by Fanny Blake
He looked startled as, with a rush of emotion, she clutched his hand. Then he cleared his throat. ‘Sis, do you think we could talk?’ The scuffing of his foot intensified.
‘What? Now? Hardly the ideal moment for a heart-to-heart.’ She could feel his hand pulling away from hers, but she held on. Eve had said he hadn’t been himself since the redundancy, and Rose now saw that for herself. Terry had diminished in every way; not just in confidence, but physically too. His suit hung loosely from his shoulders.
‘Well, perhaps when all this is over.’ He freed his hand with a sudden pull.
‘All this?’ Rose wrapped her arms around herself instead. ‘For God’s sake, Terry. This is Daniel. I’m trying to come to terms with what’s happened. I know it’s a difficult time for you too, but you can’t expect me to behave as if he’s just popped out to get a sandwich.’
He ran a finger between his collar and his neck, as if it would help him breathe. ‘Of course not. You know I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. But we do need to talk about the hotels. About what’s going to happen.’ A note of something like desperation had crept into his voice.
‘We do. We will,’ she reassured him, sympathetic but firm. ‘Just not during Dan’s memorial.’
He sighed as if all the cares of the world had been piled on to his shoulders.
‘Terry, is something wrong?’ Those years when her little brother depended on her came rolling back. With four years between them, if he fell, she’d be there to find the Elastoplast; if he wanted a sandwich, she’d make it. Once he had tripped down the stairs and badly gashed his head. Their parents, notorious locally for their hands-off approach to parenting, couldn’t be found. By the time the two children arrived at the doctor’s, a half-hour walk away, they were both bloody and hysterical. Not long afterwards, thanks to a rich and generous godfather, Terry had been sent away to boarding school. ‘Make a man of him,’ they’d said. But it wasn’t a man who came back, just an introverted, gauche teenager with whom she had little in common. She had gone to university and they’d rarely seen each other until he was in his twenties. ‘You can talk to me,’ she added, ashamed of the little bit of her that hoped he wouldn’t.
He shook his head, still concentrating on the carpet. ‘I can’t,’ he muttered.
‘Are you in some kind of trouble?’ She leaned towards him.
His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. ‘No. Nothing to worry about. We’ll talk another time.’ He stepped away from her. Before she had time to say anything more, two old friends came up to offer their condolences, and her concentration was focused on them.
After a few more quiet words with her, Eve left Jess to find Adam, knowing that she would find the comfort she wanted with him. Will was still behind her, waiting.
‘I’m impressed,’ he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘You averted a full-scale international incident.’
‘I feel so sorry for them. Especially Jess. She was very close to Dan.’ Will didn’t need to know the full story of what had happened.
They followed the line through to the buffet, filling their plates then returning to the lounge, where they found an empty sofa and began to talk. Half an hour later, their food remained largely uneaten, knives and forks still wrapped in their red napkins. However, Eve was beginning to wish that she hadn’t followed his suggestion to accompany him to the buffet so impulsively. The emotion of the occasion itself, the wine, the shock of seeing Will had all combined to fling her at him before she’d had time to think. He was giving her a heart-rending account of his personal life. His relationship with Martha, the woman he’d left her for, had bitten the dust years earlier and he was now widowed, his wife, Lindsay, having died of ovarian cancer a couple of years ago. His children, Jamie and Tess, were in their teens and mostly lived with their aunt because Will was away travelling so much on photographic assignments. Eve was torn between listening to his story and walking off to find Rose and to check that Terry was all right. But attraction (she couldn’t deny it) and a reckless excitement kept her there. If anyone had told her that, meeting him again, she’d have succumbed like this, she’d have laughed.
As she raised her glass, Charlie and Anna walked past. Even though she had no reason to feel guilty, she didn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea. After all, it wasn’t as if she’d be seeing Will again. This was just an unexpected but superficial catch-up. However, her son and her niece didn’t even give them a second look. Of course they didn’t. Middle-aged and invisible, that was all they were to the younger generation. On second thoughts, perhaps that was a good thing: invisibility could be liberating. She held on to that thought.
