by Jane Holland
A few minutes later, shakily sweeping up the glass with a dustpan and brush, I hear him thumping about the bedroom overhead, opening and slamming drawers. So he wasn’t kidding about packing his stuff. I can’t decide whether I’m glad or sorry that he’s leaving. My head is so full of contradictions that I can’t reconcile, it feels like I’m going to explode.
Ruby comes downstairs and stands in the kitchen doorway, looking at me. The sympathy in her eyes is almost too much to bear.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispers, ‘I couldn’t help overhearing most of that. You were both speaking quite loudly.’ She crouches to pick up a large jagged piece of glass near the door that I missed. ‘Did he hurt you, love? Do you want me to call someone?’ I shake my head, holding out the dustpan, and Ruby drops the glass shard into it gingerly. ‘I’ll be a witness if you need me to.’
‘It’s fine. He’s leaving anyway.’
She doesn’t seem surprised, nodding. ‘Easier, I suppose. Especially on your poor mum.’ Her gaze moves to the bank statements strewn about the kitchen floor, and she bends to pick one up, clucking her tongue. ‘So he was in financial trouble all along. That’s awful.’
I take the bank statement away from her and collect the others. ‘These belong to him. Not us.’ I put them in a little stack on the hall table, where I hope he’ll see them when he leaves.
Who sent them to me? Someone who wants me to know what Logan is really like underneath the charm and the lies about how busy he’s been at work. But is it the same person who sent me the poison pen letters? Because although the delivery method is the same – a hand-delivered envelope with just my name on the front – I’m not sure if the handwriting is the same. It might be, but right now, I can’t get my brain to engage. Besides which, I no longer possess those letters; the police kept hold of them for their investigation. Though ‘investigation’ is a bit of a joke, seeing as I’ve heard nothing from them since. Too busy dealing with real criminals, no doubt.
‘You poor thing; you look done in. Shall I make us both a nice cuppa? And one for your mum too. I can’t believe she’ll have slept through that row.’ Ruby touches the kettle with the back of her hand. ‘Looks like it only needs a quick reboil.’
‘Thank you.’ I stop in my tracks, staring at my reflection in the hall mirror; she’s right, I look awful. My cheeks are intensely pale compared to my red-rimmed eyes, the lids of which are swollen. I’m crying again and can’t seem to stop, the taste of salt in the corners of my mouth.
‘I… I’m sorry I woke you.’
‘Don’t be silly, love, I was getting up anyway.’ Ruby looks at my face, and then gives me a quick hug. ‘Hey, no more of these waterworks. Do you hear?’ She tidies my dishevelled hair, tucking a few strands behind my ears. ‘Who needs men, eh?’
‘Me,’ I stutter, though in fact I’ve managed fine without a boyfriend for the past two years.
If being lonely and depressed counts as ‘fine’.
‘Even so, there’s no point worrying. With your looks, and this beautiful big house, you’ll soon find another man. A better man.’ Her smile is reassuring. ‘Trust me.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I’m supposed to be working on Calum’s book as a matter of urgency, but instead I spend the whole of the day with my mother. It feels like the right thing to do after the horror of what she’s been through recently. Also, part of me doesn’t want to face the reality of my sudden, cataclysmic split with Logan or that I have to go to the police about Mum’s cigarette burn. Could it really be Logan who hurt her? Or Mr Adeyemi, perhaps? Either way, it happened because I was too busy looking the other way to notice.
I feel so consumed with guilt and fear, my stomach turns over whenever I think about it, and I can’t breathe.
But I need to tell somebody about this.
Today.
Much to her bemusement, I snap a few photos of Mum’s bare shoulder with my phone’s camera while changing the dressing on her burn.
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell her when she tries craning her neck to see what I’m doing, ‘it’s just so I can ask the… the doctor about it later.’ I’ve decided not to mention the police to her. She would only get frightened.
‘Ask her about what?’
I push the phone into my jeans pocket. ‘Never mind.’
