Close to Death

Tom slid the bottle away, as if he’d been caught trying to steal it. ‘The bastard’s not going to come, is he!’ he said.

She looked at her watch. ‘It doesn’t look like it,’ she admitted.

‘He’s laughing at us!’

Gemma frowned. ‘Maybe you should just try to relax,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘You can’t keep letting him drag you down. It’s not good for you.’

Tom ignored her. ‘He woke me up in the middle of the night last night. And this morning, when I tried to get to the surgery, his bloody car was blocking the way. Again!’

‘How did you get in?’ She had left before him, taking the tube into the centre of town.

‘I walked.’

‘He can be very inconsiderate.’

‘He does it on purpose.’ Tom drank half the whisky in his glass. ‘Like not coming here tonight. I don’t know why he moved into the close. He clearly holds all of us in contempt.’

Gemma was becoming increasingly worried about her husband. It wasn’t just the drinking, the secret smoking or even the anger that she could see welling up inside him. It was the distance that was growing between them. There were times when she barely recognised the happy, easy-going man she had married. Tall and slim, with tumbling, sand-coloured hair, there had always been a boyish quality about him. But now he was being pulled in different directions – by life, by work, above all by Giles Kenworthy and his wretched cars – and it was beginning to show. He was going to be forty next year, but he looked much older. Unhappiness was etched into every part of his face. She regretted bringing him here. How could she save him? How could she save both of them?

‘Try not to get too stressed,’ she said, gently touching his arm and then moving away before he could protest.

She went over to the other side of the room where Roderick Browne was standing protectively behind his wife, who was in an armchair, almost folded into it. Gemma remembered Felicity when they had first arrived. Their houses faced each other across the courtyard, on either side of Riverview Lodge, and the two of them had often met. Felicity (‘Fee’) had been so different then: socially and politically active, campaigning for the Liberal Democrats, supporting the Orange Tree Theatre, dragging Roderick off to her beloved archery club – she was a much better shot than him, she said – and occasionally throwing gourmet dinners.

And then this wretched illness had not so much crept up on her as pounced, draining all her energy and vitality and turning her into the casualty who had somehow made it here tonight. Gemma had been surprised to see her. She knew that Felicity spent most of her time in bed.

‘How lovely to see you, Felicity,’ she said now. ‘I’m so glad you came.’

‘We have to talk about the swimming pool,’ Felicity replied. Even speaking was a struggle for her, the words falling heavily from her lips.

‘Oh, yes.’ Like everyone else in Riverview Close, Gemma had received the planning application, which had been waiting for her in the kitchen when she got home. It didn’t bother her too much if the Kenworthys wanted to vandalise their own garden: the pool would be situated on the other side of the house, some distance from Gardener’s Cottage. But of course it would be directly in Felicity’s line of vision, along with the Jacuzzi and the changing room.

‘We’re not going to let them get away with it,’ Roderick exclaimed. ‘Someone should do something about him! Someone should . . . I don’t know! Ever since he came here, he’s been nothing but trouble.’

‘I’m sure the council won’t allow it,’ Andrew Pennington said, although it was clear from his voice that he had misgivings. All the houses in the close were modern and the garden was out of sight of the main road. It was quite possible that the Kenworthys would be allowed to do whatever they wanted.

‘We might have to move if it goes ahead,’ Roderick added, glumly.

‘I’m not moving.’ Suddenly Felicity was fearsome, her hands clutching the arms of her chair. ‘Why should I? It’s not fair. This is my home!’

There was the sound of a fork hitting the side of a glass. Adam Strauss was standing in front of a gold-framed mirror next to the front door. ‘Excuse me, everyone,’ he called out. He put down the fork and picked up his telephone. Everyone knew there was bad news coming. They could see it on his face. ‘I’m afraid I’ve just had a text from Giles Kenworthy. He and his wife won’t be joining us after all.’

The announcement was met with a profound silence. Nobody in the room moved, as if they were waiting for the person next to them to react.

It was Tom Beresford who spoke first. ‘Why not?’ he demanded.

‘He doesn’t really say.’ Adam read from the screen. ‘“Sorry. Can’t be with you tonight. Trouble at work. Maybe next time.”’ He lowered the phone. ‘I suppose I’m not surprised.’

‘He sounds quite cheerful about it,’ Tom said.