The Sudden Departure of the Frasers (21 page)

Imagine if you were going away with him, not Jeremy
, whispered the wicked queen.

‘I’ll look at some options,’ I said.

In the meantime the progression of Imogen’s pregnancy – she was only a few weeks from her due date when the group next met – struck me as a visual representation of the time Jeremy and I had already indulged in ‘relaxing’. Fresh confusion assailed me: was I
really
pleased it was taking us so much longer than we’d expected?

Certainly the girls perceived the delay as an out-and-out tragedy.

‘Shouldn’t you at least have your name down already?’ Imogen asked when we gathered at her flat in Islington, depot now to an array of baby-related deliveries. Seeing all the boxes stacked up and half opened reminded me of
the weekend we’d moved into Lime Park Road, and it seemed now like an ancient, unspoiled time. Pre-Rob; prelapsarian indeed.

‘She’s right, Amber, aren’t there long waiting lists for IVF?’ Helena said.

‘Not where
they’ll
be doing it,’ Gemma said, smilingly snide, and for once I turned on her, tired of her begrudging brand of friendship.

‘Have a bit of sympathy, can’t you? Who cares who’s paying and who isn’t, who’s waited ten minutes and who ten years? The end result is the same for all of us – at least I hope it will be. Or don’t you think Jeremy and I deserve a baby for some reason?’ I was breathing hard, red mist rising fast, obscuring all sense. ‘Go on, Gemma, why don’t you tell me what’s
really
on your mind? Are you annoyed I didn’t set you up with Rob? It’s not
my
fault he seems to have chosen this Pippa woman! Don’t you think I –’ I stopped, gasping, right on the precipice of saying too much and giving myself away.

To a woman they looked utterly shocked. Gemma flushed deeply and stammered an apology, unprecedented in the years of our acquaintance. As I sat on my hands to stop myself from fidgeting, I saw Helena and Imogen exchange an anxious glance.

It was the first public sign that I was starting to fray.

Arriving at number 42, Flaubert in hand, just before eight on the evening of the book group, Christy found herself in the eye of the storm that was the Sellers children’s bedtimes. As Caroline ushered her into the hallway a small girl slid down the stairs on her bottom and announced that she wasn’t at all sleepy and should therefore be allowed to put the light back on and get out her Sylvanian Families collection. A second girl had complaints to make about a sleeping brother’s heavy breathing, and these she foghorned from the top of the stairs, causing the first girl to object, the boy to awaken and start crying, and Caroline to yell for everyone to shut up and bloody well get back into bed or they’d be late for school the next morning and the teacher would call the police. There was no one else there yet, not even Richard Sellers back from the office.

‘Did I get the time wrong?’ Christy asked.

‘Oh, no one ever makes the actual start time,’ Caroline said, tossing a wet towel up the stairs with impressive aim. ‘You can see how hard it is to get these evil goblins into the land of Nod, especially when school’s about to break up. It’s not even dark yet, how can it possibly be night-time,
it’s illogical – that’s what you’re dealing with, Christy. The same thing’ll be happening in every house on the street.’

Except number 40.

‘Would it be better if I went home and came back later?’

‘God, no, stay now you’re here, you can help me with the nibbles. Let’s go and have a glass of wine. I’m officially off duty, whether the other residents of this house choose to accept it or not.’

Christy followed her into the kitchen. It was the first time she’d been inside the Sellerses’ home (or any of her new neighbours’, for that matter) and it almost broke her heart to see the child-centric chaos of it, the items of school uniform draped over the chairs, the infantile drawings pinned on the walls, including an enormous framed portrait entitled ‘My Mummy by Rosie Sellers, 2F’ in which Caroline was missing nose, ears and eyebrows. A large notice asked ‘Have You Cleaned Your Teeth and Washed Your Face?’ while a chart displayed the merits attained in a bid for a puppy.

Christy drank deeply of it, a traveller unaware of the life-threatening acuteness of her thirst until presented with a freshwater lake. How clinical her own house by comparison; there was no escaping the worst word of all: soulless. We should have stayed in our flat, she thought, feeling sudden and actual panic. We weren’t ready for this. We should have realized the child is more important than the square footage. Her mother was right, no house was worth the sacrifice. What did Steph say that time?
You have to compromise on something, don’t you?
Well, she thought, we’ve
compromised on the wrong thing, any fool can see that. I’ll talk to Joe tonight, I’ll tell him what I want.

‘Any luck on the job front?’ Caroline said as she tackled ‘nibbles’ by tearing open small bags of what looked like infants’ packed-lunch snacks and mixing them together in a large bowl. (‘I used to make more of an effort,’ she shrugged by way of explanation.)

‘Not yet,’ Christy said, ‘and it’ll be completely dead over August. I’ve decided to look for something voluntary just to keep busy. I’ve set aside tomorrow to sort it out.’ (‘Set aside’ from what? Her long days of advising the Treasury on economic policy?) ‘I thought I’d start at the library, look at the noticeboard there and find out what the local forums are.’

