Another Woman (9781468300178)

by Vincenzi, Penny

  ‘I’m not backing down,’ said Susie, almost crossly, ‘and all right, Annabel, if they –’

  There was a scrunch of tyres in the drive and Theo Buchan’s silver Bentley appeared; Rufus jumped out of it and it reversed sharply again, vanished down the lane.

  ‘Thank God,’ said Susie, as he walked into the kitchen. ‘Rufus, I am particularly pleased to see you. You’ve just saved me about eight thousand pounds and your father’s wrath.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rufus, ‘how come?’

  His voice was oddly expressionless, his voice heavy. Susie looked at him sharply. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh – nothing. Nothing really. I think I’ll go and have a shower. If that’s OK. Sorry if you were worried.’

  ‘Is – is everything all right?’ said Janet, ‘With – Oliver, I mean?’

  ‘Oh – yes. Yes, he’s fine. Nothing to worry about.’ He walked out of the room in silence.

  ‘Well really,’ said Annabel, ‘talk about the spectre at the feast.’

  ‘What feast?’ said Janet darkly.

  ‘Oh, there’ll be a feast,’ said Susie. ‘Of course there will.’ She glanced at her watch, felt her heart thud, fiercely, uncomfortably. ‘Janet, could I make myself a cup of coffee and then a phone call? To London? I promise to be quick’

  ‘Yes of course,’ said Janet Beaumont, ‘use the phone in my room, dear, it’ll be quieter. I’ll make you a coffee, we could all do with one I should think.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Susie, and stood there watching while Janet with agonizing, awful slowness plugged in the kettle, searched for the coffee pot, cut open a fresh bag of coffee, discovered all the cups were in the dishwasher, washed out four by hand, poured the coffee, fetched some milk from the doorstep, asked everyone if they wanted sugar, and all the time she thought of Mr Hobson arriving at his consulting rooms, drinking his own coffee, putting in the phone call to the lab, making a note of it, setting it aside, and then waiting for her to phone as she had said she would. He’d wanted her to go in for the result, said he didn’t like giving these things over the phone, but she’d said she had to know, she couldn’t wait another day, that there were reasons besides her own impatience, her own anxiety, that he knew how sensible, how steady she was, she would be fine, and he had given in, saying very well, as long as she promised to come in the next day, with her husband if possible, so that they could discuss the next steps – if indeed next steps had to be taken. And finally she had the coffee and sat on Janet’s bed, looking at the phone and feeling very sick; she took a large swig of it, as if it was something much stronger, and quickly, almost feverishly, dialled the number.

  ‘Mrs Briggs? Mrs Headleigh Drayton. Is Mr Hobson in? I’ve arranged to ring at this time.’

  ‘Ah, Mrs Headleigh Drayton – good morning. Yes, he’s here, I’ll put you through.’ And was she imagining it, or was Mrs Briggs’s voice slightly lower, gentler, more carefully concerned?

  Mr Hobson’s voice, smoothly easy, came on the line. ‘Mrs Headleigh Drayton. Good morning. What a lovely one for the wedding. All well down there?’

  ‘Yes, yes, fine,’ said Suzie (for what was a vanished bride, set against what she might be about to hear?). ‘Thank you. Mr Hobson, do you have the results of the mammogram?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he said, and his voice had changed, she knew it had now, this was not imagined. ‘Mrs Headleigh Drayton, I – well, there’s no point beating about the bush. I know you’ve no time for that sort of thing anyway. Now I’ve had a look at your ultrasound as well as the mammogram, and I’m not entirely happy, I’m afraid. It isn’t just the lump, there’s a bit of microcalcification as well – close by it.’

  ‘Oh.’ She felt odd: not upset, hardly touched by it even, but just very distant, as if she was sitting, very small and still, in the middle of a large empty space. She knew Mr Hobson was still talking, but she couldn’t really hear the words; she sat there, trying to make sense of it all, trying to get herself back to reality.

  ‘… so I’d like you in as soon as possible,’ she heard finally. ‘Later today if that’s feasible.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Susie. ‘It really isn’t. But – well, I suppose – I suppose tomorrow, if –’ To her horror she heard her voice, or rather the voice of the small still creature, shaky, trembling strangely, felt something on her hand, looked down, saw a splash of wetness – how absurd, was she crying? She never cried, certainly not easily, like this. She hauled herself together, smiled into the phone.

