by EJ Lamprey
‘Winter, Dallas Winter.’ Edge repeated. ‘Is she not there?’
‘No, but Dallas is an unusual name, nu? That was why I ask. There is no Dallas Winter, but there is a Dallas Wendell born that day. Naturlich, I do not know if that is the actual Dallas Wendell, ja?’ She laughed at the thought, they exchanged a few more pleasantries, and Edge ended the call.
Who on earth was the ’actual’ Dallas Wendell? Back to the computer. According to Google, Dallas Wendell was, if not literally famous, sufficiently well known to have several entries, and Edge, one eye on the time, skimmed them swiftly. Dallas Wendell—and yes, sharing the same leap year birthdate as Vivian—was the only daughter of Oliver Wendell and his wife Sarah, youngest daughter of Joseph Toussaint, who had founded the Toussaint group, later the Toussaint-Wendell group. She was in overall charge of their research and development—very much a recluse—Toussaint-Wendell was rumoured to be going public—Edge jumped from snippet to snippet, then clicked on Google images. There was only one, a group shot taken at a distance, but the woman near the centre of the photograph was identifiable as the woman Edge had met in Vivian’s apartment. With another hunted glance at her watch, she rang Kirsty back and caught her finishing up for the day.
‘This has to be quick, because I have to meet Vivian in our pub in twenty minutes, but can I run something past you? I’ve rather been sworn to secrecy, so you’re the only person I can trust and I’m so muddled.’ She went on to explain the situation as succinctly as she could and Kirsty let out a long breath at the end.
‘If it was the other way round, I’d assume it was a shakedown, but this is a mystery, right enough.’
‘What do you mean, a shakedown?’ Edge was bewildered, and could hear the smile in her niece’s voice as she answered.
‘If the babies were switched, Vivian is the real Toussaint-Wendell heir. That’s big money, Aunt!’
‘Oh help, Dallas won’t murder her or anything ghastly like that, to stop her ever claiming her birthright?’
This time Kirsty took longer to answer. ‘I can’t see it;’ she said at last. ‘Even if she wanted to, with that kind of money she could have contracted a killing. And what possible reason could she have for getting to know Vivian first? It might be worth hinting to her that you know who she is. And you’ll certainly have to tell Vivian. Maybe she’ll be able to think of a reason why a very rich woman with a very big secret has come to the only person in the world who could financially ruin her?’
CHAPTER NINE
Sunday—drinks in the conservatory
‘But I don’t want to be a Wendell.’ Vivian said plaintively. ‘I didn’t even want to be a Winter. I certainly don’t want to be head of research and development anywhere.’ They’d rehashed the whole story exhaustively and circled back to this point with the second glass of wine. ‘I can’t think why she lied about her name. Oh, yes, I believe you. She’s very nicely off indeed. Well, that dress—didn’t you notice? I can’t afford designer clothes as day wear and I don’t think you can either, she‘s certainly not short of a penny or two. But why suddenly decide to meet me—and give me a false name? She can’t want to switch back, both our mothers are dead and we don’t even know who our fathers are. Gordon left me comfortably off, so I don’t want her money. I wouldn’t even know about it if she hadn’t come to find me. I don’t understand.’
‘I can’t see her wanting to switch lives either.’ Edge laughed at the very idea even as she said it. ‘I know Gordon left you well off but Vivian, as a Wendell she could have a facelift every year and trade in her cars every time the ashtray got dirty. That’s serious money.’
‘Toussaint-Wendell Group?’ Vivian shifted restlessly and drained her glass. ‘Funny, I haven’t smoked for years but I could kill for a puff right now.’
They were sitting in the section of the big conservatory closest to the pub. Although darkness pressed against the glass, spotlights in the greenery and tubs cast edged shapes over the ceiling. Candlelight quivered on the table as the far door sighed slightly open, then closed, as someone used the outer door. Edge flicked a finger towards it.
‘That’s why, someone’s obviously smoking in the Snug. The smell must have crept in and tugged at your subconscious. You know, we should come here more often for a drink, I hadn’t realized how nice it is. I have breakfast here quite often but have always sat in the pub before in the evenings. It can be really noisy—a full-wall TV screen was great for the Olympics but it’s too much when there’s noisy sport on. Never occurred to me to come through here. Clever you.’
