Pleasant Vices (20 page)

‘Ben, please take care, there's a dent in the wall where you keep banging that door. The paint keeps flaking off around it.'

‘Sorry,' he mumbled and grinned at Jenny, pushing his hair away from his forehead and revealing eyes that, unusually, for him, had a lively twinkle.

‘What's got into you Ben? And who were you phoning?' Daisy, back in the kitchen and ever-suspicious, caught sight of his expression on her way to the cutlery drawer in the dresser.

‘How did you know I was?' Ben taunted her, grin widening involuntarily.

‘Heard the one in here go ping, that's how. And Polly is singing
The Good Ship Lollipop
in the loo, so it couldn't be her.'

Ben's smile was now accompanied by the kind of light blush that would have been becoming in a small child. Daisy slammed knives and forks on to the table, which made them spin wildly, so that they settled facing all the wrong way. The blush was the same kind Emma had had all day. So was the smirk.

Jenny smiled broadly at the vegetables as she stir-fried them, thinking hey-ho another cheery supper of stimulating conversation and repartee coming up. She had read in a magazine somewhere that the act of arranging your face into a smile stimulated happy-triggers in the brain, so that you really did feel better. She tried it out, waiting to feel good and for the sound of background hostilities to fade to insignificance.

‘What are you grinning like that for?' Ben asked, catching sight of her manic face.

‘Yeah, you look like someone's told you a joke you don't really get,' Daisy added, looking at Jenny as if she suspected her of major craziness. ‘Oh and by the way, there was this note, it fell off the top of the fridge when Ben wafted into the kitchen.'

Jenny handed over the stir-frying to Daisy and looked at the tatty scrap of paper.
Man phoned, called Robbins, says is Friday at 2 OK for extra flute lesson, told him probably yes, 'cos he said he'd been before. Oh and he said could his friend come at 1.30. Love Belinda
. She read it twice more, as if the note would suddenly reveal David Robbins's phone number so she could ring him back and say no, he certainly couldn't come and neither could his friend. Whatever did they think she was? She knew exactly what they thought she was. A feeling of panic flickered in her stomach. She could say no when the men arrived, or she could relax and earn herself an unexpected hundred pounds for a few minutes' effort. On balance she'd much rather, she thought, as she drained the rice, and wondered about mint-flavoured condoms, earn it like Polly, for eating breakfast cereal.

Alan tried hard to pretend he had asked for Serena to be sent to join him as an essential part of her training, just as the trip to Bournemouth had been. He could feel how near she was, just the other side of the wall. He put his hand flat against the gently flowered wallpaper, next to the antiqued brass light switch. The hotel was the sort that described itself as ‘country house' in style, which meant that the room dividing was of the thin, block-board sort, making little more than expensively frilled and flounced cubicles out of stately old bedchambers. Serena could be just inches away, perhaps lying on her bed, shoes off, skirt rumpled, flicking through one of those raunchy magazines for women, the sort they had to put on the top shelf. Or perhaps she was doing the
Financial Times
crossword. She was fearfully clever, really knew her stuff, much more so than Alan, he had to admit. Because of this he wondered, an hour later, when he was pouring her a very large vodka and tonic in his room, if she'd seen right through his look of concern as he casually called her in to go over a couple of worrying points in the client's list of tax claims.

‘I'm afraid I've got it all laid out on the desk in here.' Alan smiled apologetically at her, ushering her, like a fly towards a web, into his room. ‘So I hope you don't mind . . .' Serena was giving him an oddly amused look, as if thinking it was typical of men of his age to think a girl would only normally go into a man's hotel room in order to make immoral use of the bed. As if in defiance, she sat pertly on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs and allowing her skirt, which had buttons all the way down the front, only half of which were fastened, to fall away each side.

‘Sorry there's no lemon,' he said, clumsily tumbling ice into Serena's drink.

‘No problem,' she said, her voice now coming from right next to him, suddenly, not from the bed. She stood by the desk, her eyes roving confidently over the columns of figures in front of her. Alan took a large, loud sip of his drink and slid his trembling hand along her arm to her shoulder, wondering in which direction he should go next. ‘He should have waited till March to buy the car, that was mistake number one.' Serena pointed a clean, square-cut nail half-way down the page, insultingly oblivious to Alan's touch. He had, literally, made no impact. She probably thought he was leaning on her while he looked at the figures. His hand ached to move to the soft warm place at the back of her neck, to untie the velvet bow that held her hair back. He dared himself to reach for the end of the ribbon, and then the phone rang.