  ‘Yes, tomorrow, that would be fine. Of course I have to talk to my husband –’

  ‘Of course. I’m so sorry, Mrs Headleigh Drayton, and especially to be breaking the news to you on the phone on such a day, but that was –’

  ‘I know, that was my idea.’ She smiled again, brightly, as if he could see her.

  ‘What you have to bear very much in mind is that even the worst possible scenario is nothing like it was. There are many treatments, the prognosis is good –’

  ‘Yes. Yes of course,’ said Susie, thinking of a friend who had had that treatment, who had undergone chemotherapy and its attendant tortures, the nausea, the weakness, the weariness, the baldness – and still died. ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘So – tomorrow then. You can arrive any time, but the earlier the better. I’ll tell Mrs Briggs to make the arrangements. Nothing by mouth after midnight. Now would you like me to speak to your husband? Explain things to him?’

  ‘Oh no, no that’s fine,’ said Susie. ‘I’ll talk to him. He’ll be fine. He’s very – supportive.’

  ‘Good. Exactly what you need. I’m so sorry to have cast a shadow over your day.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, smiling again determinedly. ‘It really isn’t your fault.’

  ‘No, but I do always feel somehow responsible. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Susie.

  She put the phone down and sat there, staring out of the window; she realized she was cradling the breast in her hand, the left breast, that had been invaded so swiftly and silently by this obscene, all-consuming monster.

  Cancer. There was no doubt in her mind as to Mr Hobson’s conclusions. She had known anyway, for a while. Apart from the lump, discovered as she tenderly, lovingly massaged her Chanel body lotion into her breast, it had been one of her days for meeting James. She had been excited, happy, and there it was, small, sinister, predatory. She hadn’t said anything to James, of course; had waited indeed for two weeks, telling herself it was probably just a purely temporary thing, that it would disappear after her next period. It hadn’t. She’d lost weight, too, had been aware of it for a little while; not a lot, but enough to notice. She had stopped having to be careful; she’d tested herself in fact, had eaten all the things she always refused, for over a week, chocolates, puddings, potatoes, cheese, and at the end of it, stubbornly, defiantly the scales had shown a drop of almost two pounds.

  ‘So,’ she said aloud, ‘so, Susie, what to do?’

  And as she sat there, trying to digest the news, to face the fact of her possible, probable death in – what? – six months? a year? a painful, ugly, hideous death, when she was still young, still beautiful, still happy, she knew exactly what she was going to do. She was going to have James, all to herself, for as much of that time as she possibly could. He owed her that much; they all did. She had earned it.

  Chapter 6

  James 10:30am

  He knew there must be something wrong as he pulled into the drive: Maggie was standing by the back door, her plump face tense, white, and Janine beside her, holding her arm. His first thought was of course that Cressida must be ill, and he wondered briefly, almost idly, what he could give her, what shot might settle a stomach, ease panic, cure the migraine that occasionally plagued her. And then Harriet, her face as white as theirs, eyes wide and frightened, came running out to the car, and he stared at her through the open window. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What on earth’s going on?’

  ‘
It’s Cressida,’ said Harriet, quite quietly but with an undertow of panic in her voice. ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ said James, getting out of the car, looking towards Maggie and Janine and then back at Harriet, aware even as he spoke the words how stupid, how dense, how unhelpful he must sound. ‘What do you mean gone? Of course she’s not gone.’

  ‘Daddy, she’s gone,’ said Harriet. ‘And her car’s gone, she’s been missing for ages – probably hours –’

  James had once been in a car that had skidded and turned over twice; he had felt then a chilled, blind terror, a sickness that had consumed all his senses. He leaned against the car to steady himself; Harriet’s face and voice seemed to be very far away, her voice echoing and odd, rather slow. ‘Three hours?’ he said, and was aware how foolish he must sound. ‘Cressida’s been missing for hours, but that’s absurd, she was here when I left about – what was it, seven o’clock?’

  ‘How do you know she was here then?’ asked Harriet quickly. ‘How do you know, did you see her?’

