And she was still smarting from the exchange with her mother-in-law earlier that morning.
‘What you going in to work for on a Saturday?’ asked Ruthie. ‘When you don’t know if you still have a job? It’s not like a dead person can pay you.’
Mary didn’t answer at first. There was no arguing with Ruthie. She knew that from bitter experience. And she couldn’t rely on Kenny to stand up for her.
‘It’s the least I can do for Vanessa,’ she replied, eventually.
Ruthie scoffed.
‘Yeah. Cos she’d be right round here if Kenny died, helping you clear up.’
‘She probably would, actually.’ Mary didn’t see why she should have to defend Vanessa, but she felt protective.
‘She’ll sell that house and be off without as much as a thank you,’ predicted Ruthie. ‘You’ll be out of a job. And then where will we be? You need to go down there and ask what your situation is. Not waste your time helping out. You need to be businesslike.’ Ruthie jabbed a finger at her.
‘Leave her be, Mum.’ Mary was surprised to hear Kenny intervene. He barely offered an opinion on anything these days, unlike his mother.
For the first year after Kenny lost his job at the boatyard, he had been resigned to the situation. And optimistic, despite having had his livelihood snatched away: something he had thought would be with him for ever, the thing that provided his security and the rhythm of his life and his companions. But eventually the optimism had faded, as Kenny’s workmates all managed to find re-employment yet he didn’t have so much as an interview. There seemed to be no reason for it. He had no less experience than any of them. Gradually, the fight went out of him. He had, quite simply, given up. He had retreated further and further into himself. He barely spoke or did anything. It was all he could do to get dressed.
Mary tried to be encouraging and keep his spirits up, but it was very difficult to galvanise someone who didn’t want to be galvanised. She couldn’t find the key to unlock him. She accepted that the burden of bringing money into the house lay with her, a burden made easier by the fact she liked working for Spencer, and he paid her well. She assured Kenny that she didn’t mind being the breadwinner for the time being, but her reassurance only seem to compound his depression, not alleviate it.
Mary couldn’t understand how their lives had changed quite so drastically. When Kenny was in work, they’d had a lovely life. Nothing spectacular, but easy. They had their house, their two boys, enough money to get by and have the odd treat. No flash cars or exotic holidays – but when you lived in Pennfleet you didn’t need either.
But in one fell swoop, their boys had gone to live in Australia (a plumber and an electrician, both doing well), the boatyard had closed down, and Ruthie had arrived on the doorstep.
Ruthie had been a dancer on the cruise ships. She’d stayed on them even after she had Kenny, leaving him with her own mother. That was the real irony, that she’d been no mother to Kenny, yet now he felt a responsibility to her, even though she had effectively abandoned him for months on end as a child. And not, Mary knew, because she had to earn a living, but because she loved the life. The glitter, the glamour, the men.
Now, five stone heavier than she had been in her heyday, Ruthie held court in her pink velvet Parker Knoll in their front lounge, puffing away endlessly on her Richmond Superkings, her once dainty feet spilling out over the sides of her slippers. Her face was caked in make-up: her eyelids green, her lips sugar pink, and Mary wasn’t convinced she ever took it off fully. She watched endless daytime telly and sent Kenny out for scratchcards – the floor around her chair was littered with silver scrapings. Mary prayed she would win the big one and bugger off, but she never did, only the occasional tenner which covered her fags. Mary certainly never saw any of it.
Ruthie was Mary’s cross, and she had to bear her, because she didn’t have the heart to throw her out. She just didn’t. Her friends said she was too soft, but what was she supposed to do? Ruthie had been living with a man, in his house, and when they split she had found herself homeless. Mary couldn’t throw her out onto the street.
Pennfleet House was Mary’s respite. There, she could create order. She had the utmost respect for Spencer and adored Vanessa, and if theirs wasn’t the most conventional of marriages, they had found a way to rub along together. And they were good to Mary, both of them. She was paid handsomely, and in return she was at their beck and call and ran the house like clockwork.
