The McCabe Girls Complete Collection

by Freya North

  In a tiptoe dance, with an acute awareness of just how creaky the floorboards were, just how noisy her heartbeat was, just how bad all of this was – them, her – Fen sprung along the landing like a pursued antelope and darted into her room.

  She sat on her bed, dumbstruck. Appalled for Abi. Livid with Gemma. Disgusted by Jake.

  What the hell am I meant to do with that knowledge?

  Her right palm said tell Abi, her left palm said don’t. Her left palm said confront Gemma, her right forbade it. She wrung her hands for a moment or two and then, lightly clasped, she let them fall into her lap.

  My potential new boyfriend shares his flat with this immoral, philandering sod.

  She held her head in her hands.

  What else do they share?

  She squeezed the bridge of her nose.

  My potential new boyfriend is already screwing the assistant director at my place of work.

  Fen looked out of the window.

  I don’t think I like these people. Thank God I am going to go to Derbyshire. I belong there.

  Fen didn’t feel like Maltesers or dodgy sandwiches from St Pancras station. And every glossy magazine seemed to brim with articles she really didn’t want to read. ‘Dirty Sex For You and Your Man’, ‘I’m Sleeping With My Best Mate’s Fella’, ‘Can A Womanizer Really Change His Ways?’. So she bought the Guardian, the Independent, the Spectator and the New Yorker. She hadn’t phoned work. She hadn’t replied to Abi’s alarming text message of ‘CALL ME CALL ME CALL ME’. Fen couldn’t have anything come between her and boarding that nine-twenty-five train. In two hours and one minute, she’d alight at Chesterfield and be safely ensconced in her own familiar territory.

  She phoned Abi only when the train had pulled out of Luton and had picked up speed.

  ‘Abi?’

  ‘Fen!’

  Fen sank back against her seat with relief. Abi’s tone was light and energetic and not the voice of a girl whose best friend was screwing her boyfriend.

  ‘Well?’ Abi enquired. ‘Tell me! Last night? Why was it “pants”? Did he rip yours off with his teeth? Does he wear hideous beige Y-fronts?’

  ‘He blew me out,’ Fen said, really not wanting to go into it.

  ‘Where on earth are you?’ Abi asked.

  ‘On a train. Going to Derbyshire. To see a man about some sculptures.’

  ‘The same bloke as last time?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fen, ‘this time, I’m bringing his works back with me.’

  ‘Gosh, you must have been saving up your pocket money!’ Abi laughed.

  ‘Yeah right,’ Fen laughed back. ‘How are you, Abs? Are you OK? Are things good?’

  ‘Darling,’ Abi said, ‘when you have the kind of sex I had last night, even the most shit day at work – as today threatens to be – is not just tolerable but almost pleasurable!’

  ‘Jake, then?’ Fen said.

  Abi’s response was to make the kind of appreciative noises that she normally made on eating a decadently large slice of chocolate cake.

  ‘Good,’ said Fen, ‘good. Gemma?’

  ‘She’s fine too,’ Abi assured her. ‘A girly night is long overdue for us three.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fen, wondering if a girly night for the three of them would ever be possible again.

  ‘Why did Matt blow you out?’ Abi asked.

  ‘He had to go to a private view,’ Fen explained, ‘with Judith St John.’

  ‘Ooh,’ said Abi, who always listened to everything Fen told her, ‘which lady?’

  ‘You know,’ Fen said ingenuously, ‘the power-dressing, power-crazed assistant director.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Abi explained, ‘I said, Witch Lady.’

  ‘Yes,’ snorted Fen, ‘whom he’s shagging, if Otter’s revelations are anything to go by.’

  ‘Good God,’ Abi exclaimed, ‘thank God you haven’t gone further than snogging, then. Do you want me to see if Jake knows anything?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Fen said, ‘don’t bother.’

  ‘The bastard!’ Abi said. ‘The cad! The deceptive sod!’

  ‘Don’t!’ Fen pleaded, horribly aware that the abuse fitted Jake perfectly, probably better, in fact, than Matt – whom she knew, deep down, hadn’t actually done anything wrong.

  ‘I’d better go,’ Abi said to Fen’s relief. ‘See you tomorrow – don’t drop the sculptures!’

  ‘Bye, my lovely,’ said Fen with much feeling.

  The train was nearing Leicester. It was a good time to phone work.

