Love, Lies and Linguine

by Hilary Spiers

  ‘Try one,’ Hester offers, but Lionel pulls a face.

  ‘Bit too sweet and greasy for my taste—for most people’s, I’d have thought.’

  She looks at the fruits of her labours. She can think of one person who would love them.

  ‘Harriet!’

  Mary’s face lights up and she pushes herself higher up her pillows. She looks horribly battered, her hair flattened and a large padded dressing behind her ear, held in place with a lopsided bandage.

  Harriet pulls up a chair. ‘I’m not really supposed to be here,’ she whispers, trying to make herself inconspicuous by crouching. ‘It’s not visiting hours yet. The nice nurse sneaked me in. Anyway, how are you?’

  Mary spreads her hands. ‘No idea. All a bit muddled last night, then they gave me something and I went out like a light.’

  ‘But you’ve had a scan?’

  ‘I think so. I remember you saying something about it before you left but, frankly, everything’s a bit of a blur. I wish I’d known you were coming in; I’d have asked you to grab my nightie and wash bag.’

  ‘Oh, what an idiot: I should’ve thought. Is there a shop in the hospital?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Mary, taking Harriet’s hand. ‘I’m just glad to see you. Wish to God I’d done Italian at school—my sign language isn’t up to much. Anyway, never mind me, how are you? They did check you over too?’

  Harriet nods. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t look fine. You look bloody terrible. Worse than me.’

  ‘Have you looked in a mirror this morning?’

  Mary laughs. ‘Listen, did you say when Ron and Rhona are arriving, ’cos I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘They’re coming together? Is that wise?’

  ‘Well, I assume they are—there’s only one flight a day, if that.’

  ‘But how will Rhona explain her presence to Ron?’

  ‘No idea,’ says Mary airily. ‘You know what I realised this morning when I was lying here staring at the ceiling? Ron is just Rhona with “ha” taken out, which says it all.’ She laughs feebly at Harriet’s puzzlement. ‘No sense of humour, our Ron. How did I bear it for so long? I’ve been thinking: close shave, life’s too short et cetera. In fact, I’ve decided my best bet is to let things take their course. Que sera.’

  ‘Lordy,’ says Harriet, dismayed and impressed in equal measure by her new friend’s chutzpah. I could do with a bit of her attitude, she thinks.

  ‘What?’ says Mary, smiling.

  ‘Very brave.’

  ‘Hmmm. We’ll see. But what the hell—I could be dead, Harriet. Then where would I be?’ She examines Harriet closely. ‘What’s up? Another row with your sister?’

  It’s the suddenness of the question, the lack of preamble, that undoes her. Tears spring from nowhere.

  ‘Hey! Hey . . .’

  ‘Sorry . . .’ Harriet tries to shield her face, mortified. Hearing voices in the corridor outside, she goes to rise. ‘That’s probably the doctor.’

  Mary grabs her hand.

  ‘You are going nowhere until you tell me what the matter is.’

  CHAPTER 22

  There’s something buzzing over by the window. A fly? A wasp? It’s really annoying. Sunlight knifes its way through the curtains where he failed to pull them tight last night. Well, this morning, in fact: he’d finally fallen into bed at two am, having baked three different sorts of biscuits and then waited for them to cool so he could dip the ginger ones in chocolate.

  His fingers find his face and the patches of tightened skin where he’d dabbed on more toothpaste in the early hours. Judging by the furry feel of his teeth, the toothpaste hadn’t quite made it as far as his mouth. The buzzing continues. As he finally surfaces from the dregs of sleep he realises it’s his phone; groping blindly on the floor, he locates his abandoned jeans beside the bed and scrabbles in the pocket. Eyes still shut tight against the blinding daylight, he doesn’t bother to check the caller’s identity.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Morning, boyfriend,’ says Nats, warm and intimate in his ear, ‘hope I’m not interrupting anything . . .’ She makes it sound decidedly suggestive. Ben lifts both hands out from under the bedclothes. He opens one eye, squinting at the Pepsi clock over his desk.

  ‘Fuck me! Man, it’s a quarter to frigging nine.’

  ‘On a beautiful spring morning,’ sings Nats. ‘I know. Just back from a run and checking we’re still on for later.’

  A moment of confusion, then the fog clears. Right. Meeting Daria and Milo. ‘Yeah. It’s all good.’ Another cog engages. ‘You’ve been out for a run? Already?’

