Caught in the Act (8 page)

‘That's true.' Diana nodded and, clearing her throat nervously, got to her feet. A little further down the table Adie obliged by banging a spoon against one of the institutional tumblers. The
room quietened for an instant, Diana reddened and then beamed at the assembled group. When people realised who it was, there was a lot of good-natured rumbling and whistling and clapping, which swiftly faded into a warm convivial silence.

‘Good evening,' Diana said hesitantly. ‘I'm not very good at this kind of thing; I'm much happier behind the scenes but I would like to say how wonderful it is to see everyone again. Thank you for making the effort to drive all this way. I was worried you might not come or that only a few of you would say yes—but it looks at the moment as though we will be having a hundred per cent turn-out. Also I have to apologise for the fact that we're going to be staying in dormitories.'

‘Enough with the dormitories already,' growled Netty, with a heavy New York Jewish accent. ‘We don't mind, and if we do—well, what can ya do?'

There was a ripple of laughter from the room.

Hitting her stride, Diana flipped the page on her notebook and half reading, half remembering, launched into her spiel. ‘This evening is quite informal, giving everyone a chance to
catch up and renew old friendships—and then tomorrow rehearsals will start in earnest after breakfast at ten in the conference room at the end of the corridor. It will be marked so there is no need to worry about finding it. If everyone could at least come to the first get-together, that would be lovely. This is meant to be fun, but if we're going to pull it off it also includes quite a lot of work. I've drawn up a rehearsal schedule, which everyone should have.' She waved a photocopied sheet in the air. ‘Those people who aren't needed are very welcome to use the grounds, there's an outdoor swimming pool and tennis courts—details of the facilities are on the sheet too—and there's the village, which is particularly attractive.' She paused and then laughed. ‘Sorry, I sound like a bad travel brochure but there is just so much to remember. The plan—as I hope you all know now—is to put on a rehearsed reading of
Macbeth
on Sunday afternoon. I am hoping all your families as well as lots of other old schoolfriends will turn up to share the performance and the strawberry tea afterwards.' Diana giggled nervously. ‘I think that's about it, actually. Oh, except to say that although the hall hasn't got a bar you are very welcome to bring
wine or whatever in for supper. And besides that, I just wanted to say how very nice it is to see you all again and I hope you enjoy the weekend.' And with this, Diana collapsed into her chair with a grin, to a round of rapturous applause.

Adie got to his feet, lifting a glass of squash in a toast. ‘Thank you for the itinerary, Judith Chalmers. I think we should give Diana a big hand for arranging this weekend and I imagine we are all agreed that she is totally mad to take this on—so no change there. The teetotal toast is Diana.'

The response went around the room like a low rumble of thunder. ‘Diana.'

Diana blushed crimson and seemed about to say something, when at that precise moment Carol caught a movement at the corner of her eye and felt her stomach do that instinctive flippy floppy nippy happy thing. Standing on the other side of the room, framed by the French windows, was Gareth Howard and, worse still, he looked gorgeous, a stray breeze ruffling his dark hair. Merchant Ivory couldn't have staged a better entrance. To her total amazement he scanned the room and, as their eyes met, Gareth grinned, a big warm, pleased-
to-see-you grin, and then raised a hand in salute.

Oh my God, Carol thought, blushing furiously, trying very hard not to overreact as she smiled back. Resisting the temptation to wave like a demented chimp, Carol coolly tipped her fingers in his direction before putting her hand over her mouth and huffing noisily, wondering if her breath smelled and whether she had any mints in her handbag. Crazy. Was it worse waiting for him or him showing up? Carol's stomach did another little back flip with a halfpike and twist as he made his way across the dining room towards her.

Away over her shoulder Adie's remarks, despite the peels of laughter from the diners, had become no more than a distant drone. Carol felt hot and then cold and then she gasped as Fiona slipped in through the door behind Gareth and he caught hold of her arm and guided her between the diners towards the top table.

Gareth and Fiona. Oh God, please, please, don't let them be a couple, Carol thought as her heart was holed and sank.

But as he walked up towards the table it was Carol Gareth was looking at; she didn't know
whether to feel flattered or intimidated. It was a very close-run thing.

‘Would you like to say a few words?' Carol looked up dumbly into Adie's face as he spoke to her.

‘What?' she snapped.

Adie smiled and then said more slowly, ‘Watch my lips—I thought you said, when we were walking back from the pub, that you would like to say something too. A few words, remember?'

Carol shook her head. ‘No, no—it's fine, you've said everything,' she said hurriedly. The last thing she wanted to do now was speak publicly, not while Gareth was watching. She was just bound to say something stupid and make a complete and utter tit of herself.

