Deep Waters (13 page)

‘They did wait a few months, to be fair,’ Frances pointed out. ‘And they’ve known each other for years.’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘And your mince is burning.’

Graham turned the flame down with one hand and grabbed the spoon with the other, stirring vigourously. ‘That’s what I get for trying to be pastoral while I’m cooking.’

‘I do understand what you’re saying,’ Frances admitted. ‘In spite of the baby, if they aren’t prepared to work at the marriage and make the compromises they’ll need to make, maybe it would be better for them to acknowledge that right now, before they do any more damage to each other. They’re both such stubborn
people,’ she added. ‘I do love Triona, but sometimes she makes me want to scream.’

The kitchen door swung open. ‘Something smells divine,’ said Triona.

‘Onions and garlic,’ Graham said, with a sideways glance at Frances even as he smiled in Triona’s direction. ‘My famous Saturday night spag bol.’

How much had Triona overheard?, Frances wondered. Well, perhaps it would be no bad thing if she
had
heard them.

‘I’m ravenous,’ Triona stated. ‘When’s dinner?’

Graham gave the contents of the frying pan another stir. ‘Not for another thirty minutes or so.’

‘Well, then, why don’t I lay the table?’ suggested Triona. ‘Since I’ve landed myself on you, I might as well make myself useful.’

Callie allowed Joe to make her a cup of hot chocolate; she even guiltily ate a few Pringles, hoping that Marco wouldn’t despise her for it.

They settled down in the lounge, Chiara taking the seat with the best view of the telly. Callie and Marco squeezed next to her on the sofa, while Joe made himself comfortable in a chair.

‘Junior Idol’ was a revelation to Callie, and not quite what she’d expected. In the first place, the quality of the singing was far better than the amateur, out-of-tune caterwauling she’d anticipated. But then, she reminded herself, this was the
semifinal
, and the worst singers would have been eliminated from the competition by now.

There were four young singers left; one would go home tonight and the other three would battle it out in the final next week. The first to perform was a young black girl—no older than about ten—called Taneesha, with amazing stage presence and a soulful, mature voice. Then came Raj, an Asian teenager who belted out a high-energy hip-hop number.

‘He’s so cute,’ Chiara sighed.

Callie smiled at her, remembering all too well her own
teenage
crushes on pop stars. ‘Is he your favourite?’

‘Well, I do like him,’ the girl admitted. ‘But I’m not voting for him to win, if that’s what you mean. You have to wait to see
our
favourite. The one we want to win.’

The third contestant was a pretty, wispy blonde girl. ‘Samantha,’ Chiara announced. ‘She’s one of Dad’s students. Isn’t she, Dad?’ she turned to her father for confirmation.

Joe nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘We hope she’ll win. That would be so cool.’

Squeezed close to Marco on the sofa, once again Callie could feel the sudden increase of tension in his body. She glanced sideways at him; he pressed his lips together and shook his head.
Later
, his look told her.

Samantha sang a pop ballad, tunefully and in a pleasant if unremarkable voice. She did look amazing, though, in a
shimmering
dress with artful slashes revealing glimpses of flesh as she moved, swaying with the music.

‘She has sex appeal,’ said Chiara, sounding very solemn and knowing.

Callie suppressed a giggle, but Marco stood up abruptly. ‘We have to go now,’ he said.

‘But Samatha’s still singing! You can’t leave while she’s singing!’

He reached out a hand and pulled Callie to her feet. ‘We have a table booked at a restaurant. We’ll be late if we don’t go.’

Chiara’s face crumpled, like the little girl she was trying so desperately to leave behind. ‘You haven’t even heard Tiger! And we have to ring up to vote for Samantha. All of us, to make sure she doesn’t get eliminated.’

‘Sorry,
Nipotina
.’ Marco fished in his pocket and put a pound coin on the coffee table, next to the tube of Pringles. ‘You can ring on our behalf if you like. I’ll see you tomorrow, at your birthday lunch.’

‘But, Uncle Marco…’

‘Don’t bother to get up.’ Marco spoke stiffly in Joe’s direction, without looking at him.

