Sofka Zinovieff - Putney

‘Are you OK, Jane?’ asked Ralph. He was clearly anxious, his eyes flicking in the direction of the boys who had now disappeared into the crowds.

‘No. Yes. I’m fine.’ Jane looked away. Her anger was slightly assuaged by Ralph’s alarm. He was evidently aware that he was at least partially responsible for the incident. She glanced back at him and felt the intensity of his gaze upon her.

‘Nasty little buggers. Were they here long?’ The comforting arm he placed around her shoulder transmitted such power that she felt suddenly much better, as though miraculously healed from her recent humiliations.

She shook her head, wanting to appear brave and worldly. ‘No, hardly any time at all.’

Ralph bought them ice creams in a cone with a chocolate flake.

‘You know it’s made from whale blubber,’ said Daphne, licking like a cat. ‘What a waste of the biggest mammal in the world – turning it into fucking ice cream.’ Jane suspected Daphne liked swearing because it made her feel grown up or sexy, especially if Ralph was there. On the way back to the car, Daphne stopped in front of a small kiosk. Madam Julia, daughter of Almena Lee. Palmist, Clairvoyant and Spiritualist. ‘Fuck! I’ve got to go in,’ she pleaded, pulling on Ralph’s arm. ‘Please. I’ve never met a proper clairvoyant.’ Jane expected Ralph to capitulate, but he was rather gruff. ‘Definitely not! Load of codswallop. Come on, we need to go now.’ He almost dragged her, but then tried to make it up, buying several sticks of Brighton rock and some saucy seaside postcards, which he dealt out to the girls. You’ve got a couple of nice handfuls! Slice of rock, cock .

Daphne insisted Jane sit in the front on the way back, and Ralph agreed. ‘Come on, Lady Jane. Your turn.’ She felt pleased and then annoyed at herself for being so easily pacified after the betrayal on the pier. As they edged out of Brighton along traffic-clogged roads, Ralph asked her about her dreams and what she hoped to do in her life. Stopping the car at some traffic lights, he looked straight into her eyes. ‘What do you feel truly passionate about?’ And she suddenly felt shy that this handsome man was taking an interest in her. She remembered his hand sliding across to Daphne’s on the morning’s drive down, and wondered how she would react if he did that to her. The thought was thrilling and terrifying. What, she wondered, did Daphne feel when she was with him? What had they done under the pier? Placed physically between the two lovers in the car, she sensed the intensity of their connection as though it was palpable. She felt connected to them both, part of their secret and almost aroused by it.

They had all the windows open but it was still baking hot, and the journey home was interminable. Ralph’s attempt at charming her gradually petered out and, as they snaked through London’s southern suburbs, he was mostly silent. The car made odd coughing sounds and the engine stalled a couple of times. ‘Shit,’ Ralph muttered and then cheered up when the car started again. ‘Good old Maurice.’ The baby dozed for much of the way and Daphne slept too, curled up next to him on the back seat. Unlike the sexy femme fatale she’d been impersonating in Brighton, she now looked like a tired child.

By the time Jane received Daphne’s friendly email on Monday morning, she had a plan. It was not an easy project. Jane had spent the last decades removing herself as far as she could from this story. It was like returning to the Minotaur’s labyrinth; she must sharpen her sword and take a strong length of thread with which to make her way out again. But justice must be done. Daphne would eventually realise this.

At the lab, she was distracted. She forgot an appointment to interview candidates for a technician internship and was located in a distant part of the building, devouring a spicy hummus sandwich for a late lunch, her hair still wet from the swimming pool.

When she got home she phoned Daphne. ‘It’s your birthday this Friday, isn’t it?’ Dates learned in childhood remained a fixture and she always remembered Daphne on May 2nd, even if she had not been part of her celebrations since they were teenagers.

‘Shit, that’s clever of you. Well, you always did have a brain. Yes, an undistinguished fifty-one and I’m not going to do anything about it. Libby’s off to Normandy on a school trip and I’m planning to sew my way through the weekend. That’s my idea of fun now!’ She let out a girlish giggle.

‘Oh why don’t we get together then? You can’t be alone for a birthday. Michael’s away at a conference the whole weekend, so I’ll be alone too. Come for a little birthday supper at my place. Nothing elaborate.’ She pictured Daphne weighing up her options. Maybe she had been lying and was having a party and just didn’t want to invite Jane. Her response, however, gave no hint of this. ‘That’s so sweet of you. Are you really sure?’

‘Of course!’

‘Well, great. I’d love to.’

On Friday she hurried home from work. Having prepared the stuffed aubergines the previous day, she placed them in the oven and chopped up sweet potatoes, parsnips and onions to roast with olive oil and rosemary. For a first course, she assembled a salad of quinoa with halloumi, coriander and lime. Sitting ready in the freezer was the Arctic Roll she’d bought at Sainsbury’s. It had been Daphne’s favourite and they’d sometimes worked their way through an entire cake, sawing at the hard, frozen log at the beginning and scooping up melted ice cream by the end. Only one candle today; fifty-one wouldn’t have fitted and two digits might have seemed like a dig. A present was waiting, nestled in tissue paper in a glossy blue bag: a bottle of Floris’s Stephanotis bath essence. She believed Daphne would understand the reference, and not think it was merely a conventional gift. Just in case she’d forgotten, Jane wrote at the bottom of the birthday card, ‘For death baths only!’

Daphne arrived late. ‘Sorry, sorry! I’m Greek!’ It was the perfect excuse, not only because it was half-true, thought Jane, but because it charmed. Dippy Greek was probably a useful ploy. Perhaps she really was becoming more Greek with age, Jane mused as her friend entered the hall – effervescent and laden with a bottle of chilled champagne and an extravagant bunch of fragrant, blue hyacinths, as though it was Jane’s birthday. She wore jeans dressed up with daintily heeled boots and a green silk shirt that rippled.

They drank the champagne, toasting the mysterious joys of middle age. There was a nervy volubility to Daphne, who couldn’t stay still, almost dancing over to inspect the food sizzling in the oven, or to peer at the photographs of Jane’s sons proudly plastered on the fridge, their mop-haired faces grinning out from ski slopes and school sports events, Toby in wig and breeches for a play, Josh in graduation robes. Jane knew she must take things slowly rather than barge straight in with talk of exploitation, abuse and rape.

The room sparkled from the candles on the kitchen table, but also, it seemed, from Daphne’s presence. As they sat down to eat, there was a small silence and slight tension.

‘You’re so clever, so accomplished,’ said Daphne. ‘Just look at you, climbing the heights of the scientific world, opening up the frontiers of medical research, and cooking this perfect meal.’ Her overgenerosity meant you couldn’t be sure what to take seriously. Still, the food was perfect, Jane thought. And nothing wrong with boosting morale.

They talked of their children and then their parents.

‘Not much to report,’ said Jane. ‘Still in the same house. Dad retired, but apart from that, everything’s almost exactly as when you knew them. What about Ed?’