by Nicci French
‘So? She’s still meant to be my mum. She can’t just behave like a teenager herself. That’s supposed to be me. It feels scary sometimes. Like there’s no solid ground for me, so that everything shifts under my feet.’
This was so exactly what Frieda felt about Olivia that she took a moment to answer. ‘You’re right. And maybe you and I could talk to her about it, try to explain what you’re feeling and draw up some ground rules. But give her a chance to change as well. Leave doors open. She can be good at acknowledging when she’s wrong.’
‘Why should I give her a chance when she doesn’t even notice me?’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘I don’t think it, I know it. She’s so wrapped up in her own mess, she can’t see mine. I get home and I don’t know what I’ll find. Sometimes she’s drunk. Sometimes she’s crying. Sometimes she’s hyper and wants to rush out to the shops with me to buy me ludicrously expensive clothes or something. Sometimes she’s shouting at me about Dad and what a wanker he is. Sometimes she’s in the bath and she doesn’t even wash it out after she’s used it – she leaves hair and tide marks all over it. It’s disgusting. I have to clear up after her. Sometimes she cooks and sometimes she forgets. Sometimes she wakes me up in the morning for school and other times she doesn’t. Sometimes she’s all over me, hugging me and telling me I’m her precious darling or something, and sometimes she snaps at me for no reason. Sometimes Kieran’s there – actually, it’s best when he is. He’s calm and kind and he talks to me. She doesn’t ask about my work, she doesn’t open letters from school, she forgot to go to my last parents’ evening. She couldn’t care less.’
Frieda listened while Chloë talked and talked as though the floodgates had at last been opened to a gush of fear and wretchedness. She didn’t say much, but anger swelled inside her until she could barely contain it. Privately she made plans: she would talk to Olivia and make her see the consequences of her disordered life on her daughter; she would go with Chloë to talk to her teachers and draw up a plan of work; she would – this last resolution made her feel slightly dizzy, as if she was peering over a cliff edge – talk to her brother David.
Half a mile along Upper Street, in a new wine bar that had been extensively refurbished so that it looked as if it had been there unchanged since the nineteenth century, Harry was topping up Olivia’s wine glass. She took a sip.
‘It seems a bit cold,’ she said. ‘For a red wine.’
‘I think it’s meant to be cool,’ Harry said. ‘But I can get them to warm it up for you.’
Olivia took another sip, more of a gulp. ‘It’s fine. I’m sure you’re right.’
‘You know what they say, white wine is always served too cold and red wine too warm.’
‘No,’ said Olivia. ‘I didn’t know they said that. I just drink it, I’m afraid.’
‘Which is the right attitude,’ said Harry. ‘But what I’m really here to talk about is this.’ He put a folder on the table and pushed it across to her. ‘I’ve gone through everything. I’ve looked at your accounts and credit-card bills. I’ve drawn up a plan for you, made some suggestions. The situation isn’t as bad as you told me. And I’ve found some standing orders you’ve been paying for services you no longer get. I’ve written some letters for you to reclaim the overpayments, so you should get a bit of a windfall.’
‘Really?’ said Olivia. ‘That’s amazing. But I must say, I feel a bit embarrassed by all of this. I’ve dealt with my affairs for years by not opening letters or throwing documents away without looking at them and hoping for the best. And now you know all my most shameful secrets.’
‘That’s my job,’ said Harry. ‘Sometimes I feel a financial adviser ought to be like an old-fashioned priest. Your client, or parishioner, or whatever, has to confess everything, all the sins and omissions and evasions and then –’
‘And then you can give me absolution?’ said Olivia.
Harry smiled. ‘I can show that once you get everything into the open, look at all the figures, it’s not so bad. What causes problems is when you have secrets, when you don’t face up to things.’
‘It’s awful, though,’ said Olivia. ‘You’ve done so much for me and I didn’t … I can’t …’ She started to blush and covered her confusion by taking an even deeper gulp of wine.
