Another Woman (9781468300178)

by Vincenzi, Penny

  ‘Mungo dear, we can take Oliver back to our hotel,’ said Julia Bergin, smiling her neat, well-ironed smile.

  ‘No, Mother, let them. I’d like that.’ Oliver stood up, kissing Cressida briefly. ‘Now you do realize, don’t you, this is the last time I’ll see you, Miss Forrest.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’ said Maggie. She sounded genuinely alarmed.

  ‘Mummy, don’t look like that,’ said Cressida laughing. ‘He means tomorrow I’ll be Mrs Bergin. Goodnight, Oliver darling. Sweet dreams. Harriet, come up with me, will you? And Mummy, come and kiss me goodnight. Promise. And you, Daddy.’

  ‘May I come up too?’ said Julia. ‘Or would I be intruding on this very special occasion? I’m just so excited to think I very nearly have a daughter.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Cressida. ‘Just give me ten minutes to get into bed and then you can all file in one by one and pay your respects.’

  What a perfect daughter, thought Susic fondly, watching her leave the kitchen, arm in arm with Harriet. And what an absolutely perfect bride she was going to be.

  Mungo

  All Mungo had wanted to do all evening was get to a phone. A private, quiet phone, not one of the Forrest extensions, with people picking them up and putting them down all over the house. He could hear one ringing even now, adding to his anguish. He’d tried twice to make an excuse to go out and use the phone in Rufus’s car, but he’d been stymied. For some reason he hadn’t actually wanted to tell Rufus: which was seriously stupid, actually, Rufus was such a gent, would never have asked him who he wanted to call or why. It was just that somehow, against all possible odds, nobody had the faintest idea that he was so desperately in love, not even that he was having a serious relationship, and he wanted to keep it that way as long as he possibly could, a quiet, gentle secret. Like his quiet, gentle Alice. Of course he could have pretended he was calling his banker, or his lawyer (faintly unbelievable on such an occasion, and at such a time, although he could always have said the call was to New York). Anyway, in the end he’d decided to leave it, until he got back to the hotel. It wouldn’t be too late. Alice never went to bed until well after midnight, and then they could talk for hours, undisturbed. God, he was missing her. All this family togetherness and lovey-doveyness was making his balls ache, he missed her so much. Well, maybe in a few months it would be his wedding everyone would be turning up for. Only of course he didn’t want a big affair like this one. Weddings were a bit devalued in Mungo’s currency. When your father had just got married for the fifth time, in a huge haze of publicity, you wanted something a bit alternative for yourself. Maybe a beach wedding, or perhaps they could dash up to Gretna Green. That would be very romantic. And then spend a few days in the Scottish Highlands. Mungo had never seen the Scottish Highlands. Like most immensely wealthy, over-indulged people, he was more familiar with places the other side of the world than those near to his own doorstep. Anyway, he was sure they were very beautiful and, even if they weren’t, seeing them with Alice would surely make them so.

  God, he loved her. He felt sick, he loved her so much. He’d spent the whole evening thinking how wonderful it would have been for her to be there, how well she would have fitted in, how much everyone would have liked her, and wondered how he could stand not having her there. Well, it wasn’t for much longer. He would tell his father tomorrow, he had decided, after the wedding, and then once he’d done that, he would tell everyone else. And then they could be together for the rest of their lives.

  Surely, surely his father would be pleased, surely he wouldn’t put up any resistance. He would just be delighted that Alice was going to – what was his phrase on these occasions? – take Mungo on. That was what he’d said when he married Sasha. Thanked her for taking him on. And it would be such a perfect day to tell him: Cressida’s wedding day. When everything else was going to be absolutely right.

