by Jenny Harper
‘All right.’ She caught his hand and stopped him. ‘Just once. And don’t you dare say “For old time’s sake”.’
‘So corny. No, not for old time’s sake. But because you’re still a very ... very...’ he moved closer, inched his hand up her thigh and breathed heavily, ‘... attractive ...’ his tongue flickered lightly in her ear, ‘...woman.’
She had to stop this, now. Again she stood up. This time she lifted her handbag from the bar and said quietly, ‘All right. Once. I’ll get the room. I’ll call you in ten minutes, give you the number. See you there. Got it?’
He didn’t even nod; he just gazed at her, a mocking satisfaction in his eyes. She hated him. Hated herself. And knew it would be very, very good.
Tom saw that she was still dressed when she opened the bedroom door. Why was she still dressed? He’d have her knickers off her as soon as spit.
‘Just this once, Tom, and only because you’re going back to London.’
She was a gorgeous bitch. ‘Why only once? I’m not with Serena anymore.’
‘Why am I not surprised?’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘The problem, Tom, the problem is I don’t really like you very much. I don’t like your morals, or rather your lack of them. I don’t like the way you treat women—’
‘Morals, Carrie?’ he said mockingly. ‘What about you?’
Carrie, normally so speedy with her retorts, hesitated for a fraction of a second, just long enough for him to silence any further objections with a kiss.
The bonfire reignited and the heat consumed them both.
The woman was just as voracious as she’d ever been, never mind the passing of the years. Christ. The reluctance he’d sensed in the bar switched into a ferocious sexual energy as soon as he touched her. Thirty seconds more and he was inside her knickers. The spark between them needed little to ignite it, never had. That first night, back in Richmond had been crude, lewd and unforgettably sensational. Seventeen years later – slightly to his surprise – nothing had changed. Her waist was maybe an inch thicker, her breasts a few tasty ounces heavier, that was all.
He left, reluctantly but at her steadfast insistence, a few hours later.
‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘No.’
‘I will.’
‘I won’t answer.’
‘Oh Carrie, darling, I think you will.’
He leant towards her naked body, lowering his head to kiss her thigh, but she kicked him, firmly, and rolled away and out of bed on the other side.
‘What part of “go” don’t you understand, Tom?’
He laughed, dressed, flicked the main light on maliciously as he left, so that she’d have to get up to put it off.
All the way along the plushly carpeted corridor and down the stairs he had the fun of picturing her walking across the room, magnificently naked, her firm breasts bouncing gently as she moved.
Chapter Twelve
They hadn’t made love, Marta realised, since Tom’s arrival. The presence of the man in the cottage was beginning to seem like a shadow – insubstantial, constantly moving and changing shape, barely there yet impossible to shake off.
She hadn’t thought it would be like this. She’d liked Tom. Not warmed to him exactly – he was too theatrical for her taste, she could not tell where genuineness ended and acting began –but she had enjoyed his company.
As the days went on, her feelings about him changed. Little things began to irritate her. Rising for work one morning, she found that the olive oil had been placed on the right of the hob. She moved it back to left, where it belonged. The tea caddy had been shifted and was hidden behind a jar of marmalade.
It was hardly his fault – why should he notice where she liked to keep things or, indeed, care? But then again, an inner voice nagged, someone who respected the space they were borrowing would notice.
She finished wiping down the worktop and glanced up at the dresser. The teapot was on the wrong shelf and the mugs were arranged badly – she liked the large ones on the hooks to the right. She moved them deftly to their proper places. The bread had been left out of the bread bin and had dried up. She hit the pedal of the trash with her foot and tossed the remainder of the loaf into it.
Was it just the odd misplaced kitchen utensil that was feeding her sense of unease? Things had changed since Tom had appeared back in their lives. Jane was unaccountably nervy – she’d started stuttering again, and Carrie had become elusive. Marta had the feeling that her friend was deliberately avoiding her.
