and kissed the top of her head. She couldn’t remember what it was she’d been upset about, but she remembered Rachel’s warmth.
It was strange—number two Park Avenue was full of family photographs…hanging on walls, sitting in frames, secreted in albums, and yet Vicky had virtually no memory of ever having been held or embraced by Sylvia. At number four Park Avenue, there were no photographs and yet Rachel was forever hugging Ruth—it was one of the things that struck Vicky most when she first got to know the Dents. Mother and daughter did other things as well as hugging: swapped books, had manicures, make-overs…even spent entire days in spas together…things that baffled Vicky, who spent most of the time drowning under matricidal urges.
Ruth appeared then at the front door.
‘You want me to lock this?’ she called out to Rachel.
‘Go ahead.’
‘What was all that about?’
‘When?’
‘Out here—just now. I heard dad shouting.’
Rachel shrugged and opened the driver’s door.
‘You girls sure you don’t want lift to school? I’m going straight past there.’
‘We’re fine,’ Ruth said.
‘Last chance?’
‘We’re fine, mum.’
‘Okay—’ Shaking her head, she took out the sunglasses she wore whatever the weather from the glove compartment. Then, putting the car into gear, accelerated hard so that pebbles from the drive sprayed up against the body of the car and caused scratches that would at some future date be detected by Nathan, who would expect a full explanation including the use of pronouns as well as the definite and indefinite article.
Left on the drive, Vicky and Ruth checked to see what the other one was wearing. The style the sixth form at Burwood Girls’ went for was nineteen-twenties shot through with eighties Gothic—retro silk dresses in pastel shades over black tights with pumps gone to seed and lots of costume jewellery: Goth flappers.
They were both appropriately dressed.
‘We’re going round the long way,’ Vicky announced.
‘But, Vick, we’re already running late.’
‘I want to check in on Sutton.’
‘Sutton?’ Vicky rounded on her. ‘Oh, Sutton—yeah, okay.’
‘Are you feeling alright?’
Ruth nodded, preoccupied, and they started to walk.
The long way took them on the route past Mr Sutton’s new house on Dardanelle Drive and sometimes they got a sighting of him leaving for work on his bike. At the beginning of the Michaelmas term he and Ms Webster had moved in together and Vicky had to get the new address out of the files in Mrs Harris’s PA’s office.
‘Your dad’s a total fuck up,’ Vicky said as the Audi disappeared out of sight into the fog, Rachel waving enthusiastically. ‘And your mum’s so nice, I mean—how did it happen?’
Ruth shrugged. ‘Nathan’s okay. I know how he comes across, but—’
‘What?’
‘He’s always been pretty good to us.’
‘Shit, listen to yourself, Ruth. Save me the passion.’
‘Passion’s what he’s up against, Vick. She fell in love with my dad during a war—they used to make love while the Serbs up in the mountains above the house were firing down on them. That’s what Nathan’s up against.’
Vicky stared at her. ‘She told you that?’
‘I was conceived under gunfire.’
‘You talk about that stuff?’
‘I’m her daughter—who else would she talk to about it?’
Vicky, walking beside her, couldn’t even begin to contemplate initiating a conversation with Sylvia about her conception. Would Sylvia even remember?
Fifteen minutes later, they were crouching behind the line of conifers that ran alongside Mr Sutton and Ms Webster’s front lawn.
‘Webster’s car’s still there,’ Ruth noted, whispering.
Just then the front door opened and Julia Webster herself appeared, yelling something over her shoulder back into the house. She was wearing a North Face jacket and a lot of fleece on her outer extremities.
‘My God—have you seen the fog?’ she called out.
‘She looks like she’s going on a field trip,’ Vicky observed.
Ruth let out a muffled snort.
Julia remained poised in the porch. ‘I’m going,’ she said into the fog.
After a while Mr Sutton appeared, barefoot, a tea towel in his hands.
Ruth and Vicky gripped each other’s arms.
‘Why does he have to look so fuckable?’ Vicky hissed, taking in the jeans and T-shirt he was wearing.
Ruth murmured faithfully, in agreement—her mind elsewhere—and they continued to watch through a natural peephole where some of the hedge had died.
Julia tilted her face up and as Mr Sutton leant dutifully to kiss her, she grabbed deftly hold of his chin and kept their faces together.
‘Grotesque,’ Vicky mumbled. ‘Like—genuinely grotesque.’
Julia checked his face briefly as they pulled apart, unsure how to read what she saw there—despite the fact that he was wearing a smile—and went over to the sports car, opening the door.
‘Don’t forget—IKEA tonight,’ she said lightly.
‘Shit.’
‘You forgot.’
He nodded and pulled his shoulders up to his ears before letting them drop again. ‘Do we have to?’
Through the peephole in the hedge, Vicky and Ruth were still holding onto each other.
‘It’s bookshelves for you we’re going for. I just thought you might want your art books out of those boxes they’ve been in all summer.’
‘Okay—’ he responded, flatly.
‘You don’t sound like it’s okay.’
‘I don’t?’
‘No, you don’t.’
Ruth and Vicky worked hard at stifling the excited laughter that was threatening to erupt from behind the line of conifers.
Julia stared at him. ‘We’ll talk about it later.’ She hesitated, forcing a smile. ‘You’re sure you don’t want a lift?’
‘No—I’ll cycle.’
‘Well, don’t forget your lights. You’ll need them in this fog.’
‘I won’t.’
Julia hesitated again then got in. She gave a light wave before putting the car into gear and reversing off the drive.
Mr Sutton continued to stand in the porch, slowly drying his hands on the tea towel he was holding as the car’s engine revved without resonance, pumping out carbon monoxide fumes that hung in the fog and had nowhere to go.
Vicky felt suddenly nauseous.
Eventually the car moved off and Mr Sutton waved vaguely as it disappeared into the fog. After a while, he went back