  ‘Hello. Trust Art – how may I help?’ answered Bobbie, exaggerating her ‘h’s.

  ‘Bobbie? It’s me, Fen.’

  ‘’Allo darling, you all right? You ’aven’t got the lurgy?’ said Bobbie, dispensing with all ‘h’s in her spontaneous concern for Fen’s welfare.

  ‘No, no,’ said Fen, all bright and breezy, ‘I’m on a train to Derbyshire – can you tell Rodney that I’ve gone to collect the three Fetherstones?’

  ‘Fen. Derby. Shire. Rod. Three. Feathers,’ Bobbie murmured, scribbling a note. ‘All done, ducks. When you back?’

  Fen looked out of the window.

  ‘’Allo?’ Bobbie called loudly, thinking Fen’s signal must have gone faint. ‘When you back? Today? Tomorrow?’

  Fen held her phone against her chin and watched the home counties disappear. She cancelled her call.

  She redialled Bobbie a few minutes later.

  ‘I lost you,’ Fen lied, ‘my signal went. Can you hear me?’

  ‘Lovely loud and clear, gorgeous,’ Bobbie confirmed.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Fen, ‘I’ll be back at work tomorrow.’

  But I might not be back in London tonight.

  What are you doing, Fen?

  I don’t really know.

  Why haven’t you called Django?

  I don’t really know.

  Are you not intending to stay in Derbyshire? At home?

  I don’t know.

  Or if you decide to, are you not sure where and with whom?

  I don’t know.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I wonder why the uncle over at Farleymoor isn’t collecting her? I could do without this. I’m having to cancel Mrs Jackman. And less then twenty-four hours’ notice – from Fenella to me, and from me to Mrs J.

  Feeling irritated more than resentful, James tried to focus his attention on Mrs Brakespeare’s Acer Palmatum ‘Atropurpureum’.

  I suppose, though, that the Fetherstones are going to generate far more income than four hours at £15 an hour with Mrs Jackman. Plus of course lunch with Fenella is preferable to lunch at Mrs J’s. I can’t stand gammon steaks. And it is always, always, gammon steaks.

  ‘Remember when I took along my own sandwiches?’ James laughed, talking to Beryl who was busy digging a rather large hole at the front of Mrs Brakespeare’s herbaceous border. Beryl looked up momentarily, but she didn’t remember so she returned to her digging. ‘She gave them to you and Barry and I had to have bloody gammon steaks most of which I sneaked to you and Barry too.’ James wondered where Barry was.

  ‘Shit!’

  Mrs Brakespeare’s back door was open. Barry certainly was not in the garden. Mrs Brakespeare was not in the house, having told James she was popping out. James jogged over the lawn, rushed out of his boots and walked into the house.

  ‘Barry!’ he called in a harsh whisper. Silence. He ventured in further. The sitting-room door, thank God, was shut and the cream sofas remained pristine. ‘Barry! Where the hell are you?’

  James groaned on hearing the lurcher lollop down the stairs. ‘Barry!’ he yelled, his dog dropping Mr Brakespeare’s slipper immediately. ‘You’re going to Battersea!’ The lurcher, however, sauntered past his master as if to say ‘yeah, right’. James looked down at the well-chewed slipper. Barry was now looking very eager to enter the dining-room, the door being ajar. ‘Battersea!’ his owner warned and the dog thought better of it and skulked outside. James sighed. Maybe he should just feign a
bsolute ignorance but secretly bury the slipper in Beryl’s keenly dug hole? He returned to the garden. ‘Jesus Christ – where is bloody Beryl?’ James marched around the garden, deciding out loud to trade his dogs in for cats. Beryl, it transpired, was fast asleep in the large hole she’d so meticulously excavated.

  James waited for Mrs B to return, even though it meant he was running late to pick up Fen. When Mrs B finally returned (at much the same time as Fen’s train was pulling in to Chesterfield), James apologized profusely for Barry’s altercation with the slipper. And Barry, for his part, did his best to hang his head and look as though he was willing to take a beating.

  ‘James love,’ Mrs B cooed, distressed to see him agitated, ‘don’t you worry about it.’ She looked down at Barry kindly, but kept her hands away from his raggedy, soil-enriched coat. ‘Mr Brakespeare needed a new pair anyway,’ she told the dog. ‘We’ll keep the tatty old pair for your next visit, shall we?’ James thanked her profusely and Barry panted with relief. They bade her goodbye.

