The Reading Group Part 1

The Reading Group.

ELIZABETH n.o.bLE.

For David and Sandy n.o.ble, my mum and dad.

The real, hidden subject of a book group discussion is the book group members themselves.

MARGARET ATWOOD.

The Books.

January Heartburn.

NORA EPHRON 1983.

February I Capture the Castle.

DODIE SMITH 1949.

March Atonement IAN MCEWAN 2001.

April The Woman Who Walked Into Doors.

RODDY DOYLE 1996.

May Guppies for Tea.

MARIKA COBBOLD 1993.

June My Antonia.

WILLA CATHER 1918.

July The Memory Box.

MARGARET FORSTER 1999.

August Eden Close.

ANITA SHREVE 1989.

September An Instance of the Fingerpost.

IAIN PEARS 1997.

October Rebecca.

DAPHNE DU MAURIER 1938.

November The Alchemist.

PAULO COELHO 1988.

December Girl with a Pearl Earring.

TRACY CHEVALIER 1999.

7.15 P.M.

Clare watched as the young woman pa.s.sed her in the corridor. First-timer, definitely: excitement and panic were etched on her pale face as she made her way slowly down the hall, dragging the IV on its wheels beside her, legs bent and shoulders hunched, shuffling in girlish slippers bought for this special day. Her glance at Clare said, 'Help me. When will this be finished? When will he be here?' Probably came in half a centimetre dilated when she'd fiddled with her TENS machine at home for a while, then called her mother and repacked the holdall with all the impossibly small, impossibly white sleep suits, scratch mittens and hats like egg-cosies.

The double doors behind the woman swung open and a big, dark man went to her, put one hand in hers, the other round her shoulder. He handled her gingerly. He was paler than she was. A Type X, Clare thought. They were copers, the strong ones. Type Ys barely made it through the epi durals without crying. They were a few decades too late would have been happier pacing the corridor with a cigar behind each ear. Clare liked the Type Ys better.

Elliot was probably an X. Or maybe the hybrid: Y masquerading as X. They were okay unless things got scary. Who was she kidding? She had no idea which type he'd be. Not that it mattered. Not any more.

The girl moaned, leant forward. Clare answered his imploring look. She never felt detached. Still, each story that played out, each life that started within these walls pulled her in. Still.

'Okay, hold on, let's give you a hand. What's your name?'

'Lynne.'

'Okay, Lynne. We'll get you back to your room. You probably need a bit of a rest. Who's looking after you?'

A colleague appeared from behind the same double doors. 'Sorry, Clare. Hang on, Lynne. We've got you. Got it from here, Clare. You're off, aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'Have a good night, then.'

'Cheers.'

Tonight, thank G.o.d, she had a reason not to be at home, not to see Elliot. She'd probably be out again before he got back from college, and he'd be asleep by the time she made herself climb into bed beside him.

And that girl, Lynne, would be holding her baby in her arms.

7.20 P.M.

As usual Harriet climbed the stairs with a teetering pile of single socks, discarded sweaters, stray toys the flotsam and jetsam of the day. Down was usually a mug or two, plastic cups found under beds, read newspapers and sticky plastic medicine spoons. Up, the aforementioned. Still, she supposed, with a fairly twisted smile, variety was the spice of life. Ha, ha. Domestic bliss reminded her of that silly film she'd seen once, Groundhog Day, where this guy was compelled to repeat the same day over and over again, never quite getting the girl because he couldn't change what happened. And slightly higher up the cultural scale, wasn't there that guy in mythology Sissy something... Sisyphus, was it? sentenced by the G.o.ds for some transgression to spend eternity pus.h.i.+ng a boulder up a big hill only to watch it fall straight down again, and on, and on. At least pus.h.i.+ng a big boulder up a hill would soon sort out these bat-wings she was developing beneath her upper arms, Harriet thought. Sweeping the flipping kitchen floor four times, loading and unloading the was.h.i.+ng-machine three times, and answering forty-two questions about why there aren't any more dinosaurs, and if there were, how big their poos would be, wasn't doing much for hers.

