Chapter 2. This little girlie
Morning came with the sound of the alarm clock and the image of a bright halo lighting up the edges of the curtains as the sunlight streamed in. A beautiful day, she thought, it's going to be a beautiful day, and she knew at once she had slept well. The thought of Stephen came to her and of the coming blind date that evening. She felt a sudden warmth. ‘Mmm…’ she murmured to herself with a wide smile like the cat that had got the cream. ‘Well, Mr Man,’ she said to the room, ‘what have you got for this little girlie?’ and giggled. Quite a lot actually, she thought. Attractive, going from his photograph. Nice broad shoulders. ‘Mmm...,’ she purred. Forty-two, 6ft, dark hair, university lecturer. Balls and brains came to mind, a Val-ism, and her smile widened. Loves opera. Can't be bad, she thought, especially as she was now into opera herself. What else? Squash. ‘Mmm...’ She saw a sleek, muscular body tower above her, legs astride her arms. Then another thought kicked in. This man could be just the latest in a long line she had dated to no avail. How many times, she thought, had she gone off skipping on a date only to find there was no chemistry when they met.
They had arranged to meet in town at the Arts Centre where there was a bar. There was usually music of some kind and always an exhibition. A shrewd choice, she reckoned. When the conversation flagged, it provided a distraction and something to comment on. She had been there before on other dates and wondered whether, at this rate, she might not be in fact turning into one of the exhibits herself. ‘There's that woman again’, they’d say. The thought made her smile but also uncomfortable. Stephen or no Stephen, she had to get up for work.
The day was beginning to drag at Blackthorne and her thoughts continuously flipped between the coming date and the huge mass of material stacked up all around her. She looked round, sighed and made a managerial decision: Time for a brew! She grabbed her empty mug and headed for the kitchen.
As she approached the foyer and the grand staircase, a door slammed in the corridor leading to the kitchen and she braced herself to meet Anne. Unexpectedly, a woman in a pinafore came round the corner bearing a duster and aerosol can. She looked about mid-fifties and was in worn-looking but comfortable flat shoes and had a rather pleasant mien about her.
‘Oh!’ the woman said, startled, and nearly bumping into Catherine.
‘Hello!’ said Catherine, smiling at someone she presumed was the house-keeper or something similar.
‘Phew! That was close!’ said the latter, and laughed. ‘Hello duck! You must be Mr. Richmond’s new librarian that Miss Jameson mentioned last week would be starting here.’
‘Yes, that’s right! I’m Catherine.’ She was so glad to discover what she instinctively knew was a friendly fellow inmate here. ‘I started yesterday.’
‘Ooh! Nice to meet you Catherine, or is it Cathy?’
‘Catherine, but Cathy if you like.’
‘I’m Maureen, the part-time cleaner. Not to be confused with Mrs. Mop, the traditional cleaner.’
‘Mrs. Mop?’
‘Oops! Sorry, duck. Just a little joke,’ and they both laughed. ‘Forgive me, duck, but aren’t you a bit young to be a librarian?’
‘A bit young?’
‘Shouldn’t you be a bit older, in sensible shoes and a cardigan with your hair in a bun and glasses hanging down on a cord round your neck?’
Her face was serious, and Catherine felt irritated by this stereotype of the librarian. Then a smile crept onto Maureen’s face which quickly expanded, lighting her face up and culminating in a laugh, and the penny dropped as Catherine found herself laughing too. Within seconds it was agreed they should quickly repair to the kitchen before Miss Jameson found them on the corridor.
With kettle switched on, talks swiftly covered both their biographies before leading, inevitably, to Blackthorne and to Mr. Richmond and Miss Jameson.
‘What’s your impression of them?’ asked Catherine.
‘Ah!’ said Maureen, ‘Now you’re asking. Strange really, considering they are so close together in a way.’
‘What do you mean, close together in a way?’ asked Catherine suddenly tensing up.
‘Well ..,’ began Maureen, ‘I don’t know much about it really, obviously, but …,’ and here she took a deep breath, ‘I got the gist of it from Miss Jameson’s assistant when I started here.’
