Presence of Mind (5 page)

‘I'll take his glass to the studio.'

We walked up the shallow steps, over the hot grass and round the terrace to the kitchen door at the side of the house.

Sunless in the afternoons, the air struck cool to our heated bodies. For the first time in my life I was acutely aware of Edgar, and I also knew that he intended me to be. I was not sure whether to be amused or annoyed. I took the bottle of home-made lemonade from the fridge, poured it into a crystal jug and filled the jug with chunks of ice which stung my fingers. As I moved round the room I knew that his eyes followed me, and against my will I felt a spark of gratification.

I set the jug down beside the three glasses and Edgar took the tray from me, his fingers brushing against mine – accidentally, of course, I assured myself hurriedly, amazed at how quickly I seemed to have accepted the new position. Yet after all, what had happened? I had surprised him watching me, and he had not looked away! That was literally all there was. If Briony hadn't mentioned her suspicions that morning I would have thought nothing of it.

I led the way back to the garden, trying not to walk self-consciously. Edgar, of all people! I
must
be imagining things. I was behaving like a pathetic, frustrated – My thoughts veered abruptly away from dangerous ground.

‘I'll take Lance his drink.'

He had flung open all the windows and was stripped to the waist.

‘Refreshment,' I announced lightly. ‘Edgar's here. Could you come and join us for a few minutes?'

‘Sorry, not at the moment. I've just mixed this umber and I want to use it quickly. Lordie, that's cold.' He set the glass down again. ‘What did Edgar want?'

‘He brought some cuttings he'd promised.'

‘Better keep them in the shade, then, till Jack gets here on Monday.'

‘Yes, I will.'

He leant forward to retrieve his brush, the muscles rippling under the brown skin. I turned abruptly and left him. Edgar's attentions, imagined or not, were giving me ideas which were better kept securely buried.

Any rapport that might have been blossoming between us had wilted during my brief absence with Lance. After a few minutes of desultory conversation, Edgar rose to go.

‘Thanks again for the cuttings,' I said formally.

‘A pleasure. Thanks for the drink. See you tomorrow.'

‘Yes.' Thoughtfully I watched him amble slowly away across the garden. Then, with a self-ridiculing smile, I bent to retrieve my library book.

Late Sunday morning, and behind my protective dark glasses my less than welcoming gaze moved slowly over our guests, spread out in varying forms of undress on the concrete round the pool. In the water the Forrest twins, alike as two peas, floated on their backs, their pale brown hair streaming behind them. Their parents, informally introduced as Max and Paula, were engaged in idle conversation with the Pembertons. I studied them disinterestedly. Max was stocky and dark, his bare torso olive-brown and covered with a mat of black curly hair. I noted that his penetrating black eyes seemed to miss nothing, and wondered what his profession was.

His wife had very short, very straight hair which probably cost a fortune in the cutting. Her swimsuit revealed the almost painful thinness of her long body and she had an oddly attractive mannerism of screwing up her large eyes as though she had difficulty in focusing them. Her nails were long and painted bright red and she smoked incessantly, using a jade cigarette holder. Above her head Cynthia's eyes met mine with a humorously interrogative lift of her eyebrows, and I hastily looked away.

Mark and Briony were lying on their stomachs, their heads together. Briony's hair was drying in the sun and with it cascading down her back she reminded me of a mermaid left behind by the tide. I longed to ask Mark how their day had gone yesterday, whether there had been any more unexplained ‘absences'. I already tacitly acknowledged that it was no use asking Briony.

Lance had just squatted down beside Stella's deck chair and was topping up her glass from the crystal jug. From her sudden pleased flush, which I was interested to note spread down below the top of her bikini, I guessed he was asking her to sit for him.

It was time to check up on lunch. I put my glass down in the shade and made my way carefully round the edge of the pool to the wrought iron gate with which we attempted to keep neighbouring cats and dogs from the water. Max Forrest punctiliously opened it for me with an odd little bow. He might well have some mid-European blood in him, I reflected ‘Forrest' was probably an Anglicization.