  ‘Yep. Just a quickie. Five k.’

  ‘Five . . .?!’

  ‘Psychs me up for the day. So, we meeting or what?’

  ‘Meeting?’ Ben is still trying to process the thought of anyone going running at all this early in the day, let alone running five whole kilometres. What is this girl on?

  ‘Yeah,’ says Nats, giving the word three syllables at least, as if speaking to an imbecile. ‘Duh . . . like to go over and meet the baby and his mum? And for you to give me my money?’

  ‘Ben?’ calls his mother from the landing. ‘Darling? Would you like a cup of tea? I know you’re awake.’

  I’m only awake, thinks Ben, fuming, because this birdbrain girl, who is one of the most annoying people I have ever met in my life, has woken me at some fucking ridiculous hour when I’ve only been in bed five minutes!

  ‘Yeah, ta, Mum,’ he croaks, not wanting Isabelle to linger long outside his door eavesdropping. He waits for her to retreat down the landing; the floorboard at the top of the stairs creaks reassuringly. ‘Listen, you’ll get your money,’ he hisses. ‘I said, didn’t I? Get out of my face, will you? I’m supposed to be revising.’

  ‘Then get out of bed,’ snaps Nats. ‘See you five o’clock by the bandstand this evening or I’ll come round to yours. We’ll cycle over.’

  ‘Bandstand,’ he says quickly.

  ‘And my twenty quid.’

  ‘Look—’

  ‘Twenty quid. This evening. Or no deal. And just remember, babes, you need me. Ciao.’

  She is a total nightmare and then some. If he didn’t know there wouldn’t be a cat in hell’s chance of wheedling a replacement from his parents, he’d have hurled his phone at the wall.

  The morning doesn’t get much better. His mother brings him in a mug of tea, moans about the state of his room (‘I’m revising, all right?’), moans about the state of the kitchen (‘It was late, okay?’) and reminds him he’d promised his father he’d clean the car for a tenner (‘Yeah, yeah, I know! Gimme a break!’). Personally, Ben thinks leaving the Lada camouflaged by as much dirt as possible goes at least some way to concealing both its make and age, but he really needs the money. Especially with loony Nats on his case. He’d checked his account online last night; it holds the princely sum of thirty-nine pounds. Out of that he has to pay his blackmailer, get hold of some booze for the party and—in his dreams—get a new T to wear. Like that’s gonna happen. Where does the money go? He starts the month pretty flush, thanks to the parental standing order, but it sort of evaporates. It’s not like he’s profligate, despite that accusation being levelled at him periodically by his father. Jeez, if he thinks Ben is bad, he should see Jez! Despite getting boatloads of cash, he’s always skint and has to go crawling to his scary dad. Ben shivers at the thought of confronting Brian Nairstrom. Or even Deirdre. Thank God his mum is such a soft touch. Maybe she’s worth a punt . . .

  Groaning, he tips himself out of bed, makes a half-hearted attempt to straighten the duvet, kicks assorted pants and socks out of sight and staggers into the bathroom. Showered, teeth cleaned, he peers at his skin under the unforgiving light over the mirror; yeah, that definitely looks a bit smoother. He rubs more toothpaste into the most protuberant zits, taking care to blend it in, but it still looks patchy. He tries a dab or two of his mother’s foundation. That seems to do the trick.

  ‘
Gosh, you look rather flushed, darling,’ says Isabelle as Ben reaches for the cereal packet. ‘You’re not going down with anything?’

  ‘No, just done my face with really hot water.’

  ‘You poor lamb, it does look sore. Are you still using that new lotion I bought you?’

  Ben grunts something that might be read as a yes, unwilling to go through yet another post-mortem on the state of his skin. Almost every time his mother goes shopping she returns with more potions and unguents, each one featuring ecstatic youngsters with flawless faces gurning at their unhappy spotty contemporaries who have yet to experience the wondrous effects of the container’s contents. He shovels cornflakes into his mouth, noting that the kitchen has already been restored to order and its customary cleanliness. Isabelle might not have a clue about cooking but she certainly knows how to tidy up after her errant and extremely messy offspring.

  ‘Ta, Mum,’ he says, jerking his head towards the sink.

