The warmth of the bed, of Primrose’s naked body, felt restful and safe. Ric could finally relax, relieved at last to have the chance to give the gift in a way he thought more appropriate. The alarm was already set so he might head off on his scooter before anyone was up, giving ample time to pack up the shrine. There would be a loft space, he thought, to store it until the intruders had gone. He felt angry, having to hide something so exquisite when it was in a private space. Spooning under the covers, Ric carefully slipped an arm around Primrose, his now chilly fingers accidentally brushing her breast, before deliberately moving back to touch it again. She turned towards him, sleepy eyes peeling open.
‘That’s cold. Where have you been?’
‘Loo.’
Despite his earlier massive release, when Primrose had been keen for all manner of play as long as it was quiet, Ric began to feel aroused again, to harden against her. Subtle shadows played the same game as before, highlighting inherited features, causing Primrose’s face to morph into that of her mother. He kissed her willing mouth, her tongue soft and warm and gentle in response to his. Would Grace feel like this, he wondered, as he moved to enter Primrose for the second time that night, the feeling of wetness and being inside her almost overwhelming. But this time it was she that came before he was ready, afterwards lying there with her arms and legs tightly wrapped about him, as he gently kept moving and moving and moving.
Chapter 12
ART
The first time since that dreadful morning a year before, Art woke up hoping he might die for a reason other than depression. His hangover was so bad that the first thing he did was rush to the bathroom and vomit with such urgency that he did not notice he was completely naked. As he scurried past Grace’s husband, on his way down to breakfast with a cheerful good morning, Art’s mouth was already full.
Head in basin, stomach lurching miserably, Art realised that not only was he ill, he was still drunk. His head was swimming, saturated with the copious amounts of wine and whisky he’d poured down his throat into the early hours of the morning. Each time he retched, the swirling sensation grew as if his brain were caught in an eddy. Eventually, sweaty and emptied of everything including bile, he rested on the floor, marginally comforted by the coolness of the ceramic tiles. Never before had he drunk so much, not even as a student. What was he thinking of to behave in such a way? He could not remember most of the evening but the moments he could recall contained ridiculous laughter and too many bottles of wine. He counted up what he could with horror and vowed never to drink again.
As he lay there, pathetically pale and unwholesome, thoughts turned to his wife. Where was she, he wondered? Perhaps she had gone to breakfast already. His lips constricted. He could smell it cooking. He righted his weary frame with its aching ribs and sore back, and draped himself over the toilet basin once more, spasms of fruitless retching painful in his empty stomach. Wiping away saliva with his fist, he lay back down, prone, savouring the all too brief moments when discomfort levelled off to a bearable degree, fighting hard against the nausea as and when it rose against him. His head felt as if it had fractured, the crack opening more widely and agonisingly with every passing second.
‘Art, are you okay?’
It was Primrose, he knew. She was talking through the small opening he’d accidentally left. ‘Yeah,’ he said. The need to speak unsettled his stomach and he was again forced to lean over the toilet.
‘You don’t sound it. Do you want me to get Dad?’
Art took a deep and juddery breath. He was agonisingly thirsty. Struggling to his feet he leaned over the hand basin and took colossal mouthfuls of icy water from the tap. The relief was enormous but only for an instant. His sensitive stomach soon rejected the cold fluid, loudly. ‘Yeah. If you wouldn’t mind,’ he said, when he’d finished.
‘Two minutes.’
He heard her on the stairs, feet racing down in search of help. Soon, her father was at the door, Primrose close behind. Art opened it, hanging on the handle, shame faced and waxy.
‘You alright?’
‘No.’
‘Can I get you something? Aspirin? Coke?’
‘Both. And some paracetamol. Thanks. Look mate, I hate to say this because I know how it will sound. But could you get me a drink? Not just the Coke. I mean a proper drink too?’
‘Hair of the dog?’
Art nodded, air-filled cheeks deflating as a slow smelly breath exited his mouth. ‘Not… you know…’
‘Not Whisky?’
Art nodded, feeling faint. He could taste it.
