The orange sunset sky had fallen into night sometime ago, and the garden lights flicked on and off as if sensing movement. Grace noticed and moved to switch them off.
‘Leave it Grace,’ said her husband. ‘It’s probably something growing across the sensor again. I’ll pop out in a minute and sort it.’
Grace lit some candles and lowered the lighting. No one had really noticed darkness falling. At least, until that moment, it had not been worth commenting upon. ‘Nights are drawing in already,’ she said.
‘They are,’ agreed Art’s wife, regretfully.
‘Oh, I don’t know!’ said Grace, suddenly and a little sharply, as she sat back down.
‘What is it?’ Art’s wife looked concerned for her friend. ‘Winter will fly by, Grace,’ she reassured, ‘and before we know it we’ll be sat out in the sunshine again.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘What is it then?’
‘It’s just … well … I feel cross about something and it suddenly came back to me. I don’t know why. It just popped into my head.’
Ted, an unexpectedly lively Art, and Grace’s husband, were talking amongst themselves and laughing heartily. Primrose remained enthralled by exotic tales told by someone she no longer felt threatened by, but privileged to know. Only Ric had an ear on the older women’s conversation.
‘What? Tell me.’
Grace shook her head. ‘It’s just, well, I wish Tess would make an effort sometimes. To come back, you know? It’s my birthday and rather than come home, she left the country! I think she never considers that we might miss her.’
Art’s wife bit her lip.
‘What?’
She then shook her head a little.
‘What is it?’ asked Grace.
‘Nothing, really. It’s only that … ’
‘What?’
‘Tess.’
‘What about her?’
‘Aren’t you … I mean … shouldn’t you know …’
‘What?’
Art’s wife sighed. ‘I know she is an adult, Grace, and I know I haven’t any children. But aren’t you worried? I mean, she just goes all over the place and you don’t seem to know what she’s doing.’
‘Provence is hardly the world’s end.’
‘I suppose. But how does she survive? Where’s the money coming from?’
‘Waiting tables, I think.’ Grace paused, then smiled, ‘and her father, I imagine.’
‘Don’t you worry?’
Grace laughed. ‘You never stop worrying. Not even when they live just down the road.’
‘I suppose.’
‘I’d be more worried about Tess if she were at home all the time. Then I’d know something was wrong. With Tess, no news is good news. We are who we are. That’s the hard thing to accept sometimes, especially when they’re little. Unlike her sister, Tess is a wild card, it’s true, but to be honest, I worry less the older she gets.’
‘And Primrose?’
‘I worry more.’
‘Really?’
Grace thought for a moment. ‘Not so much now, I suppose. Since Ric came along, she’s been much more settled. He’s a star. I love him. He’s so good for her.’
Ric gazed in wonder at Grace, her beautiful face soft in the candlelight. She was remarkable, he thought. The year had been hard, yet here she was, happily hosting a dinner party. Art’s wife had been questioning of Grace’s parenting, yet instead of reacting badly to something others might perceive as an insult, Grace had simply taken a moment to ease her friend’s worries. Only a True Angel could do it, only an Angel whose perfection lies not only in her physical being, but also deep within her soul. Kind and generous; sweet and forgiving; benevolent, seeing only the good in others. But how vulnerable True Angels are, he thought, when all they can see is goodness. And how endearing that vulnerability is.
Briefly, Ric thought of his late grandmother and the beautiful bible she had given him. He hoped she would be pleased to know he had learned so much from it, through those hours and hours spent poring over it. The bible had never been part of his shrine, because it had been his teacher; revered yes, worshipped no. But he wondered now if he should move it, take it and its velvet wrapping and place it amongst his other special things. Have it sit with Grace and Moira, creating the whole.
Grace was the first True Angel Ric had ever met. Entirely perfect, she would be his only. And she said she loved him.