  ‘Don’t tell your father,’ whispers Isabelle, ‘he was pretty cross with you this morning when he came down. Got chocolate on his sleeve.’ While applauding his son’s unlikely talents in the kitchen, it is George’s unbending rule that Ben should learn to clear up after his frequent experiments. But Ben knows perfectly well that if he waits long enough, his mother will cave in, her horror of mess and disorder trumping her desire to toe her husband’s line.

  ‘Gonna make that tarte later.’ His mother’s face falls at the thought of another tsunami of flour and sugar deluging her pristine surfaces. But she’s a doughty soul, Isabelle, and a doting mum. She summons a bright smile. ‘Super, darling! I’m off shopping in a bit: anything you need?’

  Ben has had the foresight to check his ingredients the night before. ‘No, ta.’ He decides to risk it. ‘Don’t suppose you could let me have a couple of quid on account, could you?’

  ‘For the car?’

  ‘No, Dad’s paying me for that. Just for stuff and . . .’ Ben looks at her with hangdog eyes. ‘Thing is—’ he’s thinking fast ‘—I thought it would be nice to get Ralph a little thank you present for helping me; you know, with my chemistry and that? I thought maybe a . . .’ A what? What the frig would a nerdy bloke like Ralph Pickerlees want? ‘A nice pen or something,’ he finishes lamely.

  Isabelle’s heart fairly bursts with pride. What a thoughtful son they have raised! First the tarte tatin for Lynn and now a present for Ralph. She wishes George were there to see. She reaches for her handbag.

  ‘That is a lovely idea, Ben. I’m sure Ralph will be really touched.’

  You bet, thinks Ben, scarcely believing his success.

  His mother extends a ten-pound note. ‘There.’

  ‘Oh!’ He doesn’t want to push his luck, but she is looking so thrilled . . .

  ‘I meant a really nice pen. You know?’

  ‘Oh!’ says Isabelle, blushing faintly. She’d hate Ralph to think Ben mean. There are few things worse in her book or George’s than being thought stingy. She pulls out another tenner and then, for good measure, a third. ‘You should be able to get something pretty decent with that, shouldn’t you?’

  ‘I reckon,’ says Ben, whipping the extra notes out of her hand before she can reconsider. ‘Thanks, Mum. ’Course, I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ says Isabelle automatically, basking in the warm glow of her son’s vicarious beneficence.

  ‘You’re a star, Mum,’ says Ben with a huge smile, transforming himself in an instant into an adorable and rather attractive young man. That’s worth thirty quid of anybody’s money.

  CHAPTER 23

  ‘Unbelievable!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Your own sister!’

  Harriet looks away, eyes shining.

  ‘And when did this letter arrive?’

  ‘Beginning of April.’

  ‘My God! She’s known about it all that time . . . been in contact with . . . God! And that poor man, how must he be feeling? And you! Oh, Harriet . . .’ Mary clutches her hand in sympathy; Harriet returns the pressure, once again perilously close to tears. She swallows them.

  ‘Well . . . there it is. The damage is done. Now we—or rather I—have to try to undo it. Stephen deserves nothing less. As for Hester . . .’ Mary is shaking her head, incredulous. For what is there to say? How to explain Hester’s behaviour, her immediate assumption of Harriet’s guilt? Has some poisonous resentment been simmering beneath Hester’s stern exterior for years? Some residual childhood rivalry that has lain dormant for decades, waiting for evidence of her sister’s duplicity, her amorality? How else to explain the silence, the subterfuge, the cruelty inherent in the ambush?

  Harriet catches Mary’s eye, tries a feeble smile. ‘Sorry. You’ve enough to worry about.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. My problems almost pale into insignificance . . .’ Something occurs to her. ‘You share a house, don’t you? You and Hester. I mean, you can’t just walk away.’

  Walk away? The thought appals her. Leave The Laurels, their shabby but comfortable home? Leave the village, their friends? Leave Daria, Milo and Artem? Ben? Even George and Isabelle? Can she? And why should she?

  ‘You mean . . . ? No. Golly. Early days. First, I’ve got to sort out this mess for Stephen.’

  ‘Of course. I didn’t mean to upset you. Can I help?’

  ‘You?’ says Harriet on the edge of a laugh, looking at the battered and bandaged figure in the bed.

  ‘Yes!’ says Mary, aggrieved. ‘Why not? A couple of days and I’ll be raring to go again. You need someone to bounce ideas off. You don’t want to be tackling this all by yourself.’