‘That’s all right,’ said Harry. ‘I’ve been clear from the start. Frieda is paying for this and, between you and me, I’m doing it at a reduced rate.’
‘I don’t see how you can make a living, if you keep doing favours like this.’
‘It’s for my sister. She was helping Frieda and I’m helping Tessa.’
‘I didn’t know Tessa was such a friend of Frieda’s.’
‘They only just met,’ said Harry. ‘But Frieda’s the sort of person you hit it off with.’
Olivia gave a knowing smile. ‘Yes, isn’t she?’ she said.
Harry laughed. ‘I’ve got no ulterior motives,’ he protested. ‘I promise.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Olivia. ‘I believe it. So what do you make of my sister-in-law? You’re intrigued, aren’t you? Admit it.’
Harry held up his hands. ‘Of course I admit it. I’ve got to know Frieda and spent time with her but I still don’t really know what makes her tick.’
‘And you think I do?’
‘I can’t help noticing that you were married to Frieda’s brother and you had what I take to be a troubled break-up.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘Yet Frieda has stuck by you instead of her brother.’
Olivia picked up her glass but put it down again without drinking from it. ‘Maybe she feels she needs to keep an eye on her niece. Sometimes I’ve not been the most stable parent in the world.’
‘What about her brother?’
Olivia ran a finger round the rim of her glass. ‘I’ve never been able to get it to make that sound,’ she said, then looked drunkenly thoughtful. ‘Frieda has a very complicated relationship with her family.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Why don’t you ask her?’
‘I get the impression she doesn’t like being quizzed about her private life.’
‘She scared me when I first met her,’ said Olivia. ‘Sometimes she’d look at me or listen to me and I’d get the feeling she was looking right into me, knowing everything about me, all the things I didn’t want anyone to know. Like you, when you saw all my papers and cheque books that I’d kept hidden. I even used to wonder whether she had contempt for me. But when David left, I stopped hearing from quite a few people that I’d thought of as friends, but Frieda was there, admittedly sometimes being sarcastic or silent the way she can be, but she did things that were necessary. Or mostly necessary.’
‘Why does she do all this stuff with the police?’ asked Harry. ‘She’s been attacked, she’s been written about in the papers. Why does she put herself through it?’
Now Olivia took another gulp of wine and Harry topped up her glass once more. ‘Thanks. Is this how you normally meet with your clients? I hope not. Anyway, the thing is, when I decide to do something it’s because I know I can do it, and it won’t be too demanding and it won’t give me any grief. The basic way to understand Frieda is to look at me and then think the opposite. I don’t know why Frieda does these things, and when I hear that she’s done something, I never understand why. I don’t know why she helps me. I certainly don’t know why she puts herself through the purgatory of trying to keep Chloë on the straight and narrow.’ Another gulp of wine. Her voice was thickening now, as if her tongue was just slightly too large for her mouth. ‘For example. What was I saying?’ She paused for a moment. ‘Oh, yes. The newspaper article. I saw that, and if it had been about me I would have crawled into a hole and pulled the hole in after me. Whereas, Frieda, Frieda, she’s like one of those animals, a badger or a stoat. If you mess with their den, they become dangerous and … Well, I’m exaggerating. I’m making her sound feral. But she’s stubborn and bl
oody-minded. In a good way. Ninety-nine per cent of the time. Or ninety-five.’
Harry waited a moment. ‘I think Frieda has secrets,’ he said. ‘I mean, she’s someone with a hidden grief. Do you know what I mean?’
Now there was a long pause. Harry felt that Olivia was suddenly reluctant to meet his eyes. ‘It looks like you do know what I mean,’ he said. ‘And, as you can tell, I’m falling for her. I’d like to know.’
Finally she looked round. ‘Well, you know what happened with her father?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t.’
