Nightingale had said that eating Isis’s Battenberg cake had been a bad idea, so I couldn’t see him approving of me fraternising with the local water nymphs. So I kept my eyes on Beverley’s round bum and tried to think professional thoughts. Besides, there was always Lesley or, more precisely, the remote hope of Lesley at some point in the future.
I rang the doorbell and stepped back politely.
I heard Isis call from inside. ‘Who is it?’
‘Peter Grant,’ I said.
Isis opened the door and beamed at me. ‘Peter,’ she said. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’ She spotted Beverley behind me, and although she didn’t lose her smile a wariness came into her eyes. ‘And who is this?’ she asked.
‘This is Beverley Brook,’ I said. ‘I thought it was about time proper introductions were made. Beverley, this is Isis.’
Beverley extended a cautious hand, which Isis shook. ‘Pleased to meet you, Beverley. We’re out back – you’d better come through.’ Although she didn’t do anything as undignified as break into a run, Isis did walk at the brisk pace of a wife determined to reach her husband with the shocking news ahead of the guests. I got a brief glimpse of tidy little rooms with floral wallpaper and chintz before we emerged through the kitchen door.
The bungalow backed straight onto the river, and Oxley had built himself a wooden wharf that projected over a wide spot in the water. A pair of magnificent weeping willows, one at each end, screened the pool from the outside. It felt as cool and timeless as the inside of a country church. Oxley was standing naked in the pool with the brown water lapping at his thighs. He was grinning up at Isis who was making frantic behave yourself gestures from the edge of the wharf. He looked past at Beverley and me as we walked out.
‘What’s this?’ he asked. I saw his shoulders tense, and I swear the sun went behind a cloud – although that could have been a coincidence.
‘This,’ I said, ‘is Beverley Brook. Say hello, Beverley.’
‘Hello,’ said Beverley.
‘I thought it was about time you met the other half,’ I said.
Oxley shifted his weight, behind me I felt Beverley take a step backwards.
‘Well, isn’t this nice,’ said Isis brightly. ‘Why don’t we all have a nice cup of tea.’
Oxley opened his mouth as if to speak, appeared to think better of it and, turning to his wife, said, ‘Tea would be nice.’
I breathed out, Beverley giggled nervously and the sun came out again. I took Beverley’s hand and led her forward. Oxley had a labourer’s physique, lean and covered in hard, ropy muscle – Isis obviously liked her bit of rough. Beverley, interestingly, seemed more interested in the water.
‘This is a nice place,’ she said.
‘Would you like to come in?’ asked Oxley.
‘Yes please,’ said Beverley, and to my utter amazement she whipped off her jumper and bolero in one sinuous movement, stepped out of her leggings, and with a memorable flash of naked brown limbs, threw herself into the water. Isis and I had to step back smartly to avoid being drenched.
Oxley winked at me and looked at his wife. ‘Are you coming in too, my love?’
‘We have another guest,’ said Isis primly. ‘Some of us still have manners.’
Beverley surfaced and stood in the river up to her waist with a cheeky grin and bare breasts. Her nipples, I couldn’t stop myself noticing, were large and stiff. She turned her gaze on me, heavy-lidded and suggestive. If her mother had been like the undertow of the sea, then Beverley was as irresistible as a swift clear river rushing through a hot summer’s afternoon.
I’d already started unbuttoning my shirt when I felt Isis’s hand on my arm.
‘You really are the most extraordinarily gullible young man,’ she said. ‘What on earth are we going to do with you?’
Oxley ducked under the surface. Beverley looked at me with her head cocked to one side, a sly smile on her lips, and then she slipped down into the water.
Isis offered me a seat at the plastic garden table and then, muttering under a breath, collected up Beverley’s discarded clothes, folded them neatly and draped them over a drying rail by the back door. Oxley and Beverley had been out of sight for more than a minute. I looked at Isis, who seemed unperturbed.
‘They’re going to be at least another half-hour,’ she said, and made us tea. I kept an eye on the water as she bustled but there weren’t even bubbles. I told myself they must have swum out of the pool and surfaced beyond the trees somewhere but I wasn’t very convincing, even to myself. She gave me the now standard assurances as she poured and offered me a slice of Madeira – I said no thank you. I asked her if she remembered a Henry Pyke. She thought the name was familiar.