Rachael says nothing for a few seconds. When she speaks, it is muffled, through a mouthful of sandwich: ‘I don’t like him.’
‘You’re insane!’ Suzanna explodes.
‘How can you say that?’ Imogen continues. ‘He adores you! If he’d talk about me the way he talks about you, I’d be all over him.’
‘Don’t you think there’s something . . . off about him? He’stoopolished. Have you noticed he never talks about his dead wife?’
A stillness falls over me. The way she says ‘dead’ so casually is unforgivable.
‘It’s been, what, two months and not a sign that he’s upset.’
‘People grieve in different ways,’ says Suzanna.
‘But they do grieve. It’s like she didn’t exist.’
‘Maybe he’s holding it together for Lauren,’ says Imogen.
‘Something off about her too, don’t you think?’
My skin prickles.
‘What’s she doing in the field? Isn’t she supposed to be at school?’ I hear Rachael screw open her Thermos, the hot pour of tea. ‘The way she follows him round with that sketchpad, runs across the field when he calls her—’
‘She’s just a kid, Rach,’ says Imogen.
‘It’s weird. So intense. So needy.’
Her words burn holes in me, lit cigarettes against my skin. I stare at the corner of my sketchbook long after they are gone.I hate them, hate them, I am the observer, observing them, not the other way round. I run back to the cottage before the afternoon is over, round on Daniel when he comes in. I repeat the conversation. He laughs it off. ‘Just a bunch of bored girls, why does it bother you?’ But I will not be examined by Rachael. Not by Daniel’s protégée. The best up-and-coming scientist he has ever encountered.
Alex isn’t there when I return to the beach. I don’t swim. I spend the entire time looking forForager, the familiar blue stripe of the hull, the orange life buoy strapped to its side. I want to feel normal again. A few days later, I spot the boat mid-river. I run into the water, waving manically. The boat turns towards me. I swim up to it.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he says without saying hello, without masking his annoyance.
‘Away.’
‘You didn’t tell me you were going away.’
‘I didn’t know.’ This is, at least, partially true.
‘You didn’t return my calls.’
‘I lost my phone.’ This is a lie.
He turns off the engine, crouches down. ‘I came to the beach to look for you.’
‘Sorry.’
He shakes his head, as if he didn’t care anyway. ‘You’re back though, right?’
He makes it sound like it’s a choice. Like everything that’s happened is something I can come back from.
We’re onForager. Alex has just picked me up from the beach where I wait for him every afternoon. He navigates round the moored boats; the river is full. He turns off the motor. ‘I have something for you.’
‘What?’
He draws out something from under the seat, hesitates, then throws it at me from the other side of the boat. It misses my lap, which I assume is where he is aiming, catching my knee before sliding onto the deck.
‘Sorry,’ he says, his face growing red.