Caught in the Act (3 page)

‘Married, are you?

‘I'll give you your due, Diana, straight to the heart of the matter, no messing,' said Carol, miming an arrow flight.

‘Years of practice, a class of twenty-nine under-fives demands nerves of steel and a single-mindedness you can only dream of. So, are you married? You
were
married, weren't you?'

‘Once upon a time, in a universe far far away.'

Diana's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘So you're not married to Raf? You know, this is so bad. At one time we used to know what the other one was thinking; can you remember we used to end up buying the same things?'

‘Uh-huh,' Carol laughed. ‘Even when we didn't go shopping together.'

‘Remember when we turned up at the fifth-form school disco—'

‘Oh God, yes—in those dresses. The blue ones with ribbons?'

‘The same dresses.'

‘And those awful sandals—the dress I could understand but the shoes…Bloody hell.'

They laughed and then there was a moment's pause, a second of reflection when Carol sensed how much had happened since the blue dresses with ribbons and how much they had missed of each other's life.

‘Weren't you married to—what was his name? I can't remember why I didn't come to your wedding,' said Diana.

‘Probably because I didn't invite you—or anyone else, come to that. We got the cleaner and a woman working in the office to be witnesses. I was very pregnant and—'

‘I kept thinking that I re ally ought to ring
when whats-his-name didn't feature on the Christmas cards any more,' Diana interrupted, her face folded into a concertina of concentration; but then Diana had always been a world famous face puller. It was nice to see that marrying a vicar hadn't got in the way of her gurning. ‘Oh, come on, you're enjoying this,' she said crossly. ‘What the hell
was
his name? I'm trying hard over here; help me out.'

‘What, when it's so much fun seeing you struggle? Let me have a look at the photos while you're thinking about it.'

Diana snatched the album back. ‘Jack,' she said with glee. ‘I'm right, aren't I?'

‘Yes. Very good. Now give them here, like a good girl.'

Diana held the photos away from her. She always had had bloody long arms. It was very tempting to jump on her, at which point Carol had to remind herself that they weren't thirteen any more.

‘Jack French. I remember now—and he was a gardener too? Right?' said Diana with delight.

Carol slumped back onto the chair, admitting defeat, and nodded. ‘Occasionally, when he wasn't trying to drink himself to death, screw the YTS girls or lie about how much money
we owed. Fortunately, I'm divorced now. By contrast, life since Jack is wonderful, peaceful—pure bliss.' Her voice lifted to emphasise the sheer joy of it.

Diana was watching her face. ‘And did God call you—you know, like the whole voices in the head, road to Damascus thing?'

Carol grinned; Diana was still sharp as glass.

‘You still got the wart?'

Diana nodded vigorously. ‘Of course I've got the wart, it goes without saying. Actually I was thinking about bringing it with me. It's in my earring box, preserved for posterity in cling film and talc.'

‘Maybe we ought to get something a little more salubrious for it. A reliquary; you should be up on that kind of stuff: an ornate ebony casket for the toenail of St Kevin the Just.'

‘Wrong mob; we're Low Church, less incense and stained glass, more jumble sales and cheery gatherings around the kitchen table, and besides, my jewellery box
is
salubrious. Hedley gave it to me as a wedding present. It's rosewood, I think. Belonged to his mother.' There was a long slow silence and then Diana said, her expression softening, ‘You know, it's so good to see you again. I thought you might
have gone and grown up. It's been hard maintaining the whole born-to-boogie ethos all on your own.'

Carol snorted. ‘Born to boogie? When were either of us ever born to boogie, Di? You're a vicar's wife, for God's sake.'

Diana laughed and finally handed Carol the photo album. ‘But I wasn't always a vicar's wife, was I?'

‘No, I suppose not. Do you still play cards?'

Diana reddened. ‘Not for money. Hedley asked me to stop after I cleaned up at his preordination party.'

Carol giggled. ‘Nine-card brag, poker. It was like going around with the Maverick. I remember you used to cut a deck with one hand.'