Adie shrugged and turning back to his audience, lifted his hands in a fair impression of a Roman emperor. ‘In which case, let the games commence.' His words brought another explosive round of applause, not to mention much stamping and a volley of whooping cheers from the assembled cast and crew.

A little way along the table Fiona settled into her chair, helped by Gareth, and then he
made his way back along to Carol and said warmly, ‘Hi, great to see you. How have you been?' His voice was as low and dark and sensual as brown velvet, and hearing him speak again after all these years made Carol's scalp tingle.

She opened her mouth to say something but before Carol could speak Gareth leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I've been thinking a lot about you,' he purred. ‘You look absolutely fantastic.'

Carol tried very hard to think of something witty to say, something sharp and clever, but settled for giggling inanely instead and saying, ‘Do I? re ally? Right—OK. Um, you too. Are you and Fiona, you know…' she nodded in Fiona's general direction while praying the ground would open up and swallow her whole. ‘You know…'

Gareth pulled a face. ‘I'm sorry, I'm not with you.'

Carol felt as if she was clinging on by her fingertips to any remaining shreds of a decent opening conversation. ‘You and Fiona, are you—are you a couple?' she stammered. ‘I mean, you arrived together.' It was too big a question too soon.

‘I met her in the car park just now. We couldn't find the way in,' he said.

Carol was so overcome by relief she felt dizzy.

All day long Leonora had been unable to shake the sensation that she was walking through a dream or maybe an abandoned film set, after the actors had left. The thought made her shiver; perhaps she wasn't so far from the truth.

What heightened the feeling was that the whole house, particularly their bedroom, was deliberately theatrical. In the master bedroom a huge bowed double-fronted walnut wardrobe dominated one wall. It had been there when they bought the house, far too heavy and too expensive to be moved and far too wonderful, far too
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
to be smashed up and skipped. So as an homage to the wardrobe they had decorated the walls with period flock paper—brothel paper, Gareth
called it—in the richest purples and golds, adding matching velvet curtains that hung from floor to ceiling on gothic black poles. There were brass and crystal sconces for light fittings, a great big brass bed with white linen bedclothes and a crushed velvet throw the colour of ripe aubergines. The room was as rich as a jewel box and—it occurred to Leonora, still with the shiver lingering in her blood like ice crystals—almost as cold.

She ran her fingers across the deep sensual nap of the velvet bedcover. How many months was it since she and Gareth had slept in here together? How long since they had touched each other, or snuggled up together amongst the bow wave of white linen pillows or, come to that, talked? Since the new baby had been born Leonora had spent more and more nights across the landing in the nursery, curled up alongside Patrick. He was all soft and golden brown, littleboy sweetness pressed tight up against her like a warm puppy, and of course it meant that when the baby woke she was there and that Gareth wasn't disturbed. But her absence wasn't just about the baby, was it? How could he say something so vulnerable, so beautiful was a mistake? It wasn't her fault, tiny thing.

Leonora straightened the bedspread, aware that she only serviced this room now, she didn't live in it any more. It was an alien space, Gareth's space.

She picked up one of his shirts from the bedroom floor and, without thinking, pressed it to her face. It smelled of him, and the scent of Gareth's body made her let out a soft keening wail. How ridiculous, how crazy. How could she still love him when he had walked out on them? How could her heart be so stupid when her head knew so much better?

Silently Leonora picked her way through the landscape of their shared life; opening each drawer in turn—the tallboy, the bookcase, the little chiffonier they had found together in Camden Market. She had a sense that there
were
things missing but it was so hard to be certain of exactly what. Life since the children arrived was so much less linear, less accountable. Maybe there were things in the wash, or the airing cupboard, or tucked away somewhere…

Leonora looked around the room, trying to figure out exactly what it was she was feeling. It was so hard to find the edges. Had Gareth abandoned them or had he just gone off to do
something related to work—and how the hell was it that after nearly eight years together she didn't know?

Finally Leonora opened up his side of the huge wardrobe, running a finger and an eye along the hangers—the shirts, the trousers—and then she knew with ice-cold certainty that Gareth re ally had left them. She sucked in a breath to replace the one that had been squeezed from her chest. Gareth's Armani suit had gone, the gap as obvious and raw as a missing front tooth. It was the first thing she noticed, but she was certain now that there would be others.

And there were: his favourite shoes, soft brown leather brogues handmade by a friend in Jermyn Street, a folio edition of
Robinson Crusoe
bought as a present by some doting godparent. A picture of his mother in a silver frame. Once her eye was in, Leonora began to see the things that weren't there as clearly as the things that were.

