Deep Blue Sea (2 page)

1

‘So who’s up for climbing Everest?’

Diana Denver glanced around the table, not sure which of her guests had said it, which friend had thrown down the gauntlet. It could have been any of the men sitting at the neat round of twelve, even a couple of the women. Their friends were like that: accomplished, ambitious, competitive. It wasn’t money, it was the alpha mind-set: bigger, better, higher. Two weeks scaling the Himalayan giant was the equivalent of most people’s rock-climbing at Center Parcs.

‘Well I’m in,’ said Michael Reynolds, her husband Julian’s close friend. Diana knew Mike was winding them up – he was three stone overweight, not to mention a world-class bullshitter – but she was immediately concerned that it would only encourage Julian. Climbing a mountain was not what he – not what
they
– needed right now.

Michael leant forward in his chair. ‘No, I mean it,’ he said, his eyes sparkling. ‘Everyone thinks it’s so hard, but I’ve been reading up on it and it is actually quite doable. Just takes a bit of determination.’

Julian sipped his Armagnac, letting the amber liquid roll around his tongue before he finally spoke.

‘I’m not sure,’ he said, to Diana’s great relief. Her husband was an adventurer at heart. He had trekked across deserts, motorbiked across continents, but it was all done, as was everything in his life, with great consideration, planning and thought. ‘I just think it’s too busy these days.’

‘Too busy?’ laughed Michael, knocking back his own brandy. ‘It’s not the ski lifts at Verbier we’re talking about here, Jules.’

Michael’s wife Patty swatted him on the arm. ‘Well I think Julian’s right. So many people want to do it, they’re even running corporate trips up to Base Camp these days. It’s like the adventure equivalent of a Birkin – you have to put your name down years in advance and pay through the nose for the privilege.’

Everyone began to laugh as coffee cups were refilled by Diana’s fleet of caterers. The glorious smell of arabica beans mingled with the scent of honeysuckle and roses. Diana had been unconvinced about moving the party into the garden, but when numbers had necessitated five tables of twelve, outgrowing the available space in their dining room, there was nothing else for it.

‘Jules doesn’t need to go to the top of the world,’ added Bob Wilson, a fund manager, distinguished by his unconvincing hair weave. ‘You’re already there, aren’t you, Denver. Say, is it true the company’s buying Jura Motors?’

Julian gave a low, slow smile. As CEO of the Denver Group, one of Europe’s biggest and most valuable conglomerates, he was used to fending off rumour, speculation and shameless mining for information from their investor friends. ‘Don’t believe everything you read, Bob. I think we’ve all learnt that the hard way.’

He reached over and took Diana’s hand, resting his fingers over hers on the table. She felt all eyes land on her, which made her feel a little uncomfortable.

‘Speaking of the Himalayas, I think it’s time to go and check out the vodka ice luge my wife has had sculpted. I’ve been promised it’s not in the shape of Michael’s penis,’ added Julian with a wink.

‘Shame!’ shouted Patty, as the guests stood up and dispersed around the gardens.

Diana smoothed down the lightweight white wool of her shift dress and gave a small sigh of relief that the dinner had been a success. Pastis, her favourite caterers, had come up trumps again. She had personally selected the menu herself with Dan Donnell, the company’s head chef. There was king crab, liquorice pannacotta in the palest of blue, and she had been particularly proud of the canapés – miso-glazed prawns and scallops – soft, delicate little bites. Certainly she hadn’t seen anything left on anyone’s plate; always a good sign among gourmands like these.

The garden also looked ravishing. Julian liked to refer to the detached four-storey Notting Hill villa as their ‘London crash pad’ – their main home was now Somerfold, a beautiful three-hundred-acre estate in Oxfordshire – but the garden was still impressive for this part of town, where multi-million-dollar homes usually had to make do with a communal garden square. Tall poplars framed either side, with a sloping lawn to the centre and a kidney-shaped pond full of koi reflecting the fairy lights strung from every bough and bush. In the balmy early summer evening, it was like a Victorian schoolgirl’s vision of a fairy grotto – which was exactly the effect Diana had been hoping for. She had been nervous about entertaining after all this time, but the night, so far, was going down a storm.

‘Oh, darling,’ said Patty, approaching her on the terrace. ‘It’s gorgeous out here. I don’t know why you don’t spend more time up in town.’