‘Oh, I can still do that,' Diana said casually. ‘I've won enough matches at our annual Christmas whist drive to burn down half Europe.'

Carol smiled. ‘OK, well maybe things aren't as bad as they look.' She opened the first album.

The photograph was a long shot of the entire school taken the first year that she and Diana had gone up from primary school, when they had first found each other and Netty and Jan—three
witches and Lady Macbeth in waiting. The picture was taken on the neatly manicured lawn outside the main school entrance, by the pond. Unexpectedly Carol found a lump in her throat. Bloody hell, was this what happened when you got old? Neat nostalgia.

She swallowed down hard as Diana said, ‘I got them out of the loft when I joined Oldschooltie—just for old times' sake. I wonder how everyone is now.'

‘Look at these,' said Carol, peering at the rows of faces. ‘God, I haven't thought about her—oh, look, Mrs Devine, the PE teacher—and Mr Bailey.'

‘I was thinking on the drive over here—it would be great to see everyone again. What about if we tried to organise a reunion? I mean how hard can it be? People do it all the time. It would be great.'

Carol, halfway through a mouthful of Baileys, spluttered. ‘Are you sure great's the word you're looking for, Diana? I can understand what you mean but it would be loads of work and not everyone grew up to be a vicar, you know. What about Sandy Lewis? You remember?'

‘Who could forget?'

‘Potential axe-murdering psychopath if ever I met one. Do you remember when he burned the cricket pavilion down? Caught red-handed, petrol can, matches, swore blind he hadn't done it.'

‘He probably won't come. I doubt they can get Oldschooltie.com in Broadmoor; and besides, he's an extreme example and you know it.'

‘How about Harry Longman? Put away for fraud? Kate Lynwood, shoplifting and passing dud cheques…' She pointed out the faces in the picture.

‘All right—don't be so negative, so not everyone turned out a saint,' said Diana, ‘but they're not all nutters and conmen either. I was thinking school reunion here, not Britain's most wanted. Once I started seeing all those names on the register at Oldschooltie curiosity got the better of me. And then I fished out the photos—and since then I keep wondering what they're all up to, what they look like, how they're all doing.'

‘You always were so nosy,' Carol said. ‘Don't mind me. Actually, it does sound like a nice idea. What had you got in mind? Invite people from our year?'

Diana pulled a thinking face. ‘I don't know. I've only re ally just thought about it. We could start there. Would you pitch in?'

‘Pitch in?' said Carol. ‘I smell an ambush. And what is this “pitch in”, Di, Enid Blyton's Famous Five?'

‘It is going to be a lot of work and I don't re ally fancy doing it on my own. We could both contact people and stuff.'

Carol nodded. ‘OK.'

‘What about if we tried to get the drama group back together?'

‘The drama group?' said Carol in amazement.

‘Uh-huh, why not? It's a great idea. The last tour was so good. How about one last time with feeling, do something, maybe a read through and invite the rest of the class, too. It'll be twenty years ago this July.'

‘A read-through of what?' Carol asked incredulously.

‘Well,
Macbeth
would seem the natural choice.'

‘You can't be serious. A reunion is going to be tough enough. I was thinking more about where we'd hold it.'

Diana looked affronted. ‘We wouldn't have
to learn it or anything, just do a read-through of the highlights. You know, witches, murder, madness, suicide, trees moving, ghost, Macduff, the end—it'd be great. We could invite everyone else who was interested from school to come along and watch us.' Diana paused, waiting until Carol looked up. ‘I'm sure Gareth will be there.'

‘Sorry?' Carol felt a little rush of heat and then cursed herself for being so silly.

‘Gareth.'

‘What do you mean,
Gareth?
'

‘Oh, come on. Don't play the innocent with me. Gareth Howard, boy wonder.
The
Gareth Howard. He's on the website, which re ally took me by surprise. He always used to be so cool, I couldn't imagine him being on there at all, to be honest. But anyway, I emailed him and he mailed back and he suggested we chat, so I sent him my number and he rang me back more or less straight away.' Diana paused for effect. ‘And the first thing he wanted to know was how you were.'

