Page 8 of The Affair
After the family had gone back to London, she became busy checking all the travel details and touching base with the thirty-two travellers, introducing herself and enquiring about any special requirements they might have. The new data protection laws prevented her knowing their ages or addresses in advance, so during those calls she had to find out as much as she could with some subtle, well-placed questioning. The more she knew, the more she could help them enjoy the perfect holiday.
They seemed a chatty, easy-going lot this time – she didn’t detect any obvious troublemakers. Not at first. A night in Strasbourg, the Bernina Express across the Alps and a luxurious week beside Lake Como was one of her favourite tours and she was ashamed to say that she was almost holding her breath until she could leave.
4
As Connie re-entered the grand foyer of the lakeside hotel on day three, she heard her name called. A couple of her charges were hurrying anxiously towards her across the expanse of mosaic marble, which gleamed in the light of the sun pouring through the open doors to the street.
‘I’ve been calling you, Sandra,’ Connie said, as they reached her. ‘The minibus has just left for the ferry. They couldn’t wait any longer.’
Sandra, a plump woman in her late sixties with aubergine candy-floss hair in a halo round her powdery face and a determined, wilful air, was wheezy with indignation. ‘You said we were leaving at nine thirty and we’re barely ten minutes late.’ She frowned at Connie, clearly convinced it was her fault.
Connie glanced at the ornate gold clock above the reception desk. It said nine fifty-five. ‘I did try to reach you.’
Sandra’s husband, Terry – thin and mild-mannered by contrast and never allowed to say much – nodded. ‘We –’ He was silenced by a glare from his wife.
‘So would you like me to order you a taxi?’ Connie asked quickly, to stem the flow of Sandra’s annoyance. ‘The ferry doesn’t go till ten past so you should justmake it if you leave now.’ She paused. ‘And if you don’t, there’s another in an hour.’
‘Will the taxi be free?’ Sandra demanded. ‘We’ve already paid for the minibus.’
‘I’m afraid not. But it’s not far – it won’t be more than ten euros.’
‘Hmm.’ Sandra snorted angrily. ‘This really isn’t good enough. We were only in the dining room and you knew we were booked on the ferry.’
Connie gave Sandra her best smile. She had checked the dining room when they didn’t turn up and rung Sandra’s mobile twice. ‘Let’s get the taxi organized.’
After she’d seen the still-grumbling Sandra and her long-suffering husband off to the ferry, she stood for a moment beneath the arches of the hotel frontage, looking out across the lake. It was a gorgeous spring day, the sunlight catching the small ruffles on the water in hundreds of glinting flashes that hurt her eyes, the hills on the far side a soft grey-green, contrasting with the pink and cream walls and terracotta roofs of numerous lakeside villas. She watched a white ferry gliding past with an Italian flag flapping at the stern, bright orange lifebelts decorating the bow, and smiled to herself, taking in slow lungfuls of the clean, invigorating air. She loved the Italian lakes.
Half of the group had been taken into Como itself – an hour’s drive from the hotel – the other half to Bellagio. Neither would be back for lunch, so she had the day to herself. Sometimes she would go with them on the day trips – there was so much to see – but she’dvisited Bellagio many times over her twelve years as a tour manager. Today she felt like having a bit of time for herself. She might risk a swim in the hotel pool, then indulge in a light lunch on the terrace overlooking the lake. It was frowned upon to swim with the tour guests, so Connie had to slip in her swims while her flock was off sightseeing or after they’d gone in to shower and change for dinner.
The pool was set in the mature gardens behind the hotel, currently alive with the purple and pink blooms of banks of azaleas. It was unheated and would be freezing at this time of year, the outside temperature a moderate sixteen degrees today. But Connie and her friend Neil had begun wild swimming the previous year and regularly took off for a morning in one of the nearby rivers. The shivering anticipation, the adrenalin punch of the cold water, the stinging, reddened skin, the exhilaration afterwards – they both found it addictive. So she was looking forward to a dip in the chilly pool.
Connie brought her book with her to lunch, but she didn’t read it. The view from the cool first-floor terrace was compelling as she ate her tricolore salad – the drizzled olive oil bright green, the tomatoes softly ripe, the buffalo mozzarella piquant and creamy – and sipped a small glass of chilled Chardonnay, gazing across the water towards the distant hills.