Caroline crushed the packaging into an overflowing bin. ‘What about getting in touch with those people who run the local literacy initiative?’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a voluntary programme where you help out at one of your local primary schools –’ There was an interruption as one of the Sellers girls could be heard at the kitchen door, asking in a bold, accusing tone, ‘Are there
crisps
?’

‘Back to bed!’ Caroline screamed, startling Christy and causing her to slop wine over her wrist, before continuing seamlessly with their conversation: ‘Just a couple of mornings a week, supporting kids who’ve fallen behind with their reading and need a bit of extra encouragement. But it wouldn’t be till the new school year, I’m guessing.’

‘I could still give them a call,’ Christy said, applying kitchen roll patterned with cherries to the spillage, for September was not so far away.

‘And if you did have a new job by then, you could always negotiate the hours off. I think you have to commit for at least half a term. I’ve probably got the details somewhere, I’ll dig them out and drop them round tomorrow if you like.’

‘That would be perfect.’ Thanks to this – and the fishbowl of wine – her epiphany was receding to a more manageable size. ‘All these lovely photos,’ she remarked, standing before a radiator cover stacked with framed school portraits of the Sellerses’ smiling children in various stages of dental development.

‘Yes,’ Caroline said. ‘Just when you think you’re sick of the sight of them, you can come in here and see their faces a thousand times over. It’s like Room 101.’

Among the school photos there were a few family ones, including one of the Sellerses at a beach café somewhere exotic, Richard looking as if he’d just escaped a house fire, Caroline vividly draped and accessorized; the look did not quite gel with her disordered appearance this evening. In another, a group of mostly middle-aged adults clustered before the camera in a garden strung with fairy lights, glasses raised. In the corner was what appeared to be an oversized swan; closer inspection revealed it to be part of a fairground ride.

‘Why’s there a carousel in someone’s garden?’ she asked. ‘Hang on, is that
our
garden?’

Caroline peered over her shoulder. ‘It is, actually. The Frasers had a party when they’d finished their renovations. There were all sorts of entertainments, including the ride. I was never entirely clear how they got it in and
out of the garden, but no doubt Amber charmed someone on the park committee into risking life and limb with a fork-lift truck.’ She smiled. ‘I hope you don’t think it’s a bit creepy to see your own home in a photo in someone else’s house?’

‘Of course not, it’s nice,’ Christy said, chasing off any deflating thoughts of her own guestless get-together.

‘It was going to be an annual thing,’ Caroline said, ‘every August bank holiday, but of course it turned out to be the first and last. Richard and I talked about hosting it instead this year, but it wouldn’t be the same without Amber. She made things special. Look, that’s her there, in the middle. See what I mean about her figure?’

Christy inspected the picture with fascinated interest. At last, an image of her famously alluring predecessor. And it was all she could do not to gasp, for it was true, Amber had all the components of outstanding beauty: a body that was both toned and curvaceous, a shining mane of flame-red hair, glowing skin, an immaculately fitted designer dress and high heels. Her cheekbones were high, her nose straight, her eyes wide and her smile broad: all the right adjectives went with all the right features, not a mix-up among them. Such was her youth and glamour compared to the others in the group it looked as if a Hollywood actress had put in an appearance at her parents’ small-town barbecue. All at once, the idea of her having removed herself from Lime Park made complete sense to Christy. An exotic creature like this, a bird of paradise, didn’t belong in a suburban garden.

‘So who is everyone else? I can recognize you and Richard, and that’s Felicity, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. She was lovely, Felicity, quite
political
, always lecturing my girls on financial independence – as if they have a clue at their age – and there’s me, standing right next to them, an unwaged wastrel!’

Christy could not help but contrast this display of easy humour with the indignation unleashed on her the first time they’d met. She very much liked this new, droll Caroline.

‘And on the left is Kenny, then his wife Joanne – you’ve probably seen them with their Labradoodle, Poppy. She’ll be here tonight. Not the Labradoodle, I mean, the human.’

As she pointed out others half-recognizable from her daily surveillance, Christy’s eye settled on a male figure she’d seen in another photograph: cropped greying hair and angular, intelligent face. He was in excellent shape for his age.

‘Is that Jeremy Fraser?’

‘That’s right. Wonderful man.’ Caroline paused. ‘That’s why I don’t worry, not really.’

‘Worry about what? Amber?’

‘About both of them. If they’re together, then wherever they are I know they’re OK.’

Christy wondered if she should report what Gemma at the media agency had said about Amber only being where she wanted to be; would that put Caroline’s mind at ease a little? But the last time she’d mentioned one of Amber’s other friends, she’d only succeeded in disheartening her.

