Jenna didn’t seem worried by it. She had drunk a can of beer—he was halfway down his—and lit a cigarette, and that seemed to be enough. To be honest, it was so hot, you didn’t need to talk. The sun was handy like that, he thought—a bit like the telly. Whenever conversation dried up, you could always just close your eyes and tilt your face upwards until you thought of something else to say.
‘So,’ said Jenna, and Sam’s head jerked round. She was sitting up, her dreadlocks falling around her shoulders like shoelaces. ‘Are we all having a happy holiday?’ She puffed out a cloud of smoke and her eyes glinted at him. ‘What do you reckon, Sam? Thumbs-up or thumbs-down?’
‘Well,’ said Sam cautiously. ‘Thumbs-up, I suppose. I mean, the weather’s good …’
‘The weather’s good,’ echoed Jenna with a little smile. ‘You British.’
‘I’m having a great time,’ added Sam, slightly nettled by her expression. ‘And so’s Nat. I reckon Mum and Dad are, too.’
‘You think?’
‘Don’t you?’
Jenna shrugged, and took a drag on her cigarette. She leaned forward to scratch her foot and Sam found himself staring at her breasts, brown and round as apples, encased in two taut black triangles. Beside him, his fingers clenched the rough, dry ground; he wanted to say something, but his throat felt too tight. Jenna looked up from examining a clear-painted toenail and gave him a small, inscrutable smile.
‘Well, I’m glad you’re having a good time,’ she said. Sam felt himself flush, and quickly looked away. What did she mean by that?
‘Aren’t you enjoying yourself, then?’ he said, too aggressively.
‘I’m not here to enjoy myself.’
‘Yeah, but it’s not against the rules, is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jenna. ‘I didn’t ask.’ She rolled her eyes comically and Sam laughed, partly out of relief.
‘You don’t like Amanda, do you?’ he said, reaching for his can and taking a swig of beer.
‘As an employer?’ Jenna reached for another can of beer and cracked it open. ‘Not particularly.’
‘What about as a … person?’
‘As a person …’ She thought for a few seconds, can poised at her lips. ‘Tell the truth, I feel sorry for her.’
‘You feel sorry for Amanda?’ Sam stared at her in surprise. ‘Why on earth …’
‘I guess she doesn’t strike me as a very happy woman.’
‘Well maybe she shouldn’t be so bossy!’ Sam shook his head. ‘I can’t believe you feel sorry for her. I mean, she’s been so awful to you.’
‘Just because I can’t stand working for her doesn’t mean I can’t feel sorry for her.’ Jenna stubbed out her cigarette on the ground. ‘You know, one thing about Amanda—at least she really cares about her kids. When Beatrice was sick, she stayed up with her all night. And cleared up the mess. Hugh did absolutely nothing, of course …’
‘Don’t you like Hugh, then?’ said Sam in surprise.
‘Waste of space,’ said Jenna. ‘Typical English bloke. No emotions, no humour, no nothing. Whereas Amanda’s a pain—but you can tell she really loves the kids.’
‘All mothers love their kids.’
‘You think? I’ve seen a lot of mothers. And some of them have a funny way of showing it.’ Jenna rolled onto her front and rested her chin on her hands. ‘There are some real bitches out there. They have kids because they have to. Then they hand them over and they’re off to Barbados for a month. Then there’s the guiltmongers. They can’t stand you because you spend more time with their kids than they do.’
Sam gave her a curious look.
‘Don’t you get on with any of your employers?’
‘Oh, the odd one here and there, I guess.’ Jenna grinned. ‘What you have to know is that the basic emotion at the core of the nanny-mother relationship is hatred.’
‘Hatred?’ Sam laughed, uncertain whether or not she was joking.
‘Maybe not hatred,’ conceded Jenna. ‘But resentment. Envy. I envy them because they’ve got big houses and plenty of money … and they envy me because I have no stretchmarks and a sex life.’
‘Amanda hasn’t got stretchmarks,’ said Sam before he could stop himself.
‘Oh really?’ Jenna raised her eyebrows. ‘You’ve been looking, have you?’
