Copycat (16 page)

‘She’s shy,’ I explained, made inadequate again, and unfairly annoyed with Poppy who could be bright and fun if she tried.

‘It’s a long journey for them, isn’t it?’ Emma attempted to draw Poppy out. ‘You’re hungry, aren’t you?’ she said, ruffling Poppy’s hair, so that my daughter frowned and straightened it again.

‘I wish I had hair like that,’ said Emma.

But she had. Poppy’s hair – straight and honey-blonde – was as fair as Scarlett’s was dark. It was just possible that Emma’s hair was dyed blonde, but I guessed that it was natural. Its glossy texture seemed effortless too. She and Mark were ‘natural’ people, mostly in shorts or swimwear, and they sported glowing, advertisement skin.

They probably ran along the sand hand in hand, or rode across it bareback.

But no matter what I spent on clothes, I couldn’t achieve that born-into-them look, and I was too thin to swing when I walked, like Emma did.

I whispered to Graham nastily, ‘Trust the Frazers to be late. The worst’ll be done by the time they arrive.’

‘Knowing Martha, she planned it that way.’ But Graham’s remark was jokey, whereas mine had been meant spitefully. I felt slighted; I was out of my depth but I was determined to make it seem as if I was having a wonderful time.

‘While we’re waiting for the others, could we take some of our stuff upstairs and see where we are all sleeping?’ I thought it impolite that Emma hadn’t already shown us round – after all, we were her guests.

She was too busy fiddling in the kitchen for manners. ‘Top of the stairs,’ she said. ‘Duck your heads, turn left and you’re at the end of the little landing.’

I prised Graham away from Mark – if men can do nothing, they will – and reminded him that our car was still loaded. ‘You want me to do it right now?’ he asked with an unnecessary sigh.

‘Whatever you like, Graham. Up to you,’ I said coldly. But he knew how angry I was. At this point, I knew that the fortnight was doomed.

I was left to unpack on my own while Graham minded the children. An outsider already, I kept watch through the latticed window that overlooked the garden. The bedroom floor creaked and slanted like the deck of the
Mary Rose.
The beams were placed precisely to be a hazard for the unwary. The furniture was antique, black with age, but the fabrics Emma had chosen were gorgeous – patchworks, ginghams, and crisp fresh cottons, which reminded me of a Wendy house I had once played in, in a rich friend’s garden. Ours was a comfy double bed, while the kids had bunks in their little room, and Josh, in his carrycot, could sleep at the bottom. As the sun streamed in through the window, it brought with it the scent of red roses. Briefly, foolishly, I felt cheered.

‘Hey, you all, they’re here.’

I wouldn’t go down to meet the Frazers. I would stay up here and see how long it took for Martha to come and find me.

I stood back and watched.

She looked as amazing as ever: her hair, scraped up in a band to the top of her head, fell down round her face in untidy spirals. She might be large, but, because of her style she was glorious. Her skimpy sundress was a feminine pink.

Mark swung Scarlett round in the air while Emma cuddled the gurgling Lawrence. Their kids responded.
Why couldn’t mine?
‘Take him away before I get broody,’ Emma called, laughing, to Martha. She would never have said that about little Josh, who was going through a sickly patch.

Corks popped as the wine was opened, as it had not been for us.

Compelled to make these pathetic comparisons, naturally I was hurt.

‘Truly delightful,’ Martha cried, as she stood back to admire the cottage. So far, it seemed that she hadn’t missed me.

‘It’s idyllic,’ said Sam, ‘you clever things.’

Martha gasped at the sight of the table, now laden and looking delicious. ‘When did you do all this, Emma?’

‘I cheated,’ said Emma. ‘I brought it all with me. Jennie and Poppy helped. Are you hungry?’

I waited, but still Martha did not ask where I was. I needed Emma and Mark to know how important I was to my friend. Something must be wrong. But what?

‘Bloody starving,’ said Martha. And, ‘Bloody starving,’ Scarlett repeated, and everyone laughed and began to tuck in and talk about the cottage and all its idiosyncrasies – how the previous occupant had died in Emma and Mark’s very bed, how the locals had nosed in to meet them.

‘Where’s Mummy?’
whispered Poppy. I saw her tugging at Graham’s sleeve. I saw her lips move when she asked again.

