The Mistake I Made (24 page)

I’d gone a little quiet on Henry towards the end of the date, the enormity of the deception crashing through me as Henry prattled on about Scott, completely oblivious to my state of mind. He’d left, I suspected, somewhat befuddled by my sudden remoteness, perhaps misinterpreting it as an aversion towards him – which couldn’t be further from what I was feeling.

I refreshed the page now, somehow hoping to see the money magically appear.

Concentrating on the screen, I didn’t notice George approach until he was at the side of me: shoulders hunched over, shivering, hopping from one foot to the other. ‘I need to use the bathroom,’ he said.

‘So go.’

‘You said I wasn’t to go in there on my own. You said I could only go in there when you’re there or there are other kids.’

That’s right, I did. I apologized and got up. I’d forgotten that. You can’t even let your children use the loo alone any more since being told they can be assaulted in supermarket bathrooms, swimming-pool changing rooms.

Did our parents realize how easy they had it?

‘Go out to play and don’t come back till tea time,’ my mother would say. ‘There’s fifty pence for chips and gravy. Don’t buy sweets.’ And that was just about the extent of her parenting.

‘You’ll have to go in the women’s,’ I told George, and he scowled.

‘I don’t want to go in there.’

‘Well, I can’t go in the men’s.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they’ll be naked. Go in the women’s, and be quick. You’re missing your lesson.’

He scooted off, and I found myself wondering, not for the first time, after all the recent coverage in the press, if the incidence of paedophiles amongst celebrities was higher than in the general population. Or were they simply representative of the population as a whole?

Or, and this was my growing suspicion, was there something present in the psyche of men who were drawn to life in the public eye that also predisposed them to want to have sex with children? Someone should really do a study.

‘All done,’ said George.

‘You wash your hands?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really?’

‘I’m going in the pool,’ he argued, and got away from me before I could send him back, doing that half-run, half-step thing you do on wet floor tiles.

I watched him skid a little as he reached the water, eager as he was to get into the warmth again, and my heart juddered.
Stay safe, baby
. My prayer. The thing I said when I felt powerless to protect him.

Two weeks ago, I’d said the same prayer when I’d allowed him to leave the pool with a child I knew little about. Of course George knew everything about him, having spent the whole two days previous playing with him. His grandfather brought him to his swimming lesson, the family were new to the area, and they were keen for the child, Leif, to make friends.

The grandfather was affable, friendly, an earring in his left ear, a semi-circular scar on his chin – an old glassing incident, perhaps? George had hold of my shirt and was pulling at it, begging me to let him go rather than spend a boring afternoon alone with me. I was cornered. I smiled awkwardly at Granddad, trying to think of an excuse and feeling hot with shame at the same time, because I was totally judging this man on his appearance.

What do you do in this situation?

‘Okay, you can go,’ I eventually said, reluctantly, and spent the afternoon saying the prayer, my mantra, over and over.

Later that night, my fears were realized.

George returned home withdrawn and uncommunicative, he wouldn’t eat his meal, and played in his room so as not to be near me. We’d had ‘the talk’ every so often …
If anyone ever tries to touch you in your underpants … If anyone ever tells you to keep a secret from me
. But not knowing exactly the seriousness of what I was trying to convey, George always brushed it off fast and said something silly.

I knocked on his door. ‘Everything all right?’

He nodded, without looking up.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ I asked him.

‘No, thank you.’

‘George? Did something happen today?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Did Leif’s granddad get cross with you?’

‘No,’ he said quietly.

‘Did he … did he try to’ – I paused, trying to find the right words – ‘did he try to touch you at all?’

‘No.’

‘Was there anyone else at the house?’

‘Leif’s brother.’

‘And how old is he?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Guess,’ I said. ‘Younger than you? Older than you?’

‘Younger.’

‘Any other adults?’

‘His nanna.’

‘And what was she like?’

‘Pretty old.’

‘Okay, George, listen. What exactly happened over there, because I can see there was something, and I’m not leaving until you talk to me.’

My voice was shaking. I was trying to remain calm for his sake, but I just couldn’t.

