Mistakes We Make

by Jenny Harper

  ‘It needed tight management. I brought it in before time and under budget.’ Did her sense of achievement show? The conversion had been a major project and she had managed it alongside running the events.

  Barnaby cleaned his plate and patted his stomach appreciatively. ‘So,’ he said, studying her, ‘now to the big question.’

  Molly’s heart began to race. So here it was. Her future. This was a negotiation, and Barnaby Fletcher was good at negotiations – but so was she. Professionalism kicked in.

  She avoided Barnaby’s eyes, lifted her glass and held it in front of the candle on the table between them.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’m very flattered.’

  Don’t show him how excited you are. Play hard to get.

  Barnaby leaned forward and edged the glass aside with a gentleness surprising for such a big man. The directness of his gaze was unnerving – he had a knack of making you feel he could read your thoughts.

  ‘I hope I don’t sense a “but” coming on, Molly. You know this opportunity is made for you.’

  ‘It’s a big decision.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It means moving away from all my friends. More importantly, it means moving away from Dad.’

  Molly raised the glass to her lips and took a sip. It was a buttery Tokay, and very good. Barnaby had never been a man to skimp on quality in any aspect of his life. If she lived in London, she could enjoy this kind of life. If she were part of Barnaby’s business, she’d be on expense accounts – and with the kind of clients they’d be pitching for, you weren’t talking McDonald’s.

  But it was about much more than the good life. It was about stretching herself to the utmost, using her creativity and management skills at the highest level.

  ‘You’ve asked for a lot of money.’

  ‘You’d earn it back in a couple of years.’

  ‘I’d still have to find it.’

  He sat back and looked at her levelly. ‘That can’t be impossible. It’s a good offer, Molly. I’ve been frank about the current contracts and the future prospects. You must have been keeping up with the industry; you know what’s possible.’

  ‘I’m not certain—’

  Barnaby looked at her, one eyebrow raised. ‘You have doubts about your ability to do the job?’

  ‘No! Of course not. I’d relish the challenge.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re seriously worried about raising the cash, but I understand you’ll need to talk it over with your lawyer.’

  Molly winced.

  ‘OK, not Adam, but you must have a lawyer. I do need an answer, Molly. Let’s see – this is Monday. Shall we say Friday for a decision? You understand that if you turn this down I’ll need to get moving on Plan B pretty quickly.’

  ‘Give me till next Monday?’

  It wasn’t just about playing down her interest now. She’d have to work out how to raise the cash, and there was only one way she could think of ...

  Barnaby said coolly, ‘There’s a queue.’

  ‘I imagine there is. But I will need to talk to a few people first. That’s fair, isn’t it?’

  One corner of Barnaby’s mouth lifted.

  ‘I promise you’ll have my answer a week today.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll keep my fingers crossed that it’s the right one.’

  They parted amiably, Molly to catch her train, Barnaby to go to his deep feathery mattress in the luxurious surroundings of the Balmoral Hotel. It had been an interesting evening.

  Chapter Nine

  Caitlyn, laden with carrier bags, hobbled along Farm Lane wishing she were the kind of person who could nick a supermarket trolley without so much as a blush. But, leaving aside the certainty of being sacked, stealing anything was strictly against her principles.

  The potatoes in one of the bags in her left hand weighed only fractionally less than the bottle of Coke in the heaviest bag in her right. The cucumber she’d thrown into the trolley (healthy, no calories, on offer) had nicked the polythene and was starting to slide out. Harris had demanded baked beans, Lewis had insisted on spaghetti hoops. Ailsa, on a health kick, wanted a melon. Thank heavens Isla May hadn’t made any demands and her mother was eating next to nothing.

  When, fifty yards from number eleven, the end of the cucumber finally split the bag, everything spilled out – baked beans, spaghetti, melon and all. She came to an ungraceful halt.

  ‘Damn!’

  Crotchety with tiredness, she lurched towards a tin that was rolling towards the gutter. If Kevin McQuade came past now, the shopping would be off the pavement and into the McQuade kitchen in a blink. She rammed the contents of the split bag into the surviving carriers and prayed she could make it along the road in one piece.

