of Jimmy’s shoulder. It seemed to spread through her, and she realized that she was cold. She touched the collar of his shirt with the tips of her fingers, intrigued in spite of her detachment by the solidity of him, the prickle of rufous hairs at the nape of his neck and the scent of beer and swimming pool that emanated from him. By contrast Michael had become insubstantial, slipping away from her, so that on the rare occasions when they did touch it surprised them both and they drew back, unsure of themselves. Neither of them spoke of this new degree of separation between them.
Marcelle found that she wanted to press her face against Jimmy’s neck. She wanted to cry and have him stroke her hair and murmur comfort to her. She was appalled by her own weakness.
‘Your fingers are cold, Mar,’ Jimmy said, turning to face her. She withdrew her hand at once but he seized it and began to rub it between his own.
‘Talk to me,’ Marcelle said, to cover her distress.
‘What shall I tell you?’
She saw that Jimmy was pleased with himself and the evening.
Tell me you can see me, that I’m not invisible, that I still exist, Marcelle cried silently. Aloud she said, ‘Oh, whatever you like. Some gossip.’
He pretended to think. He did not like the idea of gossip now; it had become uncomfortable to him. The throaty calls of the wood-pigeons seemed to grow louder.
‘Hmm. Gossip. Do you know, I don’t think there is any? Dull bunch, aren’t we?’
Michael sat astride one of the garden chairs, watching Gordon flipping sausages on the barbecue. As soon as he’d arrived in the Ransomes’ street Michael had been hoping for the sight of one of the Cleggs’ cars, and he had carried his disappointment inside with him in the vain hope that Hannah might somehow have arrived with one of the other couples, or even have sent some innocent-sounding message via Janice for him to hear. But there was no sign of her, and no word either, and now the evening stretched pointlessly ahead of him. He fiddled with the tongs, getting in Gordon’s way and not knowing what else to do.
At length the children were called to the table. The parents had another drink while Gordon turned their steaks on to the heat. The sun moved behind the trees and the dimensions of the garden seemed to change, expanding beyond the indistinct margins of green and grey.
The four couples were already sitting down to eat when the doorbell rang. Gordon went to answer it while Vicky hastily relaid the two places she had removed.
A moment later Darcy and Hannah emerged into the garden with Gordon at Darcy’s elbow on the other side from Hannah. The talk around the table stopped expectantly.
At first Michael could take in nothing but Hannah. She was wearing a vivid yellow linen shirt, and white trousers that stopped short of her bare ankles. The evening light seemed to brighten again and settle around her head. With this focusing came sharpened recollections, how taut and silky her skin had felt, the entire scent and taste of her, the wonderful secrecy of the curtained ottoman tent within her exotic shop and the infinity of mirrored reflections. He realized that he had half risen from his place, and made himself sit down again, awkwardly bumping the table as he did so. Darcy was no more than a dark shape beside Hannah.
There was a confused babble of greetings, but the only voices were the women’s. Jimmy sat unnaturally silent in his place, and Andrew was staring at Darcy.
Darcy detached himself from Hannah and Gordon and seemed to launch himself at the table. He loomed suddenly at the end of it, fists on the back of Gordon’s chair, surveying them. There was an instant’s quiet, even the children at their table falling silent, and then Darcy demanded,
‘What is this? Don’t I get a drink?’
‘Darcy –’ Hannah began.
He didn’t turn his head. ‘I can have a fucking glass of wine, can’t I?’
Hannah lifted one buttercup-yellow shoulder. She sat down between Andrew and Jimmy without looking at Darcy again. It was Vicky who stood up, walked to the other end of the table and poured the drink for him. Everyone stared at the glass, as if the Californian Cabernet had taken on some significance of its own. Darcy sat in Gordon’s place, pushing away Gordon’s plate with his forearm. He drank half of the wine and then set his glass down with exaggerated care. It was obvious that it wasn’t his first drink of the day.
‘So who won the big match?’ he asked. ‘Jim?’
Jimmy was rigid with the anticipation of a different question. The certainty that Lucy must have talked to her father began to break up, permitting different, more hopeful interpretations of Darcy’s mood. He grinned at Darcy.
‘Ah, Gordon and me. Piece of cake.’
Jimmy heard the little musical jingle of Marcelle’s improbable earrings as he dropped one arm around her shoulders, and he absent-mindedly squeezed her as if she were the trophy.
Andrew protested that it had been no piece of cake. Conversation resumed in relieved eddies. Darcy had been drinking, that was all.
Michael’s eyes guardedly met Hannah’s across the table. He saw now that she was carefully made up but the artifice did not quite hide some shadow in her face. She seemed less pretty than usual. He found this juxtaposition of public Hannah with the other Hannah he had discovered both touching and disconcerting. He made himself look away, to Darcy.
Darcy was loudly talking, tilting his glass, complaining that he had not been able to play tennis. Michael was belatedly shocked by what he saw.
There was a flush over Darcy’s cheeks and nose, but the skin seemed loosened on the bone. There was a bluish tinge to his lips that bled out into the lined flesh around his mouth. He was still handsome, even imposing, but it was as if the good looks had all along been only pasted on to some crumbling substructure.
Michael’s professional mind began to tick. He recalled the name of the Cleggs’ GP, and resolved that he must have a quiet word with his colleague, Darcy’s cardiac specialist.
Then, fully-formed, the thought delivered itself to him. What happens if he dies? What happens to Hannah? Hannah …
Once it had come to him, it seemed absurd that he had not asked himself the question before. But Darcy had always been a solid, massive presence amongst the couples and in Grafton itself. How much more invincible must he seem to Hannah? Yet he had suffered one heart attack in front of them, and he was plainly ill.
A new set of reckonings took root and multiplied as Michael looked across the table again, to Hannah. He shivered, torn between apprehension and desire for her. Hannah was talking, making Andrew laugh at something she said, and her hands moved fluently between them.
The children dispersed indoors. Gordon brought candles in holders to the table and the flames steadied within their glass chimneys. At once the darkness concentrated beyond the margin of the circle. Tiny moths were drawn to the light, and spiralled upwards in the treacherous heat.
The talk within the fragile dome of light fragmented, growing thin, as if they were each aware of other, unspoken and more significant conversations.
Darcy barely touched his food, but he drank steadily. He could not let the smallest talk begin at the other end of the table without leaning forward, his bulk weighty against the table, scowling and demanding, ‘What? What the hell are you
