neglect: quite the opposite. The whitewash on the walls seemed fresh; the bedspread-sized garden was Britain-in-Bloom standard. But when Sarah tried to conjure an image of Gerard in overalls with a bucket, or Gerard on his knees with a trowel, it faded almost immediately, to be replaced by one of Gerard handing a wodge of money to a man with overalls, a bucket, etc. It was too perfect, and Gerard too much the townie to have made it so. That was what Sarah decided.
Inside, the story was the same: an interior designer had looked up ‘rustic’, then thrown a lot of money at it. The stone floor presumably matched that of every other cottage in the row, but Sarah doubted there were many more Bokharas thrown casually on top of them, even round here. Eveything gleamed, and a faint smell of polish tainted the air. A wooden staircase looked both old and new at once; a triumphant marriage of conservation and conspicuous consumption, with what appeared to be a mouse carved into the handrail, in imitation, Sarah was pretty sure, of someone famous. In the nook below, on a purpose-built stand, sat a compact disc deck with associated gadgetry; next to this was a row of bookshelves holding neatly labelled videos. Through a diamond-shaped window on the far wall, an untidy countryside mocked these civilized arrangements: the crystal decanter perched smugly in an alcove; the scatter of pristine lifestyle magazines on the glass-topped coffee table. For no reason she could positively pin down, Sarah found herself recalling Britt Ekland on Desert Island Discs ; how, when asked for her favourite book, the former celebrity explained that she never got much time for reading, and would just like a few magazines please. It was the nearest Sarah had come to throwing a radio through a window. Meanwhile Inchon, in brown cords and white sweater despite the weather, played Mein Host: a triumph of method acting. She’d not have been surprised if he’d said Welcome To Our Humble Abode, or practised a sweeping bow as he’d ushered them in.
What he was in fact saying was, ‘You’re here, you’re here. How about a drink?’
It wasn’t the words or the manner; they had nothing to do with it. But afterwards she pinpointed that as the moment she decided it had been Gerard Inchon who planted the bomb that blew the Singleton house away.
III
Asking Mark to remind her what the Trophy Wife was called would have been asking for it: divine inspiration descended in time. The name was Paula and, unlike her husband, she was making no concessions to her environment; her lilac number, matching skirt and jacket, could have graced a West End opening without alteration. So could her air of boredom. But this, like the suit, didn’t seem to have been put on for their benefit: a weekend in the country, Sarah reflected, was one of those relative terms. Under different circumstances, she’d have been looking forward to it. For Paula, it looked like a phrase followed by With No Hope Of Parole, in block capitals.
Still, she didn’t labour the point; positively unwound, in fact, once Sarah and Mark had accepted Gerard’s offer of drinks. Or spoke, anyway. ‘Did you have a good journey?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ Mark said. ‘Absolutely no . . . problem.’
It was like listening to people remembering a phrase book they’d glanced at. A suspicious mind would have assumed they were having an affair.
But Sarah’s suspicious mind was otherwise occupied at that moment; was trying desperately to send the right signals to her body, her limbs. Act natural. Smile. Talk about the weather . Don’t, for instance, mention Gerard turning up late the night of the explosion, leaving his briefcase in the car. (His briefcase ? At a dinner party ?) Don’t ask why he’d been so sure it was a bomb. Don’t ask where he keeps his gun collection. Just take, which she now did, the proffered cocktail and smile, act natural, talk about the weather .
‘Brilliant piece of
Inside, the story was the same: an interior designer had looked up ‘rustic’, then thrown a lot of money at it. The stone floor presumably matched that of every other cottage in the row, but Sarah doubted there were many more Bokharas thrown casually on top of them, even round here. Eveything gleamed, and a faint smell of polish tainted the air. A wooden staircase looked both old and new at once; a triumphant marriage of conservation and conspicuous consumption, with what appeared to be a mouse carved into the handrail, in imitation, Sarah was pretty sure, of someone famous. In the nook below, on a purpose-built stand, sat a compact disc deck with associated gadgetry; next to this was a row of bookshelves holding neatly labelled videos. Through a diamond-shaped window on the far wall, an untidy countryside mocked these civilized arrangements: the crystal decanter perched smugly in an alcove; the scatter of pristine lifestyle magazines on the glass-topped coffee table. For no reason she could positively pin down, Sarah found herself recalling Britt Ekland on Desert Island Discs ; how, when asked for her favourite book, the former celebrity explained that she never got much time for reading, and would just like a few magazines please. It was the nearest Sarah had come to throwing a radio through a window. Meanwhile Inchon, in brown cords and white sweater despite the weather, played Mein Host: a triumph of method acting. She’d not have been surprised if he’d said Welcome To Our Humble Abode, or practised a sweeping bow as he’d ushered them in.
What he was in fact saying was, ‘You’re here, you’re here. How about a drink?’
It wasn’t the words or the manner; they had nothing to do with it. But afterwards she pinpointed that as the moment she decided it had been Gerard Inchon who planted the bomb that blew the Singleton house away.
III
Asking Mark to remind her what the Trophy Wife was called would have been asking for it: divine inspiration descended in time. The name was Paula and, unlike her husband, she was making no concessions to her environment; her lilac number, matching skirt and jacket, could have graced a West End opening without alteration. So could her air of boredom. But this, like the suit, didn’t seem to have been put on for their benefit: a weekend in the country, Sarah reflected, was one of those relative terms. Under different circumstances, she’d have been looking forward to it. For Paula, it looked like a phrase followed by With No Hope Of Parole, in block capitals.
Still, she didn’t labour the point; positively unwound, in fact, once Sarah and Mark had accepted Gerard’s offer of drinks. Or spoke, anyway. ‘Did you have a good journey?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ Mark said. ‘Absolutely no . . . problem.’
It was like listening to people remembering a phrase book they’d glanced at. A suspicious mind would have assumed they were having an affair.
But Sarah’s suspicious mind was otherwise occupied at that moment; was trying desperately to send the right signals to her body, her limbs. Act natural. Smile. Talk about the weather . Don’t, for instance, mention Gerard turning up late the night of the explosion, leaving his briefcase in the car. (His briefcase ? At a dinner party ?) Don’t ask why he’d been so sure it was a bomb. Don’t ask where he keeps his gun collection. Just take, which she now did, the proffered cocktail and smile, act natural, talk about the weather .
‘Brilliant piece of
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