‘She doesn’t really think that, does she?’ Luke said.
Maggie leant her head back and her hair fell between her shoulder blades, soft chestnut waves lustrous beneath the afternoon sun, too engrossed in Luke to notice Katya sulking nearby.
‘I have a horrible feeling she does. I don’t want to hurt her feelings but she knows things no child should. Her mother – honestly, Luke, you wouldn’t believe how appalling she was. Not only the prostitution and drug-taking, but her failure to shield Katya from them. It’s not the child’s fault that she’s damaged, but I can’t risk it.’
‘You’re too nice, that’s your trouble.’
She laughed softly. ‘Poor little thing. Perhaps she’ll forget about it. I don’t need to say anything really, just make sure they don’t run into each other. I feel such a bitch saying that, but it’s true.’
‘You’re only protecting your child.’
He reached over and took a lock of hair between his fingers, and to Katya’s disgust Maggie let him do it, even appeared to like it. Katya came and sat down as if she’d heard nothing, smoothing out the ribbons of her yellow rosette and humming to herself. Luke glanced at her. He knew she’d been listening. She could tell. And anyway she had long suspected he could read her mind.
‘Ham or Marmite sandwich?’ Maggie asked. She nudged the basket towards Katya. ‘Take your pick. There’s jam doughnuts for pudding; the ones you like.’
Katya stripped off her trainers and socks, set them neatly on the grass, toe to toe, the socks folded and tucked into the shoes. When she looked up, Luke was staring at her naked feet.
‘Water?’ Maggie handed her a bottle.
She drank half of it then took her sandwich and walked off. Maggie called after her, but she didn’t turn round.
23
Thursday, 1 April 2010
ROBERT PUTS HIS hand on her bottom, rousing Amber from a dream about Tom. She turns to him grumpily and he smiles. It’s a hopeful smile. She pushes his hand away and sits up, dragging the sheet round her. To her relief, she can hear the kids downstairs.
‘Everyone’s awake,’ she says.
She drinks some water and leans back. She feels guilty about taking this room, but not that guilty. She loves the shutters and muslins and can imagine the master bedroom in Browning Street done out in a similar white and breezy style. She’s going to try and copy the ensuite as well.
‘They won’t hear,’ Robert says. He rolls over and rests his head on her thigh. His hair is greasy and the bald patch is growing. She doesn’t want to look at him.
‘I don’t care. I won’t be able to relax. Move, will you? I need the loo.’
Robert sighs and gets up, pulls on his shorts and a polo shirt and leaves the room. They are losing each other. In the bathroom she stares at the mirror. She’s pushing him away. She doesn’t want to, but she can’t help it. Everything he does irritates her now, even the way he breathes.
‘I am good,’ she murmurs. ‘I am strong. I matter.’ The face in the mirror gazes impassively back her. Yes, you tell yourself that, she seems to say. If it makes you feel better.
Later on, she and Vicky sit in the shade of a canvas parasol, building plastic towers for Josh to knock down while the men do their duty as lifeguards and the girls play like dolphins around them. There has been a touch of frost between them but nothing she can’t handle. Vicky hates a quarrel. When they get too hot, Vicky takes the baby for a dip in the pool. He loves the water, battering his hands on the surface and laughing with delight, but most of all he loves watching the girls; particularly Sophie, who he idolizes. Vicky moans about having three, but she doesn’t know how lucky she is. It feels to Amber like life has stacked the cards in her friend’s favour, giving her Tom, three children, money and even a lover, though what on earth those two saw in each other she can’t imagine. Vicky is so ordinary and David North, well, he might be attractive in a louche sort of way, but it’s his wife Hellie who, apart from looking like a model, earns the money and wears the trousers.
‘Emily!’
Amber hears the hint of exasperation in her daughter’s voice. Sophie has been teaching Emily to dive. She’s a good teacher, but inclined to be impatient, throwing up her hands and rolling her eyes when Emily gets it wrong.
‘I’m trying!’ Emily splutters.
‘Keep your feet together. Pretend you’re an arrow.’
Emily swims to the side, pulls herself out and does it again, this time joined by Sophie, who executes a perfect swallow dive. Emily’s feet are all over the place, but she keeps her hands together above her head and enters the water cleanly. Vicky whoops in support and Robert lifts a squealing Polly, roars like an ogre and chucks her in.
Tom ducks down and comes up again, flicking his head and spraying water like a dog. ‘Why don’t you come in, Amber?’ he says. ‘You’re missing half the fun.’
She shades her eyes and squints at him, taking her time before answering. Pool water drizzles down his face. He sweeps his dark hair out of his eyes and grins. His tanned shoulders glisten, provoking a memory that makes her flinch. A voice barges in, more insistent than Amber’s own thoughts. Take him from her.
‘You’re among friends. No one’s going to laugh at you.’
Josh starts to nag. Vicky stacks more plastic cups for him; red on yellow on blue on red. He pushes them over and they roll away. One drops into the pool and Emily swims after it.
‘Come on,’ Tom wheedles. ‘Dip your toe in at least.’
She shakes her head. ‘I can’t go near water. Aquaphobia. Sorry.’ She drawls the apology.
‘Ah.’ Tom swims to the side, looks up at her through his wet fringe and starts to pull himself up out of the water. ‘Have you tried aversion therapy?’
He has a wicked, mocking smile. Amber leaps off the lounger and darts behind it, warding him off.
‘I mean it, Tom. I’m not going in and you can’t make me.’
He starts to walk towards her and she runs away screaming and hides behind the wall, and the children, sensing a good game, charge after her.
She sets off across the garden, but he comes after her, catches her round the waist and snatches her into his arms. Her sarong comes away, snags between them and then falls on to the grass. He can’t tell, and she can’t make him understand, that the laughing is to do with fear and hysteria and nothing to do with enjoyment, that her kicking feet and flailing arms are genuine reactions. He holds her and even though there is intense pleasure in his arms locked round her semi-naked body, she can’t stop the waves of terror that engulf her. She screams and slams her fist into his shoulder.
‘Ouch.’ He sets her down on her feet and rubs the bruise. He looks embarrassed.
‘I’m scared of water,’ she mutters.
She’s trembling from head to foot and he’s not laughing any more. Her bikini strap has slipped down her shoulder and she pulls it up. She feels broken and upset.