The telephone rang shrilly, and she grabbed it quickly before it could disturb Jake
‘Marta?’
‘Hi Jane.’
‘Can you do lunch today?’
Marta reviewed her day quickly. Busy, but nothing, so far as she could remember, in the diary. ‘Think so.’
‘Clarinda’s? One o’clock?’
‘Okay. Something special?’
‘I need to t-talk. About Emily.’
‘Nothing wrong, is there?’
‘No. Yes. Just ... you know.’
‘Sure Jane. See you at one.’
When she left the cottage, it was peaceful. Early sunlight, gleaming on the roof, lent a golden glow to the slate and the whitewashed walls shone with hopeful brightness. Shadows from the apple tree played across the window where Jake lay sleeping. She clicked the gate shut, holding the top of it for a moment in her hand, feeling the smoothness of the glossy paint on her palm.
She was mistaken – there was nothing to make her apprehensive. Tom Vallely would leave them in a day or two, Jake’s efforts to find a job would be rewarded, she would resume her regular nights out with Carrie and Jane. Life would return to normal.
Clarinda’s Tearoom, half way down Canongate, was busy. Marta spied Jane sitting in a corner, valiantly defending an extra chair.
‘Hi!’ Jane waved as Marta threaded her way through the crowded space.
‘Hi. You’re looking great.’
A tight smile flashed across Jane’s face. ‘Really? I can’t think why.’
‘Intense’ was the best word to describe Jane Harvie. In all the years Marta had known her, there had been a fluttery anxiety about all she said and did. Will people like me? Can I get the grades I need? What if I don’t get in to college? She’d always been a worrier – and she’d always been over-protective of her children.
Squeezing in next to Jane, Marta was confident that whatever was wrong, it was almost certainly no cause for real alarm.
‘So,’ she said, conscious that she had a hundred and one things to do back at the office. ‘Tell me about Emily.’
She was right. It was a teenage thing and Jane was just a mother fretting. To Marta it was obvious – Emily was flapping her wings, itching to fly, and Jane was being over-protective, that was all.
‘She was so rude, Marta. I couldn’t believe it.’ Jane finished off another tale of some tantrum of Emily’s.
‘She’s frustrated. She doesn’t want to be a baby anymore.’
‘That’s no excuse for rudeness.’
‘No, but think back – don’t tell me you were never like that.’
But even as she said it, Marta realised Jane had almost certainly never been rude to her parents. She had gone through adolescence nervously, negotiating a careful path in the slipstream created by Marta and Carrie. Handling an adventurous teenager was always bound to be a challenge. Heaven help her when Ross’s testosterone booted up.
‘I’m worried for her, Marta.’
‘I know.’ She reached for Jane’s hand and held it lightly between her own. ‘What can I do?’
Jane glanced sideways up at Marta and smiled her crooked smile. ‘It’s her birthday soon. Did you remember?’
‘Of course. I’m her godmother.’
‘I thought maybe you could take her out for a treat? Maybe have a little t-talk with her.’
‘I’d love to. If she’s not too self-conscious about going out with an
old fogey like me.’
‘She thinks the world of you. She’s always going on about your glamorous lifestyle.’
Marta laughed. ‘Just because I’m in tourism and get to some rather nice places doesn’t make it glamorous. It’s a load of hard work.’
‘I know that, Marta, but she doesn’t. Will you call her?’
‘Sure.’ Marta glanced at her watch. ‘I must head back to work. Sorry, but it’s really busy. How much is my share?’
‘I’ll pay. Let me. P-please. You’re doing me a favour.’
At Emily’s request, they went shopping. Marta bought few clothes, but when she did, she chose timeless, high-quality garments. Emily, child of her time, craved the latest fashions, regarded everything as disposable and wasn’t prepared to spend more than the minimum. In fairness, Marta thought as she stood patiently among racks of garish, skimpy dresses while Emily trawled the rails, her goddaughter didn’t have much money to spend. That was why, after Emily had chosen what appeared to Marta to be not much more than a T-shirt that just covered her bum, she said, ‘I’ll give you some shoes to go with it. My birthday present.’
