‘What’s gotten into you recently, Pol? Ever since I got back from my trip, you’ve been acting strange.’ He seemed genuinely perplexed, exasperated even. ‘Was it that stupid comment I made about my mother? Because I’m sorry, I was just jet-lagged and not thinking straight. It was a very unfair thing for me to say.’
Opal was slightly taken aback. Martin was not one to apologise unprompted in this way. Usually Opal would either sit him downand have to explain exactly what he had done to hurt her, or she’d simply move on, accepting that whatever thoughtless comment had wounded her was just that: thoughtless. She’d always tried to avoid ‘sulking’. It was yet another lesson learnt from her mother’s many failed marriages. Now it occurred to her that that was exactly what she had been doing – and infuriatingly it had garnered a result, though not the one she wanted.
‘It’s not that, Martin.’ Opal spoke quietly, holding his gaze.
‘Then what, Pol? This is killing me; it’s not like us to be like this.’
He actually feels sorry for himself,Opal realised. It was nauseating, and Opal recoiled.
‘There’s something I need to tell you …’ This was her moment. If she dropped the bombshell about the tournament now, it would distract him fromthisline of questioning.
‘Oh Christ, Pol, is there someone else?’ It took a moment for the accusation to sink in. Opal felt that same dissociation she had felt with him in the bedroom. She was looking down at the scene again. Two figures framed by a sage green rectangle of water, one in black turned away and the other naked, hands on his head, looking to all the world like the victim.
‘What if there was?’ She didn’t turn around.
Martin spluttered, seemingly in disbelief. ‘Pol, are you serious?’
Now she faced him, searching his face for something, although she wasn’t sure what. Maybe some kind of reflection of her own sense of betrayal. How would he deal with it if she had done to him what he had to her? Mostly, though, what she saw was shock and incredulity. It enraged her even more.
‘I want to host an artists’ retreat over the summer, starting next Saturday, the 14th.’ Martin dropped his hands petulantly into the water. It was an almost comical scene, his dick floating on the surface of the water as he splashed with indignation.
‘What the fuck, Pol. I’m sorry, I am not at all following the thread of this conversation. Are you fucking someone else? Or …’ he huffed ‘… is this all some sort of midlife crisis, breakdown crap? A retreat? In this house? For the summer? I’m so fucking confused.’
‘I’m not fucking anyone, Martin. You of all people should know that.’ Opal’s tone was scathing. ‘And no, I’m only thirty-six, remember, Martin. If either of us is in the depths of midlife-crisis territory it’s you. And to all your other questions, the answer is yes.’ She was breathless, but there was one more thing to be said: ‘Don’t forget that this is my house.’
Martin didn’t respond. He stared and sighed and splashed and climbed out of the water. She watched as his pale bum retreated towards the French doors. He picked up his clothes as he went and then turned.
‘Have your little retreat, Pol, a nice little fantasy to convince yourself that you’re not the pearl-clutching Home Counties wife that you know you are. It’s perfect really. You can babble all your bohemian artist bullshit without ever having to sacrifice on the comfort of your hereditary estate. Your mother would be proud.’ He slammed the doors and the glass rattled.
Opal sank under the water. For the first time in a very long time, she wished her mother were here.
PART 2
Chapter 13
Ruby was regretting having declined a lift from the station. Or maybe she was actually regretting the whole thing. She’d only been outside of London a handful of times. Her mother had taken her down to Margate a few times when she was little, and last year she’d gone up to Manchester for a gig. She’d assumed there would be a bus service, but when she arrived at Cambridge station and asked the train guard how to get to Arylebourne, he’d pointed her towards the taxi rank.
There was no chance she was about to fork out for a cab, so she’d decided to walk. Five miles. How long could that take? It turned out close to two hours, and with her army surplus backpack weighing her down under the midday sun, it felt longer.
Once she got to the village, she headed for the post office to ask where the house was. The clerk eyed her suspiciously as she walked over.
‘Are you lost, miss?’ He looked to be in his sixties, or maybe older, the cream-coloured hair on his head lying in wisps.
‘Why would I be lost?’ She couldn’t help herself. The whiteness of this place was already getting to her, making herjumpy. She hadn’t seen a black person since she’d left King’s Cross. She took a deep breath. As she was in fact lost, maybe it wasn’t such an unfair assumption from this bloke.
‘Actually sorry, yes, I am. I’m looking for Fairfax Manor?’
Now the clerk looked even more wary. ‘Might I ask what business you have there?’
Ruby gave him her widest smile. ‘No, sir, you may not.’
He smiled back, seemingly nervous. ‘OK well, I um, I don’t feel very comfortable divulging that kind of information to anybody …’ he paused, positioned the glasses hanging from a chain around his neck, onto his nose ‘… who’s a stranger to the town.’
Ruby tried to keep her anger in check. It wasn’t going to serve her well. She turned, without another word, and walked back into the sunshine. She wandered over to a bench and began to roll a cigarette. It was almost midday; maybe the pub over the road would be more helpful once they opened.
She’d barely taken a drag when a battered blue VW Golf pulled up in front of her. She recognised the man at the wheel straight away. The fingers clutching the wheel were perfectly manicured.
‘Miss Ruby Tongue, the one and only. Would you care for a lift?’ Gareth smiled.