Someone was with him. Jenny sensed it before he spoke, something in the hesitation and the way he breathed – shakily. ‘Hi, Alan? Are you all right?' she asked, wishing she hadn't phoned. What you don't know can't hurt you, wasn't that how the old saying went? What about the things you suspect, but don't know for sure? Jenny thought they were the things, perhaps, self-inflicted though they might be, that hurt you most of all. Alan chatted suddenly, about the journey, about the hotel and its shortcomings, gabbling in a jocular way that was unlike him. ‘And it's three quid for a shot of mini-bar vodka!' he heard himself exclaiming, and then wished he hadn't with Serena there next to him, probably thinking now that her stingy boss grudged her a drink.

Jenny heard a soft laugh, the chink of ice, lots of it, not just one drink's worth and knew for sure that Serena was with him. She had to ask. ‘Who have you got there with you?' she said as casually as she could manage.

‘Oh, just a colleague, going over some of tomorrow's work, you know how it is,' Alan said, ‘all go.'

If it had been a male colleague, he'd have mentioned him by name.

It was dead, definitely dead, stiffening even – one of its front paws was sticking out, making it look as if the cat had keeled over in mid-prod at a mouse. Paul was tempted to go into the house and tell Carol that this time he had, really had, found a corpse, make her come out and look. He didn't think she'd find it very funny. Someone would have to go round and tell the Collins family, though. He thought it should be Carol, really, women having the gentle touch when it came to things like that. Polly might be there, and be terribly upset. It was probably her cat. Carol came out on to the patio at that moment, to water the hanging baskets she had been planting for the summer. Just now they were naked mounds of green polythene, cut-up bin liner, stabbed with holes and stuffed with seedlings of lobelia, begonias, primulas and a riskily early geranium or two.

‘A riot of colour, they'll be by June,' Carol declared, stepping back slightly as she poured water, so it wouldn't spill on her beige suede shoes.

‘The Collins's cat is dead,' Paul said, failing to admire Carol's efforts. ‘It's down there, under the lilac. Old age by the look of it, there's no sign of a fight.' He pointed vaguely down the garden, as if showing Carol where she could find it. Not looking up, she continued ministering to her plants, trying not to recall Jenny in that shop, showing her fancy underwear. She frowned. ‘Nasty great ginger thing. Do you know I caught him spraying,
spraying
, mind you, our dianthus. The Mrs Sinkins, I think it was. I didn't think cats did that, once they'd been neutered.'

‘One of us will have to go and tell them,' Paul hinted.

‘Yes. They can come and collect it. After all, it might have had a disease,' Carol said, wrinkling her nose. ‘How dead is it, exactly?' She wondered how dead it would have to be before Ming and Mong started showing an unhealthy interest, perhaps even dragging the smelly thing up to the house and attempting to force it through the cat-flap, like they had with the run-over pigeon last summer. She shuddered. She'd also seen how far an untidy fox could scatter a dead rabbit. ‘Better get them to remove it now, Paul, then it won't attract vermin in the night.'

It was an order, no doubt about it. Was there
ever
doubt, Paul wondered, obediently trotting through the house on his way to break the sad news to the Collins family. He didn't want to take the dead cat with him, they'd all be having supper, and the last thing they'd want to see would be a Sainsbury's bag containing their beloved pet being dumped on their back door step.

Jenny was playing her flute when Paul arrived. She looked very graceful, he thought, with her long eyelashes shadowing her cheek as she concentrated intently on the rippling music. He tapped lightly, reluctant to disturb her and she saw him hesitantly pushing his head sideways around the conservatory door. She felt cross with him for his apologetic interruption, his awkward self-effacing posture as he slid his torso into the room, making a grotesque attempt at being inconspicuous. Having just achieved escape from her worries, deep into the music, she was abruptly dragged back into hearing the washing-up squabbles in the kitchen again as the children messily cleared up.

