‘Provided it really is suitable. It’s hard to judge girls’ ages these days, and the cinemas don’t check as thoroughly as they should.’
‘They’ll probably be happy enough up in her room, watching DVDs or playing on the computer.’
‘But they ought to be outside, especially if the weather’s good.’
Angus lapsed into silence. All his suggestions having been met with objections, it seemed wiser not to offer more.
On Wednesday morning, Lewis phoned.
‘Just a thought,’ he said, ‘but I have to be in your neck of the woods tomorrow, and I wondered if, since we won’t be meeting at the weekend, I might perhaps call on you after my meeting?’
A dozen thoughts collided in Anna’s head: would the neighbours see him? What would they think? Was he – a lurch of the stomach – expecting to spend the night? But almost immediately she rebelled. Was she going to spend the rest of her life afraid of twitching curtains?
‘That would be lovely, Lewis,’ she said. There was a slight pause, and she added diffidently, ‘Will you be able to . . .?’
‘Stay the night?’ he finished, a smile in his voice. ‘If I’m invited!’
‘Then I’m inviting you. What time will you arrive?’
‘About six thirty? If it would be easier, we could go out to eat?’
‘I wouldn’t hear of it. You’ve not sampled my cooking yet!’
‘A treat in store!’
A thought struck her. ‘Do you know where I live?’
‘Of course I do. I ascertained that before leaving South Africa!’
She laughed. ‘See you tomorrow, then.’
‘You don’t really like it, do you?’
‘Of course I do.’ Even to his own ears, Roger’s voice lacked conviction.
‘Are you sure? It looked so nice in the shop, I thought—’
‘Really, it’s a lovely sweater, it’s just . . .’
‘What?’
‘Not a colour I usually wear,’ he said lamely. And it’s a polo neck, whereas I prefer V. ‘Anyway, it’s no big deal; I can take it back, can’t I, swap it for another, like you did that handbag last Christmas?’
‘I so wanted it to be perfect,’ Imogen said shakily.
Roger’s patience snapped. ‘All right, forget it. It’s lovely – the right size, a nice weight, everything, and to prove it, I’ll wear it tonight. OK? Now, I really have to go.’ And, picking up his briefcase, he thankfully left the house.
Imogen burst into tears.
Her day went from bad to worse. The butcher had forgotten to order the gammon she’d requested, her cleaner rang to say she had toothache and wouldn’t be in today, and the lemon mousse hadn’t set. By seven o’clock, when the guests were due to arrive, her nerves were in shreds.
Roger had returned from work and set about putting out the drinks. He was wearing the new sweater, and she had to admit it didn’t suit him. The high neck looked as though it were choking him, and the taupe that she’d thought so smart in the shop drained the colour from his face. Oh, God! She wished she could just go to bed and pull the duvet over her head.
Jonathan looked about him, wondering how he could introduce the subject of Emily Broadbent and Mandelyns without putting a damper on the evening. Better not approach Imogen directly; she looked a little fraught, and Roger, his other option, was busy seeing to the drinks. For lack of alternatives, he moved over to his sister.
‘Is Imogen over her aunt’s death, do you think?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘For heaven’s sake, what is this?’ Sophie exclaimed. ‘First Angus, now you! She’s coping, as we all have to in such circumstances.’
Jonathan stared at her in surprise. ‘Actually, it’s her aunt I wanted to ask about. Did you ever hear the cause of death?’
Sophie, slightly mollified, frowned. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘It’s just that I heard it came out of the blue. Soon after her birthday, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right. Imo said she was looking better than she had for years. Uncle Ted had treated her to a weekend at Mandelyns as an early birthday present, and they joked it had made her look ten years younger.’
Bingo! ‘Did she have some special treatment, then?’
‘God, Jonathan, I don’t know the details. I should think we’d all look ten years younger after a weekend of pampering.’
Before he could repeat his question as to the cause of death, Roger’s brother came to join them, and the opportunity was lost. Could he, dare he, approach the husband? Jonathan wondered. Sophie would have the address. Still, he couldn’t pursue it now. Shelving the problem for the moment, he joined in the general conversation.