To my relief, the circular red mark on her shoulder is healing. It’s grown paler overnight and looks a lot less gruesome than when I first spotted it. Mum seems to have lost interest in it altogether. But that doesn’t mean I can just forget about it. She’s been tortured, basically, and it may turn out to be my fault to some extent.
I’ll have to live with that guilt for the rest of my life.
Determined to see my mother happy again, I make a last-minute appointment with a mobile hairdresser who specialises in dementia patients. She turns up late morning with her scissors and an endless selection of amusing anecdotes about her job, which keeps Mum happy for a few hours.
‘I swear, it’s taken ten years off you,’ the hairdresser insists, showing her the back view with a hand mirror. ‘You look gorgeous, Celeste.’
Mum smiles and pats her hair. ‘I do a bit, don’t I?’
Afterwards, I look out some pretty clothes for her to wear, and we watch a black and white movie together on the sofa, one of her favourites with a drawling Humphrey Bogart in the lead role.
Ruby makes fruit shakes in the blender, and the three of us drink them together while listening to music and chatting about Dad and Ciaran, the glory days when we used to go skiing or climbing as a family and nobody could have predicted the dark days we inhabit now. Ruby sits with Mum to look at old photograph albums, exclaiming over Ciaran’s good looks and admiring Mum and Dad’s wedding photos, and Mum looks radiant, tracing her husband’s face with wonder and trying his name for the first time in ages.
‘Peter,’ she says, tentatively at first, and then with pleasure and increased certainty. ‘I was so in love with him, you know. Perfect Peter.’
Ruby nods. ‘He does look perfect, your husband. And Peter’s one of my favourite names.’
Mum gives a happy noise under her breath, and hugs her. ‘I like you,’ she tells her deliberately. ‘Ruby. One of my favourite names.’
Later, I nip to the loo, and while there, feel a notification chime from the mobile in my pocket. Wishing I could just ignore it, I hook the phone out and stare down at the lit-up screen in dismay.
Need you at the festival tonight. Here’s a link to the event. Meet me in the green room 6.00 pm.
I groan.
Bloody Calum Morgan.
I’d forgotten; he has a festival interview tonight at a London venue, one of those on-stage events where an expert or fellow writer grills the great author for an hour in front of a paying audience, the two of them probably in leather armchairs with a projected image of Calum and his various books on the wall behind them.
The ‘green room’ is the hospitality area at festivals like this for authors and their guests, such as editors or agents. Calum dumped his agent last year and hasn’t signed with a new one yet, so I guess I’m his only possible plus-one.
Festival interviews or panel discussions are the kind of publishing-related event I particularly loathe and have always avoided attending in the past. It’s always hot and crowded, and we’re expected to smile and look upbeat no matter what. Calum is notorious for hating them too, yet has agreed to this one, and it’s hard not to question that uncharacteristic decision. He’ll be surrounded by hundreds of adoring fans tonight. So why does he need me there as well?
It’s not hard to find the answer. Now I’m his editor, it seems I’m expected to form part of that rapt, sycophantic audience too.
If only his fans knew what a sleazy, self-serving git Calum Morgan is, I think, maybe they wouldn’t be so quick to buy his books or swallow the worthless snake oil he peddles at these events. But then again, it’s the age of the self-serving git. So maybe they wouldn’t care.
&nbs
p; I can’t go, however. He’ll be furious but there’s no help for it.
This evening has been earmarked for a very different kind of outing; I still need to go and show the police those photos I took of Mum’s burn mark, and admit my suspicions about who did it. Delaying overnight while I weighed up my options was one thing. But if I wait until tomorrow to report what is essentially a physical assault, they’ll quite rightly ask why on earth I didn’t call them the same day I noticed it.
I can already imagine PC Plimley’s face, the taut cheeks and narrowed lips, like she’s sucking a lemon. ‘You ought to have come to us straightaway, Miss Kinley,’ she’ll say, and she’d be right.
Mum could be taken away from me if it looks like I’ve been neglecting her care, and she wouldn’t understand that. It would break her heart.
I hesitate, then stab out a few pithy words and hit send.
Can’t, sorry. Mother’s birthday.
