by Val McDermid
Yet it was Susie’s desire that was the one to be satisfied. At the next table, a woman dressed in the Edinburgh cultural uniform of linen and cashmere had been constantly glancing across at them. She would peer for a moment, frown then look away, only to turn back a moment later, her expression uncertain. After a few minutes of this behaviour, she leaned across the table and spoke. ‘Excuse me interrupting,’ she said. ‘But are you by any chance Susan Armitage?’
Susie reared back in her seat, flabbergasted. ‘I was once,’ she said, as if caught out in a misdemeanour. ‘But I’ve been Susie Allen for years. I’m sorry, do I know you?’
The woman had lost her air of uncertainty. ‘I used to be Martha Collins. We used to sit next to each other in Speccy Barton’s French class.’
Susie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Little Martha Collins? Oh my God, I see it now. How amazing. What are you doing here? And what have you been up to all these years?’
The former Martha Collins picked up her coffee cup and moved to their table. ‘The short version? Married, one son, three daughters, widowed. I’m Martha Thorpe now. I’ve got a little business in interior design. We help people refurbish their period properties, that sort of thing.’
‘Gosh. You’ve had an eventful time of it. Not that I’m complaining. I’ve been very happily married to Andrew for a million years. He’s made his money investing in musical theatre.’ Susie allowed herself to preen for a moment.
‘And is this your daughter?’ Martha nodded at Cat.
Susie looked startled, then guilty. ‘Cat? No, not at all, no.’ A look of pain flickered in Susie’s eyes, gone almost before it could be named. ‘Andrew and I have no children. Cat’s a neighbour from Dorset. We’ve got a house there, it’s where we spend most of our time. London’s so crowded and dirty these days. Even in Holland Park.’
Martha’s eyebrows rose. ‘Holland Park. How lovely. We’re in Crouch End. Even though I have a lot of clients in Chelsea and Notting Hill, I wouldn’t be anywhere but North London. So lively. My girls love it there. Though I wouldn’t wish three teenage daughters on my worst enemy,’ she added with a laugh that sounded suspiciously forced to Cat’s ears. As Martha expanded upon the achievements of her own brood, it gradually dawned on Cat that a previously unsuspected disadvantage of being childless was the lack of weaponry one had against the tidal wave of a proud mother’s conversation. For once, Susie was rendered speechless because she had nothing to chip in with. Really, if the Thorpe children were half as gifted as their mother claimed, the only question in their future would be which of them would be Prime Minister. If Cat had not had her own lively interest in her surroundings to preserve her, she might have lost the will to live entirely.
Then, ‘Here come my dear girls,’ cried Martha, pointing at three fashionably dressed females who, arm in arm, were moving towards them along the wooden duckboards, the swagger of their passage forcing everyone else to detour on to the still-damp grass. They looked as if they’d popped out of the same mould, each having slightly less clean-cut lines than the previous sister. So the eldest had features that could almost be described as sharp, while the youngest still had a puppy plumpness that lacked such clear definition. All three had identical tawny hair and eyes of a blue that is sometimes described as icy but which Cat preferred to think of as Scandinavian, having watched too many subtitled TV detective serials.
The trio, who were giggling at some private joke, made a scant acknowledgement of their mother and pulled up more chairs. ‘Girls, this is my old school friend Susie Allen. Can you believe it’s over twenty-five years since we’ve seen each other?’ Martha’s tone was apologetic.
The eldest raised her eyebrows. ‘I bet you didn’t recognise her,’ she said to Susie.
‘Of course I did,’ Susie said.
Martha butted in. ‘Susie, this is Isabella—’
‘Bella,’ the eldest interrupted, rolling her eyes in a ‘pity me’ expression.
‘—and then Jessica, and last but not least, Claire. Girls, this is Cat – I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your surname.’
‘Morland,’ Cat said.
‘Girls, this is Cat Morland from Dorset. She’s a neighbour of Susie’s, come to Edinburgh with Susie and her husband.’
Bella, who had looked bored up to that point suddenly perked up. ‘Morland? From Dorset? OMG, girls. Look at this.’ And she pointed dramatically at Cat.
