Torn (31 page)

What on earth was she talking about? Piers' booming voice preceded him.

‘Sorry, my loves! Gentlemen took quick fag break. Head down, Jay! Feminist backlash!' He entered the room wincing and cowering, as if expecting missiles, followed by James who now had a lit cigarette between his fingers.

‘Thought you'd given up, Jay?' Imogen said.

‘In front of Gilda.'

‘You're frightened of your mother?'

‘No, not frightened.' He put a bottle of Rémy Martin on the tray. ‘Bloody terrified!'

Imogen shook her head at him. ‘That's fucking pathetic. You have to skulk outside behind the dustbins, like a fucking teenager when you want a fag?'

‘Something like that. What's the difference between my mother and a Rottweiler?'

‘Give up.'

‘A Rottweiler eventually lets go!'

Piers laughed as he moved towards the music system. ‘Music … here … now!' He paused. ‘No MP3 dock? Bout time you caught up with the modern world, my old mucker! What the fuck!' He was scanning the racks of CDs. ‘Musique Pop et Rock? Où est? Previously esteemed top man, Mr Warwick, losing grip. Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Ella Fitzgerald? Getting farty in old age! Where Springsteen? Where ZZ Top? Where Johnny Cash? Where Eagles?'

Jessica didn't want to hear the Eagles. For her they would be forever linked to memories of New Year's Day, of Danny, and her embarrassing attempt to seduce him.

‘Now we're in for a fucking country rock fest,' Imogen said. ‘I get enough of that at home! That and fucking Westerns.'

‘
Gun Fight at the OK Corral
,' Piers said.

‘
Once Upon a Time in the West
.' As the two men squared up, Jess raised her eyebrows at Imogen.

‘Which was the best Western ever made,' she explained.

In a cod American accent James asked, ‘Gotta a horse for me?'

Piers looked about him, hands spread. ‘Guess we're one horse shy.'

‘Nope.' Grinning broadly, James shook his head. ‘You brung two too many!' At this they went for their invisible holsters and the shoot-out commenced. Piers clutched at his stomach, but his death scene was undermined by laughter. Imogen sighed deeply.

Still laughing, James moved across to explain his CD cataloguing system. ‘My house, my choice. We'll put this on. Time of night to mellow out …'

‘… drink cognac, and eat cheesy type comestibles,' Piers expanded. Can I interest you in a nut, Jessica? Look nutty sort.'

The music had started; Jessica didn't answer.

‘Oh yeah, I like this one. It was used in that Levis ad, remember, Piers?' Imogen said, popping a piece of dried apricot into her mouth and picking up a House and Garden magazine.

‘It was a BBH campaign. John Hegarty, of course. Fucking good instincts, the bastard. Always spot on.'

‘Quite a few years ago.'

‘Eighty something. Surprised you even remember, my treasure.'

Jessica was paralysed; tiny shivers ran up the back of her neck. Did she imagine James' gaze intensify. Did he notice the misting of her eyes as the song played. Striving to sound normal, she asked: ‘Who is this?'

‘“Mad About The Boy”?' he queried. ‘It's a Noel Coward composition sung by the late, great Dinah Washington.'

Intermittent bouts of distant coughing punctuated the silence. Despite the comfortable bed Jessica tossed and turned, her mind replaying the evening. The longer she lay there the further from her grasp sleep slipped. An hour, even two must have passed by now. She'd not looked at the time when she made her excuses.

‘Mu-ummy?'

Still tying the towelling robe, Jessica pushed open the door to the children's room. A night-light softly illuminated the two beds. Sasha was splayed on her back, arms out-flung, spark out. But Rory was sitting bolt upright. Tears glinted on his cheeks.

‘Hush, darling. What's the matter?'

‘You said you'd come and see me!'

‘I did come to see you, just before dinner, but you were already fast asleep.'

‘But I woke up! I've got tummy-ache.'