Yes, it’s a little white lie, but what the hell? I’ve been getting quite good at telling little white lies recently. I’ve developed a talent for it, in fact.
I’m washing my hands when Calum’s equally pithy reply arrives with a triumphant chime.
Tough shit, princess. Be there or you’re fired again.
*
I decide to go to the police on my way to the festival. But when I finally say goodbye to Mum and head outside, it’s cold enough to snow and the car decides not to start, which makes it feel like the gods are laughing at me.
I prop open the bonnet and peer inside, but have no real idea what I’m looking at. The engine won’t even turn over. Is the battery dead? That can happen in cold weather.
I find my breakdown recovery card and call for home assistance, but am told it could take anything up to two hours to get to me. Apparently, it’s been a busy day for call-outs, and I’m not a priority, being at home.
It’s half past four and decidedly gloomy by the time I give up the wait and any idea of reaching the police station today. I dare not stand Calum up.
‘Here are my car keys,’ I tell Ruby, who’s hovering in the hallway. ‘I can’t wait any longer. Give the mechanic my mobile number when he arrives, and if there’s a charge for a new battery, I’ll pay over the phone.’
‘You’re going out?’ Ruby looks surprised.
‘I’ve got a publishing thing. Calum Morgan’s latest book. He’s doing a festival spot.’
Her face is blank. ‘Calum who?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Well, let me give you a lift to the station, at least. It’ll be getting dark soon.’
‘I don’t want to disturb Mum. I’ll walk, it’s fine.’
‘Oh, Celeste’s taking a nap,’ Ruby says cheerfully. ‘I’m sure we can leave her in the house on her own for twenty minutes.’
‘I’d rather not risk it. But thanks for the offer.’ She follows me to the front door and watches as I head off up the drive on foot. ‘I’ll try not to be back too late.’
‘Enjoy yourself,’ she calls after me.
Frustrated and a bit panicked at the idea of being late for Calum’s big interview, I speed-walk breathlessly to the bus stop in the gloomy dusk, despite the discomfort of my heels, and catch the first bus that’s heading in the direction of the train station.
The upside of not having the car with me is that I’ll be able to drink while listening to Calum boring for Britain on stage tonight. But it also means having to walk home from the station later in the dark, which I hate doing. Unless I fork out for a taxi…
It’s even colder in central London for some reason. The pavement is icy, and I nearly slip over twice. But eventually, I squeeze into the packed venue, showing my ID at the desk where it seems Calum has told them to expect me.
I’m ushered through to the green room and enveloped in a bear hug by Calum, who’s showing off for the others there.
‘My editor, Kate Kinley,’ he introduces me with every evidence of pride, though I’m surely the least important person in the room.
But two of the older men there, due to appear on a panel in another space at the same time Calum is being interviewed on stage, look me up and down with envious eyes. Their editors, they tell us conspiratorially, are almost as old as them. And male.
I barely have a chance to secure a large glass of gin before Calum is taken away backstage, and I’m shown to my reserved VIP seat on the front row. I sip my drink, wave a greeting to the few other publishing people in the room that I actually know, and prepare to be very bored.
But actually, Calum turns out to be incredibly entertaining to listen to. He makes the audience laugh and wipe away a tear, sometimes with the same anecdote. I find myself frowning along with everyone else when he describes the rough patches he’s been through, his years as the CEO of an unsuccessful business and his wreck of a first marriage, and have to remind myself testily that maybe ten per cent of what he says is genuine, the rest bullshit.
I notice, however, that in this breath-taking saga of disaster and redemption, he fails to mention that his second wife has also now left him. No doubt because that would look too much like carelessness.
Afterwards, there’s a kind of sprawling, impromptu party between those guests who choose to stay for a drink rather than drifting out with the rest of the audience. I try to slip away as the event comes to a close, but Calum spots me and links his arm with mine, insisting that I hang on until he’s had a chance to talk to me in private.
‘I have to do some schmoozing. But we still need to talk about the manuscript,’ he reminds me. ‘Promise me you won’t leave yet.’
I force a smile. ‘I promise.’
