The Sudden Departure of the Frasers (24 page)

Earlier in the week, in search of personal documents needed by the administrator of the literacy programme,
Christy had entered their makeshift office at the top of the house to find a mound of old newspapers and documents on the desk; it was as if some vandal had just emptied a dustbin onto it and walked away. Picking through the drifts she gathered that Joe had opened his work bag and dumped the contents, in need of a document or his phone but too frantic to search methodically.

Among the discarded material was the package of letters for the Frasers that he’d assured her he would post to their solicitor all those weeks ago; it must have been weighing him down on every walk to and from the train station and yet he’d evidently not noticed.

Well, it was far too late to forward it now, she thought, reopening the package and looking once more at the items. It was embarrassing to send it on so late in the day and expose their utter hopelessness (after all, they’d been efficient enough in getting in touch about the roof and extorting money for it, hadn’t they?). In any case, it was mostly junk mail. She looked a final time at the brochure for the tree-house hotel, symbol of the summer holiday they could never afford, and was able now to picture the Frasers’ faces in place of the models’ in the image, Amber stretched out on the deck, feline and contented in the deep green shade, Jeremy alight with adoration as he watched her from the open doors.

In the end, she disposed of it all, even the postcard (‘Sorry, Hetty, whoever you are …’) – with the exception of one item: the ‘Private & Confidential’ letter in the plain white envelope. This she separated and slipped into the desk drawer. I won’t open it, she thought, as if that
justified the crime of keeping someone else’s mail – deliberately now, as opposed to absent-mindedly as Joe had been guilty of.

‘I’ll see if we can go to my gran’s,’ she told Joe now, inspiration striking. ‘Her place might be free for the bank holiday weekend because she usually goes up to Mum’s for her birthday.’

And so it was arranged that they would spend the August long weekend in Christy’s grandmother’s bungalow in East Sussex, a bus ride from the coast. In the event, swimming things were dusted down in vain, for the sun was blotted by a persistent dense grey that transformed before long into a great British downpour.

‘I don’t think anyone’s going to be admiring our tans,’ Joe said, as they huddled on the sofa under a crocheted blanket and watched a wildlife documentary on television. He had spent the first day asleep, the second letting off steam about Jermyn Richards, and the third insisting he couldn’t bear to hear himself complain a moment longer. Only by the Monday was he good company again.

‘I wonder what our Lime Park friends would say about our holiday accommodation,’ Christy laughed. There was a certain irony in having left a grand house with state-of-the-art heating to huddle together in a bungalow with ancient radiators they didn’t like to turn on for fear of boosting a pensioner’s gas bill. This time last year the Frasers had opened their house to their neighbours, held a summer party that they’d planned to repeat this very weekend. Instead, the house stood empty, the street’s
residents scattered around rural France. ‘I’d far rather be here than where they are,’ she added defiantly.

‘Me too,’ Joe said. ‘I had a text from Rob yesterday and he says it’s as silent as the grave on Lime Park Road this weekend. They’re all still in the Dordogne or wherever they go to eat their body weight in cheese.’

In spite of having just had identical thoughts herself, Christy started. ‘You had a text from
Rob
?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I didn’t know you had his number!’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Joe looked at her with amusement. ‘Come on, don’t tell me you still suspect him of criminal activities?’

Christy flushed. Away from home, her various speculations about Rob – and indeed the entirely unexplained hostility on the part of Caroline and her circle – struck her as being as melodramatic as they must have been to Joe all along (it seemed the change of scene had been as crucial for her psychological health as for his). And she had to concede that if there’d been a crime, an actual illegality, it would surely be in the public domain, and yet search after search had yielded nothing.

‘I never said that,’ she muttered.

Joe laughed at her discomfort. ‘Oh, that’s right, he just stands accused of sleeping with his attractive blonde girlfriend.’

‘Joe!’

‘You know, I bet that’s who sent that ridiculous note, some ex-boyfriend of hers? These things are always to do with sexual humiliation.’ Joe watched the rainwater
sheeting down the windowpane in pleasing rhythm, like a water feature fed by a pipe. ‘God, I take it back. I
would
rather be in the Dordogne. Burning to a crisp, swimming in the river. There is a river there, right?’

