Ready for a swim, darling? she called out to Evelyn.
Ready as ever, said Evelyn.
They embraced familiarly and when they moved apart, Jem Gunnerslake popped up between them, telling Dotty how much he admired her work. He delivered a swift and wholly competent critique of three of Dotty’s most famous pieces: Journeywoman, Maria and Arrested Time.
Dotty thanked him and ran her fingers through her hair, her nailbeds coloured by the remnants of her latest work. I look forward to seeing you again, he said, with the confidence of a middle-aged man about to embark on his first affair.
Have a good break, Miss Skinner.
You too, Jem. And thank you, she said, holding up the brown paper bag that contained her book.
They watched him disappear out of the gates towards the underground station, towards a train to Northumberland, where he would spend a week pruning his mother’s bay tree.
Dotty looked at her friend quizzically.
Jem Gunnerslake, said Evelyn. Lost soul but incredibly kind. Last to the lifeboats kind of man. I like him a lot. I could imagine him veering away from art and studying medicine.
That’s quite a leap. Though Leonardo was halfway there.
He also indulges my stories from the past.
We all do, darling, said Dotty, reaching for her arm. Come on, she said. Let’s get wet.
They found a taxi-cab on Gower Street and the effusiveness of first greeting settled into a calm precis of the weeks since they’d last met.
Gunnerslake? said Dotty. Not related to that American theatre critic, is he?
Who?
Jem. She’s not his mother, is she?
Is who his mother?
Penelope. They look similar.
I have no idea who you’re talking about.
You do. Penelope Gunnerslake. We went to see that play.
What play?
In the West End. About four years ago. Charlie took us.
Wetherall?
Yes. Charlie Wetherall took us to see that play where the frontier pianist with a drink problem stole the show.
Oh God, yes! A small but noticeable part. He was marvellous. So real.
Well, Penelope Gunnerslake was the woman we were sitting next to, said Dotty.
The redhead with pearls?
The redhead with pearls, said Dotty.
The air cooled as they drove into the shaded encampment of NW3.
Nearly there, said Evelyn.
She wore them in bed, you know. Those pearls.
The theatre critic did?
I told you at the time.
You most certainly did not, said Evelyn, and she opened her bag and took out her purse. She turned to Dotty and said, Did she review you, my darling?
She was quite complimentary, actually, said Dotty.
The taxi came to a halt on Highgate West Hill. Evelyn paid and closed the door.
She didn’t say, The grand flourish at the end could little make up for a lacklustre opening? said Evelyn.
Oh, very good, laughed Dotty.
Impetus lost in the second act?
I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, said Dotty.
Oh, I am, said Evelyn. Three curtain calls were two too many?
They cut through to the edge of the heath and walked the hardened path towards the gate, the vegetation pungent beside them in the balmy afternoon heat.
I went to the Colony last night, said Dotty. Muriel says hello.
Ah, Muriel, said Evelyn fondly.
They settled their belongings in the meadow adjacent to the water and went to the hut to change. Evelyn emerged in her trusty black costume with shorts, and readjusted the strap on her shoulder. Her body had changed little over the years except for the band of padding around her middle, an accumulation of the six o’clock cocktail, a ritual as accurate at keeping time as Big Ben. Dotty’s costume, in comparison, was, well, a bit circus. It gets the job done, she said.
They walked gingerly across the wet decking and dumped their towels by the steps. Dotty limbered up before getting into the water as she always did. She stretched her arms across her chest and warmed up her thighs with a good slap. Dotty nudged Evelyn to follow her gaze. A woman was by the edge of the water showing signs of indecision. Dotty had long believed there was a direct correlation between how one entered the ponds and how one had sex. Utter nonsense, said Evelyn. I usually hold my nose and fall in.
Case in point, said Dotty, before performing an elegant swallow dive with minimal splash.
The familiar cold rush hit Evelyn. Thirteen degrees against the high twenties of the air, the inner gasp and the letting go. She swam eye-level to the green water, as clouds were bothered by the breeze, and wavelets crested by sunlight.
These were Evelyn’s favourite days, her spring awakening. （Past the water lilies again, and the bulrushes.） Dappled light on overhanging tree trunks brought motion to the static monsters, and willows draped low to meet their vivid reflection. She breathed steadily through her nose and the ducks matched the ponderous ease of her breaststroke. A heron took off majestically from the bank and flew low across her path. She was in heaven.