‘He’s one of mine.’ She gestured towards Charlie’s back: a wiry figure with an unmistakable limp from an old football injury. The packet of American cigarettes was still in his hand. Beside him, Anna had paused to roll another of those hideous-smelling things she insisted on smoking. Eve could never understand why Rose didn’t make a fuss.
‘Yours?’ Will sounded surprised. ‘Somehow I’d never imagined you with children.’
‘You probably thought I’d stay single, devoted to your memory for the rest of my life. If you thought at all.’ She’d heard enough. He was the one person who had ever really hurt her. After everything that had once gone on between them, she didn’t have to put up with anything he said any more. She took her plate and began to stand.
‘That’s not what I meant.’ He grasped her wrist to stop her leaving. ‘I don’t even know why I said that. Sit down, Evie. Don’t go yet.’
His touch sent a shockwave through her. She saw the appeal in his eyes.
‘Please.’ That familiar twist of the mouth into a half-smile, the right eyebrow raised. Those small things that had made her unable to resist him in the past.
Aware that whatever she did next, leaving or staying, was likely to be something she might regret, she hesitated. Without warning, an impetuous desire to ginger up the routine of her life took over. She looked around. Terry must be in the dining room. He’d be all right. She unrolled her knife and fork from the napkin, smiled and sat down again.
‘Have you met Simon Connelly?’
Jess was introducing Rose to someone she didn’t immediately recognise. Tall, in his forties perhaps, he looked newly scrubbed, his face smooth, his hair gelled back. His suit was obviously expensive and worn with ease. He offered her his right hand.
‘No, I don’t think so.’ He had a good firm handshake, but despite going through the motions, Rose’s attention remained on Jess. She was upset, although doing her best to hide it, but Rose could hear the effort it was costing her daughter to keep her voice steady, and saw her fiddling nervously with the buttons on her jacket. She longed to reach out and comfort her.
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ There was something soothing about his northern accent.
She inclined her head. ‘Thank you. How did you know Daniel?’ How many of these conversations could she bear? None of them would bring him back.
‘Simon’s just moved down from Edinburgh. He was behind the renovation of the Arthur,’ Jess interrupted. ‘He’s an architect.’
‘Really? You did a good job.’ Rose’s sudden consuming thought was how overwhelmed she was with fatigue.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Charnock?’ He leaned forward, concern in his eyes. ‘Perhaps you should sit down.’
‘Yes, I think I will. Thanks.’ Jess on one side of her, and Simon on the other, the three of them walked into the lounge, where they found a group of empty chairs. Rose sank into one, feeling relief zing through her body.
‘Can I get you some tea?’ Simon’s voice was warm, concerned.
‘Let me,’ interrupted Jess, jumping to her feet. ‘Mum, I wanted you to talk to Simon, because we’re hatching some great plans for Trevarrick.’
‘Plans?’ Had Jess spoken about them before? Rose couldn’t remember. And the last thing she wanted right now was to hear about them. Her mind was as far from Trevarrick as it coul
d be.
Today was about family, about Daniel, nothing else. As much as she loved the place, she couldn’t contemplate a conversation about renovating it, or whatever else Jess had in mind. Across the room she noticed Eve and Will deep in conversation. What on earth was Eve up to? She hadn’t noticed before how remarkably low-cut her dress was. Quite daring for a woman their age. But that was one of the things that made Eve such fun: she wore what she wanted. Rose looked down at her own neatly buttoned shirt, her tailored suit. She must look ten years older than Eve at least. Eve’s legs were crossed, a definitely fuck-me shoe hanging off the foot that she flexed and pointed in the air. Rose glanced at her own boots, smart but dull by comparison. Will leaned towards Eve, said something, and they both laughed. How animated Eve looked, as if life was as good as it had been when she was young. Rose hadn’t seen her look like this for years.
‘Don’t worry.’ Simon had stood up and was bending over her. ‘We can talk about all that another time. This isn’t the moment. I’ll leave you to recover.’
