by Susan Lewis
There was a time when he’d felt he could help them; that he was in a position to make a difference. These days he worried more about how well, or not, he was coping, with his own job, and with his family, particularly Rosalind. It didn’t seem so very long ago that he’d been able to kiss everything better for her and make all the demons go away; now it was as though he was the demon, and to think of her hurting the way she was over something he was doing was tearing him apart.
Sighing quietly to himself, he watched a group of his colleagues in their grey suits and jazzy ties crossing the road towards Whitehall. He’d returned from the House a few minutes ago, where he’d spent the morning listening to a select committee hearing on … actually, he couldn’t recall for the moment what it had been about. He simply knew that he’d been glad to get back to his office where he’d closed the door to signal that he didn’t want to be disturbed. Later he was taking a train to Bristol, where he was due to appear on Question Time tonight. He’d hoped Lisa would be able to come with him, but she had an early appointment for another practice run with the hairdresser in the morning, so he was going alone. Rosalind and Dee wouldn’t be there either – it was too late for Lawrence, so they were going to watch from home.
Catrina would have been there, if she could, but there was no point thinking about that. Instead he allowed his thoughts to fill with Lisa and the night, just over a week ago, that he’d come home to find her in a crisis of doubt. As far as he could tell she seemed to be over it now, and he only wished he could say the same for himself, because that very same evening he’d been experiencing his own particular crisis – and the fear of it happening again seemed to be deepening instead of disappearing. During his speech at a dinner for a group of economists and businessmen his mind had gone blank, and though he’d had his notes in front of him he’d found it impossible to pick up again. Of course, everyone lost their thread once in a while, occasionally it was even amusing, but to have lost it the way he had that night, and for it not to come back, certainly couldn’t be passed off as a joke.
He didn’t understand how his thoughts could be so clear and present one minute, so full of purpose and meaning, only then to evaporate at the moment they started to become words. It was like biting thin air when expecting an apple, or drowning when he knew he could swim. He’d looked at the faces around him and none had registered. All he’d been aware of was the emptiness of the space he was in, and the strange, echoey sound of the silence. He wasn’t sure how much time ticked by before he’d excused himself. A trickle of baffled applause accompanied his departure, and someone had come to ask if he was all right. He wondered now what he’d said. He hoped he was polite.
Though his eyes continued to move over the crowds below, tourists, politicians, policemen in pairs with their fluorescent jackets standing out like bright players in an otherwise dull circus, he was barely seeing them now. He was sunk in the fear of what was happening to him. Though it had been with him for a while, all through Catrina’s illness and after, following him like a shadow often too small to be seen, lately it had been looming too large to be ignored. He was afraid to face it, but even so he’d made himself check his symptoms online, knowing already what he was likely to find. There had turned out to be several explanations for his memory lapses and increasing anxiety, but he couldn’t stop himself thinking about the one he feared most of all. It couldn’t be that – dear God, it just couldn’t.
Since he didn’t know for certain, he must keep reminding himself that he could be wrong, that there really was a chance the stress and grief that seemed to be gripping him more tightly by the day was taking its toll. The months, weeks, days leading up to Catrina’s passing were the hardest he’d ever been through. Even now, thinking of her in so much pain, and knowing how afraid she was of dying, not only because of what might come next, but because of being unable to bear the thought of leaving him, could rack his conscience as cruelly as his heart. The last thing he’d wanted was to see her suffer, but during her final days she’d tormented herself in a way he’d been powerless to stop.
‘Listen,’ she’d rasped, gazing up at him with her puffy, yellowed eyes, ‘I know you’ve thought about her over the years, and wanted her, and probably rued the day a thousand times over when you decided to stand by me, but I want you to know, David, that nothing’s ever meant more to me than making you happy. You’ve given me a wonderful life, and for that I thank you with all my heart, but if you go to her, it’ll be like saying that my life had no real purpose other than to be an obstacle between you and her.’
He’d have loved to be able to say that at the very end she’d gone peacefully with no more fear in her heart, but it hadn’t happened that way. He’d waited, hour after hour, for the gentle and unselfish wife he’d always known to return, but she never had, at least not to him. ‘She won’t make you happy, David,’ she’d whispered close to the end. ‘She can’t, because she’s someone else now. Too much time has gone by.’
At the time he’d refused to let her words get through to him, knowing that they were a form of emotional blackmail that was as ugly and destructive as the disease that was eating her. So he’d told himself, when she’d gone, that he mustn’t allow all her ramblings and delirium to have any bearing on the rest of his life. The Catrina he’d known and loved for over thirty years was the Catrina who’d always wanted him to be happy, not the woman whose disease had managed to turn her into a stranger.
As the fear of what could be wrong with him rose up like a divine punishment in his mind again, he felt his throat turning dry and his heart blackening with dread. He was longing for Catrina now in a way he never had before. They’d been each other’s best friends as well as husband and wife, and not having her to confide in when he needed to so desperately was making her loss even harder to bear. It scarcely even occurred to him to turn to Lisa – they didn’t know one another well enough for him to burden her with this. Or perhaps the real reason he was holding back was because he couldn’t bear to crush her dreams, or even to think about the possibility of losing her.