  ‘Well, no – but her door was closed, everything seemed calm –’

  ‘Where on earth have you been anyway?’ said Maggie. She had walked over to the car; her voice was high, shaky with tension. ‘What have you been doing all this time?’

  ‘I went for a run, as usual,’ said James easily, blessing his infinite capacity for deceit, ‘and then I realized I hadn’t got enough cash for the waiters today, so I drove into Woodstock to the cash machine. I’m sorry. Anyway, Harriet, where were you at seven? Why on earth weren’t you raising the alarm then rather than waiting three hours?’

  ‘Daddy, I was looking for her,’ said Harriet, quietly, patiently, her dark eyes nevertheless angry, ‘and trying not to raise a panic. I felt sure she’d turn up. Anyway, we’ve been looking for her for ages now, making phone calls –’

  ‘Who have you phoned?’

  ‘Well, Mummy phoned the Beaumonts, I tried to get hold of Mungo, only he’s not at the hotel, and Theo’s line is constantly engaged –’

  ‘What about the Bergins? Does Oliver know anything?’

  ‘We haven’t phoned them,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Why on earth not, for Christ’s sake?’ Careful, James, you’re sounding hysterical now; don’t add to this panic. He made a huge effort to level his voice. It was surprisingly difficult; there was a fierce, hot sensation behind his eyes, a constriction in his throat. ‘If she really is – well, missing, then surely he is above all the person who has to know. He also might very well know where she is. She might be there, with him.’

  ‘Oh, of course she’s not with him,’ said Maggie. ‘That’s absurd.’

  ‘I don’t see why. It seems at least a possible explanation to me.’

  ‘James, of course she’s not with Oliver,’ said Maggie. ‘She was so insistent she didn’t see him after midnight even, don’t you remember last night, it’s absurd to talk about –’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Harriet, ‘don’t start arguing about it. You phone them if you think it’s a good idea, Daddy. We weren’t prepared to, that’s all, not yet …’

  ‘I’ll phone them,’ said Janine quietly. ‘It would be more discreet, I think. Can I use the phone in your study, Jamie?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Thank you, Janine.’ She disappeared into the house; they all stood looking after her, staring at her small back as if in some way she was carrying with her the answer to the mystery.

  ‘Well, we may as well go in,’ said James finally. He was beginning to feel slightly steadier, able to think. ‘No point standing here. What about her flat in town? Have you phoned there?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We keep ringing it. No answer.’

  ‘And – I suppose you haven’t – that is, should we phone the – the police?’

  Maggie had reached the doorway; she turned to look at him, her face puzzled.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘no of course not, why should we phone the police?’

  ‘Well, because there might have been – Cressida might have had – well, you know – an accident.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be absurd,’ she said, ‘of course she hasn’t. Of course we shouldn’t bother the police with it. Harriet, make some tea, would you? I feel – I feel –’

  She looked terrible suddenly; no longer just pale, but grey with fright, her eyes huge, the pupils dilated. She walked forward and staggered slightly; James caught her arm and helped her to a chair in the kitchen. She was very hot, he noticed, almost with distaste, sweating heavily; but her hands were cold, her lips white. She was about to go into shock, he thought. He turned to Harriet, said, ‘Darling, make that tea quickly, would you, lots of sugar for Mummy,’ and pushed Maggie’s head down between her knees. Her neck was wet with sweat, her hair clinging to it, and there was a damp patch on the back of her velour tracksuit top. What on earth was she doing dressed in something so warm on such a day? he wondered, and then knew: she was covering herself up as much as possible, as always hiding the heavy body she was so ashamed of, hated so much and yet seemed incapable of doing anything about.

  Harriet came over with the tea; Maggie sat back, took the mug with a hand that shook.

  ‘Better?’ asked James. He watched her as she sipped at it, saw a slight colour seep back into her face.

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Good. Don’t worry, darling, she’ll be –’

  ‘Look Jamie,’ said Maggie, and there was an edge to her voice that he found almost comforting in its normality, ‘I’ll try to keep calm, I’ll do whatever is necessary. But don’t tell me not to worry and don’t say any more you’re sure she’ll be back. I can’t stand it.’

  Janine came into the kitchen; she smiled quickly, carefully at them.