‘I'm the bearer of bad news I'm afraid, Jenny,' Paul began formally, wondering if he should advise her to sit down in case of shock. Not that she'd shown much shock when Mrs Fingell had been ‘dead'. But then Mrs Fingell hadn't shared her hearth and home for the past ten years or so. Jenny watched him shuffling his feet and looking past her out of the window.

‘What's happened Paul? Are you going to tell me?' Jenny reminded him gesturing him to sit on the window seat. He looked quite shaky, she thought, starting to worry. Perhaps Carol was ill, or one of the twins.

‘I'm so sorry, but your ginger cat has passed away in our garden. Natural causes by the look of him. I didn't like to bring him with me, because of your children, well, you know . . .' Paul had delivered his bad news, all in a rush, and without the vicarish tones of comfort he had rehearsed in the Close on his way.

Jenny put her flute back in its stand. Poor cat, she thought. Poor old orange thing, old Biggles.

‘I could bring it round tomorrow, if you want to bury it in the garden,' he volunteered quickly, not wanting to give her the chance to start crying. He wouldn't know what to do if she did, Carol never needed much in the way of comforting, so he hadn't really had the practice.

‘Thanks Paul, but do you mind if I collect him from you in the morning?' Jenny said softly, sinking on to the window seat next to him. ‘I'll bury him under the strawberry patch. He used to love lying there on hot days. I'd rather Polly at least was at school while I do it. She was very fond of that cat.' Jenny felt a quiver in her voice, at which Paul got up quickly and bolted for the door.

‘Must go, Carol's cooking something. Sorry and all that,' he called over his shoulder as he shot down the steps. Jenny followed him out through the door and picked weeds out of the terrace pots. Biggles had been Alan's cat. Would everything that linked him to the family gradually disappear, strands unravelling all over the place, till he was cut free like a drifting boat? True, he hadn't given up on his wall, had rebuilt it with as much care as he could be expected to spare for that kind of thing. But they both associated the wall with his mother, the last person, probably the only one, who had loved him totally, unconditionally. Jenny had never thought it such a good thing, really, that kind of obsessive mother-love, the sort that makes sons the world over think that, however appallingly, however downright evilly they behaved, there'd always be that one person who still loved them and would forgive them everything. No wonder wars, in spite of civilization, still went on. She hoped she didn't inflict that kind of devotion on Ben; she also hoped that, as a man, he'd be able to cope without it.

It was getting dark. Jenny was anxious that the little pile of foliage she'd collected really was all weeds, not Alan's precious rocket seedlings, which she should have brought indoors for the night. She picked up the pot and brought it in to the conservatory, placing it tenderly on its usual shelf. Fixing a fine rose-spray head to the watering can, she then went, not to the kitchen tap, but down the twilit garden to the water-butt by the shed and filled the can with the foul-smelling, but nourishing rainwater, the better to encourage the little plants. She couldn't do anything about the cat, and already she missed him trotting along beside her as she walked back up the garden; but there was still hope for Alan's plants.

By morning, Jenny still hadn't found the moment to tell the children about the death of Biggles. She was exhausted from a restless night spent half-waking and wondering what Alan was up to in his executive queen-size double bed. She, in the lethargic dawn, had imagined him somehow inspired with rejuvenating vigour, uninhibitedly cavorting with Serena through the night, overjoyed that he hadn't felt that good in years. Too far into sleep to drag herself awake and so choose something else to think about, Jenny had a bizarre vision of the occupants of the room next to Alan's tapping furiously on the interconnecting wall and demanding some peace and quiet.

Thankful when it was at last morning and her worst rambling thoughts could be put to the back of her mind to sleep, like Dracula in his coffin, Jenny got up early and automatically paced through the morning rituals. Still thrilled with her performance, and oblivious to domestic atmosphere, Polly went off to school eagerly, running to Ceci Caine's car joyously free of exam worries, and absolutely bursting with her new-found stardom. Jenny had kissed her goodbye and felt slight trepidation that, by the end of the day, Polly could be coming home wailing dramatically (as befit a newly qualified actress) that
everyone
– the
whole
school – hated her, and she had
no
friends, not
one,
all because she'd made them so envious. Eventually, only Ben was left, lolloping round slowly, collecting his school stuff together from every corner of the house.