unbolted and opened the double doors. The dry spidery smells of old Julys, which had been trapped inside, spilled out upon the night. She found matches, lit one of the storm lanterns hanging in the roof and dusted off the old chaise-longue before sitting down. She stared out from the hut into darkness over and beyond the roof of the house below, a darkness unleavened by moonlight, and thought she could remember, without seeing them, the precise places of the six lime trees in the meadow across the valley. Tomorrow she would look out and see that their leaves, although still green, were sharper and crisp-looking, already curling back to show the undersides of branches. Before the green turned to yellow, most of the leaves would fall. She was wide awake now. But it was too chilly to stay out and too hazardous to start thinking about Andrew, Herve, the poor dead woman from Camden Crescent and her own feelings in relation to them all. She blew out the lantern, closed the hut and came back down the path to the house. She got ready for bed, glad to be back in her own room. Sinking under the duvet in the dark she thought it ironic that although she had now reached an age when she appreciated sleeping in her own bed, the combination of her mind behaving as if she were about sixteen and her body behaving as if it were noon would probably keep her awake most of the night.
CHAPTER 7
V ALERIE SCRAPED THE remains of the children’s meals into the bin, holding the plates well away from her. She was dressed for the rehearsal, and a splodge of garlic butter on her jumper was not the effect she was looking for. She wouldn’t be having to do this at all if Andrew were here as he was meant to be, but she squashed her resentment, knowing that it sat ill within the new tolerant scheme of things. Instead, she tried to feel sorry for him, for having to work on with the Bevan enquiry instead of coming with her to the rehearsal. When he had telephoned he had sounded already weary of the case, and she had believed him when he had said that the day had not gone well, although they both knew that he would never tell her otherwise by telephone and that she had just been taking a polite interest. So she loaded the dishwasher while Nicola the babysitter stood and watched and failed to say,
Oh, leave those, Mrs Poole, I’ll see to them. Off you go, don’t spoil your lovely cashmere jumper
.
It was actually only lambswool but she had brushed it up to make it look a little like cashmere and she had bought it in a larger size which she thought made it look better made and more expensive. The dark colour was good with Valerie’s looks which were of that English kind which seldom ages well: nice hair which she now had to think of as dark blonde, and a pale, creamy complexion which, although still nearer to single than clotted, was yearly growing coarser. She was confident that the navy jumper with her big fake pearl earrings gave her the Hermès look, only without her having to buy the scarf, which would cost roughly the amount that she might spend on a winter coat. And the checked wool trousers and loafers added to the effect, because M&S were so good, these days, at doing things that didn’t look M&S.
As she drove round looking for a parking space close to Helene’s flat in the Circus, she wondered what Helene would be wearing. At the dozen or so rehearsals before the group had broken up for August, Valerie had still not seen anything twice, although Helene’s outfits all shared certain characteristics, like members of the same florid and slightly eccentric family. She went in for a lot of expensive knits, done in theatrical shiny yarns with bobbles and often with beads or ribbony bits, in colours like ‘taupe’ and ‘avocado’; sludge brown and slime green if you were feeling ungenerous. They were invariably two-piece ensembles: a skirt made of knitted flared panels and the matching, much-embellished top which would drape floppily over
CHAPTER 7
V ALERIE SCRAPED THE remains of the children’s meals into the bin, holding the plates well away from her. She was dressed for the rehearsal, and a splodge of garlic butter on her jumper was not the effect she was looking for. She wouldn’t be having to do this at all if Andrew were here as he was meant to be, but she squashed her resentment, knowing that it sat ill within the new tolerant scheme of things. Instead, she tried to feel sorry for him, for having to work on with the Bevan enquiry instead of coming with her to the rehearsal. When he had telephoned he had sounded already weary of the case, and she had believed him when he had said that the day had not gone well, although they both knew that he would never tell her otherwise by telephone and that she had just been taking a polite interest. So she loaded the dishwasher while Nicola the babysitter stood and watched and failed to say,
Oh, leave those, Mrs Poole, I’ll see to them. Off you go, don’t spoil your lovely cashmere jumper
.
It was actually only lambswool but she had brushed it up to make it look a little like cashmere and she had bought it in a larger size which she thought made it look better made and more expensive. The dark colour was good with Valerie’s looks which were of that English kind which seldom ages well: nice hair which she now had to think of as dark blonde, and a pale, creamy complexion which, although still nearer to single than clotted, was yearly growing coarser. She was confident that the navy jumper with her big fake pearl earrings gave her the Hermès look, only without her having to buy the scarf, which would cost roughly the amount that she might spend on a winter coat. And the checked wool trousers and loafers added to the effect, because M&S were so good, these days, at doing things that didn’t look M&S.
As she drove round looking for a parking space close to Helene’s flat in the Circus, she wondered what Helene would be wearing. At the dozen or so rehearsals before the group had broken up for August, Valerie had still not seen anything twice, although Helene’s outfits all shared certain characteristics, like members of the same florid and slightly eccentric family. She went in for a lot of expensive knits, done in theatrical shiny yarns with bobbles and often with beads or ribbony bits, in colours like ‘taupe’ and ‘avocado’; sludge brown and slime green if you were feeling ungenerous. They were invariably two-piece ensembles: a skirt made of knitted flared panels and the matching, much-embellished top which would drape floppily over
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