  ‘What did Oliver say?’ asked James. ‘Did he –’

  ‘I didn’t speak to him,’ said Janine. ‘I was put through to Josh and then to Julia, unfortunately. I said I wanted to talk to him about a little present I had for Cressida which I was going to ask him to give her on the plane.’

  ‘That was clever,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Well, she seemed to accept it. Anyway, Oliver was asleep.’

  ‘So late? How odd.’

  ‘He was up playing poker with the boys until three, Julia said. She sounded a little disapproving. She is absurd, that woman, she behaves as if the boy was two, not thirty-two. She was very reluctant to wake him up. I couldn’t really – well, I didn’t want to force her. At this stage.’

  ‘No – no, I suppose not. I must say that doesn’t sound like Oliver. He’s not a poker player at the best of times. Bridge is more his style. But maybe he couldn’t sleep, and those two can be very persuasive. But anyway, did Julia sound – well – quite normal?’

  ‘Oh yes. Very normal. She said what a wonderful day it was, and she hoped we were all feeling as great as she and Josh were.’

  ‘Dear God. Well, it certainly doesn’t sound as if there are any clues there. You were right, Mummy,’ said Harriet. ‘Daddy, should we phone the police do you think? And – and the hospitals?’

  James stood by the window, constantly expecting, hoping, praying, that Cressida’s little car would pull into the drive, that she would jump out, run in, full of apologies; he was afraid himself of ringing the police, of what it meant, that they were making it official, the disappearance, that they needed help. He felt very sick himself suddenly; he forced himself to smile at Harriet.

  ‘I think maybe we –’ he said, and then the phone rang. Maggie jumped up, moving with extraordinary speed across the kitchen, snatched it up.

  ‘Cress – oh – oh Mary.’ There was a sharp intake of breath, and she handed it to James, shaking her head.

  ‘Hallo, Mary? Yes, this is James. Yes, she’s fine. A bit panicky. Busy morning here as you can imagine. What can I do for you? Oh really? Well, yes of course you can. We’ll see you then. Bye, Mary.’

  He put down the phone. ‘That was Mary Fortescue. She wants to drop Belinda off a quarter of an hour early
, and then get down to the church and check the flowers in the porch. Apparently that’s her bag.’

  ‘James,’ said Maggie, and her voice was only just under control, ‘James, I don’t want Belinda Fortescue here early, rushing around in her bridesmaid’s dress. The child is a nightmare at the best of times, I never wanted her as a bridesmaid anyway and –’

  Tyres scrunched onto the drive; they all stiffened. It was the florist’s van. He knocked at the open back door, loudly, stood there whistling. Harriet went to the door.

  ‘Oh! Mr Spragg,’ she said, ‘good morning.’

  ‘Morning, Miss Forrest. Got some lovely things for you here. One bouquet and eight posies. And the coronets. Now do you want them or shall I take them away, try and find someone else who can use them?’

  They all stood there, staring at him, frozen. His words seemed horribly prophetic, his bonhomie hideously misplaced. He looked at them, and his smile slowly faded.

  ‘Nothing wrong is there?’

  ‘No,’ said Harriet, smiling quickly, ‘no of course not. How lovely, Mr Spragg, do bring them in. Maybe if you put them in the utility room, it’s cooler in there.’

  Mr Spragg’s face eased out of anxiousness; he turned and went to his van, carried first one and then a second box of bouquets. He was whistling again, loudly and tunelessly – ‘Here Comes the Bride’. James felt as if barbed wire was slowly tightening round his heart.

  ‘Right, and there’s the buttonholes. Sign here, Miss Forrest. Beautiful they are. Now you all have a lovely day and give your sister a kiss from me. I can remember making up her first bridesmaid’s posy, pink sweetheart roses, I can see them as if they were here now. Well, I expect you’re all very busy so I’ll be getting along. Mrs Spragg’s going to pop down to the church at two, if that’s all right, just to see the bride. I would but I’ve got a very busy day. I hope all goes well.’

  ‘Oh – yes, thank you, Mr Spragg.’ James forced his voice into action; it was extremely difficult. ‘I’m sure we will.’

  The van disappeared down the drive. Maggie looked at James as if for comfort and then suddenly started to cry, tears rolling down her face. She started drumming her hands on her knees; Harriet stepped forward. ‘Mummy, don’t –’