Part Three

Watching the Grown-Ups

If the police had thought of comparing the video from the summer and the photos of that Wednesday night in October they would have seen the differences, wouldn’t they? All the children were thinner by then and none of them were smiling. They were sitting in a row, keeping still. That’s the interesting, no, heartbreaking thing: they weren’t dancing. None of them. They weren’t eating or talking either. They were watching the grown-ups dance. It should have been the other way around: children dancing, adults watching. Charley is with Sorrel and Noah on the small sofa; Charley looks bored, Sorrel, sleepy. Poppy and Izzy are on the big sofa, both frowning. They must have felt cheated. Blake is sitting on a chair, looking fed up. Eric is leaning against the wall, watching his wife. Paul is watching his daughter and Izzy is watching him back.

And let’s not forget Ash. He’s in his little seat, on the floor; he’s bigger than at the start of the summer, of course. At the age he was then, a few months make all the difference. He was laughing in all the scenes back then, but here his face is shiny, which means tears, current or recently shed. His eyes are shut and his mouth is open. He might have been yawning at the very moment someone took the photo, but when I imagine the noise of the music and the shuffling of feet and Eve laughing, I can also hear very clearly the sound of a child crying.

7. October

The Night After the Party

Eve

Sorrel pushes in between Eve and Eric; her flesh is cold, clammy. Eve half wakes and puts her arm around her daughter’s body; her nightie is soaked. Rain is spattering at the window. Eric is snoring.

“Have you been outside?” she asks sleepily, wondering if they locked the door last night, or even closed it. She can’t remember. It had been so late by the time they went to bed, her head is still reeling from the wine and the dancing.

Sorrel shakes her head. She burrows farther, elbowing her way between her parents; a sour scent leaches out in the warmth.

“Let’s get this off you.” Eve pulls off the sodden nightie and throws it over the side of the bed. Accidents happen. She kisses Sorrel’s hair. “Better?”

Sorrel cuddles closer. “I’m worried,” she whispers.

“About?” Eve’s eyes are closing.

“Dying.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you mustn’t worry about that.” Eve sinks deeper.

“I don’t want to die.” Sorrel’s voice wobbles.

“You’re not going to die.” Eve forces her eyes open and kisses her daughter’s nose. “I won’t let you.”

“Izzy says I am.”

“She’s right, in a way.” Eric’s sleepy voice joins in. “But not until you’re a very, very old lady.”

“I don’t want to be a . . . old lady.” Sorrel begins to sob.

Eve’s head is thumping. She checks the little clock on her bedside table. Three A.M. “You’re going to be a beautiful girl forever and ever,” she whispers into her daughter’s hair. “Let’s all go to sleep now.” She kisses Sorrel’s warm cheek, touches a silky curl. Sorrel shuts her eyes. Eve hovers between waking and sleeping as she holds her daughter close and listens to her breathing gradually slow. Sorrel stopped wetting the bed years ago. Izzy was being truthful but she must ask her to be careful, Sorrel is easily scared. She strokes Sorrel’s hair and slips into sleep again.