‘You are sweet.’ Emily hugged her impulsively.
‘Thanks. You make it easy. I could do with a coffee. Are you ready for a drink?’
‘There’s a place along here that does great smoothies. Can we go there?’
Over their drinks, Marta launched a sideways conversation.
‘So, apart from your cello, what do you like to do? You and your friends.’
‘Oh, you know, we like, hang out.’
‘Hang out? What does that mean?’
‘Just meet and talk. Have fun.’
‘With boys? Have you got a boyfriend, Em?’
Did she detect a blush? It was hot in the café. Emily’s hair fell across her face, hiding her expression. ‘No, not really. My friend Suzy’s, like, dating one of the guys from the school down the road but—’ Her voice tailed off.
‘Perhaps best to leave it till you find someone special.’
The hair was pushed aside and Emily looked up, her expression curious. ‘When did you start dating? You and Carrie and ... my mum?’
Marta smiled. ‘Everyone’s different, Emily. You might not think it now, because she’s never married, but Carrie had an eye for the boys when she was young. I was more cautious. I was in my last year at school before I had my first proper boyfriend. Your mum – well, that’s her story, isn’t it? Why don’t you ask her?’
The hair fell back again, shadowing Emily’s face.
‘Emily?’
‘She doesn’t understand.’ Emily’s voice was sulky.
‘About...?’
‘You know. Boys and stuff.’
‘I’m sure she does. She just cares about you.’
‘She just wants to stop me enjoying myself.’
‘All mothers want to protect their children.’
‘I’m sixteen next week.’
‘I know you feel grown up, Emily, but being sixteen is really just when life’s adventures start. Honestly.’ Emily was fidgeting. ‘Do you feel ready to date someone seriously?’
‘Maybe.’
The exuberance of earlier in the day had dissipated and huffiness had replaced it and Marta’s heart went out to the slight girl seated in front of her. She could see uncertainty, awkwardness, a child poised on the brink of adulthood but not yet equipped to handle it. She was so like Jane. This shyness was all Jane.
‘Suzy says—’
‘Em?’ Marta reached out and took hold of the slim hand. ‘Don’t do anything you’re not ready for. Don’t let Suzy, or anyone else, pressure you into doing something you don’t want to do. You’re in charge. Listen to your heart but act with your head. Okay?’
Silence. Then a small nod. ‘Cool.’
Marta felt satisfied. Emily might be moody, a little awkward, boomeranging between unwarranted confidence and self-doubt, but she was essentially a nice girl. Jane was clearly fussing unnecessarily.
Spurred by her assessment, she said impulsively, ‘I meant to ask, is there anything you really want? I’m very happy to go and find another little present.’
She was thinking of an iTunes voucher, or a book, so Emily’s answer was unexpected.
‘I’d really, really love to get my hair dyed.’
‘Oh? Are you allowed? At school, I mean?’
‘Yeah, sure. Everyone does it.’
‘And what about your parents? What will they say? Maybe I’d better check with your mum.’
‘There’s no need. They’ll be cool.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain sure.’
‘Okay then,’ Marta agreed reluctantly. ‘So long as it’s something subtle.’
‘Ooh thanks, Marta.’
They tried three hairdressers, but it was a Saturday afternoon and they were all booked out.
‘Maybe we’d be best to make an appointment at your usual salon,’ Marta said.
‘But I’d really love to get it done today,’ said Emily.
They walked right along George Street without any luck.
‘There’s a place, there!’ Emily said, pointing down a side street.
‘We’ll make this the last one then, okay?’ Marta was having second thoughts about the whole idea – but when Emily repeated her plea for an appointment yet again, the receptionist smiled.
‘You’re in luck! We’ve just this minute had a cancellation.’
‘Great!’ Emily turned to Marta. ‘Why don’t you go and do some shopping of your own? There’s no point in hanging around here just, like, watching.’