‘Oh right,' Carol snorted, but even so she felt her jaw drop and her stomach do that odd little flipping thing that stomachs do; twenty years on and the first question on Gareth
Howard's lips was, how was Carol? ‘You're pulling my leg.'

‘I'm telling you the truth; I'm a vicar's wife, for God's sake. He sounded re ally disappointed when I said we hadn't seen each other for years.'

Carol stared at her. ‘You're making this up.'

Slowly Diana shook her head. ‘Cross my heart,' she mimed.

‘It's ridiculous,' Carol said, blushing furiously and then she flicked quickly on to the next page of the album, barely registering the pictures as the heat rushed through her, driven by a pulse set to boil. Gareth Howard, of all people. How many times had she and Diana run and rerun and replayed things he'd said, picking over the bones to try to work out what every syllable, every last nuance and gesture had meant. She had spent more time trying to translate Gareth Howard than she spent on the whole of her French O level.

Wasn't it true that Carol had fancied him for years before the tour, that she had fantasised about him long after she got married? Hadn't she loved him just a little; what if he had loved her a lot? Carol shivered and tried very hard to regain her composure.

‘A reunion sounds like a great idea but how
the hell are we going to get everyone together? How would we find them all, for a start?' Carol said as evenly as she could manage, also realising that she had just said ‘we'.

‘Oldschooltie—I'm sure that everyone on there is probably still in touch with one or two others, and maybe the School will help if I contact them. I think we should try for the drama group first and then if that doesn't work just go for a straight reunion. I don't know if you've looked lately but there are an awful lot of our old class on there.'

‘It sounds like a brilliant if slightly crazed idea,' Carol said cautiously.

‘But?' said Diana

‘But nothing. I was just wondering how many people would actually want to come. Chances are that they're all spread halfway round the globe by now. Have you thought about where we could hold it? A restaurant or a hotel?'

Diana hesitated for a few moments and then said gleefully, ‘Actually I've got a brilliant idea. I don't know if it'll come off—'

‘I'm so glad you clung to your natural modesty.'

Diana pulled another of her famous faces.
‘What about if we tried for a weekend—as you said, people could have miles to drive.'

‘And?'

‘And there is this fantastic old country house I know in Oxfordshire. It's used as a Christian retreat normally, but I'm sure they could find us some space if we asked nicely and it would be peanuts to hire for a couple of days. They've got loads of room and this re ally nice hall with a stage and everything.'

Carol refilled their glasses and then said with a wry smile, ‘So, Svengali, what else have you got in mind? World domination? Spit it out; there is just bound to be more.'

Diana had the bit between her teeth now. ‘How about—and this is in an ideal world, if we can get the hall—the drama group arrives Friday, everyone rehearses Saturday and then we put the performance on, on Sunday afternoon followed by—I don't—maybe a traditional English tea for everyone. They could bring their families. This place is in its own grounds; the garden is big enough to lose half Wembley in, and it is a lovely house.'

‘Bloody hell. We've come a long way from a few school photos and Oldschooltie.'

‘Oh, come on. If we don't try it we'll never know, will we?' Diana said briskly.

‘God, I bet you run a mean jumble sale.'

Diana refilled her glass. ‘You better believe it.'

‘Are you sure that you re ally don't mind doing this?' Carol stood near the front door. Her suitcase was over by the hall stand, she was just about ready to leave, and was only too aware of what a stupid question it was. What on earth would she do if Raf turned round and said yes?

‘I've already told you a dozen times, it's fine. Besides, you're always telling me that I'm a Friday-to-Sunday thing. Today's Friday, I know my place.' Raf grinned at her grimace and waved her away. ‘Relax, go, have a good time and don't look so worried. We'll be all right. I've got the list. I know what to water, who to feed and what to turn off. You're OK about the directions? You know where you're going? You've got everything you need?'