Cat flushed. Was she so much of a country bumpkin that it was obvious on sight to these London sophisticates?
‘Oh God, you’re right,’ Jessica said. ‘I just thought we must have seen her out and about, but of course, that’s what it is.’
‘What are you girls on about?’ Martha asked.
‘Can’t you see it, Ma?’ Bella demanded. ‘She’s, like, his spitting image.’
‘Jamie Morland,’ Claire said wearily. Clearly her role in the trio was to clarify her sisters’ gnomic utterances. ‘Johnny’s friend from Oxford who came to stay at Easter. From Dorset.’
‘The one that Bella’s been losing sleep over,’ Jessica chipped in.
‘I so am not,’ her sister protested. ‘Can I help it if he totally likes me? I mean, if somebody keeps texting you, it’s really rude to not text them back, right?’
‘So, let me get this straight,’ Martha said. ‘Are you Jamie Morland’s sister?’
‘We call him James,’ Cat said. ‘He was at St John’s College.’
‘He’s our brother Johnny’s sidekick,’ Claire said. ‘And he’s very keen on Bella.’
This was news to Cat, who had thought until then that she and her brother were close. Obviously, when he was separated from his family, James had a very different life from the one apparent to those who thought they knew him. He had never mentioned Johnny Thorpe or his sisters round the family dinner table. Cat wondered why, since they seemed so fond of him.
‘Hey, Cat, let’s take a wander round and see who we can spot,’ Bella said, jumping up and pulling Cat to her feet. She linked arms with her as she’d done previously with her sisters, but shook her head briskly at Jessica and Claire when they made a move to join them. ‘Not now, brats. I need to get to know Cat.’
‘Get the inside track on Jamie, more like,’ Jess grumbled.
Ignoring her, Bella swept Cat along. Before she knew it, they were gossiping about the things that entertain young women of a certain age and type. It was all new to Cat, but as they strolled in the sunshine, she managed to appear as if she were entirely familiar with a conversational world that encompassed intimate gossip about people neither of them had ever met, current fashions and where the cool people were hanging out in Edinburgh. In short, a range of subjects that had no useful application whatsoever.
Luckily, Bella required little input from her companion when it came to conversation. She knew enough of the world to entertain both and Cat was sufficiently well brought up to provide the appropriate prompts. But eventually, even Bella ran out of steam. ‘What are you seeing today?’ Cat asked when it was clear she was required to pick up the baton of dialogue.
‘We’ve got the hot ticket of the day,’ Bella said. ‘The open-air adaptation of Ginny Blackstock’s Cupcakes to Die For at the Botanic Gardens.’
Cat squeaked with delight. ‘So have we.’
‘Wow. With your brother being Jamie and all, it’s like we’re totally meant to be bgfs,’ Bella whooped. ‘Oh, Cat, this is so going to be the best Edinburgh ever.’
5
Cat had convinced herself that in spite of Henry Tilney’s failure to appear at the Book Festival grounds, he would surely attend the dramatic adaptation of last year’s bestselling novel about love, zombies and patisserie, Cupcakes to Die For. Had they not touched on the subject of the fluency of women’s writing at Mrs Alexander’s dance class? Was this not the most sought-after ticket of the Fringe? And was not the Botanic Gardens the coolest of venues?
But again, she was disappointed. There was no sign of Henry among the milling audience at
the al fresco performance, nor even anyone Cat could momentarily mistake for him. However, that evening there was some slight mitigation of her disappointment for now she had a friend to giggle and gossip with.
Bella had summoned Cat with an enthusiastic wave as soon as she had clapped eyes on her, and Cat had been glad to see her. With Bella, she could indulge her daydreams of Henry to the full. The very idea of discussing him with Susie Allen made the back of her neck turn chill with horror.
But before they could delve into the very depth of their respective affections for James Morland and Henry Tilney, the young women were obliged to watch the play, which, unusually, turned out to be as entertaining as its advance publicity had promised. Even the weather joined in the fun, bathing the audience in warm sunshine throughout. In a momentary lull, Cat looked around in vain for Henry and noticed Mr Allen muttering eagerly into his phone. She wondered whether this was to be his next venture in the West End. If so, it would surely add another zero to his bank balance, and on the advantageous side of the decimal point.