‘Really? I’m not keen on just leaving you.’
‘It’ll take an hour and a half minimum,’ said the receptionist, scratching out a name in her appointments’ book. ‘She’ll be fine with us if you want to leave her. Most mums do.’
Marta weighed the options rapidly. Emily was going to be sixteen in a few days, she was certainly old enough to be left in a hairdresser’s – and it was ages since she’d had any free time in town to browse the shops.
‘Emily? Would that be all right with you? I’ll be back before you know it.’
‘Of course!’ Emily’s face was shining with excitement.
‘Good. See you soon then. Nothing too drastic. Promise?’
‘Promise.’
Marta was back in under the hour and a half. She looked round the salon, but couldn’t spot Emily anywhere. There was a middle-aged woman whose hair was completely hidden by dozens of folded tinfoil packets, and another whose gray locks had been crisply cut close to her scalp. In the far corner, a younger woman was getting a blow dry. Her hair was peroxide blonde. Six inches at the ends had been dyed a vivid purple.
The things, Marta thought, the young think are smart these days.
‘It’s great, isn’t it?’
Emily’s voice floated across the room. From somewhere near the corner.
What the...?
‘Emily?’ Marta gasped, the horror of the transformation sinking in. She strode across the salon. ‘You promised not to do anything drastic!’
Emily shrugged. ‘There was this girl just leaving and she’d gone for this kind of look. It was so cool. A proper statement. And Kylie said she could do mine like that, didn’t you, Kylie?’
The stylist avoided Marta’s horrified gaze. ‘It’ll wash out in a few weeks,’ she said, switching off the dryer and smoothing down the multi-coloured locks with a final flourish of the brush. ‘There, all finished now.’
She picked up a mirror and showed Emily the back of her head.
‘Wicked,’ Emily said.
What on earth, Marta thought, was she going to say to Jane?
Chapter Thirteen
With the Festival in full swing, Tartan Ribbon Tours was at its busiest. There were currently twenty-three groups in Scotland: six out on tour in the west, south, east, far north-west and the Islands, the rest in Edinburgh itself. Most were American, though there were
a number from various parts of Europe and two from Japan. Some of the Edinburgh-based groups were self-supporting – they had tickets pre-booked for their events, they were staying on a half-board basis, they had been thoroughly briefed about places to see and visit. All Marta had to do was to sort out the occasional problem that landed on her desk or, to be more accurate, that fell to her if she happened to be the unlucky member of staff who picked up the telephone when a complaint came in.
A few days after her shopping trip with Emily, Marta’s generally sunny nature was pushed to its limits by a dozen minor but time-consuming and irritating mishaps: a whole bunch of lost theatre tickets; a visitor with a domestic problem back home who needed a flight change urgently; someone who had forgotten to bring vital medication and had no prescription; a lost wallet. So when the telephone rang in the late afternoon, she was more than reluctant to pick it up.
‘Can you take it, Marta?’ The request came from her boss and so couldn’t be ignored.
Marta glanced her colleague Andy, whose desk faced hers. ‘Bad luck,’ he mouthed, then grinned and returned to his work.
Pulling a wry face, she lifted the receiver. ‘Good afternoon, Tartan Ribbon Tours, how may I help you?’
‘Ah, good day to you ma’am, I was wondering if you could put together a special vacation? I guess this might not be your kinda thing, but someone gave me your name. He said you guys were real good at making people feel special.’
The voice was Texan, rich and sonorous, drawling and slow.
Marta smiled. ‘That was generous,’ she said in her most helpful voice. ‘We’ll certainly do our best. How can we help?’
‘The name’s Drew McGraw. I’m an entrepreneur.’ He said it in the American way, en-tra-pren-oor. ‘I run a business helping scientists turn their research into dollars. Making ideas turn into reality.’
‘Sounds interesting.’ She was truly alert now, the phone tucked onto her shoulder, her pen poised above her notebook, her mind already clicking into gear.