Upstairs, all was quiet for the first time since six a.m. Harriet followed the sound of Tim's voice to their bedroom. He was sitting on the sofa under the window, having been allowed by his kidnappers to remove his shoes and jacket, and loosen his tie. The children, damp and clean from their bath, were huddled, one under each arm, listening to their story. Tim was reading slowly, ascribing to each character their own voice, occasionally making animated gestures. Harriet felt a twinge of habitual guilt. She usually chose the shortest story and speed-read it: her children might be forgiven for thinking that every character in literature had been raised in the middle-cla.s.s south, for all the effort she made with her inflection. Still, it was easier, wasn't it? Coming in at the end of the day, when the snot and the pasta sauce and the tears had been wiped away, and the fight over the tooth-brus.h.i.+ng, and the frantic shoving of toys into too-small cupboards had all been done. Easy to reward the exuberant greeting with warmth and affection and a story-reading fit for Radio 4. The kids had spent their energy through the long day, and Harriet had absorbed it. Now the fight had gone out of them: they were pa.s.sive, gentle. And she was catatonic.

Harriet hovered at the doorway, not wanting to go in and disturb the perfect tableau, the circle of love. Somehow, she didn't fit in to these moments. Instead, she deposited her bundle on the guest bed and went into the bathroom. Studiously ignoring the bubble sc.u.m around the bath, the toothpaste squeezed carelessly across the wash-basin tap, she poked ineffectually at her mad hair in the mirror and flicked some powder across her nose and chin. She hastily drew a line of lipstick on her upper lip, then rolled her lips together in concentration. (Not for her the liner-brush-blot prescribed by glossies she only saw every three months in the hairdresser's.) Tim appeared in the doorway, carrying a slumped sleepy Chloe. 'Say, "Night-night, Mummy."' Thumb firmly plugged in, Chloe waved her plastic beaker of warm milk vaguely in Harriet's direction.

'Night-night, sleep tight, darling.' Harriet smiled.

Behind Tim, Josh asked, 'Are you going out, Mummy?'

'Yes, I am, sweetheart. Daddy's going to look after you. I'll be home again later, though.'

'Come and tuck me in when you get back? Even if it's really late? D'you promise you will?'

'Course I do, poppet. Give us a kiss before I go, though.'

Harriet walked with her son down the landing and watched him climb into his low bunk.

'Daddy's coming back, Mum. Don't switch that light off. He promised he'd read me another chapter of Harry Potter when Chloe was in bed.'

'Did he now? Two stories, indeed. Is Daddy trying to make me look bad?'

Her tone was light.

Suddenly Tim was behind her. 'Couldn't if I tried.' He kissed her cheek as he pa.s.sed her in the doorway. 'Now, remind me where we got to, Josh.'

And they were quickly lost again in their reading. Tim looked up from the pages as he heard her turn, and winked goodnight at her.

Harriet's tread on the stairs was heavy. It's all so b.l.o.o.d.y perfect, she thought. Except that I really don't think I love him any more. If I ever did.

7.25 P.M.

The ma.s.s of feeling sat just beneath Nicole's ribcage, as if her lungs had been folded into thirds at the base of her throat. It was a potent and complex emotional c.o.c.ktail, part rage, part hurt, part frustration, part humiliation, and, still, part suffocating love. Over the years the quant.i.ties of each had changed, but the result was the same. Almost overwhelming, drunken feeling.

She'd gone through the whole day in the closed-off state she had perfected. She had put it into the room in her mind with the padlock on it and not gone near it: to open it, and luxuriate in the feelings, would make functioning impossible. In that closed-off state, she was a dervish of control and efficiency. Dry-cleaning and shoe repairs got dropped off; ca.s.seroles with interesting herbs were put in the Aga's slow oven; constructive play happened with the children; concise instructions were given to Cecile, the au pair.

And she looked great. Hair, makeup, figure, clothes: all as good as they always had been. Other women might tear out their hair at moments of crisis, but Nicole blow-dried hers into perfect waves. Only her heartbeat gave her away: like in that Edgar Allan Poe story, she was sure everyone she met, smiling benignly, must hear it, louder and louder, trying to get out.

She put the platter of crostini on the hall table and looked into the mirror. Downstairs it was quiet. One floor up Will, George and Martha were sound asleep, exhausted by swimming and soft-play. From the top floor, where Cecile slept, Nicole could hear the soft beat of garage music being played behind a closed door, punctuated by excited French conversation. She must be on the phone (you don't say) to another member of the au-pair Mafia, squealing about last night's adventures or plotting tomorrow's. These days, au pairs stayed in and babysat, then went out after you came home 'Oh, no, Mrs Thomas, it no start, you know, really, until midnight.' They could stay out until four, smoke forty cigarettes, sleep for two hours and still make animal shapes with Cheerios to persuade reluctant breakfasters to eat, smiling, at seven a.m. It sometimes made Nicole feel 105 years old. Nicole liked Cecile, though. She was easy to have around, didn't need everything explained. And Nicole was pretty sure she was knowingly impervious to Gavin's manifest charms, which, just now, suited her perfectly.