  Lurching lopsidedly as she struggled to bear the weight of one bulging bag now with the potatoes, the melon and the bottle of Coke and holding it just off the ground in case it, too, decided to split, she rounded the last bend before her house. Someone was sweeping an electric trimmer across the hedge, left to right, right to left, sending leaves tumbling to the pavement in every direction. She arrived at the gate (or rather, the space where a gate had once swung), dropped the bags inside the wall with relief and studied the legs on the ladder above her.

  ‘Hello-o!’ she shouted towards the skies, trying to make her voice heard above the noise of the trimmer.

  The face that looked down at her was an ocean of freckles, topped by hair the colour of a newly pulled carrot. Malcolm Milne. That ginger had made him a target for teasing all his life.

  He turned off the trimmer.

  ‘Hi, Caitlyn.’

  Malcolm, like Ricky McQuade, had been in her class at school, but where Ricky had been in the loud-mouthed gang of bullies who’d made the teachers’ lives hell and failed every exam, Malcolm had been one of the victims because – as well as the ginger mop – he’d worn his heart on the outside of his threadbare burgundy blazer.

  Caitlyn learned when she was very young how to defend herself. You had to, when it was just you and your mum against the world. You had to, when your mum’s new partner turned out to be a spineless waste of space.

  She’d never paid much attention to Malcolm Milne. Maybe she should have done more to protect him, but the first rule of school had been look out for yourself.

  She studied the muscular figure in the faded denims and heavy check shirt, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. My God, he’d changed! How had she not noticed? Malcolm Milne had been a scrawny little boy with sticky-out ears, but she saw now that his eyes were a deep sea green and were kind. He’d matured well – gardening obviously suited him.

  ‘Still working for Ibsen Brown?’

  Ibsen Brown, a Summerfield local, had moved up a gear from being a jobbing gardener and, with the help of his new partner, Kate Courtenay, had set up a gardening business, Brown Earth. She’d heard it was doing well – there was no shortage of well-heeled folk in Hailesbank and the pretty conservation village of Forgie who were desperate for help in the gardens of their comfortable homes.

  Malkie clambered down the ladder and dusted his hands together. ‘Aye. Ibsen’s got a new contract, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘His dad’s retiring and he’s taking over his work. All the formal gardens at Fleming House. The grass too. It’s a big job.’

  Caitlyn said, ‘That’s good news for Ibsen then.’

  Malcolm smiled at her. She liked his smile. It was a little crooked because his teeth weren’t straight, but it went all the way up to his eyes. ‘Aye, it is. But I’m afraid it might make it harder for me to find time to cut your mum’s hedge. Ibsen’s putting me in charge up at Fleming House, you see.’

  He looked so proud, and shy, and embarrassed, all at the same time, that Caitlyn leaned forward impulsively and kissed his cheek.

  ‘Malkie, that’s brilliant! He must think really highly of you.’

  A wa
ve of red infused Malkie’s throat and embarked on a voyage upwards.

  ‘Thanks.’ He gazed at her awkwardly, then turned back to the ladder. ‘Best get on.’

  ‘How’s Sassy?’

  Malcolm had been going out with plump little Saskia Kelly, who worked down at the baker’s, for three years, ever since she’d had a pregnancy scare that turned out to be nothing.

  ‘Oh, you know.’ His grin was still there, but his eyes glazed over and he turned back to the hedge.

  Caitlyn bent to gather up the tattered remnants of her shopping bags and finally made it to the front door as the whine of the hedge cutter started again. She had just located her key when the door was yanked open and Harris’s grinning face appeared.

  ‘Caitlyn’s in love with Malkie, Caitlyn’s in love with Malkie,’ he chanted.

  ‘No, I’m not. What are you talking about?’

  She dropped her bag on the floor behind the door and shrugged off her jacket.

  ‘We saw you chatting him up.’ Lewis joined in the chorus. ‘Caitlyn’s in love with Malkie.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, I am not. And anyway, he’s with Saskia.’

  The twins stared at each other and giggled. ‘No he’s not. Sass’s brother told us they’ve split up.’

  Isla May sidled out of the front room and hugged her knees. ‘Caitlyn—’ The little voice was suspiciously ingratiating.

  ‘What?’ Caitlyn said guardedly.

  ‘You know the summer camp at school?’

  Caitlyn groaned. ‘Not that again, Isla May.’ Her sister had been pestering her about school camp for weeks now, ever since Joyce had told her there was no spare cash for her to go. ‘You know what Mum said.’

  ‘Aww, but Caitlyn—’

  Caitlyn sighed and put her hands down to release Isla May’s grasp. She squatted down on her heels and looked her little sister in the eye. ‘Sorry, sweetheart. You know we’d pay for it if we could, but we can’t. Mum’s working too hard as it is.’

  ‘But everyone’s going!’

  ‘Don’t go on about it, there’s a love. We’ll think of another treat for you, but the camp’s out of the question.’

  If Isla May had pouted, or sulked, or had a tantrum it might have been easier, but the surge of disappointment in her eyes and the way she bit her lower lip to stop it wobbling was hard to bear.

  Caitlyn straightened and put on her determinedly happy voice. ‘Now – cheesy pasta for supper, or fish fingers?’

  Isla May was easily distracted. ‘Cheesy pasta. Please.’

  ‘Good. And you can help by setting out the forks on the table. OK?’

  When she’d finally got Isla May and the twins into bed, she finished the washing up and turned her attention to the ironing. How her mother had the energy for the extra shifts she’d taken on at the care home, she had no idea, but it meant a lot of chores would be left undone unless she squared up to them herself.

  There. Done. She gathered the pile of sweet-smelling, freshly pressed laundry in her arms and ran up the narrow stairs.

  School shirts for Lewis and Harris. She opened their bedroom door carefully and tiptoed across to the small chest of drawers. Harris was rolled into a ball, one hand under his cheek. Lewis was sprawled across his duvet on his stomach. They always slept just so. Caitlyn studied them for a moment, a small smile playing around the corners of her mouth. If only they were always so quiet!

  She hung Isla May’s best dress on the hook on the back of her little sister’s bedroom door. She’d grow out of it soon, then they’d have to find some money to buy her another one. There was always something.

  Ailsa, plugged in to her earpieces listening to something loud, was oblivious to her entry. Caitlyn didn’t bother to disturb her, she merely slipped her Oasis top, the one she’d asked for last birthday, into a drawer.

  The rest of the pile belonged to her mother. She pushed open the bedroom door and walked in. Joyce had given up the double room at the front so that she and Ailsa could share. This room had a mean aspect out across the yard at the back on to the house behind it, an ill-maintained, ugly place with a broken window and another that had been boarded up, the yard full of junk and slipped slates on the roof.

  She hung up her mother’s spare uniform, pale blue with white trim round the collar. The fabric had been washed so many times it had almost bleached out and it seemed to drag the colour from her mother’s face.

  There was a photo on the chest by Joyce’s narrow bed. She picked it up and studied it. Caitlyn was now twenty-two; her mother was forty-three but looked nearer fifty. Here was Joyce in her twenties, in an off-the-shoulder black sweater and stonewashed jeans. Her hair was tied back in a bouncy ponytail, and she was smiling so that the dimple on her right cheek – the one that exactly matched Caitlyn’s – was in clear evidence.

  When had Caitlyn last seen that dimple? When had her mother’s skin started to look so sallow, her eyes lose their sparkle? She was still slim, her build lighter than Caitlyn’s, but she looked gaunt rather than trim. What had happened?

  Caitlyn answered her own question. Mick bloody Boyce, that’s what had happened. Four more kids and precious little income. A man who’d slid from saviour to sponge in an alarmingly short time.

  As she made her way back downstairs, she heard a key slide into the lock and the front door creaked open.

  ‘Caitlyn, dear—’

  Joyce’s voice was slurred.

  ‘Mum? What are you doing home?’

  Joyce slumped against the doorframe, her skin grey, her eyes drooping.

  ‘Migraine,’ she mumbled.

  Caitlyn leapt down the last few steps. ‘Here. I’ll help you.’

  ‘Tried to—Can’t—’

  ‘Hush. Here.’ Caitlyn hooked her mother’s arm around her shoulders and supported her weight. Joyce Murray was nothing but skin and bone, but it took all her strength to get her mother up the stairs.

  She pushed open the door to the small bedroom. ‘Get your uniform off. Here’s your nightie. I’ll get you a drink and some pills.’

  ‘Too late—’

  ‘Still.’

  Caitlyn was concerned. Joyce had suffered the occasional migraine for years, but recently they’d become more frequent, and the attacks were debilitating. What she needed now was complete rest – and Joyce in bed meant more responsibility for Caitlyn. She might even have to call off a couple of shifts at the supermarket, which meant their income would drop, which meant there would be more pressure on both of them to work even harder to pay the bills.

  She blamed herself. The job at Blair King’s smart Edinburgh office had been her dream until she’d spotted a client file that had made her first puzzled, then deeply uneasy. She had raised the matter (tentatively because she was young and still unsure of her ground) with Agnes Buchanan, the chief cashier.

  ‘It’s fine, dear,’ Agnes had said, handing the file back to Caitlyn with such matter-of-fact indifference that Caitlyn felt temporarily reassured.

  But still it didn’t make sense to her. The worry kept her awake until, gathering all her courage, she braved the partner concerned a few days later.

  He’d had a slick answer all right, but it didn’t ring true.

  ‘There’s no problem,’ he’d said, smiling at her kindly. ‘It was just an expedient.’

  She’d had to look the word up. A stratagem, it meant, a means of doing something.

  After several more worried nights, she knew she had to take it further. They’d told her at her induction that there were processes and procedures for this sort of case. She had made it all the way downstairs and was only a few yards from young Mr Blair’s office when she’d met the partner again.

  ‘Caitlyn? What are you doing down here?’

  She’d blushed scarlet and stuttered.

  ‘Not that file again? You stupid girl.’

  She could still remember the sneering look on his face.

  ‘What do you know about these things? Just do the job you’re
paid to do and I’ll do mine.’

  For a couple of weeks, Caitlyn had kept her head down and wrestled with her conscience. Should she take it further? What if her suspicions were proved wrong? She’d be kicked out or, at the very least, her life would be made a misery.

  So when Mick Boyce upped off to live with his new woman, she’d seen it as an opportunity. She’d leave Blair King and pick up a job in Hailesbank. That way she could be nearer home and she’d be able to help Joyce out more.

  Only it hadn’t worked out like that. She hadn’t been able to get a job in Hailesbank that paid half as well as the one in Edinburgh, so there was more pressure, not less, on Joyce.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Damn!’

  Adam was half way along the track from the main road to Forgie End Farm when the underside of his car scraped rock.

  He’d been driving too fast. His car wasn’t built for these roads. Should he stop and see if there was any damage?

  He drove a tentative few yards further. No ominous rattles, no tell-tale growling. Perhaps it would be all right. At least he wasn’t driving a sports car like Logan Keir’s.

  How could Logan afford a car like that anyway? He shifted into second gear and edged up the speed again. It wasn’t as though the partnership was doing especially well. There was so much pressure on law firms these days. There was endless red tape and you had to have a nominated money-laundering specialist in the firm, for example. Professional development seemed to cost more and more, and it was an endless struggle just to meet the monthly wage bill, not to mention the rent and rates. It was all targets, bloody targets, with endless post mortems and recriminations every month if they weren’t met.

  Adam’s hands clenched around the steering wheel. He’d realised even before he’d qualified that he’d made the wrong career choice, but the pressure from his father had been enormous. If he’d met Molly earlier ... or later ... or if she’d been less ambitious, maybe he could have found the courage to switch career.

  He bumped over another stone and grimaced.

  He shouldn’t blame Molly. She’d had a point to prove to her clever brother and she’d wanted to make her father proud. She never talked about it much, but losing her mother so young had definitely affected her. For his part, he’d seen the damage caused by Geordie’s decision not to join the firm, and duty had taken precedence. Their pasts had shaped them both.