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Authors: Clare Curzon

BOOK: The Body of a Woman
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Shaking, she fetched a decanter and a tumbler from the
dining room and went back upstairs. In her own room she slid beneath the duvet. One outstretched arm encountered Aidan's folded pyjamas and she recoiled, dragged herself from the bed and fled to the ochre and terracotta stage-set of Chloë's room. Nothing, herself included, was normal any more. She was become part of the surreal.
There she closed Chloë's dark curtains and turned on the overhead light - at eleven o'clock on a bright summer morning. It was insane and she dimly acknowledged it. She shed all her clothes and slid between the cool sheets, poured brandy into the chattering glass, then lay shivering, despite a temperature already in the eighties.
 
 
It was the doorbell's shrilling that half-woke her. Still confused by the brandy she stumbled downstairs. The brain inside her skull felt swollen, pressing hotly behind her eyes. It beat at each step and her balance was uncertain. In the hall she clung to the newel post to steady herself, gasping as she bruised her naked breasts.
She was aware enough to seize a raincoat from the lobby and cover herself before opening the front door. It was then she recalled the danger: that Pascal could have come after her.
Someone she didn't know was standing there - a young man in shirtsleeves and chinos. He was trying not to notice her dishevelled appearance. ‘What is it?' she demanded.
He had to explain twice over because she didn't grasp his connection with the library. Then it appeared that he worked there and he'd called here on his way home.
So it was evening now. And yes, she did remember him after all. He had been the serious one usually date-stamping or working at the computer keyboard.
It seemed the book was for her daughter. Chloë must have left it behind: one from her list for exam work. By mistake it
had been put back on the shelves where a helpful browser had reported something of Chloë's inside. Then a librarian remembered a student laying it down to riffle through her tote bag. She could have gone off without it.
The young man hoped it wasn't too late to be helpful with her work. It must be the end of term soon.
‘Yes, yes. Thank you.' It was too complicated to explain that Chloë was away, having been allowed, like other pupils, to slope off early once her own exams were over.
The young man wanted to linger and chat but she shut the door firmly on him and relocked it.
The book was a novel by Martin Amis. Leila hadn't known it was on the Eng Lit syllabus. If she left it in Chloë's room she would find it when she returned. Not that it was clear when that would be, or if at all.
Drowsily she went back and sat on the side of the bed, opening the book at the first page. She read a paragraph through and it made no sense. Well that was probably intentional. There were people who read Joyce's Ulysses for the fun of its obfuscation. Amis appeared rather the same, only simpler.
Time's Arrow.
Chloë might enjoy it. Not herself.
Reaching out to the bedside table she miscalculated and the book fell, exploding on its face. A square white envelope had detached itself from the pages.
This was what the young man had mentioned: something of Chloë's which another reader had found. The envelope, printed with the girl's name but no address, showed no sign of having been opened.
Until today Leila had respected her stepchildren's privacy. But no longer. Opening this was no more taboo than searching Chloë's room had been. She inserted a fingernail in the envelope and tore the flap back.
The deckle-edged card it contained was a formal invitation requesting the pleasure of the company of … Chloë's name was written in by hand, with the word ‘over' after place and time.
On the reverse side the same script offered a personal message: ‘A few very select friends look forward to meeting you. Come precisely at ten and you shall have what you asked for.'
Come where? Leila turned back to the card's die-stamped heading. Carnaval Masque. The address was a house near Henley. The date two days ahead.
Whatever it meant Leila felt a cold shiver of premonition. On the surface the invitation was formal and proper, yet she was aware of menace in the wording. The written sentence was ambiguous, but for Chloe it must hold a specific message.
Would she have known who they were, these few very select friends eager to meet a young schoolgirl? And given a precise time at which to appear - like a servant or some kind of performer. And what was promised that she had asked for?
Had she really made some demand, or should the phrase be taken in the other sense, as a bully's threat that she would ‘get what she'd been asking for'?
The envelope was unstamped, so delivered by hand. As the book had been just now. It could mean that the young man from the library was involved. She would see him and demand to know.
But no: anyone could have left that for her at the library, where her name and face would be familiar. If the young librarian hadn't brought it Chloe would have been handed it next time she went in. Which meant the sender had no idea Chloe was away and untraceable. Had she disappeared for just that reason, being afraid of what might happen? Scared for the results of some action of her own?
And where in this was the link with Pascal revealed by today's letter to him? ‘Carnaval Masqué': because of the use of French, Leila felt this had to be more of his doing.
There was also the recurrence of Henley in the address, close to where he had taken her yesterday! She mistrusted
coincidence. She wished she had a clearer head, because it was up to her now to find out what these ‘few special friends' expected of Chloe. She had been a weak fool to befuddle herself with drink.