Carol patted her jacket theatrically. ‘Uh-huh, I think so—let me see: dagger, eyeliner, bad attitude—just about wraps it up. I'm just going to go and say goodbye to the boys and then I'll be off. Oh, and did I ever mention, don't fuss?' she added, acting playfully grumpy, touched that he cared whilst all the while struggling to suppress the feeling that she was sloping off for a dirty weekend.

She glanced in the hall mirror and tugged her hair into shape. She'd had it cut and coloured. It looked great. She looked great.

So, OK, Gareth Howard was going to be at the reunion too. So what? So what did that re ally add up to in the great scheme of things? Nothing, not a thing. Anyway, he was probably old and bald and…Carol stopped herself from conjuring up an image of an older worldweary Gareth Howard, aware that Raf was still talking and that she was still smiling and nodding inanely and not listening to a single word he was saying.

The fantasy Gareth refused to be old and bald; instead he looked more or less exactly the same as when Carol had last seen him, just slightly thicker-set with greying hair, swept back from bold regular features that made him
appear distinguished and sexy as hell. Carol sighed; the bastard.

Tucked into the top of her handbag was a battered copy of
Macbeth
—stolen from the English and Drama Department twenty years earlier and autographed by all the people who had been there on that last summer tour. Gareth had signed his name with love to her, love and a single kiss. It looked very classy amongst a sea of bad jokes, slushy sentiment and poorly drawn hearts and flowers. Doggedly Carol dragged her attention away from the book and the memories, but it was like trying to take a steak away from a terrier.

‘Have a good drive,' Raf was saying, ‘and don't worry about anything or anybody here. We'll be just fine. I'm considering renting a few of those films you said you don't ever want in this house, and filling up on fast food, pizzas, beer and take-out burgers.'

She couldn't think of a smart reply quickly enough, so Carol plumped for looking at Raf all damp-eyed and feeling guilty instead. She'd done nothing at all and yet she felt guilty, horribly guilty. Ridiculous. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Ridiculous.

Raf put his arm round her waist and kissed
her, and Carol immediately found herself wondering if Gareth would kiss her when they met. Did he still kiss the same as he had all those years ago? She seemed to remember he was a re ally good—and then, suddenly horribly aware of Raf's lips on hers, Carol hated herself for thinking about Gareth. What a cow she had grown up to be.

Raf looked her up and down admiringly. ‘You know, you're gorgeous,' he purred. Carol softened. This man adored her; he cared for her, stood up for her, stood up to her and wanted to be with her. Raf wanted to marry her, for God's sake—how crazy was that? Over a glass or two of wine out on the terrace he would look up at the stars and wax lyrical about the house they would buy together, the house they would love and grow old in together. He cooked, he bought her flowers and presents that she liked and wanted. He made her laugh; when she was sad or feeling down he brought her carrot cake with proper cream cheese icing from the baker's on Bridge Street, or lemon drizzle cake with crystallised sugar on the top. Carol looked up into Raf's big brown smiling eyes and tried very hard not to cry.

Carol loved Raf and she knew he loved her
and yet…and yet, that thing, that, that little zing wasn't there, that thing that made something happen in your gut every time you saw someone. It was the bastard factor that was lacking, that little edge of unpredictability that adds a bit of a challenge, a bit of bite. Raf was too nice, and it worried Carol. What if she got bored; what if, despite all evidence to the contrary, Raf wasn't
the one
after all? What if loving him turned out to be a terrible mistake? What if…? The possibilities haunted her. Raf was so safe, so kind, so right for her—so why was it
exactly
that she was thinking about the might-have-beens with a man she hadn't seen for twenty years?

Raf drew Carol closer still and kissed the tip of her nose. He smelled of sunshine and a hint of aftershave all wrapped around by a warm musky man smell. She felt safe curled in his arms; it was one of the things that had made her hang on and try to quell the fear. Maybe, just maybe that she had got it right this time and she wasn't making a terrible mistake.