She stiffened as she heard his car outside, waited for the key in the lock. What to say? She had rehea.r.s.ed all the different angles in the shower earlier, played out the fantasy of reacting as other women would. Although she knew that, when she saw him, she would be as she always was. How odd that this was a habit now, that this was a part of their life together. She had never thought it would be like this. That she would be like this.

G.o.d, he was beautiful. Those enormous, s.h.i.+ning eyes: how could they not give away the secrets?

He smiled, then registered the tray of food, and that Nicole was in her coat and scarf. 'h.e.l.lo, darling. Sorry to be a bit late. It's been a b.i.t.c.h of a day. What's this, then? Where are you off to?' He leant in to kiss her.

Nicole swerved, left him pursing at air. 'I'll be at Susan's, darling.' She spat the last word, sarcasm heavy in the air. And that was the very best she could do. That, and a defiant slam of the door. Quickly. She didn't want him to see the food shaking on the plate in time with her arms.

7.30 P.M.

The ring was pretty well perfect. Big enough, but not flashy some you saw were so obvious that the wearer might as well have taped a facsimile of her fiance's black AmEx card across her left hand. A modern setting, but not so trendy it would be the avocado bathroom suite of jewellery in ten years' time (presuming, against all the odds, that you were still wearing it). It was even the right stone for her a ruby and just about what she would have chosen for herself, if she'd been asked. Which would have been something of a shock, since the proposal had come more or less out of the blue. And pretty embarra.s.sing, Polly figured, to peer into windows falling in love with the five-thousand-pound ring, wondering if he was looking at the five-hundred-pound one.

But, did the choice of the right ring make its giver the right man? Was it a sign? Or just down to good observation even basic good taste? Could he have asked someone? Cressida? Suze? She thought it unlikely. That wasn't Jack's style. She b.l.o.o.d.y well hoped they would have warned her if they'd known it was coming. Although probably not. That wasn't really on. It looked pretty on her finger. She flexed her hand once more, moving the gem in and out of the light, then sn.i.g.g.e.red at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror and slipped it off. She pushed it between the folds of velvet, snapped the box shut and slid it back into her knicker drawer, hidden between party-pants and period-pants.

She opened her wardrobe, vaguely looking for a sloppy sweater she thought she might have shoved in there. Ah, my schizophrenic wardrobe: right side neat and tidy 'paralegal chic', she called it with knee-length sombre suits and court shoes, just as the partners of Smith, March and May liked them; the left was a Tracey Emin installation.

What kind of bride might she make? She'd always fancied red and plunging. Then again, you could wear that to any old Christmas party, while the white lace and b.u.t.ter-wouldn't-melt look wasn't one you could get away with very often. If they did it when it was cold, how about white lace underneath, and one of those fabulous velvet capes in red, or maybe a deep forest green? Ooh, and beaded shoes.

Oh, for G.o.d's sake, Polly Pollyanna, more like aren't you a bit b.l.o.o.d.y old for this daydreaming? And shouldn't you be just a bit b.l.o.o.d.y wiser by now? One ring and one proposal, and you're sixteen again.

'Mum?'

Polly grabbed the moth-eaten jumper and pulled it over her head as she went out on to the landing.

'Mum? Is this for me?' It was Daniel, fresh from football practice, five foot ten of sweaty, spotty, starving fifteen-year-old, now foraging.

'Yes, love, microwave it two minutes on high. And there's Christmas cake and mince-pies for after.'

Polly put her head round the door of the sitting room. Her daughter Cressida, arms hugging her knees, head against a cus.h.i.+on, was apparently transfixed by EastEnders.

'Cress, love, I'm at Susan's do you remember? Shouldn't be late, though.'

'Okay.'

Charming, Polly thought. That girl is getting surly. What the h.e.l.l am I doing, playing Brides upstairs with these two lumps down here to remind me who I am, where I've been, and what I'm bad at?

What to say? What to answer? Yes? No? Would he settle for a 'Maybe'?

7.35 P.M.

Five minutes later Cressida sat in the bathroom with her eyes screwed tight shut and made bargains with G.o.d. She didn't believe in G.o.d, but what the h.e.l.l? She would, if only He would make it be negative.

How in h.e.l.l had she got herself into this b.l.o.o.d.y mess?

If there was one thing Cressida hated it was stereotyping and cliches. And here she was twenty years old, loving her course, and sure to get her pick of places to do her degree, which would open all kinds of doors, to a career she would love, people who would be fascinating, and freedom about to become the most tired cliche in the book, like some effing Catherine Cookson heroine, caught and covered in shame. This couldn't happen. It just couldn't.