‘You mean Anne – Miss Jameson – had an actual assistant? But I thought she was the assistant here, Mr. Richmond’s? So she had an assistant herself?’
‘No. She had an assistant of varied sorts, both office assistant and cleaner, sort of general dog’s body here. She worked for Miss Jameson for quite a while before leaving. We overlapped for a couple of days while she showed me the ropes but Miss Jameson had decided she could do without help in managing all that was going on here. Anyhow, the interesting bit is this, duck, that while Miss Jameson is Mr. Richmond’s PA, it seems earlier in the relationship it was her who was in control.’
‘Never!’ Catherine’s mouth was wide open. ‘What do you mean – in control?’
‘Well, it’s all a bit vague really, like everyone’s life I suppose,’ and she chuckled. ’Anyway, about four, maybe five years ago – I’ve only been here a couple of years, mind – Mr. Richmond was in a right mess. His marriage had collapsed suddenly – apparently he had no idea what was coming – she walked out on him and, with the divorce, also with part of his business, or rather a lot of the money in it, leaving him struggling to cope, not only business-wise but emotionally and mentally. You can imagine. Anyhow, women he met later didn’t stay long, nor did the money he spent on them – can’t think why, he’s such a good-looking and charming man.’ Catherine nodded like an automaton, so absorbed in what Maureen was revealing. ‘Not my type really, so cocksure about himself, though not then, when it all collapsed, his world, and it was then that he hit the bottle big time.’ Catherine said nothing but stared blankly in front of her.
Maureen had not finished. ‘Just goes to show. You can be blessed with good looks, talent, self-confidence and God knows what else can attract women, and it can all turn out to be a curse. I feel sorry for him. Not that I know him much, but that’s life.’
‘So he had a sort of breakdown?’ Catherine needed to know more.
‘Oh. I don’t know if that’s what happened. Depends on what you mean by breakdown, I suppose. Anyhow, not finished yet. It was Miss Jameson. She came along. She was like an angel sent from heaven, sent to save him.’
The thought of Anne being any such thing shook and repelled Catherine.
‘Anne saved him?’
‘Well, not magical, like that,’ said Maureen, ‘but over the months and years since they met, she put him back together again. After he’d settled all his debts, with no house anymore and little money left, she took him in, in her own flat, got him off the drink, helped him start up his own business again. She’s good like that, a good organizer, a stickler for detail and gets things done. I’ll give her that. Mind, I can’t say I reckon much to her personal style, as a work manager. What’s she like with you?’
No wonder she’s so possessive of him. No wonder she’s …
‘Catherine? Are you alright?’
‘What?’
‘I said, what’s she like with you?’
‘Oh! Hmm …a bit too early to say really’, she replied, non-committal.
‘Anyhow,’ Maureen went on. ‘You know what they say: behind every great man, is an even greater woman. And Mr. Richmond has gone from strength to strength since his business has gone up. I mean, look at this place! And it’s all basically thanks to her.’
‘But he surely had the business skills to succeed and make this happen too?’
‘Well …,’ hesitated Maureen, ‘Maybe, but there’s something a bit ruthless about him I reckon that made the difference.’
‘But aren’t they equal partners then? She’s only his personal assistant.’
‘Ah! That’s the way it is with men.’ Maureen was in her el
ement. ‘Once they get power, the women that helped them, seem, like clockwork, to just quietly tick away forgotten in the background of the dark shadows cast by the shining presence of their dazzling sun.’
Catherine was taken by Maureen’s bizarre, mixed metaphor but needed to get to the crux of the matter.
‘But you said they lived together? Surely they are close to one another?’
