For Better for Worse

At fourteen Vanessa was still too young for any kind of emotional or sexual relationship and experimentation. But not too young to be very sexually aware and curious. Vanessa and Sasha probably considered her to be old-fashioned and out of touch, but Eleanor could remember from her own school days the handful of girls who had been sexually active at well below the legally permitted age.

The architect’s car was already parked outside the house when they got there and he was waiting for them.

Within minutes of them going inside, Eleanor recognised that, far from being impressed and excited about the house, Vanessa was doing her best to be as destructive as possible.

‘Do we have to stay in here with you? Can’t we go outside?’ she complained.

Exasperated and embarrassed and sensing the architect’s impatience, Eleanor nodded her head.

When they had gone Eleanor listened to the architect, her heart sinking. It was obvious from what he was saying that he had serious doubts about the viability of the alterations they needed to carry out.

‘Are you saying that we can’t convert this area into one large living kitchen?’ she asked him.

‘I’m afraid not. Too many of the existing walls are load-bearing supports. I know how keen you are on the house,’ he added quietly. ‘And it is a lovely setting, but quite honestly…’ He paused and looked thoughtfully at her. ‘I don’t want to seem a pessimist, but in your shoes I’d seriously consider looking for somewhere else.’

Tiredly Eleanor thanked him and walked with him to his car. Her dreams of buying the house and living within its walls, her dreams of what family life and togetherness should really be, were becoming so tarnished and bruised that she couldn’t even close her eyes any more and visualise the transformations she had originally been so happily confident could be made.

As she walked back to the house and locked it with the set of keys the agent had lent her, she glanced at her watch and frowned.

Where were the girls? She had warned them not to be gone more than half an hour.

She turned round, scanning what she could see of the grounds.

They couldn’t have gone very far, surely? Like her, neither of them were dressed for wandering through the garden’s wildly overgrown undergrowth.

She called their names, her frown deepening when there was no response. In view of the contempt both of them had expressed for the countryside she was surprised that they were so keen to explore it rather than look round the house.

She had brought Vanessa with her in the hope that once she saw the house she would become more proprietorial about it, feel more involved in their plans.

She had envisaged discussing with her which room she would like, what kind of bathroom, what kind of décor and colour schemes, hoping by discussing these aspects of the move with her to win her interest and enthusiasm, but she had quickly recognised that as long as Sasha was with her this was impossible.

She called their names again and when there was no response she sighed under her breath. Where on earth were they?

Grimly she set off down the path which led to the boundary wall of the property and circled round inside it, linking the small iris-filled dell and the pool with small copses of trees and cleverly planned vistas.

Eleanor had explored this path on a previous visit, marvelling at the patience and care which had gone into its planning; even now, when so much was overgrown and out of control, it was still possible to see how it must have once been; flowers carpeting the ground beneath the trees, carefully planned seats and even a small, almost secret arbour all designed to encourage the walker to pause to admire the way the garden had been planned to almost reluctantly and shyly reveal its pleasures and secrets. But on that occasion she had been dressed for that kind of exploration.

Today she wasn’t. Today, because she had had to spend so much time chivvying the girls to get ready, she hadn’t even remembered to put a pair of low-heeled shoes in the boot of the car. Instead she was having to negotiate the path wearing an almost brand new pair of matt black Charles Jourdan court shoes with thin, delicate heels. Her equally fragile and expensive tights didn’t last beyond the first few yards of the overgrown path; the bramble which ripped them lacerated her leg as well, leaving a long, ugly scratch from which blood was already starting to ooze.

As she stood up from stooping to check and examine it, a whippy branch of elder stung against her cheek and left a dark mark on the sleeve of her cream silk shirt. It was a new one, a Donna Karan Jade had persuaded her to buy in Harvey Nichols’ sale.

She had worn it this morning on impulse, because Marcus had liked the way the soft fabric hung, telling her that it was not just the silk itself that was so subtly provocative, but that the way it outlined her breasts had an immediate eye and touch appeal that he found difficult to resist.

And so this morning, when her fingers had brushed against it in the wardrobe, her eyes had softened with the memories it evoked and she had impulsively put it on.

To give her confidence… to remind her of Marcus’s desire for her?

She tensed briefly. Why should she need to do either? To impress Vanessa and her friend, then? Her mouth curled ruefully into the smile that Marcus had first fallen in love with, the smile that said she was a woman who was tender with other people’s vanities and vulnerabilities and aware of her own.

This resurgence of her sense of humour, though, was only brief—all it took to banish it once again was the sound of the girls’ voices, and not just theirs, but male voices as well.

She saw them before they saw her, and it only added to her anger that it was the pretty dell which had so appealed to her that they had chosen for their rendezvous; and an arranged rendezvous it must have been, because there was no way these leather-clad youths with their pallid skin and loose-muscled bodies could ever have simply happened to be walking past.

As they turned to watch her, Vanessa’s expression hostile and aggressive, Sasha’s openly contemptuous and amused, the boys’ wary, uncertain, the silence seemed to press down on her.

She could feel her heart beating and her body tensing, her clothes clinging stickily to her body. She felt slightly sick, anger and relief warring inside her.

Vanessa was Marcus’s daughter, but her responsibility, and as she looked into her stepdaughter’s hostile, tense face she could feel the bitter taste of failure and guilt rising up in her throat.