The Adulterer's Daughter: A Novel Page 19

  “I’m glad you asked. e – also known as Euler’s number – is a transcendental number like π. Actually, there’s a fascinating relationship between e, π, zero and minus one. This will blow your minds …”

  Steve yawned.

  “You’re not really interested, are you?” said Mia.

  “No. Okay, let’s do this thing.”

  To everyone’s relief, it was successful first time. Each person had someone else to buy a Secret Santa gift for.

  “And what’s the maximum amount we can spend?” said Eric.

  Fiona looked at Mia and Serena and raised her eyebrows. “Ten pounds?”

  They both nodded.

  “I can’t afford ten pounds, Mummy, that’s two weeks’ pocket money,” Barney whined.

  Ollie patted his son’s knee. “Don’t worry, my boy. I’ll give you the money.”

  “And me, Dad?” Jemima fluttered her eyelashes at her father.

  “Yes, and you.”

  “Is everyone clear on the rules then?” Fiona looked around the circle.

  They were.

  “Okay, and we’ll exchange gifts on Christmas Eve at our house, right after the carol singing, the mulled wine and the mince pies.”

  Chapter 46

  Friday 7 November, 2003

  Jemima’s bedroom, 6:52 p.m.

  Jemima nibbled her lip in concentration as she painstakingly applied black nail varnish to Ava’s little finger.

  “You’re good at Geography, aren’t you?” Jemima said.

  “I guess so.”

  “How do you fancy doing my coursework for me?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s simple. You do all the work and I get an A* grade for my GCSE.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “For cash. I’ll pay you.”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred quid?”

  “A hundred quid! That’s a lot of money?”

  “I can afford it.”

  “How?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “Doing sexual favours for the boys?” Ava laughed.

  Jemima bent Ava’s finger back as far as it would go. “Who told you that?”

  “Ow! I was joking. God, what did you do that for?”

  “Sorry. I was just messing about. I don’t know my own strength sometimes.”

  “You’ve smudged the varnish.”

  “I can fix that.”

  “You’re not serious about your geography coursework, are you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But surely that’s cheating.”

  “So?”

  “Wouldn’t you rather work hard and get a good grade yourself? That would be an impressive achievement. Something you could be proud of. Are you sure you want to break the rules?”

  Jemima rose to her feet and put the nail varnish back in its drawer. “When did you become such a goody-two-shoes? I wish I hadn’t asked.”

  “No, I’ll do it if you want me to, Jem.”

  “Don’t put yourself out on my account.”

  “It’s fine. I’m happy to assist in any way I can. Especially for a hundred pounds.”

  “Cool. It needs to be finished by Tuesday, and it needs to be brilliant. I’ll pay you when I get my grade.”

  “Tuesday?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  “It’s just ... I’ve got schoolwork of my own to do and … well … it’s my birthday on Monday. So ...”

  “Oh, just forget it. I’ll get one of my other friends to help me out.”

  “What’s all this ruckus?” Lord whined. “Is everyone okay in here? Is my assistance required?”

  “Get out of the way you stupid dog.” Jemima swung her leg and landed the anxious pet a sharp kick in the ribs.

  “Oof!” Lord flew through the air, hit the wall, and slid to the floor with a bemused whimper.

  Her face red with anger, Jemima strode towards Lord and drew back her foot for another go.

  “Jem, no! Don’t hurt him. He didn’t mean to get in your way.”

  “Are you going to do my coursework or what?”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll do it. Just don’t hurt Lord anymore.” She knelt beside the shaking dog and stroked his head. “Are you okay, boy?”

  “Me? I’m fine. Possibly a cracked rib or two, but we Salukis heal very quickly. While you’re here, I wouldn’t say no to a quick tickle of my tummy. That’s the spot. Gently now.”

  Ava turned to her friend. “I think he’s okay.”