‘Too much cake,' she said. ‘Do you want to go to the toilet?' He shook his head. ‘So you don't need to get up. That's good. You'll soon go back to sleep again. I'll stroke your tummy. Do you remember you're in Sasha's house? See, she's here in the bed next to you. And my bedroom is next door. You're safe. Everything's all right. I'll stay here till you fall asleep.' He lay down and closed his eyes, pushing up his pyjama top to expose his belly. She sat beside him, stroking his silky skin. After a few minutes he curled onto his side. Jessica pulled the duvet up over his shoulders and kissed his hot, damp cheek. As she continued to sit in the dim light she reviewed the evening.

Piers' odd, dislocated speech could be hard to follow. This, added to his determination to stir up controversy, made him uneasy company. James, still an unknown quantity, was also occasionally provocative, if less brazenly so. Not averse to controversy herself, Jess would dispute any suggestion that she'd stirred it up, but there was no way she'd allow herself to be mocked, or assumptions made about her opinions. Imogen sounded as if she came from the top drawer of society, yet could scarcely get through a sentence without the use of an expletive as adjective, adverb, or simply colour. Then there were the strange remarks she'd made – hints and jibes about the Bowman family. Yet she was Piers' partner. Did she have privileged information or was she just trying to wound? But who? And why?

The only two people Jess knew at all well were Gilda, who had taken a back seat for most of the evening, and Danny. She'd ached for Danny. He was not a child, but was still a very young man and lacked the worldly ease of the rest of the company. The fact that he was not yet fully recovered put him at a further disadvantage. And then that song. She'd heard it before, never thought anything of it, yet it struck so fresh, so sharp, so unbearably poignant. Had James put it on deliberately? Or was she being paranoid? If he'd done it to test her reaction then she'd failed the test. Her abrupt exit would have been read as an admission of her discomfort. She couldn't help that. The prospect of sitting downstairs and steadily going down a bottle of cognac – which seemed to be the others' intention – had lost any appeal.

She'd not been thinking clearly when she bolted up to bed. No more than a sip or two of the cognac had passed her lips, but there were drinks before, and she'd lost count of the number of times her wine glass had been re-filled during the meal. Danny and Gilda had drunk little, but four bottles stood empty on the table as they'd left it; three of a rather fine Gevrey-Chambertin and one Madeira. It would have been wise to drink some water before retiring. The longer she sat there the more dehydrated she felt. Better late than never and Rory now seemed soundly asleep.

A landing light left switched on provided sufficient illumination down to the hall. Had she not been convinced that, at gone two o'clock, everyone else in the house was in bed asleep, she would never have come downstairs in search of mineral water. Only when she was on the ground floor did she notice a low light emanated from the open door of the sitting room. She stopped dead. There was no music but she could clearly hear the men's voices, mellowed by the alcohol they'd continued to drink.

‘Tonight … fucking floored me!' she heard Piers say. ‘Never imagined the little squib would sprout up like that! Imo seemed to think … Bizarre! Women! Weird creatures. Look at Johnny Depp? What's he got? Don't understand it. All I understand … money. Women attracted to money. Is he good looking?'

‘Who? Johnny Depp?'

‘Daniel! My brother?'

‘I don't know! Yes. Suppose he must be. Hard for me to judge.'

‘Unless you're a mincing camp boy!' There was a short silence, in which only the clink of a bottle against glass could be heard. Then Pier's voice again. ‘Up to speed on birds and bees, is he? Brotherly advice required, d'you think?'

‘For God's sake, Piers! He works with animals! He may be a dozy bugger, but I've reason to believe he doesn't need educating in that department.'

‘Phew! Didn't fancy the role. Seriously Jay, fucking grateful to you. Taking him on. Fucking liability. Fucking worry about him. Didn't at time. Too wrapped up in own life. Poor little sod … same age as Sash, and still barely talking, let alone … when I went up.'

‘I remember.'

‘Now, though? How's he going to manage life? Fill in tax returns? The simplest thing?' Piers sounded increasingly slurred, increasingly maudlin.

‘Not making sense, mate,' James said. ‘I'm doing his tax return, not that he pays much.'

‘But you … not around forever. Might want to employ someone more use?'

‘Piers, I know I complain about him, but that's just me. I don't really mean it. He's practical. A natural with the animals. And a hard worker … never complains. Jessica was right. He was doing very long shifts through lambing. He can be clumsy. Sometimes he's a bit too soft … needs to develop a thicker skin … but otherwise, knows the job.'

