Isabel Wolff - Ghostwritten

Evie’s mouth chasms with outrage. ‘You idiot!’

Ted’s chin dimples. ‘I’m not . ’

‘You are. ’ She glares at him. ‘You’re an idiot – and a baby: a stupid little baby ! No wonder Mum calls you “Teddy Bear”.’

His face crumples. ‘Sorry, Evie …’ He offers her the net. ‘Catch it again. Please …’

Evie’s tempted, but then she notices how close the waves now are. ‘No. We’ve got to get back.’ She tips the bucket into the pool and the fish and shrimp dart away. Then she sets off for the beach, which looks improbably distant, as if viewed through the wrong end of a telescope. She can just see Tom and his sister, flinging sand out of that hole as though their lives depended on it. She turns back to Ted. He’s still standing by the pool, his fringe blown by the breeze. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I want to get the crab!’ Ted’s eyes glisten with tears. ‘I want to show it to Mum.’

‘You can’t.’

‘I can! ’ A sob convulses his thin ribcage. ‘I can get it, Evie!’ He squats down and thrusts the net into the pool, frantically.

‘It’s too late! You ruined it – now come on!’ Ted doesn’t move. ‘I’m wait-ing.’ Her hands drop to her hips. ‘Right! Ten, nine, eight …’

Ted glances at her.

‘Seven, six, five …’

He looks longingly at the pool ‘But …’

‘Three, two … one ! I’m going!’

Still sobbing, Ted starts to descend, but Evie is already springing across the rocks, the soles of her shoes slapping the stone. ‘This way,’ she calls as she moves higher up, towards the cliff. ‘Put your hand on that rock there.’ She points to it, then leaps across a gully. She jumps onto the next rock, then the next, stepping from boulder to boulder until, at last, she’s yards from the beach. Evie jumps onto the sand, surprised at how relieved she feels. There’s the girl with the ‘J’ T-shirt, sitting by the trench, observing Tom with a blend of curiosity and admiration. Evie stands beside her as he wriggles into the tunnel, then she walks on, looking for shells. She stops to pick up a piece of sea glass but decides that it’s too new-looking to keep. As she straightens up she can hear gulls crying, and the barking of a dog. Then she sees her mother coming towards her, in her dress now, scanning the rocks, one hand to her eyes, lips pursed. Evie lifts her left arm and waves. Her mother waves back, smiling with relief. Then her expression changes to one of consternation, then alarm. She starts running towards Evie.

Evie turns and looks behind. Her heart stops.

I guess it was inevitable that Nina’s wedding would change things between Rick and me, though I could never have guessed by how much. Up until then, it had been so easy being with Rick – we’d fitted into each other’s lives as though we’d always known one another. And now we were going to a wedding – our first one together – and suddenly being with Rick was hard.

‘They’ve got great weather for it,’ he remarked as I locked the door of our small north London flat. The early haze had given way to a pristine blue sky.

‘A good omen,’ I said as we walked to the car.

Rick beeped open his old Golf. ‘I didn’t know you were superstitious, Jenni. But then I don’t know everything about you.’ There was a slight edge to his voice.

‘Well, I am superstitious.’ I put our gift, in its silvery bag, on the back seat. ‘But then I was born on Friday the thirteenth.’

Rick smiled. ‘That should make you immune.’

We drove west, talking pleasantly, but with an unfamiliar reserve, born of the anguished conversations that we’d been having over the past two or three days.

We sped down the A40, and were soon driving along rural roads past fields still stubbled and pale from the harvest. It was very warm for mid-October, and clear – an Indian summer’s day, piercingly beautiful with its golden light, and long shadows.

Nina’s parents lived at the southern end of the Cotswolds. Over the years I’d visited the house for weekends, or the occasional party – Nina’s twenty-first, and her thirtieth, which was already five years ago, I reflected soberly. For fifteen years, she and Honor had been my closest friends. And today it was Nina’s wedding, and before long, no doubt, there’d be a christening.

Rick glanced at me. ‘You okay, Jen?’

‘Yes. Why?’

He changed down a gear. ‘You sighed.’

‘Oh … no reason. I’m just a bit tired.’ A bad sleeper at the best of times, I’d lain awake most of the night. As I’d stared into the darkness, I’d longed for Rick to hold me and whisper that everything would be alright, but he’d turned away.

‘So where do we go from here?’ For a moment I thought that Rick was talking about us. ‘Which way?’

I spotted the sign for Bisley. ‘Go right.’

Minutes later we turned into Nailsford Lane, where a clutch of white balloons bobbed from a farm gate.

‘Looks like we’re the first,’ Rick remarked as we drove into the parking field, which was empty except for an abandoned tractor. He parked in the shade of a huge copper beech; as he opened his door I could hear its leaves rustle and rattle. ‘Is it going to be a big do?’

‘Pretty big – about eighty, Nina told me.’

‘So who will I know, apart from her and Jon?’

I pulled down the visor and checked my reflection. ‘I’m not sure – she’s invited quite a few of the people we knew at Bristol; not that I’ve stayed in touch with that many …’ I winced at my red-veined eyes and pale cheeks. ‘I’ve only really kept up with Nina and Honor.’ I wound my long dark hair into a bun, then pinned onto that the pale pink silk flower that matched my dress.

Rick pulled a blue tie out of his jacket pocket. ‘So will Honor be there?’

‘Of course.’ Rick groaned; I glanced at him. ‘Don’t be like that, Rick – Honor’s lovely.’

‘She’s exhausting.’

‘Exuberant,’ I countered, wishing that my boyfriend was a bit keener on my best friend.

He grimaced. ‘She never stops talking. So she’s in the right job, not that I listen.’

‘You should – her show’s the best thing on Radio Five.’ As Rick looped and twisted the blue silk, I suppressed a dark smile. He’s tying the knot, I thought .

Reaching into the back for the gift, I saw more cars arriving, bumping slowly over the field. We made our way across the grass, which was studded with dandelion clocks, their downy seeds drifting like plankton. We strolled up Church Walk then pushed on the lych gate, which was garlanded with moon daisies, and went up the gravelled path.

Jon was waiting anxiously by the porch with his brothers, all three men in morning dress with yellow silk waistcoats. They greeted us warmly and we chatted for a minute or two; then the photographer, who had been sorting out his camera on top of a tomb, offered to take a picture of Rick and me.

‘Let’s have a smile,’ he said as he clicked away. ‘A bit more – it’s a wedding, not a funeral,’ he added genially. ‘ That’s better …’ There was another volley of clicks then he squinted at the screen. ‘Lovely.’

Tim handed Rick and me our Order of Service sheets and we walked into the cool of the church.

I’d been to St Jude’s before, but had forgotten how small it was, and how simple the interior, with its plain walls, wooden roof and box pews. There was the smell of beeswax and dust and age, mingled with the scent of the oriental lilies that festooned the columns and pulpit. It was also very light, with clear glass, except for the East window, which depicted Christ blessing the children. The sun streamed through its coloured panes, scattering jewelled beams across the whitewashed walls.