‘I’ll make you a Bloody Mary. Okay? Tablets are in the cupboard above the sink. Help yourself. Try not to drink too much water with them, just enough to swallow, otherwise they’ll be back up again...’
‘Thanks. I’ll be down in a minute.’
By now the bathroom door was open enough that Art’s state of undress was fully revealed. Realising, he half-heartedly covered himself with his hands and slowly shuffled back to the bedroom, round shouldered and wretched.
*
Grim faced and ashen, Art sat at the kitchen table, the scene of last night’s careless revelry. He carefully sipped the Coke, feeling the positive effects of replaced salts and sugars almost immediately, although it was obvious to him that there would be a long way to go before actually feeling better. He knew the only time he might feel close to well again during the next twelve hours would be when he finally fell back into bed for the night. He couldn’t wait. Tomorrow morning should bring with it a glorious sense of wellbeing, only truly appreciated via a hangover, he remembered, although this one was so bad it was possible it could extend into the following day, pushing relief into the morning after. He also felt that alcohol was the only medication that could effectively alleviate the sense of poisoning, and so moved from Coke to Bloody Mary gratefully, the tomato juice perfectly spiced and seasoned, laced with a decent slug of vodka, a raw egg stirred in for good measure. The egg was a surprise, but Art thought he’d try it as he was so far gone he had nothing to lose. As it was, the special Bloody Mary hit the spot. His stomach did not tighten and resist, but accepted the gift charitably.
Grace placed a bacon sandwich in front of him, pausing for reaction. ‘Would you prefer toast? Or you could have the full works if you think you’re up to it? Might help.’
Art wrinkled his nose. ‘Nothing for now, thanks.’
She took it away.
‘So,’ began Grace’s husband, ‘you’re not up to bacon, but do you think you’re still up for the little trip out we talked about? Our investigation?’
At first Art could not find in his memory even a trace of conversation about a trip or an investigation.
‘To the flat…’
A few good slugs of Bloody Mary followed by a sip of Coke and the recollection began to emerge. ‘Sure, I’m up to it,’ he lied, feeling anything but ready for a car journey, ‘perhaps you can drop me home after? I seem to have lost my wife.’
‘Of course.’
Art excused himself. He needed a pee and to wash his face as much as he needed to sit quietly for a few moments in the relative dimness of the downstairs bathroom. The nausea was now tolerable, but the feeling of deep intoxication remained acutely unpleasant, and the daylight streaming into the kitchen was aggravating his eyes, although the tablets had begun to have an effect on his headache. And so, once again, Art stood looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, desperate to go home and to bed but unable to escape without the aid of others. It seemed in revisiting life beyond the diminished world that had held him for an entire year, he had returned to the land of obligation. Face washed and feeling fresher, he unlocked the door and went back to the table. In the meantime, Ric and Primrose had seated themselves ready for breakfast.
‘Morning Ric, Morning Primrose,’ he muttered, taking his place before lifting the refilled glass of Coke to his lips.
The other glass had been topped up too, brimming once more with red juice and spirit
s. Art was not sure if it was a good idea, but decided he would probably drink it anyway. Perhaps fully reviving his drunken state might see off the dreadful sensation he had, of wanting to tear off his own skin.
‘Morning,’ whispered Primrose.
‘Good morning. Art.’ Buttering a piece of toast, Ric did not look up as he spoke.
Art thought Ric seemed a little bad tempered. ‘Know how you feel,’ he said, assuming a hangover, ‘I feel dreadful.’
Ric frowned, ‘Excuse me?’
‘Hangover.’
‘He hasn’t got one,’ Primrose said, quietly. ‘He’s just cross because he wanted to get up early and disappear for a few hours.’
She stopped speaking, looking to Ric who ignored her. Art wasn’t sure what to say.
Primrose continued, ‘some extra chore for the club, like he doesn’t already do enough. But he promised me brunch in town, so I turned off the alarm and let him sleep in. He needs it, working so many hours all the time.’