Christy ignored the question. ‘What else did he say?’

‘Who?’

‘Rob, of course.’

‘Oh, Christy!’

‘I want to know. Did he mention me?’

‘Of course not, why would he? It was just about the football, I think.’ He sighed. ‘He’s just a normal bloke, when are you going to admit it?’

In the interests of marital harmony, she met him halfway. ‘I admit he was less satanic last time.’

‘Fine. Less satanic will do for now.’ Joe stretched and flung off the throw. ‘Shall we go out for dinner tonight?’

‘I don’t think we should,’ she said, their constantly swelling overdraft never too far from her thoughts.

‘The pub and fish and chips, then? Seriously, if we can’t afford a pint, we might as well kill ourselves now.’

‘Spoken like a true Brit,’ she said, casting Lime Park and its residents from her mind. For now, at least.

On Tuesday morning Joe returned to London on the early commuter train, but it made sense for Christy, who had no office to commute to, to follow on a cheaper service. Unsure whether or not she had intended to do so all along, she filled her spare hours by taking a bus to the edge of Ashdown Forest, to a village whose name she had memorized long ago. As she entered the reception of Treetops
Suites, any sense of her own unravelling sanity was purely fleeting.

‘I wondered if I might be able to look around one of the tree houses? I’m researching possible hotels for my honeymoon.’ She had slipped her wedding band into her purse in anticipation of this lie. On her left wrist, Amber Fraser’s bangle felt like more than the adornment it was; it was the wristband that admitted Christy to the club she’d always dreamed of joining.

‘Of course.’ The receptionist beamed in that way people did when weddings were mentioned; a cynic would say it was the prospect of overcharging, an idealist that love brought out the best in all of us. ‘I’ll see if anyone’s free to give you a tour.’

Five minutes later, clutching the rate card you’d be forgiven for thinking had been misprinted, Christy followed the duty manager through the paved woodland trail from which steep stairways led to the tree houses. They climbed the one named ‘Silver Birch’.

It was remarkable how high it felt up there – almost like having taken flight – the world and its weight no longer her concern (
that
was a welcome feeling). The suite itself caused her to draw breath. The furniture and fabrics were luxurious, all Egyptian cottons and Thai silks, she’d known that from the brochure, but what the photographs had not evoked was the smell, of wood freshly felled and of the forest itself, green and fresh and alive. On the other side of the vast picture window, the leaves rippled, tens of thousands of them in that framed square, fragmenting the world. It seemed to Christy this was that rare sort of
place that comforted and cleansed, where you could hide not only from other people but also from your worst self.

Again, she touched the amber bangle.

Her waiting guide sought to move her on. ‘Let me show you the outdoor hot tub, Miss Davenport.’

Clearly the romantic centrepiece, the large tub was on a raised portion of the rear terrace, encircled by potted trees, an outdoor lantern evidently the only illumination. It was like a sacrificial dais. As her guide murmured about al fresco massage treatments, Christy turned to rest against the glass barrier, closing her eyes as the cloud broke and light poured between the branches onto her skin. For several seconds she stood in perfect stillness, sun-kissed, spotlit, special.

‘So what did you think?’ the receptionist asked when Christy returned to thank her.

‘I think it’s a real possibility,’ she said.

Only on the bus to the train station did it occur to her that not once during her tour had she imagined Joe and herself in the tree house, on the big white bed, in the bubbling hot tub, wrapped in robes as they sipped their bespoke cocktails on the veranda. She’d imagined only the Frasers.

It was almost as if she’d expected to find them there.

Come November, I could avoid the truth no longer: for whatever reason, Pippa or otherwise, Rob had marginalized me. I needed to redress the balance of power as a matter of urgency and my only choice as I saw it was to upgrade my package, to offer him an enticement that had been previously out of bounds.

Thus resolved, I told him that Jeremy would be away for work in early December and proposed we use the opportunity to go away together for the night. ‘Twenty-four hours together, doing whatever you like.’