  The Wedding Day

  Chapter 2

  Harriet 6am

  Cressida must have gone for a walk. Of course, thought Harriet, looking into the empty room early, very early, only just after six, on this perfect morning, misty, golden, gathering its beauty about it for the day ahead. Obviously. It would have been exactly like her. She would have gone down to the stream to sit on the little bridge (her little bridge as she liked to call it, so irritatingly, it was no more hers than anyone else’s), to be still and calm, to savour what lay ahead. She’d always done that, ever since she was tiny, before some important event (her first day at a new school, the presentation of some great new love to the family, the announcement of her own engagement); taken herself off, wanting to be alone. There was nothing, nothing at all odd about it, that she wasn’t there; nor in the fact that her room was so tidy, that her bed was made up, apparently unslept in. Cressida was the neatest of people, had been so right through adolescence even. While Harriet’s room was permanently shell-shocked, Cressida’s, whether she was using it or not, was pretty, charming, sweetly ordered, and there was no change that morning. There were rather more flowers in the room than usual, grand flowers, roses and freesias and lilies, as well as the blue and white jugful of more homely varieties that stood on the pine chest of drawers; and her going-away hat, jauntily red and befeathered, stood on the 1940s hatstand she had been given for an engagement present (she had a passion for hats). And of course there was a rather larger pile of letters than usual on her little desk, already neatly stamped, waiting to be posted, late thank yous for late presents, but otherwise it was exactly, completely as usual. A perfect room for a perfect daughter. No wonder, thought Harriet, Cressida was their mother’s favourite: the apparent embodiment of all Maggie’s ideal virtues. Cressida even looked like Maggie, with her English-rose skin, her fair, just curly hair, her wide blue eyes, her sweetly curving mouth. Harriet, with her die-straight mink-brown hair, her faintly olive skin, her grey eyes, her sculptured cheekbones, looked, as her mother often told her slightly edgily, exactly like her grandmother – James’s adored, wonderfully vibrant mother Rose. Rose who until her death had given Maggie such an inferiority complex. No wonder Harriet’s resemblance to Rose distressed her.

  Harriet hardly minded any more about Cressida’s first place in her mother’s heart, it was a fact of her life, like always being late, the one in trouble, the one everyone thought of as plain. The nagging lifelong anxiety that their father also favoured Cressida was harder to endure. Harriet adored her father; he had always seemed to her, even since she had been grown-up, exactly what a father, a husband, a doctor for that matter, should be: loving, caring, conscientious.

  She hoped he would enjoy today: it was a special thing for a father, to lead his daughter down the aisle, and the way she was going, it would be a long time before it happened again. Well, the weather was doing its bit for them: it was perfect. It might be nice, Harriet thought, looking at the dew-spangled meadow beyond the house, to go for a walk herself. She certainly wasn’t going to go back to sleep now; the anxieties which had invaded her sleep, made her dreams fitful and wearying – all night long she seemed to have heard voices, phones ringing, faxes bleeping – were crowding back in upon her, making her feel panicky. She might even go and find Cressida; the kind of conversation they would have would guarantee at least a degree of distraction. Just as long as her mother hadn’t got there first. The thought of having to listen to the two of them discussing the guest list made her feel suddenly worse. She looked at Maggie’s bedroom door: firmly shut. She was obviously still fast asleep. Good. The longer she slept the better. For all of them, thought Harriet, and then hastily crushed the thought. Her mother wasn’t that bad. Just a panic machine.

  She was just closing the door again on Cressida’s room when she realized suddenly that yes, there was something not just, not quite as usual; the window, which Cressida kept always open at night, a crack in the winter, wide in the summer, was closed, and the room was slightly hotter, just a little less fresh-smelling than usual, and the curtains hung unusually lifeless and still
. Now why …

  ‘Harriet, mon ange, is Cressida all right?’ It was Janine’s voice, very quiet; she had come out of her own room looking concerned, pulling her silk wrap round her.

  ‘Yes, of course. Well I think so, she’s not there. Why shouldn’t she be all right?’ said Harriet.

  ‘Oh – I heard her earlier. She was – vomiting. I got up to see if she needed help, but the bathroom door was locked. Nerves, of course, la pauvre petite, but still –’

  ‘Are you sure it was Cressida?’ said Harriet, anxiously. Cressida’s delicate stomach was a nightmare. ‘Daddy said he was going to give her something in case.’

  ‘Oh, but of course. Her door was open, the cover thrown back. And then I heard her go back to her room.’

  ‘Poor old Cress. Well, I suppose it is pretty traumatic. Anyway, she’s obviously all right now, room shipshape as usual, and she’s gone for a walk. To the bridge I expect.’