  ‘Are you off to Rita’s now?’ Mrs B enquired.

  ‘I’ve had to cancel Mrs J,’ James said.

  ‘Oh?’ Mrs B responded, alarmed and curious. ‘Why? Everything OK?’

  ‘All is well, Mrs B,’ James assured her. He grinned to himself but regarded his client with a level gaze. ‘I have a young girl coming up from London to see me. In fact, I must go and collect her now.’

  Young? Mrs B wondered after James had gone, how young? A floozy? A niece? London – what’s she coming to see? And how long might she stay? Well! Who shall I phone first? Going upstairs, she looked out of the landing window to her garden and regarded Beryl’s large hole with some exasperation. Just past the bathroom, her husband’s other slipper lay. It had put up a good fight but the rubber sole had been mercilessly torn away from the upper. In her bedroom she gasped. The duvet bore the unmistakable imprint of a very large and muddy lurcher.

  ‘Oh deary,’ she said, ‘better not let Mr B see this. And better not tell James. He’d be horrified, poor love.’

  James had been pleasantly amused by Fen’s abrupt and unexpected phone call last night. Now there was something compelling about catching sight of her, unseen. James watched her for a moment or two. She seemed to be lost in thought, sitting a little forlornly on the station bench. He was twenty-five minutes late.

  And now here she was, over there. Lovely in the flesh. Yet James suddenly felt curiously reluctant to approach her. Last night, after her phone call, he’d stared hard at the painting of Eve and had attempted to conjure an image of Fen naked, doing to him what Eve was doing to Adam in the sculpture. It had been a titillating fantasy. But he had quashed it abruptly, warned himself that he was old enough to be her … And had gone to bed with a John Grisham thriller instead.

  James glanced at his watch. Then looked again to Fen, the breeze lifting her hair and laying it down again.

  You daft sod, she’s come to you because it’s probably Trust policy for personnel to accompany works of art. Plus, a cheap-day return is probably more economical than hiring a courier firm to collect and deliver.

  Nevertheless, James gave Barry the honour of greeting her. Fen looked momentarily startled and then soon enough delighted. She looked up and caught sight of James. He waved. She smiled. She left the bench and walked over to him.

  ‘Hullo,’ she said, holding out her hand.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, chuck,’ he replied, ignoring her hand and kissing her lightly on the cheek. Her cheek was soft and cool against his lips. The contrast in temperature appealed to them both.

  ‘Where’s Beryl?’ Fen asked.

  ‘She’s in the car. Both of them are in disgrace, really,’ said James, leading the way to his war-torn Land Rover.

  He doesn’t have hands like a gardener. I remember from last time.

  Fen glanced from James’s hand, resting lightly on the handbrake, out of the window to a bustling Chesterfield shopping morning. His hands are more like Matt’s than Alan Titchmarsh’s. But there again, I’ve seen photos of Julius’s hands – and that drawing he did of them – and his fingers were fine and long. James has very nice hands. That’s a new boutique. Blimey, it’s selling Paul Smith! Beryl has bad breath. I’m hungry. What’s the time?

  James was just a little disconcerted by Fen’s mien. She seemed contemplative. She also looked wan and tired and he found himself quite interested in why this should be so. What had she been up to?

  Partying, most likely. Too many late nights. Not eating properly. Her skin looks lacklustre, her eyes have no sparkle, her hair is a little limp. Perhaps she smokes too much.

  ‘Do you smoke?’ James asked.

  ‘No,’ said Fen. ‘My housemates do – sometimes I’ll light a ciggy for them because it amuses them and reminds me why I don’t.’

  ‘You look rather tired,’ James commented, wondering if it sounded like a reprimand.

  Fen, nodding, said she was fine.

  ‘You look a little,’ James paused and then thought what the hell, ‘pensive.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Fen but without nodding.

  ‘A bowl of soup when we get in,’ James said, all jolly, ‘how about that?’

  Fen turned to him. Sunlight shot through the windscreen, illuminating her face. It spun the most incredible colours through her eyes – shards of charcoal, turquoise and khaki – and turned her skin from pale and flat to sheened porcelain. He had to look away.

  ‘Soup’ll be lovely,’ she said, with gratitude.