She was thinking of Devan. She knew she should message him – as she did every day, religiously, while she was away – but he hadn’t responded to her last twoand she was reluctant to send another. When she’d first started touring, she’d sent emails – there was no WhatsApp in those days – crammed with photographs of lakes, mountains and ferries, churches, monuments and tulips. Her family had seen it all. So now she just sent short anecdotes: an amusing incident on the train or a thumbnail sketch of a colourful passenger. She wasn’t sure Devan even read them any more, not in his current state, but she persevered nonetheless, not wanting the weeks to go by with them both revolving in a totally separate universe.
In the days before she left this time, her husband had seemed to shut down, maintaining an almost impenetrable silence, greeting her attempts at conversation with an indifferent ‘Mmm,’ or a vague nod, as if she’d interrupted him in the middle of something important. She had tried not to be hurt by it, but in the end had given up and retreated into her own wounded silence.
‘Hope it goes well,’ Devan had said, as they drew up at the station for her to take the train to London, then the tube to St Pancras. He sounded sheepish suddenly, as if he might be ashamed of himself and his behaviour. So Connie had reached over and kissed his cheek. He’d smiled briefly, and she’d seen a flash of sadness in his eyes.
‘Love you,’ she said. He had merely nodded.
Tears sprang to her eyes now, and she was grateful for the sunglasses she wore against the glare off the lake.Does he still love me?It was something she had never, untilthis moment, questioned. But now it occurred to her – shockingly – that his low mood, the way he was distancing himself from her, might not just be a retirement issue. It might be related toher, tothem.Is it me who’s the problem? Is he unhappy because of our marriage?It was a very painful thought.
She shook herself, then turned to catch the waiter’s attention and ordered a double espresso. The swim had been gorgeous, the pool empty except for one ageing American lady in a white swimming hat and goggles, doing steady breaststroke lengths despite the water being numbingly cold. Connie hadn’t lingered afterwards on a poolside lounger, the early May sun not warm enough for that. She’d just wrapped herself in the ample white towelling robe provided in her room and hurried upstairs for a divine shower.
The sheet of hot water pouring down her naked body from the overhead fitting – which she estimated was an impressive ten inches across – made her wish Devan were there to enjoy it too. They used to shower together sometimes, in the past, soaping each other and themselves, chatting and laughing about nothing in particular in the steamy warmth of the capacious shower Devan had insisted on installing when they’d first bought the house. It wasn’t a sexual thing – although occasionally it led to that – just a cosy ritual they both enjoyed.
As she sat at her table, stirring a small brown-sugar cube into her coffee, a voice behind her dragged her back to the present.
‘Is it too breezy out here?’ The carefully modulated vowels were instantly recognizable. Dinah Worthington, in her early eighties, was on the tour with her godson. She was like a duchess, Connie thought – although she’d never met a real one – with her gracious but slightly condescending politeness and the obvious expectation that doors would be opened, chairs pulled out and an arm always at the ready for her to lean on. All of which her godson, Jared, patiently and apparently willingly supplied.
Connie turned. ‘How was Como?’
Dinah started. ‘Gosh, Connie, I didn’t see you there.’ She pulled her floppy straw hat from her white curls and sat down with a grateful sigh at the vacant table next to Connie’s. The terrace was nearly empty now. It was gone three and the restaurant in a lull between lunch and dinner.
Jared hovered for a moment, looking around as if he were checking there wasn’t somewhere better, then sat down opposite Dinah. With his grey polo shirt, sunglasses hooked on the top button, rust-red trousers and deck shoes with no socks, he would have passed unnoticed in a crowd of British holidaymakers, except for his eye-catching Bradley Cooper hair – thick, shiny brown with golden natural highlights and falling, one length, to the collar of his shirt. It would flop, at regular intervals, across his face, and he would sweep it back over his head, like a film star.
In the few exchanges she’d had with him so far – mostly pertaining to his godmother, such as managingthe air-conditioning controls in her room or whether Connie thought Dinah would cope with the steep Varenna streets – she’d found him reserved, bordering on standoffish. Not unpleasant, it was just as if he wasn’t quite comfortable being on the tour. Which maybe had something to do with his age – early fifties, Connie reckoned. Almost twenty years younger than the majority of the group.
