Learning to Swim by Clare Chambers

Author:Clare Chambers [Chambers, Clare]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781446441053
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2011-03-08T00:00:00+00:00

‘If Frances and Nicky do start going out,’ Lawrence said later, forking noodles on to my plate, ‘you and Rad could make up a foursome.’ I looked up warily and caught the sly expression on his face.

‘I don’t think that’s very likely,’ I said, as neutrally as possible. We were kneeling either side of the coffee table in his house in Dulwich. The sitting room was on the first floor – an arrangement which struck me as highly sophisticated. The table was strewn with steaming foil containers and discarded lids. Lawrence had ordered far too much; his generosity would give us both indigestion before the evening was out. ‘Rad’s not really interested in girls – or boys,’ I added, my jaws working mechanically at a piece of battered pork. I had long since stopped feeling hungry but didn’t dare admit it in the presence of such prodigious leftovers.

‘It certainly seems that way,’ agreed Lawrence, inverting a dish of king prawns on to his plate.

‘I don’t honestly think Rad’s noticed I exist,’ I said.

‘Ah, well. Patience.’ He speared a prawn. ‘That’s something I know all about.’ Then seeing my uncomprehending smile he changed the subject swiftly and started grilling me about my cello-playing – what grade had I reached; how often did I practice; who were my favourite composers, until the phone rang in the study next door and he left me alone.

‘Hello … Sorry… There was no sign of you, and Abigail needed rescuing … No, we’ve already eaten … All right. I’ll have to drop Abigail home on the way …’ I could hear Lawrence’s conversation through the wall and, feeling uncomfortable at overhearing myself discussed, I took the opportunity to go to the loo. ‘Downstairs on the right,’ Lawrence called, with his hand over the receiver, as I passed the study door.

The first on the right proved to be the dining room; the second door looked more promising, but as I groped for the light switch I lost my balance and stumbled into a large flat box propped against one wall. It came crashing on to my shin and I let out a yell which brought Lawrence leaping down the stairs. He switched on the light and I found myself in a generous-sized broom cupboard. My leg had a deep inch-long graze which would take about two hours to start bleeding. On the floor at my feet was a plywood packing crate of the sort used to protect paintings. It was about six by four and bore a label from the Bloomsbury gallery where Lazarus Ohene had enjoyed his recent triumph. Lawrence picked it up and, seeing my expression, gave a sheepish smile. ‘I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t mention this to anyone,’ he said.

‘Doesn’t anyone know it was you?’

‘Lexi does of course. It was her idea – to boost Michael’s morale. And make sure the painting didn’t come back and end up on the wall. So he absolutely mustn’t find out. I keep meaning to get rid of the damn thing – give it away to someone, but I can’t think of anyone I dislike that much.

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