Joe shrugged, his eyes fixed on the telly as Samantha wiggled and shimmered from one side of the stage to the other. ‘See you tomorrow.’

In a moment they were at the door, retrieving their coats on the way, and then they were out in the street, Marco practically dragging Callie towards the corner.

She halted, forcing him to stop as well. ‘Marco! What is this all about?’

He turned to face her, his lips compressed, and when he finally spoke it was through clenched teeth. ‘That…bastard.’

‘Joe? Are you talking about Joe?’

‘That…girl. That Samantha. She’s the one.’

For a moment Callie had no idea what he was talking about. The
one
? The one they were voting for? Chiara had made that quite clear.

Then, as she looked up into Marco’s tortured face, the penny dropped. It was the same expression he’d worn the night he spilled his heart out to her about Joe’s infidelity—his betrayal of Serena with one of his students.

‘I saw her, remember? In his office. He called her Sam. Her hair was a bit different, and she certainly wasn’t dressed like that, but…it’s the same girl.’

‘You’re sure.’ It was a statement, not a question; Marco wouldn’t be wrong about that sort of thing. He was a policeman, trained to observe faces.

‘How could he expose his innocent young daughter to his… his lechery…like that? I mean, that woman—that
girl
—is his mistress!’

‘Oh, Marco.’

‘And Serena. Does
she
know? Or is that part of their little secret ritual? Keeping it from Mummy?’ Marco’s voice was raw.

‘You won’t tell her, will you?’

‘God forbid.’ He closed his eyes, shook his head. ‘If Serena found out that he’d involved Chiara in his sordid little love affair, I wouldn’t want to be around to see the consequences.’

Jane Stanford’s so-far unsuccessful efforts to get pregnant made her abnormally sensitive to that condition in others. The fact that several young wives in the congregation were expecting babies served as a constant reminder to Jane of the age gap—and her own failure to conceive.

One of them, fairly new to the parish and unaware of the sacrosanct nature of Brian’s Saturday day off, had rung the doorbell late in the afternoon. ‘Oh, hello,’ she’d said brightly to Jane. ‘I was hoping to have a word with Father Brian. About the christening, you know,’ she’d smiled, indicating her bulging middle, all the more evident because her coat wouldn’t button over it. ‘It won’t be long now.’

Jane had not managed to be very gracious. ‘It’s the vicar’s day off,’ she’d said. ‘He can’t be disturbed. And,’ she added tartly, ‘it’s customary to wait until after the birth before planning the baptism.’

After that, reminded that she must be getting close to the point in her cycle when she would ovulate, she’d gone to take her temperature and had discovered that it was up a notch, indicating that the time was right.

Brian was watching television—test match cricket from somewhere in the world where it was warmer than in England. He barely looked up as she came into the room.

‘Brian, it’s time to go upstairs,’ she said coyly.

‘Upstairs?’

‘My temperature is up.’

He didn’t stir. ‘But Janey—it’s…well, it’s still daytime. And what if Callie came home?’

‘Callie? What does it have to do with
her
?’ Jane could hear the shrillness in her own voice.

‘I’d be embarrassed if she came in and we were…you know.’ He gave her a conciliatory smile. ‘I’m sure a few hours won’t make any difference. We can have an early night, if you like.’

Jane stalked out of the room without bothering to reply. She wasn’t entirely convinced that Callie was the real reason for his
reluctance
, or whether he was using her as an excuse because he didn’t want to miss the cricket; in either case, Jane was not amused.

She was even less amused a few minutes later when the phone rang. She went into the kitchen to answer it and was surprised to hear her son Charlie’s voice. ‘Hi, Mum,’ he said, then with no further preliminaries, ‘I’ve just seen your curate on the telly. On the news, no less.’

‘On the news?’ That was impossible. ‘It must have been someone who looks like her,’ Jane protested.

‘It was her, all right.’

‘But…what was it about? What has she done?’

Charlie laughed. ‘I don’t think she’s
done
anything. Not in the way you mean. It was about that dead baby that everyone’s so spun up about. Jodee and Chazz, you know? Watch it for yourself, Mum. On the BBC News channel. I’m certain it will be on again in half an hour or so.’

