‘Not a very easy child, that one,’ Martin said. She settled down with her back to the kitchen window, her knees pensively drawn up to her chin. She sat down in the late sun, on a bench under a heavy swathe of roses. A moment later they saw her appear in the overgrown garden. She swung her legs off the stool and strolled out. Linda would have to learn to gauge the dividing line between the unencouraging and the simply rude. ‘Until I have finished talking to Mr Landwith,’ Harriet said severely. ‘Linda, would you like to go and watch some television?’
‘Ah, I was hoping, Harriet, that we might have five minutes’ talk?’ Linda’s froideur was adult in its potency. She thought, if you turn up more or less unannounced … ‘Harriet and I are having dinner,’ she said coldly. She caught herself staring at him, and turned abruptly to hustle Linda’s chicken into the refrigerator. Harriet found it almost comically incongruous to see him standing amongst her pots and pans. The dark blazer was still magically tailored to make him seem taller and slimmer than he really was. For a Saturday evening in Hampstead he was dressed a shade less formally than on a weekday. Martin accepted a glass of sherry and stood in the middle of the kitchen looking around him. Linda favoured him with a blank stare, and then turned her attention to licking the sugar and cinnamon off her fingers. ‘Of course I do.’ Martin was about to extend an avuncular hand but then, seeing Linda’s, he thought better of it. She showed him straight into the kitchen where Linda was perched on a stool, arranging her stuffed apples in a baking dish, surrounded by the debris of their cooking. Harriet thought, if he turns up on a Saturday evening, he can take us just as we are. They went calmly on with their preparations.Īt seven o’clock exactly Martin rang the doorbell. Linda had listened to what she had been told. There was no complaint this time about our weekend. Linda picked up her knife once more, exhaling steadily. She took a deep breath, raising her skinny shoulders, controlling herself by being seen to control herself. He’s going to pay us a little visit in an hour’s time.’ She remembered thinking that the Bel Air mansion made Little Shelley look bleakly understated. Harriet supposed that because Bel Air was home, Linda didn’t look with the same critical eye at Clare’s décor. Harriet was left listening to the dialling tone. Martin was as smooth as the butter that Linda was busy rubbing into the chicken skin.
She could only say, feebly, ‘Um, yes, I suppose so.’ She was still too startled by finding herself in conversation with him at all. Harriet didn’t think quickly enough to manufacture an excuse.
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