A group of us start out politely sipping our drinks in the bar area while discussing how the interview went and the week-long literary festival in general. But we end up spilling outside onto a raised, spotlit area of decking with tall potted shrubs, behind which Calum is able to smoke unseen by the disapproving venue staff, ignoring the ‘No Smoking’ signs everywhere. He seems to take delight in breaking the law, deliberately stubbing out his cigarettes in the plant pots and grinning at my discomfort.
His most devoted fans keep turning up, begging him to sign copies of his books or trying to get him alone, something he always strenuously resists, though with tremendous charm.
At intervals, other festival authors come and sit with us for a chat, some of them very interesting.
He greets these writers warmly, but as soon as they’ve gone, Calum laughs, rolls his eyes and manages to insult them in some indefinable way. Especially the women.
Several times I try to get him to discuss his book with me, since he won’t let me go until he’s done so. But Calum constantly dismisses me, saying, ‘Soon, soon. I’m not ready yet.’
With nothing better to do, I order more tall gins and knock them back, pushing away thoughts of Logan and my mother. I know I shouldn’t get drunk. It’s one of the cardinal rules for editors at author events. Stay sober! But the alcohol helps me forget what an unholy mess I’ve made of my life. Always trusting the wrong people, making all the wrong decisions…
By the time they throw us out, shortly after midnight, I can’t walk straight anymore, and the alarm bells that jangle at my nerves when Calum slips an arm about my waist don’t seem important anymore.
‘The festival committee has put me up in a hotel just round the corner,’ he tells me, waving goodbye to the others and steering me away down the dark street. ‘Come and have a nightcap, Kate. It’s too early to call it a night. Then we can talk properly about this book of mine. Just you and me. I think you’ve worked miracles with it so far, by the way.’ His smile is misty, his words slightly slurred. ‘Such a talented little editor.’
‘Thanks. But I ought to get home.’
‘Plenty of time for that. Your mum’s birthday, isn’t it?’ He checks his watch, blinking at the display. ‘All over now, I’m afraid. She’ll be in bed.’
For a moment, I’m confused, frowning at him. Then I rememb
er my fib about it being Mum’s birthday.
‘I expect so. And that’s where I need to be too.’ I hiccup loudly, and clap a hand over my mouth in dismay. ‘Pardon.’
He merely laughs, his arm tightening about me. I look down at his hand, which is resting just below my right breast, and wonder how offended he’ll be if I push him away.
‘You are pardoned,’ he says. ‘It was a great night, wasn’t it?’
‘Fab.’
‘I’m glad we’ve managed to get past our differences.’ He seems to be manoeuvring me down a narrow alley between high buildings. ‘I think you can help me reach a new readership, Kate. A younger readership.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Told you. My hotel. This is a shortcut.’
‘No,’ I say more firmly, coming to a halt beside some yellow, industrial-sized bins. ‘It’s after midnight. I’m not going back to your hotel.’
‘But we need to talk.’
‘We can talk on the phone. Or over lunch again. With… with Harry.’
‘Fuck Harry.’
I ignore his muttered obscenity and look around, trying to shake off the alcohol haze and regain my bearings.
‘Where… Which way’s the tube station?’
‘Come on now, don’t be annoying.’ His arm draws me closer. His clothes stink unpleasantly of fag smoke, and my nose wrinkles. ‘I’ve got pink gin in my room. And a bottle of tonic. I bought them especially for you, Kate.’
‘Calum, I need you to let me go now.’
‘You’re such a bloody tease.’ The words are spoken lightly, but I sense a real threat under them. ‘All you bitches are the same,’ he adds, looking me up and down, an unpleasant flicker in his eyes. ‘You flirt and flirt. But underneath it, you’re uptight and puritanical…’
I have a vague memory of Cheryl warning me not to be alone with him, but even as the thought flashes through my head, it’s already too late. Calum pushes me against the brick wall beside the bins. He’s much larger and stronger than me, fumbling for my breasts while also trying to kiss me with sour whisky breath. His body weight keeps me pinned there for a terrible few moments, like a caught butterfly.
