Sleeping Arrangements Page 9

  ‘Hi, guys,’ she said as she approached. ‘We’re making a camp. Want to join in?’

  ‘No thanks.’ Sam’s voice was relaxed and nonchalant.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Nat, mimicking his brother’s tone as well as he could. Jenna shrugged.

  ‘Fair dos.’

  Sam and Nat resumed their casual poses and for a while there was silence. Then Nat glanced over to the corner where Jenna was at work.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, his tone spiked with unwilling awe. ‘Actually—that’s a really good camp.’ Sam followed his gaze and drew in breath sharply.

  ‘Fucking hell.’

  Jenna had tied the overhanging branches of two trees together. She had formed walls with the folding chairs, draped blankets over the top and camouflaged the whole with palms and fallen branches. As the boys watched, she was bending over, briskly spreading something out on the base of the camp.

  ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ said Nat.

  ‘Bloody … fantastic,’ said Sam, his eyes fixed on Jenna’s taut thighs. ‘C’mon.’ He got to his feet. ‘Let’s go and lend a hand.’

  ‘OK!’ Nat got to his feet with alacrity and trotted towards the corner of the field. On the way, they passed an iron gate to the road, and Sam stopped to survey what was on the other side. The outlook was not promising. A narrow lane wound its way into the distance; there were no cars visible, nor any people. They really were in the middle of bloody nowhere, he thought.

  ‘Hi, guys,’ said Jenna, looking up.

  ‘Hi,’ said Sam, moving away from the gate. ‘How’re you doing?’

  ‘Pretty well.’ Jenna stood up, panting slightly. ‘There you are, girls. What d’you think?’

  ‘It’s mine,’ said Octavia at once. ‘It’s my camp.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ said Jenna. ‘It’s mine. But you can play in it if you share nicely.’

  The two girls glanced at each other, then disappeared into the camp. After a pause, a little shamefacedly, Nat followed.

  ‘So,’ said Sam, leaning casually against a tree and glancing at Jenna. ‘We two should get together.’

  ‘Should we?’ Jenna raised her eyebrows. ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘I think it’s fairly obvious, don’t you?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Jenna, her eyes glinting. ‘But you can explain, if you like.’

  Slowly, Sam ran his eyes over Jenna’s body.

  ‘I like the snake,’ he said. ‘Very sexy.’ Jenna stared at him for a moment, then threw back her head in laughter.

  ‘Oh, you’re desperate, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘You’re fucking begging for it.’

  Sam’s face flamed.

  ‘I’m not!’ he said hotly. ‘Jesus! I’m just trying to … to …’

  ‘Get in my knickers. I know.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ He turned away and stalked over to the gate leading to the road. There was a figure in the distance coming up the hill, and he focused hard on it, trying not to think about Jenna’s mocking gaze.

  After a while, he realized that he was staring at a boy of about his own age, leading a pair of goats along the road.

  ‘Look at that!’ He turned round, momentarily forgetting his embarrassment. ‘Have you got a camera?’

  ‘What?’ Jenna glanced over the hedge. ‘You want to take a picture of him?’

  ‘Why not? It’s cool. A guy and his goats.’ Jenna rolled her eyes.

  ‘You’re such a fucking tourist.’

  You can talk, Sam wanted to retort, but instead he turned back to the road.

  ‘Hi,’ he said as the Spanish boy drew near, and lifted a hand in greeting. The boy paused and stared back. He was shorter than Sam, but stronger looking, with muscular brown arms. He grinned at Sam—and for a moment Sam felt his heart lift. It would all be cool. He would get to know this guy—and then hang out with him and his friends. Perhaps there would even be some really stunning Spanish girls who fancied English blokes.

  ‘Hijo de puta!’ The boy drew back his head, and spat at the iron gate.

  Sam felt himself flinch in shock. He stared, aghast, at the boy, who lifted a single finger at him, then proceeded up the road, the bells on his goats’ collars tinkling slightly in the breeze.

  ‘Did you see what he did?’ Sam turned to Jenna, who was sitting on the ground, examining one of her toenails.

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘He spat on the gate! He fucking … spat on it!’ Jenna shrugged, and Sam stared at her. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bloody … a bloody nerve?’