  “Of course he’s okay. I’ve kicked him harder than that before, haven’t I, Lord?” She held her hand out and the noble creature dutifully licked her knuckles. “You can go now, Ava. I’ve got friends coming round soon.”

  “Have you? I thought we were going to hang out for a bit.”

  “We’ve done that. Now you can scuttle off home. Here, take this.” She handed Ava a sheaf of papers. “It’s the instructions and the data for my coursework. Make sure it’s finished by break-time on Tuesday.”

  “I’ll do my best. It’s just …”

  “See ya.” Jemima gesticulated to the door with her thumb.

  Ava had no choice but to take her things and go, Lord limping along behind.

  Chapter 47

  Saturday 8 November, 2003

  The pub, 8:27 p.m.

  “I don’t hate many people, but that Mandy really annoys me, and I’ve got no idea why,” said Serena.

  “Hmm,” said Fiona. “I’ve got a couple of ideas. Could it be because her gravity-defying breasts are real?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Could it be because her nineteen-year-old arse looks like a delicious ripe peach?” added Mia.

  “Yes, it could be that too. Whatever it is, she really gets under my skin. Which leads me nicely onto this month’s conversation topic. I want to talk about hate. Do you hate anyone? Does anyone hate you? I’ll start. I hate that walking Barbie doll over there. No one should be allowed to look that fucking sexy.”

  “Must you swear, Serena? There’s really no need for it. You know I hate swearing.”

  “But do you hate people who swear?”

  “No. I just don’t like hearing obscenity.”

  “Do you hate anyone, Fi?”

  “I hate Steve sometimes in the middle of the night, when I drop an inch further than I was expecting onto ice-cold porcelain. Why can’t men put toilet seats down? It’s not that difficult. And I hate him when he tells me I’ve put on weight or he points out my grey roots. I know I’m getting old and fat. He doesn’t need to be so brutally honest about it. But the feeling doesn’t last long, and it’s not really hate because, even in that moment, I love him too. Erm ... who else? I guess I hate people in general who let their dogs poop on the hill, and don’t pick it up, but I don’t really hate anyone specific.”

  “Do you think anyone hates you?” said Serena.

  “Apart from my mother?”

  “She doesn’t hate you.”

  “No, you’re probably right. She’s just very, very disappointed that I’m not a Crown Court judge yet.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Once I acted as duty solicitor for a client who seemed to think it was all my fault that he got sent down for ten years for armed robbery. As they led him away, he claimed he hadn’t received a proper defence, and swore he was going to get even with me when he got out.”

  “Get even?”

  “Blow my effing head off with an effing shotgun, or words to that effect.”

  “Charming. At least he was imprisoned for a long time.”

  “Ten years isn’t that long. With good behaviour he should be out in five.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Erm … about four and a half years ago.”

  “Eek! So he might be back on the streets in six months?”

  “Yes. Minus the time he served while on remand awaiting trial.”

  “How long was that?”

  “
Six months, if I remember rightly.”

  “Shit! So a man who wants to shoot you in the head might be free any day now. You must be worried sick.”

  “I wasn’t, but I am now you’ve said that. I just assumed, after five years inside, he will have cooled off and realised that it wasn’t my fault at all. And even if he still holds a grudge, he must be aware that if my head suddenly parts company with my body as a result of a shotgun blast, straight after he gets out of prison, he’ll be the prime suspect.”

  “Good point. Yeah, you’ve got no reason to worry. What about you, Mia? Is there anyone you hate?”

  “Yes. I hate Wayne Fucking Smith.”

  Fiona slammed down her drink. “Now you’re swearing, too.”

  “No, that’s his actual middle name. I told you his parents were incorrigible.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “That’s what he told me during the first lesson I taught him. God, I hate that boy with a passion. He makes my life a misery, and it’s only a matter of time before I kill the little shh…”

  “Mia!”

  “Shifty blighter.”

  “Nice recovery.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you think he hates you, too?”