‘I see,’ said Art, his face tingling unpleasantly, lips feeling tight with alcohol poisoning. He could think of nothing to add for he did not know Ric well enough to comment, though still he carried a strong sense that he did know him. He just couldn’t place how. Recklessly ignoring his complete intoxication, he started on the next Bloody Mary.
Grace and her husband set out a second round of bacon, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, sausages and beans. Art decided he could feel no worse than he already did, and so thought to attempt eating something after all, to try and cure himself as he had many times as a student, crammed shoulder to shoulder with fellow sufferers in a steamy café that was improbably cheap. Placing a piece of dry toast on an empty plate he began serving himself a small portion of everything.
‘You could always come with us, Ric,’ offered Grace’s husband. ‘I think it’s going to be interesting.’
‘Dad. He’s taking me out.’
‘We won’t be all day, Rosie.’
‘Not unless we need the police,’ said Art, with a knowing edge. His experience of the police was that everything took a very long time to process. He did not relish the idea of becoming caught up in something else, not even as a witness. Especially not feeling as he did. ‘You sure you want me along? I won’t mind missing out,’ he said, hopefully.
‘Of course I do! There’s something funny going on there. Bloody nutters are in the news all the time. Could be we have one of our own.’
‘If you’re that sure of it, Dad, then call the police now.’
‘And end up wasting police time? I’d rather wait and check. But I’m not going on my own. So Ric? You coming with us or not?’
Chapter 13
GRACE
‘That’s very kind of you, but Primrose is right. I said we’d go out. Besides, I still have time to go to work and do what I said I’d do. I feel I should, since I promised. I like to keep my word. Helps keep my job.’ Ric’s stony expression lightened a little, ‘I’ll have a spot of breakfast first, and then,’ he turned to Primrose, ‘I’ll keep my promise to you. I’ll take you for lunch instead of brunch. Okay? And rather than drop you home first, you could wait here for me. Spend some time with your mum.’
‘I might go back to bed for a few hours.’
‘I think you should,’ agreed Grace, a little disappointed that her daughter was capable of becoming quite so inebriated, grown up or not.
‘And what will you do today Grace?’ asked Ric, ‘once we degenerates are out of your hair.’
She smiled, ‘I know exactly what I am doing. I shall clear up, make a cup of tea, light the fire and look at my new book. Apart from that, I shall do absolutely nothing.’
Her husband teased, ‘Bit extravagant. Another fire. It’s hardly cold. Wood’s expensive.’
She shrugged. ‘Another fire, another birthday treat. I’ve decided to have a weekend of them.’
He laughed, ‘Do it! You deserve it. I’ll put the coffee on.’
He stood up. As he walked by Grace, seated at the table enjoying a large glass of orange juice, he allowed a hand to rest briefly on her shoulder, gently squeezing with affection. At that moment Grace’s eyes happened to fall upon Ric, and she noticed he was watching. For the split second it rested there, his eyes were trained on the hand, his face holding a look Grace could not interpret. As her husband’s hand lifted so then did Ric’s expression. He was clearly not in the best of moods, Grace decided, despite an amorous night with a woman who adored him. She considered that perhaps he was not looking at the hand at all, that maybe he was just tired and lost in contemplation, but this logical explanation did little to shift the thought, for he really did seem to have been focussed upon it.
‘Where will you go for lunch, Ric?’ she asked.
‘Wherever Primrose would like, I think. Primrose?’
Primrose had no answer to give, blearily chewing a mouthful of breakfast.
‘How about that new restaurant, behind the Francis,’ Art chipped in.
Grace was astounded to hear a recommendation from a man who had been virtually nowhere in an entire year. ‘You’ve been there?’ she heard herself ask, the astonished words falling from her mouth. She stopped herself from apologising, thinking it might make it worse. But Art did not seem to notice.
‘No. It’s been a very long time since I ate in a proper restaurant. I heard about it from Ted last night. He and Jude went there the last time they came to Bath. Said it was good.’
‘Expensive?’ enquired Grace, should Ric want to know but feel too proud to ask.
‘Think so.’
Ric patted Primrose’s hand, ‘Perhaps another time, when you’re not too tired to appreciate it. We’ll just head on in and see what we can find. Be a late lunch, though, okay?’