  No, I don’t, thinks Harriet. And I would never have thought I’d have to. Something like this, I’d have expected to have Hester by my side . . . and on my side.

  Mary’s phone buzzes. As she reaches over to her cabinet for it, it buzzes again. She reads the messages aloud.

  ‘Just landed. See you very soon, darling. All my love, Rhona.’ She smiles happily, then opens the next one and laughs. ‘Arrived. Ron.’ She loses the smile, gives Harriet a wry look. ‘See? D’you suppose he’s spotted her? He must have, don’t you think?’

  ‘Perhaps they’ll share a taxi,’ Harriet suggests with a flash of her old mischief. ‘Exchange notes.’

  ‘Or blows. Oh God. Can you imagine?’ Mary looks up at the clock on the wall. ‘Listen, I expect you need to get back, do you?’

  ‘Oh,’ says Harriet. Is this Mary trying to get shot of her? ‘Yes, I suppose . . .’

  ‘No, you nitwit, I don’t want you to go. Honestly! It would be great to have you here when the two of them arrive. UN peacekeeper. Besides which, you can back me up about what happened.’

  ‘The accident?’

  Mary nods, sighing irritably. ‘Ron’ll be looking for any opportunity to allege negligence. The route was unsafe, there was no guardrail, blah blah blah. He’s a solicitor, works for one of these bloody no win, no fee outfits. You know, the sort who are forever phoning you when you’re dishing up supper, asking if you’ve tripped over a paving stone.’

  ‘Oh, so infuriating! Ron does that?’

  ‘Well, not personally. But there’s nothing he likes better than sticking a knife—only metaphorically, of course, as far as I’m aware, but who knows?—into some luckless sod who has the misfortune to cross his path. I can’t bear to think of him having a go at Alfonso or Marco or suing the hotel. Or even Gervais, for that matter.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, okay, maybe I’ll make an exception for Gervais. But seriously—I want Ron to understand from the off that it was my own stupid fault. Oh, and that I pulled you down after me, before he accuses you of shoving me off the path or trying to crush me to death by falling on top of me.’

  Harriet starts laughing. ‘He might have me there, the size of me. I can’t wait to meet him now.’

  Mary smiles broadly. ‘That’s better. First time I’ve seen you looking even vaguely happy all visit. Now, be a love, would you,
and see if you can rustle us both up a coffee while I stagger to the loo and try to make myself look vaguely presentable? After all, got to look my best: I’m expecting my lover. And my husband.’

  ‘Hospital.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘One of the staff drove her over. Alfonso says she left about eleven. Not a word. Not a note. Nothing.’

  ‘And nothing from Stephen?’

  ‘No.’ Hester forces a smile. ‘Well! No point hanging about here. We might as well go back and get cracking on our ices. Unless . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Quick drinkie first? Buck us up?’

  ‘At this hour? Don’t you think it’s a bit—’

  ‘For heaven’s sake! I could do with a drop of Dutch courage.’

  ‘Are we talking Franco or Harriet?’

  ‘I wonder if I might have a few moments alone. With my wife.’

  Rhona and Harriet exchange a complicit glance, then silently rise from their respective chairs.

  ‘See you in a bit,’ says Mary with a tiny wave like a cry for help. Behind Ron’s sizeable back, Rhona spreads her hands as if to say: What else can we do?

  ‘Coffee?’ says Harriet outside in the corridor. ‘There’s a café on the ground floor.’

  ‘She looks dreadful,’ says Rhona, glancing back towards the room. She rakes her thick black curls back from her forehead with strong fingers, exposing a widow’s peak. Her gold-flecked brown eyes are dark with worry. Harriet thinks of a panther. ‘Do you think they’re looking after her properly?’

  ‘I’m sure they are.’

  They start walking towards the stairs. Harriet searches around for something neutral to break the silence, then Rhona says abruptly, ‘You do know about me and—’

  ‘Yes.’ She hadn’t meant to reply so baldly. Or so brusquely.

  ‘He knows too. Ron.’

  Harriet looks across at her. Rhona flushes. ‘He’s known for months, truth be told. Confronted me outside the house one night. Late. Been drinking. He had, I mean. He wasn’t aggressive. He was tearful, which was worse. The fact is, I’ve never had much time for him. Even when my husband was around and we used to do things together—go down the pub, the odd meal—I found him hard going. Always thought he led Mary a hell of a dance. Controlling, you know?’