When she had finished drawing up a mental manifest, Leonora went across into the little boxroom that Gareth used as an office. It had taken her all day to summon up the courage for this but now she was ready. Glancing back
over her shoulder she was aware of every noise, every little creak as she stepped over the threshold, moving deliberately slowly, up on her tiptoes, still nervous of being discovered despite the fact that she knew that there was only her and the children in the house.

The office was his space. It smelled of old dust and paper and the warm scent of machines left on too long, all cut and mixed with a sweet undertow of cigar smoke. Gareth never smoked in the house but the scent of cigars clung to his clothes like burrs.

Leonora paused and, like a detective assessing a crime scene, she took it all in, absorbing every last little detail. There were the lamps still lit, the computers on standby purring behind closed darkened eyes, the mismatch of bookcases stacked with files and papers, and alongside those his novels and collections of poetry, favourite books read and reread again and again in the years that she had known him. She held back from touching anything.

There were mugs on the crowded desk, one on a discarded CD, the others scattered between pens and papers, a stapler, a phone, a remote control for goodness knew what, the detritus of his thoughts and his life, the ghost of Gareth
lingering still between the posters and prints and badly stacked shelves.

Leonora took a deep breath, dark eyes working backwards and forwards across the piles, the highs and the lows, the backwaters and the blind alleys. There was nothing there, at least nothing obvious on the surface, that gave Gareth away, nothing revealing or betraying whatever it was that she instinctively felt
was
there. But he couldn't hide from her, not for long.

There
was
something there, she had absolutely no doubt of that—disguised as something innocuous, something innocent that was the key to everything. Leonora also knew that she wouldn't know what it was until she saw it and as soon as she did she would be certain.

Methodically, she opened each of the desk drawers in turn, from top to bottom, right to left, pausing for a few moments to stare down unfocused at the contents, as if she might be able to divine the solution from the mess of envelopes and elastic bands and old biros inside, hoping that something, one thing, would tell her what it was she wanted to know—even though she still wasn't sure exactly what that was.

After Gareth's desk Leonora worked her way through the filing cabinets, drawer by drawer, running her finger along the rows of hanging files, much as she had his shirts and jackets, reading each file label in turn. She thumbed through the bookshelves, stroking each spine like a touchstone, and then worked through a stack of unopened post piled high on an old kitchen chair. It was here somewhere, Leonora could feel it, feel it getting closer, knew she was getting warmer, though it was still elusive, like something deliberately hiding in the undergrowth.

And then all of a sudden she had it, pinned to one of the cork message boards just inside the door. On a sheet of page ripped from a spiral-bound notepad was a number, not a mobile number but a proper phone number, and alongside it, written in Gareth's distinctive handwriting, the words: ‘Diana get-together/weekend?' and a date.

Leonora stared at it and knew, without understanding exactly why, that this was what she had been looking for. She unpinned the sheet of paper, folded it up and slid it into the pocket of her cardigan. Backing out, she closed the door tight, walked slowly downstairs and,
picking up the phone, dialled the number that felt as if it had been seared onto her retina.

‘Hello, may I speak to Diana, please?' Leonora said as evenly as she could manage when someone lifted the receiver at the other end of the line.

‘I'm most terribly sorry, but she is away for the weekend,' said a cultured male voice. ‘Would you like me to take a message? Or perhaps I might be able to help you?' he added brightly.

Leonora hesitated; the adrenalin that had carried her downstairs was rapidly ebbing away. What was it she wanted to say exactly? Should she hang up and if she did where would that leave her? Had this man's wife run away with Gareth? And how could Leonora possibly ask him or contemplate telling him? What if he had no idea what was going on? It didn't sound as if he had any idea.

Leonora bit her lip, letting her thoughts regroup. Just then Patrick, in his pyjamas, padded out onto the top of the stairs to find her. He had a teddy bear in one hand and a storybook in the other, and for a moment he looked totally lost—and then as their eyes met he smiled with relief at having found her. He had his father's eyes.

Leonora's heart ached for him, for them all.

‘I'm not sure. I'm trying to find my husband and I thought Diana might be able to help,' she said, moving cautiously around the edge of the conversation in case she plunged into the abyss, dragging this unknown man with her.

‘Oh, OK,' said the man pleasantly. It struck her as an odd thing to say.

Very slowly Patrick bumped down the steps on his bottom towards her and as he got to the final step he held out his arms for her to pick him up.

