The Soul of Discretion Read online

  ‘We can give you twenty-four hours,’ Lochie Craig said.

  ‘I don’t need them,’ Simon said. ‘I’m in.’

  Eleven

  I was happy. I was happy when we met again, I was happy when I came to live with him here. I was happy when we married, and after we married. I was happy for – what, two years? At least.

  I was happy.

  I knew perfectly well that he was not the easiest man in the world. I knew he could be moody, irritable and demanding, I knew his irrational dislikes and that he needed to have things just so. I knew. But I was happy because he seemed to become softer, easier, less selfish. Because he was such good company. We laughed a lot. We enjoyed some of the same things and were happy to give one another space. We spent weeks in a camper van touring round America and we could not have been happier. We got along. We rubbed along. We … I …

  Judith sat with the doors open onto the garden, a rug on her knees, book open on her lap. It was almost half past six and the last of the westerly sun was on the wide border beneath the wall. Meriel’s border. She had planned, planted and tended it, as she had the rest of the garden. Meriel’s garden then. And that was fine. She felt happy and blessed to have inherited it, though she herself didn’t do a great deal. A young man called Olly came every week and looked after the beds and borders, the shrubs and the lawn, as if they were his own. Meriel would have liked Olly. They would have spent contented hours working together, discussing what might suit here and ought to come out of there, what needed cutting back, what was doing particularly well.

  Judith liked to think of it. She had no disturbing feelings about the past in this place, about Meriel, about the family. There had been no doubts, in spite of Simon. He had resented her at first, but in the end, he had warmed to her and accepted her. She was his father’s wife. She was not Meriel but she was his stepmother and she loved him and, eventually, he realised it. Now, they were as close as they could ever be.

  Now.

  Now that she was unhappy, and had been so for the past year and a half. Now that Richard had become hostile, distant, cold. And occasionally – only occasionally, she told herself, only once or twice – had been violent towards her. It was not his fault. He found retirement difficult, he found her different ways hard to adjust to, he flared up for no reason but, but, but, of course, his temper flickered and went out just as quickly. He was not at heart a violent man. He was troubled and much of it had been her fault. She needed to understand him better, be more sensitive to him, give way, be less self-absorbed.

  A swallow sat gracefully on the telegraph wire at the far end of the garden, forked tail dipping up and down to balance itself, and Judith had a moment of agonising awareness that it was free to stay there or to go, free to do anything until, in September, that strange communal instinct drove it to leave with the others for Africa and the sunshine. And mingled in with her flash of awareness was longing. I could do that. I could do that. She caught herself in mid-thought and was frightened.

  ‘You not getting ready?’ Richard stood in the doorway.

  ‘Darling, I told you, I can’t come. I’m still feeling nauseous and when I stand up I go giddy. This really is a knockout bug.’

  ‘Funny I haven’t caught it. Eat a couple of cream crackers, then go and get changed. You’ll feel all the the better for it.’

  ‘I doubt it and it would be such a nuisance for you if I was ill when we got there and you had to bring me home. You’ll enjoy yourself much better on your own.’

  ‘You just don’t care for the Freemasonry.’

  ‘I’ve no problem with the Freemasons, darling – don’t forget Donald was one.’

  ‘How does that make a difference?’

  ‘It made me used to it. I’ve simply continued. I really don’t feel well enough for a formal dinner.’

  ‘Ladies’ night is twice a year. People will wonder if I have a wife at all.’

  ‘They certainly won’t if you just tell them I’m ill.’

  He clicked his teeth irritably and went out. She looked at his back. Straight, as if he had been a guardsman, hair grey but still thick. Shirt collar neatly settled into his sweater.

  I was happy. I was very happy and I loved him. Not in the way I loved Donald. Who was it said ‘the arrow only strikes once’? That was true, but it had not prevented her from marrying for a different sort of love, and for friendship and company. Why not? She had met an old friend whose husband had had both hips and then a knee replaced. ‘He’s not the man I married!’ Yvonne had said, laughing.

