Gemma Fox - Caught in the Act

Carol turned slowly; there was re ally no point having those great big blue-green eyes-like-a-cat-on-a-moonlit-night unless you knew how to use them. ‘He knows the answer to all of those questions.’

Jake, coming up for fourteen and just beginning to get a grip on the complicated wiring of adulthood, nodded. ‘Yes, yes, and no, not over the flayed bodies of myself, my infant children and the family pets?’

Carol nodded proudly. ‘Well done.’

‘In which case, Raf said, would you consider giving in gracefully and living in sin instead?’

Carol turned the stare up to stun. ‘When it comes to sin, Jake, I can think of so many better ways to do it than washing underpants and picking up other people’s dirty socks.’

‘And if you do want to do that kind of thing, you’ve always got me and Ollie, haven’t you?’

She nodded. ‘Exactly.’

‘Do you want him to start cooking?’

‘Did he happen to mention what time he was going home?’

Rafael O’Connell leaned in around the door to the utility room and handed her a glass of wine. It was German, ice cool and far too sweet to be considered grown up. He was goodlooking in a lived-in way, forty-two, and wearing a wipe-down apron with a black bra, stockings and suspenders printed on the front of it, which the boys had given him for his last birthday. He was Irish, ice cool and far too sweet to be considered grown up.

‘I was hoping you’d ask me to stay the night,’ he said, attempting to sound hurt and much put upon while pushing a mop of dark brown wavy hair back off his forehead.

Carol smiled, resisting the effects that his brogue had on her even after three years. ‘It’s Sunday, Raf. You know the rules; on Sundays you go home.’

‘I could make an exception.’

‘Well, I can’t. You’re a weekend thing. You should know that by now. Friday to Sunday and then—’ still smiling, she made a dismissive sweeping gesture with her hand—‘home.’

‘You’ll miss me when I’m gone,’ he grumbled, backing off into the kitchen, mugging deep and bitter rejection.

Jake looked at Carol and shook his head. ‘You’re re ally cruel to him. What sort of example are you setting? I’m at a very impressionable age.’

‘So’s Raf. He knows I don’t mean it. And besides, he is the kind of man who enjoys a challenge.’

Jake pulled a face. He had started dating and Carol suspected he was using her and Raf as an instructional video.

‘You should go and talk to him about it,’ Carol said, waving the wineglass in the general direction of the kitchen.

‘I already have. He said he’d give me twenty quid if I could get you to let him stay tonight.’

Carol sighed. ‘That is not what real grownups are supposed to do, Jake—it’s probably illegal, and definitely immoral. Pass me that big blue glass bowl, will you?’

Jake did as he was asked.

She pulled a large bag of mixed salad out of the bottom of the fridge. It was a bit of a devil’s deal re ally. Long summer Sundays, Mr O’Connell and the boys knocked themselves out building the world’s most bizarre kebabs, stuffing chicken breasts with God alone knows what, and baking bananas and apple slices in tinfoil with brown sugar and brandy while she opened a big tub of potato salad, threw a bag of mixed baby leaves into a bowl and chucked half a bottle of shop-bought dressing over it.

Setting the bowl down for a moment, Carol stepped back into the loo and brought the photo of the drama group out into the sunlight. A younger, altogether-less-cynical Carol stared back up at her, all open-faced enthusiasm and too much makeup. What would she have done if she’d known all the things that were coming her way? Even though she was smiling, Carol felt her eyes prickling with tears. The time had gone so quickly. It didn’t seem fair.

She picked up the phone and tapped in Diana’s mobile number. Half a dozen rings later a bright breezy voice said, ‘Hello?’

‘Hi, is that Diana Brown?’

There was a split-second pause and then a raucous laugh. ‘Carol? Is that you?’

‘Certainly is. It was great to get your email. I was just looking at a photo of us when we did Macbeth and thought that if someone doesn’t ring soon we’ll all be dead.’

Diana groaned. ‘The way I feel today that would be a blessing. It’s so nice to hear your voice. I’m re ally glad you rang. I daren’t think about how long it’s been since we last spoke. Was it at someone’s wedding?’ Diana sounded genuinely pleased. ‘You sound re ally grown up.’

Carol laughed. ‘You too, but don’t be fooled—it’s a very thin disguise.’

Through the kitchen window she watched Raf laying out various offerings to the fire gods while the boys unfolded the garden chairs and opened up the parasol.

‘I thought I’d give you a quick ring to make contact, re ally. How are you?’ asked Carol, a little self-consciously; what did they talk about now? How long was it since they had spoken?

‘I’m fine, happy, busy. We’re living in the Midlands—I don’t know if you knew but I married a vicar.’

Carol felt her heart sinking. It was worse than she thought. ‘re ally?’ she said. ‘You married him? God, bloody hell—oh damn, bugger—I’m so sorry. Er…’

At which point Diana giggled furiously. Carol would have recognised the sound anywhere and felt the tension in her stomach ease.

‘It’s not that bad, re ally,’ Diana replied. ‘As long as you don’t mind working Christmas and Easter and every weekend. How have you been, anyway? I’ve often thought about you.’

‘How long have you got?’ Carol said wryly.

‘Well, unfortunately at the moment about two minutes—which is a real shame because I’d re ally like the chance to catch up. I’m helping out at the parish luncheon club today and we’re in the eye of the storm between the roast beef and apple crumble. Would you mind if I rang you back later?’

‘Not at all; I’m in all day.’

‘It’s so good to hear you. One thing, just quickly—my son is coming down your way to scout camp at half term and, well, maybe we could get together?’

Carol smiled. ‘Sure. I was just thinking how awful it was that we’d lost touch. So yes, of course. Do you know when it is?’

Out in the garden the first of the kebabs committed ritual suicide, dropping through the grill in a wild flurry of wood ash and much swearing.

‘Hang on, I’ve got to go. The dessert stampede just started,’ said Diana. ‘I’ll ring you back.’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

Diana rang around nine, when Raf had left and the day was slowing down. Carol took the phone and a glass of wine out into the garden.

‘I can’t imagine you married to a vicar, Di. Are you happy?’

‘What on earth is that supposed to mean?’ Diana said, sounding deeply amused. ‘Of course I’m not happy. I’ve been married donkeys years—I’ve forgotten what happy means.’

‘You don’t seem the type, or at least you didn’t used to be. What happened? Wouldn’t you be better off with a nice chartered accountant, or a plumber? What about the sex, drugs and rock and roll?’

There was a moment’s pause and then Diana said, ‘Hedley and I try not to let them interfere with evensong.’

‘Oh, clever,’ laughed Carol. ‘I always thought you’d end up with Chris Morrison.’

She heard Diana catch her breath. ‘My goodness. You know I’d forgotten all about Chris. Chris Morrison? I wonder what he’s doing now. How on earth could I forget Chris?’

‘He’s on Oldschooltie—there’s a photo,’ said Carol, taking another sip of wine. ‘He’s done re ally well for himself, and he looks like George Clooney.’

‘No?’ Diana said incredulously.