‘Hmm …’ began Maureen, looking a bit unsure this time. ‘I mean, they must be, yes, you know … Not sure, really. I mean, they still go off on holidays together, or short breaks. At least I think so, judging by the amount of luggage they pack the car with. Even when they go off on business trips, they take a lot with them. He usually sleeps here upstairs. I have to change the sheets on the bed and everything next day while she lives in her flat and usually comes into work in the mornings when I’m here. Except sometimes I’ve come in and she’s just leaving, looking very tired. She’s usually back again in the afternoon after a good kip, I suppose, looking a lot smarter as usual. I’ll say this for her: she really does know how to look good,’ and with that, Maureen thought hard for a moment. ‘Where was I?’
‘You were saying about Anne …’
‘Ah yes! It’s a bit complicated really as I’m not here every day and I’ve occasionally had a faint whiff of her perfume on the bed-sheets. And why not, I say! But they are always quite formal together in front of me.’
This confirmation that they might still be lovers made Catherine sick at heart and she was now even more confused about the exact state of their relationship.
‘It all seems a bit complicated,’ she said.
‘I can tell you this, duck. They’re well matched. They’re both workaholics and often stay on in the evenings to work late. I can tell you that for sure. Sometimes they give me the afternoon off, paid and all! They don’t want to be disturbed because they are working on some important project.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Not sure. I think it’s something to do with here.’
‘What, Blackthorne?’
‘I think so. At least that’s what she said once. Something about converting it into a conference centre or something, with a large conference hall out back with a heated swimming pool and gym and sauna and all that stuff. Can’t remember much about it.’
‘What about this building itself?’
‘Oh, this! Something about opening up all the rooms and converting it all to the conference centre admin with overnight accommodation and stuff, complete with fountain out front and car-park round the side where those trees are.’
‘Gosh! That’s ambitious’
‘That’s Mr. Richmond for you. No half-measures. Think big. That’s half his attraction for her.’
‘But what will happen to him? Where will he go?’
‘God knows. He’s already got a luxury apartment over his office in Brussels where he stays on his business trips to Belgium and Holland, and I think he’s got property developments in France now, she was saying.’
Catherine wondered whether he might want a librarian to set up a music library in Brussels. Her degree was in German but she could get by in French and …
‘Are you all right, duck?’
‘Oh! I’m fine … hmm, was just wondering how he looks after himself here, like meals and …’
‘Oh, he’s well sorted. Sometimes he rustles himself up something in the kitchen in the evening. Leaves it all for me to clean up in the morning. Don’t mind really, it is part of my job after all. And sometimes I’m disappointed when I come in, in the morning, and find the kitchen has been untouched.’
‘You mean he’s worked on through the evening and gone to bed without eating?’
‘No. I mean he’s gone off into town to his favourite restaurant for his evening meal, they always reserve his favourite seat for him. Not bad when you’ve got the money, eh?’
‘Yes, but you can understand it. With a project like that he’s got to be efficient and, of course, hard-working, even dedicated to evenings. So I don’t see anything wrong with having such commitment to long hours.’
‘Me neither,’ said Maureen, ‘Only it seems a bit unfair on Miss Jameson. I come in some mornings and she doesn’t look too good. Tired and stiff from a bad night’s sleep. She keeps saying she must change that mattress but never does. The times she’s come in looking the worse for wear, it’s not worth it, working so hard. Sometimes, you don’t see her. She doesn’t come in to work. When she does, she stays tucked away in her office and you only see her when you hear the front door close in the afternoon and you can see her walk a bit awkwardly to her car. She really needs a good osteopath, I’m telling you.’
‘Well she looks very well to me,’ said Catherine, ‘I wish I had her looks!’
‘Don’t be silly, duck! You’re a good-looking woman. What age are you? Early thirties? Thirty-two? Thirty-three? And, what’s more, you’re nothing like her. So count your blessings! And anyway, it’s early days yet. She’ll want to create a good impression, being your new boss, but you wait and see. Keep this to yourself. I reckon she’s on the bottle.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Catherine.
‘I reckon it’s the way he treats her. You can tell. The way he orders her around at times. After all she’s done for him! Mark my words. Sooner or later, she’s going to walk out on him. She’s going to dump him. Like his wife did. And all the others. He just doesn’t know how to treat a woman and, some day soon, I reckon, he’ll get his comeuppance,’ and with that definitive prophecy, Maureen seemed to have said all there was to say.