  He’s not the man I married. No. Or was he? Had it taken all this time for the real man to reveal himself or had he changed radically for some reason impossible to fathom?

  She closed her eyes, feeling nauseous and giddy again. Poor Felix was still suffering from it; Cat was better but pale with dark shadows under her eyes.

  ‘I haven’t caught it.’ He made her feel that catching a virus was her own fault. He was more careful. She had done it on purpose to get out of ladies’ night.

  She felt tears prick. That was because the illness had made her feel weak and vulnerable, of course, but she had cried more in the last year than in the last thirty and she had not always been able to blame a virus.

  ‘You look very handsome, darling. A dinner jacket well becomes a man.’

  Richard grunted. ‘Have you seen my black wallet?’

  ‘Yes, on the dressing table.’

  ‘It certainly is not.’

  ‘It was there this morning. Do you want me to –?’

  But he had gone, running up the stairs – he could still do it.

  ‘Yes?’

  He did not answer, merely patted his pockets.

  ‘Have you booked a taxi?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘I am sorry, darling, but have a very good evening.’

  ‘Eat something bland and get to bed early.’

  ‘I will.’

  The sound of the cab turning into the drive.

  He left.

  What have I done? Judith asked herself. What is it? When did it begin, this aloofness, this curt way of talking to me? What did I say, do, or not say, not do? We were happy. I was happy.

  Something had flipped over to show a dark side. Never flipped back.

  What did I do?

  Twelve

  ‘Yes?’ Shelley Pendleton twirled round. Tim was brushing the sleeves of his dinner jacket and barely glanced up.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Oh thanks.’

  ‘No, sorry – you look good.’ He hesitated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is it a bit low at the front?’

  ‘Too revealing?’

  ‘Some might think so.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Not the point, I’m your husband.’

  ‘You mean stuffy Masons – great master and all that.’

  ‘Grand master.’

  ‘So I should wear something high up to the neck with long sleeves, preferably in beige.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. You look good, OK? Come on.’

  ‘It’s boring when you don’t have a drink.’

  ‘It’s boring when you have too many so watch out, Shell.’

  ‘I’m ignoring that. You could have a couple of glasses.’

  ‘If I’m driving it’s much easier to have none at all. I don’t mind.’

  ‘I know you don’t and I never understand it. You need it to get through the evening.’

  ‘You mean you do.’

  ‘I don’t drink too much.’

  ‘Not in general you don’t. It’s when you go out. Something comes over you.’

  ‘Boredom usually.’

  She dreaded going, dreaded it all the way to the hotel where they held all their silly meetings and the functions in the big dining room. But once they hit the place and she was repowdering, combing and adding a bit more mascara, in the ladies’ cloakroom, she started to feel better. She always did. There was a buzz. There was
the smell of Giorgio and Poison and Paloma and the sideways looks at every other woman’s dress. So many in Eastex and Betty Barclay, Shelley noted, women over fifty playing it safe by becoming their mothers. She had spent silly money on a Stella McCartney, but she could get away with it all right. Was the front too low? She hitched at it. But it wasn’t designed to be hitched, it was designed for a cleavage. She let it go again.

  There was more buzz outside and on the stairs going up, the men, always good in DJs. This was when it started to get even better. A couple of glasses and it would be great. She gestured to Tim to give her his arm.

  ‘Good evening, Richard.’

  Richard Serrailler was a step or two above them.

  ‘Tim. Shelley, beautiful as ever.’

  Tim dug his elbow into her ribs. All right, so she did think Richard was handsome. Sexy even – not as sexy as his policeman son but he would do. She’d felt quite a pang when he had married again. Nobody had seen that one coming.

  ‘Where’s Judith?’