‘I was wondering if Diana might know where he is?' Leonora continued as Patrick climbed her like a tree.

‘Righty-oh. What's his name?' asked the man conversationally, as if his concentration was elsewhere.

‘Gareth,' she said. ‘Gareth Howard.'

‘OK. Wait a minute. I think I have a list here somewhere,' he said, now sounding even more preoccupied over the noise of papers rustling. ‘Perhaps you would like Diana's mobile number. That's here somewhere too,' he laughed. ‘Bit chaotic at the moment, I'm afraid. Oh, hang on, here we are.'

‘A list?' Leonora was struggling to keep up.

‘Yes, of course, didn't you know? Sorry, I assumed you knew all about it. They've all gone to a school reunion this weekend. I've got all the details somewhere—oh, yes, this is it. Have you got a pen handy?'

At Burbeck House Carol tried very hard to ignore the nasty rash of kissy, sucky faces and various lovey-dovey noises coming from further along the top table, not to mention Adie pressing his hand to his chest and fluttering his eyelids like a pantomime dame.

Being the kind of establishment that it was—all Christian charity and fuelled by the milk of human kindness—the kitchen staff had saved the latecomers their supper and now produced meals on trays. Despite various suggestions that everyone else headed off to the pub, no one appeared to be in much of a hurry to move either, so the hall was still full of people totally wrapped up in conversation. It felt almost like Christmas, Carol thought as she looked around the tables.

‘I've thought about you a lot over the years,' Gareth said to Carol as he attacked his supper. The sound of his voice moved her attention back to him. She felt herself blush and then
smiled, wishing that there was some way she could control the fluttery sensation in her stomach and suppress a disturbing inclination to giggle furiously.

‘You're wearing a wedding ring,' she said conversationally. It was one of the first things Carol had noticed when he sat down beside her, and absolutely the last thing she wanted to say, but helpfully her brain had reversed the order.

He nodded, turning the narrow twisted band of gold thoughtfully around long elegant fingers. ‘Yes, you're right. Sorry, it's force of habit. I suppose I re ally ought to take it off, but it seems as if I'm casting her adrift.'

Carol looked at him expectantly. He sighed. ‘It's no great mystery. I left her,' he said. ‘It's a little while ago now but it was all very sad.'

His eyes darkened down to a stormy grey. Carol wondered what it would feel like to be married to him. Worse, what would it feel like to be left by him? She shivered, struggling to compose herself, and mumbled, ‘I'm re ally sorry.'

Gareth shook his head. ‘There's no need to be sorry; it was just one of those things. I'd just come out of a long-term relationship when
I met her. Oddly enough, I was working for a touring theatre company.' He smiled reflectively. ‘I was lonely. We got on quite well, went out a few times. You know how these things go, and then—I suppose I was a bit of a fool, re ally. We'd been seeing each other a couple of months, maybe three, when she told me she was pregnant. It was a bit of a shock but what could I do?'

Carol stared at him. ‘What do you mean? Are you saying the baby wasn't yours?' The words were out before she had considered just how big the question was.

He shrugged. ‘No, I'm not saying that. I'm saying that I re ally had no way of knowing and, looking back, I ought to have been more careful.' He grinned and pushed the fringe back off his face. ‘And I shouldn't be telling you any of this; it's not exactly the kind of thing I make a habit of talking about—and, don't get me wrong, she is the most beautiful person but a very complicated woman—artistic, creative, highly strung. A little unstable at times.' He laughed wryly and took a sip of juice. ‘Quite a lot unstable at times, actually. When I met her she was in one of her good phases, sharing a house in North London with God knows how
many others, mostly artists and musicians and she seemed—well, exciting, Bohemian and she was—she is—truly lovely. I stayed for as long as I could, but it was impossible. I felt my being there was doing more harm than good.'

‘And what about the child?' said Carol, words out before she could stop them.

‘Children now—a boy and a girl. I see them as often as I can—don't get me wrong, she is a great mother—but sometimes my seeing them causes more problems than it solves.' He shrugged. ‘So there we are.' His voice dropped a little and softened.

Leonora sat on the bottom step of the stairs and very carefully tapped the mobile number that Diana's husband had given her into the phone. She waited, unconsciously holding her breath, hoping that she had made a mistake first time round and that this time she would get through. But sure enough, after a few seconds a bright cheery voice said, ‘Hello, I'm terribly sorry but I can't take your call at the moment. If you would like to leave a message after the tone then I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you for ringing.' It sounded so affable, so banal, so matter of fact, that
locked door that barred her way to Diana and Gareth.