Diana looked down at her glass. ‘Oh, I much prefer the country nowadays. I feel so hemmed in in the city,’ she said, not entirely honestly.

Patty gave a gentle smile and touched her arm. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I do understand. But we miss you, you know.’

Patty was being kind – and of course, she
did
understand; Patty and Michael knew all about Diana and Julian’s ‘problems’, as they were ever-so-politely referred to. But the truth was, Diana had been relieved to move out to the country three years ago. She had never felt entirely at ease in the sort of circles Julian so loved: the bankers, the industrialists, the gilded elite, exactly the sort of people he had invited this evening. Which was why she had insisted that this, their first appearance on the social scene in six months, should stay small and intimate, if you could call sixty friends and colleagues and a five-course dinner small.

Diana and Patty walked down to a raised seating area overlooking the pond and turned to watch Julian, Mike and a group of the men talking enthusiastically about chartering a chopper and yomping across Nepal.

‘Don’t they ever get bored of that macho grandstanding?’ sighed Patty. ‘Climbing Everest indeed. None of them can find a space in their diaries for a round of golf, let alone an expedition to Shangri-La.’

Diana giggled.

‘More to the point, none of their wives would stand for it,’ added Patty with a sigh. ‘I want flip-flops on my feet on holiday, not crampons.’

She gave Diana a reassuring tweak. ‘Are you having a good time, darling? I’m so glad you’re, well, out and about again since . . . all the trouble.’

How we love our euphemisms
, thought Diana. In the long months since ‘all the trouble’, she had come to realise how hard people in her world found it to discuss real issues. Stillbirth, miscarriage: it was all too serious, too real for these people.
My child died inside me
, she thought.
Why can’t you say it?
But she knew Patty was only trying to be kind. And besides, tonight wasn’t the time to be dwelling on the past. Tonight was a time for laughter and happiness, looking to the future, not the past.

‘I won’t pretend the last year was one of my all-time favourites,’ she said, ‘but I promise I won’t hide away in the country the whole time.’

‘I’m glad. Because we miss you,’ said Patty gently.

Diana was grateful for her words. Even though Patty was at least fifteen years older than she was, she was one of the few wives on the circuit she felt she could talk to. She was a ferociously bright and successful woman – on the board of a Swiss bank – but she didn’t wear it on her sleeve. She and Michael, who headed up an influential hedge fund, were a financial power couple. So much so that they divided their time between a mews in Belgravia, a manor house in the New Forest and an eighteenth-century villa on the shores of Lake Geneva. No one mentioned that Patty was from an ordinary background in the north, because it didn’t matter; she was one of them now. Diana wished she could pull the same trick. Not a day had gone by since she married Julian when she hadn’t felt judged for where she had come from.

‘You should go back into this professionally,’ said Patty.

‘Back into what?’ Diana had let her thoughts wander again. It was getting to be a bad habit recently.

‘Event planning, darling,’ said Patty. ‘Isn’t that where you started?’

‘Hardly. I was temping at the Denver Group and I got roped into organising the company’s summer party.’

The temp that got lucky
, she thought to herself. That was what the bitchy wives and girlfriends said about her with ill-disguised jealousy
. The temp that bagged the boss
.

‘You should start your own business,’ said Patty. ‘Seriously. I’d hire you in a heartbeat. We don’t entertain quite like we used to, but we could certainly use some of the fairy dust you sprinkle on your parties.’

Diana gave her friend a playful half-smile. ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you are very bossy?’

Patty’s eyes sparkled. ‘Yes, and I don’t take no for an answer either. Ask Mike.’

Diana had always envied Patty and Michael their relationship. Uniquely in their circle, it seemed, they appeared to actually like each other’s company. They bickered endlessly, of course, always making jokes at each other’s expense, but there was an unmistakable feeling of warmth and respect between them. They just seemed happy together.

‘Patty, I can’t think about starting a business right now,’ said Diana. ‘I have a child—’

‘Charlie is a teenager,’ interrupted Patty. ‘A teenager who is at boarding school.’

‘Okay, but I want to get pregnant again. You know how difficult it has been for us. I don’t need any stress.’

‘That’s what everyone said about my sister when she was going through IVF. Give up work, relax, it’s the only way to get pregnant. Instead she gave up IVF, went back to work and, hey presto, she had a daughter at forty-two.’

‘So you’re saying I should get a life?’ said Diana with a wry smile.

Patty inclined her head towards a group of three women gossiping by the French windows.