‘Sounds interesting,’ he said, which was neither the biting-my-arm-off enthusiasm I would have liked nor the outright rebuff I had dreaded.

‘I’ll book somewhere suitable.’

‘I’m not sure you know the meaning of the word,’ he chuckled, and I ignored the suspicion that his mockery lacked its old inflection of admiration. I would arrive at the hotel early, I decided, to prepare myself, set the scene; he would soon be reminded that this was a mutual enthrallment.

‘But, hang on, isn’t this an infringement of the terms
and conditions,’ he teased. ‘Going away, being seen together?’

‘The terms and conditions are different off-site,’ I said. ‘And no one will see us, don’t worry about that.’

This last was literally the case, for I booked a hotel with tree-house suites where room service was delivered by dumb waiter, eliminating the usual eyewitnesses in such situations; if we arrived and left separately we would not be seen together by a soul – except maybe an owl or some other passing woodland creature. As an additional precaution, I insisted the booking must be in my name only, telling the hotel it was a surprise for my partner. I booked treatments for myself in the morning and instructed Rob to arrive in the afternoon.

As for Jeremy, I told him I craved a change of scene and planned to go alone to a spa. Worried by my recent low spirits, he agreed it would be a nice treat after living in a building site all those months and an excellent way to revive my flagging commitment to healthy living (there had recently been a cocktail night with the Lime Park Road book group that had sorely tested his indulgence of my not-so-occasional flouting of Atherton’s rules). He kindly resisted pointing out that it might have been more logical for me to go while the works were actually in progress, since we now had a house that resembled a hotel, with bathrooms as glossy as any my five-star facility was likely to offer.

‘You’ve had a tough time, baby,’ he said. ‘You go off and relax.’

I gave him the hotel’s details in the full knowledge that he wouldn’t bother making a note of the name, much less think to phone me there on any line but my mobile.

Poor Jeremy. The Amber he’d married would have wept to look into the future and see him as a cuckold, a patsy, a chump – and herself as a heartless deceiver.

Only obsession stopped me from weeping now.

It did not begin well. When Rob arrived, overnight bag slung over his shoulder, he appeared reluctant to set it down, muttering about the lane closures and temporary lights encountered on his journey, all but announcing to me that he wished he hadn’t come. Soft-footed and cautious, he assessed the dimensions of the place like an animal scanning for predators.

A waiting game, then. Fine. I sighed to myself, admiring my blood-red manicure as I let the suite work its magic on him, just as it had me when I’d checked in, skittish and uncertain for my own reasons. Nestled forty feet aloft in the oaks, the windows overlooked by no one, it was a hideaway that might have been conceived expressly for adulterers: wood burner and acacia-scented candles, ice-cold champagne and gleaming glassware, a hot tub both discreetly screened and exhilaratingly open to the elements. But wherever you were in the place, all roads led to the huge bed, the morning view from which would be of the rising sun.

‘Must be costing a packet,’ Rob said. (
That
was his only comment?)

‘Well, you don’t have to worry about that,’ I said smoothly. ‘Why don’t you open the champagne?’

‘You do it.’

I obliged, refusing to be irritated by the thought that he might have Pippa on his mind, that he might be having misgivings about this, about me. As confident of my allure as I’d ever been, I had prepared as if for a wedding night, getting massaged with perfumed oils and perfecting my hair and make-up before dressing in a silk robe to await him, and yet he’d hardly bothered to glance at me.

‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘you really don’t need to sweep for hazards. It’s just us. No one knows where we are. No one knows what we’ll be doing.’

As I eased the bottle back into the ice bucket, he at last flung down the bag and turned his scrutiny to me. ‘Just as well, I would’ve thought,’ he growled.

That was more like it. The way he looked at me was as he had in the beginning – there was insolence and lust, that unconcealed taste for debasement combined with recognition of a match well met – and I knew this had been an inspired idea.

I placed the champagne glasses to the side.

‘You’re all oily,’ he said, investigating under my robe.

‘I’ve just had a massage.’

‘It’s going to get on my clothes.’