As I reached the terrace steps Mrs Rose came out with platters of cold chicken and ham and bowls of crisp salad. Mentally I checked the long table: butter, cheese, French bread pickles, salad cream, mustard, cutlery wrapped in paper napkins, piles of fruit heaped in bowls at the back.

‘Ready, Ann?' Lance called from the pool gate.

‘Ready,' I affirmed. One by one the guests began to drift over, serve themselves and retire with laden plates to the groups of chairs on the grass or at the far end of the terrace.

‘Can I get you anything?' It was Edgar.

‘I'm never very hungry in the heat, thank you.'

‘Nor am I.' His smile was gentle and encouraging and I smiled back, ruefully deciding he would make a good animal trainer. He had sensed my frightened withdrawal yesterday and was patiently setting himself to regain my confidence. With a burst of uncharacteristic recklessness, I decided to let him. It was pleasant to be looked at again as though I were a woman.

‘Ann!' Stella came up, picking daintily at the food on her plate. ‘Did Lance tell you – he wants to paint me! I'm completely shattered!'

‘Shattered or flattered?' Edgar asked unexpectedly. Stella glanced at him in surprise.

‘Well, both, I suppose.'

‘But you agreed?' I asked smoothly.

‘Of course I did. I could hardly refuse, could I?' She looked so smug that I had an inhospitable urge to slap her. Nor did Edgar's next query help.

‘Has he ever painted you, Ann?'

‘No,' I replied caustically. ‘I'm strictly the utilitarian model!'

His smiling glance went past me and almost imperceptibly hardened. Turning, I saw Lance and Cynthia coming across the grass. In the clear sunlight Cynthia's charms seemed artificial and contrived. Her silver-blonde hair coiled as immaculately as ever in its gleaming chignon, making no concession to her informal dress, and her eyebrows seemed a little too finely plucked, her blue eyes a little too hard. I sensed Edgar's wariness and tempered it with my own assessment of her. She was amusing – usually at someone else's expense – and undeniably good company. Also, from time to time, as I knew from personal experience, she was capable of an instinctive gesture of kindness or generosity which completely took one by surprise. If only she wouldn't continually belittle her husband, we might all have liked her more and felt less embarrassed in her presence.

Seeing Simon Pomfrett temporarily alone, I moved towards him like the good hostess Lance expected. He smiled at me, his too-perfect teeth flashing in his bronze face. A striking pair, Briony had called them, and it was as a pair that I always thought of the Pomfretts. Simon and Stella complemented each other to such an extent that individually each of them seemed incomplete, only a half of the whole.

‘I hear Stella's about to achieve immortality!' he commented as I stopped beside him.

‘Or immorality!' came Cynthia's clear, teasing voice. She and Lance were coming up the steps behind us.

‘No such luck!' Lance answered with an easy laugh. ‘I can't afford to become emotionally involved with my models.'

‘Then never paint me, will you darling?' Cynthia moved off in search of food, hips swaying. Lance's amused glance followed her, devoid of interest. At least I needn't fear his infidelity, I reflected morosely. He might hint that involvement would be unwise but I knew instinctively that there was no temptation.

Lance had a rigidly strict code of ethics; it would simply not occur to him to be unfaithful to me. A sudden thought struck me like a douche of cold water. Perhaps he even regarded his times with me, reduced as they were to a minimum, as a form of infidelity to the girl whose memory he still so obviously cherished.

‘You've no objection to my painting Stella, have you, Simon?' he was asking casually, helping himself to a stick of celery from the plate which Briony was carrying.

‘On the contrary – I shall bask in reflected glory!'

Briony removed Lance's glass from his hand, took a sip from it and wrinkled her nose. ‘That's vile! Whatever is it?'

‘Arsenic laced with belladonna, and no one asked for your opinion.' Almost without thinking he put an arm round her and pulled her against his side for a moment before, with a dismissive little pat, he sent her on her way. That, I thought with the familiar sinking of heart, was the only rival I had to fear, and I was powerless to defend myself and my love against my own daughter.

I turned away to find, rather to my consternation, that the alert black eyes of Max Forrest had witnessed the little incident, including apparently my own reaction to it. Smoothly and with a smile he moved towards me.

‘It was very kind of your husband to invite us along today.'

‘Not at all. He mentioned that you don't know many people in the district.'

