“She’s a useless secretary, and scruffy to boot. At least Sylvia is well dressed and properly groomed.”
“Clemmie’s young.”
“So are you, Jen, and you take pride in your appearance.”
“That’s because I never know when you might saunter in here like John Wayne with your hand on your gun.”
“I’d like you to put your hand on my gun.”
“Is it loaded?” she giggled.
“It’s always loaded, ready to go off with the slightest touch.”
“Oh, you dirty boy. Back on your horse!”
“Can I see you tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Then I won’t call you again.”
“Text me instead. I like receiving sexy texts.”
“Do they turn you on?” he whispered, mouth very close to the receiver.
“Yes,” she whispered back.
“How much?”
“So much, I grow hot.”
“And wet?”
“Shame on you, Mr. Atwood!”
“You love it.”
“I’ll see you later.”
“Same time, same place. I’ll go and polish my gun.”
“Easy now, Cowboy. Don’t overpolish it.”
“Fear not, my precious. I’ll leave the best for you.”
Grey was in the library reading The Times when Jake found him. His face looked old and weary in repose, a sadness hanging over him like a cloud. It lifted when he saw his son.
“Ah, Jake,” he said, putting down the paper.
“Dad, I’ve been thinking about how to revive the business.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.” Jake sank into the big leather armchair opposite his father. “We need to do events. Get people in through a shared interest.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Literary dinners. Something like that, anyway. A club of sorts. People pay to be members, and they get to come to lectures. It’s so quiet here, it’s off-putting. We need an air of activity.”
“Well, you’re certainly right about that.”
“I know Submarine’s got her artist-in-residence.” He grinned wickedly. “Give him a week and he’ll be seducing every woman in Dawcomb. That’ll teach her!”
“Don’t be unkind, Jake. She’s having a tough time at the moment. Be a little sympathetic.”
“Sorry. He’s just so obviously a playboy.”
“I don’t think he’d be coming here for the summer if he was a playboy.”
“Okay, so not a playboy, a player.”
“Your idea’s a good one,” said his father decisively. “I propose we begin with a lecture. Let’s think of an author we’d like to invite to speak, and I’ll contact the publisher.” Grey was genuinely excited by the idea. He loved books, and there were many authors he would like to meet. “Well done, Jake. You’re on the right lines.”
“I want to help, Dad.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” As his son left the room, he watched him with a sense of gratitude. He wished his daughter could follow her brother’s example and think about someone else for a change.
Clementine believed herself ill-treated and wronged, when she had so much to be grateful for. Grey knew it was his fault: he had spoiled her. If only she could see beyond herself, she might come to understand a little more about the people who loved her. Not everything was displayed above the surface. He hadn’t left her mother and run off with a temptress, as she believed, but taken the hand that reached out to him in the black pit of despair. So great was his unhappiness that he had decided to walk away from it. That meant leaving his small children—but what good would he have been to them anyway, cowed and broken? Marina had rescued him and breathed life into him again. Of course, Clementine would never know these things unless she asked him for his side of the story. Until that improbable moment all he could do was present his hand and wait patiently for her to take it.
That night Clementine sat in the Dizzy Mariner with Joe, Sylvia, Freddie, and Sylvia’s dreary friends Stewart and Margaret. Sylvia dominated the conversation, telling funny stories in her strident way, wriggling her breasts in front of Freddie, and leaving no one in any doubt that his hand was high on her thigh beneath the table, and climbing ever higher. Clementine knocked back her wine and made no effort to refuse when Joe filled her glass for the third time.
She watched the people around her as if through a pane of glass: Sylvia was brash, Freddie drooling, Margaret as dull as a dead mouse. Perhaps she was dead—Clementine couldn’t tell—the woman sat there unblinking, without uttering a word. Were she in London she would be surrounded by like-minded people, but here, in the very depths of obscurity, she might as well have wound up in a farmyard full of animals.