But everyone was talking so loudly that nobody could hear her.

Were we here because they pitied us?

I tried to slip into the group unseen, cross with myself for being the cause of my own ordeal.

They all made out they were pleased to see me.

The revelling mixed with more mundane activities, as Mark cut the grass with a museum-piece mower aided by Graham and Sam. Between them they stripped and repaired every part of that blasted machine.

Was this their idea of holiday fun?

Eventually a stream was revealed, a stream that sploshed its way through the natural rocks and reeds of the garden. Poppy and Scarlett were in seventh heaven, splashing and paddling in the altogether, and harvesting jars of God knows what.

Martha was watching me. There was a new wariness in her attitude towards me. And strangely, when I went to feed Josh she didn’t pick up Lawrence and come with me. I watched from my window and a little while later Emma came out and gave Martha Lawrence’s bottle. Was she deliberately ignoring me? Why? Why? What had I done? She sat beside Emma to feed him; they sat in those hard director-style chairs, the ones with the loose striped covers.

They were perfectly happy without me.

They dug out an old gramophone and some scratchy records which Mark had discovered in an outbuilding. ‘Lazy River’, ‘What A Wonderful World’, and then a deep singing voice, ‘What Is Life To Me Without Thee?’ The others laughed. But it made Emma cry.

At six o’clock I decided to try to put Josh to bed. Predictably, the water in the bathroom was stone-cold, so like a killjoy I invaded the party and asked about hot water.

‘It’s a cunning device,’ said Emma lightly. ‘Push the switch on that ugly boiler and the water comes out instantly hot. I can’t think why we don’t get one in London. Here, Jennie,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘take a drink up with you.’

Graham didn’t ask if I needed help, or if he could bath Josh for me. If I asked him I knew what he’d say: ‘Let’s give it a miss tonight.’ At least
he
was having a marvellous time, drinking too much, talking too much and making quite a fool of himself.

I was in the kitchen heating up a jar of vegetable broth – there was nothing suitable to liquidize and no sign of a liquidizer – when Martha came in.

‘Is everything OK?’ I asked timidly.

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ she replied.

‘Oh, I just thought…’

‘
Well, don’t think, Jennie.
Why don’t we make this fortnight a trial period when you make an effort not to think at all? And perhaps we could live without hurtful rumours about Christmases spent in bed with other people’s husbands. D’you know what Sam said when I told him? He laughed. He said, “Give me some credibility, sweetheart, I’m not that desperate.” But I still can’t believe you said it. My God, Jennie, what are you?’

I winced with pain.
‘What have I done?’

‘It’s what you’ve said, as you know very well,’ she answered coldly. ‘Rumours. Lies. They always get back in the end, Jennie. I’ve come here to relax and enjoy myself and that is what I intend to do. And I’ll drink as much as I damn well like without you turning me into a pisshead. Now you can do what you must, so long as it doesn’t involve me in any more of your nasty messes.’

‘I can’t bear this. I’m going home.’

‘You do just what you like, it’s no concern of mine, as long as you leave me out of it. If you want to go home – go! Just don’t make a drama out of it.’

And then she left me alone in the kitchen.

I felt sick. Stunned.

My life was plunged into chaos again, but this time nobody would die and save me.

I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t leave Martha hostile like this and then spend fourteen days in agony, unable to make things right. I knew what she was talking about. I never dreamed she’d find out what I’d said; the only reason I’d lied about Sam and me at the Christmas party was to make myself more interesting. I needed friends… I had to tell lies. And Martha did drink too much, everyone knew that. So what harm had I done?

They lit a bonfire and sat round it, Mark playing his guitar and the crickets chirping merrily. Poppy and Scarlett, up way past their bedtimes, sucked their thumbs and tried to join in with sleepy little voices. If I insisted on leaving, I would be depriving my daughter of a longed-for holiday with her best friend.

Graham was having a good time, too, and since he worked so desperately hard all year, how could I, for my weird, selfish reasons, drag him back to the Close again?

Gripping the edge of the bedroom window I watched with white knuckles, listening to Josh’s deep breathing behind me. How thoughtless they were. When everyone came up to bed they would disturb him – especially Poppy, by the time she was settled in the bunk directly above him. And then she’d not sleep for fear of Graham’s witches.