Hearing a knock on the door, he resisted the urge to tell whoever it was to go away, and returned to his desk as he called for them to come in.
Miles put his head round the door. ‘Yvonne’s going to ride in the taxi with you to the station,’ he told him.
‘Yvonne?’
Miles’s eyebrows rose. ‘Your media …’
‘Yes, of course,’ David interrupted irritably. ‘Sorry, I was thinking of something else. Do you have all the information I’m likely to need so I can look through it on the train?’
‘Absolutely.’ Coming into the room, Miles closed the door behind him. ‘If you have a minute,’ he said, looking unusually hesitant for him, ‘I was hoping now might be a good time to mention something that’s come up.’
David looked at him sharply.
‘It might easily turn into nothing,’ Miles continued, his discomfort seeming to deepen, ‘but I thought I should at least warn you about it.’
‘Where’s this going, Miles?’ David said impatiently.
Steeling himself, Miles said, ‘I’m afraid it’s going to Lisa and some information that I’m told a certain Foreign Minister and his team have managed to dig up about her.’
David’s eyes narrowed. ‘And what information would that be?’ he demanded.
Pushing the words out, Miles said, ‘Apparently they’ve discovered some evidence connecting her, or more accurately someone she was close to, with money-laundering.’
David’s expression turned glacial.
‘Please don’t shoot the messenger,’ Miles cried, holding up his hands. ‘I just thought you should know … As far as I’m aware no charges were pressed, but it seems the man she was involved with was a bit of a dubious character …’
David’s fury suddenly exploded. ‘There’s nothing about Lisa’s past that I don’t already know, Miles,’ he shouted, ‘so if you, or some … some … You … will not encourage …’ He
put a hand to his head and Miles immediately started forward.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ David snapped, and without meeting Miles’s eyes, or uttering another word in Lisa’s defence, he grabbed his briefcase and jacket and swept out of the room.
Chapter Eight
‘AMY! IT’S ME,’ Lisa announced into her mobile. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day.’
‘I know, I know, I’m sorry. I’ve been in meetings and I’ve only just got home. Is everything OK?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Lisa assured her, stepping out of her robe to begin applying her favourite Vera Wang body cream. ‘Apart from spending the entire day talking to florists, caterers, dress designers, shippers, landscape gardeners, the list is endless – oh and getting ready for the whirlwind called Roxy to descend on me tomorrow – everything’s fine. Do you have any idea yet which train she’s catching?’
‘Not a clue, but I’ll get her to text you. Has David left London yet? It is tonight he’s on, isn’t it?’
‘Yep, ten thirty-five, so don’t fall asleep. I know what people your age are like.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Amy laughed. ‘Where are you going to watch it?’
‘Here, at home. I’ve got a few friends coming over, so we’re popping corks and eating in.’ Deciding it was too warm to put any clothes on yet, she walked as she was into the kitchen, to open the first bottle. ‘Did I happen to tell you,’ she said, reaching for a glass, ‘that I’m getting married to David Kirby in just over four weeks, which makes me so happy I could burst, or fly, or dance around the moon. Added to which – these miracles are coming thick and fast, so hold on to your hat – his head of staff, Miles Farraday, has only invited me for lunch tomorrow. Can you believe it? Westminster’s answer to David Beckham with a rocket-science brain called this afternoon to ask if he could buy me lunch.’
‘No way!’ Amy cried. ‘Any idea what prompted it?’
‘Nope, but the really intriguing part is that he’s asked me not to mention anything to David yet. I’ve no idea what the “yet” means, but I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.’
‘OMG,’ Amy burbled, sounding exactly like Roxy, ‘he’s going to declare a passion and beg you not to throw yourself away on a fifty-three-year-old with dazzling prospects when you can have the same package in a twenty-five-year-old.’
‘Actually, I think he’s closer to thirty, and my take on the secrecy is that he’s being cautious in case we don’t get along, which is highly unlikely considering how wonderfully easy-going I am.’
‘Whoever told you that was lying. Now, I’m hoping you’re going to tell me next that you’ve still heard no more from Tony Sommerville.’
‘Not a peep,’ Lisa assured her, experiencing a flutter inside at the mention of his name.
‘And you’re not disappointed about that?’
‘Not at all,’ she lied, but it was only her ego feeling let down, not her heart.
‘Good. And have you called Mum to remind her about the programme? We’ll never hear the end of it if she wakes up tomorrow and realises she’s forgotten.’
‘Already done, but I’ll probably send a text as backup. Right, I suppose I’d better put some clothes on before my guests arrive. Is it a gorgeous evening down there? We’re having a heatwave here.’
‘It’s stifling, but I think there’re thunderstorms forecast for tomorrow. We want the weather to turn though, so it has a chance to turn back again in time for the wedding. Anyway, I’m gone, talk to you after the programme.’
