Becky by Sarah May

Author:Sarah May [May, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Macmillan

Swimmer

I watch as Matilda enters the pond, climbing neatly down a ladder at the side of the jetty and slipping into the brown water. Her hair is tucked into a swimming cap whose progress I track as she barrels efficiently towards the far side, steering a course through the water lilies and scattering ducks. Then she turns, treading water.

‘Rebecca, come on!’

Her voice, like those of the other swimmers, is flat-sounding in the lazy mist covering the pond’s surface, subduing the world so that it feels short of colour. As if it has undergone some sort of bloodletting.

This first swim feels like an initiation. A test I know I need to pass. The jetty is already dotted with wet footprints leading to and from the water. Many of these footprints, I’ll later discover, belong to the women running this country, both publicly and behind closed doors. In the changing block with its single shower, rumours are verified, information exchanged, deals brokered, assurances given and promises made.

Most of these women are wearing the same purposeful, dark-coloured swimsuits as Matilda, hair tucked beneath caps. Their uniformity makes me feel self-conscious. It’s an old feeling. The costume I grabbed earlier this morning from the bottom of a drawer, after Rawdon dropped me at the Queen’s Court flat, is chlorine-bleached. A patchy purple. My hair hangs loose down my back, and my movements are full of the night before.

Making a note to buy a new Speedo swimsuit, cap and goggles, I lower myself down the ladder, forcing my body to make contact with the water. The cold comes as a shock. Nothing could have prepared me for the burn of it. My head immediately numbs with pressure. Until, scrambling through the water towards Matilda, I become suddenly, crazily jubilant, yelping and splashing.

We complete four laps, and then Matilda swims back to the steps. I follow, clawing my way up after her.

Back on dry land, silted pond water running off us, we make our way towards the changing block. Matilda is silent and preoccupied. She remains silent and preoccupied as we dress, pulling clothes over damp skin, eyeing each other warily. Once in her tracksuit, she sits panting, staring down at her bare feet. A pair of trainers wait on the slatted bench beside her, but she makes no move to put them on.

Instead, she says, ‘My brother tells me you used to be their nanny.’

I’m much slower than usual this morning, so it takes me longer than it should to realize that she’s referring to Pitt.

And then, before I get a chance to respond: ‘How long did you last?’

‘Six months.’

She stares at me for a moment, eyes narrow. ‘You started work at the Mercury immediately after that?’

‘Yes. I did admin, a bit of copy tasting.’

‘And then, five years later, you bring in Armstrong and his letters.’

‘Yes.’

She continues to stare at me, sunlight moving on the changing room walls and across her face.

‘You and Rawdon left the party together last night.’

How does she know this? Wenham?

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