Madeleine Wickham - Swimming Pool Sunday

Madeleine Wickham was born in London and published her first novel, The Tennis Party, while working as a financial journalist. Under the name of Sophie Kinsella she is the author of many number one bestselling novels including the Shopaholic series, now filmed as Confessions of a Shopaholic. She lives in London with her husband and children.

For more information on Sophie Kinsella and her books, visit her website at www.sophiekinsella.co.uk

You can also join Sophie on her official Facebook fan page at www.facebook.com/SophieKinsellaOfficial

On a shimmeringly hot Sunday in May, the Delaneys open their pool to all the village for charity. Louise is there with her daughters Amelia and Katie and glaring at her resentfully is her estranged husband Barnaby. This is supposed to be his day with the girls but Louise ignores his angry glowers.

While the children splash and shriek in the cool, blue waters, she lies blissfully back in the sun and dreams of Cassian, the charismatic new lawyer in her life. The day seems perfect.

But suddenly the bliss is shattered, as tragedy strikes. And the consequences of a terrible accident develop into a drama of recriminations, jealousy and legal power-play, in which Louise finds herself pulled in three directions at once. Friendships crumble, the village is split, and the needs of a child become secondary to the dangerous contest in which the grown-ups are engaged.

It was only May, and it was only ten oclock in the morning. But already the sun was shining hotly, and the grass in the garden sprang warm and dry underfoot, and the breeze under Katies cotton dress felt friendly and caressing. Katie gave a little wriggle. She felt like doing some ballet jumps, or rolling down the slope of the lawn until she landed in a heap at the bottom. But instead she had to stand, still as a rock, with elastic round her legs stretched so tightly it was going to give her red marks. She bent down and shifted the elastic slightly.

Katie! Amelia, who had been about to jump, stopped, and regarded her crossly. You mustnt move!

It hurts! Its too tight! Katie bent her head round until she could catch a glimpse of the backs of her calves. She spotted a small pink line. Look! Its making marks on my skin!

Well, stand nearer the chair, then. But keep the elastic tight. Katie gave a melodramatic sigh and shuffled nearer the chair.

They were playing with a chair because you needed three people for French skipping, and there were only two of them. Sometimes Mummy played with them, but today she was too busy, and had got cross when they asked. So theyd had to drag a chair out into the garden, and thread the elastic round its legs, just like human legs. Now it stretched, two white springy lines, a few inches above the grass. The very sight of it filled Katie with an excited anticipation. She loved French skipping. They played it in every single break at school; during lessons she would often put her hand into her pocket and check that the tangled mass of elastic was still safely there.

Right. Amelia sounded business-like. She began to jump efficiently over the taut elastic, biting her lip, and planting her feet carefully in exactly the right places. Jingle, jangle, centre, spangle, she chanted. Jingle, jangle, out. She jumped out without even touching the elastic.

My go, said Katie hopefully.

No it isnt, retorted Amelia. Dont you know how to play French skipping?

In my class, said Katie, raising her eyebrows expressively, we play so that everybody has one go, and then its the next person. Mrs Tully said thats the fairest way. Amelia wasnt impressed.

Thats just for little ones, she said. We play until the person makes a mistake.

But youll never make a mistake! cried Katie. She scratched the place on her leg where the elastic had been too tight.

Yes I will, I expect, said Amelia kindly. And anyway, she added, at least you know its your turn next; I dont think the chair will want to play. Katie looked at the chair, standing benignly on the grass. She giggled.

We could ask it, she began. But Amelia had started jumping again.

Jingle, jangle, centre, spangle, jingle, jangle, out.

They had been sent out to play in the garden until their father came to pick them up. Nobody could quite remember what time hed said he was coming. Amelia thought it was ten, and their mother thought it was ten-thirty, and Katie had been convinced it was quarter to nine, like school, and had actually stood by the door, ready to go, until nine oclock had come and gone and it was obvious he was coming later.

Amelia had suggested, sensibly, that Mummy should ring Daddy and ask him. But for some reason she didnt want to. She never wanted to ring Daddy. It was always Daddy who rang. Hed rung during the week, and talked to Mummy, and said he was going to take the girls fishing this Sunday. Fishing! Katie had never even been fishing. Theyd both got very excited and gone down into the cellar and brought up all the nets and buckets they could find. Amelia actually had a fishing-rod that Grandfather had given her, and shed generously said that Katie could hold it with her if she wanted. Mummy had washed out two jamjars for them, in case there was anything small that they wanted to bring home, and theyd chosen a chocolate bar each as a special treat for their packed lunch.

But all of them, even Mummy, had forgotten that this Sunday was Swimming Day at the Delaneys house. They couldnt miss the Swimming Day. Everyone was going from the village; even people who didnt really like swimming. Amelia briefly wondered what it must be like, to be a person who didnt like swimming. She simply couldnt imagine it. Everyone she knew liked swimming: her, Katie, Mummy, even Daddy when he was really hot.

Theyd only remembered about the Swimming Day yesterday, when they bumped into Mrs Delaney at the shops, and she asked if they were coming, and Mummy said that she thought this year, unfortunately, the girls would have to miss it. Katie had nearly started crying right there in the street. Amelia was more grown up than that, but as soon as they were in the car, shed asked in a desperate voice, Couldnt we go to the Swimming Day tomorrow and go fishing another time? At first Mummy had said no, of course not, in an angry voice. Then, when they got home, shed said no, but it really was a pity. Then, later, shed said maybe Daddy wouldnt mind. And last night, as she tucked them into bed, shed said that as soon as Daddy arrived, she would ask him, and she thought he was sure to agree.

Jingle, jangle, out. Amelia thumped heavily onto the grass. Im boiling, she added.

Som I, said Katie quickly. I cant wait to go swimming.

Im going to dive straight in, said Amelia. Im not even going to feel it with my toe or anything.

Som I, said Katie again. Im going to dive in.

You cant dive, said Amelia crushingly.

I can, retorted Katie. I learned it in swimming. You sit on the side and

Thats not a proper dive.

It is!

It isnt.

It is! Katies voice rose in fury. It is a proper dive! Amelia smirked silently. I did it the best in my class, shrilled Katie. Mrs Tully said I was a little otter.

There was a pause. Then Amelia wrinkled her nose superciliously and said, Yuck.

What? Katie looked discomfited. Why is it yuck?

Being an otter is yuck. Amelia looked at Katie challengingly, and Katie met Amelias gaze silently for a moment, then she looked away. Amelias eyes glinted.

You dont know what an otter is, do you? she said.

Yes, I do!

What is it, then?

Katie stared crossly at Amelia. Her mind scrambled over half-imagined pictures. Had Mrs Tully ever actually told her what an otter was?