*
The end of the evening found guests lounging in the comfort of the sitting room with coffee in hand, or slugging whisky at the kitchen table, the prospect of a hangover so certain that it was pointless worrying about it. Happy Birthday had been sung, a surprise cake produced by Grace’s husband since he knew she would not make one for herself, and bellies were comfortably full.
Primrose had drunk more than Ric had ever seen her drink before, as had her father. Grace had drunk more than Ric expected she would, but he decided she was so busy organising the meal that she probably could not keep track of how much she’d had, failing to notice her husband topping up her glass as soon as it was half empty. It could not be Grace’s choice. Only Ted and Art’s wife had restricted their intake, both driving and sensible. The drivelling Jude had stopped drinking only when the fizzy had run out, which had taken some doing. She was not only vain but also greedy, Ric decided.
At the kitchen table, the older men plotted loudly, planning to visit the strange apartment the following morning. Grace’s husband was plainly eager for Art to see what lay within, and Art noisily joined in the speculation with a cheerfulness he had not shown at the start of the evening. Those in the sitting room rolled their eyes at what they heard, bathed in soothing warmth from the open fire, the first time it had been lit since a cold evening in late spring that took Grace by surprise, after the heating had been turned off for the summer. Grace relaxed peaceably on the soft sofa watching the flickering flames. Jude perched in the leather chair next to the fire, quiet at last. Primrose, legs outstretched, was on a cushion so she could more comfortably sit on the floor and lean against the stone surround, one side of her scorching hot, the other cool, a cup of coffee and full glass of wine to hand for extra comfort. Ric slumped in a big, deep armchair, silently watching them all. The kitchen had no draw for him. He did not like whisky, he did not like Grace’s husband, he did not wish to know Ted, although the man may come in useful later on; Ted’s attraction to Primrose, whilst not overt, was not well disguised either. When Grace became Ric’s, Primrose would need someone.
And Art? Art was a drooling mess and it seemed he was staying overnight. His sensible driving wife had gone home without him as soon as the meal was finished, the puppy not old enough to be left alone for any longer than she had been. Art, too drunk and reluctant to be easily manoeuvred had been left behind. Too drunk to go home, Ric noted, but not too drunk to sink more whisky. Art. Finally, after waiting for so long for the coincidence to play out, this was the man. Ric had noticed Art watching him across the table, his eyes stealing glances. His sister’s killer would be wondering why Ric chose silence, grateful, perhaps, that he did. For who would want to be sitting amongst friends with the finger of judgement pressing between their eyes.
Chapter 8
ART’S WIFE
Art’s wife smiled as she pulled away from Grace’s welcoming hospitality, driving Art’s grey sports car, leaving the comfortably happy party in full flow behind her. The evening had been a huge success and not just because the food was fabulous. Art – the old, amusing, friendly Art – had appeared from behind the Mask of Misery (a very private, if not very cruel, joke), proving not only that he was capable of enjoying a night out, but also that he still existed. She worried for a moment that her husband had flown a little too high, reflecting then that at least he had been up there, was still up there, even if his wings were made of alcohol. He would surely crash in the morning once it had evaporated, this she knew without doubt, but they could deal with that when it hit the
m. Grace’s husband had been spectacular. His obvious determination to make Art feel included by drawing him out and making him part of things had been rewarded perfectly with the return of a dear and rather lost old friend. As she was leaving the house, Art’s wife had heard belts of laughter long forgotten. Such change in one evening was not just elevating it was astonishing. Fleetingly, she reminded herself again of the peaks and troughs of recovery, but with the shake of her head decided not to dwell on negatives. Taking things one day at a time meant enjoying the highs as and when they came along. The lows could bugger off for now.