  I want to lock the dogs in the utility room. I want to feed Fen. I want to have sex with her. I want to put her in a bath and ease a soapy flannel over her back and down her arms. I want to make her a cup of hot chocolate. I want her to fall asleep in my bed. And sleep. For hours. And I want her to suck my cock. I want to keep her. I want to lock her up.

  James’s thoughts turned him on and horrified him.

  Don’t you bloody dare. You leave her alone. Concentrate on the road. God, Beryl’s breath is bad. Must be gingivitis again. Must buy those special chews.

  Fen felt a flood of calm when James pulled in to Keeper’s Dwelling and switched off the engine. She wanted to curl up with a cup of cocoa and go to sleep. Perhaps have a nice deep bath first. James was bound to have a roll-top cast-iron bath.

  ‘Come on in,’ he said, key in the lock. ‘Barry, Beryl – have a pee, please.’ Fen watched the dogs; the lurcher tottered over to the gatepost and cocked his leg against it while the labrador padded over to the side of the gravel drive and squatted down, avoiding eye contact.

  ‘Aren’t they good,’ Fen said, the peace and fresh air, the solitude of the place, reviving her. She felt much brighter.

  ‘They’re good-for-nothings,’ James grumbled.

  ‘You’re horrible,’ Fen said, and poked him because it felt right, ‘you don’t mean it.’

  James wished she hadn’t poked him. It sent his incorrigible thoughts into a stampede.

  The hallway smelt lovely. Fen hadn’t realized that it had a distinct aroma but standing there again proved that obviously it had. The same as last time. Earth on boots. Wood fire. Old mahogany. Wax on flagstones.

  I love all of this. As a lifestyle. It’s so me, isn’t it?

  ‘Sit in there,’ James all but commanded in a tone of voice fairly similar to that which he used for the dogs. He held the door to the snug open and gestured to the particular armchair he wanted Fen to occupy. ‘I’m going to fix some soup.’

  ‘Can I help?’ Fen offered.

  ‘No,’ James said, ‘no.’

  He didn’t want her with him. He wanted her to sit still. And stay out of sight.

  When I tell my dogs to sit, I do so to keep them out of trouble. I’m telling Fen to sit to keep myself out of trouble.

  James disappeared into the kitchen. Fen was quite happy to sink into the comfortable leather tub chair. The room was still. No fire. No dogs (Barry and Beryl had been confined to the utility room). And no Fetherstones. Where w
ere they? Where? Should she go and ask James? No, she should stay put. He’d said so. Not a lot to do, really, other than to sit still and relax then. Let the mind wander. And wonder.

  Fen wondered how on earth she could go on the rebound against Matt when they hadn’t even been in a relationship for him to have cheated on her.

  He slept with Judith before he even kissed me. I oughtn’t to judge him on that. Though I might now think less of his taste.

  And yet her desire for James was not caused by a desire to spite Matt, or to bolster her suddenly flagging self-confidence. She simply desired James. All the more so today because of the contrast between him and Matt, between all that she loved about Derbyshire and all that she suddenly loathed about London. Sleepily, she glanced from hand to hand.

  I find James incredibly attractive. Not just physically, although he is classically handsome. I like him – he’s slightly aloof, set in his ways, self-contained. I’m actually turned on by his age. I suppose it is the notion of his experience and I don’t know, his weatheredness.

  Fen yawned. Where were the Fetherstones?

  On the other hand, what I find compelling and, at the moment, preferable, is his differentness to Matt. And men my age. James – I don’t know – he’s a grown-up! Makes Matt seem just too laddish. That’s not fair. I know Matt is attentive, kind, gorgeous to look at, young, successful and outgoing. But he lives with Jake. Jake is screwing both my friends. I rather think I ought to steer clear of someone ensconced in that milieu. Was Matt intending to have Judith and me at the same time?

  She yawned again and wondered if James was a safer bet.

  You have to have things in common. James and I have Derbyshire. And Fetherstones.

  Yes, but Fen, no matter how impecunious you were, you would never sell Fetherstones if you owned them. Anyway, Matt and you have London and age and art in general, in common.

  Jesus. Why am I even feeling obliged to choose between the two? Why am I cross-referencing their pros and cons? I’ve been doing just fine, these past couple of years, not being bothered by the presence or otherwise of the opposite sex in my life. Why on earth do I now feel I have to decide between these two vastly different and probably equally unsuitable men?