He scratched at a scab on his knee, reluctant to talk.

‘George!’ I pressed. ‘Talk.’

And he took a breath.

‘Well,’ he began, hesitant, not really wanting to. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you know Pokémon?’

I closed my eyes. Fell back against the wall in relief.

‘I do,’ I said.

‘Well, Leif has got, like, thirty-three figures, Mum … and … and, well, when I saw them I was
jealous
.’

Jesus Christ.

See this is how it got you. This is how fucked up you became, paranoia plaguing your every thought.

‘I’ll get you some more Pokémon, love,’ I told him, and then I went and downed two shots of brandy.

The children were now jumping in – star jumps for if they ever found themselves in an emergency situation, jumping from a boat perhaps into brackish water, unable to see the bottom. The teacher was explaining the importance of slapping down hard with their arms as they hit the surface, trying to impress the reasons to avoid going deep.

It was pretty much lost on the kids, though, who took it as an opportunity to try to splash each other – legally.

I refreshed the page again. Still no money. And then it dawned on me that since today was Saturday there would be no bank transfer until Monday at the earliest.

Idly, I gazed out of the window to the hotel car park, wondering if there was anything I could feasibly do if that money didn’t show up, when my attention was caught by a black Range Rover.

Black Range Rovers were commonplace. At the moment, maybe not so much as white, but they were popular around here all the same. Except this was an enhanced Range Rover, an Overfinch Long Wheelbase. Over two hundred thousand pounds’ worth of car. And therefore not so commonplace.

It was Scott’s Range Rover.

I slid down a little in my seat so that only my eyes peered over the top of my laptop and watched as the car crawled around the car park, as if searching for something. There were plenty of empty spaces, so he wasn’t trying to park.

He began a second circuit. He hadn’t yet spotted me observing him. Perhaps I was invisible from out there if the sun was on the glass.

Why was he here? How did he know I was here?

But then if he was looking for me, he would have spotted my car immediately. The Jeep was by the entrance. And even if he hadn’t memorized my registration, he would know it was mine on account of the dent on the bonnet, caused by a runaway supermarket trolley.

So if he wasn’t looking for me, who was he looking for?

My hand hovered over my phone. This was creepy.

Did I have the nerve? Did I allow him to explain himself?

There were five rings before I saw his brake lights illuminate and he answered at the far end of the car park.

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘You free to talk?’

‘Sure.’

His voice was lazy. A cover-up, as I’d not heard him speak slowly unless actually dozing off. My stomach spasmed as I watched him edge the car forward a little.

‘There’s a bit of a problem,’ I said.

‘What kind of problem?’

‘The invoice I sent. It’s not been paid and I’m still waiting for the money.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh, that is surprising. Deborah is usually very prompt. She should have sent it on Wednesday. I’ll look into it for you soon as I can and make sure it’s sorted out.’

‘Wonderful. Sorry to be a nuisance, but, you know.’

‘No need to apologize. You want your money, I get that.’ There was now a harder edge to his voice. He released the brakes once more and moved the car off to the right. If he continued along that course he would again come right past where I was sitting.

I swallowed.

‘So, you’re okay, then?’ I said.

‘Champion.’

‘What are you up to? Are you doing anything today?’

The nose of the car came into view.

Through the windscreen I got a clear picture of him, and my breath stuttered in my chest as I feared he may see me.

‘Nothing much,’ he said casually, while his eyes darted left and right, left and right, scanning the parked cars. ‘Just reading the papers, catching up on a few bits and pieces at home.’

His lie sent a shiver right up the length of my spine.

‘Sounds good,’ I murmured.

‘Yeah, relaxing and having a bit of a recharge,’ he added.

‘A recharge,’ I repeated, as he paused now by an old piece-of-shit Peugeot further along. The car was similar to Henry’s. Same colour. Same model.

Scott surveyed the car for a full ten seconds before answering.

He thought the car was Henry’s. He thought I was at this hotel, with Henry. Scott was checking up on me. But how did he know I was even here at all?

