Alex Lake - Copycat

She may have told Katie more. Katie and Jean had been friends since they were born – their moms met on the maternity ward – and they had a special bond. Like lots of groups of friends, the friendships weren’t equal; for them, it had been more like two groups of two. Jean and Katie, Sarah and Emily.

Sarah missed Emily. She had moved to the Pacific Northwest – Oregon, somewhere – and they kept in touch via Skype, but it wasn’t the same. As for Katie, no one knew where she was. She’d gone traveling in her early twenties, and they’d lost contact with her.

So, even though they had not been the closest of the friends in their group, Sarah and Jean were the only ones left, and Sarah was glad to have her in her life. Her college friends were great – in some ways she preferred them – and they had shared some wonderful times, but there was a special quality to her friendship with Jean. It went back so far, and they knew each other so well. With her college friends, she had taken care to present her best self. She was almost an adult when she met them, and she knew who she was and who she wanted to be. She had a self-image, and she wanted to make sure others shared it. Jean and Katie and Emily, on the other hand, had seen her at her worst: screaming at her mom, stealing another girl’s boyfriend, and on one occasion – Sarah still felt guilty about this – bullying a girl she didn’t like until the girl’s parents called the school. Jean was more like a sibling than a friend. However close she got to other people, they would never know her like Jean did.

‘Well,’ Ben said. ‘With those kids, she has to have her shit together now. No choice.’ He opened the car door. ‘Let’s get on the beach.’

Jean was sitting on a beach towel, deep in conversation with another woman. It took Sarah a moment to recognize who it was.

Rachel.

A few yards in front of them, Jean’s two kids – Daniel, thirteen, and Paul, ten – were digging a hole in the sand. Miles, Faye and Kim sprinted over to them and added their labor to the hole-digging project.

‘Hi,’ Sarah said. ‘Mind if we join you?’

‘Of course not,’ Jean said. ‘We were hoping you’d show up. Ben, have you met Rachel?’

Ben shook his head. ‘No, but I’ve heard a lot about you.’ He held out his hand for her to shake. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘You too,’ Rachel said. ‘It’s a pleasure. And what a beautiful day.’

‘Look at them,’ Ben said, nodding at the children. ‘It’s amazing. I can’t get them to help me with anything in the garden – weeding, raking leaves, picking up twigs or acorns from the lawn – but they’re happy to spend hours on the beach digging a pointless hole.’

Jean laughed. ‘They’re hoping to build a wall of sand in front of it so they can defend it from the waves.’

‘They’ll be waiting a while. The tide’s going out,’ Ben said. He unfolded two beach chairs and passed one to Sarah. ‘Can I offer anyone a seat? I’m happy to sit on the sand.’

‘I’m fine,’ Jean said. ‘But thank you for asking.’ She looked at Sarah. ‘The perfect English gentleman.’

‘We’re brought up that way,’ Ben said. ‘Manners beaten into us at every turn by cold, unfeeling matriarchs.’

There was truth in his joking. He didn’t see his parents often, and when he did they had a very formal relationship. Sarah sensed that he and his father, Roger, were – in a reserved, English way – pretty close, but he and his mom – Diana – were distant. He didn’t often talk about his childhood, and his mom rarely figured in the stories. When she did, her appearances were limited to the fringes – She dropped me off at boarding school or She didn’t approve of me and Dad going fishing; she thought it was a waste of time or Pubs were for drunks and commoners, so on the few occasions we went out for dinner at one it was just me, Dad and my brother, Sam. Diana didn’t seem part of his life; it was as though he didn’t particularly know her. Which was in part because Diana Havenant was almost unknowable. She didn’t say a great deal – the longest one-on-one conversation Sarah had ever had with her probably ran to no more than three minutes of polite small talk – and it was invariably critical or damning with faint praise. Barrow , she had said, on her one trip to visit them in Maine, was very nice . Sarah had been surprised to hear such unqualified praise, but then she had added:

… for those who like that kind of thing.

Sarah, who normally resisted the temptation to argue with her mother-in-law, had risen to the bait. She felt she had to: Barrow was her hometown, the place she was raising her family. If Diana thought there was a problem with it, them, it was, in her mind, a direct comment on her parenting.

What do you mean, ‘that kind of thing’? she’d said, struggling to keep her tone light. Next to her, Ben stiffened.

It’s hardly London, is it? Diana replied.

No, Sarah said. But I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at. Lots of places aren’t London. Paris, for example, isn’t London. Neither is Buenos Aires.

Quite, Diana replied. What was it Johnson said? When a man is tired of London he is tired of life?

Was he a Londoner, by any chance? Sarah asked .

I think he was pointing out how London offers such broad horizons. Which is a good thing. Other places – by which she clearly meant Barrow – are a little less stimulating for young minds.

It was clear she felt her son had made a mistake in leaving the cultured shores of the UK for the barbarian wastes of Maine. She probably felt he had made a mistake in marrying Sarah, too. For years Sarah had worried that at some point Diana would convince Ben to move them all back to the UK – or Ben and the kids, at any rate. She doubted Diana would have been bothered if he left his wife behind – but Ben had reassured her his mother would never attempt such a thing, and if she did, it wouldn’t work.

Over time, Sarah had come to believe him, but the lurking fear that Diana might one day try to win her son back never fully left her.

Sarah sat down beside him, her feet sinking into the hot sand. She took a deep breath, reveling in the briny tang of the ocean.

‘I’m not sure those matriarchs did such a good job with you,’ she said. ‘My perfect English gentleman who wants to buy a convertible which only half the family can fit into.’

‘Four-fifths of the family,’ Ben said. ‘I was planning on getting a four-seater. I suppose I could get a two-seater, which would only be two-fifths of the family. But not half.’

‘Sounds fun,’ Jean said. ‘I can see you, top down, wind rushing through your hair— ’

‘More over my scalp,’ Ben said, rubbing his thinning hair. ‘But I get what you mean.’

‘You’ll have to take me for a spin,’ Jean said. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever been in a convertible.’

‘Thanks, Jean,’ Sarah said. ‘I was hoping you might dis courage him!’

‘Oh,’ Jean said. ‘Seemed like a good idea to me.’

Miles detached himself from the group of hole-diggers and walked over.

‘Do we have any snacks?’ he said.

Sarah put on an expression of shocked disbelief, although it was only partly put on. Her kids’ capacity for asking for food was a constant source of amazement for her. ‘We’ve hardly been here five minutes,’ she said. ‘You had breakfast an hour ago.’

‘I know,’ Miles said. ‘But I’m hungry.’

‘You can’t be,’ Sarah said. ‘Go and dig a hole. Work up an appetite.’

‘I already have an appetite.’