‘Oh, William won’t sit in the pub. The bar stools aren’t designed for our poundage. Edge, I really wish she hadn’t said anything. What difference does it make now, all these years later? My parents loved me and I loved them. Now I have to decide whether to tell the kids—I don’t expect any more grandchildren but the Creole blood could still add a dash of glamour to the next generation, and I’ll probably be gaga or gone by the time it crops up. She’s coming back tomorrow. She said she’d give me time to take it all in. She hasn’t told anyone else, by the way, and she seemed to feel I shouldn’t, either.’
‘She did flash a very odd look when you told me.’ Edge agreed. ‘So we go back to why go to a lot of trouble to find someone just to tell them a story they can’t pass on to anyone else? Maybe that’s why she’s coming back tomorrow, to explain.’
‘When you say odd look, that was probably her subduing a twitch. I got used to it pretty quickly but I think she has quite a complex about it. And there’s a tic under her left eye as well. One way and another—’
The Snug door opened and Sylvia, very glittery in the subdued light, stopped short in the doorway at the sight of them.
‘Vivian! Edge! Heavens, you startled me!’ They exchanged glances, surprised, as Sylvia jolted back into motion. She recoiled briefly at her own shadow flung large on the wall, gripped the back of a chair at their table and stared very hard into Vivian’s face. ‘May I join you? Or are you hatching more of your ssssecrets?’
‘No secrets.’ Vivian fibbed calmly. ‘Of course you can join us.’
Edge, noticing Sylvia’s lipstick was decidedly askew and her eyes glittering quite as much as her sparkling dress, kicked out under the table and Vivian added smoothly: ‘We were going to have one more glass of wine and call it a night, but we’d love your company.’
‘No you wouldn’t.’ Sylvia thumped into the chair and looked from one to the other belligerently. ‘No one loves my company. My lovely Simon said he loves my company but he’s back in Australia. If he loved my company, he would stay here. Wouldn’t he?’
‘Do you have a drinks locker in the pub, Sylvia?’ Edge, who very much wanted to avoid the subject of ‘lovely Simon’, got up hastily to get more drinks, rather glad she hadn’t yet mentioned her discovery to Vivian. ‘Or we’re on wine? I’m on house white, and Vivian has some Merlot.’
‘Wine? Do you have any idea what wine does to middle-aged skin? I never touch alcohol. Just a soda, with a wedge of lime if this horrible miserable place runs to such luxuries, Edge.’
‘Thank you.’ she added as an afterthought and Edge, quirking one speaking eyebrow at Vivian, got back a nod and headed into the little pub. If Sylvia never drank, she had to be flying on some cocktail of drugs, presumably from her dodgy nephew, who obviously hadn’t warned her about the dosage. Edge was on the clock. Maggie had been left alone in the apartment for the first time, rather than a second stint in the runs in one day and she had no intention of making a long session of it. The trick would be to get away without leaving Vivian trapped with Sylvia in her very odd state.
The pub was also the supper room, for the few who took the supper option, and not unpleasant hints of vegetable broth were escaping from the closed chafing dish. None of the residents looked up at Edge’s entrance, totally engrossed in the football match dominating the full-wall TV. Jamie, the retired mercenary who worked as barman for house credits, dragged his attention back with a
quick smile as she reached the counter.
‘Same again?’
She put their glasses down on the bar. ‘Thanks, Jamie, and a soda for Sylvia. With a wedge of lime, if you’ve got it.’
‘Oh aye, we’ve got it. Bill sent some special today for Sylvia.’ He filled Vivian’s glass and put her bottle back in her pigeon hole, then got the white wine out of the fridge. The bar was stocked with soft drinks and mixers on tap and carried a small range of local ales, beers and wines for guests, but for the most part regulars bought their own liquor, which was kept aside for them. ‘Want me to put a dram from my ain bottle in Sylvia’s drink to calm her doon?’ He winked to make it clear he was joking.
‘Maybe for the next round,’ she joked back. ‘Does she come in often?’