She didn’t have the energy even to object politely as he turned away, pausing to have a word with Jess as she returned with the tea.
‘Sorry, Mum. I’m so excited about our ideas, but stupid of me to think you’d want to hear about them now. I’ll fix something else. Here.’ She put the cup and saucer on the table and sat down. She’d put a couple of chocolate bourbons in the saucer: Rose’s favourites. ‘These’ll help. I bet you haven’t eaten a thing.’
Grateful, Rose took one, biting off a bit of the top layer: old childhood habit. ‘Thanks. But have you had anything? You’re looking terribly pale.’ As she drank the tea, she listened to Jess’s reassurances that of course she was fine – not really hungry and just a silly argument with Anna – nothing, really. Despite her very real concern for her daughters and her awareness that the day was as much of a trial for them as it was for her, Rose couldn’t give Jess her full concentration now that she had the opportunity. Everything she said, she heard with half an ear. All the time her eyes were fixed on Eve and Will.
15
Eve’s head throbbed as she opened the cupboard in the corner of her office that did as a kitchen. She pressed a couple of headache pills out of the blister pack she kept there for emergencies. She filled up the kettle, flicked it on, then washed up two mugs that had been sitting in the sink for the last couple of days. Habit had her spooning instant coffee into both mugs, sugar in one, milk in the other, before she realised what she’d done. Amy was no longer part of the Rutherford Literary Agency. She poured the water into both anyway. That extra caffeine would get her through the morning.
First knocking back the pills with a glass of water, she took her coffee over to her desk. Across the room was her new non-caffeine-drinking assistant’s. She blessed the day she’d heard of May Flynn, a promising editorial assistant who had been made redundant in a swingeing round of corporate cuts at Customhouse Books. What a difference May had made to her life, although she had yet to make much of an impression in the office itself. Eve couldn’t help but still notice Amy’s absence. Amy had cleared out, taking all her file copies, all the small gifts from grateful authors. Her pinboard, to the left of the desk was denuded of the funny postcards, bits of paper, photos of Amy with clients at this occasion and that. May had stuck up a few things of her own, but without the familiar chaos from before. The low bookcase that ran by the wall had been left like a mouthful of rotting teeth, full of gaps where Amy had removed the books she wanted. May had swiftly reorganised them, ordering the replacements they needed, but it remained far from full.
Eve cradled her head in her hands. God, she felt awful. She should have gone easier on the wine once they got home after
Daniel’s do, but Terry had shut himself in with the TV to watch whatever horse racing he had recorded and she had been left in the kitchen with her whirling thoughts. Will! After all these years, and how easily she’d let herself be swept along by the moment. Perhaps that was what came from being caught at a particularly low ebb. For four miserable months she’d been dealing with her grief privately, guilt-ridden for feeling Daniel’s loss so keenly when such deep-seated grief for him belonged to Rose, her dearest friend and his wife, not to her. She could not get out of her head the image of Rose bent over Daniel’s body where they had found him on the stony track, his face scarlet from having lain unprotected in the sun for what they were later told must have been almost three hours. Rose had cradled his head, brushing away the insistent flies. The only sound they heard from her was a second terrible animal-like howl that seemed to go on for ever. The three of them stood around her, shocked into immobility, waiting for the ambulance, until Anna’s racking sobs made Eve aware that she had to do something.
The loss of such an old and dear friend before his time had hit Eve hard. Not just because she missed him, but because his death had brought home to her the brevity of life and the imperative not to waste it. Will’s unexpected appearance had rocketed her back to those heady student days in Edinburgh when all things were possible and none of them had a care in the world. Being with him, even for that short time, had made her feel like that again, despite the thickening waistline and the other all-too-obvious signs of age.
Taking a sip of the scalding coffee, she thought about the day ahead. May wouldn’t be in. Her working part-time suited both of them, leaving May free to pursue her writing career on her days off and Eve to make some useful economies.