We were stuck here for two endless weeks. The only option I had was to try to act as normal as possible, pretend to be enjoying myself, and make more of an effort to get on with Emma and demonstrate to Martha that I could survive without her approval.

So far, she had failed to respond to my new friendship with Angie Ford. She had shown no signs of the jealousy I’d hoped for; I doubt that she’d even noticed. She was very involved in her work these days and the goings-on in the Close played a minor role in her life.

I had wanted to see how Martha would react if she discovered that boring, dowdy old Jennie became more popular than her. I took advantage of her two days a week absence to try and draw closer to some of our neighbours. Angie Ford was the easiest: a buzzing little lady with freckles, short curls and denim outfits. What the hell was I trying to prove? Did I hope that Martha might be hurt? Might consider me disloyal? That she might value our special friendship more?

When Angie asked me about the affray outside Martha’s house on that awful day when he’d found the note, I lied about me and Sam at the party. It made me more worldly, more glamorous. ‘It’s just one of those things that happen,’ I told Angie glibly. ‘Of course, it’s all over now.’ Well, I could hardly tell her the truth and expect her to speak to me ever again.

Pretty harmless stuff. It would never get out, I’d thought at the time; just me trying to find a way in, and there were more opportunities now the pool project was under way. It brought our neighbours to my house – where I could befriend and influence.

Bravely we stayed on at Last Resort.

Apart from that one kitchen confrontation and occasional peculiar glances, Martha was superficially friendly. The worst part of that holiday was seeing how Poppy and Josh were left out of the fun so much of the time. I knew why, but the fact still hurt me. Scarlett was such an outgoing child, happy to be thrown in the air or dunked in the water, to ride a donkey or travel in the back of Mark’s breezy Morgan, while Poppy tended to cry and whine and hide behind my back.

Poppy had a horror of being dirty.

And, of course, the carefree Martha never worried if Lawrence was plucked from his cot to be played with or tickled, to be gurgled at, to be poked; whereas once he was resting, it was essential that Josh be left undisturbed because it took him so long to settle.

Everything to do with that woman seemed to be filled with so much pain.

E
VERYTHING TO DO WITH
that woman seemed to be filled with so much pain.

She was so transparent it was pitiful; and I was so angry to hear what she’d done, it was hard to stay civil. Surely she knew that malicious gossip had a habit of boomeranging back. And what a vicious lie to tell. As if Sam would look in Jennie’s direction – she was hardly his type. But if the Close decided to believe that I was a drunken lush, so be it. I could live with that one, but not the other.

That appalling holiday.

It was such a mistake to invite them.

Instead of sticking to me like glue, Jennie went breezily off every morning with Sam or Emma or Mark, whoever volunteered for the supermarket run. And if there was no table for six at a restaurant, guess who chose to sit apart… If anyone left the beach to buy ice creams, it was the new, independent Jennie. Incredibly, this odd behaviour was designed to make me feel jealous.
She really could not get into her head the fact that I’d had enough,
and I understood that she’d spread these tales about herself and Sam in order to join what she called the ‘in crowd’.

The
in crowd.
My God! What a laugh. If Jennie’s idea of an in crowd was the mismatch of neighbours in our Close, she needed a shrink to sort her out. If I hadn’t been tied to the house with kids, I wouldn’t have got involved with them at all. Oh, they were OK,
they were fine,
but not the kind of friends I would choose, and anyway it’s a grave mistake to get too chummy with the neighbours.

Dammit.
What made me feel so responsible for Jennie’s wretched kids?

Probably the same reasons that struck me when I first saw her struggles to survive in that damn maternity ward. Yes, I was worried about Jennie’s kids. Hell, I loved them almost as much as my own.

Poppy whined, ‘Scarlett’s Barbie is nicer than mine.’

Jennie said, ‘Well, you could have picked the same one.’

‘No, I couldn’t.’ And Poppy, frustrated, battered her new doll’s head on the floor. ‘Emma chose them for us.’

Emma laughed. ‘Poppy, that’s not true. I said you could choose the doll you wanted. Scarlett chose that one, and you spent the next half-hour fiddling with every one in the shop.’

Scarlett, watching, seeing Poppy’s crumbling face and the way she was stripping the clothes off the doll, handed hers over. ‘You have this one, Poppy, we’ll swap.’