by Anna Maxted
‘No, I—’
‘Then it’s like swimming the Channel with a lead weight tied to yer neck.’
I was lost for words. I’d never seen her like this. Bitter. She was always so cheerful.
She dragged a fist across her eyes. ‘Run out of pills. Forgot to send in my repeat prescription, didn’t I?’ She laughed, a horrible hard laugh. ‘Be fine tomorrow, though. Right as rain.’
‘Gloria, please, won’t you come in for a bit and sit down?’
I stepped towards her with an arm outstretched, but she shook her head, pushed me away, her small hand leaving a throbbing imprint on my chest. She turned to go. Then she stopped, her shoulders sagged. ‘If you can make sense of it, then.’ She faced me. ‘There is no making sense of it though, is there? You’ve been straight with me, Hol, so I reckon I owe you . . .’
She tugged at her poloneck, and my breath caught. A jagged white scar cut across the pale flesh of her throat. I shook my head, my eyes hot with tears. And for the second time in two days I found myself with a bawling woman in my arms. I rubbed her back, and told her she owed me nothing, she didn’t have to say anything. A minute in, she ended the hug. She spat a strand of long hair out of her mouth. ‘It’s enough,’ she said, ‘that you understand.’ She granted me a thin smile and hurried to her car.
I felt shaken. I’d had a suspicion but now it was confirmed it was as if I’d been digging about in someone else’s laundry. I didn’t know why, after a bad experience, some people merely survived while others learnt to thrive. Was it to do with the severity of the experience itself or the personality, even the age, of the victim? Was recovery linked to the people around you? If this was even a possibility, and I was certain of it, I’d make an effort to see Gloria more often. For my sake, as well as hers.
Our exchange had altered the mood, and when the phone rang I pounced on it.
‘Where have you been?’ demanded Issy. It was a delight to hear her bossy voice.
‘Em and Dee’s.’
‘Of course. Silly me. Eden, darling, what have you – noooo! stop that! – naughty girl! Really bad! Oh my God. The artist will just have to paint over it, Frank will just have to track him down.’
‘Issy?’
‘Sorry. I don’t believe this. You know my ten thousand pound painting, Sky and Sea, the Maldives? By that very edgy, very now, very expensive artist, whatsisname?’
‘Mmmm.’
How could I forget? This work of art dominated their open-plan lounge, truly a showpiece. It was a ten-foot square canvas, the lower half painted a deep blue, the upper half a pale blue. While some (Claudia) might call this pretentious, it was actually a restful, beautiful painting. You could feel the faint breeze in the skeins of cloud in the sky, lose yourself in the haze of the horizon, feel the sun on your face and hear the rush of the waves.
‘Eden just took a black marker pen and drew a boat on it.’
I tried to sound sympathetic. The best I could come up with was, ‘You sound very calm, considering.’
‘Only because Michael and Lavinia Mortimer are sitting in my kitchen.’
‘What! Why?’
‘Normally, I couldn’t tell you, I’d be breaking all sorts of rules, but as you, apparently, were the one who said “get thee to a couch”, they’re happy for you to know that they decided to come to me. Anyway, the reason I rang is that Michael wanted to talk to you – something legal, he says, bring the letter? – and I thought you might as well come round here. Eden’s dying to see you, although mainly because she expects a gift. No confectionery though. At least three of her little friends suffer from ADHD, plainly because their parents constantly give them sweets to shut up. Of course, I only have to put Mozart on the stereo and Eden goes as quiet as a mouse – she remembers it from when she was in the womb.’
God, people who have children are smug.
‘How about I bring her some new marker pens?’ I said sweetly, and put the phone down. I sank into a chair. I was elderly, I tell you, elderly. Once you pass thirty you can’t cope with more than one late night and an hour’s excitement in a weekend without chemical assistance. Michael could only be referring to the writ – which was still radiating hatred and poison from the bottom of my bag. I’d wanted to discuss it with Dr Goldstein but each session was only fifty minutes and we hadn’t had enough time. As it was, I spoke twice as fast as normal to get my money’s worth.
