The Rise and Fall of the Wonder Girls. Sarah May

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СКАЧАТЬ he said, pleased to see her. Saskia was one of a handful of pupils going on to study art at degree level, and he kept this coterie of girls close.

      Saskia finally emerged from what her grandmother used to refer to as one of her ‘brown studies’—lapses of attention that had induced her mother to have her tested for epilepsy as a child—and smiled back at Mr Sutton.

      He was wearing shorts and a yellow polo shirt. The effect was stodgy and preppy and just not him at all. Her dad wore polo shirts; they’d been bought for him by his ex-wife, who was also Saskia’s mother, because he never knew what to wear when he wasn’t wearing a suit. Now her mother was dressing a different man, and although her dad made an effort—post-divorce—not to wear the polo shirts, he also made the mistake of not throwing them away. He came across them when he was looking for something to decorate in and after that they once more became fixtures in his casual wardrobe even though they were covered in paint stains and smelt of white spirit.

      For this reason, although she didn’t know it, Saskia had always associated polo shirts with helplessness, and seeing Mr Sutton wearing a yellow one confused her because he’d never struck her as helpless before. It was like somebody had got to him before he could get to himself, and it made her feel sorry for him.

      He must have read something of what she was thinking in her eyes then because he paused, suddenly awkward. ‘What are you picking?’

      ‘Redcurrants.’

      He held up his punnet. ‘Me too.’

      She nodded, gesturing to the redcurrant field they were standing in the middle of. ‘Yeah—’

      ‘I can’t believe I just said that.’

      She nodded again. ‘Yeah—’

      He laughed. ‘So—how’s it going?’

      ‘Fine. How’s your summer been?’

      He had no idea how his summer had been. ‘I went to South Africa.’

      She didn’t ask him who he went with—if anybody. ‘How was it?’

      ‘I can’t remember.’

      Saskia laughed.

      He twisted his neck like it might be stiff. ‘What about you? What have you been up to all summer?’

      ‘I went to the south of France with my dad.’

      ‘Get any painting done?’

      She shook her head. ‘I had some ideas—made a few sketches.’

      ‘I’d like to see them.’

      She nodded, aware that she had no intention of showing him the sketches she made after seeing Tony and Mel in the kitchen that night when she’d got up for some water. ‘We were staying with some friends of dad’s,’ she blurted out, trying to distract herself from the memory of Mel bent over the marble kitchen surface, her breasts pushed into a pile, her hands gripping the edge of it, and Tony behind her. It had looked fierce and ugly with about as much choreography involved as taking a crap, and now she was scared of the whole thing. ‘They had a pool and stuff.’

      ‘Sounds great.’

      ‘Yeah—the first couple of weeks were, then my dad and his friend Tony sort of remembered that they never really got on and that my dad’s always fancied his wife.’ Saskia heard herself saying it and couldn’t believe she was saying it, but couldn’t stop herself. ‘And Tony, who’s been holed up in paradise for about two years too long, was like drunk the whole time and then dad got drunk and then they started rowing.’ She paused for breath, horrified. She hadn’t told anybody this—not even Ruth, who’d actually been there—so why was she telling Mr Sutton in the middle of a field of redcurrants?

      He was staring at her, about to say something when suddenly there was a woman standing next to him wearing black wraparound sunglasses that made her look like a beetle. She’d appeared from nowhere, had her hand on his arm, and was smiling at them both.

      Behind the glasses, Saskia recognised Ms Webster who’d taught her Physics in Year 9. For a moment she wondered what on earth Ms Webster—who also coached the Burwood Girls’ Netball A Team—was doing at Martha’s Farm as well. Then she realised: Ms Webster was here because Mr Sutton was here; Ms Webster was here with Mr Sutton.

      He’d been to South Africa with Ms Webster. They’d lain on the beach together, swam in the sea together, and had sex in a hotel—and other places—together. Now the yellow polo shirt—Ms Webster was wearing the same one—made sense.

      ‘Typical,’ Ms Webster said loudly, triumphantly, holding a basket full of redcurrants up in the air.

      Saskia stared at her, her mouth hanging open awkwardly.

      ‘So much for his contribution to jam making.’

      Saskia didn’t know what to say—she’d never had a jam-making conversation before.

      ‘I just saw Grace as well,’ Ms Webster carried on.

      ‘Grace works here,’ Saskia said without thinking. It sounded mean—when all she’d meant to do was say something because she couldn’t carry on standing there with her mouth hanging silently open, feeling like she’d just got drunk in high heels.

      ‘Well—we’d better be going,’ Ms Webster said, her hand still on Mr Sutton’s arm, turning him round, steering him away. ‘Enjoy the rest of your holiday.’

      ‘I will.’ Saskia was jabbing the front of her sandal repetitively against a ridge of earth and now the crust cracked and crumbled.

      Mr Sutton turned back towards her. ‘I’m in and out of school the next couple of weeks—if you’ve got anything you’re working on or want to show me before the beginning of term.’

      ‘Thanks—’

      Another tug on the arm and he was led away again, only to break free a second time.

      ‘Oh—and I hope that’s not permanent.’

      Saskia stared at him. She had no idea what he was talking about.

      ‘Your neck. The scorpion.’

      Her hand went to her neck. ‘No, it’s—no.’

      He smiled, paused, then turned and walked away with Ms Webster.

      Saskia kept her hand on her neck, covering the temporary tattoo that had come free with one of her music magazines. Her eyes followed Mr Sutton and Ms Webster in their matching polo shirts and South African sun tans all the way to the weighing-in hut.

      They were arguing.

      

      By the time Vicky and Ruth reached Saskia, standing inert still in the field of redcurrants, the black Peugeot convertible belonging to Ms Webster had left Martha’s Farm in a loose trail of dust. Neither the driver, Ms Webster, or the passenger, Mr Sutton, looked like they were going home to make jam.

      ‘Did you speak to him?’ Vicky asked, СКАЧАТЬ