Leila went through to the kitchen and poured a tumbler of water. It made her retch and she recalled she'd run out on breakfast and had only brandy since. She must force something down.
With a slice of wholemeal toast inside her she felt more normal. Thank God Chloe was away and hadn't received the invitation. It was up to her, Leila, to follow up the card, drive over to Henley while it was still daylight to hunt out the house where the masquerade was to be held.
Quickly she tidied both beds and dressed to go out, but as she opened the front door she saw Aidan's car turn into the driveway, blocking the way out for her own.
He'd said he'd be gone for two days, hadn't he? And that must have been three or four days ago. She seemed to have lost all account of time.
Whatever, he wasn't in the sweetest of tempers. As he passed her in the hall he stopped and stared suspiciously. He sniffed. ‘You've been drinking. I hope you let someone else drive you home.'
It was easier to let him think she'd just come in. ‘Of course,' she said, dumped her shoulder-bag and made again for the kitchen. The smell of toast there was less conspicuous than the brandy but she opened a window straight away. A few minutes later he followed her in and demanded, ‘What's for dinner?'
‘Breasts of lamb,' she invented quickly. It seemed to have almost Freudian aptness but her womanising husband missed it.
‘You're earlier than I expected,' she told him, ‘so they're not marinaded yet. We'll be eating at eight.'
He hardly seemed to hear what she said, and certainly hadn't picked up on her uncustomary sharpness. ‘I'll be in
the lounge,' he said shortly. ‘You can bring me some coffee through.'
Drawing-room, she corrected him silently: you're in the wrong house. You aren't at your little bimbo's semi now.
It amazed her how strong her distaste for him had suddenly become, and what pleasure surged up from such petty rebellion. It seemed she had passed over an invisible line, and instead of the expected guilt at adultery it brought her a kind of angry release.
At least for that she could thank Pascal.
She wondered how far rebellion could take her; whether she would become like one of those vengeful wives who cut up their husbands' suits, poured away their vintage claret and slashed their car tyres. Perhaps, some day; but for the present there were more serious worries to occupy her. And in comparison Aidan's affaires seemed of little importance.
What most rankled was his utter inability to understand or help with whatever fix his young daughter had landed herself in. She could never even suggest to him that anything was amiss in Chloë's life. It would only send him berserk, raging at Leila herself.
She continued to play the distant housewife, allowing rancour to build silently inside throughout their meal, fortifying her. When the hall phone shrilled she was on her way to the kitchen with her hands full of dishes and all her tension flooded back.
He beat her to it, anxious to prevent her taking the call. His body language gave him away, hunched with his back towards where he guessed she must be standing. Then the loosening up, the turning to include her: ‘It's Chloe; she's calling from Granny's.'
After a few meaningless words he handed the receiver across. ‘Mum,' her stepdaughter greeted her, ‘how're things? Is the heatwave still on? It's terrific here. I've been swimming in the sea with the boy from the apartment opposite, name of Roger but pronounced Ro-zhay; a bit of a prune actually.' She
was talking fast to prevent her stepmother squeezing a word in.
Leila attempted to hold her voice steady. ‘Hello, love. Yes, it's been baking. Someone dropped by to see you this evening. Remember that serious young man from the library? He brought a book you left behind there.'
There was silence at the far end of the line and she tried to picture the girl's face. ‘He seemed disappointed you weren't here.'
‘Yeah; think I know the one you mean. Rather sweet really. What book was it?'
‘A Martin Amis. I didn't know you were into that gloomy stuff.'
‘Nor did I. I guess he made it up for an excuse. Philip, I mean. If so, that's quite enterprising. For him, that is.'
Aidan was hanging about in the hall and it wasn't possible for Leila to probe what she needed to know. ‘Could I have a word with Granny now?' she asked, falsely casual.
‘Sure. She's right here. Wait a minute while she plugs her ear-thingy in.'
Leila's mother-in-law came on, gushing about how wonderful to have little Chloe turn up. They were going to visit all sorts of places together. And she would take really good care of her. They weren't to worry at all about her darling granddaughter.
‘I'm sure you'll have a great time together,' Leila assured her, shaky with relief. ‘Make her stay as long as you can.'
She chatted on about airy nothings and hung up after another fruitless little session with Chloe.
In the kitchen, preparing after-dinner coffee, she heard the phone ring again and Aidan rush to take his expected call. This silly affair of his didn't matter so much, now that Chloë was where she should be - safe, at least for the present. Perhaps Aidan could be persuaded to pay his mother a long-promised visit and act as a damper on Chloë's flitting again.
But not bring her back until the mysterious business of the Henley invitation was sorted.
