Caught in the Act

Diana looked affronted. ‘We wouldn’t have to learn it or anything, just do a read-through of the highlights. You know, witches, murder, madness, suicide, trees moving, ghost, Macduff, the end—it’d be great. We could invite everyone else who was interested from school to come along and watch us.’ Diana paused, waiting until Carol looked up. ‘I’m sure Gareth will be there.’

‘Sorry?’ Carol felt a little rush of heat and then cursed herself for being so silly.

‘Gareth.’

‘What do you mean, Gareth?’

‘Oh, come on. Don’t play the innocent with me. Gareth Howard, boy wonder. The Gareth Howard. He’s on the website, which re ally took me by surprise. He always used to be so cool, I couldn’t imagine him being on there at all, to be honest. But anyway, I emailed him and he mailed back and he suggested we chat, so I sent him my number and he rang me back more or less straight away.’ Diana paused for effect. ‘And the first thing he wanted to know was how you were.’

‘Oh right,’ Carol snorted, but even so she felt her jaw drop and her stomach do that odd little flipping thing that stomachs do; twenty years on and the first question on Gareth Howard’s lips was, how was Carol? ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

‘I’m telling you the truth; I’m a vicar’s wife, for God’s sake. He sounded re ally disappointed when I said we hadn’t seen each other for years.’

Carol stared at her. ‘You’re making this up.’

Slowly Diana shook her head. ‘Cross my heart,’ she mimed.

‘It’s ridiculous,’ Carol said, blushing furiously and then she flicked quickly on to the next page of the album, barely registering the pictures as the heat rushed through her, driven by a pulse set to boil. Gareth Howard, of all people. How many times had she and Diana run and rerun and replayed things he’d said, picking over the bones to try to work out what every syllable, every last nuance and gesture had meant. She had spent more time trying to translate Gareth Howard than she spent on the whole of her French O level.

Wasn’t it true that Carol had fancied him for years before the tour, that she had fantasised about him long after she got married? Hadn’t she loved him just a little; what if he had loved her a lot? Carol shivered and tried very hard to regain her composure.

‘A reunion sounds like a great idea but how the hell are we going to get everyone together? How would we find them all, for a start?’ Carol said as evenly as she could manage, also realising that she had just said ‘we’.

‘Oldschooltie—I’m sure that everyone on there is probably still in touch with one or two others, and maybe the School will help if I contact them. I think we should try for the drama group first and then if that doesn’t work just go for a straight reunion. I don’t know if you’ve looked lately but there are an awful lot of our old class on there.’

‘It sounds like a brilliant if slightly crazed idea,’ Carol said cautiously.

‘But?’ said Diana

‘But nothing. I was just wondering how many people would actually want to come. Chances are that they’re all spread halfway round the globe by now. Have you thought about where we could hold it? A restaurant or a hotel?’

Diana hesitated for a few moments and then said gleefully, ‘Actually I’ve got a brilliant idea. I don’t know if it’ll come off—’

‘I’m so glad you clung to your natural modesty.’

Diana pulled another of her famous faces. ‘What about if we tried for a weekend—as you said, people could have miles to drive.’

‘And?’

‘And there is this fantastic old country house I know in Oxfordshire. It’s used as a Christian retreat normally, but I’m sure they could find us some space if we asked nicely and it would be peanuts to hire for a couple of days. They’ve got loads of room and this re ally nice hall with a stage and everything.’

Carol refilled their glasses and then said with a wry smile, ‘So, Svengali, what else have you got in mind? World domination? Spit it out; there is just bound to be more.’

Diana had the bit between her teeth now. ‘How about—and this is in an ideal world, if we can get the hall—the drama group arrives Friday, everyone rehearses Saturday and then we put the performance on, on Sunday afternoon followed by—I don’t—maybe a traditional English tea for everyone. They could bring their families. This place is in its own grounds; the garden is big enough to lose half Wembley in, and it is a lovely house.’

‘Bloody hell. We’ve come a long way from a few school photos and Oldschooltie.’

‘Oh, come on. If we don’t try it we’ll never know, will we?’ Diana said briskly.

‘God, I bet you run a mean jumble sale.’

Diana refilled her glass. ‘You better believe it.’

TWO (#ulink_ffb263c7-c2b7-5c07-b1d7-d011885b7c9f)

‘Are you sure that you re ally don’t mind doing this?’ Carol stood near the front door. Her suitcase was over by the hall stand, she was just about ready to leave, and was only too aware of what a stupid question it was. What on earth would she do if Raf turned round and said yes?

‘I’ve already told you a dozen times, it’s fine. Besides, you’re always telling me that I’m a Friday-to-Sunday thing. Today’s Friday, I know my place.’ Raf grinned at her grimace and waved her away. ‘Relax, go, have a good time and don’t look so worried. We’ll be all right. I’ve got the list. I know what to water, who to feed and what to turn off. You’re OK about the directions? You know where you’re going? You’ve got everything you need?’

