Daphne arrived late. ‘Sorry, sorry! I’m Greek!’ It was the perfect excuse, not only because it was half-true, thought Jane, but because it charmed. Dippy Greek was probably a useful ploy. Perhaps she really was becoming more Greek with age, Jane mused as her friend entered the hall – effervescent and laden with a bottle of chilled champagne and an extravagant bunch of fragrant, blue hyacinths, as though it was Jane’s birthday. She wore jeans dressed up with daintily heeled boots and a green silk shirt that rippled.
They drank the champagne, toasting the mysterious joys of middle age. There was a nervy volubility to Daphne, who couldn’t stay still, almost dancing over to inspect the food sizzling in the oven, or to peer at the photographs of Jane’s sons proudly plastered on the fridge, their mop-haired faces grinning out from ski slopes and school sports events, Toby in wig and breeches for a play, Josh in graduation robes. Jane knew she must take things slowly rather than barge straight in with talk of exploitation, abuse and rape.
The room sparkled from the candles on the kitchen table, but also, it seemed, from Daphne’s presence. As they sat down to eat, there was a small silence and slight tension.
‘You’re so clever, so accomplished,’ said Daphne. ‘Just look at you, climbing the heights of the scientific world, opening up the frontiers of medical research, and cooking this perfect meal.’ Her overgenerosity meant you couldn’t be sure what to take seriously. Still, the food was perfect, Jane thought. And nothing wrong with boosting morale.
They talked of their children and then their parents.
‘Not much to report,’ said Jane. ‘Still in the same house. Dad retired, but apart from that, everything’s almost exactly as when you knew them. What about Ed?’
‘Oh Ed’s in the Dordogne, but you probably knew that. I suppose it’s been about twenty-five years. I hardly ever see him.’ Daphne looked wistful. ‘Still with Margaret – his Canadian wife.’ Her expression turned mischievous. ‘Mags was a fan. Went to one of his lectures and started writing to him, bombarding him with adoring letters. No aphrodisiac like flattery. You know how it goes. Anyway, they’ve been together ever since.’
‘Do you like her?’
‘I hardly know her. I suppose she’s a good person. Solid, reliable, keeps an even keel. Nothing like Ellie. But then nobody could have her joie de vivre.’
‘Ellie was such a remarkable mother,’ agreed Jane. ‘I always wished mine could be a bit more like her – both the glamour and the unpredictability. I loved the way she’d organise a huge picnic for us all and then the next day she was leading a battalion of protestors into a line of French policemen.’
‘Yeah. Or fucking a Frenchman.’ Daphne’s tone was suddenly peevish.
‘Do you think she was away too much, that she should have defended you more?’ Jane grasped the opportunity. ‘Safeguarded you?’
‘Safeguarded? From what?’
‘Well… from Ralph.’
Daphne looked interrogatively at Jane before answering, but she didn’t say, ‘Oh leave me alone.’ Instead, she responded reasonably, ‘Well, Ellie’s approach was absolutely of its time. But it’s like I said when we met before, the thing between Ralph and me wasn’t something I wanted safeguarding from. Of its time too, of course, but wonderful in its way.’
‘You don’t think it harmed you? That it affected your life at all?’
‘No. I really don’t.’ She shook her head. ‘I’d know if I was harmed, wouldn’t I?’ She didn’t expect an answer.
Jane knew she must be cautious but couldn’t resist taking up the challenge. ‘So you’re saying what Ralph did was fine?’
‘Oh God, Janey, I don’t know. It was a very specific thing. He fell for me and I happened to be a child. He wasn’t in love with other girls. And then as I grew up… I wanted it. I loved him. You remember. It was exciting.’ She beamed and glinted. ‘Why should there be such a specific age placed on what young people can and can’t do? It’s so puritanical. No one’s allowed to break the rules or have fun.’
Jane moved in closer. ‘What would you do if a man made Libby love him?’ A flash of puzzlement crossed Daphne’s face, and then she appeared to resolve the question by some sort of internal reasoning. She was so easy to read.
‘It’s a different era now. I mean, think about what was going on in those days. Do you remember? You couldn’t behave like that today. Everyone was so busy having fun and getting liberated, it was only fair for kids to… I don’t know. I suppose we’re all children when we’re in love. I don’t know anyone of my age who didn’t have some sort of inappropriate fling or grope or… something in those days. You expected it. It didn’t seem wrong at the time. And you saw how both my parents were behaving. It was in the air.’
It was true, thought Jane. An image flashed of a day when she went home with Daphne after school and Edmund was there with Dizzy, his research student. The girls sat in the kitchen and watched them prepare a bottle of wine and two glasses to take upstairs. ‘Sustenance – we’ve got a lot of correcting to do,’ announced Ed. Later, Jane followed Daphne to her attic room and, pausing on the top-floor landing, they heard the unmistakable sounds of sex coming from behind the door to Edmund’s study: deep male outbreaths in a furious duet with female sighs. It was monstrous and fascinating, as though there was a dangerous animal on the other side.
Jane was so shocked and embarrassed she looked away, pretending not to hear. She thought Daphne was also ignoring it, as she turned and ran back down the stairs, but when they got to the kitchen, she was laughing. ‘Ralph said he thought Ed was having it off with Dizzy. Yuck! They’re terrible, my parents.’ Perhaps she was pretending she didn’t care, thought Jane. It was an upside-down world.
‘Does your mum know?’
‘I’m not sure. She’s probably doing the same thing.’ Daphne gave a harsh laugh, as though her parents were wayward children and she was the tolerant minder.
‘You must remember what it was like then?’ Daphne’s adult voice forced Jane back to the present.
‘Of course I remember,’ replied Jane, noting an annoying touch of the schoolmarm in her own voice. It had been as though the cloud of steam from all the sex people were having had been located somewhere above Barnabas Road. It certainly wasn’t in Wimbledon.
‘Everything was hanging out – it was so… hairy,’ said Daphne.
‘Hairy?’
‘You know, hair grown long, hair gone wild, hair not shaved. Like Hair the musical. Like when we found Ellie’s copy of The Joy of Sex? God that was hairy! The woman with unshaved armpits… and that bloke with his beasty, black beard and greasy locks. And testicles viewed from absurd angles. Ugh.’ Daphne chuckled as though she was still the kid with the naughty book in her hands.