They were twelve in all – herself and Roger, Sophie and Angus, Jonathan and Vicky, Roger’s brother Douglas, his wife Sarah, and two sets of neighbours. So far, things weren’t going too badly. The meal was a buffet, spread out on the dining room table, and to Imogen’s relief it looked suitably tempting. The replacement ham, parboiled then baked with honey, was an acceptable substitute for the gammon, the chicken kebabs were proving popular, and she’d been complimented on the imaginative salads.
The mousse, having stubbornly remained runny, had spent the last hour in the freezer. Imogen could only hope the emergency treatment had worked. She took a quick sip of wine, opened the freezer door, and lifted it out. Exactly what happened next, she could never remember. One moment the glass bowl, sending shocks of cold to her fingers, was firmly in her grasp. The next, it had slipped free and smashed to the ground, splashing yellow mousse over her dress, the units, and a large portion of the floor.
For several seconds she stood immobile, staring at the wreckage. Then she bent and distractedly started picking out the larger shards of glass before, abandoning the task, she burst into tears for the second time that day.
Head in hands, she didn’t see Angus come into the kitchen, and the first indication of his presence was his quick exclamation of concern.
‘Oh, Imogen, no!’
She heard him lay down the plates he’d brought in and, avoiding the mess on the floor, move round the kitchen towards her.
‘Look, don’t worry, honestly. Is there another pudding?’
Incapable of speech, Imogen continued to sob.
To his relief, Angus saw a Pavlova, crisp and perfect, on the counter, though admittedly they’d be hard pressed to get twelve servings from it. Alongside it, though, was a bowl of fruit, presumably not intended for this evening.
‘We can take the fruit through as well, and there’s cheese already on the table. With the Pavlova, that’ll be fine, honestly. I’ll clear this up. Please don’t cry; it’s not the end of the world.’
She felt his hand on her arm and blindly, unthinkingly, turned towards him, burying her face in his chest. Tentatively, his arms came up to hold her.
‘It’s been such a horrible day!’ she sobbed. ‘Roger hates the sweater I bought him, and there wasn’t any gammon, and the mousse—’ But thoughts of the mousse brought on another torrent of tears, and she shuddered to a halt.
‘We all have days like that,’ Angus said soothingly. ‘It’s just bad luck today happened to be one of them. But the food’s marvellous, Imo, really. Everyone’s enjoying it, and they’ve eaten so much, they won’t even miss the mousse!’
Dear, kind Angus! Roger would have blamed her for breaking the bowl.
He handed her a handkerchief, and she dabbed at her face, looking up at him with swimming eyes. Moved by her misery, he bent to kiss her forehead, but in the same moment she raised her head, and his mouth landed clumsily on hers. As though released by a spring, her arms flew round his neck, and before either of them fully realized what was happening, they were engaged in a full-blown kiss.
The door swished open, and a voice said, ‘Is there anything—?’
Sophie’s voice.
They broke apart, turning startled faces towards her. Across the room, the three of them stared at each other. Then Sophie
turned on her heel and went out again.
‘Oh God!’ Imogen whispered. ‘Go after her, Angus! Don’t let her think . . .’
Swearing fluently under his breath, Angus hesitated. He glanced back at Imogen and the mess on the floor. He’d promised to help her clear up, but first, as she said, he must straighten things with Sophie.
‘I’ll be right back,’ he said, and hurried from the room, looking quickly round the hall before glancing into both the sitting and dining rooms. ‘Anyone seen Sophie?’
‘She went outside,’ Sarah, who was sitting on the stairs, informed him. ‘Said she wanted something from the car.’
Angus strode to the front door, opening it to the furious revving of an engine, followed by the sound of a car scorching away. His car.
He ran to the gate, in time to see its tail lights disappearing round the corner. Hell and damnation, she’d left him stranded! How the devil was he going to get home? God, she couldn’t really have thought . . . But what would he have thought, had their positions been reversed? If he’d come across her in Roger’s arms?
