A Simple Life. Rosie Thomas
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T-shirt, Jack.’
‘I don’t want to change. I don’t think it’s necessary, in fact. This one’s good enough.’
‘All right.’
‘So if Jack doesn’t have to, then I shouldn’t have to either.’
‘All right.’
‘When’s Dad getting home?’
A minute later they heard his Toyota drawing up, and Matthew banged through the front door. The spring was still not fixed. His blue shirt was tucked in again and he was bare-headed. The boys leapt at him and he looked over their heads to Dinah.
‘I like that dress.’
She smoothed the bright yellow linen with one hand. She had dressed carefully, but Matt had seen the outfit a dozen times before.
‘Busy day?’ she asked.
‘Yep, pretty busy. The usual.’
‘You’ve got time to shower before the party.’
We are so careful of each other, Dinah thought. Solicitous, as if we have some sickness between us that is never mentioned, even though the pain gnaws.
Matt groaned. ‘I’d forgotten the party.’
He made for the stairs, with a child hopping on either side. Watching him, Dinah saw that his shoulders were hunched and there was a prickle of grey in his hair. She remembered the lithe man across the grass who had seemed a total stranger to her, and tried to knit together the two images. They made an uncomfortable hybrid. We are Matt’s responsibility, she thought. He shoulders the weight dutifully. And work is his resort and comfort. When did it happen, this switch?
She thought back involuntarily and then stopped herself, pinching off the flow of recollection.
The guests arrived, headed by the Berkmanns. Max Berkmann was wearing French workman’s overalls. Mr Dershowitz was missing because he was in hospital, and the four graduate students had moved on. Dinah had never really got to know the good-looking one any better than to exchange affable nods across the street.
‘Bit of a failure,’ she had joked to Nancy.
‘Matt’s better-looking anyway, and he’s got full tenure.’
It was a good party. The moon hung above the trees, heavy and orange-tinged, and the children’s candle lanterns glowed amongst the dry leaves. The Kendrick Street neighbours were pleased to see each other after the long vacation and there was plenty of news to exchange.
Jack and Merlin went off with Tim Kerrigan. Dinah caught a glimpse of them in one of the bedrooms, sitting in a line with legs stuck out in front of them and chins sunk on their chests, watching a video. Just lately, her children had stopped making unfavourable comparisons between Franklin and home. They seemed to have stopped thinking about England altogether.
Dinah flitted from group to group, laughing and talking. She had drunk two quick glasses of wine in the kitchen with Nancy. Two or three people told her she was looking well, that her summer tan suited her. She listened to Max Berkmann describing the idyllic year in France.
‘I tell you, we would have stayed right there in Mâcon if there was any way I could have fixed it.’
‘Here, Dinah.’ George Kuznik was partial to Dinah, and he shifted to make a place beside him on the garden seat. The darkness was warm and scented and within it the lanterns made oval patches of fuzzy golden light.
George’s voice rumbled in her ear. ‘A cold beer and you. What more could a guy ask for? You know, I always think this is the best time of year. After the heat, waiting for the fall, before the cold comes.’
Talking without listening to herself, Dinah said something about not much looking forward to another New England winter. She was overtaken by a sense that this place was still utterly strange to her, and by the mysteriousness of the people around her, even her husband. The landmarks of habit and logic and certainty were dissolving. She was on the outside of all this talk, detached from the physical world even with George Kuznik’s bulk pressing against her thigh, and she was losing her ability to decode the messages that were flashed to her.
She was afraid they would notice; everyone would notice her singularity.
With a beat of panic Dinah wondered if she might be going mad.
She turned to George suddenly and took hold of his hand. Anchoring herself. His palm was moist, surprisingly soft. George’s domed forehead reflected the lantern overhead. He leaned forward and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. A bubble of laughter forced itself upwards but George only asked solemnly, blinking a little.
‘You all right, Dinah?’
The garden began to coalesce again around her. The fearful dislocation was passing. Dinah did laugh now, and the laughter eased her throat and slackened her face. She released George’s hand and set it back in his lap, registering the flicker of his disappointment. Beyond him she saw a big man emerge from the house and stand on the porch steps, hands on hips, his gaze panning across the garden.
‘How much have I had to drink?’ she smiled.
‘Aw, and I thought it was my charm that was intoxicating.’
Dinah kissed George’s cheek then leaned back, separating herself from him. ‘You’re a good neighbour,’ she said truthfully. They both drank, allowing the tiny awkwardness to pass.
‘Who’s that?’ She indicated the big man who was now strolling between the groups of people. His height and commanding manner gave him a seigneurial air.
‘A friend of Max’s, Todd must have asked him over. Name’s Ed Parkes. Have you heard of him? He writes thrillers. Pleased with himself, but a decent sort of guy. His wife’s British, now I come to think of it.’
Later in the evening when the party shifted indoors and the children began to reappear and rummage for leftover food, Dinah met the Parkeses. Ed had a huge handshake, and his face creased into affable crinkles while his shrewd, light-blue eyes examined her. He told her that he came originally from Detroit but he and his wife had a house in the woods outside Franklin, and one in London where they spent part of the year, and a chalet in Zermatt. He talked easily, amusingly, but in the slightly overbearing way of a man accustomed to being the focus of attention. At last, but with a suggestion that it was out of good manners rather than real interest, he turned the conversation to Dinah.
‘I don’t have a job here,’ she told him. ‘I used to be in advertising, in London.’
‘Doing hearth and home for a while?’ He was appraising her.
‘That’s right.’ She was grateful for his way of putting it.
Your husband’s the scientist, isn’t he? I must have a talk with him. I can always use special expertise.’
Dinah was amused at the idea of Matt’s work being good for nothing more than extra colour in one of Ed Parkes’s airport blockbusters. She bit the corner of her lip, and then realised that Ed had followed her thoughts as plainly as if she had spoken them aloud. He was grinning down at her.
‘You think I’m full of shit?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Not much. Hey, I want you to meet Sandra. Here she is. Sandy, this is Dinah Steward. You’ll like each other, and not just because you talk the same language.’
Sandra Parkes was in her mid to late forties, tall and pale and thin, and very beautiful. She had the kind of flawless finely featured face that make-up artists and cameras fall in love with. Dinah didn’t dare to squeeze her hand when she took it in case the pale skin bruised.
‘What’s he said?’ Sandra asked.
‘Nothing you can’t contradict if you wish, honey.’ Ed sauntered away. His made-to-measure shirt sat comfortably across his massive shoulders.