‘Now you be careful,' teased Raf. ‘We're expecting you to phone home every night. Don't go talking to any strange men and if they offer you sweeties or to show you their puppies—'

‘I'll tell them to bugger off, pull out my plastic dagger and then get Diana to flash them the wart.'

‘Good, now have you got a clean hanky?' he continued in the same jokey paternal tone.

Behind them Jake thundered down the stairs, taking the last few steps two at a time and then swung round the newel post so he was standing right in front of her. ‘And there'll be no staying up late, no drinking, no drugs and no monkey business,' he said, wagging a finger at her.

Carol stared at him. ‘What?' she spluttered.

‘You know exactly what I'm talking about. Just make sure you behave yourself, young lady,' he said, all mock-parent and raging acne.

To her horror Carol felt her colour rising furiously as she hugged Jake goodbye. Of course she would behave herself. Wouldn't she?

‘Ollie?' Carol called, struggling to regain her composure. She glanced down at her watch to hide her discomfort; it was high time she was gone.

Ollie was in the kitchen, excavating something from the Mesozoic layer in the bottom of the fridge.

‘I'm off now, love,' she said cheerily.

‘So's this yoghurt,' he huffed miserably. ‘I might have got food poisoning or something.'

Carol took the offending article out of his deeply disgusted paw and dropped it into the pedal bin. ‘For God's sake, Ollie, you're a new lad, you're not supposed to read the sell-by dates,' Carol growled. ‘You're meant to eat it and then burp appreciatively, green hairy mould and all.'

Ollie's expression of unrelenting disdain did not waver. Carol held up her hands in surrender. ‘OK, OK, my mistake. You can go and buy more tomorrow. Organic, low fat, no fat—whatever.'

He sniffed.

Carol pulled him closer and brushed her lips across the top of Oliver's spiky hard-boy haircut. ‘And don't worry, I'll be back on Sunday evening to mop up any unused emotional blackmail and residual maternal guilt.'

His eyes twinkled but his expression remained steadfastly hard done by. ‘Just as long as we've got that perfectly clear,' he said.

Carol resisted the temptation to scrunch his carefully teased and heavily gelled hairstyle into prepubescent fluffiness. ‘Have a good time without me.'

‘Yeah, right, we will. Bye, Mum,' Ollie said grudgingly.

At least he helped her to feel slightly better; resentment and grumpiness made Carol feel she had every right to go. After all she did for them, ungrateful buggers. She sighed; who the hell was she trying to kid? Although she did want to go and meet everyone and see what they had been up to—she and Diana had got a brilliant response from their ad on Oldschooltie's message board—Carol knew that the main reason she was going was so that she could take a long hard look at Gareth Howard. Not only to see what the years had done to him but also to see if there was a flame still burning after all.

What if she had met Mr Right all those years ago and had been too blind or too young or too naïve to see it? Maybe it wasn't too late to go back and pick up the pieces.

She'd had a thing for Gareth for years—but it wasn't until they started rehearsing the play that he suddenly seemed aware of her for the first time.

‘I was looking for you,' he'd said, bounding up to her in the corridor on impossibly long legs. ‘I was wondering if you'd like to read the
script through some time before we start rehearsals?' Carol had been hurrying out of the common room, her arms full of books.

‘Sorry, that was the bell—I'm supposed to be in History…' Ah, that was it. And she had turned away and Gareth had caught hold of her elbow and turned her back towards him. ‘When's your next private study? It would be good to go through the play a couple of times—you know, get a feel for it.'

Carol could feel her colour rising; wasn't this what she had been daydreaming about for years? Her annoyance at being held up faded to a kind of self-conscious discomfort. Get a grip, she thought, and tried smiling.

‘This afternoon, after lunch I've got a double free,' Carol had heard herself saying, stumbling over the words, trying to forget the pile of work she had to catch up on.

And then Gareth had grinned and brushed his fringe back off his face; he had been playing cricket and tennis and had a tan that made his eyes seem far too blue. ‘Great. Me too, any idea where we could go?'