Grace’s home was positioned far up the side of one of the many hills surrounding Bath, nestled amongst tall ash trees. In winter, leafless branches allowed the sun to brighten the rooms while in summer they softly shaded the whole house with filtered green light. Now, the edges of leaves were curled and brown, beginning to turn with the season, ready to follow horse chestnuts into sleep. In the darkness, Art’s wife could see none of this fine detail, sensing only the cool clear air of a shifting season. The gravelled parking area was large, the drive short, exit into the road wide and clear, the lane running down and away from the house narrow and steep. Art’s wife drove out at speed, confident there was nothing else on the road and having driven it a hundred times before.
Soon charging along the lanes, she was hurrying back home to Lotty, smiling not only because of Art and because the evening had been fun, but because when she was stone cold sober she found his drunken snoring unbearable. This way she could enjoy having the bed to herself and in the morning quietly drink coffee without wondering about the deepening grey shadows on his face and what they meant. But perhaps those shadows might begin to slide away after tonight. Maybe the signs of improvement were real. It was the first time she had seen him look happy in an entire year and she had been utterly amazed by the change in him in just one evening.
*
Lotty, for the first time having held her bladder all evening, was allowed a final bursting pee in the garden before the doors were locked for the night. Art’s wife then decided she would have a cup of tea. All evening she’d imagined the enormous glass of wine she would have once home, a treat for driving, but now she could actually have it the appeal was lost.
Seeing Lotty curled up in her open crate brought to mind Rawa and that time a year ago when their beloved pet of so many years was found dead in her basket. So much emotion had been given over to Rawa that morning, so much grief, without any idea of what awfulness the day would continue to bring, of what the year ahead would hurl at them so spitefully. Such a trial in life had been unimaginable before, something that happened to other people. The heartache, the wretchedness, the insecurity, the shame – the shame at feeling ashamed – all bearable only because in their own way, the two of them had pulled together; she beneath him, a supporting rock, solid and constant, him held above, a dead weight of despair. It was exhausting and just as she had reached her wits end, forcing the idea of counselling, it seemed Art had turned a corner. Maybe the change was because of that push towards therapy, who knew? She hoped to God the apparent upturn would last. She didn’t have much more to give.
Filling the kettle, Art’s wife considered the dinner party. She and Grace had chatted all evening, perhaps excluding Jude and Primrose although they seemed caught up in conversation most of the time anyway. An odd pairing, but hats off to Primrose for putting up with Jude’s nonsense, she thought. For the most part, the men were interested only in talking amongst themselves.
She thought about Grace’s comments regarding Tess, wondering if she also should have brought up concerns for Primrose. It was really none of her business, but it seemed Grace knew as little about Ric’s background now as she did a year ago. Primrose was living with a man no one really knew, presumably with long term plans. ‘A bit of a mystery in some ways’, was how Grace described Ric, ‘but really nice’. Fair enough, Art’s wife supposed, for Grace only ever spoke of others as she found them to be herself. As she set the kettle to boil, Art’s wife couldn’t help being curious about Ric. Certainly, he’d kept conversation well away from himself, but there’d been a sense of bristling between him and Art. Art had even asked if she, like him, had seen Ric somewhere before. She hadn’t. Art had surprised her. Certainly, within the context of his depression, it was encouraging to show interest in others. However, in the context of Art’s personality, such interest was virtually unheard of. It was like a rubber sole sensing a thorn, and it made her uneasy; it also brought a smile to think of it that way.
But Ric had arrived in their lives at such a chaotic moment, perhaps it was simply they’d all overlooked him, which was hardly the young man’s fault. Besides, Primrose was very happy and really what else mattered in a relationship? No doubt she knew all there was to know about him. Art’s wife wasn’t sure about Grace’s verdict on Ric’s looks, though. Not her sort, at all, she thought; a very plain sort of man, apart from his smile. He needed to show it more.
Art’s wife took a clean mug from the draining board and tossed in a teabag. Her thoughts jumped to Grace’s kitchen, which was so much nicer than her own even though it was no newer. How did Grace do it, she wondered, how did she make everything seem perfect so effortlessly? She made a mental note to get the recipe for one of the salads served, a tasty mix of chillies, coriander leaf and mango.
