.

to say—she’d never had a jam-making conversation before.

      ‘I just saw Grace as well,’ Ms Webster carried on.

      ‘Grace works here,’ Saskia said without thinking. It sounded mean—when all she’d meant to do was say something because she couldn’t carry on standing there with her mouth hanging silently open, feeling like she’d just got drunk in high heels.

      ‘Well—we’d better be going,’ Ms Webster said, her hand still on Mr Sutton’s arm, turning him round, steering him away. ‘Enjoy the rest of your holiday.’

      ‘I will.’ Saskia was jabbing the front of her sandal repetitively against a ridge of earth and now the crust cracked and crumbled.

      Mr Sutton turned back towards her. ‘I’m in and out of school the next couple of weeks—if you’ve got anything you’re working on or want to show me before the beginning of term.’

      ‘Thanks—’

      Another tug on the arm and he was led away again, only to break free a second time.

      ‘Oh—and I hope that’s not permanent.’

      Saskia stared at him. She had no idea what he was talking about.

      ‘Your neck. The scorpion.’

      Her hand went to her neck. ‘No, it’s—no.’

      He smiled, paused, then turned and walked away with Ms Webster.

      Saskia kept her hand on her neck, covering the temporary tattoo that had come free with one of her music magazines. Her eyes followed Mr Sutton and Ms Webster in their matching polo shirts and South African sun tans all the way to the weighing-in hut.

      They were arguing.

      

      By the time Vicky and Ruth reached Saskia, standing inert still in the field of redcurrants, the black Peugeot convertible belonging to Ms Webster had left Martha’s Farm in a loose trail of dust. Neither the driver, Ms Webster, or the passenger, Mr Sutton, looked like they were going home to make jam.

      ‘Did you speak to him?’ Vicky asked, breathless still from the Valium-induced attack of vertigo.

      Saskia nodded vacantly.

      ‘And?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘What did he say?’ Vicky was beginning to lose patience.

      Saskia was about to mention his reference to her tattoo when she decided not to. ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘Sas—’ Vicky insisted.

      ‘He went to South Africa—on holiday.’

      ‘South Africa?’

      Saskia sighed, her hands dropping to her sides. ‘With Ms Webster.’

      ‘Webster?’ Vicky screamed, the screams echoing across the fields. ‘No—fucking—way. Are you sure?’

      ‘She was standing right here in front of me, Vick. They were wearing matching clothes.’

      ‘Like—how matching?’

      ‘Yellow polo shirts, shorts and Birkenstocks.’

      ‘That is so depressing. How come we didn’t know anything about this? How did she get to him?’

      ‘End of last term,’ Ruth said.

      Vicky turned on her. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

      ‘I don’t know that—I’m just guessing. Staff drinks and stuff.’

      ‘Staff drinks and stuff? They went to South Africa together, Ruth—they’re practically married.’ She paused. ‘Webster. Why didn’t I see this coming?’

      ‘Webster’s okay,’ Ruth ventured then paused. ‘Isn’t she?’

      ‘Webster’s not okay, Ruth. She’s like the wrong side of healthy, like too healthy, like under all that lycra she wears she’s got no genitals or something.’

      Nobody said anything.

      Saskia’s hand remained over the temporary scorpion tattoo as they trailed slowly over to the weighing-in hut, expecting to find Grace there—only to be told by the boy in the ice cream van that she’d already gone.

      ‘She had to leave early—something about a puncture. I offered to take her home in the van, but—’ His eyes moved curiously over all three of them as Vicky emptied her raspberries into Ruth’s already full container and stepped away from the hut, crushing the ones that fell beneath her sandals. She stood, bored and dizzy, aware of the ice cream boy’s eyes on her, but too overwhelmed by the thought of Mr Sutton and Ms Webster to react.

      The ice cream boy stared at the red spots in the dust and tried hard to think of something to say. He was still trying as the girls walked back up the field towards Tom’s car.

      ‘Webster’s totally wrong for Sutton,’ Vicky started up again then broke off, staring into Saskia’s punnet. ‘Why did you pick redcurrants?’

      Saskia stared at the redcurrants, trying to remember.

      ‘I wanted to paint them. Remember that triptych I did of the rotting quince?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I was thinking about doing another one with redcurrants.’

      ‘Morbid.’

      ‘It’s only fruit.’

      They got to the top of the field where Tom was sitting in the sandpit, banging on an old plastic cup with a lolly stick and making a child with blond curls laugh.

      ‘Looks like I’ve got to go, little man,’ he said when the girls arrived. ‘See you around.’

      Vicky glanced at the toddler without interest as Tom handed him the plastic cup and stick and watched him try to reproduce the sound he’d been making.

      ‘Did you manage to meet up with Grace?’ Tom asked as they got back in the car.

      ‘No—she already left—had a puncture or something. We’ll probably catch up with her on the road. Can we get some windows down?’

       5

      They caught up with Grace about a mile down the lane where it left the fields and sank into forest.

      Tom slowed the car when he saw her up ahead on the opposite side of the lane, pushing her bike.

      ‘Isn’t that your bike?’ Vicky said, staring.

      ‘I sold it.’ Tom threw the rest of the joint he was smoking out the window.

      ‘When?’

      ‘Last summer.’

      ‘To Grace?’

      ‘You know I did.’

      They pulled up alongside her.

      Vicky leant out the back of the car and gave a slow, exaggerated wave.

      ‘You should have said,’ Tom called out.

      ‘About what?’ Grace called back.

      ‘Needing a lift.’

      ‘I don’t need a lift.’ She smiled at him.

      Saskia and Vicky were leaning out the car, waving.

      ‘You’ve got a puncture.’

      ‘I know, but I didn’t want to leave the bike.’

      ‘Come on, get in,’ Tom said, ‘I’ll put the bike on the roof rack.’

      Without waiting for a response,