‘Couple times since the nephew went. Never used to before. I guess whatever it is she’s tekking the noo makes her go looking for company. Doesnae help that her pal Matilda is off on that cruise. Number one empty, number two empty, me in number four but in here every evening—‘ He had been keeping one eye on the screen and froze at an attempt at goal, then relaxed as the slow-motion replays filled the screen and looked back at Edge. ‘Do you think I should be saying summat to Katryn? I feel bad shopping her, but...’
‘Maybe Vivian or I can. Then you’re not involved and this place stays a refuge.’
‘Aye, that’s just it!’ He grinned at her, put all three glasses on a small tray and, as the action resumed normal speed on the screen, dismissed her with a friendly ‘there you go, hen.’
Any fears the friends may have had that Sylvia in her slightly manic condition would be hard to escape were soon put to rest. By the time they’d finished their wine she was yawning and rose obediently to leave with them. She was stumbling more than staggering and easily persuaded to walk between them, her arms through theirs.
‘This was so fun.’ She dug through her bag for her key as they reached number three. ‘You two are so fun. I had such fun. Fun, fun—isn’t that a funny word, fun?’ She propped herself against the wall and finally found the keys. ‘YAY!’
‘Shush!’ Vivian started to laugh, but kept her voice down and Sylvia laughed with her, then put a skinny finger over her own lips.
‘Not so loud, Vi—vinan’ she chided, and after a brief struggle found the keyhole and unlocked the door. ‘I’m not inviting you in because I am so sleepy—ooh, there’s someone in my apartment!’
Urgent snuffling noises came from the other side of the door and Vivian shook Sylvia’s arm slightly as she recoiled in horror.
‘Sylvia, relax! It’s your dog.’
‘Oh! Roufrouf!’ Sylvia nodded, then shook her head. ‘Roufrouf? Is that right?’
‘Froufrou.’ Edge reminded her, avoiding catching Vivian’s eye. ‘Does she need walking? Would you like us to do it?’
‘I need walking. I need lots of walking. And lots of company. Why am I alone? Why does nobody stay with me, Vini—vinivan?’
‘Vivian.’ Vivian said patiently. ‘And I’ll stay, and make sure you get safely to bed, while Edge takes Froufrou out for a quick walk. Okay?’
Froufrou was so urgently in need of her comfort break that Edge wondered when she had last been walked. There was a covered drying area outside the laundry, along the back of the apartments furthest from the road, and it was standard practice among the residents to use it for the late night dog stop. The area was well lit, well drained, in view of its dual purpose, and Joey the groundskeeper ran a hose over it daily. Froufrou practically hosed it herself, with visible relief, and immediately hunched into her squat as Edge dug in her handbag for one of Maggie’s baggies.
Only with the vital necessities completed did the ageing poodle start sniffing with interest at Edge’s ankles for the traces left by the bulldog. Edge ran her fingers through the poodle’s stiff ruff. In earlier years the dog had won championships but Sylvia had long since let the show cut grow out, adopting instead a more practical version for normal life. Froufrou still had the elegant silhouette of her successful youth—rather like Sylvia in that regard—but her eyes were now rheumy and her muzzle well silvered. They walked back together and found Vivian waiting in the doorway, the studio apartment already darkened behind her.
‘She walked straight to her bed and collapsed face forward on it! So I pulled off her shoes and put a blanket over her. The apartment’s warm, she’ll be fine. Then I filled up the water bowl—it was bone dry—and in case she’s been forgetting to feed the poor dog, I put dog biscuits in the bowl.’ Froufrou vanished into the far room and Vivian pulled the door shut. The two friends walked on and stopped outside Vivian’s door at number seven.
‘Edge, there’s something very wrong with her, I’ve been in Sylvia’s place before and it’s always untidy but not like this. Dirty plates and half-drunk cups of tea blue with mould. What do we do?’
‘We tell Katryn or Matron. And make sure the dog is being fed and watered and walked until Sylvia’s back to normal.’
‘Yes, but if she doesn’t get back to normal? If this is dementia? You have no idea how very odd she was while you were getting the drinks. She was quite subdued by comparison by the time you got back.’
‘We cross that bridge when we come to it, or rather, Katryn and Matron do. Talking of walking dogs, we both have dogs waiting.’