‘No,’ said Sam, flushing. ‘Of course not. I just …’ He took a swig of beer to cover his confusion. ‘So—do you … do you think Amanda envies you?’ he said, attempting to carry on the conversation normally.
‘Actually, I’m not sure Amanda has the imagination to envy anyone,’ said Jenna, closing her eyes and leaning back on her elbows. Sam’s gaze ran helplessly over her body and away again. He was feeling hotter by the second. He took another swig of beer and ran a hand over his damp brow.
‘You really look like your mum,’ said Jenna, suddenly opening her eyes. ‘Same eyes, everything.’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Sam.
‘And Nat looks just like your dad. Strange, isn’t it?’
Sam was silent. With a closed-up face, he reached for his shoe and needlessly began to retie the lace. He always hesitated before telling new people about his parents. Sometimes he didn’t feel in the mood for other people’s curiosity. Girls, especially, always went into overdrive when he told them—gasped and gave him a hug and said they’d talk about it if he wanted to. As if it was some huge deal, which really, it wasn’t.
On the other hand, Jenna didn’t seem the sort to go into overdrive about anything.
‘Philip’s not my real dad,’ said Sam at last, looking up. ‘Not my biological dad, I mean.’
‘Really?’ Jenna sat up, alert. ‘You’re adopted?’
‘Not exactly,’ Sam said. ‘Mum’s my real mum. She had me when she was really young. Like about your age.’
Jenna stared at him with narrow eyes, as though calculating something.
‘So who’s your dad?’ she said.
‘Some guy in South Africa. A professor at Cape Town University.’
‘Oh,’ said Jenna, subsiding slightly. ‘Is he nice? Do you get on?’
‘I’ve never met him. I might go and visit him one day. Mum and Dad have said I can.’ Sam turned away from Jenna’s intent gaze and fiddled with a blade of grass. Although he was completely sorted about his real dad and that whole situation, he always ended up feeling a bit uncomfortable when he talked about it.
‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you,’ said Jenna. ‘My dad walked out on us when I was five. I’ve never been remotely interested in finding him.’ She took a swig of beer, still eyeing Sam curiously. ‘And Philip seems like a good bloke.’
‘He’s the best,’ said Sam. ‘I mean, sometimes he’s really annoying, but …’ He shrugged. ‘You know.’
‘You can tell he’s fundamentally a decent guy,’ said Jenna. ‘You know, the other day, Octavia was really playing me up, and Philip started telling her a story. No fuss, just did it. It was a really good story, too. We were all listening by the end.’
‘Dad always made up brilliant stories for us,’ said Sam. ‘He used to tell us installments every night. He still does for Nat.’
‘Does he do it professionally? Write, I mean?’
Sam shook his head.
‘He works for a bank.’
‘Oh, right.’ Jenna raised her eyebrows and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘So he earns heaps, right?’
‘No.’ Sam was silent for a few moments, debating whether or not to say any more. ‘Actually, he might be going to lose his job,’ he said finally.
Jenna stared at Sam, her eyes wide.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yup. There’s been a big merger. They haven’t actually told me, but it’s pretty obvious it’s on the cards.’ Sam looked up and met her gaze. ‘Don’t tell Nat. He doesn’t know.’
‘I won’t say anything. Jesus! I had no idea. I’m really sorry.’ She shook her head and the little beads at the end of her dreadlocks clicked togethe
r. ‘Your poor dad.’
‘Well—maybe it won’t happen.’
‘I hope not.’ Jenna frowned. ‘He doesn’t deserve that as well.’
‘As well as what?’ said Sam, puzzled.
Jenna gazed at him silently for a minute, as though trying to read something from his face.
‘As well as his holiday being ruined,’ she said, and took a drag on her cigarette. Sam stared at her uncomfortably. From the outside, it was as though they were having a perfectly ordinary conversation. But with Jenna, it always seemed as if there was something else going on in her head. Something she wasn’t telling you.
