THE GORGE
1
Saturday, 6th May
Laura
It had to be serious because Aiden sounded really panicky.
‘Your mother’s had a nasty fall,’ he’d said on the phone. ‘I called you earlier but you didn’t answer.’
I’d told him I’d been in the car at the time, so I couldn’t. ‘What happened? Is she all right?’ I’d asked.
‘It was when we were walking, up above the suspension bridge,’ he said. ‘I called 999 and they took her to Southmead. I’m there with her now. Yes, she’ll be all right. I’ll explain when you get here. Are you on your way?’
I drive like mad to the hospital, run from the car park to the main entrance and fight my way through some monstrous revolving doors. I can feel my limbs tensing up already. I race over to an information desk and I gabble at a woman there and she tells me where A and E is. ‘It’s quicker if you come in at the other end of the building, love,’ she tells me.
She’s right. It’s a very long way to A and E and to get there you have to navigate a brutal corridor of towering white walls with intrusive glass panels, all the time looking for number thirty-five, and that’s the only number on a scary red background. (All the others are black.)
When I finally arrive, by way of a lift because A and E’s on a lower level, it’s crowded. I hate hospitals. They give me the creeps. I can never forget how frightened I was when Mummy took me to have my tonsils out. The walls were green then.
A nurse points me to someone behind a desk. I go over and explain who I am and the woman studies her notes and gives me more directions.
There’s a curtain drawn around the bed when I get there. I tug it this way and that to find an opening. I peer in. Aiden’s there, sitting on a chair, with a mobile phone to his ear and clutching a piece of paper and a pencil. Mummy’s nowhere to be seen. And the bed’s gone too.
‘Hello, Laura. They’ve taken her to X-ray,’ he says, lowering the phone just for a moment.
‘Who are you talking to?’ I ask.
‘Just calling some people to tell them what’s happened,’ he says. He resumes his phone conversation, mentioning something about Fire and Rescue.
Why the hell is he doing that right now? His face is drawn and he looks the worse for wear. His corduroy trousers are dirty and grass-stained, and one leg’s torn quite badly. His jacket looks grubby too.
He ends the call, ticks something (a list?) on the piece of paper, and looks at me. ‘It’s like I said. She had a very bad fall,’ he says, ‘and she’s broken some bones. And hurt her head, but she’ll survive.’
Thank God. ‘Tell me what happened,’ I say.
‘We were on the cliff —’
‘Cliff? What cliff?’
‘The one up by the Observatory,’ he says.
My whole body convulses. ‘You mean you actually went down into the gorge?’ I say.
‘Yes.’
‘The two of you?’
‘Yes.’
I can’t believe it. Why? You’re not supposed to do that. It’s incredibly dangerous.
2
Tuesday, 20th June
Laura
Did you ever have a nickname at school? At my senior school they started to call me ‘Belly’. Well, some of the boys did. They thought it was funny. I hated it. On a scale of one to ten, it was a minus one. It was because of my surname, ‘Belmont’. I didn’t think ‘Belmont’ was particularly mind-blowing, but they seemed to latch onto it for some reason. I didn’t have a fat tummy, but it wasn’t gorgeously supermodel-flat either. Sort of normal, really. So when Sinclair called me ‘Belly’ at school one day, I took an enormous breath in and lifted my shirt to show him a totally presentable middle region. His eyes popped out. He told the other boys, and they didn’t dare utter the word again. I’d won.
I’ve never been naturally thin, so I have to work really hard to keep my figure, which is important for my work. And so far, so good, just about. Even at twenty-seven. Why am I reminded of all this? Simply because of what I’m wearing tonight. It’s a crop top with the sort of tight, leather-look jeans you see film stars swan about in on red carpets. And high heels — all very noughties. I think I must have been desperately trying to look younger when I dug it all out of the wardrobe, and I’m beginning to feel very embarrassed, but I can’t go and change now.
I couldn’t believe it when I walked in. I hadn’t been to a private do with a real live disc jockey since that time in Clare Cellars in Cambridge. It must have been Rufus’s idea. He’s like that, trying to relive his youth in a sad sort of way.
Rufus is a friend (boyfriend?) of my BFF Holly, and he invited her to this ‘Midsummer Madness’ party. He actually called it that because it was going to be held on the evening before the longest day of the year, the twenty-first of June.
Holly and Rufus are both absurdly intellectual and knowledgeable, the sort of people who’d buzz in for a starter question on University Challenge before the questionmaster had finished asking it. Holly went to Marlborough and then got a first in English at Sidney Sussex. She writes whodunnits, and one’s on the way to being published. She’s always going on about golden age crime writers, with obscure-sounding names, and what she doesn’t know about poisons isn’t worth writing down. And she has this bizarre collection of costumes she wears when she goes ‘undercover’ to research her novels. I’m a warm-sea-at-sunset sort of girl; Holly’s a rockpool-muddling-around-in person. That’s not to says she’s an ugly duckling. Far from it.