I was telling myself that I wouldn’t have ignored it until the twenty-eight days were up and I was hauled off to the stocks, when a thought occurred. Nick. Nick must have told Michael about the writ, because how else would he know? With my fabulous powers of detection, I came to two conclusions. Nige had told Nick that it was okay to tell Michael. Even though he’d broken off the engagement, Nick couldn’t hate me that much. My mouth curled into a smile. I galloped upstairs, showered, changed and applied lipstick. Then I smacked my chops at myself in the mirror and bared my teeth. As Nick would say (about me, rather than himself) ‘I’m Woman – Outta my way!’
I sped downstairs, locked up, hopped in the car and sped to Issy’s. It was only as I rang the doorbell that I realised I hadn’t performed my usual trick of ringing as I parked the car, so that I didn’t have to spend one half of a second loitering like prey on the porch, ripe for ambush by evil men who were, doubtless, lurking in bushes. I cheered myself with the thought that any man who could successfully hide behind one of Issy’s lavender plants had to be no taller than a Ken doll, so if he tried to attack me I could step on him. I was congratulating myself on actually believing me, when Eden opened the door.
No sign of Frank.
‘Mummy’s gone to bed, she’s got a migraine,’ she announced.
‘Oh dear,’ I said, and tried to edge past her. Her hands were always sticky, like she’d rinsed them in marmalade. ‘Happy Sunday. It’s a sketch pad.’
Eden shot my gift a derisory glance. ‘That’s not a present, that’s paper. Sandy gives us that free at kindergarten.’
‘Then I’ll keep it,’ I replied. ‘Move, please.’
I scurried into the lounge. Michael was perched on a beige minimalist sofa. Issy had had it specially commissioned by a well-known designer to fit the room. He looked highly uncomfortable, like a dog sitting on his squeaky toy. But happy. Michael rose to his feet, and Lavinia swept in from the kitchen, bearing a tray of tea and biscuits. I noticed Issy had left out her antique bone china for them to make use of. (This was on a par to lending out her husband.)
Lavinia looked radiant. ‘Isabella was feeling poorly,’ she whispered, ‘I’m afraid listening to us rather wore her out.’
I nodded at the defaced painting Sky and Sea. ‘I doubt it was entirely your fault.’
For the first time in our acquaintance, Lavinia giggled. I’d only ever heard her laugh, always an elegant sound. This was schoolgirlish. ‘Holly, we are so obliged to you,’ she exclaimed. ‘We’ve seen Isabella a handful of times on an informal basis, more of a chat than anything else, but it has been ever so informative, quite revelatory. With the benefit of hindsight, I feel ashamed for being quite so . . . dense where Nick was concerned. We were dreadfully short-sighted, it’s no wonder he reacted as he did. When we were able to see the situation from his point of view, we were appalled. But we didn’t want him to think we had consulted Isabella for show. She suggested we write him a letter but then’ – her voice lifted with joy – ‘he telephoned us. His attitude had changed completely. He was willing to . . . build bridges. He’d spoken to you, Holly. It was thanks to you. The three of us are having supper at Simpson’s tomorrow night.’
Michael smiled at me, a grave paternal smile, full of concern. ‘He also had a word with me about a legal matter with which you required assistance.’
He glanced at his wife who, beautifully mannered as she was, took the hint and retreated to the kitchen. A little lump in my chest, as I realised neither Michael nor Nick had told Lavinia what the legal matter was, and that – unlike a normal human bein
g – she had accepted my right to privacy without question. Of course, everyone wants to be respected, but when you have had respect torn away from you, you are especially grateful to those who see it as your due.
Michael took my hand and held it. His hands were warm and dry. ‘Holly,’ he said. ‘I regard you as the daughter I never had.’ He pressed his left hand to his heart. ‘I’m so deeply sorry.’
I nodded. He didn’t need to say anything more. ‘Thank you,’ I said. I fished the dog-eared summons out of my bag.
‘I can’t say what a relief it is to have you look at this,’ I added.
Michael studied it for three seconds, his bushy black eyebrows beetling together. His face turned redder and redder, and he burst out, ‘This is garbage!’
I breathed in.
‘What a load of old bollocks! I’ll apply to have it struck out tomorrow. He didn’t write to your solicitor before taking action, did he?’
‘I don’t have a solicitor.’