  “Wayne? Well, if he likes me, he’s got a strange way of showing it. There is an ex-pupil who hates my guts, though.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A nasty little creep called Anton Sharpe. Bright lad who was destined to get into a prestigious university until he decided to cheat in his A levels. I was one of the invigilators of his English Literature exam. I saw him take a piece of paper out of his sleeve and copy stuff from it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I had no choice. I left the venue immediately and reported what I’d seen to the headteacher. Anton was asked to step out of the examination hall but refused to leave, so he had to be manhandled out in front of all his friends. It was an awful scene. He made a right fool of himself: begging and crying. When he was searched, it turned out that, as well as a crib sheet, he also had a mobile phone in his pocket, and he’d been texting another student throughout the exam.”

  “Unbelievable. What was the outcome?”

  “The school informed the exam board, and the exam board disqualified him from all his exams. His parents appealed, but to no avail. The universities withdrew their offers, and he was permanently excluded from school as an example to the other students.”

  “Poor kid,” said Fiona.

  “No, he got what he deserved. Anyone who risks cheating has to accept the consequences.”

  Serena swallowed. “Do you know what became of him?”

  “He sent me a letter a few months back. You wouldn’t have liked it, Fi, there was lots of swearing. He accused me of ruining his life. No remorse whatsoever.”

  “How did he get your address?”

  “We used to be in the phone book. I guess he found it in there.”

  “Did he ever make it to university?”

  “No. At the time of writing he was assistant manager of Burgers, Baps & Beans in some declining seaside town.”

  “Why did he send you the letter?”

  “To threaten me. His P.S. was: ‘I’ll get my revenge you selfish old cow. Watch your back!’”

  “Jesus! You seem so calm about it. Doesn’t that worry you?”

  “Nah. He’s a little pipsqueak.” She took a small canister out of her pocket. “And if he ever comes near me I’ll spray him with this and knee him in the nuts.”

  “What is it?”

  “Pepper spray.”

  “How long have you been carrying that?”

  “Since the letter arrived but, to be honest, you two should be carrying some as well, especially with this nutter about attacking old women.”

  “We’re not old,” said Fiona. “But I take your point. It’s a sensible precaution.”

  “Is it?” Serena frowned. “Men don’t carry pepper spray wherever they go, so why should we?”

  “Because, like it or not, we’re not as strong as men.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Serena. “I reckon I could defend myself against ninety percent of the male population.”

  “But what about the other ten percent? And what if your attacker has got a knife?”

  “I’d run away. They’d never catch me. I can do ten kilometres in under an hour.”

  “Show off,” said Fiona.

  “As long as it’s all downhill with a following wind,” Serena finished. “What about Steve?”

  “What about him?”

  “Does he hate anyone and does anyone hate him?”

  “Oh, yes. Steve hates everyone. In fact, it would probably be quicker to list the people Steve doesn’t hate.”

  “Give us some examples.”

  “Okay. Steve hates Tony Blair, J.K. Rowling, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Steve Hillage, everyone who’s ever played for Manchester United, Sophie Countess of Wessex, people who drop litter, Mick Jagger, Dirty Den from Eastenders, …”

  “He’s fictional.”

  “That doesn’t seem to matter. Thora Hird, Saddam Hussein, Lance Armstrong, the guy who shot John Lennon, the guy who shot JFK, Dolly the sheep, …”

  “That’s an animal.”

  “That’s what I said. How can anyone hate a sheep? Arnold Schwarzenegger, all poets, me whenever I make him put the toilet seat down, Robin Gibb from the Bee Gees, …

  “Which one’s that?”

  “The one with the bad teeth and the voice like someone’s strangling a goat. Kylie Minogue, Danni Minogue, Mr and Mrs Minogue (the Minogue sisters’ parents), John McEnroe, The French, …”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, especially the poets who drop litter. Andy Gray, the old woman who works at the post office on Saturday mornings, David Campese, Jennifer Aniston in seasons one and four of Friends, Picasso, the guy who invented Worcestershire sauce, John ...”