As Primrose nodded she became pale, hurriedly excusing herself before heading out of the kitchen and directly up the stairs.
‘Something I said?’ Ric called after her.
‘Going back to bed.’
‘Dear oh dear,’ remarked her father, ‘reckon she won’t drink that much again in a hurry.’
‘Not the only one,’ muttered Art.
Grace stood up. ‘Well at least everybody enjoyed themselves. I for one do not have a hangover and am looking forward to enjoying a pleasantly quiet day. I may even have a glass of wine with my lunch,’ she chuckled. ‘Has everyone got what they need? Art? Ric? I’m just popping up to check on my wayward daughter and then I’ll pour the coffee.’
*
Grace knocked softly.
‘Come in.’
‘You okay? You left in a hurry.’
‘Just needed to lie down.’
‘That’s fine. From what I can gather Dad and Art will be heading off soon, so the house will be nice and quiet. I assume Ric will be leaving soon, too. If you want to rest up in front of the fire with me then you are very welcome.’
‘I might. Thanks.’
‘Do you need anything? Shall I pull the curtains?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’ll leave you to it.’ Grace moved to leave the room but Primrose called her back.
‘Mum. Does Ric seem okay to you?’
Grace paused for thought. She didn’t like to point out the obvious fact that Primrose had overstepped the mark in turning off the alarm. ‘I imagine he’s tired.’
Grace closed the door behind her, going then to her own bedroom to use the en suite bathroom. She cast an eye across the dressing table and the floor beneath, searching for the lipstick that had disappeared since using it the evening before. She wouldn’t normally wear it for breakfast, but had felt so washed out with tiredness when she’d first got up that she’s wanted just a smudge of this, her favourite colour, to freshen her appearance. She had no inclination to put it on anymore, but it was annoying to have lost it. Forgetting her need for the bathroom, she automatically returned to Primrose’s bedroom.
Knocking more softly than before, Grace slowly entered, quietly asking if Primrose had borrowed
any makeup, but her daughter was already fast asleep. Silently, Grace scanned the room, eyes skimming the windowsill, furniture and floor, hunting for the little gold case. The room had not changed a great deal since Primrose was a child, curtains and carpet the same pale pink she’d always adored, her decoupage dressing table patterned with paintings of blue and pink roses Grace herself had pasted. She picked up several items of her daughter’s clothing thrown carelessly across the dressing table, to see if the lipstick had become mixed up in the jumble of fabric. If Primrose had borrowed it then it was highly likely to be amongst the mess, with no thought for its safe return. Primrose was far and away the untidiest person Grace knew, devastating an immaculate space within minutes of entering. The endless joke that was guaranteed to drive teenage Primrose into a stroppy bad temper was the repeated warning from her father: ‘Rosie, your room’s been burgled again’. Grace smiled at the memory, but found nothing.
In the corner, away from the door, Primrose’s overnight bag poked out from underneath Ric’s carefully placed jacket. Grace picked it up, intending to check the bag beneath, but as she moved the jacket so she felt the slight shifting of weight, suggesting that something small and loose was contained within the pockets. The gaping bag beneath was clearly empty. Expecting to find nothing of consequence, she patted the fabric, unsure why she was even checking, for it was unlikely she’d find lost makeup, hers or anyone else’s, in Ric’s jacket. The shape was not lipstick. The other pocket also held something, she realised, but Grace put the jacket neatly back where it had been left, for the clandestine intrusion into Ric’s private things was making her feel guilty. As quietly as she entered, Grace left the room, partially closing the door behind her.
The reason behind the train of thought that followed this foray was inexplicable to Grace. She could not fathom how or why a few fragmented events should fall together so neatly, incidental moments neither sought nor summoned. As she walked along the landing to her own room once more, she was reminded of the quiet sounds heard on the staircase the previous evening, and the peculiar expression on Ric’s face as he appeared from an apparently empty upstairs. That face had something of joy about it. Grace could not help herself. She turned again and went back into Primrose’s bedroom.