‘I don’t think particularly messy. They all are, aren’t they? At least all of mine have been. What about you, Jude? Have you had a lot of messy ones?’
‘My fair share, I’d say.’
‘Well, I think I’ve had more than my fair share.’ Fennel Whittaker let out a bitter laugh. ‘Though I don’t think “fairness” really comes into it. And to be fair to the men who’ve had relationships with me, I don’t think it can have been easy for them. Never knowing from one minute to the next what person, what version of me, was going to come through the door.’
‘I’ve had depressive friends,’ said Jude gently, ‘who’ve said that the comfort of having an ongoing relationship is that you’ve got someone who knows you’re the same person, whatever mood you’re in.’
‘Well, your friends have been luckier than I have!’ Fennel’s anger was less as she went on. ‘Men are always making jokes about women’s moodiness, uncomfortable jokes about menstrual cycles, but in my experience the women I know have been models of consistency compared to the men. Mind you, any man who takes me on gets a bellyful of moodiness.’ A wistfulness crept into her tone. ‘That’s why I got so excited when I met Denzil. At first he seemed to understand my personality, even see virtues in it. He said that all great artists are volatile, that the volatility is an essential ingredient in the art. He was very understanding.’
‘From what I saw of him this evening he didn’t seem very understanding.’
‘No, Jude. I’m afraid tonight you saw the real Denzil Willoughby – totally selfish. But I was fooled by him for quite a long time. And he can be surprisingly gentle at times. Oh, I know, you always read in the paper about these women who let men suck them dry financially and, generally speaking, you think, “Stupid bitch, why did she let herself be taken for a ride like that?” I’ve been through it, though. I know how credulous you can be when you think the person conning you is offering lurve.’ Her jokey emphasis on the word didn’t disguise the pain she was feeling. ‘But now,’ she said, ‘I feel better for denouncing the bastard in public.’ And she took a celebratory swig from her bottle.
‘Good,’ said Jude. ‘Promise me one thing, Fennel.’
‘What?’
‘That you won’t attempt to drive home in this state.’
‘But I’m perfectly capable of driving home,’ Fennel replied with the unshakeable confidence of the very drunk. ‘If anything, my faculties are sharper than usual. I feel very in control.’
‘How you feel and how you actually are may be two very different things.’
‘Oh, come on, Jude. You’re the last person I would have thought of as a party-pooper.’
‘Well, if that’s what you want to call it, on this occasion that’s the role I’m going to take. It would be a terrible waste if you wrapped this Mini round a tree somewhere between here and Chichester.’
There was a silence as Fennel digested this thought. Then she said, ‘Yes, it would be a terrible waste.’
‘So you’re not at the moment feeling suicidal?’
‘God, no. Oh, I know I have done at times, but I’m putting that behind me. Now I’ve expiated the curse of the extremely unlovely Denzil Willoughby, I very much want to continue living.’
This positive manner was good in one way, but it also sounded alarm bells for Jude. She had treated a lot of bipolar clients, and she knew the dangers of the low that could follow an ecstatic high.
‘Are you taking your medication?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I’m being a good girl. And I know it says on the packet you should try not to drink while you’re on it, but what the hell? Do you know anyone who takes seriously that thing about “avoiding alcohol” when you’re on medication – even antibiotics?’
Jude was forced to admit she knew very few people who ticked that particular box. ‘I think we should get you home,’ she said.
‘How?’ asked Fennel. ‘You say you’re not going to allow me to drive. I don’t want to get a lift with my parents – and all the sanctimonious ticking-off that will involve. Or with Chervil, come to that . . . though I doubt if she’ll be coming home. No doubt spending the night here with lover-boy.’ She infused the word with an infinity of contempt.
‘I’ll drive you home,’ said Jude.
‘I didn’t know you could drive.’
‘Why shouldn’t I be able to?’
‘Well, you haven’t got a car.’
‘I haven’t got a swimming pool, but that doesn’t mean I can’t swim.’
Carole had noticed Jude’s absence fairly soon after she’d left. Her first instinct, to hurry out after her, she curbed. How embarrassing it would be, she thought, if she left the Cornelian Gallery and found Jude outside with some man draped around her. Carole knew that her neighbour’s sex life had been much more varied and adventurous than her own, but in her mind she did sometimes overestimate Jude’s powers as a man-magnet. Still, having witnessed a New Year’s Eve party that had led to a one-night stand, she wouldn’t put anything past her.
It wasn’t as if Jude was dependent on Carole for transport that evening, as had sometimes been the case. They were both within a short walk of their homes. And they weren’t joined at the hip, for heaven’s sake, Carole told herself. They were both grown-up women, capable of making their own decisions and deciding the right moment to leave a Private View. But she couldn’t stop feeling that Jude’s departing without telling her was a slight – a slight slight perhaps, but still a slight.
‘We meet again.’
She turned at the sound of a hesitant voice and saw that Ned and Sheena Whittaker had joined her. ‘Yes. Nice to see you.’
Ned raised his glass. ‘Very acceptable red wine. An Argentinian Malbec. In fact we drink quite a lot of this at home.’
‘The Crown and Anchor has a very good wine list.’
He looked puzzled so Carole elucidated. ‘This is being catered by the Crown and Anchor pub, here in Fethering.’
‘Ah.’
‘How’s the glamping going?’
‘We don’t officially open till tomorrow evening,’ replied Sheena. ‘First guests are supposed to be arriving about four, I think.’ She giggled nervously. ‘Thank goodness Chervil’s in charge. I’d be sweating cobs if it was me.’
‘You’d do it fine, love,’ said her husband. But his reassurance sounded automatic, not convinced that she would.
Carole, whose antennae were very sensitive to deficiencies in the self-esteem department, was once again struck by the Whittakers’ insecurity. All that money and they never seemed quite at ease, always pretending to be people they weren’t.
‘Anyway,’ Ned went on, ‘Walden’s Chervil’s baby, so you don’t have to worry.’
‘Yes, but suppose she was away one night and you weren’t there either and someone from the site came up to the big house wanting me to sort something out for them . . .?’
‘It won’t happen, love,’ he said, with a new harshness in his voice, and Carole realized that this was the type of argument they had had time and time again in the course of their marriage. She wondered what level of resentment Ned felt for his wife’s pussy-footedness.
‘Anyway, Carole,’ Ned went on, ‘it wasn’t Chervil I wanted to talk about. I wanted to apologize for her sister’s behaviour.’
‘Oh, I didn’t really notice it,’ Carole responded fatuously.
‘The fact is . . .’ A look was exchanged between husband and wife. Sheena was clearly urging Ned to stop, but he still proceeded. ‘The fact is that Fennel does have some mental health issues . . .’
‘I had heard that, yes.’
‘. . . and when she has too much to drink, she does things . . . well, you’ve seen what she does.’