Clare Layton - Those Whom the Gods Love

She staggered a little as she slid to the ground, murmuring something about the dazzle. Gunnar took her arm and they strolled together towards the house, both tall and elegant in their matching loose white linen trousers and shirts. Ginty followed, bending to pick up the sunglasses that had dropped out of her mother’s pocket with the handkerchief.

That night, as she moved among the guests in the garden, Ginty discovered that her encounter with Rano had bought her something, even if not what she’d most wanted. Instead of spending the evening hovering on the edge of conversations between her parents’ friends, she found herself talking about the war, as though she’d become some kind of expert. A few of the guests had heard the Annie Kent programme, but luckily most of them agreed with Ginty, and even the ones who didn’t were polite about her views on rape.

Boosted by the interest and compliments, she voluntarily went to talk to a music publisher and her husband, who had always terrified her in the past. Tonight they greeted her with apparent pleasure and even congratulated her on the courage she must have needed to face a thug like Rano.

‘Thank you.’ Ginty smiled up at the woman. Like most of the guests tonight, she was intimidatingly tall, as well as beautifully dressed and jewelled. Ginty tried not to let that make her feel small and grubby – or stupid. ‘But honestly I didn’t have much choice. His men picked me up and forced my interpreter and bodyguard to stay behind. So I just had to go along with it.’

‘I think you’re amazing. I’d have been scared out of my wits.’

As Ginty thanked her, she caught sight of a lone woman, standing on the edge of the terrace and apparently unable to break into any of the groups of chatting friends. Instead, she was peering into the waxy paleyellow petals of the magnolia grandiflora that grew beside the garden room door, as though an air of intense concentration might protect her from the humiliation of being alone. Someone would have to gather her up and ease her into the party. Ginty knew from experience that no one else would bother, so she made an excuse and moved to the rescue. Before she was half-way to the magnolia, she overheard the publisher say:

‘She has done well, hasn’t she? What a relief for Gunnar! With that cloth ear of hers and all the problems over her education and career, he must have been worried she’d never amount to anything.’

Her husband’s voice was kinder: ‘Don’t be too hard on her. Think what it’d be like to be an only child growing up in a house like this, always in their shadow. And with Louise being so beautiful and Gunnar looking like a Norse god …’

Ginty walked on in the scented dusk, glad she had her back to him. He was right, of course: it had been hard. For years she’d assumed she must have been adopted because that was the only way she could account for her lack of looks and talent. Just after her sixteenth birthday she had pretended she needed her birth certificate for some bit of school administration. That should have settled it because she was described in a neat italic hand as the daughter of Gunnar and Louise Schell, née Callader. But it had only set her thinking up stories of hospital carelessness and changelings and unlabelled babies given to the wrong couples.

‘I’ve always thought they smell of lemon soufflé,’ she said to the solitary guest, ready to take the conversation into botany, art, the sensual effects of flowers, or anything else that might suit. ‘By the way, I’m Ginty Schell.’

‘I know. I think I’d have recognized your smile anywhere.’

Ginty looked up at the softly creased face of the older woman and tried to find the right name in her memory.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ the woman said comfortably. ‘I moved to the States soon after your third birthday. You couldn’t possibly remember me. I used to look after you while Louise was working for her degree.’

‘I …’

The woman smiled, which made her face even more creased. Something did begin to move in Ginty’s mind and before she’d thought, she said: ‘Are you Nell?’

‘My God! Amazing!’

Warm memories were gushing up, as though a switch had been thrown in Ginty’s brain. There had been picnics, and stories, nightlights in the dark, sweets and all the warmth anyone could have wanted. How could she have forgotten it?

‘Of course I do. I can’t think why I didn’t recognize you at once. I missed you so much when you went.’

‘Me, too. It took me months to get over it. But I had to leave if Louise was to have any chance … You know, Ginty, I’ve been hearing about you from all sides and trying to tie up these stories of the fearless war reporter with the touching little creature you were, who had such awful nightmares. How did you do it?’

Ginty laughed. The party suddenly seemed more alive. Then she saw that the guests were moving towards the music room. There was to be an hour’s concert before dinner. She felt as though she was shrivelling inside her skin.

‘What’s up?’ asked Nell.

Ginty explained, adding: ‘It’s not that I don’t like music; I just hate the way it always has to be more important than anything else.’ She looked quickly over her shoulder to make sure they couldn’t be overheard.

‘Then why don’t we take advantage of the weather and the garden and just chat?’ said Nell. ‘There’s no reason why we have to go and listen to Gunnar and his band, is there?’

Band, thought Ginty in shocked delight. The irreverence!

They walked slowly down through the yew walk towards the river. Seeing the moon reflected in the blackish-green water and the way the pink and yellow flowers trailed off the opposite bank, she regretted the locking up of the two canoes. A fish nosed upwards, sending ripples through the surface, breaking the light into thin strips that spread and shivered and slowly reformed.

Nell kicked off her evening shoes to reveal bare legs and scarlet toenails and sat on the bank, wriggling her toes in the dark green water. Ginty looked at the bare legs in envy, then thought: why not? Hitching up her long cream-silk dress, she stripped off her tights and sat down on the bank. This was an unexpected bonus of freedom in a weekend she’d been dreading. She stretched out her feet until the cool water met her hot constricted toes.

‘So,’ Nell said, patting her hand, ‘tell me what’s happened to make you so tough.’

Ginty grimaced, thinking of the huge mass of people and possibilities that made her feel so vulnerable. ‘It’s only cosmetic – like fake tan. But I’m glad if it’s convincing.’

Nell looked her up and down in the moonlight. ‘Dead convincing. Very well applied, if I may say so; no tell-tale streaks at all.’

Next day Ginty couldn’t remember exactly what they had talked about, but she felt as though Nell’s affection had stacked cushions of reassurance around her. They’d swapped e-mail addresses and promised not to lose touch again. But now she’d gone, along with all the other guests, the musicians and Gunnar himself, leaving Ginty alone with her mother.

They were sitting under the cedar at the edge of the lawn, having lunch. Sunday was Mrs Blain’s weekly day off, so Ginty had made sandwiches from some of the leftover beef, layered with asparagus and dollops of cold Béarnaise sauce sharpened with extra lemon juice. Trying to think of everything her mother might want, she had brought out an ice bucket with a bottle of fizzy water and a half-drunk bottle of claret from the pantry.

‘Tell me what happened to you out there,’ Louise said, tilting her head back against the padded head-rest of her chair to look up through the dark layers of the tree. Her left hand trailed against the grass, occasionally rising to stroke the icy glass of water.