeshift bar French windows look out on to a long garden where fairy lights have been trailed across overgrown shrubs and woven in and out of the trellis. On the ground tea lights glow from inside jam jars dropped into brown paper bags. No one has braved the cold yet, but it’s only a matter of time before the smokers discover its charm.
Amber has joined the men. She’s wearing a wine-red dress that makes her look more curvaceous than she actually is, hugging her body, enhancing her waist and pushing up her breasts. The hem falls barely halfway down her thighs. Her hair has been blow-dried and bounces off her shoulders. Amongst the unthreateningly soignée mothers she looks miraculously sexy. Millie taps me on the shoulder and I join a group of mothers. We talk about the usual things: children and schools. Even those of us without older children are already obsessed with the next stage. They expect me to know all the answers because I’m a teacher, but I’m only a fraction less neurotic about it than them. After that, conversation moves to my break-in. They want all the details: how he gained access; what burglar-alarm system we use; why we were so blissfully unaware that there was anyone in the house.
‘So you came in and made coffee and put Josh down for his nap, and all the while, that man was hiding somewhere! Oh my God. I would freak if it was me.’ This from Imogen Parker, who openly boasts that she never puts her burglar alarm on.
I escape politely after a few minutes and head for the drinks table where the nice twelve-year-old refills my glass.
‘We were talking about dreams,’ Tom says.
‘I was pole-vaulting last night. It was fantastic.’ Simon’s whole body shakes when he laughs.
‘Vicky dreams about murdering babies,’ Amber says, winking at me.