What on earth could Callie have to do with the dead baby? And why would it get her on the news?

Jane went back into the sitting room, and without asking Brian’s permission, picked up the remote from the table in front of him and changed the channel.

‘Hey,’ he protested, focusing his full attention on her at last. ‘What’s going on? I was watching that!’

‘You’re not watching it any longer.’ Jane settled down next to him on the sofa, keeping the remote firmly in her hand. ‘We’re going to watch the news.’

Brian folded his arms across his chest, sulkily, but he stayed. While they waited for the next cycle of news, Jane told him about Charlie’s phone call.

After the weather, the newsreader gave out the headlines over clips of video footage. And there she was: Callie. In her clericals, going through a crowd of journalists into a tall, elegant house. Not identified by name, but there was no mistaking who it was.

The full story followed a few minutes later, after coverage of early spring floods in the West Country. ‘Investigations continue into the death of Muffin Betts, the infant daughter of celebrities Jodee and Chazz Betts,’ the newsreader said. ‘The baby died yesterday morning, seemingly the victim of cot death.’ The brief footage of Callie was repeated, panning back to show the house, then the scene shifted to the police station. ‘In a news conference this afternoon, Detective Inspector Neville Stewart told the press that the post-mortem results were “inconclusive”. He refused to confirm whether the death was being treated as suspicious.’ A clip followed, in which the policeman read out a noncommittal statement. ‘The Betts family,’ the newsreader appended, ‘were unavailable for comment.’

‘But what was Callie doing there?’ Brian mused, more
thinking
aloud than asking a question. ‘Though I suppose it
is
in the parish.’

‘Without consulting you, though? It’s just not on.’

Brian reached for the remote and flipped back to the cricket. ‘I’m sure there’s a good explanation. I’ll ask her when she comes in.’

There went their early night, thought Jane sourly. No one in this house would be going to bed before Callie got back and explained herself. Though with tomorrow being Sunday, surely she wouldn’t be out late…

Thirteen. A teenager. No longer a child—a
bambino
, a
nipotina
. Chiara examined herself minutely in her bedroom mirror, as she had done the night before when she was still twelve. Did she look different? Had she changed?

There had been a time, long ago, when Chiara had thought that she would grow up overnight. One day she would be a child; the next morning she would wake up as an adult. Though she now realised it was a gradual process, something in her still expected some visible difference to mark the significant
transition
out of childhood.

The holes in her ears—they were new. Mum had taken her that afternoon to have them done. It had hurt, but only a little, and it was worth it. She pulled her hair back and twisted her head to examine the raw-looking punctures, with their little stud earrings, and remembered that she was supposed to dab them with alcohol to keep them from getting infected.

They’d given her a little bottle of alcohol, so she found some cotton buds and applied it to her ears, grimacing at the sting.

She
would
look different, she told herself, when she got her hair cut. It was a shame that Mum had run out of time this afternoon; Chiara had hoped to show off the new hairdo at her official birthday party tomorrow. Now it would probably be next Saturday before she was able to have it done.

Maybe in that time she’d be able to convince Mum to let her have it cut like Jodee’s, though she doubted that Mum would ever agree to the bleached bit.

It was all right for Mum, Chiara thought glumly. Mum had beautiful hair—reddish-gold and wavy. Not like anyone else’s in the family; she’d heard all the jokes about it, though Mum had explained that it was a throw-back to a Venetian ancestor. If only she’d inherited Mum’s hair, instead of Dad’s boring hair, dark and straight.

Chiara cleaned her teeth at her basin, put out the light, and scrambled into bed, then she switched on her bedside lamp and pulled a magazine from under her pillow.

It was the latest edition of
HotStuff
, bought with her pocket money. She would only allow herself to read a bit of it, as it had to last for a whole week until the next issue came out.

Once upon a time she’d read books when she went to bed. Even before that, Mum or Dad—or Uncle Marco—would read
to her, fairy stories and babyish things like that. She’d loved it then, but now she’d outgrown make-believe. Stories were boring, compared to the activities of real-life celebrities.