‘Listen,’ he said, distracted, ‘can I call you back? I can hear Nadine on her way through from the kitchen. I need to get off the phone.’

‘No problem,’ I told him.

And I watched as he hit the accelerator and sped off out of the car park.

27

THAT AFTERNOON SAW
the arrival of a new dining table and a new cooker – a free-standing electric oven with a ceramic hob on top. Nothing fancy, but it was clean. And since I tended to subscribe to the late Clarissa Dickson Wright’s view that one can make perfectly good food on a two-ring hotplate, I was thrilled to see it replace the grease-covered monstrosity Vince had donated. Even after I’d given it a thorough spray with Mr Muscle, I still couldn’t bring myself to use it. The burnt fat gave off an odour of rancidity that lodged in the nasal linings – much like when all those animal carcasses were burned during the foot-and-mouth epidemic of 2001. That smell stayed in the air, and in your nose, for months.

I hadn’t expected to miss cooking. Preparing meals for George at the end of a long day had long since lost its appeal. But when faced with the prospect of being unable to cook anything at all, well, I couldn’t wait to get back in the kitchen.

Petra and Vince were coming over, as well as Clara, and so I got on with preparing my crowd pleaser: spaghetti carbonara. Vince instructed me to leave the wine to him, and even though I tried to protest, explaining that I wasn’t as strapped for cash as I had been of late, he insisted. He had a new Portuguese white – F.P. Branco, which he’d been giddy for me to try since discovering it recently.

I roughly chopped some tomatoes, harvested by Dennis that morning. I invited both Celia and Dennis along, too, since Petra and Celia got along well, even though Petra complained that Celia became terribly boastful about her family after two glasses of wine (Celia would have said the same about Petra, if she weren’t my sister). But they had tickets to the Lakeland Book of the Year Awards. One of Celia’s book group had self-published a slim biography of William and Dorothy Wordsworth, which Celia said was very well written but not really my kind of thing, so best avoided.

To the tomatoes I added basil (again from Dennis), olive oil, seasoning and a splash of sherry vinegar, before making a plain green salad for the kids. George was positively repulsed by the idea of a raw tomato, not that it stopped him dousing everything in ketchup.

As well as now being in possession of a kitchen full of food for the first time in months, I had wine glasses, cups, two new saucepans and plates that matched. I’d also splurged on new school polo shirts for George, bath towels, tea towels, and bedding for both of our beds.

The school holidays were almost upon us. It would be one of the last quiet evenings before the adjoining holiday cottage became filled with a procession of noisy families. Families shouting at each other after dark when they’d had too much to drink, realizing too late that they didn’t actually like spending this amount of time with one another.

‘So,’ said Petra, as we sat out on the patio.

‘So?’ I mirrored back.

‘So, how was Henry?’ she said.

‘By which you mean?’

She shot me a look as though to say,
Not how was he in bed, you idiot
.

‘I mean, do you like him?’ she said.

‘He seems nice enough,’ I replied, teasing.

‘Nice enough for what? A fling? A relationship? Marriage?’

‘Oh, marriage definitely,’ I replied, deadpan.

‘Have you heard that Hollywood now has its own marital version of the 5:2 diet?’ said Petra, and I asked her to explain.

‘Instead of eating for five days and fasting for two days,’ she said, ‘you live with your spouse for five days and have two days off.’

Vince looked interested.

‘Or is it the other way around?’ she said. Petra thought for a moment, working through the logistics of it. ‘Yes, it must be the other way around. Five days off, two days on.’

‘Like a fireman,’ I said.

‘Exactly,’ she replied. ‘Celebrity couples say it makes their marriages work much better, and it’s more fulfilling.’

‘That’s because they’re essentially dating,’ said Vince.

‘Where did you read this?’ I asked her.

‘A magazine in the staff room. Not a trashy one. The head doesn’t allow those. It was
Marie Claire
. Or one of those thinking women’s magazines where the articles are way too long … and depressing.’

Vince said to Petra that they already had their own version of the 5:2. She became cross with him over something he had no idea about, and then proceeded to ignore him for two days. ‘Works perfectly well for us, doesn’t it, love?’