‘Take them off then. Anyway, there’s no one to notice, is there? It’s not like she’s doing your laundry, whatsername?’

‘You know her name, Amber.’

Undressed, he smelled different from usual. The scent
of his hair, his skin, his sweat, I was familiar with, but I caught also traces of female. I grasped a handful of his hair, turned him roughly to look me in the eye. ‘You were with her this morning? You haven’t even
showered
?’

‘So what?’

It should have revolted me, it should have insulted me, but being with him like this, here in this secret den, had tipped me into some animal derangement and I liked it, I liked that he was dirty and used, that he pretended not to care. Because it was
my
name he spoke now. Soon he’d sacrifice all thoughts of
her
, just as I would all thoughts of clinically prescribed abstinence as I rang for vodka and more champagne. As promised, the order was sent up in the dumb waiter: no staff, no observers, no complicating third parties. We had complete privacy.

Naked, we wandered outside and filled the tub, lowered ourselves into the water and faced one another as if in ritual. The hot water released mists of steam into the winter air and I dipped lower and lower, up to my chin, scented bubbles popping in my eyes.

‘I could get used to this,’ Rob said. ‘You clearly already have.’

‘I love it,’ I said. ‘It’s my natural habitat.’

He looked out at the treetops, the last vestiges of autumnal red and ochre touching the dusk sky. ‘Which? The eye-wateringly expensive luxury or the wild woods?’

‘Both, maybe.’

‘Both definitely.’ And he gazed at me in abject admiration, which was precisely my preference as gazes went – and a long time coming.

I didn’t like to think how close I’d come to having lost it forever.

‘You’re unbelievable, do you know that?’ he said. ‘I honestly don’t know how you get away with it. You’re like my dream female of the species.’

‘Only
like
?’ But this was getting better by the syllable, and I could feel the euphoria radiating from me. How blissful it was to have him back, the old Rob, my kindred soul and sinner. ‘You haven’t been around much lately,’ I said, careful not to make a question of it.

‘Busy with work,’ he said, shrugging. ‘Some of us do have bills to pay, you know.’

He enjoyed the notion that I was wealthy and he struggling, but we both knew that the truth was he’d never suffered a moment’s financial anxiety in his life. I alone understood what it was to have nothing, to look into the greedy, heartless future and have no idea how you were going to survive. In this crime of ours, the risk was all mine.

‘Unless your husband wants to take care of mine as well … ?’ he added, casually impudent.

‘He’ll pay this one,’ I said. We’d drained our glasses, drinking fast, recklessly, and I poured more, plying him, plying us.

‘You’ll have to thank him for me. In your own special way, of course.’

And I knew he would want to know what that special way would be, for me to demonstrate on him. It was only then, you see, that I began to intuit that he was excited by
Jeremy’s role in this; our relationship was more triangular than I’d believed. I had not told him about the misunderstanding with the texts, but I knew now that I would: I would save it for when I needed it.

He eyed me with his laziest smile. ‘I’d love to know how it feels to do what you’re doing.’

‘Well, since you’re doing exactly the same, I’m guessing it
feels
exactly the same.’

‘I doubt it. You’re the only one of us cheating on a legal mate.’

I spread out my arms and splayed my fingers over the soft bubbles, feeling that freeing weightless sensation of flotation. ‘I agree it’s not my finest hour, but I’m not sure it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done to someone.’

‘No?’ His gaze settled brazenly on my nipples as they popped above the water line into the chill of December. ‘Go on then, tell me your worst.’

I wondered which one to choose, frankly. Matt’s face surfaced, and so did Phil’s. But who was I kidding, the victims who mattered were those I’d never pictured, the wives and girlfriends (and, occasionally, children) whose feelings I’d never dignified with a thought, much less an action. ‘OK, let’s see … I once slept with someone on his honeymoon.’

He whistled. ‘I assume you don’t mean your own?’

‘No. On my own I only slept with the person I was supposed to sleep with. I have
some
standards.’

‘So we’re talking pre-Jeremy?’

‘Of course, when I was still a bit wild.’