Ninety-nine per cent accurate in one minute. She reread the instructions. The marketing-speak was so carefully worded, aimed at both extremes of people taking the test: some wanted to see that blue line more than anything in the world; others would give their kidney for an empty window. She tried to imagine wanting a positive result, but it was too hard. Everything, and she meant everything, would have to be completely different. She would have to be different: a much, much older Cressida, with her two-foot-long hair cut into a sensible bob, her fas.h.i.+onable jeans swapped for grown-up clothes, the cigarettes and vodka a distant memory, with a CV that didn't stop after A levels. And there had to be a husband. On that point, at least, Cressida was weirdly old-fas.h.i.+oned. Now, none of the above was anywhere near happening. Particularly the cigarettes and vodka, she thought, remembering New Year's Day, when she had awoken unsure whether it was the pain in her head or the one in her throat that was going to kill her, but hoping that whichever it was would do it quickly. If there was a baby it was bound to have two heads or something. Christ.

They'd always been dead careful not that preventing pregnancy had been top of her list of priorities. She had been born in the eighties, after all the Aids decade. He was even the first how tragic was that? A virgin at twenty.

Truthfully, though, her virginity hadn't weighed heavily on her, like it seemed to do on her mates. Several had apparently viewed their birthdays as deadlines: sixteen, do your GCSEs; seventeen, get a provisional driving licence; eighteen, vote; any of the above, commence s.e.x life with nearest non-repulsive male. Not that Cressida was one of those Jesus freaks, taking the pledge until marriage. She sometimes thought she just hadn't fancied anyone enough. Or maybe she hadn't felt secure enough with any of the boys she'd gone out with. Doubtless a counsellor would blame Dad: her trust in men had taken a battering when he had left Mum. Which was clearly b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, since they had pretty much left each other. Cressida didn't have a lot of patience with bleeding-heart divorce kids. She loved both her parents a lot and a lot more apart. Dad was happy with Tina. Mum was happy on her own, maybe about to be a whole lot happier with Jack. 'Worse things happen at sea,' as Gran would say. Cressida didn't have any fears about the damage life had done to her heart. Look how it had soared when she met him! And she had been really glad that she hadn't been so close to anyone before it had felt like a gift she had had for him, and she had been so thrilled, that first time, lying beside him afterwards, that it had been him, that nothing could ever change how it was. Which wasn't to say it had been perfect, just that she was glad. Until now. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no. It was a yes.

7.45 P.M.

Susan leant against the doorframe in satisfaction and exhaustion. Order had been restored in the living room again. My G.o.d, Christmas makes a mess, she thought. You go completely crazy for the six weeks beforehand, shopping like a woman possessed and writing endless indecipherable lists. You treat the final trip to Sainsbury's like a military operation, complete with life-or-death missions to get to the last fresh cranberries before the enemy in the twinset, to pile one more box of luxury crackers into the heaving trolley. You clean every surface in the house as though heart-bypa.s.s surgery was about to be performed on it, then fill them with sacred homemade angels and candlesticks. You religiously follow Good Housekeeping's 'Tips for the Most Relaxed Christmas EVER!', which actually almost kills you, but at least means that at 10.30 p.m. on Christmas Eve you can sit down with a gla.s.s of (homemade, what else) eggnog and be the queen of all you survey. Three days later it's all over, leaving you with leftover turkey, untouched Christmas cake and so much mess you feel as if you've been occupied by a hostile army. But, oh, those three days: they were the best in Susan's year. Roger and she, Alex and Ed, and her mum, Alice. Just the five of them.

That was how Susan liked her house best. Her beautiful, good boys asleep in their familiar rooms, Airfix models and school sports trophies unchanged. Young, fun girlfriends, who made them happy, asleep next door. Alice tucked beneath her own crochet blankets in the old nursery beside Susan's room. And Roger beside her snoring gently, these days. Why did some women complain that snoring drove them insane? She liked the rhythmic purr, marking time through the night.

Susan put away the Dyson in the hall cupboard and took the last box of Christmas decorations to the upstairs landing she would get Roger to do a loft trip after evening surgery.

Alice appeared at the top of the stairs. She had seemed tired this year, Susan had noticed. Bit off her food, too, although her pleasure at being with her gorgeous grandsons had seemed undiminished. Still, she was glad she'd persuaded her mother to stay on for a couple of weeks into the New Year. 'Let me wait on you,' Susan had joked. Alice was in her seventies now and it was nice to have her there.

'All right, Mum?'