It was like this. Holly had asked Rufus if I could come along because she doesn’t have a car (though she’s passed her test and is always talking about getting one) and the party was in Chew Magna. That’s only about ten miles south of Bristol, but it feels like the centre of nowhere. And then, when Holly asked me, I was all for it if there was a chance of meeting some good-looking men. I do still live on my own after all. Mummy is always asking about my boyfriends and whether there’s anyone serious. She’s incredibly eager that I find the right man so she can show her perfect son-in-law off to the world.
Holly says the party is ‘late till early’, which I take to mean from about nine or ten until about two. We arrive at ten and by then most of the food has gone, the music has started and Holly then totally vanishes somewhere and I spend the first hour wandering around feeling lost, scavenging for morsels and being chatted up by very non-Adonis types, who look like they’re fully paid-up members of Mensa.
Then, horror of horrors, someone who looks like Doctor Who, complete with sonic screwdriver, strides over. He calls me ‘Lauren’, which I hate, and asks if he can get me a ‘noggin’. I tell him champagne. I’ve already had a couple and I can’t recall where I left my glass, but I don’t tell him that.
I take out a cigarette from the packet in my shoulder bag and light one. I’m trying to give up, but I’m not doing very well.
‘I don’t think Rufus wants people to smoke in the house,’ he says, shaking his head.
‘Then I’ll go outside. Would you mind bringing my champagne out to me, please?’ I say, hoping that there’s every chance he won’t find me.
I walk off.
As I go, I hear a voice behind me. ‘Would you possibly like one of these?’ it says, in a rich, public school timbre.
I turn, desperately hoping that the face will live up to the attractiveness of his speech, and I’m pleased to say that it does. There’s your archetypal tall, dark stranger in front of me, holding out a glass of bubbly, and oozing charm besides.
‘Thank you,’ I say, taking the champagne. I can’t help but smile.
‘My name’s Max,’ he says, and he says it with a slight hiatus before the name ‘Max’. Is he nervous? Surely not. Whether he is or not, I’m melting.
‘I’m Laura, not Lauren,’ I say, and wonder why I did. Not being Lauren won’t mean anything to Max. I must be nervous.
I can see he’s looking at my bare midriff. ‘Golly, are you actually warm enough?’ he asks.
There aren’t many people who say ‘golly’ these days, and I smile. I’m flattered by the attention, and I say yes, I am. He has ocean-blue eyes and I’m lost for further words.
There’s a gust of wind from the patio and it blows hairs across my face.
‘That’s the trouble with long hair,’ I say, half laughing at myself trying to hold my drink in one hand and brushing back the strands with the other, cigarette between my fingers.
I take a sip from my champagne.
Max looks at my cigarette and says, ‘You didn’t see the sign?’
‘What sign?’ I ask.
‘Oh, the one by the front door. One of those red circles with a cigarette inside and a red line across it. Bit OTT, if you ask me.’
‘Shit,’ I say, and then, ‘Oh, sorry.’
Max laughs. ‘Don’t mind me.’
‘No, no, I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have sworn,’ I say. I walk over to a nearby table and put the remains of the cigarette in an empty wine glass.
When I get back, stepping carefully in my high heels, I tell Max I’m trying to stop smoking, but I’m weak-willed, Max smiles. It’s a disarming smile, not scolding me in the least.
I’m not sure why, but I ask him what he does for a living.
‘This and that really,’ he says. ‘Sort of put things together, I suppose. What about you?’
He’s being coy, I can tell. He’s probably a high-powered corporate lawyer, specialising in company mergers. I tell him about my work and hope he approves.
‘That sounds breathtakingly wonderful,’ he says, and for a moment I think he means me.
He finds a half-full champagne bottle and tops up both our glasses. I take a slurp and then it hits me: I’ve been a complete airhead. I’m not going to be able to drive back to Bristol after the amount I’ve drunk. This is really not like me. Being surrounded by all these boffins must have caused me to overdo the bubbly whilst trying to find someone ‘real’. Holly’s going to be red-hot-poker mad with me.
‘Are you all alone? I mean to say, did you come here on your own?’ Max asks.
I compose myself and I explain about Holly. Max listens and I’m trying to think who it is he resembles. Yes, it’s Hugh Grant from ‘Notting Hill’. Mummy raved about the film and said I should watch it, so I did. Am I now in some parallel universe, with the story actually coming to life? Is Max really a divorced bookshop owner? That would be absurdly bizarre.
‘I’ve never met an author,’ Max says. ‘Not in real life. Perhaps you could introduce me?’
Oh dear. I think that rules out the bookshop theory. That’s one part of my fantasy destroyed. I really don’t like the idea of sharing Max with Holly, so I tell Max that Holly’s brainbox clever and can’t get enough of puzzles.
‘Just a minute,’ he says. He takes a napkin from the table where I left my cigarette and feels in his pocket. ‘You don’t have a jolly old pencil, do you, Laura?’