Carol stared at him; where the hell did you go with somebody you had been lusting after since you were fourteen?

‘How about the library?'

He pulled a face; so maybe it wasn't the best choice but it was all Carol could come up with under pressure. ‘Someone is bound to complain about the noise. We need somewhere quiet where we can read through without being disturbed. How about if we go over to the pavilion; we could sit out on the veranda. At least it will be out of the way.'

Carol felt her stomach fluttering. The cricket pavilion was up on a bank overlooking the cricket pitch, sheltered on two sides by huge horse chestnut trees with a view back over the main school. People mostly went there to smoke or snog.

‘Sure, sounds like a good idea,' Carol said, with a confidence she didn't feel.

‘OK,' he beamed. ‘See you there first period after lunch then?'

All these years on and Carol could still feel that intense little flutter in the pit of her stomach that he had made her feel then. Across the kitchen Raf was looking at her quizzically.

‘Are you all right?' he asked. ‘You look a bit pale.'

Carol made a real effort to smile. How could she possibly tell him? ‘I'm fine.'

‘I love you,' Raf said gently. ‘And I'll be here…'

What was that supposed to mean? For an instant Carol wondered if Raf had some inkling of what was going through her mind, some Celtic intuition that told him that she was floundering. She stared at him. Why didn't she want to commit herself to living with Raf? Was that what all this hankering after Gareth was re ally about? Wasn't she aching for a fantasy, some perfect love that had never re ally had the chance to blossom, or go wrong or get dull or cruel? Fancying Gareth after all these years was like loving a dead war hero; in her mind he hadn't aged, he didn't fart in bed and his hair hadn't thinned or been combed over.

Raf's expression crinkled up a little. ‘Are you sure you're all right?'

Carol waved her thoughts and his words away. ‘Just a bit nervous, that's all. I mean, do I re ally want to see just how wrinkly everyone else is and know they're thinking the same thing about me?' she said with a grin. ‘All those old faces, all those old memories.'

‘And all those old flames?' he added casually.

Carol stared at him. He knew. ‘Maybe,' she
hedged, aware of something that Shakespeare had written in another play about what a dead giveaway it was to protest too much. Any heated denials would only make things worse, not better. ‘There's bound to be one or two but they're probably balding with false teeth and half a dozen kids by now,' she joked.

‘They?'

Carol felt a great rush of heat. ‘He,' she said uncomfortably, cursing her inability to lie.

Raf nodded. She wondered if for an instant he felt worried or hurt or threatened. If he did, it didn't show. Raf looked at her with his big brown eyes and smiled. ‘Well, have a good time and give my love to Diana. We'll be fine, assuming we can avoid yoghurt poisoning.'

They both looked at Ollie, who made a big point of ignoring them.

‘God, I'm so glad that you arrived early,' said Diana. ‘I was beginning to panic. I've got the list—did you receive any more replies or apologies?'

She was standing all alone in the huge vaulted hallway of Burbeck House. Once a great baronial manor, it was set in its own grounds at the far end of an impressive
sweeping drive. The interior was now painted a pale and rather morbid shade of November afternoon grey. The enormous entrance hall was dotted with hessian pin boards screwed to walls that would have looked far more at home under rows of stags' heads, axes, spears and suits of armour. A reception desk, dwarfed by stone columns, was set up inside the great double door and beside it Diana was standing, surrounded by various boxes, shopping bags, bits of costume and piles of books.

Carol pulled a sheet of paper out of her handbag. ‘All present and correct, Capt'n Bligh.'

‘Sorry,' said Diana. ‘It's just that I've been panicking. You found it all right, then?' she continued, gathering assorted bits and pieces together.

‘Eventually,' said Carol, bending down to help her. ‘It's a bit out of the way, but it is such a great place. It was a good idea to hold it here, Di. Do you have any idea who designed the park? It almost looks like it might be Capability Brow—' Glancing up, Carol could see from the anxious expression on Diana's face that architecture and landscape weren't the most pressing things on her mind. ‘What's the matter?'