“No, he’ll be asleep by now,” Corinne says. “Ree too. I caught them at eight, on their way in from the piggery.” She grins and says approvingly, “They’d had an all-night movie and hot tub marathon. Dripping all over the floor in their cozzies, they were.”
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” says Sally. Then her brain catches up and she asks, “What cozzies?”
“Their swimming costumes.” Corinne narrows her eyes, perhaps wondering if Sally’s mental faculties are in proper working order. “The ones they packed because I told them there was a hot tub and a pool here.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“I take it you forgot yours. Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of spares. Listen, Sally…” Corinne’s expression turns serious. “There’s something you need to see. Full disclosure: It’s going to upset you.”
Sally’s heart plunges to the pit of her stomach.
“It looks horrible, but it doesn’t change anything, so there’s no new bad news or anything,” says Corinne. “I’m going to tell you what it is before I show you the picture, so that you’re prepared. Tess Gavey has posted a photograph of the…bite on her arm. On her Instagram account. It looks awful. But the good news is, she hasn’t named Champ or accused him or anything. For now, all she’s done is post a photo with the comment ‘hashtag bitten.’”
“How…” That’s the most Sally can manage.
“How do I know?” Corinne fills in the blanks. “I looked, that’s how. And I found it. It’s a private account, as I expected it to be, so I requested to follow from the coolest of my fake-name accounts, and I was in within the minute—that’s no exaggeration—no questions asked. I’m also monitoring Lesley Gavey on Facebook, where the silly woman’s dumb enough to have a public account. There’s been nothing from her yet about a dog biting her daughter.”
Sally is trying very hard not to dissolve into tears. She should have made Corinne leave her phone in Swaffham Tilney too, shethinks. Not that she had or has the power to decree any such thing, but it’s horrifying to feel so ambushed. It’s as if the Gaveys are here with them in this beautiful house in the Lake District, doing and saying terrible Gavey-ish things—contaminating the safe haven, teleported in by technology.
“He didn’t do it, Corinne.”
“I know he didn’t. Sally. I’m not an idiot. If you think I’m feeling sorry for Tess Gavey just because she’s shown the world her munched-up arm flesh—”
“However bad her injury looks, that doesn’t mean Champ did it.” Sally’s insides have turned to liquid. “He’d never bite anyone. Never! He’s so sweet and affectionate, just a big bundle of love.”
“Sally, you don’t need to convince me.”
Munched-up arm flesh…Oh God.
“If Tess is so badly hurt, the police will be determined to make Champ pay.” Sally starts to cry. “I assumed the bite was just…like, a little nick, maybe a pinprick or two of blood. That’s the worst Furbert ever did. I’ve got four or five scars from him and they’re alltiny.I never needed more than one little plaster.”
“Sally, it’s going to be fine.” Corinne pulls her into a hug. “I feel like a shit for upsetting you, but…I thought you’d want to be aware of what the Gaveys are doing, that’s all. Maybe I should have kept quiet and just kept an eye on it myself.”
“No.” Mark’s voice comes from the doorway. “Whatever they’re doing, online and off, the more we know the better. That photo Tess posted…” He whistles.
“How do you know about it?” Sally snaps at him.
“I showed him,” says Corinne.
“Can we all meet downstairs?” Mark says. “I want to have a serious conversation. Everything spiraled out of control yesterday, and I went along with it, but…we’ve got to get a grip on things, Sal.”
Corinne glances at the clock. “Shall we say eleven? In the morning room? First door on the right past the kitchen, between the kitchen and the back stairs.”
“I need to get dressed and…sort myself out,” says Sally. Can she do that by eleven? Will she ever be able to do anything effectively again?
She’s furious with Mark and can’t manage more than a nod when he suggests he take Champ for a quick walk round the garden. Calling meetings in someone else’s house, talking about getting grips on things. It turns out there’s no such thing as having a grip on life; doesn’t he realize?
When she’s alone in the room again, Sally walks over to the unmade bed and sits on it, cross-legged and crying. Just before eleven, she manages to persuade herself to stand up. She’d better text Mark to say she’ll be a bit later than eleven…but, no, she can’t do that, since her phone is in Swaffham Tilney at the Hayloft and so is his.
Slowly, she walks toward the framed poem that’s hanging to the left of the clock. Its title is “My Granny” and the author is apparently a Maisie Sullivan. One of Corinne’s grandchildren, Sally guesses. It’s short:
Granny is my favorite,
Her hair flows in golden, wavy tresses,
She always wears long, black dresses.
She drives me to ballet lessons sometimes in her car.