The only pencil I’ve got is not very jolly, no. It’s an eyebrow one, and thinking Max is about to perform some sort of magical trick, I find it in my shoulder bag.
It isn’t a trick. He writes something on the napkin, folds it up and gives it to me. It’s just like an old ‘Talking Pictures’ film.
I put down my glass, take the napkin and unfold it. It must be his phone number and address. ‘You’re not leaving, are you?’ I ask.
‘No, but I think your friend wants you,’ he says, looking to one side.
Sure enough, Holly bounces up like Tigger and says that Rufus has this splendid notion about seeing the sun come up.
I could strangle her. I say that I’ve seen sunrises before and I’m really not keen on repeating the activity.
I introduce Max. I tell him that this is my friend Holly, the author I told him about. I tell Holly that Max has invited me out on Friday.
Max raises his eyebrows at me, then smiles.
‘That’s wonderful,’ says Holly.
Max says he’s sure he’ll see Holly’s name on the best seller lists very soon and takes his leave, kissing me on the cheek.
I’m sure I blush. I never found out if he already has a girlfriend.
Holly puts on her earnest and very excited expression. ‘Rufus wants us to go to Cheddar Gorge,’ she says.
My jaw drops. ‘Why?’ I ask.
‘I told you. To see the sun come up. On Midsummer’s Day. It’s at zero four fifty four.’ She tells me that Rufus says that from the cliff top, we’ll be able to see this amazing display of light against the rocks below.
‘The rocks below?’ I echo.
‘Yes’, she says, with a giggle. ‘Cheddar’s only ten point eight miles from here, Rufus says. He’s looked it up on the AA Route Planner.’
I can’t believe Holly is saying this. I feel my body tense. Surely she must realise?
‘I’m sure someone will lend you a coat,’ she says.
I’ve had enough. I take her by the shoulders and look her straight in the eye. ‘There’s no way I can do that, Holly. No fucking way. Don’t you remember?’
I stand waiting for my words to sink in.
She drops her gaze. There’s a pause and then she looks back at me. ‘Oh, yes. Of course, Laura. I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot. I didn’t think. Forgive me. Please, please forgive me.’
At last Holly has caught on. There’s no chance I’m going to drive out and stand over a gorge in near darkness, with a sheer drop of more than a hundred metres in front of me. Not with my fear. And not after what happened. It was only last month, for God’s sake, and it’s still sharp in my memory.
I tell Holly I think we should go. It’s nearly one o’clock, so it’s not as if we’d be leaving that early.
Holly says yes, perhaps we should. ‘Just wait here,’ she says. ‘I’ll go and speak to Rufus. Tell him we’re off.’ She walks away.
I hand my glass to someone walking past, and look around, not knowing really what to do. I see Max at the far end of the room. He notices me looking and blows a kiss.
I hope he can’t see that I’m on the verge of bursting into tears.
3
Wednesday, 21st June
Holly
I’m feeling rotten. Fundamentally out of sorts. I should have cottoned on that Laura wouldn’t have wanted to go to the gorge. How could I not have stopped to think? Instead, I got it horribly wrong. It’s all Rufus’s fault. I must have been carried away by his enthusiasm and his midsummer wheeze. When he mentioned Cheddar Gorge, it did strike me that it might be a striking setting for a murder mystery. Just as well that I didn’t say that to Laura.
I thank Rufus for the party and explain that we have to leave. Nothing personal. He sounds upset, and I tell a white lie about Laura not feeling too well. He seems to accept that and asks if we’re all right to get back to Bristol. I tell him yes.
When I rejoin Laura, she announces that she doesn’t think she should drive because she’s had a wee bit too much to drink. If it weren’t for the fact that I know I’ve touched a raw nerve by talking about Cheddar Gorge, I’d probably be saying some very unseemly words just now.
‘Can you possibly drive?’ she asks. ‘It’s only ten miles and there’ll be nothing on the road at this time of night. It’s an automatic, so easy peasy lemon squeezy.’ She taps me on the nose with her right forefinger, as if that proves the point.
‘I wouldn’t be insured,’ I remind her.
‘Oh, fuck,’ she says.
I suggest we order a taxi and Laura says she can’t bear to think of her BMW abandoned in the bowels of Somersetshire, and as long as we keep to the speed limits, we’ll be hunky-dory.
I’m not sure what it is that makes me go along with her, but I do. There she is, standing there looking lonely, with next to nothing on and clutching her arms in front of her to keep warm. And her mascara is starting to run.
‘All right,’ I say, ‘come on.’ She’s lucky I’ve spent most of the evening chatting and I’ve only had one glass of champagne.
I tell myself to be strong. ‘Vincit qui se vincit.’ She conquers who conquers herself.
Laura gives me the keys and we walk out and get into the BMW. It’s shiny bright red and the sort of top-of-the-range car that might well attract police attention in the early hours. I’m going to have to be top-notch careful.
‘Just put the heater on full and follow the signs to Bristol. When we get there, the car knows the way,’ she says.