Carol patted her jacket theatrically. ‘Uh-huh, I think so—let me see: dagger, eyeliner, bad attitude—just about wraps it up. I’m just going to go and say goodbye to the boys and then I’ll be off. Oh, and did I ever mention, don’t fuss?’ she added, acting playfully grumpy, touched that he cared whilst all the while struggling to suppress the feeling that she was sloping off for a dirty weekend.

She glanced in the hall mirror and tugged her hair into shape. She’d had it cut and coloured. It looked great. She looked great.

So, OK, Gareth Howard was going to be at the reunion too. So what? So what did that re ally add up to in the great scheme of things? Nothing, not a thing. Anyway, he was probably old and bald and…Carol stopped herself from conjuring up an image of an older worldweary Gareth Howard, aware that Raf was still talking and that she was still smiling and nodding inanely and not listening to a single word he was saying.

The fantasy Gareth refused to be old and bald; instead he looked more or less exactly the same as when Carol had last seen him, just slightly thicker-set with greying hair, swept back from bold regular features that made him appear distinguished and sexy as hell. Carol sighed; the bastard.

Tucked into the top of her handbag was a battered copy of Macbeth—stolen from the English and Drama Department twenty years earlier and autographed by all the people who had been there on that last summer tour. Gareth had signed his name with love to her, love and a single kiss. It looked very classy amongst a sea of bad jokes, slushy sentiment and poorly drawn hearts and flowers. Doggedly Carol dragged her attention away from the book and the memories, but it was like trying to take a steak away from a terrier.

‘Have a good drive,’ Raf was saying, ‘and don’t worry about anything or anybody here. We’ll be just fine. I’m considering renting a few of those films you said you don’t ever want in this house, and filling up on fast food, pizzas, beer and take-out burgers.’

She couldn’t think of a smart reply quickly enough, so Carol plumped for looking at Raf all damp-eyed and feeling guilty instead. She’d done nothing at all and yet she felt guilty, horribly guilty. Ridiculous. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Ridiculous.

Raf put his arm round her waist and kissed her, and Carol immediately found herself wondering if Gareth would kiss her when they met. Did he still kiss the same as he had all those years ago? She seemed to remember he was a re ally good—and then, suddenly horribly aware of Raf’s lips on hers, Carol hated herself for thinking about Gareth. What a cow she had grown up to be.

Raf looked her up and down admiringly. ‘You know, you’re gorgeous,’ he purred. Carol softened. This man adored her; he cared for her, stood up for her, stood up to her and wanted to be with her. Raf wanted to marry her, for God’s sake—how crazy was that? Over a glass or two of wine out on the terrace he would look up at the stars and wax lyrical about the house they would buy together, the house they would love and grow old in together. He cooked, he bought her flowers and presents that she liked and wanted. He made her laugh; when she was sad or feeling down he brought her carrot cake with proper cream cheese icing from the baker’s on Bridge Street, or lemon drizzle cake with crystallised sugar on the top. Carol looked up into Raf’s big brown smiling eyes and tried very hard not to cry.

Carol loved Raf and she knew he loved her and yet…and yet, that thing, that, that little zing wasn’t there, that thing that made something happen in your gut every time you saw someone. It was the bastard factor that was lacking, that little edge of unpredictability that adds a bit of a challenge, a bit of bite. Raf was too nice, and it worried Carol. What if she got bored; what if, despite all evidence to the contrary, Raf wasn’t the one after all? What if loving him turned out to be a terrible mistake? What if…? The possibilities haunted her. Raf was so safe, so kind, so right for her—so why was it exactly that she was thinking about the might-have-beens with a man she hadn’t seen for twenty years?

Raf drew Carol closer still and kissed the tip of her nose. He smelled of sunshine and a hint of aftershave all wrapped around by a warm musky man smell. She felt safe curled in his arms; it was one of the things that had made her hang on and try to quell the fear. Maybe, just maybe that she had got it right this time and she wasn’t making a terrible mistake.

‘Now you be careful,’ teased Raf. ‘We’re expecting you to phone home every night. Don’t go talking to any strange men and if they offer you sweeties or to show you their puppies—’

‘I’ll tell them to bugger off, pull out my plastic dagger and then get Diana to flash them the wart.’

‘Good, now have you got a clean hanky?’ he continued in the same jokey paternal tone.

Behind them Jake thundered down the stairs, taking the last few steps two at a time and then swung round the newel post so he was standing right in front of her. ‘And there’ll be no staying up late, no drinking, no drugs and no monkey business,’ he said, wagging a finger at her.

Carol stared at him. ‘What?’ she spluttered.

‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. Just make sure you behave yourself, young lady,’ he said, all mock-parent and raging acne.

To her horror Carol felt her colour rising furiously as she hugged Jake goodbye. Of course she would behave herself. Wouldn’t she?

‘Ollie?’ Carol called, struggling to regain her composure. She glanced down at her watch to hide her discomfort; it was high time she was gone.

Ollie was in the kitchen, excavating something from the Mesozoic layer in the bottom of the fridge.