‘Fuck off!’ she said too meekly, realising immediately that this was the wrong approach. The boys gathered round. ‘Oooooh,’ squealed the lanky boy, in mock horror, closing in. ‘Don’t mind if we do… if you fuck off with me.’
He swung himself over the bench so he was sitting on the back, his feet on the seat next to her, and leaned down. ‘Fancy a bit of my candyfloss?’ She could smell him – an animal pungency and cigarette breath joining the warm chemical sweetness of pink, spun sugar. He was leering, emboldened by his mates who circled round them. Jane turned away from him, striving for haughtiness, but the boy jumped off the bench and leaped into a crouch at her feet. ‘Here, try a bit. It’s really nice. Sweet. Like you.’ He turned to his mates with a grin.
She edged along the bench and looked in the other direction.
‘What’s your name then?’
She didn’t answer and stood up, looking for a way out, but the boys all moved so they surrounded her in front and the bench blocked her escape from behind. ‘Come on, no hurry. Sit down again?’ The boy patted the bench and sat down himself.
‘Jane!’ Ralph’s superior tones sounded clear and incongruous as a bugle. He and Daphne were hurrying along the pier towards her, the pushchair bumping along before them.
‘So, Jane, give us a quick kiss then before we go,’ said the boy, weighing up the options and preparing his exit. ‘That your dad, then?’ he asked, gesturing at Ralph.
‘Yes, and he’ll kill you,’ replied Jane.
‘What’s going on here?’ demanded Ralph, providing a good approximation of an angry dad.
‘Nothing. Just talking.’ The boy paused for effect. ‘She’s gorgeous, your daughter.’ His mates snorted with mirth and their eyes flitted between the risk of an irate father and the fun of teasing a bespectacled girl with spots and big tits.
‘OK, off you go now,’ Ralph countered sternly, having evidently considered and then decided against denying his paternity. ‘Go on, scat.’
‘Ooh, keep your hair on,’ retorted Jane’s lanky tormentor. ‘Come on, boys, we’re not wanted around here.’ And he turned and sauntered off, his hyenas following with a look of satisfaction as they tore pieces of candyfloss from their sticks and stuffed them into their mouths.
‘Where were you?’ Jane whimpered. She addressed Daphne. ‘Why did you leave me?’
Daphne didn’t meet her eyes. ‘We couldn’t find you… and then we went for a walk to find some shade.’ Daphne’s lips were red, her hair mussed. You could see her pointy breasts through her shirt. She looked as though she’d been getting off with Ralph. What kind of friend abandons you to go off with an old man? An old man with a baby! Jane pictured them in the damp shadows beneath the pier, hiding behind the wooden supports. There was a strand of green seaweed tangled in Daphne’s hair.
‘Are you OK, Jane?’ asked Ralph. He was clearly anxious, his eyes flicking in the direction of the boys who had now disappeared into the crowds.
‘No. Yes. I’m fine.’ Jane looked away. Her anger was slightly assuaged by Ralph’s alarm. He was evidently aware that he was at least partially responsible for the incident. She glanced back at him and felt the intensity of his gaze upon her.
‘Nasty little buggers. Were they here long?’ The comforting arm he placed around her shoulder transmitted such power that she felt suddenly much better, as though miraculously healed from her recent humiliations.
She shook her head, wanting to appear brave and worldly. ‘No, hardly any time at all.’
Ralph bought them ice creams in a cone with a chocolate flake.
‘You know it’s made from whale blubber,’ said Daphne, licking like a cat. ‘What a waste of the biggest mammal in the world – turning it into fucking ice cream.’ Jane suspected Daphne liked swearing because it made her feel grown up or sexy, especially if Ralph was there. On the way back to the car, Daphne stopped in front of a small kiosk. Madam Julia, daughter of Almena Lee. Palmist, Clairvoyant and Spiritualist. ‘Fuck! I’ve got to go in,’ she pleaded, pulling on Ralph’s arm. ‘Please. I’ve never met a proper clairvoyant.’ Jane expected Ralph to capitulate, but he was rather gruff. ‘Definitely not! Load of codswallop. Come on, we need to go now.’ He almost dragged her, but then tried to make it up, buying several sticks of Brighton rock and some saucy seaside postcards, which he dealt out to the girls. You’ve got a couple of nice handfuls! Slice of rock, cock.
