and Adrian, at the stately pace they skied. Now he saw he should have stuck with them. He would have spotted the avalanche, and said ‘Look out.’ He pictured them standing frozen in terror as the beast rolled at them, himself urging them to safety.
When he opened his eyes, he had felt a moment of relief that the dream was not real, then a rush of sick dread when he remembered that the reality was worse. It was morning. Harry was not in his crib. Kip bolted from the sofa, but almost immediately heard noise in the bathroom, and rushed in there. The chambermaid, an Australian named Tamara, was holding Harry’s bottom over the washbasin cleaning him, his fat little legs churning.
‘Didn’t you even hear him? He was shrieking up a storm,’ she said. ‘So I came in.’
‘God, no, I didn’t hear him.’
‘Yeah, well, plain you’re not his mum. Everyone else could.’
Tamara rather crossly helped him get Harry ready – diaper, little terry-cloth suit, little shoes you had to shove on his feet – and they went in to breakfast. He could see that it was going to be easier to deal with Harry at mealtimes than other times. Stuck in his high chair, with stuff to smoosh around on his plate, he was a cheery, cute baby, drawing smiles. No one spoke to Kip this morning about Kerry’s state, but people looked at them as they had last night, with sympathy and admiration.
There ought to be a phone number he could call this morning, or some word from Christian Jaffe. The normalcy of things made Kip uneasy, dining room full of people in ski clothes ordering their coffee and piling their plates from the breakfast buffet. He filled his plate with ham and some yogurt, stuff both he and Harry could eat, and got two glasses of orange juice. He decided they would finish breakfast before trying to find out anything about Kerry. If she were worse, they would have told him, or wakened him in the night. But he couldn’t shake a feeling of sick dread.
When they had spent as much time as possible over breakfast, Kip lifted Harry out of his high chair and they walked into the lobby. Kip was hoping to see his new friend Amy, perhaps with the baby-sitter she had suggested. Even from the dining room they could hear stout voices asking questions in English in the foyer in demanding tones. New bags were piled by the front desk. A tall, handsome couple stood by the sofa, evidentlywaiting for their room to be ready, and Christian Jaffe was coming toward Kip waving his hand toward these new people.
‘Mr Canby, here are Monsieur and Mademoiselle Venn. This is Mr Canby, Mrs Venn’s brother.’
Hearing their names, these Venns looked at Kip and especially at Harry. They mustered polite smiles, and the young man explained that they were Adrian Venn’s children. The term seemed to exclude Harry.
‘So nice to meet you,’ they said vaguely, with reflex courtesy. ‘Is that the baby?’ asked the man. Kip felt a momentary hope that these people were here to help with Harry.
‘Our little brother!’ said the woman in a slightly acid tone. She was a bit scary, Kip thought, big, solidly beautiful, with scornful eyes. When Kip led Harry over to them, their unconscious first response was to shrink away, peering with distaste at the cute little child, symbol of Father’s betrayal.
‘I’m sorry, you are who, actually?’ said the man to Kip.
‘Kerry’s brother.’ Now Kip could see they were in a state of high agitation, not meaning to be rude. Posy’s objections to some transaction with the desk rose and swirled around Christian Jaffe – why couldn’t they get into their rooms? They had driven all night. They were still in shock from the sight of their father, down there in the terrible little hospital, no more than a corpse, how had it happened? Christian Jaffe murmured reassurances, rooms had been prepared or would be, all would be well.
‘Do you know how my sister is this morning?’ Kipventured to ask them, but the highly intimidating
When he opened his eyes, he had felt a moment of relief that the dream was not real, then a rush of sick dread when he remembered that the reality was worse. It was morning. Harry was not in his crib. Kip bolted from the sofa, but almost immediately heard noise in the bathroom, and rushed in there. The chambermaid, an Australian named Tamara, was holding Harry’s bottom over the washbasin cleaning him, his fat little legs churning.
‘Didn’t you even hear him? He was shrieking up a storm,’ she said. ‘So I came in.’
‘God, no, I didn’t hear him.’
‘Yeah, well, plain you’re not his mum. Everyone else could.’
Tamara rather crossly helped him get Harry ready – diaper, little terry-cloth suit, little shoes you had to shove on his feet – and they went in to breakfast. He could see that it was going to be easier to deal with Harry at mealtimes than other times. Stuck in his high chair, with stuff to smoosh around on his plate, he was a cheery, cute baby, drawing smiles. No one spoke to Kip this morning about Kerry’s state, but people looked at them as they had last night, with sympathy and admiration.
There ought to be a phone number he could call this morning, or some word from Christian Jaffe. The normalcy of things made Kip uneasy, dining room full of people in ski clothes ordering their coffee and piling their plates from the breakfast buffet. He filled his plate with ham and some yogurt, stuff both he and Harry could eat, and got two glasses of orange juice. He decided they would finish breakfast before trying to find out anything about Kerry. If she were worse, they would have told him, or wakened him in the night. But he couldn’t shake a feeling of sick dread.
When they had spent as much time as possible over breakfast, Kip lifted Harry out of his high chair and they walked into the lobby. Kip was hoping to see his new friend Amy, perhaps with the baby-sitter she had suggested. Even from the dining room they could hear stout voices asking questions in English in the foyer in demanding tones. New bags were piled by the front desk. A tall, handsome couple stood by the sofa, evidentlywaiting for their room to be ready, and Christian Jaffe was coming toward Kip waving his hand toward these new people.
‘Mr Canby, here are Monsieur and Mademoiselle Venn. This is Mr Canby, Mrs Venn’s brother.’
Hearing their names, these Venns looked at Kip and especially at Harry. They mustered polite smiles, and the young man explained that they were Adrian Venn’s children. The term seemed to exclude Harry.
‘So nice to meet you,’ they said vaguely, with reflex courtesy. ‘Is that the baby?’ asked the man. Kip felt a momentary hope that these people were here to help with Harry.
‘Our little brother!’ said the woman in a slightly acid tone. She was a bit scary, Kip thought, big, solidly beautiful, with scornful eyes. When Kip led Harry over to them, their unconscious first response was to shrink away, peering with distaste at the cute little child, symbol of Father’s betrayal.
‘I’m sorry, you are who, actually?’ said the man to Kip.
‘Kerry’s brother.’ Now Kip could see they were in a state of high agitation, not meaning to be rude. Posy’s objections to some transaction with the desk rose and swirled around Christian Jaffe – why couldn’t they get into their rooms? They had driven all night. They were still in shock from the sight of their father, down there in the terrible little hospital, no more than a corpse, how had it happened? Christian Jaffe murmured reassurances, rooms had been prepared or would be, all would be well.
‘Do you know how my sister is this morning?’ Kipventured to ask them, but the highly intimidating
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