‘I’m your solicitor! He didn’t write to me, which is protocol. The court would take a very dim view. There’s a penalty for this. All he’s done is popped down to court, filled in an application and no doubt served it himself. Stuck it through your letter box, did he? What a pile of nonsense! What a bloody fool! He has to show that you reported him to the police out of malice, which is notoriously difficult to prove. And he’s a solicitor! Good God, he must be one of the worst! A disgrace to the profession as well as to humanity! If only he’d consulted a colleague – they would have told him not to start this case.’
The feeling was like shrugging off a heavy coat. I stared at him. ‘So . . . it’s okay, is it?’
Michael waved the summons in the air. ‘I beg you. Do not give this piece of wastepaper another moment’s thought. I’ll deal with it tomorrow morning, and that will be the end of it. He was trying to bully you, Holly, nothing more.’
I closed my eyes. ‘Michael, thank you so much. I . . . the relief, the peace of mind.’ Words failed me, so I gave him a hug. As I drew away, I noticed I’d ruffled his hair. For a second I wondered if I’d been too familiar – the Mortimers weren’t given to lavish displays of affection – but he looked as pleased as punch.
Chapter 45
ALONG WITH TENNIS, the Buddhist concept of detachment is a skill I’ve never quite mastered. How can you detach from something that matters to you? People who refuse to worry about things that are out of their control astound me. Are they mad? Of course you should worry about things you can’t control – they’re the things most likely to go wrong!
Another problem I had with the concept of detachment, Buddhist or otherwise, was that you couldn’t pretend it. When Issy was pregnant with Eden, she refused to buy even one baby-related item until a week before her due date (when Frank was despatched with a long fearsome list), as she didn’t want to tempt Fate. Now, as long as she didn’t sneak a nappy bin into the house under cover of darkness, Fate could see that Issy had kept her half of the bargain. The concept of detachment is trickier, because even, a thought can break the deal.
I was so accustomed to attaching, willy-nilly, to everyone and everything, I barely noticed I was making progress. Only when I got the call did I realise that I’d been obsessing less about Stuart. He was no longer the monstrous shadow that loomed from all sides, caging me in, whichever way I turned. He was simply a bad man who had done a bad thing. He did not possess the terrible omnipotence I’d given him, he did not have the power to destroy my life.
‘Holly, is that you? It’s Caroline. Constable Caroline Keats, from the CSU.’
If there’s one talent I do have, it’s remembering names and faces. (There was a boy in my junior school called Attar and when I saw him in Oxford Street twenty years later I recognised him instantly, but I didn’t say hello, he would have thought I was strange.)
‘Caroline! I knew it was you, how are you?’
‘I’m fine, love, fine. How are you doing?’
‘Really well, thanks. Everything is . . . not bad. I’m doing fine.’
‘Listen, love. I thought I’d put in a call. I can’t tell you too much – data protection and all that – but last night, we nicked someone you know. Stuart Marshall. For a similar offence.’
I choked on air. ‘Oh God. Oh God.’ For one second, I was jubilant. And then. ‘The woman, is she—?’
‘As I said, love, this is off the record, I can’t tell you any more.’
‘Yes, of course. Oh, but can I tell my solicitor? Stuart’s trying to sue me for defamation.’
‘Christ. Not the sharpest tool in the box, is he? Of course, love. Now you take care.’
I smiled. ‘You too. Thanks, Caroline.’
I rang Michael and left a message on his mobile. Then I had a bubble bath. Sometimes (at the risk of encouraging lazy journalism on women’s pages everywhere) a bubble bath is the only answer.
The following day, Claudia and I were as two rays of sunshine, though I say so myself, struggling against a pair of stormclouds. Though she denied it, Issy was in a foul mood (proven when I said, ‘I love your top, where did you get it?’ and she snapped ‘Harley Street’). When I thanked Nick for speaking to his dad for me, he replied ungraciously, ‘Yeah, well, whacha gonna do?’
I didn’t press it with Nick. Despite the fact I’d done him a grave injustice, he’d behaved decently. In fact, he kept behaving decently. If he didn’t watch out it would become a habit. I was particularly moved that he’d gone into debt to save my business without telling me. The equivalent, I felt, of a celeb giving to charity without singing about it from hill and dale. So I felt he was entitled to play the martyr. Despite a silly, mischievous streak, Nick was the loveliest person I knew.