  “All right. I think we get the idea. That’s a lot of people.”

  “I’ve barely scratched the surface.”

  “Does anyone hate Steve?”

  “Probably just that old guy who works at the recycling centre. Sometimes Steve spends his weekends pointing out to the poor chap all the things that are in the wrong skip. I can imagine that could get rather annoying after a while.”

  Serena and Mia nodded.

  “What about Ollie?” said Serena. “Does he hate anyone?”

  “No, he’s very even-tempered. Laid back. Phlegmatic. I can’t imagine Ollie exhibiting strong emotions about anyone or anything.”

  “He loves you and the kids, though.”

  “Of course, but he doesn’t really express his emotions.”

  “Have you ever seen him cry?”

  “Ollie? God, no. That man could watch every episode of The Little House On The Prairie back-to-back and not come close to shedding a tear.”

  “Impressive.” Fiona nodded.

  “I can’t imagine him hating anyone. It’s too strong an emotion.”

  “Do you think anyone hates him?”

  “No … although there was the guy who Ollie caught embezzling company funds.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. He was carrying out an audit at work and discovered a million pound hole in this company’s finances. At first he assumed it was just an accounting error, but the deeper he dug, the more suspicious it became. When he explained the problem to the CEO, the shit – sorry, Fi – really hit the fan. In the end, one of the directors quietly left the company, but not before giving poor Ollie a black eye. Rumour has it that the guy lost everything: his wife, his home, his cars, his yacht. I guess it’s possible that he hates Ollie as a consequence.”

  “Interesting,” said Serena. “Well, thanks for sharing, ladies. Is it my round?”

  “Yes, but before you go, you haven’t told us if anyone hates you. And what about Eric?”

  “Oh, everyone hates me.”

  “They do? How c
ome?”

  “Just look at me. I’m fit in every sense of the word. Women hate me because I’m sexier than they are, and men hate me because I make them feel guilty for not doing enough exercise.”

  Fiona looked at Mia. “She’s right.”

  “Yup. What about Eric?”

  “Hang on, hang on,” said Serena. “I wasn’t serious. Do you two honestly hate me? Does everyone hate me just because of my stunning beauty and gorgeous body?”

  Fiona nodded. “I do. Mia?”

  “Yeah, me too. So …”

  “That’s not fair. I work bloody hard to look this good.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why do you put so much effort into looking stunning – and, let’s face it, you do look stunning – when nobody appreciates it? Not men, certainly not women and, according to you, not Eric either. Why don’t you just let yourself go like Mia and I have?”

  Now it was Mia’s turn to slam her drink onto the table. “What’s that supposed to mean? I haven’t let myself go.”

  “Well, you have a bit. Look at your hair.”

  “Bloody cheek! You told me you like it like this.”

  “I do, but only because it makes me feel better about mine. When Steve mentions my grey roots I can just point out that your hair is grey all over.”

  “Grey hair is distinguished.”

  “Only on men.”

  “You bitch!”

  “Ladies, ladies,” Serena intervened. “Let’s not fight. If we fall out with each other, Mandy wins.”

  “Mandy?”

  “Yes. We never used to fight before that slag arrived.”

  “That’s true,” said Mia. “Perhaps we should start drinking at a different pub.”

  “There’s only one pub in the village.”

  “What about the Old Bush on the main road?”

  “What? No self-respecting villager of our status would be seen dead in the Grey Minge. And it’s too far away.”

  “It’s only a couple of miles.”

  “That’s a long way at night at this time of year. One of us would have to drive.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Serena. “I’m not drinking, anyway. And we could go in my swanky sports car.”

  “It’s worth considering, I guess,” said Fiona. “Speaking of the Old Bush, mine is more grey than brown these days. I started counting my white pubes while I was in the bath the other day and lost count in the high seventies.”