Amy had finally declared her hand when Eve had been back from Italy for about a week. Obviously, in Amy’s eyes at least, seven days was long enough for her boss to recover from the death of one of her closest friends. Eve had dragged herself into the office when a day under the duvet would have been infinitely preferable. Amy was already slotted in behind an unusually tidy desk.
She waited while Eve removed her coat and put her Tall Cappuccino and a skinny muffin – a comfort habit she’d since broken on the back of a briefly held New Year’s resolution – on her desk, before coming to stand in the middle of the room, centre stage.
Even now, Eve remembered looking round the edge of her computer screen, as Amy cleared her throat. ‘Something up?’ she’d asked, hoping that whatever it was wouldn’t take long. However much she didn’t feel like working, there was plenty to get through thanks to her protracted absence in Italy.
‘There is, actually.’ Amy shifted from one sheer-black-stockinged leg to the other, while Eve made a mental note to mention the unsuitability of the length of her skirt – it barely skimmed her buttocks – or was that too old-womanish for words? Probably. Did she care? No. Good impressions were important in business. She was adding it to the mounting list of must-dos that had already begun to crowd her mind, claiming her attention, when Amy began to speak.
‘The thing is, Eve. Well . . .’ She paused. ‘There’s no easy way to say this. I’ve decided to leave the agency.’
Eve took in the sharp but determined face, the discreetly applied make-up, the hair perfectly in place, the whitened teeth, the wide mouth, and felt . . . precisely nothing. Perhaps Amy’s leaving wouldn’t be such a bad thing. A nuisance, yes, but they weren’t working well together any more, and no one was irreplaceable. Except Dan. The words echoed in her head.
‘What’s brought this on? I thought you were happy here.’
‘I was. But I want to develop my career and I think I’ve got as far as I can get here.’
Eve raised her eyebrows, surprised by the young woman’s directness. ‘Are you joining another agency? Moving from Cambridge to London?’ That would be a natural progression for someone with her ambition. One of the big boys would hoover up Amy without a second thought and reward her with the freedom she wanted.
‘I’ve had a couple of expressions of interest, but I’m not sure. I’ll stay until you find someone else.’ She returned to her desk, subject closed, and didn’t address another remark to Eve for the rest of the morning.
Over the following weeks, Amy worked
out an awkward period of notice filled with frequent and mysterious absences that she never attempted to explain. An editor Eve knew had mentioned May’s name, and within a short time their arrangement was sealed and her terms of employment settled. By the time Amy left they were barely communicating at all. May joining the agency just before Chistmas came as a huge relief. She was bright and willing, was picking things up quickly and would soon be fulfilling exactly the role Eve had imagined for her. The clients liked her and Eve was back holding the reins of the agency.
Then a week ago, the trade press carried the announcement of a new London-based agency for children’s authors: AFA – the Amy Fraser Agency – running out of a Wandsworth address. Among Amy’s much-heralded initial client list were four authors who until that moment Eve had believed were represented by her.
The cutting was still on her desk. With a red pen she underlined the authors’ names: the first in what might be a haemorrhage if she didn’t react. At least these were four Eve could afford to lose if she absolutely had to. They were slow writers, and as far as she knew, they had nothing immediate in the pipeline. She was rather surprised that Amy wanted them, but the girl clearly had more cunning than Eve had credited her with. While Eve had mourned, functioning more on autopilot than anything else, Amy had gone behind her back, exploiting Eve’s state of mind, working the retirement story no doubt, insinuating her way into the clients’ trust until the first agreed to join her new venture. And unless Eve was careful, they might not be the last.
As Eve reached for the phone, she knocked her mug off the desk so that it bounced off a pile of papers by the side of her chair, then smashed against its leg. A tide of greyish lukewarm coffee washed everywhere. Mopping one of the rough (thank God!) illustrations for Rufus’s new book with a bit of kitchen roll, Eve felt a cosmic gloom threatening. Her agency was under siege, one of her oldest friends was dead, her children had left home, her marriage was far from fulfilling, and Will had reappeared. Could things get any worse?