‘But there must be so much he can't do!'

‘Piers, apart from the asthma, is he disabled in some way I don't know about?'

‘Right word. Disability … this day n'age. Told you when you took him on.'

‘What? All you said was, in a roundabout way, he's a bit below par on the old IQ score.'

‘Daft rather than stupid. Never been tested, far as I know. Bit hard to test Planks' IQ. Perhaps modelling an answer? Smile a bit. Nice clothes. Walk up and down. Money. Taxis everywhere. Agency do paperwork.'

‘I don't understand, Piers. What are you saying?'

‘Trouble is …' Piers voice had become choked. ‘Trouble is … he fucking can't read, Jay! Functionally illiterate!' A silence followed this statement. Outside the door, and already chilly, Jessica turned to ice.

‘Fuck!' was exhaled by James on a lengthened breath. He sounded utterly flabbergasted. ‘That tiny nugget of information fucking explains a few things! Why didn't you tell me?'

‘Thought I had, mate. Thought I had.'

‘You went so far round the houses I was left up a blind alley. I didn't get your drift!'

‘Not something proud to admit … own brother.'

Chapter Nineteen

It had been torture lying in bed all night; the sound of distant coughing a counterpoint to the unfamiliar creaks and clicks of Gore Farmhouse. Insoluble anxieties raced in a perpetual loop around her brain. No wonder Danny didn't want to go in for his driving test, though he'd driven off-road since he was twelve. No wonder he was always in trouble with James for not keeping proper records or carrying out written instructions. Her throat clenched in sorrow and pity for him.

For such a young man he was remarkably courageous about many things. He stood up to his employer, spoke out at a public meeting where he knew half the audience was against him, and had laid himself open to humiliating exposure when he took her to bed. But this one area of his life he'd kept hidden from her, from James, and probably from everyone else who knew him. Not being able to read was his ultimate shame.

It was only when she heard others getting up that Jessica pushed back the duvet. She was too depressed, too tired to bother with make-up. After a quick shower she simply pulled on the dress she'd worn yesterday and wondered how much longer she would have to stay in this house, pretending everything was all right. She'd have preferred to gather up Rory and depart immediately, before breakfast, but how could she behave so ungraciously to Gilda, or even to James, who had been a generous host? How to explain her sense of despair and disillusion to them, when she could hardly explain it to herself?

What was the difference between having sex with a boy over ten years your junior and having sex with a boy, over ten years your junior, who couldn't read, she wondered. Was it her pride which rebelled at that specific addendum – the bit of herself which had only registered his ‘straw in the mouth' accent after they went to bed the first time, and then cringed at the imagined sneers of her London friends? And how would she handle the knowledge with Danny himself? Could she admit to him she knew? Or would that hurt his amour-propre too deeply? One thing she was glad of was that she'd already ended their physical relationship; this revelation could not be construed as her motive.

The red Porsche parked alongside hers must be the car Piers referred to last night as his tart-mobile, Jess thought, as she stowed her un-worn dress, shoes, and overnight bag. From the number plate it was new.

‘I should have realised the Beamer wasn't Jay's,' Imogen said, crossing the courtyard. ‘When we pulled in last night I assumed Jay had got himself a half decent motor at last. Have you seen his Land Rover?' She pulled a face of exaggerated horror. Any irritation Jess felt was converted into the vigour with which she slammed the boot of her half-decent motor, now older than Rory. She smiled sweetly.

‘Isn't it a lovely day? And surprisingly warm. Did you sleep well?'

‘Like a fucking log. I always do here. Must be the country air. You disappeared in a fucking puff of smoke last night! Boys seemed a bit disappointed. Mind you, I didn't stay up much longer. It'd had been a long day for us and I was tired, even if Piers wasn't. I expect the blokes decided to finish off a fucking bottle or three, before they came to bed. God knows when that was. Piers is still driving the pigs home now!'

Convinced she'd not slept a wink all night, Jessica could have told Imogen the exact time the two friends came up to bed. They'd ascended the stairs, shushing each other and giggling like school boys, at seventeen minutes past three. By then she'd long since given up on her quest for mineral water. Thirst was the least of the discomforts which kept her awake.