My all-time favourite photograph was of Nick, aged one, face like thunder, tipping his birthday cake onto the floor. In his first three years, he managed to climb up his aunt’s chimney, get stuck and fall asleep, prompting a police search; tip out of a window onto a row of milk bottles; and eat a white dog pooh he found in the park.
As an adult, he’d only changed in that the mischief and silliness was premeditated. In the second year of our relationship, we’d gone to Italy and – despite Michael and Lavinia’s offer of the Umbria house – stayed in a crumbling hotel on Lake Garda. I was reading by the pool when Nick called ‘Holly!’ and as I looked, dived at the deep end with a towel billowing from his head, a la Superman’s cape. It was daft but it made me – and a middle-aged German on the next lounger – collapse into giggles. I also have a photo of Nick on all fours with two bananas protruding from his mouth pretending to be a walrus. No reason.
Once, we’d visited Issy when Eden’s rather prim friends, Chloe and Victoria, were over to play. Chloe and Victoria had refused to eat the salmon that Issy had lovingly stuck in the microwave. Until Nick explained that this salmon was special; it was moon salmon. Then they wolfed it. Two weeks later, Nick starred as Mr Elephant at Eden’s fourth birthday, and Chloe and Victoria told him off. Their mummy had said there was no such thing as moon salmon. ‘Tell your mummy,’ replied Nick, ‘that what she knows about moon salmon could be written on the back of a postage stamp.’
Then, I’d wondered if it was irresponsible to lie to children. But now I saw it as glorious, feeding their minds. Poor Chloe and Victoria, to have such a dull mummy, she couldn’t bear to allow them the fantasy of moon salmon lest one day they mentioned it in their geography A level and failed to get into Cambridge. Lucky Holly, to have such a fun fiancé, for whom the world would never be grey because life would always be lit by the brilliance of his imagination.
Well, I no longer had the fun fiancé, but maybe one day I’d meet a nice sensible banker who’d provide me with what really mattered, a BMW and ensuring I got my tax returns in on time.
Could I be happy with a man who was less in love with life than Nick? A man who didn’t look at the ‘eat by’ date on his box of Weetabix and cry, ‘Best before Jan 03 2031! Twenty thirty-one! Right! I’m putting this cer
eal packet in the loft and on January the second I’m going to complain. “Hello! I’d like to speak to the Chairman, if he’s still alive!” “Did you keep them in a cool, dark—?” “Yes!”’
I sniggered to myself, then huffed over my desk, scrolling down the morning’s emails. I mustn’t rewrite history. For the last few years of our engagement, Nick had been a shit, there was no denying it. It was one thing to have a gorgeous sense of creativity, to be finely attuned to your inner child. It was quite another to let that inner child out to run amok. Along with the delights of banana walruses and moon salmon had gone the irritations of sink teabags, back-of-the-sofa socks (and other debris), red bills – a feast of selfishness, goddammit.
Based on the evidence, I’d made the right decision for then. If only I’d known six months back, that – let’s call it a challenge – would improve him. That he would lose the worst of his brattishness, retain his cheekiness. That he would become more considerate. But then, isn’t that always the case? You rid yourself of a frog, only for him to become a prince the minute he escapes your jurisdiction.
‘Holly,’ said Claudia, whose pink blusher defined her mood. ‘Guess what? Tabitha just called. Tabitha from Glamour. She wanted to tell us that she and Xak are madly in luuurrvve, and so he’s leaving Girl Meets Boy. She says very sorry for pinching one of our clients, but she’s going to make up for it in publicity terms with the feature. So, hooray, no?’
‘Yes.’ I re-engaged with the present. ‘Yes, hooray!’
Claudia hummed to herself as she tapped the keyboard. I’d called her the previous night to tell her about Stuart’s arrest. I hadn’t wanted her or Camille to feel wretched about the failure of the Clouseau Plan for a second longer than necessary. Occasionally, life works out. She, in turn, told me that she’d called Em and Dee to check they were okay, and Mum couldn’t come to the phone because – said Dad – she was in the bath. But Claw could hear her in the background and she was hysterical. Claudia reckoned it was delayed shock. Dad had asked Claw how was Holly, really, did she think there was anything they could do? Claudia had told them simply, ‘listen, be there if she needs you.’