  ‘It’s not your gate,’ pointed out Jenna. ‘Not your house.’

  ‘I know. But still. Would you spit on someone’s gate?’

  ‘I might,’ said Jenna. ‘If I had a reason.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ said Sam after a pause. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

  Jenna looked up at him and grinned.

  ‘You’re pissed off with me.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Sam gave a sulky shrug and leaned against the gate. Jenna looked at him consideringly, then rose to her feet.

  ‘Don’t be pissed off,’ she said, walking towards him, her mouth twisted in a little smile. ‘Don’t be angry.’ Slowly she reached out and touched his chest—then trailed a cool finger down to the top of his swimming trunks. ‘You never know—you might be in with a chance.’

  She took a step closer to him and her hand pushed its way beneath the elastic top of his trunks. Sam stared back in a sudden paralysis of arousal. As her eyes met his they seemed to glint with secrets; with promises of pleasure. Oh fuck, he thought. Oh fuck, this is really happening.

  Jenna’s hand wormed further into his trunks. She pulled the thin fabric gently away from his skin and he felt himself responding helplessly, his mind racing with excitement. Where were they going to—what exactly was she going to—what about the—

  The snap of elastic against his stomach was like a bullet wound. The sound of Jenna’s raucous laughter was another. As he stared at her in shock, she winked at him—almost kindly—then turned and walked off, the little snake wriggling as she went.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Much later that day, Chloe wandered along the cool, pale corridor to the bedroom to change for dinner. The marble floor was like balm to her hot feet; the dark paintings and muted colours restful to her eyes after the glare of the sun. But inside, she still felt charged up; hot and rather agitated. She felt as though she had been slowly cranking up throughout the day to an emotional pitch which now had no outlet, which could not be easily dissipated.

  All day, she had been aware of Hugh across the pool. Outwardly, she’d ignored the entire family as much as possible. But every time he’d moved she had seen it; every time he’d glanced at her, she’d known it. Over the hours, her sensitivity had gradually heightened until the entire horizon had seemed to shrink to herself and him: watching each other but not watching each other. Feeding on a mutual, appalled fascination.

  Looking at him had been like viewing a cinefilm of the past. The voiceless movements, the dazzling light and shadows, the painful, jumbled nostalgia. She’d watched him rub his wife’s skin with sun cream, and her own back had tingled in response. She knew that hand, she knew that touch. He had looked up and met her eye, and she had felt a lurch, deep within her.

  She had said nothing. Silence had become the barrier against which her emotions reared and pressed. The stronger the desire to speak, the more staunchly she resisted it, taking pleasure in her self-control. Hugh Stratton had left her more raw than she would ever admit to anyone. But she wouldn’t let him see it. She wouldn’t let him see anything, except mild, uninterested contempt. She would acknowledge to no-one—not even herself—that her heart had begun a fast, quiet thudding when she first glimpsed his face outside the villa. That it continued to thud even now.

  She paused outside the bedroom door and took a few deep breaths, adjusting her thoughts, bringing herself back to the moment. Then she pushed it open. Philip was standing by the window, gazing out
over the garden. A long, white, translucent curtain billowed gently by his side. He turned round, and for a moment they gazed at each other in a suspended, limbo-like silence. Then Chloe moved forward and put her bag down on the bed.

  ‘You came in,’ she said, and smiled. ‘Too hot?’

  ‘Bit of a headache.’ He turned back to the window and she noticed that he had a drink in his hand.

  ‘Starting early,’ she said lightly. ‘That won’t do your headache any good.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ His words were distracted; he didn’t look round. Chloe felt a rush of frustration. She wanted a greeting to match her own hot, raised emotions. A kiss, a smile; even a spark of anger.

  ‘Right,’ she said after a pause. ‘Well … I’ll take a shower, then.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Philip, and took a swig of whisky. ‘What time’s supper?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Do the boys know?’

  ‘They’re not eating with us,’ said Chloe curtly. She still felt very irritated with Sam and Nat. After she’d gone out of her way to arrange places for them at the adult dinner table, after she’d told Amanda how grown-up they were, they had both argued passionately to be allowed to eat junk food in front of a movie on cable television instead. ‘We’re on holiday,’ they had kept repeating, stuffing taco chips into their months and slurping cans of Coke until she felt like screaming at them.

