responded with a wry smile. ‘Bit of each,
perhaps.’
‘Ah. Contemporary setting?’
‘No, I suppose I’d have to say it’s historical. About
the past, anyway, and about how people reinvent
their pasts. Most of us do that to some extent.’
‘Do we?’ Carole thought about whether she’d ever
done it, and decided that yes, she had. ‘I suppose
you’re right.’
‘I don’t have to look far for people who’ve reinvented
their past,’ said Polly.
‘Are you talking about your father?’
‘Him, and others.’ She gave a sardonic grin.
‘Anyway, I’m getting quite intrigued by history, you
know. Digging back into the mix of truth and fantasy,
finding out where things went wrong.’
‘Went wrong for you, do you mean?’
‘Good heavens no.’ The girl laughed at the idea,
then wryness returned to her voice as she went on,
‘I know where things went wrong for me.’
She didn’t let the thought linger or leave time for
a supplementary question. ‘So maybe the book will
make my fortune, change my life around. Huh, I
should be so lucky. Anyway, for the time being, Piers
is the only writer in our household. He’s starting
to do quite well,’ the girl said wistfully. ‘He’s had a
few credits on television sketch shows. You may have
seen the name Piers Duncton scrolling down at the
end. And now a television sitcom of his looks like
it might get commissioned. You know, he’s got very
good contacts. He was in the Footlights at Cambridge,
and that kind of network counts for a lot in show business.’
Carole made a possible connection. ‘So when he
was at Cambridge, did he know Lola?’
Polly nodded. ‘Yes, they were in revues and things
together. Did the Edinburgh Fringe, all that stuff.’
‘Did you meet Piers through her?’
The girl shook her head. ‘Other way round. I’d
met Piers before he went to Cambridge. In the
National Youth Theatre. And somehow our relationship
survived the three years he was up there.’ She
made it sound as if the process hadn’t all been plain
sailing. ‘So I met all his Footlights mates, including
Lola.’
‘And was it through you that your father – or,
rather, your stepfather – met Lola? You introduced
them?’
Polly twisted her lips into an expression of mock
ruefulness as she echoed her father’s words of a few
moments before. ‘Guilty as charged.’
Chapter Eight
Carole was surprised how long she stayed at Jude’s
open house. She was so busy nibbling Zosia’s exquisite
nibbles, drinking more white wine and, to her
amazement, chatting away easily to people (some of
whom she even hadn’t met before), that she didn’t
notice the passage of time. Only at the end of a long
conversation with a retired geophysicist about the
semantic history of the word ‘serendipity’ did she
finally take a look at her watch. She was astonished to
see that it was nearly five o’clock. The booze showed
no signs of running out, and the crowd of guests
hadn’t dwindled by much, but Carole thought it was
probably time she left.
Her circuit of goodbyes took a gratifyingly long
time and it was nearly six by the time she was sitting
by the Aga in the High Tor kitchen. Gulliver looked
up at her pathetically, hoping for an after-dark walk,
but Carole was feeling selfish. She’d do the Sunday
Times crossword first, and then take him out just
on the rough ground behind the house to do his business.
The dog couldn’t really complain; he’d had anhour’s thorough workout that morning on Fethering
Beach.
Though The Times crossword was an essential
part of Carole Seddon’s daily routine, she very rarely
did the Sunday Times version, and its quirks were
unfamiliar to her. She found her mind kept sliding
away from the clues and her vision kept wandering
abstractedly into the middle distance. It took quite a
while for her to conclude that she was a little drunk.
But this realization did not generate the guilt
perhaps.’
‘Ah. Contemporary setting?’
‘No, I suppose I’d have to say it’s historical. About
the past, anyway, and about how people reinvent
their pasts. Most of us do that to some extent.’
‘Do we?’ Carole thought about whether she’d ever
done it, and decided that yes, she had. ‘I suppose
you’re right.’
‘I don’t have to look far for people who’ve reinvented
their past,’ said Polly.
‘Are you talking about your father?’
‘Him, and others.’ She gave a sardonic grin.
‘Anyway, I’m getting quite intrigued by history, you
know. Digging back into the mix of truth and fantasy,
finding out where things went wrong.’
‘Went wrong for you, do you mean?’
‘Good heavens no.’ The girl laughed at the idea,
then wryness returned to her voice as she went on,
‘I know where things went wrong for me.’
She didn’t let the thought linger or leave time for
a supplementary question. ‘So maybe the book will
make my fortune, change my life around. Huh, I
should be so lucky. Anyway, for the time being, Piers
is the only writer in our household. He’s starting
to do quite well,’ the girl said wistfully. ‘He’s had a
few credits on television sketch shows. You may have
seen the name Piers Duncton scrolling down at the
end. And now a television sitcom of his looks like
it might get commissioned. You know, he’s got very
good contacts. He was in the Footlights at Cambridge,
and that kind of network counts for a lot in show business.’
Carole made a possible connection. ‘So when he
was at Cambridge, did he know Lola?’
Polly nodded. ‘Yes, they were in revues and things
together. Did the Edinburgh Fringe, all that stuff.’
‘Did you meet Piers through her?’
The girl shook her head. ‘Other way round. I’d
met Piers before he went to Cambridge. In the
National Youth Theatre. And somehow our relationship
survived the three years he was up there.’ She
made it sound as if the process hadn’t all been plain
sailing. ‘So I met all his Footlights mates, including
Lola.’
‘And was it through you that your father – or,
rather, your stepfather – met Lola? You introduced
them?’
Polly twisted her lips into an expression of mock
ruefulness as she echoed her father’s words of a few
moments before. ‘Guilty as charged.’
Chapter Eight
Carole was surprised how long she stayed at Jude’s
open house. She was so busy nibbling Zosia’s exquisite
nibbles, drinking more white wine and, to her
amazement, chatting away easily to people (some of
whom she even hadn’t met before), that she didn’t
notice the passage of time. Only at the end of a long
conversation with a retired geophysicist about the
semantic history of the word ‘serendipity’ did she
finally take a look at her watch. She was astonished to
see that it was nearly five o’clock. The booze showed
no signs of running out, and the crowd of guests
hadn’t dwindled by much, but Carole thought it was
probably time she left.
Her circuit of goodbyes took a gratifyingly long
time and it was nearly six by the time she was sitting
by the Aga in the High Tor kitchen. Gulliver looked
up at her pathetically, hoping for an after-dark walk,
but Carole was feeling selfish. She’d do the Sunday
Times crossword first, and then take him out just
on the rough ground behind the house to do his business.
The dog couldn’t really complain; he’d had anhour’s thorough workout that morning on Fethering
Beach.
Though The Times crossword was an essential
part of Carole Seddon’s daily routine, she very rarely
did the Sunday Times version, and its quirks were
unfamiliar to her. She found her mind kept sliding
away from the clues and her vision kept wandering
abstractedly into the middle distance. It took quite a
while for her to conclude that she was a little drunk.
But this realization did not generate the guilt
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