After Beth had finished with the photographs, there were his notes. There were pages and pages of them, and at first it was hard to make sense of what she was reading. Sometimes they seemed like short stories, and then they became lists – lists of odd things. Exercises to do to lose weight; plants and where to get them from. Some things had a neat tick by them, or were crossed off. There were figures but she couldn’t make any sense of those so after a while she stopped trying, although she knew that some of the numbers were quite long and had pound signs in front of them. Bit by bit she realized that she was reading about different people. They had names, addresses, dates of birth, relatives, jobs.
He had written about her parents and he had put down all the things they liked and didn’t like, all their hobbies, the charities they subscribed to and the events they attended. He had even done the same for her sisters. He had drawn a map of the house and garden, putting in the studio shed at the end where her mother played her cello sometimes and where her father kept his paints. She hadn’t grasped how closely he had listened to her and it made her eyes prick with tears to know that even when he’d seemed aloof he was thinking of her and looking out for her. He had left this for her, Beth thought, as a gift, and he had gone to such a lot of trouble – but why? She stared and stared at the words, until the lights in her eyes flickered and made her dizzy. She knew she had to find some food, make herself stronger.
She crawled out of the hatchway, her cheeks scraping against the metal rim of the opening. She hadn’t been out for a while and her body felt stiff, as though it had hardened into crookedness. She made herself jog up and down on the spot for a while, feeling how pain knifed in her chest and bounced up and down in her skull. Like those tennis balls she used to bounce on her tennis racket, counting up, trying to beat her record. When was that? She could almost see her fat child’s knees and the yellow sun, like a yolk, in the sky, but now everything was dim and dark and ragged, and the water was oily and when she walked, her body slid about on the muddy path.
She reached a boat she knew was inhabited. She wasn’t being careful enough, but perhaps it didn’t matter so much any more, because he was gone and everything was over, except the thing she had to do in his name. In his name. Like a disciple.
The lights were off and the boat felt deserted. There were bikes chained to the top, and when she scrambled on to the deck, the chains rattled and she lay quite still for a moment, flat against the icy wet wood, but nobody came. She pulled at the hatch and it creaked open, and she lowered her body into the snug interior. It was much, much nicer than hers. It was warm, neat, there was a good smell to it, of clean bodies and fresh food. You could call it a home. You couldn’t call hers a home. It was a hole. A dank ghastly pit. There was still enough light outside to see the shapes of things, and she found the small fridge and pulled it open. Milk. She took that out. Spreadable butter. Two wholemeal rolls. And there was half a chicken under shrink wrapping. Half a chicken. Golden skin. Plump thighs. Her mouth filled with saliva and she lifted the wrapping, tore off a piece of meat, stuffed it into her mouth and swallowed it almost without chewing. Blood roared in her head and she thought she might be sick. She tore another piece and pushed that in too. Her gashed lip hurt and her throat hurt and her stomach shrieked.
There was a sudden sound from the front of the boat, through the little closed door, and she froze, though fear coursed and thundered through her body. Someone was humming. Someone was there. A few feet away. Probably sitting on the toilet or something. They’d come out, find her with her mouth full of chicken. Call the police. Everything would be over. Finished. Wrecked.
She grabbed the chicken and the milk, pushed the tub of butter into her pocket, held the plastic bag with the rolls in her teeth and tried to clamber one-handed through the hatch. Her shoelace got caught in the corner and she yanked her foot hard. The humming stopped. She hauled herself into the air and stumbled across the wooden roof, then leaped on to the path, dropping the chicken into the mud. She picked it up and ran, her breath in sobs, the plastic bag still clenched between her teeth. Please please please please. She pushed her way through a thick, overgrown hedge beside the path, feeling the nettles brush her hands and, when she crouched down, her neck and face. A shape was standing on the deck of the boat, staring out. It lifted a torch and swung the beam around. She could see it bob across the water, the shattered buildings on the other side, the path, the hedge. She felt it in her eyes so she shut them and didn’t breathe.
The light went off. The shape disappeared. She waited. Her ankle throbbed. She took the bag of bread out of her mouth and laid it in front of her. She could smell the chicken, which made her feel both sick and excited. She didn’t know how long she waited, but at last she crept back on to the path and hobbled towards her boat, clutching her booty.