It was her duty to keep things running smoothly at Pennfleet House, even if her future was uncertain. She filled up the large glass teapot – she hated it; hated seeing the bags floating about inside, but Spencer had preferred it over a traditional pot – and got herself a mug. She should have time to sit and drink it before the mourners surfaced. None of them had been early risers on previous visits, and there was no reason why they should start now.
And so, for the first time since she had discovered it, she was alone to ponder her problem. Her heart hammered as she turned it over in her mind. It made her feel sick, and she felt powerless. Petrified. It could change everything. Everything. And what was she to do?
Upstairs, Vanessa gradually came to as the sun crept up and slipped through the window, between the undrawn curtains, and cast a beam of light on her face. She didn’t want to open her eyes, not because of the light, but because she would have to face the day. And she wasn’t really sure about it yet. Spencer was dead, she knew that. The house was full of his entourage, none of them her fan-base. She’d bunked off the funeral tea – no doubt some of them would have something to say about that.
And all she could really remember – all she wanted to remember – was a strong pair of arms and a warm pair of lips, kissing it all away. She remembered feeling safe and looked after. And then running away, because it was too good to be true. It was an illusion. It had to be, because fairy tales didn’t happen in real life. Besides, she hadn’t left behind a glass slipper for him to track her down. Though to be fair, he didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes …
She could still taste the cheap white wine she had drunk. She could feel the remnants of its chemical sweetness in her brain, leaving behind sketchy memories and a dull thud and a heaviness in her heart that only making a fool of yourself can bring. What a crazy thing to do, throwing herself at someone nearly half her age. Thank God no one had seen her. She cringed slightly as she thought about it, her cheeks pink and her underarms prickling.
Then she sat up. She couldn’t go under. It was her life. She could behave how she liked and no one could judge her. She should get up, jump in the shower, put on some clothes that made her feel strong and in control, then sweep down to the kitchen and meet her detractors face on, with no conscience. So she’d lost control for a minute there. So what?
She threw back the covers and leapt into a steaming hot shower that drove away the pounding of her head and her misgivings. She pulled on a pair of leather trousers, a big slouchy cream cable-knit sweater, dried her hair and put on foundation and mascara – just enough to disguise the ravages of time and a hangover.
In the kitchen she was met by a sea of faces, all sitting round the island while Mary Mac served coffee and tended a pan full of scrambled egg.
‘I hope you all slept well,’ Vanessa said, scooping up Frank Cooper and lugging him over to the fridge, where she pulled out the full cream milk that was his.
‘Where did you go?’ asked Karina, her voice loaded with accusation. She was power-dressed and in full make-up.
‘I wanted to be by myself.’ Vanessa put the cat down and filled his bowl, then stood up with the sweetest of smiles. ‘You all seemed to be making yourself at home well enough when I got back.’
The kitchen was immaculate. Last night it had looked as if a bomb had gone off. There wasn’t a glass or a plate or a crumb to be seen. Vanessa knew none of this lot would have lifted a finger. She felt a needle of guilt that she hadn’t either, but she would make it up.
She went over t
o the stove. ‘You sit down, Mary. I can do this. You’ve done enough.’
‘You’re all right,’ said Mary. ‘I’m at the crucial stage with the eggs.’ She whisked vigorously.
Vanessa poured herself a coffee.
It was odd, being here in the kitchen with all these people who had been such a big part of Spencer’s life. She could feel his absence. It left a huge vacuum. There was no momentum. Were Spencer here, the room would be filled with his restless energy. He would be showing off his latest piece of kitchen apparatus, making sure the eggs were not just free-range but that the chickens had been scampering about somewhere deeply fashionable and bucolic. And he would be making plans – probably involving Poseidon and a trip up the river to his favourite pub. He would have phoned ahead and given the pub rigorous instructions as to what they should be served. The pub didn’t mind, because he tipped heavily.
