‘No! No—’
They were suddenly plunged into darkness; then there was a scream and the sound of breaking glass, followed by a loud splash. The strong smell of wine permeated the air and the splashing was joined by heaving gulps. Then the emergency lights switched on.
‘I’m not exactly sure what happened,’ said Cherry cautiously, standing dripping in the garden, a towel wrapped round her. ‘There was a power cut and neither of us could see much . . .’ She looked at Laura strangely. ‘I think Laura stumbled . . . maybe because of the dark . . . and knocked against me.’
Laura stopped midway through pouring a glass of wine for Cherry and looked up, bemused. ‘Sorry? I don’t think I did.’
Cherry shivered, snuggling into Daniel. ‘I don’t know what to say . . .’ She looked up at Daniel apologetically, gave an awkward shrug. ‘You did,’ she said in a low voice.
‘Cherry, I was nowhere near you.’
‘Oh God, this is a bit embarrassing. I didn’t just fall into the pool, you know,’ she murmured.
‘You’re not suggesting . . .’ Laura gave a small, incredulous laugh, shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I’m sorry I spoiled your birthday dinner.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, this has nothing to do with that,’ said Laura, irritated.
‘I didn’t know, OK? I didn’t know it was your birthday. If I’d known, I would’ve picked a different weekend.’
‘It all sounds like a bit of an accident or something,’ said Daniel quickly.
Laura was aware of feeling like a villain at her own party. What had happened down there? The only explanation she could come up with was that Cherry had thrown herself into the pool deliberately, but that was so manipulative, so extreme . . . and then in a rush she remembered the painting and was brought up short. Had Cherry damaged it herself? Just to cast doubts on her?
She looked around and saw that people were watching, noses in glasses of wine. She saw awkward faces and embarrassed glances, people who weren’t sure what to believe. When she turned to Isabella for support, she got a puzzled smile.
‘Daniel, any chance I could have a word? In the house?’
‘I’m afraid she thinks I’m a gold-digger,’ blurted out Cherry, her voice cracking.
‘No!’ Laura tried to keep it light, gave a small laugh of disbelief.
Cherry turned her big brown eyes up to Daniel, tears springing. ‘She thinks I’m after your money.’
‘Daniel, please could we go inside?’ insisted Laura.
‘See? You’re not denying it,’ said Cherry, dejected.
Everyone was looking at her. Daniel had a face like thunder and Laura felt two little hot spots at the tops of her cheeks.
‘I think that’s enough,’ she said quietly. ‘It might be time for you to go inside and sort yourself out.’
‘I’m taking Cherry home, Mum,’ said Daniel, and at her crestfallen face, he added, ‘She hasn’t got any clothes. I’ll have to.’
As they turned back towards the house, Laura knew that they would go to his car and drive to her flat and she probably wouldn’t see him for a day or so, perhaps not until Monday, when he came to collect his things to move into the new flat.
‘Anyone for a sausage?’ asked Howard.
Isabella sidled up. ‘Darling, what was all that about? I thought you liked her.’
Laura didn’t answer, just watched them leave, deeply unsettled.
EIGHTEEN
Wednesday 23 July
Cherry stared out of the window of her office. It had been raining solidly for three days now, and when it rained, it was quiet, and when it was quiet, she got bored. She felt like a zoo animal, except she couldn’t even expend her head-ramming restlessness by pacing up and down. Her iPad, lying on the desk, meant she could at least surf the Internet to pass some of the time, something she was sure Abigail and Emily were doing right now, as no one took such a keen interest for such an extended period of time in houses. Judging by the intense concentration on their faces, she suspected they were shopping for clothes or shoes. She had read the Guardian, earmarked some TED talks she wanted to listen to and then found herself googling Nicolas’s name, something she knew was a mistake even as she did it. There was an article in a telecoms trade journal announcing his recent promotion to deputy managing director – at age twenty-four! – a remarkable accomplishment, gushed the paper. His dad’s the owner of the company, Cherry wanted to scream at the screen. The piece went on to list his achievements – the job, recently getting married – and there was a picture of Nicolas and his wife at some swanky charity thing, noted Cherry bitterly, and then the article had jokingly asked when he was going to provide the next heir to the company’s throne. It cut her deeply.
Throat thick with hurt, she closed the webpage, then defiantly started to look at villas for sale in the South of France. Since coming back from her trip she’d found it an effort to get back into work mode, reassume the persona she’d created for herself and the job she had to endure as a means to an end. It was a dangerous sensation, this fidgety impatience, and she had to discipline herself. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake now, not when she seemed to have actually found someone who had the potential to pluck her permanently from a life of work and drudgery.
Feeling physically sick at sitting in one place staring at her screen trying to find something to amuse her brain, Cherry shut down her iPad, barely refraining from stabbing at it. She wanted to smash it up she was so bored, smash it and tip over the desk. This thought amused her for a nanosecond and she smiled. Cherry’s mind worked well and it worked fast. It was insatiable for information, plans and projects, and rebelled against enforced inactivity: it began to turn in on itself, to internally explode if it didn’t have something to occupy it. She had too much mental energy, something she’d been aware of ever since school, where she came top of her class in every subject. She sometimes wondered what she could have become if the option of university had been available to her – perhaps a lawyer, as she hated injustice, particularly against the underdog, the poor man, and she thought she was good at turning an argument on its side, revealing the truth to be something else entirely. Anyway, it didn’t matter, as this was where she was now, an estate agency in Kensington, a stepping stone to far greater achievements.