  In the end she had given up the attempt to force them. There was no point frog-marching a bolshy Sam to the table and expecting the evening to remain adult and civilized. At least this way she wouldn’t have to worry about their table manners.

  Chloe walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She was about to step in when she remembered her shampoo, still in its duty-free plastic bag next to her suitcase. Without bothering to turn off the shower, she walked out of the bathroom door and stopped in surprise. Philip was on the telephone. He was facing away, so he couldn’t see her, and he was talking in a low voice. As the words began to make sense, she felt a disproportionate, white-hot anger rise inside her.

  ‘So what did he say?’ Philip was saying. ‘I bet he was. That department has no bloody idea.’ He paused. ‘So you’re saying we just sit and wait.’ He shook his head. ‘The fuckers. Yes, well. I’ll try. You’ve got my number. Thanks, Chris. I’d better go.’

  Philip put the receiver down, picked up his drink and turned round. At the sight of Chloe he gave a start of surprise.

  ‘Hi,’ he said warily. ‘I thought you were …’ He gestured towards the bathroom.

  ‘I can’t believe how selfish you are,’ said Chloe in a trembling voice. ‘You promised you weren’t even going to think about it. You promised. And now what do I find? As soon as you think I’m out of the way—’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ said Philip. ‘I just made one call and that’s the end of it.’

  ‘But it’s not the end of it,’ retorted Chloe. ‘I heard you! You’ve given him the number here, haven’t you?’ She lifted her hands incredulously. ‘We were supposed to be getting away from it all—and you hand out our telephone number!’

  ‘I am away from it all!’ exclaimed Philip. ‘I’m in bloody Spain! I made one call to Chris. And he’ll only call me back if … well. If anything transpires.’

  Chloe shook her head.

  ‘One call or twenty calls. It’s the same. You just can’t leave it, can you? Every time I look at you, you’re thinking about it. We might as well not have come.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re the thought-police now, are you, Chloe?’ snapped Philip. ‘You can read minds now. Well, congratulations.’

  Chloe took a deep breath, trying to keep calm.

  ‘You were supposed to be forgetting about it for the week. You promised me.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right,’ said Philip, with heavy sarcasm. ‘I’m supposed to be forgetting about the fact that this week, our whole life might change. Forgetting that my entire career is hanging in the balance. Forgetting that I have a family to support, a mortgage to pay—’

  ‘I know all that!’ said Chloe. ‘Of course I know all that! But thinking about it all the time isn’t going to do any good! It won’t affect what happens.’ She took a couple of steps towards him. ‘Philip, you’ve got to make the effort. You’ve got to try and put it out of your mind. Just for the week.’

  ‘It’s that easy, is it? Just put it out of my mind.’ His tone made her wince.

  ‘It’s not easy. But you can do it.’

  I can’t.

  ‘You could if you tried!’

  ‘Jesus!’ said Philip in sudden fury, and the room seemed to reverberate with shock. ‘You have no imagination, do you? Thirteen years together—and you have no empathy with me at all!’

  Chloe stared at him, her throat tight, her cheeks hot.

  ‘That’s a horrible thing to say,’ she said and swallowed hard. ‘I’m always putting myself in your shoes—’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Philip. ‘Exactly. You’re always putting yourself in my shoes. You never try to imagine what it’s like to be me. Me, in my situation.’ He paused, and rubbed his face. ‘Maybe I need to think about it,’ he said more calmly. ‘Maybe I need to phone Chris and talk about it and hear what’s going on. Maybe if I don’t, I’ll go mad.’ He stared at her for a second, then shook his head. ‘Chloe, we’re very different people. You’re so incredibly strong-minded. Nothing ever fazes you.’

  ‘Plenty of things faze me.’ She felt the threat of tears. ‘More than you might think.’

  ‘Maybe they do. But whatever it is, you deal with it. Easily. And you expect everyone else to be the same.’ Philip sank slowly down onto the bed. ‘But I’m not the same. I can’t just block things out and get on with it. I can’t pretend to be a fucking … airline pilot.’ He took a deep swig of whisky, then looked up at her without smiling. ‘I’m not an airline pilot. I’m a mediocre banker who’s about to be made redundant.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ said Chloe after too long a pause.