Today, however, the atmosphere was stolid and slack. Time hung heavy, in loops of torpor. There seemed to be no purpose. She missed him, Vanessa thought, and she was surprised to realise just how much. She still hadn’t addressed how she felt. Her feelings were suspended for the time being. She would unpack them when she was ready – spread them about and analyse them.
‘So, what time are you all off?’ she asked, in a light, cheery tone that said now wouldn’t be soon enough.
Karina sniffed. ‘It depends what time Daniella and Aiden get up. I don’t want to put them under pressure. They’re very cut up.’
‘Of course,’ said Vanessa, thinking that she would take Daniella up a cup of tea with lots of sugar in and see how she was.
With a bit of luck, they would all be gone by midday.
12
Nathan had thought Malcolm Toogood would be annoyed, but that he’d understand once he’d explained.
He didn’t understand at all.
‘You are totally irresponsible,’ he raged, pacing up and down in his office. The funeral directors’ was at the far end of town, on the edge of a small industrial estate. They’d moved there when it became clear that the old Victorian building they’d inhabited was ripe for conversion into profitable flats. There was a garage for the hearses and the funeral cars, the mortuary and private remembrance rooms, a memorial showroom, and the office. ‘I didn’t know where you were. Where she was. Or where the car was. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before, in over thirty years of undertaking. Where is the car?’
‘At the Neptune.’
‘Covered in seagull shit, I suppose. And you’ll be lucky if someone hasn’t scratched their keys down the side.’ Malcolm came to a halt by his desk, scattered with catalogues for coffins and headstones. ‘What if we’d had a funeral today?’
‘But we haven’t. I knew we hadn’t.’
Nathan felt as if his whole life was spiralling out of control. Malcolm’s fury seemed disproportionate. Nothing made sense this morning. Was he losing his mind?
‘You get the car back. You wash it. And then you go. That’s it. We’re finished.’
‘You’re sacking me?’ Nathan hadn’t believed Malcolm really would.
Malcolm glared at him. ‘Of course I am. I can’t have a driver who pisses off to the pub with a client. I can’t ever trust you again. You’ve let me down. And I might remind you there are plenty of people round here who’ll be happy to take your job. It’s not as if they are two a penny.’
Nathan knew that only too well. Bugger. That was going to dent a massive hole in his finances. It wasn’t big money, but it was regular and it was cash and it was handy. And it was a small town so it didn’t look good to get the sack. But he couldn’t argue with Malcolm. He had been irresponsible.
Although he liked to think he’d done some good. That he’d done the right thing. Followed his heart. Why did he have to follow the rulebook when it came to funerals? If taking Vanessa to the pub made her feel better about her grief, then surely it wasn’t wrong? The funeral industry was so hidebound. Everything had to be done to the letter.
Nathan knew there was no point in stating any of this to Malcolm, who was firmly against innovation or spontaneity; the closer he could stick to a Dickensian-style funeral the better, not least because anything out of the ordinary was difficult to price. Also, he knew that Malcolm would find it difficult to replace him. Apart from this one indiscretion, Nathan was discreet, reliable, an exemplary driver, he knew the area like the back of his hand (Malcolm had lost a hearse on more than one occasion due to a dodgy satnav) and he had just the right tone with mourners – he wasn’t intimidated by their grief. Plus he looked good. Say what you like, no one wanted an extra from the Addams Family driving their funeral car.
‘Fine,’ he said, and he tossed the keys on the desk. ‘If that’s how it’s going to be, you know where the Neptune is.’
And he walked out of the office. It was probably the most rebellious thing he had done in his life.
13
When she woke up late on Saturday – it was nearly midday; the tablets had done the trick – Kate wasn’t sure which emotion was uppermost: relief or dread.
Relief that the funeral was over and had passed off with no histrionics. Not that it had been likely to attract drama – her mother hadn’t been that sort of person. And actually, it had been perfect: Joy would have approved of everything, from the flowers down to the food. And Kate had felt uplifted by everyone’s kindness and generosity. A life well lived, that was what her mother had had, and Kate felt she lived on in everyone’s hearts.