  ‘Ah, the bridge. What would you all do without that bridge?’ said Janine, smiling. ‘Harriet, I would so like a cup of tea. Would you make me one?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I was going down anyway. You go back to bed, Janine, and I’ll bring it up.’

  ‘No, I would rather come down with you.’ She followed Harriet quietly down the stairs into the kitchen, then shut the door, smiled at her again. ‘Now we can speak more easily. We do not wish to awaken your mother, do we?’

  ‘We certainly don’t,’ said Harriet. ‘Hallo, Purdey, I’ll take you out in a minute, you’ll need a walk.’ She bent to stroke the old labrador, who was fast asleep in her basket. ‘She’ll have to be shut in the utility room later, poor darling. That’s funny –’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘She’s wet. And her paws are muddy. She must have gone out with Cress. But then she’d have stayed with her surely. Purdey, what have you been up to so early? Rabbiting I suppose.’

  Purdey raised one weary eyebrow, lowered it again and sank back into her slumbers. She seemed exhausted. Harriet looked at her and smiled tenderly.

  ‘She’s getting so old, poor darling. There, Janine, one cup of lemon tea. I’ll just drink mine and then I think I’ll go and find Cress, make sure she’s all right –’

  ‘You are worried, my darling, are you not?’ said Janine. ‘About other things than your sister. I could see it last night.’

  ‘No, really Janine, I’m fine,’ said Harriet, forcing a smile, fighting down the awful realization that Janine would suffer from her incompetence along with, more than, the rest. ‘Just the usual traumas, you know? But nothing serious, I promise. Nothing that’s going to spoil today anyway –’ Her voice trailed away and Janine said of course, she quite understood, and smiled at Harriet, and as she met her brilliant dark eyes Harriet could see that, as always, Janine was not remotely fooled by any of it, and she was suddenly a small girl again, crying behind her bedroom door, and she could hear Janine’s voice, quietly reasoning with her father at the foot of the stairs …

  ‘Jamie, don’t be angry with her. Don’t. It is not right.’

  ‘Janine, I’m sorry, but this is none of your business. Harriet is my daughter and I have to be firm with her. She has to learn she can’t behave like this.’

  ‘Like what? James, Harriet is only nine years of age. And she is terribly upset at the moment. She needs discipline, yes, I agree, but she also needs kindness and sympathy.’

  ‘Oh Janine, really.’ Her father’s voice sounded almost amused. ‘I thought the French were supposed to be tough on their kids. You sound like one of those American softies. It was only a puppy, for God’s sake. She hasn’t suffered a major bereavement.’

  ‘Only a puppy! Jamie, how can you say such things! That is being very, very tough, as you put it. To her of course it is a major bereavement. And since we are discussing the French attitude, I think there is much to be said for it. I would say we are not so much tough as demanding. We expect much of them. We treat them in a mature way. But we do try to understand them. And at this moment, I think Harriet needs much understanding.’

  ‘Well, I suppose so. I’m not very good at being understanding, I’m afraid. These days. All right. We’ll try a bit harder. But she’s so – awkward. It’s difficult, when –’

  ‘When the other little one is so easy and so good. Yes, yes I can see that. But –’ There was a fraction of a pause.

  ‘Yes?’ said James, his voice wary.

  ‘Well, it is no business of mine, of course. But I don’t think sending her away to this school is a good idea. That is certainly one thing we would never do in France. She is so young, Jamie, so tiny. She should be at home.’

  ‘Janine, forgive me, but it is none of your business. Maggie is finding her impossible, she’s disruptive, both here and at school, and this place we’ve found specializes in difficult children.’

  ‘Well I suppose you know what you are doing.’ Janine’s voice was cool, then she said, ‘I am going up to my room now. I am a little tired. Goodnight, Jamie.’

  ‘Goodnight, Janine. Sorry to have involved you in all this.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be foolish. I am family – nearly. I like being involved. In the rough and the smooth as well. I only wish I could help.’

  ‘ ’Fraid you can’t,’ said Jamie and his voice was heavy. ‘It’s – oh Christ, there’s my phone. Not the hospital, not tonight, please God.’

  ‘I will ask Him for you too. Goodnight, my dear.’