  ‘Caught some bug from the grandchildren. So I can have Shelley all to myself.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ But Tim had seen someone across the room – networking, obviously. That’s what the Masons were all about, networking, mutual backscratching. Oh, and charity, of course. There would be the usual, amazing raffle, in which Shelley had once won a Balenciaga handbag. All for charity – Masonic charity, naturally.

  ‘Good, your husband has deserted you in a timely manner – let’s go and find a drink.’ Richard took her elbow and steered her through the crowd.

  Nice, Shelley thought, the most distinguished-looking man in the room apart from the old Lord Lieutenant, though he had gone over rather suddenly into old age.

  Richard waylaid a passing tray of champagne and handed her a glass.

  ‘I hope we’re sitting together.’

  ‘I haven’t looked. I always get next to some –’

  ‘Old bore? Or a thigh pincher?’

  ‘Usually both, I find.’

  He had taken her arm now and led her to the seating plan. ‘Now this is a bitter blow. I’m on B, you’re D.’

  ‘Never mind, we can wave to one another. And there’s always the interval before they draw the raffle. I’m so sorry Judith is ill by the way – please give her our best.’

  ‘It’s nothing. She likes to cosset herself.’

  Then Tim was back and someone was taking Richard Serrailler away for a quiet word.

  They edged between bodies towards table D.

  Judith woke from a short, deep sleep into the sensation of being in a storm at sea, the sofa pitching and tossing, the floor a green swell. She made it to the downstairs cloakroom and remained there for almost half an hour, sick and faint, the walls coming in on her and expanding again like balloons being pumped up.

  Cat was writing up some dissertation notes, with Wookie the Yorkshire terrier squeezed on her lap against the edge of the desk, when the phone rang. He jumped off, eyeing her resentfully.

  ‘Darling, I’m so sorry to bother you but is there anything I can do for this damn bug? Can I take something? I thought I was getting better but I’m worse and Richard’s at a Masonic dinner.’

  ‘Have you got any sachets of rehydrating powder?’

  ‘I … I don’t think so, no.’

  ‘OK, get a glass of water, put in a teaspoon of salt and one of sugar and sip that. Do you have a temperature?’

  ‘I’m shivery, so probably yes.’

  ‘Could you hold down some paracetamol?’

  ‘I can try.’

  ‘I’d come over but I’m on my own with the children. Go to bed. I’ll call in after I’ve done the school run tomorrow. And ring me again if you feel worse. Better still, get Dad home.’

  ‘No, no, I’ll be fine, and besides, he would be furious.’

  So what? Cat thought, shifting the cat Mephisto off her chair. Not long ago you wouldn’t have hesitated and he would have come back, grumbling perhaps, but come all the same.

  She tried to settle down to work but after reading the same paragraph three times without taking in the meaning, she rang Silke, the au pair she used to share, and who still sat occasionally. Silke was up, watching ‘TV schlock’. She was at the farmhouse in ten minutes.

  ‘Did you lose consciousness?’

  ‘I was very giddy. I remember coming upstairs. No, I don’t think I passed out completely.’

  ‘Headache?’ Cat sat beside her, holding her wrist. The pulse was slow and Judith’s eyes looked slightly sunken. ‘You’re dehydrated and you shouldn’t be on your own. I’m going to call Dad –’

  But Judith gripped her wrist tightly. ‘No. Please. Do as I ask – please.’

  Thirteen

  Rachel stood by the tall windows of the sitting room in what Simon still thought of as ‘his’ flat. He came in, then stopped abruptly.

  The two white sofas, placed adjacent to one another, had been moved so that now they were facing, and instead of being pure white, they had brilliant scarlet, purple and emerald-green throws of fabric over the backs. The colours were in themselves arresting and vibrant. But not in his room.

  ‘No?’

  To give himself time, he walked back into the kitchen, got some ice and dropped it into a glass, then filled it with two measures of gin and a little tonic.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Not just now thanks. I wondered if we could eat out – or is it too late for you?’