She flipped through the magazine, sampling its delights: Karma at a London night-club in an outrageous frock, Kate snapped in a supermarket wearing low-slung jeans and sporting a new tattoo, Raj in a restaurant with an exotic-looking girl, Angie hauling her babies into an SUV. There was a feature story about Jodee, showing her in an expensive shop buying French designer baby clothes. That was so sad, considering what had happened since then.

After a few minutes, the excitements of the day caught up with her. Chiara’s eyelids drooped; the magazine slipped from her fingers.

But she was wakened abruptly—it might have been five minutes later, or an hour or more—by one shouted word, sharp as a gunshot. ‘Bastard.’

Her eyes flew open. It had come from her parents’ room, next to hers. The voice had been her mother’s.

There had been a time, a few months back, around Christmas, when shouting rows between her parents had wakened Chiara in the night more than once. Those weeks had been traumatic, upsetting, especially since up to that point Mum and Dad had always seemed to have such an easy, loving relationship. Not knowing where else to turn, Chiara had even spoken to Uncle Marco about it.

It had never been quite clear to her what the rowing was about. Usually it had come from another room, not their
bedroom
: loud enough to hear the anger, if not near enough to pick out what they were saying.

Then it had stopped, to be replaced by a chill politeness between them. It seemed to Chiara that sometimes they spoke to each other like strangers, not people who had shared a home for more than twenty years. In some ways it was worse than the rows, but at least it was quieter. And Chiara could ignore
it if she really tried; she could pretend that things were the way they’d always been.

She blamed her mother. Mum had been the one who started the shouting, initiated the rows. It always sounded to Chiara like Dad was just defending himself.

And now that word. It was a bad word, one she’d be in big trouble if she ever used in their hearing, even now that she was no longer a child. Again Mum had started it. What could Dad have possibly done to deserve a word like that being fired at him?

‘Keep your voice down,’ Dad said. ‘Do you want Chiara to hear?’ It came through the wall clearly.

‘Since when do you care about Chiara?’ Mum’s voice was bitter, if a bit quieter, and then she must have moved farther from the wall as her words faded into an indistinct stream of acrimony.

‘That’s not fair.’

‘Fair?’ The one word came through, then more muffled anger.

Dad was whispering now; Chiara couldn’t make out what he was saying. Mum replied, her voice quietly venomous. Then her tone changed, penetrating the wall again. ‘Do you take me for a fool?’

‘Never that.’ Dad sounded weary.

‘If my parents find out…’

‘Your parents. Spare me.’

‘If Mamma and Pappa find out, so help me, Joe, I won’t be responsible for what happens.’

Chiara could bear no more. She covered her ears with her hands, pressing hard to block the sound, screwed her eyes up tight, and buried her face in her pillow.

Callie got out of the taxi and approached the front door of the vicarage quietly; it was later than she’d intended to return, and by now—with any luck, anyway—Brian and Jane would have long since retired to bed.

But there was a light on in the front room, she realised as she slipped her key into the lock. That was not a good sign.

She really, really didn’t want to talk to Brian—or Jane—tonight. She needed to be on her own, to re-live and savour the time she’d spent with Marco. Lovely, lovely Marco, with his warm brown eyes and his beautiful hair…

In spite of the rough start—Marco’s anger at Joe, storming out of his house—it had been a good evening, and long overdue. They’d had a lovely meal at a rather upmarket bistro, where the service was good and the food excellent, and no one was rushing them to finish and vacate the table. Making a bottle of wine last through the evening, they’d talked and talked, catching up on everything that had happened in the days since they’d last been together.

Marco had wanted to see her safely home, but she’d
persuaded
him that it didn’t make sense for him to go all the way to Bayswater with her when she couldn’t even invite him in. So the hurried, public kiss at the taxi rank was the least satisfactory thing about the evening.

One of these days she’d make it up to him. One of these days…

She held her breath as she shut the door silently behind her and crept towards the stairs, feeling like a naughty teenager in danger of being caught after sneaking out for the night. But she hadn’t
been
a naughty teenager, not ever: she’d been too afraid of disappointing her father and upsetting her mother. Peter had been the naughty one, though as far as she knew he’d never been caught out.