  Harriet heard steps on the stairs, coming down the corridor, hid under her duvet, screwing her eyes up tight. There was a gentle tap on the door, then she heard the handle turn.

  ‘Harriet? Are you all right, mon ange.’ The voice, the voice she loved so much, so pretty, so much more interesting than her mother’s, was concerned, gentle. She lay silent: determinedly, deadly still.

  ‘Darling, I’m sure you must be awake. Do you want to talk to me?’

  ‘No,’ said Harriet, sniffily and reluctantly.

  ‘All right. But if you change your mind, I am going to bed, but I do not expect to sleep. I plan to read for quite a long while.’ Janine bent to kiss Harriet, her perfume, expensive, rich, seeming to surround her. Harriet put her arms out suddenly and gripped her neck.

  ‘You’re my favourite grown-up,’ she said. ‘My favourite grown-up of all.’

  ‘Darling! What a nice compliment. But –’

  ‘It’s true. Daddy’s so cross all the time, and Mummy – well, Mummy hates me.’

  ‘Harriet, of course she doesn’t hate you. You must not say such a thing.’

  ‘I do say it, because she does.’ She pulled a tissue from the box by her bed and blew her nose. ‘You’d hate me too, if you had to live with me. Anyway, they’re not going to have to live with me any more, are they, they’re sending me to this boarding-school place, getting rid of me –’

  She was crying again now, harder than ever. Janine reached forward, drew her into her arms. It was funny, Harriet thought, that she was so small and thin, not cuddly and cosy-looking like her mother, and yet her arms were gentler, more comforting. She snuggled into the arms now, rested her head on Janine’s breast. ‘You should have been a mummy,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I would have liked that. But it didn’t work out so well. And I have you and your sister and –’

  ‘I wish you were my godmother. Not hers.’

  ‘I will tell you a little secret,’ said Janine, brushing her lips across Harriet’s head. ‘I wish I was your godmother too. I love Cressida very much of course, but I feel you are more like me. Not so perfect, not so good.’

  ‘She’s not perfect,’ said Harriet, her voice muffled again in Janine’s soft jumper. ‘She’s not perfect at all.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Janine. ‘Nobody is perfect. But she is nearer to it than I, I think.’

  ‘No she isn’t. I hate her. I’ve always hated her.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because she’s so pretty and goody-goody and she’s always being sickly sweet to eve
ryone, and she’s mean to me so often, and nobody ever realizes.’

  ‘Harriet, you exaggerate I think.’

  ‘I don’t, I don’t. Once she threw my lovely baby doll, the one that cries you know, out of the window, and she got stuck on the flat roof and she was there for days in the rain, and another time she took my new pen that Grandpa Merlin had given me and lost it, and she told my best friend at school that I didn’t really like her and was always saying mean things about her and – oh I know you won’t believe me either, grownups never do.’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Janine unexpectedly, ‘of course I do. But all sisters squabble, Harriet, I certainly used to with mine. And I am sure you are not perfect either. And,’ she added with a spark of amusement in her dark eyes, ‘it certainly was not a good idea to throw your soup at her this evening.’

  ‘I know. I know it wasn’t. But she was giving me her look, you know? Her horrible goody-goody look, while Mummy was telling me not to be rude. And I thought – well I knew – it would make me feel better. And it did for a bit,’ she added with a sheepish, tearstained grin.

  ‘But now you are in terrible trouble, and not allowed to go to the party tomorrow, and your mother is very upset, and your father is angry. Do you still feel better?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harriet, surprising herself with her own certainty. ‘Yes, I do. It was still worth it. Seeing her face change.’

  ‘You might have changed it forever. If the soup had been hotter.’

  ‘I know. And I know it was wrong. But she’s oh – oh I don’t know. And they both love her so much. And –’

  ‘And her puppy hasn’t just been run over, and she’s not being sent away to school. Is that it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harriet. ‘Yes, that’s it.’ And she started to cry again.

  ‘Harriet, listen. It was dreadfully sad about Biggles. Even I cried, and I do not greatly like dogs. Although I’m sure Biggles was a very special one. I still have the photograph of him you sent me. But you can have another puppy. Your parents have said so and –’