A cold wind moved over him, making him shiver. He groaned, wiping his hand across his face. She might at least have let him explain. But explain what? He could hardly deny they’d been kissing. God help him, he’d even enjoyed it.
He glanced back at the house. Since he’d pulled the door shut behind him, he now had the indignity of having to ring the bell to be readmitted. And what was he supposed to tell everyone? Oh, why had he happened to go into the kitchen at that crucial moment?
Shivering, worried and miserable, Angus walked back up the path.
For the first time in months, Anna felt entirely happy. The evening had been perfect, especially as, at least for the moment, she’d succeeded in burying her guilt. Lewis had arrived with roses and a bottle of Margaux, and he’d been most appreciative of the meal, which, admittedly, had been delicious. Now they were relaxing on the sofa, his arm round her shoulders, listening to a CD of the Three Tenors. And tonight still lay ahead. Anna hoped superstitiously that she wouldn’t have to pay for such happiness.
A hope that was not to be granted. At one moment they were alone in the lamplight; the next, the sitting room door had burst open and Sophie erupted into the room.
She stopped short on seeing them, and they in turn froze, gazing back at her.
‘Who the hell’s that?’ she demanded, her voice rising.
‘Sophie!’ Disengaging herself, Anna quickly stood up. ‘That’s hardly the way to greet my guest! This is Lewis Masters, a friend I met on holiday. My daughter, Sophie,’ she added to Lewis.
He had also risen, and now went towards Sophie, smiling, his hand outstretched. She ignored him, her eyes fixed on her mother.
‘My God!’ She put both hands to her head, gripping her scalp. ‘What’s happened to everyone?’
Anna hurried to her, gently lowered her hands, and held them. ‘What’s the matter, darling? Has something happened?’
‘I was hoping for a bed for the night,’ Sophie said shakily, ‘but—’
‘Of course you can have a bed. You don’t have to ask. But – where’s Angus?’
Sophie’s mouth tightened. ‘That’s . . . immaterial.’
Anna threw Lewis an anguished glance, and he smoothly took up his cue.
‘Look, I can see I’m not needed here, so I’ll be on my way. Thanks for the meal, Anna; I’ll phone you in the morning. Nice to have met you, Sophie.’
He moved past them into the hall, took his coat from the stand and his briefcase from the foot of the stairs, and let himself out of the house.
Anna wrenched her thoughts from him and led her daughter to the sofa where, minutes earlier, she’d been so close to Lewis. ‘Tell me what happened,’ she said.
‘Oh, I’ll tell you what happened!’ Sophie’s voice was brittle. ‘First, I walk into a room and find my husband kissing my best friend. Then I walk into another and find my mother kissing a strange man.’ She gave a choked laugh. ‘It’s almost funny: twice in an hour, two sets of guilty faces, with almost identical expressions.’
‘We weren’t kissing,’ Anna said weakly.
‘You would have been, any minute.’
‘And he’s not a strange man. As I explained, we met in South Africa.’
Sophie stared at her with sudden, horrified, understanding. ‘You’re having an affair!’
‘No! Well . . .’
Sophie sprang up. ‘My God!’ she cried again. ‘Jon and I send you on holiday to get over Dad’s death—’
Anna was also on her feet. ‘Stop it!’ she demanded. ‘Stop it right there!’
They stood staring at each other, both breathing heavily. Then Sophie’s anger seemed to evaporate, and she said tonelessly, ‘I’m sorry. I just . . . don’t know what to think. One minute, everything was fine; the next, the ground seemed to give way beneath me, and nothing was certain any more.’
Anna understood only too well; a similar analogy had struck her in South Africa. Aching with sympathy, she went to pour them both a brandy. ‘Tell me about Angus,’ she invited.
Biting her lip, Sophie slowly sat down again. ‘We were at Roger’s birthday party. I went into the kitchen, to see if I could help, and found Angus and Imo in a passionate embrace.’
‘Oh, darling. Surely—’
‘So I walked out of the house and drove straight here. I . . . didn’t know where else to go.’
Anna pulled her into her arms and held her close, feeling her trembling. ‘There has to be an explanation. Both of them adore you.’
‘And perhaps each other.’