‘People always have more interesting lives than you’d think,’ said Jenna suddenly. ‘Every family has something crazy going on in it. A secret, or a feud, or some huge problem … Jesus, it’s hot.’ She sat up, reached for the back of her bikini top and unselfconsciously unfastened it. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
Sam felt his whole body contract in shock as the black fabric slithered away from Jenna’s two perfect, tanned breasts. Shit, he thought, trying to stay nonchalant, trying desperately not to stare at her nipples. Just don’t fuck up. Do not fuck this up. Jenna glanced up and he quickly swivelled his eyes away. He reached for another can of beer and cracked it open with slightly trembling fingers.
‘Don’t drink too much,’ said Jenna.
Sam gazed back. He didn’t dare move. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see two birds wheeling round and round after each other in the sky. Then with no warning, Jenna leaned forward and kissed him with her cool mouth.
Sam closed his eyes, trying to keep in control of himself. But desire was thundering through him like a train. Unable to stop himself, he reached wildly for one of her breasts. Jenna didn’t protest. He moved his mouth away from hers and trailed a path down to her nipple. As he enclosed it in his mouth, Jenna threw her head back and gave a small moan. The sound sent a shot of fresh excitement through him, and he groped with his hand for her other breast, hoping to get the same result again. Then she said something he didn’t quite catch.
‘What?’ he said blearily, raising his head.
‘Lower,’ murmured Jenna.
His heart pumping hard, Sam shifted on the dry ground, and moved his mouth slowly over her flat, brown stomach, gradually down towards the top of her bikini bottoms. The Western Front, as it was known amongst boys at his school. That taut, tantalizing band of Lycra, of lace, of whatever it happened to be—which girls guarded with every ounce of energy. He reached the top of Jenna’s little black bikini triangle and stopped, his face suffused with blood. He was vaguely aware that his thighs were trembling from carrying his body weight, that his knees were being gouged by sharp little stones, that the back of his neck was sodden with sweat. Now what? he thought frantically. Please God—now what?
Beneath him, Jenna gave a wriggle, somehow managing to move her legs apart a little without looking as though she’d intended to. The sight nearly sent him mad. She was there. Right there, for the taking.
He had a condom in his pocket—grabbed earlier from the pack of three hidden in his suitcase. When Jenna had invited him to drink a few beers, he’d rushed upstairs, ripped the cardboard open, and thrust the tiny foil package into his pocket, not daring to believe he would actually get to use it. He and all his friends carried condoms around with them as a matter of course. As far as he knew, none of them had actually seen any action—but now … Sam looked at Jenna again and felt a thrust of excitement. Should he get it out? Should he ask her first? What the fuck should he …
‘Mmm-nnaa,’ murmured Jenna, and his head jerked up. What was she saying?
‘What did you say?’ he managed in a husky voice. Without looking at him, Jenna reached down and gave another wriggle. And suddenly her bikini bottoms were slipping off before his very eyes. He couldn’t believe … Oh … ohhh … fuck …
‘Lower,’ murmured Jenna, and a tiny smile spread over her face. ‘A bit lower.’
Philip was sitting alone at the huge marble breakfast bar in the kitchen, sipping mineral water very slowly. It seemed to have taken him several hours to wake up—even now he felt woolly-headed and slightly dissociated from reality. His hands seemed miles away from the rest of his body; every time he replaced the glass on the marble surface, the tiny clatter made him wince.
He had no idea how much he had drunk the night before—but if the empty bottles and the state of his head on waking were anything to go by, it must have been a lot. He had woken mid-morning to find himself alone by the swimming pool, his eyes sore and his mouth dry. As he’d gazed around blearily, piecing together memories of the night before, he had felt resentful that he was left here alone: that Hugh hadn’t woken him, too. It smacked of cheating, to creep off early to a shower and clean clothes. The two of them were, after all, united in their bad behaviour. Philip had felt in the mood to indulge in a little post-party commiseration: a little immature recollecting of their excesses the night before and a comparison of hangovers.
He reached for the bottle of mineral water and refilled his glass, watching the bubbles as they fizzed energetically to the surface. Hugh was a different person when he was drunk, he thought. The rather stuffy, aloof chap he had met at the beginning of the holiday had transformed into someone with a sense of fun and a dry wit; someone whom Philip would not at all mind getting to know better. Hugh the eminent rocket scientist, he thought, and his mouth twisted into a smile. Bloody juvenile behaviour. He almost wished Chloe had been there, to witness him obeying her instructions to the letter. Hadn’t she told him to unwind and clear his mind? Hadn’t she told him to relax and enjoy himself? Well, he had done it all, in spades.