The girl's phone call had settled some doubts but raised a fresh suspicion. It had come too opportunely on Leila's intercepting her letter from Montreux. So had Pascal, realising what her running off signified, immediately rung Chloe in Montreux and advised her to beat it to Granny's fast? It would have taken her the best part of the day to get there and settle in.
That could be the reason Pascal hadn't come back here with excuses after his first fruitless call. He'd expected that whatever had been going on between himself and Chloe could now be swept under the carpet.
But then he didn't know what Leila had turned up during her search of Chloë's bedroom. Nor that she held the sinister-sounding invitation with the Henley address.
Aidan's return had stopped any chance of her getting out to Henley that evening. She must leave it until daylight tomorrow. He should be flitting off again then. She was aware of him rooting about for fresh clothes and furtively sliding a suitcase under the bed.
They'd had a chance to achieve separate sleeping arrangements in this new house. Leila had funked broaching the subject of twin beds, but her mind was made up now. In fact with so much more space there was no need even to share a room. However, for tonight anyway she would let it ride. She undressed in the bathroom and slid in beside him, turning her back and moving to the mattress edge.
Aidan, half-asleep, gave a deep sigh and promptly rolled back to take over the centre. Stiff with anger, Leila lay hunched, feeling herself all bones pressing into each other, imagined herself a skeleton; and when at last she fell fitfully asleep it was to enter a zombie-life of Halloween horrors.
 
Dawn brought a haze that promised further heat. It hung silvery-blue across distant trees and the sky shimmered with a dusty Saharan colour that must indicate pollution from the city.
Uncle Charles claimed that London air rose on a thermal, spread into a doughnut ring and produced fallout over the Home Counties. Which was his excuse for still living among all that traffic chaos instead of taking a peaceful country estate. Well, even he had tired of cities for the present and gone up to Scotland for a whiff of heather and malt. Hard luck on poor Janey, who said it was a country of cowpats, drizzle and gnats.
‘I'm off then,' Aidan announced brusquely, clattering his
cup into a saucer ringed with spilt coffee. It cut into her breakfast musings, signalling the moment for action.
And she was ready for it. Today, even stiff from her uncomfortable night, she felt strangely competent. As soon as Aidan's car had pulled away she filled a thermos flask with the rest of the coffee, collected sandwiches from the fridge, and fetched her own car round from the garage. Finally she rang her PARTY FUN assistant manager to ask her to open up.
The scale of the road atlas on the seat beside her, pressed open at page 22, was 3 miles to the inch; probably useless because she knew the route well enough as far as Henley-on-Thames and really needed an Ordnance Survey map from there. She drove by the way she'd been taken only two days before, tasting bile as she passed through Marlow, remembering how at lunch there she'd already been in thrall to the charmer Pascal.
In thrall: that was an archaic description. Weird, how it had come to her mind. Perhaps it was due to the country she had just passed through, historically soaked in occultism and sexual fantasy: the decadent Medmenham revels of the Dashwood coven and the almost Black Forest mysticism of the snaking valley sunk between tiers of densely packed conifers. It must be due to the shaken state of her mind that she felt at the same time menaced yet tempted beyond her normal limits.
Henley had a more wholesome air. The narrow streets with their tiny shops crammed with bright touristic kitsch; sun-drugged visitors spilling from crowded pavements into the roadway; ice cream cornets dripping in toddlers' hands; the scent of freshly roasted coffee beans wafted from open cafe doorways; and then the horizontal vista opening out to the steady-flowing Thames with white-painted boathouses, and scullers floating past in their fragile shells. It brought back normality, making her waver for a moment and question whether she'd been imagining non-existent dangers.
But the house she sought wasn't here. She parked at the
far end of town where the small cruisers' moorings were and enquired about the address. No one seemed to have heard of it. Finally a shopkeeper thought it was out Stonor way so she drove back into town and and turned left away from the river.
It was a road she remembered from visits to Grays Court and Stonor as a girl, when the governess, inflicted on her by Uncle Charles as holiday guardian, took her to stay with her mother at Fawley. The two countrywomen were ardent admirers of stately homes, making pilgrimages to both houses two or three times each season. She could still feel the magic of walking under a ceiling of ornamental white cherry blossom at the one, and watching the proud-antlered stags at the other, with a tantalising glimpse of the Judas-deer's white rump flickering between distant trees to betray where the herd merged into tawny undergrowth.
The road rose quickly from the river valley, dipping and rising between rolling hills where for centuries the ruling classes had built their mini-palaces either on crests to dominate the panorama or in folded valleys, hoping to stay discreetly safe from the persecutions of their day.
Somewhere out here lived the party-giver who had sent that enigmatic message to young Chloe. Leila guessed he would have opted for a valley.