  ‘Not too late but don’t we have anything in the fridge?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  He sat on the nearest sofa and looked across at the other. No, he thought, absolutely not.

  He got up again.

  ‘I’m sorry. I just loved the colours – I wanted to … to make my mark I suppose.’

  ‘Not the colours so much,’ he said, ‘but I just can’t have them arranged like this. I like them as they were. This way round doesn’t work at all.’

  ‘OK,’ Rachel said brightly, and started to haul one end of the first sofa round. Simon took over, and they were back to their original positions in seconds.

  ‘I dare say you were right the first time. Sorry, darling.’

  ‘No problem. And yes, let’s eat out by all means.’

  ‘There’s the new dim sum place in the Lanes.’

  ‘No. I need proper sustenance.’ He drank. The colours of the throws jazzed in his eyeline.

  Rachel moved to sit beside him. He put his arm round her.

  ‘I wonder if you should get something to do.’

  ‘To do? You mean, work?’

  Rachel’s husband had left her a valuable house, which she had rented out, a chunk of capital, an even bigger chunk of shares, and a good annual income. She was not a lazy woman but she had no need to work and she wanted to take her time about finding the right thing, whether paid or voluntary. She had trained as a solicitor but only practised for a few years and hated it.

  What concerned Simon most was that, with time on her hands and no money worries, she might make more radical changes to the flat than simply moving the sofas about and buying a couple of throws.

  He was unprepared for what she did say, when they were having their first glass of wine in the bistro.

  ‘Si, your flat is lovely but it’s nowhere near big enough for us both, is it? I thought we might look for a house. No hurry, we want to make sure it’s absolutely the right one.’

  He was so appalled he took too large a gulp of wine and had a coughing fit. By the time he had recovered with water, he was calmer – a little.

  ‘Absolutely not. Not even up for discussion.’ He looked into her violet-coloured eyes and saw distress and knew that it was unavoidable. ‘Rachel, the flat is my haven – it’s my security, my safe place, my oasis … whatever you like, it is. It’s where I can be my real self and I could no more leave it than climb Everest. Actually, I would probably climb Everest sooner than leave the close. I’m sorry if it feels small but you’ve made it smaller with
your stuff. It should be fine for two people.’

  ‘You want me to take my things away?’

  The waitress came with his steak, her salmon. He ordered another bottle of the house Merlot. More water, giving himself time.

  ‘No, I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I can, easily, of course I can. You should have said. Most of my other things are in storage, the rest can go there too. No problem. But – I wonder why you can’t imagine your bolt-hole somewhere else. If we found the right house –’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Rachel hesitated. He could see that she was uncertain what to say next, how to react, that she was upset and puzzled, he recognised it and couldn’t help her. But he hated himself because it was like this all over again. It was always like this.

  ‘Rachel …’

  ‘I’m sorry. I feel stupid. I’ve done this all wrong.’

  ‘No, of course you haven’t. I’m sorry I’m difficult about it. I really do try not to be difficult about a lot of things but this is just non-negotiable.’

  ‘I didn’t understand. Not properly. I shouldn’t have brought my stuff and put throws all over the sofas and changed your pictures.’

  ‘Changed my pictures?’ He saw her eyes fill with tears. ‘Rachel …’

  ‘Leave it. Eat your food, it’ll get cold. I’m really sorry.’

  He poured her wine. ‘Drink,’ he said, ‘now. Just don’t choke.’

  She did not smile.

  ‘Drink.’

  She drank.

  ‘What kind of a shit am I?’ Simon said.

  ‘No kind. I wanted to ask about something else.’

  ‘Ask anything.’ He put his hand over hers. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m afraid of how you’ll react.’

  ‘Jesus, please, Rachel – don’t be afraid of me. Really, don’t.’

  ‘It’s nothing major.’ She looked up at him anxiously. ‘Can we talk about holidays?’