Read Online The House on the Cliff by Charlotte Williams - Free Book Online Page B

week. There are about six of us in all, but often one or two of us are missing. It’s a relaxed, simple arrangement: you go if you feel like it, and not if you don’t. I made a quick phone call to a friend, Mari Jones, to check whether she would be there, and when she told me she would—but later, after she’d eaten—I decided to do the same.
    When I got to the arts center it was already getting on toward ten. The place was packed, but my friends had found a table in a quiet corner of the foyer. I said hello, asked if anyone wanted a drink, took a couple of orders, and went up to the bar. After a moment’s deliberation I decided to have a half of Reverend James, the local brew, named after a Victorian saver of souls with a sideline in selling beer.
    I brought my drink back to the table and sat down. The conversation was in full flow, dominated as usual by Mari. An actress with a steady career in Welsh-language theater, television, and radio, she was loud, and funny, and glamorous; and if sometimes she talked a little too much and laughed a little too long, I made allowances for her, because she was warm and expansive, and generally larger than life. Sitting next to her was Sharon, an American academic who worked at the university. The polar opposite of Mari, Sharon was quiet, thoughtful, and bookish. The others who had turned up that night were Polly, a full-time homemaker—well, it’s better than “housewife,” isn’t it?—and Catrin, who ran a vintage-clothes shop in the Arcades and was the source of many of my outfits.
    I listened as Mari held forth, laughing with the others as she mimicked the absurd pomposities of the theater director she’d been working with that week. As time went on, the conversation around the table became more animated, but I found it hard to join in. My head was full of what had happened that day. I couldn’t discuss what I’d seen of Gwydion and his family life, of course, because he was my client, but I couldn’t put it out of my mind either. So, instead, I began to probe Mari on the subject of the Morgans’ place in the acting world.
    “Your director. He’s not this guy Evan Morgan, is he?”
    “No.” Mari gave a wry grin. “Why d’you ask?”
    “Oh, no reason. He’s the only Welsh theater director I’ve ever heard of, that’s all.”
    “I wish it was.” Mari sighed. “Evan’s brilliant, absolutely brilliant. Best director I’ve ever worked with, actually.” She paused for a moment. “Strange guy, of course. Used to have a terrible drink problem. Vile temper at times. And he’s a dreadful womanizer.”
    She hesitated. I waited. I knew there was more to come. Mari isn’t the soul of discretion, which I suppose was the reason I’d been pumping her for information.
    “In fact, I had a bit of a—” She stopped in mid-sentence, a coy smile playing about her lips.
    I didn’t say anything. I had a feeling she wouldn’t need prompting.
    “It was nothing, really,” she went on, after a brief pause. “Just a quick fling, years ago. There was no future in it.” She sighed again. “A lot of fun, though, at the time.”
    I waited again. And there was more, as I knew there would be.
    “Haven’t seen him for ages.” She hesitated. “There was some kind of scandal, I seem to remember, a while back. Something about . . . I don’t know, a young girl. Surprise, surprise. Anyway, it was all hushed up. He’s doing incredibly well for himself these days—up for a knighthood, apparently.” Another brief pause. “But he’s not a terribly happy man, by all accounts. Dreadful marriage. His wife’s one of those posh Anglo-Welshies from up the borders.”
    Mari stopped, took a sip of her gin and tonic, and continued. “Arianrhod Meredith. She was very young when they got together. Very beautiful. Evan had great ambitions for her at first, but she ended up just being his wife, giving parties for his friends . . .”
    I felt a stab of sympathy for Arianrhod, but