He took another sip and closed his eyes, feeling his head protesting against the intake of fluid. His body didn’t want what was best for it. What would have done even better than water was an Alka-Seltzer. But he had been unable to find one as he had rootled around Gerard’s expensive kitchen cupboards—and he wasn’t in the mood to ask anyone. Besides which, in some strange way, he was enjoying sitting here, with a throbbing head and shaky hands, feeling exactly as ill as he deserved.
The villa seemed a strange, dreamy place this afternoon. The silence was, of course, partly attributable to the absence of the three younger children—and of Amanda, he acknowledged to himself. Somehow her presence added a fraughtness to proceedings.
Chloe had retired to the bedroom with a headache. She had looked pale, almost sick, and had turned away when he tried to put an arm across her shoulders. Still worrying about Gerard, perhaps. Philip took a thoughtful sip. He wasn’t sure what to make of Sam’s theory and he couldn’t see it mattered. They were all here now, and they were having their holiday, and surely that was all that counted? The villa was so huge, they could probably even have fitted a third family in without causing anyone too much distress.
Philip took another sip of water and reached for a bowl of pistachios which somebody had left on the counter. As he began to crack them open he felt a faint sense of satisfaction. Contentment, even, despite the throb in his head. Finally, he was starting to unwind. If Chris was right, nothing would happen until next week. He felt he had been given a few days of reprieve.
Whether the alcohol had obliterated his nerve endings, or whether the enforced idleness was slowing down his whole system, he felt calm and relaxed. For the first time on this holiday, he felt as though he was on holiday. His stomach did not go into spasm every five minutes; his thoughts did not keep returning to Britain and the bank and his fate.
He had come across a stack of leaflets while searching the kitchen for pain relief. There were all sorts of outings and excursions he could take the boys on. He picked up a brochure for an aqua park and imagined himself hurtling down a giant slide on a vast rubber ring, while the boys looked on, aghast at their embarrassing dad. The very thought made him chuckle. That was what they should do. Get out, do things, enjoy themselves.
The phone echoed sharply round the marble kitche
n, making him jump. He didn’t feel inclined to answer it. Not while he was feeling so contented. On the other hand, it was soon obvious that nobody else was going to. After a couple more rings he picked it up and said cautiously, ‘Hello?’
‘Hello,’ came a woman’s voice. ‘Could I talk to Hugh Stratton, please?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Philip. ‘I’ll just have to go and find him …’
‘Or maybe I could leave a message?’
‘Well … yes,’ said Philip. ‘I’ll just get a pen.’ He glanced idly around the room and spotted a pot full of hand-painted pencils standing on a carved wooden ledge. ‘OK,’ he said, coming back to the phone. ‘Fire away.’
‘If you could say that Della called …’
‘Yup,’ said Philip, writing the name down.
‘… to say that Philip Murray is at the East Roywich branch.’
Philip’s pencil stopped moving. Bewildered, he stared down at the words he had just written. ‘Della—Philip Murr’.
Was he still drunk?
‘I’m sorry,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t think I heard that quite correctly.’
‘Philip Murray, M-u-r-r-a-y, works for the East Roywich branch of National Southern. As branch manager.’
‘Yes,’ said Philip. ‘I see.’ He rubbed his face, trying to make the tiniest bit of sense out of this. ‘Could you … Who exactly is this?’
‘Della James. I’m Mr Stratton’s secretary,’ said the woman. ‘ Sorry to bother you on your holiday. If you could just pass the message on—and say I’m faxing through the relevant pages of the report for him. Thanks very much.’
‘Wait!’ said Philip. ‘Where … where are you calling from?’
‘From Mr Stratton’s office. So sorry to bother you. Goodbye!’
‘No, wait!’ exclaimed Philip. ‘Where exactly …’
But the line had already gone dead. He looked at the receiver in his hand, then slowly replaced it.