  ‘Not what? Not mediocre—or not about to be made redundant?’

  Chloe flushed. Without replying, she walked over to where he was sitting. She reached gently for his shoulder, but he jerked away from her touch and stood up.

  ‘It’s all guesswork,’ she said helplessly. ‘You don’t know it’ll be you.’

  ‘And I don’t know it won’t be me,’ said Philip. He gave her a look which sent a small shiver to her heart, then walked away from her to the door. It closed behind him and there was silence, except for the shower still thundering down in the bathroom like a rainstorm.

  Beatrice was unwell; pale and sick after too much sun. Hugh stood awkwardly in the doorway of the girls’ room, watching as Amanda sat on the bed, stroking her forehead, murmuring softly in a voice she never used with him.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asked, already knowing what the answer would be.

  ‘No, thanks.’ Amanda turned round and frowned slightly, as though irritated to see him still there. ‘You go on. Start dinner without me. I’ll be down as soon as I can.’

  ‘Shall I call Jenna?’

  ‘Jenna’s cooking,’ said Amanda. ‘Honestly, Hugh, just go.’

  ‘Right,’ said Hugh. ‘Well—if you’re sure. Goodnight, girls.’

  There was no reply. Amanda had turned back to Beatrice: Octavia was staring down at a pastel-coloured book. Hugh watched his family for a minute or so, then turned and walked away, down the corridor.

  Music was coming from the drawing room as he descended the stairs, old-fashioned, crackly music that he half recognized. He walked across the hall, reached the doorway and stopped, his throat tight. Chloe was standing in the centre of the softly lit room, staring enigmatically into space. She was wearing a dark, flared dress, her fair hair was smoothed back in even waves, and she was holding a long-stemmed drink in her hand. She looked like something not of the present time, thought Hugh, gazing at her. A line drawing by Beardsley, perhaps, or a fashion sketch from the thi
rties. Her skin was still pale, despite the day’s sun, but as she turned and saw him, a faint colour came to her cheeks.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, and took a sip of her drink.

  ‘Hello,’ said Hugh, and advanced cautiously into the room.

  ‘There’s gin and wine and whisky …’ Chloe gestured to a little side table. She took a sip of her drink, wandered over to the fireplace and turned. ‘Where’s Amanda?’

  The question, Hugh thought, sounded more like a statement. Like a summing-up of the situation.

  ‘She’s upstairs with the children,’ said Hugh, and stopped. He didn’t want to think about Amanda. ‘Where’s Philip?’ he countered.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Chloe. Her eyes flashed slightly. ‘We don’t keep tabs on one another.’

  Very slowly, buying time, Hugh mixed himself a gin and tonic. He dropped two ice cubes into the heavy glass and watched as the other elements fizzed and sparkled around them.

  ‘Nice music,’ he said, turning round.

  ‘Yes,’ said Chloe. ‘It’s an old 78 player. Jenna found it.’

  ‘Typical Gerard, to have something as idiosyncratic as that,’ said Hugh, smiling slightly. He raised his glass. ‘Well … cheers.’

  ‘Cheers,’ echoed Chloe, slightly mockingly. ‘Your very good health.’

  They drank in silence, eyeing each other over the rims of their glasses, listening to the jazzy thirties tune as it crackled merrily along.

  ‘You look very nice,’ said Hugh eventually. ‘Nice dress. Did you—’

  With a jolt, he stopped himself. Just in time.

  But too late. A mixture of incredulity and contempt was already passing across Chloe’s face.

  ‘Yes, Hugh,’ she said, slowly, as though considering each word carefully. ‘As it happens, I made this dress myself.’

  There was a sharp silence between them. In the corner, the tune finished, giving way to the rustle and hiss of the record going round and round.

  ‘Right!’ Jenna’s cheery voice interrupted the silence, and both Hugh’s and Chloe’s heads jerked up. ‘Oh, what’s happened to the music?’

  ‘It came to an end,’ said Hugh. He glanced at Chloe, but her face was averted.