As she put the phone down Lisa took a sip of the perfectly chilled Viognier she’d taken from the fridge, and was just savouring its flavours when it came to her, like a dandelion drifting in from thin air, where she’d been the first time she’d tasted it. It was at a vineyard in the Napa Valley, with Tony, who’d flown in to join her while she was shooting a programme with a full crew and at least half a dozen oenologists. It was a memorable experience for many reasons, though fortunately the wine experts had not been guests at the private hospitality chateau of a major vineyard, because she dreaded to think how they’d have reacted to Tony and the crew marinating fillet steaks in one-hundred-dollar bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon and then proceeding to drink themselves senseless on the very best California had to offer right through till dawn. She had to admit she’d been right there with them, and either because they were still young back then, or the wine was so good, amazingly not one of them suffered the next day.
Wanting to dismiss the memory before it led to any more, she picked up the phone to call David, and as soon as she heard his voice she felt herself glowing at how wonderful her life was now.
‘Hi, it’s me,’ she murmured, even though he already knew. ‘Where are you?’
‘On the train,’ he replied quietly. ‘Where are you?’
‘At home – and guess what I’m wearing?’ She used to do this with Tony, but she wasn’t thinking about him now.
‘Mm, let me see,’ David said. ‘In my mind’s eye it’s … Well, it’s nothing.’
She smiled. ‘You’re right, and I’m wishing very much that you were here.’
‘So am I now. Why don’t you tell me what we’d be doing if I were?’
As frissons of desire snaked through her, she began whispering her fantasies, creating a picture of them together that aroused her so much she went to lie on the bed, where she pretended her hands were his. Being where he was, there was little he could say in response, but simply knowing he was listening and imagining, and feeling every bit as turned on, was enough to bring her to a quietly shuddering release.
‘You’re sensational,’ he murmured. ‘Did I ever tell you that?’
Her eyes were still closed. ‘Once or twice,’ she smiled, and moaning softly as a lingering spasm uncoiled inside her, she rolled on to her front and pouted like a teenager as she said, ‘Four whole nights without you. I don’t know how I’ll survive.’
‘Somehow we’ll manage.’
‘I’m sure, but I wish we didn’t have to. Are you going to the house tomorrow?’
When there was no reply she wondered if they’d lost the connection. ‘Are you still there?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I’m here, and uh … I’ll be in Bristol tomorrow.’
‘I know, that’s why I’m asking if you’ll be going to the … Oh, of course, I don’t mean the House of Commons, I mean our house.’
‘Ah yes … I’m sure I will.’
‘Are you OK?’ she asked, frowning. ‘You sound a bit … I don’t know, low?’
‘I’m fine,’ he assured her, ‘but on a train and in a condition that no self-respecting male should be in while alone in public.’
Laughing and loving to think of him aroused, she turned on to her back and was about to start making things less personal when it suddenly occurred to her that while she was talking herself to a climax she might have been imagining Tony at the other end, instead of David. Her heart turned over. That surely wasn’t the truth. No, it couldn’t be. Tony had only just flitted into her mind that instant, and now he was gone again. Keeping her tone light, she said, ‘So are you all prepared for the programme?’
There was a crackling sound before he answered, ‘Sorry, what did you say?’
‘I asked if you were ready for the programme.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ he snapped irritably as the line broke up again. ‘I don’t know what you’re saying. Can you …’
‘Listen,’ she said calmly, ‘we’ll talk again later. Call as soon as you can when you come off air, OK?’
Receiving no reply she realised the connection had failed, and as someone was pressing her doorbell she quickly pulled on a cream lace teddy and covered it with a sleeveless apricot kaftan that was light and floaty and perfect for such a warm summer evening.
Polly and Umeko were the first to arrive, both of whom she’d known since her interpreting days. Though they were close to forty too, unlike Lisa they hadn’t remaine
d single and childless, because both were mothers of two now and the wives of successful businessmen – or Polly had been until her divorce a year ago.
No sooner had they finished hugging and congratulating each other on how well they all looked, amidst grimaces of weight gain and the need for more Botox and why the hell hadn’t anyone invented a cure for cellulite yet, than the bell rang again, announcing the arrival of Nerine and Hayley. Nerine, with her clouds of raven-black hair and vibrant make-up, was flamboyantly Greek, steadfastly single and fashion editor of a Sunday tabloid. Hayley, the youngest of them all at thirty-five, was a petite English-rose type in looks, with a dramatic Latin temper passed on from her father, and a fierce passion for art that she shared with her mother. Already married and divorced twice, she now ran an oriental art gallery close to Burlington Arcade which was where she and Lisa had first met, some six or seven years ago. Lisa and Tony had attended an opening there and made three extremely expensive purchases, two of which were now hanging in the sitting room of this flat, and the third Lisa presumed Tony still owned, or, more likely, had sold on by now.
Why did everything keep coming back to him, she wondered irritably to herself. It had only been happening since he’d tricked her into having lunch with him, and now he was hanging around like the aftermath of a dream, and she couldn’t seem to get rid of him.
Since Umeko, the natural expert on Japanese food, had volunteered to bring the sushi, she placed herself in charge of setting it out on serving plates, while Hayley and Lisa sorted out chopsticks, plates, tiny porcelain bowls for the soya sauce, and four of the exquisite sake glasses Umeko had given Lisa for her thirtieth birthday. Meanwhile Nerine and Polly got stuck into the wine.
