she’s saying. That Ned and she were having an affair.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” asked Dave Linden. “It’s really warped. Why are you pretending you didn’t know what was going on?”
“Nothing was going on except what went on in your wife’s head,” said Alexandra. “You’ve got to get her on some kind of medication and out of my hair.”
“But they’d grope each other in front of you,” said Dave Linden. “I saw them. You aren’t blind. You must have known. That was what turned them on. You and me having to watch them, having to imagine them together. She said it was her way of getting over it, I wasn’t to stop her. It made things worse. But why did you put up with it? Are you sick in the head or something?”
“I never saw them grope each other,” said Alexandra. “Ned always put his arms around women. He was just being affectionate.”
“Then they’d dance together,” said Dave Linden, “and laugh together and look at you and me out of the corners of their eyes and their hands would be everywhere. And you were the one who sent our invitation out. ‘Dear Dave and Jenny, do come. Ned and I…’ Through the letter box, down on to the mat: more torture. She’d agree you were a bitch to do it. I’d refuse to go; she’d put the pressure on: ‘Oh, Dave, oh, Dave, I love him so, let me get it out of my system. Then we’ll be together again.’ So we’d go, and I’d see you watching—”
“Ned always danced close to women,” said Alexandra. “I never minded. I can’t even remember him dancing with Jenny. I’m sure you’re right and he did but I don’t remember. All this is in your head, Dave. She’s told you so many lies.”
“Jenny doesn’t lie,” said Dave. “Jenny never lies. You’re the one who’s mad, not Jenny. You’d go up to London knowing they’d be together. The moment you’d walk out the door she’d walk in. He died fucking her. He died fucking my wife. Too much excitement. Now leave me alone.”
He put the phone down. Alexandra went to bed. She slept in Sascha’s room. She wanted the smell of his soft child’s skin in her nostrils: next best thing to having his real presence. Abbie hadn’t washed the sheets on Sascha’s bed, thank God. It wasn’t so much a sleep as a passing-out, unconsciousness forced on her mind.
She woke with the phrase in her head “When you walked out she walked in.” Madness. Cold crept round the edges of Sascha’s small quilt. She went back to her own bed, and for a moment thought she could feel Ned’s warm presence, but it was only Diamond, who had somehow got upstairs again. She did not push him off the bed. Anything warm and alive would do.
10
I N THE MORNING, ALEXANDRA called Abbie, and asked Abbie exactly where the body had lain when she found it. She’d assumed it was between the table and the window, but on no real grounds, she could now see. Abbie said Alexandra should try to forget this kind of detail: wasn’t it better to be vague about the matter, especially since presumably Alexandra would go on living in The Cottage with Sascha and there was no question of selling? Though, if Alexandra did, Abbie and Arthur would be interested in buying: they might sell Elder House and give up the language school altogether: if she, Abbie, turned her back for a moment all hell broke loose. But Alexandra must not, must not, believe Abbie grudged Alexandra a moment of her, Abbie’s, stay at The Cottage after Ned’s death, it was the least she could do for her friend. She shouldn’t even have mentioned “grudge”: of course it wasn’t in her head. Consider that last unsaid, cancel, cancel. Only five days since the death but it seemed like years.
“Why should someone die of a heart attack?” asked Alexandra. “Just like that? Wouldn’t something have to happen to set it off?” Abbie said she didn’t know. There was hardly anything death-inducing in the first ten minutes of Casablanca. She repeated that
“Why are you doing this to me?” asked Dave Linden. “It’s really warped. Why are you pretending you didn’t know what was going on?”
“Nothing was going on except what went on in your wife’s head,” said Alexandra. “You’ve got to get her on some kind of medication and out of my hair.”
“But they’d grope each other in front of you,” said Dave Linden. “I saw them. You aren’t blind. You must have known. That was what turned them on. You and me having to watch them, having to imagine them together. She said it was her way of getting over it, I wasn’t to stop her. It made things worse. But why did you put up with it? Are you sick in the head or something?”
“I never saw them grope each other,” said Alexandra. “Ned always put his arms around women. He was just being affectionate.”
“Then they’d dance together,” said Dave Linden, “and laugh together and look at you and me out of the corners of their eyes and their hands would be everywhere. And you were the one who sent our invitation out. ‘Dear Dave and Jenny, do come. Ned and I…’ Through the letter box, down on to the mat: more torture. She’d agree you were a bitch to do it. I’d refuse to go; she’d put the pressure on: ‘Oh, Dave, oh, Dave, I love him so, let me get it out of my system. Then we’ll be together again.’ So we’d go, and I’d see you watching—”
“Ned always danced close to women,” said Alexandra. “I never minded. I can’t even remember him dancing with Jenny. I’m sure you’re right and he did but I don’t remember. All this is in your head, Dave. She’s told you so many lies.”
“Jenny doesn’t lie,” said Dave. “Jenny never lies. You’re the one who’s mad, not Jenny. You’d go up to London knowing they’d be together. The moment you’d walk out the door she’d walk in. He died fucking her. He died fucking my wife. Too much excitement. Now leave me alone.”
He put the phone down. Alexandra went to bed. She slept in Sascha’s room. She wanted the smell of his soft child’s skin in her nostrils: next best thing to having his real presence. Abbie hadn’t washed the sheets on Sascha’s bed, thank God. It wasn’t so much a sleep as a passing-out, unconsciousness forced on her mind.
She woke with the phrase in her head “When you walked out she walked in.” Madness. Cold crept round the edges of Sascha’s small quilt. She went back to her own bed, and for a moment thought she could feel Ned’s warm presence, but it was only Diamond, who had somehow got upstairs again. She did not push him off the bed. Anything warm and alive would do.
10
I N THE MORNING, ALEXANDRA called Abbie, and asked Abbie exactly where the body had lain when she found it. She’d assumed it was between the table and the window, but on no real grounds, she could now see. Abbie said Alexandra should try to forget this kind of detail: wasn’t it better to be vague about the matter, especially since presumably Alexandra would go on living in The Cottage with Sascha and there was no question of selling? Though, if Alexandra did, Abbie and Arthur would be interested in buying: they might sell Elder House and give up the language school altogether: if she, Abbie, turned her back for a moment all hell broke loose. But Alexandra must not, must not, believe Abbie grudged Alexandra a moment of her, Abbie’s, stay at The Cottage after Ned’s death, it was the least she could do for her friend. She shouldn’t even have mentioned “grudge”: of course it wasn’t in her head. Consider that last unsaid, cancel, cancel. Only five days since the death but it seemed like years.
“Why should someone die of a heart attack?” asked Alexandra. “Just like that? Wouldn’t something have to happen to set it off?” Abbie said she didn’t know. There was hardly anything death-inducing in the first ten minutes of Casablanca. She repeated that
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