She released a tired breath, as her body sagged with a memory. Grace had said he was upset when they’d first met, because he’d just lost his sister. What a terrible time that was for everyone. The conversation then turned away from Ric and onto Grace herself, of her own sister lost so tragically. What awful things happen in life, thought Art’s wife.
She sighed again, this time heavily. Ignoring the kettle and the ready mug, she poured a large whisky, grabbed the newspaper and headed to bed.
Chapter 9
RIC’S DISQUIET
In the lightly shadowed bedroom, gilded with moonlight streaming through open curtains, a quiet man with many qualities and one overwhelming weakness lay in the semi darkness, marvelling. In all the time he had known the family, that no one other than he, Ricardo Mancini, thought to connect himself and Art, seemed astonishing. But then they believed Art had inadvertently aided the suicide of someone transgender. Ric always knew Moira’s gender would be a focus, not for the court but for everyone else, and it had been. The two words that were used the most, during the inevitable and endless discussions over bottles of wine, were gender and suicide. This he knew for a fact, because the sick-making truth was that often Ric was there. Did anyone lift a lip to sneer upon these words? That, he didn’t know, for he never looked, instead excusing himself and sitting elsewhere. Grace did not sneer, nor ever would. Grace always left the conversation and joined him, her face sympathetic, as if she knew. That Primrose and her father would talk with others about Art’s strife, as if Art were the victim, made Ric feel dirty. But Grace never joined in. She was better than that. They would sit together as any couple might, and wile away the evening talking of other things, lovely things, such as places Grace had visited as a child, or places she would like to go. She would touch his arm when no one was looking, pretending it was part of a gesture to offer a cup of tea, or wine, or food. But he knew what it really meant, and he longed to touch her back.
Perhaps it was these words gender and suicide alone making a single tragedy seem like two, for the very few times Ric had spoken of it, he’d said only that his sister had been killed in an accident. He had never even shared her name, neither old nor new.
Since that dreadful day a year before, though they’d talked endlessly of Art’s terrible suffering, no one in the family had referred specifically to Ric’s loss. It was as if the very mention of his sister’s death would make it more real, which was an absurd notion. Nothing in his life had been more real, whether spoken of or ignored. Primrose had always been the main offender; even now she avoided the subject. It was a shame, because more than anything, Ric wanted to talk ab
out Moira, as eager to share recollections of her as his childhood brother, as much as memories of the recent past; of the unexpected sister.
Grace had offered to talk, he remembered, more than once. This had fallen in line with his original plan to play upon her heartstrings as a means of getting into her life; to use the fact that she was vulnerable and therefore sensitive to the vulnerability of others. The trauma of Ric’s own loss had made this a difficult tactic to pursue, although he’d tried. But the revelation of her sister dead through suicide had made him think on about her feelings, and think again about what he should and shouldn’t do. He did not want to burden this Divine Being with his problems anymore than he wanted to use the death of someone she loved to further his cause. He loved her too much, revering her purity and innocence above all else. It wouldn’t be right to sully this Icon of Virtue with trickery, he’d decided, turning away from the very many deceptions already played. There was no need for illusion, anyway, since the sweet and lovely Primrose had proved so easy to seduce, the door to Grace’s private world unlocked with the ready opening of Primrose’s legs.
Primrose’s evasion of Moira’s death had offered an advantage, of course. As time mutely carried everyone away from that awful day, so the chance for association lessened, which he knew was undoubtedly a good thing. The greater the distance, however, the more important it became for the secret to remain just that. If Grace became aware of the shared catastrophe, she would feel very uncomfortable. Worse, if anyone else guessed that he already knew – had always known – what then? What would it say about him? Nothing good, he supposed. It would also limit any choices he might make regarding Art. He despised the man, the careless way he had taken a life so precious. He was a weakling, this idiot who shared a meal with his victim’s brother because he was too afraid not to.