‘No, we only moved out here at Easter.'

‘Where did you come from?'

‘Oh, not far, only Bury St Edmunds. I still have my consulting rooms there.'

I glanced at him quickly. ‘Consulting rooms? You're a doctor?'

He smiled. ‘Of a kind. A psychiatrist, actually.'

‘I see.' I couldn't think of anything else to say, but a host of thoughts chased each other round my head. Could this squat little man be the answer to my prayers – a discreet, sympathetic and at the same time qualified ear into which to pour my flood of anxiety? And yet – to consult a psychiatrist seemed such a positive step, a definite admission that something was seriously wrong.

‘You look a little apprehensive, Mrs Tenby!'

‘It's only that I've never met a psychiatrist before. I feel I'll have to watch my step!'

He smiled but his attention had shifted to where Briony had joined his daughters on the lawn. I turned to follow his gaze, leaning beside him on the balustrade.

‘Your daughter doesn't really resemble either you or your husband,' he remarked with deceptive lightness.

I said tightly, ‘No. As a matter of fact, Lance isn't her father anyway. My first husband was killed soon after she was born.'

‘Forgive me. I didn't know.' But the information interested him; I could see that. ‘They seem very fond of each other,' he added after a moment. ‘That must be a great comfort to you.'

I opened my mouth to give the usual, meaningless affirmative, but he turned his head and the force of those black eyes dried up the lie stillborn. He said very softly, ‘I have the impression that you're deeply concerned about your daughter.'

To my horror I felt tears rush into my eyes. Immediately his hand, warm and surprisingly large, closed over mine on the railing. ‘I must apologise – I'd no right whatever – Please put it down to an almost instinctive desire to be of help. No doubt you'd like me to leave you.'

I shook my head helplessly and held on to the comforting hand, while the grass, the flowers and the group of girls gradually cleared before my blurred gaze. He said gently, ‘I have intruded unpardonably, but if you ever need me, my Bury number is in the directory.' He smiled a little. ‘I'm afraid I don't carry cards in my swimming trunks!'

I nodded, still incapable of speech, and after a moment to allow me to collect myself, he moved away. Beside me Cynthia's voice said lightly, ‘What an odd little man! Darling, don't you positively
hate
all that fur? Men seem to be so proud of it, but give me a smooth bronzed torso like your gorgeous Lance's any day! Frankly your new friend reminds me of something out of
Planet of the Apes!
'

I laughed a little shakily, grateful to her for restoring my precarious control. ‘Actually he's rather sweet. I wouldn't be surprised if he's foreign. There's an odd inflection in his voice sometimes, though of course he speaks perfect English.'

‘Chacqu'un à son goût!
' She gave a little shiver and glanced up at a bank of clouds which was forming to the east. ‘It looks as though we've had the best of the day. I hope it's not going to rain.'

The buffet was finished, the long table a litter of dirty plates haphazardly stacked. Mark and the Pomfrett children, who had already returned to the pool area, were now coming back again, pulling on sweaters and cardigans.

‘There's quite a breeze getting up,' Roger remarked. ‘We've decided to move inside and suffer the Sunday film, if that's okay?'

‘As long as you go in the study,' Lance replied. The six young people came up the steps and moved in a body through the french windows. Briony and Mark were hand in hand and I saw Lance's lips tighten as they passed.

The rest of us, determined to stay outdoors, returned to the edge of the pool, but the breeze Roger had mentioned was distinctly cool, whipping along the surface of the water, and the clouds had increased and darkened threateningly. For about half an hour we sat huddled in sweaters then, ominously, a large fat raindrop splattered on to the concrete beside me. As though it were a signal, we all scrambled to our feet, gathering belongings together as the first slow drops fell with separate little plops into the pool. The young people had of course left a litter of dark glasses, wet costumes and suntan oil behind them, and I gathered these into one armful to be sorted out later. By the time we reached the house the raindrops had merged to become a steady downpour, drilling relentlessly on the terrace and beating a rustling tattoo on the laden trees. We followed one another hastily through the french windows, laughing and exclaiming and shaking the rain off our hair: and above the confused mêlée Max Forrest's compelling voice reached us clearly: