by Jo Carnegie
‘I’ve locked myself out!’ she shouted helplessly. The women looked at each other and said something. Mrs Edgar-Phillips disappeared. A minute later, she returned with a hideous nylon floral dress. The door opened a fraction, and the dress was held out.
‘Here,’ she said imperiously. ‘Come in when you’ve made yourself decent.’
Thirty seconds later, Catherine was inside but beginning to think the balcony was a better place. She had obviously interrupted a dinner party: silver cutlery and a candelabra stood on the table, while the port had just been brought out.
‘So the door locked behind you, Miss Connor, and all your clothes just fell off?’ asked Sir Robin coldly. He sounded entirely unconvinced.
‘No, I was naked already,’ she said. All four of them looked at each other. ‘I’d just got out of the bath,’ Catherine offered lamely. ‘Bloody door, I’ve been meaning to get it fixed for ages now.’ God, she thought, toes curling up inwardly in horror, get me out of here!
‘Robin, how do you know this woman?’ asked Sir Robin’s wife frostily.
He looked at Catherine with distaste. ‘Ms Connor edits Soirée.’
Lady Hackford’s eyes swivelled back to Catherine. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ By the way her mouth set in a thin line, it was clear Catherine’s name wasn’t mentioned in glowing terms in the Hackford household.
Mr Edgar-Phillips was looking distinctly put out. ‘Is there anyone we can call for you?’ he asked reluctantly.
Catherine sprang up from the hard leather chaise longue where she had been sitting.
‘No, really. You’ve been very kind, but I’ll go down to the concierge. He can call a locksmith.’
‘If you say so,’ replied his wife. She looked down pointedly at the dress Catherine was wearing. ‘I’d like it dry-cleaned as soon as possible, please, and I only use Buttons of Belgravia.’
Catherine gritted her teeth. ‘Of course.’ She looked round the room with as much grace as she could muster. ‘Sorry to interrupt your evening.’
Sir Robin was the only one who answered. ‘Make sure you shut the door properly on the way out.’
Catherine ended up slamming it by mistake. That’ll make them jump in their china teacups, she thought, with a small amount of satisfaction. She was still reeling. Of all the people in the world, she had to end up living next door to Sir Robin Hackford’s snotty friends. Just thinking about Valour’s chairman seeing her sprawled out naked in front of him sent Catherine spinning with horror. She groaned out loud; it was sure to give him more ammunition against her.
Catherine’s spirits plummeted even more when she saw her reflection in the lift. She couldn’t be seen in public like this! She looked like a cross between Margaret Thatcher and Aunt Sally. Frantically, she tucked the huge frilly collars in and hitched up the dress a few inches. A plastic flower pulled out of the arrangement in reception added a makeshift corsage. As Catherine headed for the concierge, to her mortification Hermione Baker was walking straight towards her. Hermione was a highly respected fashion journalist who lived several floors down from Catherine.
Catherine tried to hide behind a potted plant, but it was too late. ‘Darling!’ Hermione cried, her eyes sweeping over Catherine’s outfit.
‘Love the dress. Retro is all the rage again!’ With that, she disappeared out of the front door in a haze of overpowering perfume.
Catherine staggered over to the bemused concierge.
‘Can you call me a locksmith, please?’ she asked weakly.
Chapter 32
THE WHOLE SORRY saga was thankfully a fading memory by the time Catherine sat opposite John Milton in a starkly lit Japanese restaurant that Friday. She’d deliberately chosen it for the austere, unforgiving surroundings. She needed to keep in control tonight, for her sake more than anything. She also wondered if the snob in her was testing John to see how he would behave in these surroundings, but he was perfectly at ease with his chopsticks. In fact, John seemed at home wherever he was.
‘More sushi?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘I always forget how filling it is.’
Catherine smiled. ‘Funny, I had you down as more of a steak and kidney pie man.’ Despite her intentions, she found herself once again disarmed by John. He was so easy-going, it was impossible not to get on with him, no matter how prickly she tried to be.
He eyed her. ‘What? Because I work on a building site and come from Oop North?’ he asked drily.
Catherine flushed. ‘No, that wasn’t what I meant.’
‘I’m teasing you,’ he told her.
I don’t know what to make of him, Catherine thought. John hadn’t brought up their background again, but she could feel it there, like a big black albatross. She wondered what he was really thinking.
Luckily the rest of the meal passed without her putting her foot in it. As they left the restaurant in Covent Garden, Catherine looked up. Above the orange glow of city life, London was nestled under a velvet-blue starry sky. Catherine breathed the night air in. For once, her head felt wonderfully clear.
John offered his arm. ‘Shall we?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Catherine took it. Even through the soft material of his jacket, she could feel how rock-hard his biceps was. They started to walk down past the tube station into the bustling Covent Garden piazza. The smoky windows of pubs were filled with people laughing and vying for attention at the bar, while a large crowd had formed to watch a man, painted entirely white and wearing a Grecian drape, standing as still as a statue.
John and Catherine made their way down across the still-busy Strand and towards Embankment tube station. They crossed over the road to walk along the path beside the Thames, the magnificent Houses of Parliament lit up in front of them. Couples passed, giggling and stopping to kiss each other, inhibitions stripped away by a few drinks at dinner.
Catherine was regretting wearing her Jimmy Choos. She could feel blisters growing with every step she took.
‘Are you all right?’ John asked.
She winced. ‘New shoes.’ Why did she never learn to wear them in round the house first?
‘Come on, we’ll get a cab.’ They walked for a few more minutes, Catherine holding on to John’s arm and hobbling like a little old lady. Not quite the image she wanted to project. Eventually they hailed a cab and Catherine sank back down on the seat in relief.
‘I had a good time tonight,’ he told her as the cab sped along. Despite herself, Catherine smiled.
‘Me, too.’
A few minutes later, they had pulled up outside her apartment block. Catherine was determined not to repeat what had happened the last time they had been here.
‘Well, I’d better be going, then!’ she said brightly.
‘Here, let me.’ Before she knew it John was at her side of the cab, opening the door. He took her hand and helped her out. They stood there in silence, before Catherine broke it.
‘Well, thanks again,’ she said. John didn’t say anything, but looked down at her, his green eyes intense.
Catherine dropped her gaze, but his hand found her chin and gently pushed it up towards him. As she looked into his eyes, she felt an odd mix of familiarity and fear.
‘Goodnight, Catherine,’ he murmured, and leant down to kiss her. His lips were soft and warm, and in that moment, nothing else existed.
After what seemed like a lifetime, Catherine made herself pull away. Her heart was pounding so much, it was almost painful in her chest. ‘Goodnight, John,’ she said quickly. As she got to the front door of her apartment block, Catherine made herself turn around. John was still standing by the open door of the cab, watching her. He waved his hand briefly and dropped it again.
Chapter 33
‘DARLING, IT’S ME. How did it go?’
Caro sat down on the bed. She was just about to start taking her make-up off. Milo was sound asleep in bed, while downstairs Benedict was engrossed in a documentary about a North Pole explorer.
‘Fine, Mummy,’ s
he said, putting the phone under her chin so she could unscrew her Clarins cleanser. She’d had a prenatal appointment for blood tests that morning.
‘Are you sure?’ her mother asked anxiously.
Caro smiled. ‘They were just checking for iron levels and things like that. It’s all perfectly routine, just like when I was pregnant last time.’
‘I don’t mean to sound like such an old worrywart. I just wish I was there with you, instead of thousands of miles away!’
‘It’s not long now,’ Caro reminded her. Tink and Johnnie always came back to Churchminster for Christmas. Usually they stayed a month, but this time they were visiting friends in America on the way over, and weren’t due to arrive in the Cotswolds until 23 December.
Camilla was still away travelling, but to everyone’s delight, Calypso had managed to get a week off work and was flying back from New York with her parents. They were all going to stay with Caro and Benedict at Mill House, and descend en masse on Clementine for Christmas dinner.
Caro and Tink were discussing the arrangements when there was a loud groan from outside. Caro looked round in alarm. Was someone trying to break in?
Another noise. This time it was more like a cat being strangled.
Her mother stopped talking. ‘What on earth was that?’
Caro heard the distinct sound of flesh being slapped.
‘Is someone fighting? One of those girl gangs? Oh, darling, I knew you shouldn’t have moved to London!’ exclaimed Tink.
‘Ssh, Mummy,’ said Caro, edging over to the window. A nasty realization was dawning. Sure enough, as she looked out tentatively, she became certain the racket was coming from the doctor’s room opposite. They might have closed the curtains this time, but not the window.
Slap! The sound pierced the air like a bullet. Another loud groan of ecstasy erupted.
Caro let out a groan of her own. She didn’t even want to think about what was going on.
‘Shut your bloody window!’ she half-yelled. ‘I can hear everything!’
A concerned babble erupted from the phone. ‘No, Mummy, I wasn’t talking to you,’ Caro said hurriedly.
Amelia’s depression finally seemed to be subsiding. She had firmly rejected Benedict’s offer to make an appointment with the doctor: ‘He’ll just put me back on those awful tablets, and you know how they zonk me out,’ she told him. ‘I’m feeling a million times better, anyway.’
Benedict hadn’t been convinced, but slowly but surely, Amelia was returning to her old self. Instead of spending hours shut away in her bedroom, she would play with Milo downstairs, and delight in one of her favourite pastimes: teasing her brother. She and Caro got rather too into Loose Women for their own good, and Amelia even ventured out of the mews a few times to take Milo for a walk, or go for a coffee with her sister-in-law at the little Italian deli round the corner. She still wasn’t completely the Amelia they all knew and loved, but the sparkle was returning to her eyes.
It was a filthy winter’s evening. Wind howled through the huge trees overlooking Montague Mews, their branches bending and groaning back and forth. In the murky atmosphere high above, sinister rumbles of thunder grew ever closer.
Inside No. 2 Montague Mews, however, the house was warm and cosy. Mouth-watering smells filled the kitchen as the three adults sat at the kitchen table enjoying a convivial supper Amelia had conjured up.
‘Mmm, you can stay more often,’ said Caro, as she forked up a mouthful.
Amelia laughed. ‘Oh, cooking a delicious shepherd’s pie is one of my many talents.’
‘It’s the only thing you can cook,’ Benedict reminded her.
Amelia looked mock-hurt. ‘Excuse me. What about that Thai chicken curry I made for your birthday?’
He winced. ‘My eyes are still watering.’
She stuck her tongue out at him. ‘Don’t be so ungrateful.’ She turned to whisper to Caro. ‘I put in a whole packet of chillies by mistake.’
Caro laughed. ‘We’ve all been there!’
‘Actually, not all of us have.’ Benedict cast a dry look at his wife and sister. ‘Why is it that none of the women in my life can cook, and I can? I’m sure it’s meant to be the other way round.’
‘Chauvinist,’ said Caro, her eyes twinkling.
He twinkled back. ‘Realist.’
Amelia looked mischievous. ‘Anyway, why do either of us need to be Nigella Lawson in the kitchen, when we’ve got our very own Gordon Ramsay?’
‘Hear, hear!’ said Caro.
Benedict rolled his eyes and poured his sister more wine, before filling his own glass.
‘How’s work, darling? You haven’t been working so late the last week. That must be a good sign?’ Caro asked.
‘Fingers crossed,’ he replied. ‘We finally seem to be making some headway. If it carries on, I can start working from home more.’
‘My brother, the star businessman,’ teased Amelia.
‘I don’t know about that.’ Benedict looked at his sister. ‘You know, there’s always a job for you there. God knows The Glass Ceiling could do with a good PA; the last temp we had nearly set fire to the whole place when she left her hair straighteners on one evening.’
Suddenly, there was a loud thunderclap. It sounded like it was right outside in the mews. Caro and Amelia jumped.
‘I hate thunder!’ Amelia shuddered. ‘When I was little, I always imagined it was an army of evil goblins on their way to kidnap someone. Thunderclaps were their drums making a war cry.’
‘You always did have an overactive imagination,’ Benedict stood up. ‘Well, there’s no goblins or evil here, I can assure you.’
As Amelia got up to help clear the table, a shadow caught Caro’s eye from the living room. She frowned. Was that Milo? He’d got into the rather naughty habit of appearing downstairs, tousle-haired and angelic-faced when he was supposed to have gone to sleep hours ago. Leaving the other two, she went to check.
At first glance everything seemed normal: the room didn’t contain any errant small children, and the lights were still turned down low. Caro went to the foot of the staircase and listened for any telltale footsteps upstairs. Nothing. She’d obviously imagined it.
‘Pud’s up!’ Amelia called.
‘Coming!’ answered Caro, her mouth watering. Amelia had made a delicious treacle tart; her other culinary talent, Caro could hear her reminding Benedict. A slight breeze crossed the room from the living room window, and Caro went to close the curtains.
Outside, the mews was cast in darkness. As she stood there, momentarily lost in thought about whether to have ice cream or custard, a figure materialized in the window. Caro could only stare at the horns, blood-red eyes and spike-filled mouth, before the horror hit her.
She was looking into the face of the devil.
She screamed loudly and the apparition vanished. Caro backed away from the window and fell over the arm of the sofa. Benedict rushed out, pulling her up.
‘Jesus Christ! Caro!’
‘T-t-t-he . . . Someone at the window,’ Caro was shaking so much she could hardly get the words out.
‘Here? Who?’ Benedict strode over to the window. ‘I can’t see anyone . . .’ He started to unlock the front door.
‘Benedict, no!’ This time it was Amelia, her voice shrill and stretched. Benedict stared at her.
‘It could be someone casing the joint.’
There was a loud banging on the door. Amelia screamed again, making Caro’s heart fly into her mouth.
‘Hello? Is everyone all right?’ boomed a deep voice.
Klaus! Caro breathed a sigh of relief as Benedict finished unfastening the door and let him in. A gust of cold air blew in the room, making them all shiver.
Klaus was looking at them uncertainly. ‘Ve heard this terrible noise . . .’
‘It was me, I just had rather a fright,’ Caro apologized. Now that the room was full of people, she was feeling rather foolish.
‘Caro thought she saw someone looking in,�
�� Benedict told him.
‘Hang on, I did see someone!’ she protested.
‘Vot did they look like?’ asked Klaus.
Caro shrugged helplessly. ‘They were wearing some kind of horrible devil mask.’ She paused. ‘It was probably just some kids messing around.’
Klaus frowned. ‘How did they get into the mews?’
Stephen and Saffron appeared in the doorway at the same time. They made the most incongruous pairing: she was in an indecently short baby-doll nightdress, lurid green paste all over her face, while he was wearing a mustard cravat, and what looked like a maroon smoking jacket, his initials beautifully monogrammed on the breast pocket.
‘Darlings, are you all right? I thought you were all being murdered!’
‘We’re fine,’ Caro told him.
‘Thank heavens! I thought my episode of Poirot was coming to life.’ Pulling a silk paisley handkerchief out of his pocket, Stephen dabbed it against his forehead.
Saffron let out a sigh of relief. ‘Fuck, I didn’t know what was going on! Aunt Velda’s out, I was shitting myself.’
Stephen turned to look at her, and Caro thought he was going to reprimand Saffron for her language. Instead his eyes widened.
‘My dear! I don’t want to appear rude, but you seem to have some kind of algae growing all over your face.’
Caro couldn’t help but smile at his astonished expression.
Saffron gingerly touched her chin. ‘Face mask. I was in the middle of a pampering session.’ She looked at Caro. ‘Anyway, if you’re OK, I’m out of here. This was meant to come off ten minutes ago.’
Caro turned to Stephen. ‘Awfully sorry to interrupt your programme.’
He flapped his handkerchief. ‘It was a repeat, anyway.’
Benedict and Klaus returned from investigating the mews.
‘The gate’s open, but there’s no sign of forced entry, so one of us must have forgotten to shut it,’ Benedict reported.
‘It may have been the Ocado man, he was here earlier at Rowena’s,’ mused Stephen. ‘Their drivers are normally so good, though.’