‘See you back here in a few minutes, then? With Maggie.’ Vivian was unenthusiastic, and Edge grinned ruefully.
‘Not unless we want her rousing the place! I walk her in the dark. Bloody dog. Good night!‘
CHAPTER TEN
Monday—double gym
Sylvia was at the morning workout in the Sunday room as usual, looking very pale and subdued. She took to the chairs to do seated exercises with the older residents about halfway through the routine, earning herself a sharp glance from Matron, and left without a word to anyone at the end of the basic session. Vivian, who never stayed for the extended exercise class, took off after her instead of waiting for William, who was still arranging his heavy walking sticks so he could heave himself up from his chair.
Edge went over to join Katryn, self-consciously doing stretches near the back, and they chatted companionably while Matron busied herself selecting music for the next part. Feeling slightly awkward, Edge mentioned Sylvia. Katryn shot her a sharp glance and nodded.
‘Matron’s on the case on that. She’s definitely not herself. This is only going to be my second Zumba class, man it slays me. Good for the boep, for sure.’ she patted her rounded midriff, ‘but I feel like I need to sleep for a week afterwards.’
Edge smiled back, accepting the change of subject. She and Vivian did the morning workout about three times a week, and she stayed for the more advanced option a few times a month. Those serious about their fitness, like Olga and Donald—and, usually, Sylvia—were right at the front but she preferred a more humble spot at the back. Zumba always got a good turnout and she tucked herself even further back into a nicely inconspicuous corner by moving a few chairs out of the way. The insistent beat of the music filled the Sunday room and they were away.
~~~
‘You’re a sort of Schiaparelli pink.’ Donald noticed with interest as he carefully dabbed a light trickle of sweat off his temples. ‘Not your best colour.’
She pulled a face at him. ‘Thank you very much. Your invitation to join us for coffee is hereby withdrawn.’
‘I vas going to suggest ve had at my place anyvay, for a change.’ Olga, even less flushed than Donald, suggested. ‘It seems to me stupid ve vork so hard, then ve eat pastries. If you like?’
Edge shrugged. ‘If I can sneak past the runs without Maggie seeing me and raising the roof, you’re on. No pastries at all?’
Olga laughed and the three of them made their way out the main entrance, then cut across to the walkway to Olga’s place. Donald, a fairly new resident who lived, like Edge, in a bachelor apartment, looked around with interest. Olga’s studio flat, painted a deep rich red throughout, was very differ
ent in style to the bachelor units, with a large kitchen and a smaller living room.. The wall behind her table was a gallery of large framed photographs, most of them signed, nearly all of them of ballerinas. He peered at them with interest, then exclaimed at one of the central ones. ‘That’s Beryl Grey!’ he said almost accusingly, and Olga nodded.
‘Da, did you work with her?’
‘Have a heart, sweetie, I might as well ask if you danced with her. She’d retired by the time I started getting any kind of reputation designing sets and anyway, I never did any ballet work. Lots of musicals, and some opera. But why do you have a signed photo of her on your wall?’
‘She vas my inspiration, that is the word, da? As a very little child I vas taken to see her dance—she was the first Vestern ballerina ever invited to dance with the Bolshoi, to many Russians she is the greatest ballerina the Vestern vorld ever produced. I fell in love with ballet that night and it shaped my life. When I defected she was the Director at London Festival Ballet but also on many other boards. So very kind, she helped me so much. So tall, so elegant, so very beautiful.’
‘Too tall.’ Donald nodded. ‘She was held back by the shortage, literally, of male dancers. Half a head shorter and she might have been the greatest ballerina of them all. Superb! And this one—this is you? Coppelia?’
Olga lifted down the much-signed framed photograph which depicted her as the destructive doll. Heads together, they deciphered the signatures of the rest of the corps from the production. Edge shook her head, filled the kettle and switched it on. Olga favoured very strong coffee, but Edge had made a point of giving her a mellower brand at Christmas. Carpe diem, and carpe the better coffee – carpe caffea? Smiling to herself, she found the friendlier coffee and the filter jug, spooned in coffee, added the water, and waited patiently for them to remember the mundane world.