A network of narrow lanes led her in circles and figures of eight, passing and repassing the same landmarks before she espied a stony track through a shallow ford and, fifty yards farther on, saw a pair of old stone pillars with the name chiselled in. On one was the word Havelock and on the other House. By some irony of fate, ivy trailing from the gryphon-mounted finial obscured parts of the initial word so that at first she read it as Hav …oc …
There was a pair of tall wrought iron gates in quite good repair and painted a rusty black with gilt ornamentation of vine leaves and grape clusters. Through their intricacies she could make out a curving, macadamed drive. There
appeared to be some kind of lake and the house wasn't far beyond because the trellised brickwork of its red Jacobean chimneys showed above mixed woodland planted to guarantee privacy. Leila counted the chimneypots and visualized a house of considerable size on a single building line. Any additional wings could have been removed in a more frugal period to leave something the size of an average private hotel. Or perhaps a discreet country club. Certainly Havelock House hadn't featured on the list of stately homes open to the public when she was a child.
The recent fine weather had left no marks on the macadam drive, but the stony track that led to it was deeply rutted where cars had swung in at speed. So sometimes the gates were left open. If guests were expected for the Carnaval Masque in two days' time that could well be the case again.
For the moment, however, there seemed no chance of penetrating further because the metallic box affixed to one pillar suggested electronic surveillance. Leila had no intention of advertising her interest. She put the car into gear and continued on her way to find a point for turning.
After a hundred yards or so the track broadened to become a made-up lane and subsequently met a recognisable road at a T-junction. A signpost pointing right offered High Wycombe; the left indicated Henley. There was no finger for the direction she'd come from. But certainly she was now on the recognised route to Havelock House and she'd arrived at it in reverse. If she came back in darkness it would be much easier to find from here.
And would she? she asked herself. Was it more than a hare-brained fancy to consider taking up the invitation to Chloe and finding out for herself what the girl had become involved in?
Engrossed in this question she rounded a sharp corner to face a large silver car speeding towards her on the crown of the road. She jerked the wheel wildly and braked. The Volvo spun and ended at a crazed angle on the grass verge, its front
left wheel in some kind of ditch. Through the rearview mirror she watched the other car, a Mercedes, continue unchecked until braking to turn into the lane she'd come out of.
A few minutes earlier and she could have been caught spying on the house. That was alarming enough, but what really shook her was the glimpse she'd caught of the Mercedes' driver.
She didn't think he'd recognized her, being fully taken up with controlling his own speed. But she knew him. Less than three weeks back they had chatted together at the Royal Society lunch. He had seemed a reasonably friendly person, even if his appearance was a little eccentric.
Could he be bound for Havelock House? That track led nowhere else apart from a network of other narrow lanes. What connection could the place have with Sir Arthur Waites, the celebrated mathematician who'd amusingly claimed that chaos was his obsession?
Could that wizened beanpole with his wispy hair actually live there? If so - it suddenly struck her - then it could be no accident that its name was partly obscured, reading as Havoc. Havoc was a good old mediaeval word, and one of its meanings was chaos. Wouldn't that just suit the man's quirky humour?
There was no reason, she told herself driving home, why he shouldn't at some time have come across Chloe in Aidan's company. And then a follow-up invitation to his house, although unconventional, wouldn't necessarily be sinister. And the message promising to provide what she had asked for could have a quite innocent meaning - perhaps some mathematical shortcut that would help with her examination work?
Except that Aidan didn't take his daughter with him on his social rounds. There were few professional occasions when he thought fit to have even his wife tagging along. Besides - before she dismissed her earlier alarm as paranoia
triggered by Pascal's duplicity - what was a man of Waites's age doing setting up a rendezvous with a teenager at ten o'clock at night? How on earth would he have supposed she could get herself to it?
No, it just wasn't on. In her right mind Chloë would never have encouraged anyone like that, however much she might chuck her adolescent chest at a personable male of her own age.
In her right mind. The words echoed in Leila's head.
So suppose Chloë sometimes wasn't in her right mind. Suppose she'd become dependent on that white powder hidden at the back of her mirror.
Dear God, don't let that old monster be dealing the stuff to her!
There was only one way to be quite certain, and that was to accept the invitation in her place. With a domino mask and in the dress Chloe must have worn before, she might not be instantly recognisable. If the entire party was kept in period, maybe by candles or torchlight, she could perhaps pass as her stepdaughter.
It was a risk she had to take. She'd arrive early, say at nine, park the car at some distance and walk to the house through its surrounding woodland.
And if she was discovered? She would have to appeal to Sir Arthur, always supposing he was present. And if not, then she could claim he'd sent her along by way of a joke: part of the chaos that gave him his highs. Havoc House after all.

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