Once the final applause had died away, Bella and Cat escaped on their own to roam the gardens and strengthen those bonds of friendship they had started to weave earlier. ‘So, are you still at school?’ Bella asked.
‘I’ve never been at school.’
Bella’s eyes widened. ‘Wow, how did you get away with that?’
‘We were all home schooled. My mum thought it was better that way.’
‘Amazing. And Jamie got into Oxford. Your mum must be a totally cool teacher.’
Cat shrugged. ‘I suppose. But I don’t know what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. I’m not academic like James.’
‘Oh, something will turn up. You could always get a job as a chalet girl over the winter while you decide.’
‘What about you?’ Cat was eager to turn the talk away from her lack of prospects, a subject that had begun increasingly to dismay her.
‘Camden School for Girls,’ Bella intoned as if she were revealing she’d spent her youth in a penal institution. ‘Ma spent all the money sending our brother Johnny to a classy boarding school so there was nothing left for us girls. I’ve left now, though.’
‘And what are you going to do?’
‘I help out in the business. I’m learning as I go. It can be fun sometimes, but mostly it’s pretty boring and Ma can’t afford to pay me much, so it’s a bit of a dead end. I need to find me a man to pamper me.’
Before Cat could comment on this novel idea, they were overtaken by the weather. Although it had stayed fair for the outdoors performance, they felt a few drops of rain and took refuge inside the humid shelter of the glass and sandstone Palm House.
‘It’s like the tropics in here,’ Cat exclaimed. ‘I read this novel last year, it was, like, a prequel to Jane Eyre, you know? It was kind of the story of the madwoman in the attic?’ In spite of Bella’s blank look, she pressed on. ‘Anyway, it’s really atmospheric, you feel like you’re in the Caribbean yourself. And this—’ She spread her arms wide. ‘This is what it felt like.’
‘I wouldn’t mind being in the Caribbean myself, if I could be with Jamie.’
Cat still couldn’t get used to thinking of her brother as ‘Jamie’. It didn’t fit him at all. ‘I imagine he’d be quite good at knocking coconuts out of trees,’ she conceded.
‘I bet he goes totes brown in the sun, he’s got that kind of skin,’ Bella mused.
‘We all do,’ Cat said. ‘My mum says it’s because we all ran around half-naked like savages when we were small.’ She spun round on the balls of her feet, peering between dripping fronds and sheltering leaves, half-convinced that Henry Tilney must be somewhere nearby. ‘I really thought Henry would be here,’ she said wistfully.
‘If he was a zombie like in the play, he’d be lurking in some graveyard eating the dead,’ Bella said, dropping her voice to spooky depths.
Cat laughed. ‘I think I’d have noticed if he was one of the undead. They’re a bit obvious, Bella. But if he was a vampire . . .’ Her voice tailed off.
‘Oh yeah, if this was, like, a Twilight movie, he’d have to hide indoors on a sunny day like this.’ She gave Cat a gentle poke in the arm. ‘That’s it, he’s a vampire. That’s why he’s not around this evening. It’s way too bright for him to be outside.’
Cat giggled. It was a preposterous notion, but nevertheless it was the kind of absurd fantasy that they could have fun with. ‘And of course, yesterday was cloudy so he was able to be out in the daylight, just like in the Twilight books. And he had run all the way across town, he said. And everybody knows vampires can run really far and really fast.’
‘Was he, like, amazingly strong? Could you tell from dancing with him?’
Cat cast her mind back. It was true that Henry had manoeuvred her through the complicated dance moves with little apparent effort. She’d felt safe in his hands in spite of her clumsiness and there was no doubt that he had prevented her from violent collisions with other dancers on more than one occasion. ‘He never let me fall. I know it doesn’t sound much, but when you’re whirling round in an eightsome reel, believe me, it’s a big deal. Have you been to the Highland Ball?’
