Gwen had been babysitting for the boys since they were babies. She was a grandmother of twelve, with an enviably firm manner and a little stash of gold-wrapped chocolate coins in her handbag, which wouldn’t be necessary tonight, as the boys were already sound asleep.
“Geneva,” said Celeste. “Or, wait, is it Genova? I can’t remember. He’ll still be in the air right now. He left this morning.”
Gwen studied her in a fascinated sort of way. “He leads an exotic life, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Celeste. “I guess he does. I shouldn’t be very late. It’s a new book club, so I’m not sure—”
“Depends on the book!” said Gwen. “My book club just did the most interesting book. Now, what was it called? It was about . . . Now, what was it about? Nobody really liked it all that much, to be honest, but my friend Pip, she likes to serve a dish that sort of complements the book, so she made this marvelous fish curry, although it was quite spicy, so we were all a little, you know, Pip!” Gwen waved both hands in front of her mouth to indicate spiciness.
The only problem with Gwen was that it was sometimes hard to get away. Perry could do it charmingly, but Celeste found it awkward.
“Well, I’d better be off.” Celeste leaned down to pick up her phone, which was on the coffee table in front of Gwen.
“That’s a nasty bruise!” said Gwen. “What have you done to yourself?”
Celeste pulled the sleeve of her silk shirt farther down her wrist.
“Tennis injury,” she said. “My doubles partner and I both went for the same shot.”
“Ow!” said Gwen. She looked up at Celeste steadily. There was silence for a moment.
“Well,” said Celeste. “As I said, the boys shouldn’t wake—”
“It might be time to find another tennis partner,” said Gwen. There was a no-nonsense edge to her voice. The one Celeste had heard her use to astonishing effect when the boys were fighting.
“Well. It was my fault too,” said Celeste.
“I bet it wasn’t.” Gwen held Celeste’s eyes. It occurred to Celeste that in all the years she’d known Gwen, there had never been mention of a husband. Gwen seemed so completely self-contained, so chatty and busy, with all her talk of her friends and grandchildren; the idea of a husband seemed superfluous.
“I’d better go,” said Celeste.
43.
Ziggy was still crying when the babysitter knocked on the door. He’d told Jane that three or four kids (she couldn’t get the facts straight, he was almost incoherent) had said that they weren’t allowed to play with him.
He sobbed into Jane’s thigh and stomach, where his face was uncomfortably wedged, after she’d sat down on the bed next to him and he’d suddenly launched himself at her, nearly knocking her flat on her back. She could feel the hard pressure of his little nose and the wetness of his tears spreading over her jeans as he pushed his face against her leg in a painful corkscrewing motion, as if he could somehow bury himself in her.
“That must be Chelsea.” Jane pulled at Ziggy’s skinny shoulders, trying to dislodge him, but Ziggy didn’t even pause for breath.
“They were running away from me,” he sobbed. “Really fast! And I felt like playing Star Wars!”
Right, thought Jane. She wasn’t going to book club. She couldn’t possibly leave him in a state like this. Besides, what if there were parents there who had signed the petition? Or who had told their children to stay away from Ziggy?
“Just wait here,” she grunted as she unpeeled his limp, heavy body from her legs. He looked at her with a red, snotty, wet face and then threw himself facedown on his pillow.
“I’m sorry. I have to cancel,” Jane told Chelsea. “But I’ll pay you anyway.”
She didn’t have anything smaller than a fifty-dollar note. “Oh, ah, cool, thanks,” said Chelsea. Teenagers never offered change.
Jane closed the door and went to phone Madeline.
“I’m not coming,” she told her. “Ziggy is . . . Ziggy isn’t well.”
“It’s this thing going on with Amabella, isn’t it?” said Madeline. Jane could hear voices in the background. Some of the other parents were there.
“Yes. You’ve heard about the petition?” she asked Madeline, trying to keep her voice steady. Madeline must be sick of her: crying over Harry the Hippo, sharing her sordid little sex stories. She probably rued the day that she’d hurt her ankle.
“It’s outrageous,” said Madeline. “I am incandescent with rage.”
There was a burst of laughter in the background. It sounded like a cocktail party, not a book club. The sound of their laughter made Jane feel stodgy and left out, even though she’d been invited.
“I’d better let you go,” said Jane. “Have fun.”
“I’ll call you,” said Madeline. “Don’t worry. We’ll fix this.”
As Jane hung up, there was another knock on the door. It was the woman from downstairs, Chelsea’s mother, Irene, holding out the fifty-dollar note. She was a tall, austere woman with short gray hair and intelligent eyes.
“You’re not paying her fifty dollars for doing nothing,” she said.
Jane took the money gratefully. She’d felt a twinge after she’d given it to Chelsea. Fifty dollars was fifty dollars. “I thought, you know, the inconvenience.”
“She’s fifteen. She had to walk up a flight of stairs. Is Ziggy OK?”
“We’re having some trouble at school,” said Jane.
“Oh dear,” said Irene.
“Bullying,” expounded Jane. She didn’t really know Irene all that well, except for their chats in the stairwell.
“Someone is bullying poor little Ziggy?” Irene frowned.
“They say that Ziggy is doing the bullying.”
“Oh rubbish,” said Irene. “Don’t believe it. I taught primary school for twenty-four years. I can pick a bully a mile off. Ziggy is no bully.”
“Well, I hope not,” said Jane. “I mean, I didn’t think so.”
“I bet it’s the parents making the biggest fuss, isn’t it?” Irene gave her a shrewd look. “Parents take far too much notice of their children these days. Bring back the good old days of benign indifference, I reckon. If I were you, I’d take all this with a grain of salt. Little kids, little problems. Wait till you’ve got drugs and sex and social media to worry about.”