Daphne insisted Jane sit in the front on the way back, and Ralph agreed. ‘Come on, Lady Jane. Your turn.’ She felt pleased and then annoyed at herself for being so easily pacified after the betrayal on the pier. As they edged out of Brighton along traffic-clogged roads, Ralph asked her about her dreams and what she hoped to do in her life. Stopping the car at some traffic lights, he looked straight into her eyes. ‘What do you feel truly passionate about?’ And she suddenly felt shy that this handsome man was taking an interest in her. She remembered his hand sliding across to Daphne’s on the morning’s drive down, and wondered how she would react if he did that to her. The thought was thrilling and terrifying. What, she wondered, did Daphne feel when she was with him? What had they done under the pier? Placed physically between the two lovers in the car, she sensed the intensity of their connection as though it was palpable. She felt connected to them both, part of their secret and almost aroused by it.
They had all the windows open but it was still baking hot, and the journey home was interminable. Ralph’s attempt at charming her gradually petered out and, as they snaked through London’s southern suburbs, he was mostly silent. The car made odd coughing sounds and the engine stalled a couple of times. ‘Shit,’ Ralph muttered and then cheered up when the car started again. ‘Good old Maurice.’ The baby dozed for much of the way and Daphne slept too, curled up next to him on the back seat. Unlike the sexy femme fatale she’d been impersonating in Brighton, she now looked like a tired child.
By the time Jane received Daphne’s friendly email on Monday morning, she had a plan. It was not an easy project. Jane had spent the last decades removing herself as far as she could from this story. It was like returning to the Minotaur’s labyrinth; she must sharpen her sword and take a strong length of thread with which to make her way out again. But justice must be done. Daphne would eventually realise this.
At the lab, she was distracted. She forgot an appointment to interview candidates for a technician internship and was located in a distant part of the building, devouring a spicy hummus sandwich for a late lunch, her hair still wet from the swimming pool.
When she got home she phoned Daphne. ‘It’s your birthday this Friday, isn’t it?’ Dates learned in childhood remained a fixture and she always remembered Daphne on May 2nd, even if she had not been part of her celebrations since they were teenagers.
‘Shit, that’s clever of you. Well, you always did have a brain. Yes, an undistinguished fifty-one and I’m not going to do anything about it. Libby’s off to Normandy on a school trip and I’m planning to sew my way through the weekend. That’s my idea of fun now!’ She let out a girlish giggle.
‘Oh why don’t we get together then? You can’t be alone for a birthday. Michael’s away at a conference the whole weekend, so I’ll be alone too. Come for a little birthday supper at my place. Nothing elaborate.’ She pictured Daphne weighing up her options. Maybe she had been lying and was having a party and just didn’t want to invite Jane. Her response, however, gave no hint of this. ‘That’s so sweet of you. Are you really sure?’
‘Of course!’
‘Well, great. I’d love to.’
On Friday she hurried home from work. Having prepared the stuffed aubergines the previous day, she placed them in the oven and chopped up sweet potatoes, parsnips and onions to roast with olive oil and rosemary. For a first course, she assembled a salad of quinoa with halloumi, coriander and lime. Sitting ready in the freezer was the Arctic Roll she’d bought at Sainsbury’s. It had been Daphne’s favourite and they’d sometimes worked their way through an entire cake, sawing at the hard, frozen log at the beginning and scooping up melted ice cream by the end. Only one candle today; fifty-one wouldn’t have fitted and two digits might have seemed like a dig. A present was waiting, nestled in tissue paper in a glossy blue bag: a bottle of Floris’s Stephanotis bath essence. She believed Daphne would understand the reference, and not think it was merely a conventional gift. Just in case she’d forgotten, Jane wrote at the bottom of the birthday card, ‘For death baths only!’