The Hunting Party. Lucy FoleyЧитать онлайн книгу.
as another painkiller: to blunt the edge of things, to alleviate the chronic, aching torment of memory.
Dinner is served in the big dining room in the Lodge, off the living room, which has been lit with what appear to be hundreds of candles, and staffed by a few spotty teenagers in plaid aprons. We’re two short: Samira and Giles are having supper in their cabin. Samira said she’s heard too many stories about parents ‘just leaving their kids for an hour or so’ when everything goes horribly wrong. Yes, I told her, patiently – but not in the middle of nowhere. Besides, Priya’s hardly going to be wandering off on her own at six months, for God’s sake. Still, Samira wasn’t having any of it.
I almost can’t believe this woman is Samira, who at one party in our early twenties decided to jump the two-foot gap between the house building and the building next to it, just for a laugh. She was always one of the wild ones, the party girl, the one you could rely on to raise the tempo of things on a night out. If Katie’s the one who I go way back with, Samira’s probably much more like me: the one I’ve always felt most akin to. Now I feel I hardly recognise her. Perhaps that’s just because she’s been so busy with Priya. I’m sure the real Samira is in there somewhere. I’m hoping this will be our chance to catch up, to remember that we’re partners in crime. But honestly, when some people have kids it’s like they’ve had a personality transplant. Or a lobotomy. Maybe I should count myself lucky that I don’t seem to be able to get pregnant. At least I’ll remain myself for Christ’s Sake.
I’ve got the gamekeeper, Doug, on one side of me and the other guy, Iain, on the other. Both of them are wearing identikit green kilts and sporrans. Neither looks particularly happy about it. As you might imagine, the gamekeeper wears his outfit best. He really is quite attractive. I am reminded of the fact that, before Julien, I was sometimes drawn to men like this. The reticent, brooding sort: the challenge of drawing them out, making them care.
I turn to him and ask: ‘Have you always been a gamekeeper?’
He frowns. ‘No.’
‘Oh, and what did you do before?’
‘The Marines.’
I picture him with a short back and sides, in uniform. It’s an appealing image. He looks good scrubbed-up, even if I’m sure his hair hasn’t seen a brush any time in the last five years. I’m glad I made an effort: my silk shirt, undone perhaps one button lower than strictly necessary, my new jeans.
‘Did you have to kill anyone?’ I ask, leaning forward, putting my chin in my hand.
‘Yes.’ As he says it his expression is neutral, betraying no emotion whatsoever. I experience a small shiver of what might be disquiet … or desire.
Julien is sitting directly opposite us, with a front and centre view of things. There is nothing like stirring a bit of jealousy to fire things up in a relationship – especially ours. It could be an over-familiar waiter in a restaurant, or the guy on the next sunlounger who Julien’s convinced has been checking me out (he’s probably right). ‘Would you want him to do this to you?’ he’d pant in my ear later, ‘or this?’
If I’m honest, sex has become, lately, a mechanism for a specific end rather than pleasure. I’ve got this app that Samira told me about, which identifies your most fertile days. And then, of course, there are certain positions that work best. I’ve explained this to Julien so many times, but he doesn’t seem to get it. I suppose he’s stopped trying, recently. So yes, we could do with things being spiced up a little.
I turn back to Doug, keeping Julien in my peripheral vision. He’s talking to the Icelandic woman, so I touch a hand against Doug’s, just for fun. I’ve had a couple of glasses too many, maybe. I feel his fingers flinch against mine.
‘Sorry,’ I say, all innocence. ‘Would you mind passing me the jus?’ I think it’s working. Certainly Julien’s looking pretty pissed off about something. To all intents and purposes he might be having a whale of a time – always so important to present the right face to the world – but I know him too well. It’s that particular tension in the side of the neck, the gritting of the teeth.
I glance over to where poor Katie, across the table from me, is seated next to the Icelandic man with the strange eyes, who seems to have taken a bit of a shine to her. It’s a bloody nightmare, them being here too. Are we going to have to share the sauna with them? Judging by the state of the clothes they’re wearing I’d have to disinfect myself afterwards.
The man, now, is leaning towards Katie as though he has never seen anything so fascinating or beautiful in his life. Clearly – judging by his partner – he has unconventional taste.
Though … there is definitely something different about Katie. She looks tired and pale, as per, but there’s that new haircut for a start. At the place she normally goes to, they style her hair à la Mrs Williams, our old school hockey teacher. You would have thought that with her corporate lawyer’s salary, she might try a bit harder sometimes. I’ve been telling her to go to Daniel Galvin for ages – I go for highlights every six weeks – so I don’t know why I feel so put out about her finally having listened to me. Perhaps because she hasn’t given me any credit for it, and I feel I deserve some. And perhaps because I had sort of imagined we might go together. Make a morning of it, the two of us.
I still remember the girl she was back then: flat-chested when everyone else was starting to develop. Lank-haired, knock-kneed, the maroon of the school uniform emphasising the sallowness of her complexion.
I have always liked a project.
Look at her now. It’s difficult to be objective, as I’ve known her so long that she’s practically a sister, but I can see how some men might find her attractive. Sure: she’ll never be pretty, but she has learned to make the best of herself. That new hair. Her teeth have been straightened and whitened. Her clothes are beautifully cut to make the most of her slight frame (I could never wear a shirt like that without my boobs creating the kind of shelf that makes you look bigger than you really are). She had her ears pinned back as a present to herself when she qualified at her law firm. She looks almost … chic. You might think she was French: the way she’s made the best of those difficult features. What’s that expression the French have for it? Jolie laide: ugly beautiful.
Katie would never be wolf-whistled at by builders or white-van men. I never understand why some people think you might be flattered by that. Look, OK, I know I’m attractive. Very attractive. There, I’ve said it. Do you hate me now? Anyway, I don’t need it confirmed by some pot-bellied construction workers who would catcall anyone with a short skirt or tight top. If anything, they cheapen it.
They wouldn’t shout at Katie, though. Well, they might shout at her to ‘Smile love!’ But they wouldn’t fancy her. They wouldn’t understand her. I’m almost envious of it. It’s something that I’ll never have, that look-twice subtlety.
Anyway. Maybe now we’re finally together, I can find out what’s been going on in her life – what it is that has prompted this mysterious change in her.
It’s hard not to spend the whole of the meal looking around the table, checking that everyone’s enjoying themselves. I really wish I’d opted us out of this dinner when I’d booked – it seemed like a great idea at the time, but with the Icelandic couple here as well there’s an odd dynamic. And this close proximity to the other guests just emphasises the mess-up over our not having