‘That’s nonsense. Had you and Angus had a row?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘He did ask very solicitously after Imo the other day – whether she’d got over Aunt Em’s death.’
‘Nothing suspicious in that, surely?’
Sophie pulled gently away and reached for her brandy glass. ‘My first drink of the evening. I was on the wagon, because I was going to drive home – Angus handed me the car keys when we arrived.’ She gave a half-smile. ‘I bet he regrets that now.’
Anna hadn’t taken in the implications. ‘You just abandoned him?’
‘I did.’
‘Well – what will he do? How will he get home?’
‘There are trains,’ Sophie said.
Anna sipped her own drink. ‘And what do you propose to do in the morning?’
‘Go home, as soon as he’s left for work.’
‘Then what?’
‘Nothing dramatic. Apart from anything else, Tamsin will be home tomorrow, with her friend Florence. But I’ll expect an explanation, and it had better be a good one.’
‘Has he tried to contact you?’
‘Probably. I switched off my mobile. Anyway –’ Sophie met her mother’s eye – ‘it’s your turn now. Tell me about lover boy.’
It was not an evening Angus wanted to remember. Back inside the house, he’d found Sarah and Vicky cleaning the floor, and the Pavlova and bowl of fruit on the dining table. Imogen, seemingly composed, sent him one swift, questioning glance, and he shook his head. Thereafter she kept out of his way.
He announced, as casually as he could manage, that Sophie was suffering from one of her migraines and had asked to be excused.
‘Was she fit to drive home?’ Vicky asked worriedly. ‘Shouldn’t—?’
‘She insisted I stay. She’d always rather be alone when they strike. So if you and Jon could drop me off at the station . . .?’
‘Oh – of course: no car. Or would you rather stay the night?’
‘Thanks, but no. I must get back to Sophie, satisfy myself she’s OK.’
Given the choice, he’d have left at once, anxious to speak to her before she’d exaggerated the scene out of all proportion; but he couldn’t expect Jon and Vicky to leave early to suit him, and it was almost eleven when they pulled up at the station.
‘I’ll phone in the morning to see how she is,’ Vicky said, and Angus coul
d only hope Sophie would pick up her cue.
The train to London was half empty. A few solitary passengers were dotted about, some sleeping, some reading, some simply staring out of the window into the darkness. He’d been trying Sophie’s mobile on and off for the last hour, but it was permanently on voicemail. Obviously, she had no intention of speaking to him. He spent the journey rehearsing the best way to explain what had happened.
At Charing Cross he had to queue for a taxi, and when, half an hour later, it stopped at his gate, he was alarmed to see the house in darkness. Even if she’d gone to bed, she might at least have left the hall light on.
Fresh panic hit him when he reached their bedroom. The bed hadn’t been touched since it was made that morning. Sophie was not at home. Frantically, he again tried her mobile, again she was unreachable. Where the hell was she?
At Anna’s? Now that he thought of it, that seemed the obvious solution; her house was only a twenty-minute drive from Roger and Imogen’s. However, it was now well past midnight and far too late to phone. And if by any chance Sophie wasn’t there, there was no sense in alarming Anna.
He spent a restless night, continually reliving those crucial minutes in the kitchen with Imogen. The fact that, after his botched platonic kiss, it had been she who’d prolonged it, was no excuse. She was on edge, unhappy, not knowing what she was doing. It had been up to him to put her gently aside and defuse the situation, and he was unable to explain why he had not.
Thank God Sophie’s car was in the garage; at least he’d be able to get to work in the morning. On that single positive note, Angus finally fell asleep.
TEN
Incredibly, Roger was totally unaware of the traumas of the evening. He’d taken Sophie’s abrupt departure at face value and, instead of the reprimand she’d expected, had even sympathized with Imogen over the crystal bowl, a wedding present.
‘These things happen,’ he said philosophically.
Furthermore, they made love, Imogen clinging to him with a passionate mix of love and guilt that both surprised and delighted him.
‘I must have more birthdays!’ he joked, stroking her bare shoulder and unaware of held-back tears.
Shifting Sands Page 14