Now she faced the task she had been dreading. She had to clear out the house and arrange for its sale. There was no one else to share the responsibility. She had to make the decision about whether to keep or throw every item in the house.
It was going to bring back so many memories. Of both her mother and her father. She was going to need all her strength. She and Joy had gone through her father’s things after his funeral, and had each other’s shoulders to weep on if they came across something that brought back a particularly poignant memory. It was always the things you least expected: the prosaic rather than the sentimental. The things that summed up a person. They hadn’t been ruthless, though, her mother being of the mindset that most items ‘might come in useful’. So they had really only thrown away his clothes, and even then not his boots or his jacket, which were still by the back door.
So this was going to be a purge. Kate was going to have to be very selective about what she kept, for she would have to take whatever it was back to New York. She had nowhere else, and no one to leave anything with.
It was daunting. On both a practical and an emotional level. It was going to be dusty, grubby work, so she put on track pants and a T-shirt. She decided she would go down to the café and get herself some food. Emotions always ran higher on an empty stomach, and she remembered Sam’s description of his breakfast. Hopefully it wasn’t too late.
‘Hey!’ Sam gave her a friendly smile. ‘How did it go?’
‘You know what?’ said Kate. ‘It was beautiful. The best goodbye.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘Now I need one of your breakfasts to stoke me up for the day. I have to clear the house.’
Sam made a face. ‘Tough work. You definitely need fuel for that one.’
‘And caffeine.’
‘Take a seat. I’ll bring it right over.’
Kate sat down by the window and picked up her phone to scroll through her inbox. It was habit rather than duty.
Carlos had sent three emails with alert flags. Call me. Please call. Call!!!!
Kate felt a flicker of fury. Carlos knew it was her mother’s funeral the day before. What kind of a monster was he? All he wanted was for her to discuss the Gloria Westerbrook fiasco, she knew it. She supposed she should be flattered that he was so reliant on her, but she wasn’t.
OK. If he wanted her to phone him so much, then she would. It would be early morning in New York.
The thought of it gave her a little satisfaction. She had two bars of s
ignal, just enough, so she dialled his cell.
He answered almost immediately. Did the guy never sleep?
‘Kate. Baby doll. I’m so glad you called. I have news. I have news.’
She gave a small sigh.
‘Really.’
‘We got the gig.’
There was so much pride in Carlos’s tone. He waited for a response. Kate could imagine the expression of anticipation on his face. He really was nothing but a child.
The gig was the contract to arrange one of the biggest charity balls on the New York social scene. Almost as grand as the Met Ball. It was a huge deal, to be fair, worth a lot of money to the company, as well as meaning their profile would shoot up. They would be inundated with work as a result.
But right now, she really didn’t care.
‘Carlos, that’s fantastic. I’m thrilled. Honestly.’ She knew she sounded uptight and English in her response. But then, she was uptight and English, right at this moment.
‘Honey, I don’t mind saying. It’s down to you. It was your proposal that swung it. Your pitch.’
It had taken her weeks. And she’d been proud of the presentation she had given to the committee. She had everything covered; she fired back at their barrage of questions. She was much better at pitching than Carlos, who got too emotional, and froze if someone thought of something he hadn’t, then took it personally if they quibbled. Kate was word perfect and great at improvising. It was nice to have that recognised.
‘Well, thank you.’
‘So – when are you back? We need to get a meeting scheduled in pronto. With the chairman of the committee. And the sponsors.’ Carlos paused for breath.
Kate couldn’t even bring herself to reply.
Even Carlos could detect the stone in her silence.
‘Oh – and – uh – how did the funeral go?’
As an afterthought, it was spectacular.
‘Oh, we were dancing in the aisles.’
Carlos didn’t get the sarcasm. ‘Honey, I’m so glad. It’s important to celebrate a person’s life. Now, when do you get in? I’ll send a car. You can come straight to the office. I’ll get some food ordered up. You won’t have to think about a thing. But we need to get brainstorming.’
High Tide Page 11