‘No, I’m saying that you don’t want to turn into one of
those
women.’

Diana had been thinking the same thing. Dressed in a uniform of high-end labels, their hair and nails primped and polished, their eyes constantly monitoring their husbands and each other, these women were trapped in an endless cycle of one-upmanship. Yes, they had shoes and bags and Italian marble work surfaces in their architect-modelled Kensington homes, but they lived their lives on a privileged hamster wheel and in a state of constant anxiety. She looked at the hard-faced blonde standing next to Greg Willets. Greg was one of Julian’s oldest friends, a successful investment banker who treated girlfriends like fast food.

‘I see Greg has a new lady-friend,’ said Patty, pursing her lips. ‘Where do you think he met this one? A massage parlour?’

‘Patty!’ gasped Diana.

‘Come on,’ smiled her friend. ‘Greg is an ordinary-looking man with an extraordinary-sized bank balance. A woman that blonde and gym-toned wouldn’t be with him if he was a bin-man, and do you think Greg is looking for a career woman or an intellectual equal?’

‘She could be a high-flying lawyer for all we know.’

‘If she is, I’ll eat Greg’s Ferrari,’ snorted Patty.

Diana held her tongue. For one thing, Patty was probably right; Julian’s single friends tended to date former models and glamorous PRs, not brain surgeons. And for another, she was in no position to criticise those girls, because the truth was, she was one of them.

She accepted a top-up to her glass of champagne from the waiter. She had been sober all evening, but what the hell. Patty was right: it was time to start enjoying herself.

‘I envy you and Michael,’ she said suddenly.

‘You know what the secret is to making us tick?’ Patty said sagely. ‘We’re both
busy
. We have enough money to stop working tomorrow, but we choose not to because we want to stay interesting.’

She motioned over to Greg Willets’s blonde. ‘These girls get chosen because they seem to be good wife material: attractive, unchallenging, good enough in bed. They get married, they run the house, they go to the gym, shop. And you know what happens? They get boring. So their husbands, who aren’t totally stupid – not even Greg – they get bored, especially when their wives start losing their looks and their perkiness. So they upgrade. I mean, is that all they have to look forward to?’

‘I thought you were supposed to be cheering me up,’ frowned Diana.

‘Oh, I don’t mean
you
, darling. You and Julian, it’s different.’

Diana glanced over at her husband, who was laughing at something Michael had just said.

‘Is it?’

Patty turned to look at her meaningfully. ‘Yes, it is. He
adores
you, Diana. Seriously. I know it hasn’t all been plain sailing for you, but Julian loves you. And don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re most certainly not a trophy wife.’

Diana burst out laughing. ‘That’s supposed to be a compliment, is it?’

‘Damn straight it is,’ said Patty, holding her gaze. ‘And that’s what I’ve been saying all night: you’re too bright to do nothing. Get out there, set up an events company, get a job. It’d be good for you. And good for your relationship too.’

Diana nodded, but Patty’s words seemed alien to her. She had never been told she was bright. Beautiful, exquisite, yes. But brainy? It was her sister who was the brain-box. The whip-smart, ruthless one who would be good at business.
Too ruthless
, she thought, stamping out an unwelcome memory.

‘Promise me you’ll think about it,’ said Patty.

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Do. Because Julian has his faults, but he’s a good one. Speaking of which, I had better go and rescue my husband from that woman’s tits, because if he keeps staring at her cleavage, I fear he’s going to fall in.’

It was gone midnight when the party finally broke up. Diana left Julian at the front door, lingering on the step saying good night to the last stragglers, and walked back through the house into the dining room. The caterers had almost finished up, tables dismantled, crockery, linens, glassware and food miraculously cleared away into the van parked on the street.

She stood at the French windows that overlooked the gardens, and took a moment to admire the scene. The fairy lights were still twinkling like a thousand shining Tinker Bells. In fact,
Peter Pan
had been the inspiration for tonight’s theme; Diana had happened upon a copy of the book her son Charlie had left behind in his room. He was thirteen now and in his first year at Harrow; children’s stories, however classic, were not the sort of thing a self-conscious teenager would want in his dorm. It was an old copy – fifty or sixty years old, ragged and worn – but it had particular resonance for Diana, as she had bought it from a junk shop during her first year in London, when she had arrived with no money, a twelve-month-old child and nothing more than her looks and a determination to better herself.