Catherine stood there and said nothing. She had wanted to know all about him and instead got a convoluted mix of a tale of hard reality she really did not need and it left her in a state of limbo, unable to move forward with her optimism reinforced, and incapable of moving back to her safe world of innocent ignorance before she met Maureen. Yet still, she was not clear what exactly the state of the relationship between the two of them was. But then, something struck her that lifted her spirits immensely. The bossing about was marvellous news and confirmed her own impression of him but, most joyous of all, was Maureen’s prediction that she would leave him soon, all alone, and just when she herself had come along. There’s everything to play for! Suddenly she felt re-motivated.
‘Maureen,’ she said, ‘Thank you for that. You’re a little dazzler. That’s an absorbing story, and you tell it so well. I’m glad to meet you!’
‘Oh! Same here, duck. It’s good to have a chinwag. We girls must stick together!’
‘I’ll drink to that!’ and, at last, finally, they got round to having that brew.
On return to the library, she came back down to earth. The rest of the day went without any more excitement. Anne was scarce in evidence and left her to get on with it, which she did by continuing to sift through more of the piles of books, journals and documents in a bid to get some kind of feel for the collection. She had not decided yet how to organize it, for she did not know how its owner would want to search it. It was odd thinking of him, with detachment, as the owner, but that was what he was. The phrase ‘to own lock, stock and barrel’ came to mind and the image of a man, standing in a field under a blazing sun, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and long sleeved, open-fronted shirt, with tight breeches and long, black boots, brandishing a whip. Don't let's start that one again, she thought, with a half-smile.
He still had not put in an appearance. While one half of her admitted to disappointment, the other half felt relief. She still had to deal with the realities around her. She needed this job and a good reference at the end of it. The last thing she needed was this kind of distraction which, moreover, she wasn’t sure she could handle right. And yet, at the same time, she did not care about references when she thought about her true feelings, as, all at once, she did now.
Hormones. There's nothing wrong with me, she told herself, it's my hormones. Not guilty, your Honour! Anyway why shouldn't I feel like this? she thought. It's good. Bloo
dy good. There's nothing to beat it! and she could not help smiling at the unintended pun. Paul came to mind. Why, oh, why did he have to make an issue of equality in the bedroom? Why did he always have to bend over backwards - she smiled at that - to be always so considerate a lover? One slap. One good slap on the arse is worth a thousand gentle pats. Or the strap. A tiny thrill tingled round her heart. Pervert. Another voice came from within. You're just a bloody pervert however you look at it and you know it! I can't help the way I feel, said a childlike voice inside her. I didn't ask to be like this. Why should I feel so guilty about it? But she did and Paul came back to mind, and earlier boyfriends. If only... but she knew you could not have everything in this world. It was one or the other. And she had neither. A depressed feeling came over her. She knew, in her heart of hearts that tonight would be just like the rest. The walls echoed back to her: ‘Well, Mr Man. What have you got for this little girly?’ ‘Nothing’, she silently mouthed to herself, ‘Nothing at all.’ This thing would not go away, and she knew it.
Why can't I be normal, like other women? Like Val, fifteen years married and happy - well, at least as happy as you can be in marriage. Marriage. If only she could meet the right man. Stephen came to mind, then Michael Richmond. The right kind of man. The kind of man who understood her, a woman like her, with a particular need. It wasn't just sex, it was everything. It was love and closeness, and sharing and fun, and friendship and ... Paul. Back to Paul. Oh Paul, she thought, dear Paul, I know you loved me and could have given me all that, and probably whole lots more, but... and here her mind froze. The Big But, always the But. It pulled her down. It dragged her down into the gutter where she felt she sometimes belonged. She knew in her heart that it would never disappear, never leave her be. It would work on her night and day until her whole being was caught up in the grand denial and the lie she constantly fed herself would sooner or later surface with catastrophic results.
Hard Rain Page 3
