Nick is sitting on the bank talking to Angus when Taisie and Pansy swim over to his father and attempt to dunk him. There’s a whole load of squealing and flailing around and then the others get in on the act. The girls’ skin is slippery and gleaming and their curves, both hidden and enhanced by their swimming costumes, still come as a shock. Pansy catches his eye and raises her eyebrows and he looks away, uncomfortable. They’re doing it on purpose, Taisie playing up to his dad, wrapping her wet arms around him. The boys are like over-excited puppies. His father extricates himself, then gets hold of a sobbing and spluttering Rory, who has accidentally been ducked under water in the mayhem, hitches him on to his back and carries him out, dropping him down beside Nick. He stands over them, laughing and dripping wet, water running in rivulets through the hairs on his chest and legs. Nick has to admit, sometimes his dad looks like a god. It’s obscene for a parent to be that attractive, and not exactly great for him. He’s conscious that comparisons are being made. Taisie gets out and starts making a fuss of Rory. Nick shuffles away and sits further downriver, lying back with a groan. He’s had enough. He wants to go home.

The breeze becomes wind, rippling the water, and seconds later a drop of rain hits his forehead. The atmosphere is tinged with yellow as thunder rumbles and bruised clouds gather. The rain comes hard and fast, drenching them as they run back through the woods and across the lawn and tip inside. Nick retreats to his room and closes the door, jamming it with a chair, then he gets under the covers and masturbates with a picture of Taisie standing naked, up to her thighs in the river, her body slick with water, in his head.

GRACE

Tuesday, 17 April 2018

OUR HOUSE IS SET BACK FROM THE ROAD BEHIND A low red-brick wall with black railings. The front garden is paved in York stone divided geometrically by low box hedges. It was much admired when I first created it, after seeing something very similar in a garden in Chelsea.

Sometimes I feel such a fraud. The women round here know very little about me. As far as they are concerned I’ve only existed since Lottie started at Cedar Heights Primary. They think I’m this sorted woman with an enviable job in property and a wealthy banker partner; a woman too busy and in demand to give up her time to read with the children. If only they knew. Volunteering at the school, whether it’s reading with the kids or doing lollipop lady duty, requires a criminal record check.