‘A
bit
wild?’ Rob smirked, delighted. ‘Unlike now, eh? Because you’re completely domesticated now, aren’t you? Totally under the thumb.’

Under yours, I thought, closing my eyes to a psychedelic blaze of light and colour, for the combination of Rob and alcohol was the best high of my life, exhilarating, consciousness-expanding, addictive. And to open my eyes again and find him watching me, it was pure rapture. As we ogled each other across the surface of the water a forbidden thought came in an unstoppable explosion:
I love you
. Shocked enough for my face to redden, I extinguished the words before they could be recorded – or repeated.

And Rob, mercifully, noticed nothing. ‘So this other bridegroom you seduced, didn’t you feel guilty when you saw his new wife wandering about the hotel in an oblivious romantic haze?’

‘I suppose I would have felt guilty if she’d known, but she didn’t. She was having a facial at the time. It didn’t affect her enjoyment of her honeymoon at all.’

He grinned. ‘That’s your defence, is it? Unless the victim discovers he or she has been wronged, then it isn’t a crime?’

‘No, it
is
a crime, it just doesn’t hurt anybody. I think a lot of people operate that way. Little white lies, big white lies: in the end, they’re all the same colour. Blurting the truth just to relieve your own guilt, I think that can do more harm than good.’

Fascinated, Rob slid towards me, his voice low and conspiratorial, even though we were completely alone.
‘That’s the classic justification of the deceiver, do you realize that?’ Under the water his fingers were between my legs. ‘Making yourself feel like a hero by telling yourself you’re doing the right thing by being discreet.’

‘Discretion
is
a good thing,’ I said.

‘No, a good thing is to not commit the deception in the first place. They call it self-control, Mrs Fraser.’

‘Oh, self-control.’ I gasped. ‘You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’

After he’d shown me what he knew, right there in the tub, we moved back indoors, closed up the cabin to the thick and silent wood and climbed into bed. Maybe it was the setting, as remote and romantic as you could wish for, with the warm sweet scent of wood burner, the flickering candlelight reflected on every polished surface, or maybe it was that leaked sentiment I hadn’t
quite
managed to banish, but I felt very close to him, as close as I ever had with Jeremy. To me it was not only a return to old intimacy but also a progression of it; in spite of circumstances that pointed to the very opposite, it felt like the very wedding night for which I’d beautified myself.

Our sweet nothings, though, were rather different from those of newlyweds, as you might imagine.

‘Your turn now,’ I said. ‘Come on, tell me your worst crime.’

‘That’s easy,’ Rob said. ‘
This
.’

‘This doesn’t count, I already know about your misdeeds with
me
. Tell me something else.’ In retrospect, I think I was daring him to say he loved me, that his infraction concerned the violation of my original rules. I think
I was hoping that if
he
said it then I could say it too and with its release everything might change once more.

Our faces were pressed together and I was aware of an intake of breath, a decision being made; I felt the feeling of free fall as my heart opened, ready to receive.

Then he said, ‘Why don’t I tell you the worst thing I’ve been
accused
of doing?’

‘OK.’ Wrong-footed, I adjusted.

‘I was once accused of rape,’ he said.

Now it was I who sucked in my breath, holding it painfully in my lungs until I feared they might rupture. I’d hoped for love and I’d got …

‘
Rape?
’

As I drew back, I saw in the candlelight that his eyes had darkened. He was not looking at me; his focal point was a different time and place, a different woman.

‘That’s what I said. A whole different league from lying to your husband, isn’t it?’

‘But you didn’t do it?’

He recoiled. ‘Of course I didn’t. Do you even need to ask?’

I frowned, but gently. ‘I’d be crazy not to.’

‘It was a malicious allegation,’ he said grimly.

‘Who by?’

‘An ex-girlfriend. At university.’

I could feel his pulse quickening and sense his skin firing as he related the details, the first time I’d ever known him to become angry. He’d ended their relationship when he’d met someone else, he said, she’d sworn revenge, and the next thing he knew the police had turned up at his
door and were taking him into custody. Just as his parents were arranging legal representation, their family’s harmony devastated overnight, the claim had been withdrawn.