Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(41)

Rachel did her duty. “Most women'd kill to have a stomach that flat.”

Connie reached for her rubber band and hooked it round her feet. She began alternately doing sit-ups and pulling the band—made more resistant by its time in the fridge—high above her head. “Well, it's all about exercise, isn't it, Rache? And eating right. And thinking young. How're my thighs? Not going dimply, are they?” She paused to lift a leg in the air, toe pointed heavenward. She ran her hands from her ankles to her garters.

“They're fine,” Rachel said. “In fact, they're perfect.”

Connie looked pleased. Rachel sat at the table as her mother continued to exercise.

Connie puffed. “Isn't this heat the worst? I s'pose that's why you're up so late. Couldn't sleep? I'm not surprised. It's a wonder to me you ever sleep, all done up like a Victorian granny. Sleep in the nude, girl. Liberate yourself.”

“It's not the heat,” Rachel said.

“No? Then what? Some laddie got your knickers all in a twist?” She began her leg splits, grunting slightly. Her long-nailed fingers kept count of the repetitions, tapping against the linoleum floor. “You're not putting out without protection, are you, Rache? I told you how you got to insist that the bloke wears a rubber. If he won't wear a rubber when you tell him to wear a rubber, then you give him the shove. When I was your age—”

“Mum,” Rachel cut in. It was ridiculous to talk about insisting on rubbers. Who did her mother think she was, anyway? The reincarnation of Connie herself? Connie had had to drive men off with a cricket bat from her fourteenth birthday, to hear her tell it. And nothing was dearer to her heart than the idea of having a daughter who was faced with the same “inconvenience.”

“Connie,” Connie corrected her.

“Yeah. I meant Connie.”

“I'm sure you did, love-boodle.” Connie winked, changed her position to lie on her side, and began sideways lifts with her arms thrown over her head. One thing about Connie that Rachel admired was her single-minded dedication to an objective. It didn't really matter what the moment's objective was. Connie gave herself to it like a young girl becoming the bride of Christ: She was the picture of complete devotion. This was a fine attribute in competitive dancing, in exercising, even in business. At the moment, however, it was also an attribute that Rachel could have done without. She needed her mother's undivided attention. She screwed up her courage in order to request it.

“Connie, c'n I ask you something? Something personal? Something about your insides?”

“My insides?” On the floor, Connie raised an eyebrow. A drop of perspiration trickled from it, glittering like a liquid jewel in the kitchen light. “You wanting to know the facts of life?” She puffed and chortled, leg lifting and falling. Her cleavage was beginning to slick with sweat. “Bit late for that, i'n't it? Didn't I see you going between the beach huts with some bloke more ’n once at night?”

“Mum!”

“Connie.”

“Right. Connie.”

“Didn't know I knew about that, did you, Rache? Who was he, anyway? Did he do bad by you?” She sat, draped the band round her shoulders, began to pull it forward and release it, working on her arms. The patch of damp she'd left on the lino looked vaguely the shape of an upended pear. “Men, Rache: You got to forget about trying to read their minds or control their doings. If you both want the same thing, then go ahead and have yourselfs some fun. If one of you doesn't, forget the whole thing. And always keep fun just that, Rache: fun. And use protection because you don't want any little surprises after the fact, with legs or without them. The surprises, that is. That's how I've lived and it's served me fine.” She watched Rachel brightly, as if waiting for the next probing question or a girlish admission prompted by her own womanly candour.

“It's not about insides like that,” Rachel said. “It's about your real insides. Your soul and your conscience.”

Connie's expression wasn't encouraging. She looked utterly baffled. “You getting religion?” she asked. “Did you talk to those Hare Krishnas last week? Don't look so innocent. You know the ones I mean. They were dancing round by Princes Breakwater, beating on their tambourines. You must've ridden by on your bike. Don't tell me you didn't.” She went back to her arm pulls.

“It's not about religion. It's about right and wrong. That's what I want to ask you about.”

Clearly, these were deeper waters. Connie dropped the rubber band and pulled herself to her feet. She took a large gulp of Coke and reached for a packet of Dunhills that lay in a plastic basket in the centre of the table. She eyed her daughter warily as she lit up and inhaled, holding the smoke in her lungs for a moment before exhaling a stream of it in Rachel's direction. “What've you been up to, Rachel Lynn?” She'd become all mother in an instant.

Rachel was actually grateful for the change. She felt buoyed momentarily as she had been in childhood at those moments when Connie's maternal instincts battled their way past her natural indifference to the calls of motherhood.

“Nothing,” Rachel said. “It's not about doing right or wrong. At least not really.”

“Then what?”

Rachel hesitated. Now that she had her mother's attention, she wondered how it was going to serve her. She couldn't tell her everything—she couldn't tell anyone everything—but she needed to tell someone just enough so that the someone might give her advice. “Suppose,” Rachel said delicately, “suppose something bad happened to a person.”