Bella rolled her eyes. ‘Only, like, every year.’
‘Then you know what it’s like. It must be quite terrifying to have a partner who doesn’t know what he’s doing. I bet people get hurt all the time.’
Bella shrugged. ‘I only dance with men who know what they’re doing. I wish Jamie was here, he’s a dreamy dancer.’
Cat frowned. She’d never seen her brother dance willingly at parties, never mind master the intricacies of Scottish country dancing. She thought Bella’s assertion a wild statement of faith in someone she knew rather less well than she supposed. ‘I guess we’ll never know,’ she said. ‘Since he’s not here.’ She sighed. ‘Do you think Henry’s gone back home? Without saying?’
‘Even if he has gone home, I bet he’ll be back soon as.’ Bella turned and took Cat’s face in her hands, gently moving it this way and that to catch the light. ‘I mean, now he’s seen how pretty you are, he won’t be able to stay away. Didn’t you say he’s a lawyer too? Maybe he knows Jamie. Maybe he can persuade Jamie to take a weekend off and come to Edinburgh? How hard can that be?’
They emerged into the evening air, relieved to be out of the humidity of the palm house. They found Martha Thorpe and Susie Allen sitting on a tartan rug sipping white wine spritzers on a grassy bank. Mr Allen was nowhere to be seen, and the women were engaged in a form of parallel monologue. Martha talked about her children and Susie about her wardrobe. Neither seemed to notice that their twin tracks had no connection; they were content to be in conversation with someone who never tried to wrench the discussion away from their favoured subjects.
Cat and Bella sat on the top of the bank, arms round their knees, leaning companionably into one another, comparing notes about the events they were most looking forward to at the Book Festival and discovering with delicious pleasure that they were of one mind on most of their selected authors.
The only surprise for Cat was that she seemed to have read much more widely than her new friend. But she supposed when you grew as old as Bella, there were more calls on your time and fewer opportunities to spend the evening on a chaise longue with a book. Certainly the Thorpes seemed to watch a great deal more television than the Morlands, whose viewing was, of financial necessity, restricted to those channels that were available free of charge. Their options were further circumscribed by their parents’ conviction that all soaps and most dramas were absurd and therefore not worth the time they demanded. Cat found little hardship in this edict, since there was always something else she would rather be doing.
But that evening in the Botanics, she luxuriated in sharing an intense conversation about the novels she inhabited in her imagination. This was entirely a novelty for Cat, since she was the only member of her family who set any store by fiction. Their views baffled her; fiction seemed to Ca
t to be the highest form of the writer’s art, depending as it did on the resourceful application of creativity and the necessity of direct communication with the reader.
For historians and writers of narrative non-fiction, all the building blocks of their work were already in place. They had nothing more to do than gather them and construct a pretty edifice. Conversely, the writers of fiction began with nothing other than the contents of their heads and their understanding of the human condition. They must comprehend the deepest and strangest elements of emotion and behaviour and render them accessible to those who lacked their wit and skill.
Poets, it might be argued, also relied on their own emotional and intellectual resources. But Cat had serious doubts about poets. She firmly believed that while some could thrill and excite, too many failed the fundamental test of communicating with their readers. The more obscure their verses, the more praise they appeared to garner. Annie had attempted to convince her that T. S. Eliot was a writer of incomparable ability but Cat had rebelled on the second page of The Waste Land. ‘Honestly, Mum, how can you say someone’s a great writer if you’ve no hope of understanding their work unless you’ve got a stack of reference books next to you? It’s just showing off. If I behaved like that in front of other people, you’d totally tell me off when we got home. So why is it all right for T. S. Eliot to swagger about like a complete know-all and make the rest of us feel stupid?’
Not for the first time, Annie had struggled to find an answer to her eldest daughter’s candour. ‘It’s a challenge,’ she’d finally said. ‘It makes you think. It makes you look beyond your own narrow horizons.’
‘But reading the Twilight novels makes me think,’ Cat replied defiantly. ‘Just because you’re not interested in thinking about the same things doesn’t mean it’s worthless.’