She’d done it. Now she had food and she could make herself strong again, enough to see her through. After that, it didn’t matter. She would have kept her promise to him. She chewed another piece of muddy chicken, grit in her mouth. His trusty soldier, his servant, his beloved.
Forty-three
Frieda caught the fast train from King’s Cross. It took less than fifty minutes, speeding her out of London and into Cambridge before she had time to change her mind. She stared out of the window, watching London as it blurred into meadows and waterways and the back gardens of houses facing a road she couldn’t see. There were newborn lambs in some of the fields, and banks of daffodils. She tried to concentrate on the landscape rushing past and not think about what lay ahead. Her mouth was dry and her heart beat faster than usual, and when she arrived in Cambridge, she went first to the Ladies to check how she looked. The face that stared back at her from the tarnished mirror above the chipped basin was quite composed. She was wearing a dark grey suit and had tied her hair back severely; she appeared professional, competent, unyielding.
She had wanted to meet somewhere public, preferably his office among the computers and strangers, but he’d told her he would be working from home that day: if she wanted to see him, that was where she had to come. His territory and his terms. She had never been there and he had had to give her the address. She had no idea what to expect – whether his house would be in town or out of it, large or small, old or new. It was out, about ten minutes by cab, into leafy semi-countryside, or tastefully rural suburbia; large, though not as large as some of the houses in the village; and moderately old, with a red-tiled roof, gabled windows, a porch over the front door, a willow tree in the drive whose branches fell almost to the gravel. It was nice, Frieda admitted to herself. Of course it was. He’d always had good taste or, at least, he’d always had the same kind of taste as her. However far you run from your family and try to expunge them from your life, they follow you.
The man who opened the door when Frieda rang was noticeably her brother. He was slim, dark-haired, although his hair was turning silver at the temples, dark-eyed, with high cheekbones and a way of holding his shoulders back that was her way, too. But, of course, he was older than he had been at their last meeting, and his face had tightened into an expression that was both angry and ironically amused. She hoped she didn’t look like that. He had dressed in a grey shirt and dark trousers, and she had the horrible feeling that he, too, had carefully chosen his clothes for this visit, and had chosen almost identically to her. They were almost like twins, she thought, and shuddered, remembering Alan and Dean.
>
‘David,’ she said. She didn’t smile, or step forward to hug him or even shake his hand. She simply watched him.
‘Well, well.’ He didn’t move either. They stared at each other. She saw a tiny pulse jumping in his cheek. So he was nervous. ‘I’m honoured, Dr Klein.’ He emphasized the ‘Dr’ as if mocking it.
‘May I come in?’
He stood back and she entered a spacious hallway, with a rug over the wooden floor, a chest to one side with a bowl of spring flowers on it, a portrait hanging on the wall. She wouldn’t look at that, she mustn’t – and she steadfastly averted her eyes from it as she followed David into the living room.
‘I’ve just made a pot of coffee,’ he said. ‘You told me you’d be here at half past three and I knew I could reliably set my watch by you. Ever prompt. Some things never change.’
Frieda squashed her impulse to refuse coffee, and took a seat while he went into the kitchen, returning moments later with two mugs.
‘Black, as usual?’
‘Yes.’
She was pleased to see how steady her hands were as she took a small sip. There was bitterness in her mouth, and the coffee tasted hard and full of minerals.
‘Still treating the diseases of the rich?’
‘I’m still working as an analyst, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I’ve been reading about you in the paper.’ David slid his eyes across her face to gauge her reaction. Frieda felt as if someone had jabbed her with something sharp. ‘Very interesting.’
‘I’m here to talk about Chloë.’
David’s smile thinned into a straight line. ‘Is this about Olivia’s maintenance money?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve had enough of her complaints, and of her solicitor’s letters. Who is this Tessa Welles, anyway? She suddenly appeared out of the blue. I suppose that was your doing.’
