A Surrey State of Affairs (39 page)

Mother’s birthday, and a special lunch at The Copse to celebrate. Jeffrey came, along with Sophie, although Rupert couldn’t make it because he had to prepare for a work project. I suspect this may have been a front—he is usually so reliable at attending family gatherings, but it must be difficult for him to face his grandmother at the moment. Mother was in her usual form: she told all the residents who were gathered around the large oval dining room table for lunch that there was never this fuss and nonsense about birthdays in the old days, then complained that there was no cheese course, then said loudly that it was far too hot and stuffy, but on closer inspection was found to be wearing a flannel vest under her blouse.

After lunch, Jeffrey took Sophie home and I went to visit Mark and Tanya, who are now at home with little Shariah. Tanya, who has taken to motherhood quite naturally, cooed and jiggled her,
while Mark sat watching them both with an equal measure of awe and fear in his eyes. I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from thinking that I would never catch Rupert with that look on his face.

After this scene of domestic bliss, I went back home to find that Ivan had singed the edges of my parlor palm with his cigar.

  
MONDAY, AUGUST 25

Just now, I popped into the kitchen for a glass of elderflower cordial and was accosted by a very strange sight: Sophie changing the dressing on Ivan’s foot. It made me realize that one silver lining to the raging cumulonimbus of Ivan the Terrible’s visit is that it has revealed a new and admirable side to Sophie’s character.

To be quite frank, I have been worried about Sophie. Very worried. Maternal pride has no place here. Her behavior this summer—the impromptu trip to Ibiza, the tongue piercing, the misguided foray into reality television—shows her to be irresponsible, inconsiderate, and easily led astray.

And yet, since Ivan arrived back, hobbling and swearing, Sophie has transformed into a veritable ministering angel. She bathes his wounded foot (without a face mask!); she listens to his endless turgid tales about bear hunting and yacht buying. The man is as loud-mouthed, foul-breathed, egotistical, and repellent as ever, so Lord only knows how much she suffers. And yet she puts on such a brave, cheerful face. I am impressed.

  
TUESDAY, AUGUST 26

Sophie has christened the mynah bird—whose presence I have largely ignored—Fergie. When I said, “After Sarah, how nice,” she just looked at me and shrugged. Earlier, I caught her in the conservatory trying to teach the wretched creature some
sort of inane ditty that went “My humps, my humps, my humps, my humps, my humps.” I really should arrange some charity work to fill the remaining month before she goes off to Bristol. Just not on any literacy projects; I’m not sure that she would be a positive influence.

No bell ringing tonight; we’re taking a short summer break. I miss the adrenaline rush of competition, the camaraderie, the uplifting sound. I persuaded Jeffrey to play backgammon while an old recording of
Songs of Praise
played in the background, but it wasn’t the same, and after I had beaten him for the second time I wasn’t too disappointed when he retreated abruptly behind
The Economist.

  
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 27

I don’t know how much more of this I can take. Sophie has run away with Ivan.

  
THURSDAY, AUGUST 28

Once more, I find myself sitting at my keyboard, my palms sweating and my head pounding. Once more, my own flesh and blood has dealt me a devastating blow.

Yesterday, Sophie failed to appear for breakfast. So did Ivan. Both of them are late risers, so this didn’t alarm me to start with. I saw Jeffrey off to work, making sure he took an apple with him, then decided to empty out the kitchen drawers and give them a good clean. This absorbed me for several hours—how had a receipt for twelve pink-frosted Krispy Kreme doughnuts got there? Why was there a glittery My Little Pony sticker still clinging to the back of the drawer behind the teaspoons?—until I suddenly realized that it was almost midday and the house was strangely silent.

I called out to Sophie. There was no reply. I went up to her
room and tentatively pushed open the door. It jammed on a pile of clothes, but once I had wedged it open I saw that her room was empty, and in a typical mess. I even noticed, with a catch in my breath, half a bottle of Ivan’s red-label vodka on the floor. But there was no sign of Sophie. I told myself she must have gone out, and went downstairs to start on the dining room drawers.

And then I heard the familiar sound of Jeffrey’s tires on the gravel, followed almost immediately by the sound of his key in the lock. I rushed to the hall to meet him. He had a funny look on his face, which reminded me of Mother in her doughtier days, when she used to raise a rolling pin above her head in anger. He handed me his BlackBerry and said, “Read this.”

It was an e-mail from Ivan—sent from his BlackBerry, Jeffrey said—but the subject line read
from soph!!!
What followed was clearly her hand. It read:

Ivan’s BlackBerry had subsequently been switched off. I have never seen Jeffrey so furious. His normal calm, composed expression had slipped away like a mask being taken off; his cheeks were magenta, his eyes wide, his pupils tiny. His shock made me suppress my own. I said I should make us some tea and led him into the kitchen, but as soon as we were there he noticed one of Ivan’s
shot glasses, picked it up, and then hurled it across the kitchen with a roar. It narrowly missed the carved wooden cockerel that Harriet gave me for my birthday last year.

And now he has gone to London, to track down Ivan’s acquaintances and try to find some clues as to where they are hiding. I don’t know if he’s taken his hunting rifle.

  
FRIDAY, AUGUST 29

Why me? Why?

  
SATURDAY, AUGUST 30

Forgive me for yesterday’s outburst. Jeffrey still has no leads, but I realize I must try to get a grip. I can’t continue to wallow in this muted hinterland of drawn curtains, soporific novels (I find Maeve Binchy works best), crumpled tissues, and cups of tea.

To strengthen my resolve, I decided to compose a short list of people trapped in situations worse than my own.

King Lear. Neither of my children, as far as I am aware, is entangled in a plot to kill me.

The woman in Lionel Shriver’s book
We Need to Talk About Kevin.
Rupert may be gay, but to the best of my knowledge he has not committed mass murder with a crossbow.

That’s as far as I have gotten.

  
SUNDAY, AUGUST 31

2 A.M.

I can’t bear it. Where is she? What is she doing with that man? When is she coming home? How can she stand his halitosis? Why has she not called, or e-mailed, or sent me a text message? Perhaps he has drugged her and smuggled her to somewhere
even more treacherous than the outskirts of London. Perhaps they are in Moscow, or Chechnya.