‘Who’s the younger guy?’ Christy indicated the smiling black-haired man standing directly behind Amber. He, too, was familiar to her.

‘You don’t recognize him? He’s your neighbour on the other side.’

‘Rob?’ It occurred to Christy that Caroline never directly used his name. Did her loathing run so deep? ‘He looks so different without his beard.’ She thought of the photo she’d seen on the Internet, coloured slightly at the memory of her snooping.

‘Yes, he’s put on weight since then as well.’ Caroline spoke as if it were a decade ago, not eleven months.

‘He’s like a bear, we think,’ said Christy (again, that fraudulent ‘we’). ‘One of those ones that can decapitate a human with a swipe of its paw.’

Caroline laughed. ‘Well, in those days he was more the lithe panther type, quite the heart-throb in fact – I think I’m allowed to say that.’

‘Why wouldn’t you be?’ For Christy, Rob’s presence in the photo only made more of a riddle of him. Seeing him in this new context jarred her assumptions, made a mockery of her speculation about formal illegalities (‘Lime Park killer’!).
He didn’t used to be rude
, Imogen had said, and on this evidence he’d been in fact very popular, right in the centre of the throng, smiling happily, certainly not someone you’d be warned to avoid or want to anonymously call ‘scum’. How could a ‘heart-throb’ have become
persona non grata
in so brief a time? ‘Distressing stuff’ Caroline had called it before, which could apply to a multitude of sins. Might his fall from grace, for instance,
be the result of something more prosaic, a case of the oldest story in the book – and indeed in the book to be discussed that evening – an extramarital affair? A romantic skirmish that had caused the closing of ranks and reprisals that included fists flying and people yelling up at windows?

If so, with whom had he had the skirmish? Looking once again at the photograph, she was quite clear that Amber Fraser was the one you’d pick out of a line-up, the one with mythical levels of desirability, the one who had left in mysterious circumstances. And yet Caroline had vouched for the Frasers’ marital devotion as if in a court of law (
They’re together forever …
), her words having struck Christy as entirely truthful and authentic. So if not Amber, who? Caroline herself? It would certainly make sense of her ambivalence towards Rob, for what woman was not ambivalent about past passion, even the legitimate sort?

But no, that didn’t make sense either, for Caroline had approved the choice of
Madame Bovary
for the book group: a guilty woman, especially one who appeared to be the leader of the group, would surely have used her power of veto to avoid such an awkward discussion. In any case, adultery did not explain that repulsive note. A raging husband or established opponent would surely sign his name; he’d certainly not make the mistake of posting it through the wrong door.

‘Well, he can’t be as awful as we think, because his girlfriend keeps coming back for more,’ Christy said.

‘His girlfriend?’ Caroline turned sharply. ‘Who’s that? What does she look like?’

‘She’s small and blonde and tanned. Very pretty. Early thirties, maybe?’

‘That sounds like Pippa,’ Caroline exclaimed, amazement overriding discretion. ‘She must be
crazy
if she’s still hanging around! I thought she moved out months ago.’

‘Oh, she doesn’t live there,’ Christy said. It was out of the question for formal removals to have escaped her surveillance. ‘So she used to, did she?’

‘Yes, earlier in the year, but not for long.’

‘Strange.’ Who would move in with a boyfriend, leave again, and then continue to visit regularly immediately afterwards? ‘Maybe they’ve got one of those relationships that thrives on drama and insecurity?’

‘If that’s the case then I worry for her.’ Caroline sucked in her lips, her vow of silence reclaiming her, as her eyes drifted once more to the photograph. The way she looked at it was as if she longed for the glory days, for that golden age when Queen Amber presided. Like a deposed aristocrat dreaming of the last days of Versailles.

By the time the doorbell signalled the arrival of other book lovers, Christy had almost forgotten why she was here. A group of four, including Liz and Joanne, had come together; Christy imagined them calling on one another as they walked down the street, like kids knocking on doors to see who was coming out to play. Sophie and Mel were the other two, their faces now familiar both from her stints at the window and the photo in Caroline’s kitchen. They were a friendly enough group, if disappointingly eager to resume a conversation begun en route,
which had to do with Lime Park Primary and the resignation of the deputy head, the content of which was recapped as a matter of priority for Caroline’s benefit. It appeared that discussion of the book would wait until the subject had been dissected to its smallest particles.

Christy glanced around the sitting room, where Caroline had arranged refreshments and hooked up an iPod that shuffled disconcertingly between eighties heavy metal and noughties Disney. It bore signs of a hasty tidy: in one corner a tennis racket, a tangle of chargers, a collapsed tower of magazines, three odd trainers – as if someone had used the racket to sweep the rest out of sight. On one of the bookshelves was a familiar object, the hourglass bottle of scent she’d seen in Felicity’s hallway. Christy reached for it, raised it to her nose. It smelled warm and smoky and dark.