It was almost five o’clock and her mother would be back from the country club. Sylvia was always in a spiky mood when she came back from the club, especially if she had lost her tennis match. Jennifer would much rather hang out at the Lake House with Jim, but she knew that her mother would start asking too many questions if she did.
‘I’ll walk you home,’ said Jim.
The afternoon was hot and sultry. There was a complete absence of breeze – even the birds seemed to have stopped singing and had retired for quiet siestas in the treetops – and it made the short walk from the Lake House back to Casa D’Or exhausting.
‘Do you ever use your pool?’ asked Jim as they skirted the edge of the lake.
She smiled and knew what he was hinting at.
‘We don’t use it much. I think my mother finds it vulgar.’
‘I thought she was playing tennis.’
‘I’m not sure she’ll appreciate coming back to find you dive-bombing in the deep end.’
‘You don’t get on, do you?’
Jennifer’s smile was more regretful this time.
‘I’m not sure my mother wanted children,’ she said honestly.
She looked at him and wanted to take back what she had just said. It felt traitorous to discuss it, but it was a thought that had gnawed away at her for years, and it was good to finally share it with someone she trusted. There had to be some reason for her mother’s remoteness, her complete lack of interest. Jennifer remembered bringing home Christmas decorations that she had made at school, stars crayoned in violet, red and blue that had been quietly thrown away rather than put on the tree, presumably because they did not fit in with Sylvia’s silver and Tiffany-blue colour scheme. The sailing competitions that Jennifer had entered but Sylvia had not bothered to turn up to. She could hear her mother’s voice now – ‘Sailing is not very feminine, now is it?’ – even when she won trophies and medals and everyone was cheering her name.
Jennifer hadn’t ever been sure what her mother wanted from her, and certainly not now.
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Jim reassuringly.
Jennifer looked at him unconvinced.
‘You know what you should do,’ suggested Jim as they approached the house.
‘What?’ she asked, knowing that whatever came out of his mouth was generally good.
‘You should interview yourself for the documentary. I’ll do it. And then you can interview your mum. Maybe that way you’ll find out what makes her tick.’
Jennifer wasn’t sure about the idea of capturing herself on celluloid, but she had to admit it was an interesting suggestion.
‘Your father’s great,’ she said, wanting to divert the conversation away from her mother. ‘It must be wonderful growing up in such a creative house.’
‘His ego is bigger than China.’ He smiled back.
‘That’s not entirely unexpected. How’s his book going?’
Jim gave a snort. ‘He’s in that boathouse a lot, but we’re not exactly sure how much he’s getting done. One minute he says he’s writing the definitive tome about the history of slavery, the next it’s a deconstruction of the American Dream. Personally I think he should write a schlocky airport thriller and be done with it.’
He grinned at her, and at that exact moment Jennifer felt a gust of something warm and joyful and good, even though the air was still.
‘So how’s Emma?’ She suddenly wanted to know.
‘I don’t know,’ said Jim with a shrug.
‘You don’t know?’ said Jennifer, feeling oddly excited at this news.
‘I’ll see her in September. If she hasn’t moved on, if I haven’t . . . well, we’ll take it from there.’
‘I wonder if Connor is talking about me like that,’ she smiled.
‘I doubt it. When are you seeing him next?’