Obsession

by Susan Lewis

  She watched him, and he knew she was waiting for him to object further, but there was no point. She’d already guessed he was planning to take Pam away, the suggestion that Pam could change the flights told him that. Whether the de Whitneys’ invitation was genuine he had no idea, but it hardly mattered, they would be going to Gstaad now, come what may. He would arrange the flights himself however, asking Pam to do it would be vindictive and cruel, which was probably what Octavia had intended.

  ‘I’ll get onto it first thing in the morning,’ he said, and turned to leave the room.

  By nature he was not a violent man, but there were times when the fantasy of feeling his hands tighten around that repellently exquisite neck was so vivid, so compelling it frightened him. It was only the thought of Pam that steadied him, as it did now. How often, since knowing her, had he thanked God for Pam? With her he felt like a man. Pam allowed him to love her, to cherish her, to lavish her with all the kindness he was afraid to show his wife, for Octavia regarded his tenderness and generosity as the most tiresome of all his weaknesses. What was more there were times when Pam actively encouraged him to dominate her, knowing that he needed to feel in control of a woman in order to reassert the manhood that Octavia’s indifference had all but destroyed.

  He didn’t deserve such devotion, he knew it, but Pam insisted he did. She knew him in a way that Octavia never had, and never would. She knew how he longed to love someone, to feel that he could give his whole heart without fear of it being abused and ridiculed. Only with Pam had he ever really allowed himself to open up, to give of himself in a way that ordinarily would have shamed him.

  He had been there for Pam when her husband died, had supported her through the worst months of her life, and most of all he had listened when she had needed to talk. She had seen, even then, during her darkest days of grief, what pleasure it had given him to be needed; to feel for once in his life that he had nothing to fear from a woman. Throughout that time she had come to understand him, to care for him, then eventually to love him – deeply and unconditionally. And now, following Corrie’s visit to the office, she wanted to help him.

  Phillip sighed. It wasn’t going to be easy for him to come to terms with Edwina’s death, not when he had been carrying such a burden of guilt for so long – a guilt he had always believed that one day he could assuage by somehow making it up to her. Until Pam the only woman he had ever loved was Edwina, and Pam had tried so many times to persuade him to find her. But he was so bitterly ashamed of the way he had deserted her, he had been afraid to face her. He knew he couldn’t have stood it if she’d refused to forgive him, but worse was his terror that she would deny him access to their child. The child that had grown through the years in his dreams, the son – his and Edwina’s son – who, unbeknownst to Octavia, stood to inherit everything Phillip owned when Phillip died.

  But now everything had changed – the son wasn’t a son at all. The shock and disappointment had been almost too much to bear. But before Corrie had come to his office, in the days following Ted Braithwaite’s telephone call, Phillip had done all he could to suppress the resentment and fear he had felt that there was now another woman in his life. Another woman to turn on him and despise him. He hadn’t succeeded: his guilt had overwhelmed him and he had used it as a weapon with which to hurt Edwina’s – his own – daughter.

  Since Corrie had slammed out of his office that day Phillip had known such despair that Pam had started to become concerned for his health – which was why they had planned to go to Spain. Phillip needed to talk, to sort out in his mind what he must do about Corrie – the daughter he now realized he desperately wanted to know. But how could he when his life was such a mess? He couldn’t allow Corrie to become embroiled in the nightmare that dogged his every move, his every thought. As her father he had to protect her from that, just as, by not telling her, he was protecting Pam.

  – 7 –

  ‘CORRIE BROWNE’S GIVING a party!’ Perkin cried, waving his invitation in the air.

  ‘Oh my God!’ one of the secretaries gasped, clutching her own invitation to her chest, ‘a rave-up at Corrie Browne’s!’

  It was the production manager’s turn next. ‘Come to Corrie Browne, for the most exciting thrills in town!’ Billy Jones barked through his cupped hands.

  Corrie sat at her desk quietly watching them. Their sarcasm was cruel and unnecessary, but she refused to drop her smile.

  ‘Capers and cavorts, cunnilingus and cookies, all at Corrie the Coward’s!’

  Everyone laughed uproariously, and Alan Fox took a bow.

  At that Corrie turned away, tears of humiliation and fury stinging her eyes. She didn’t dare to speak, if she did she knew she would break down, and she would almost rather die than let them see that they had got to her.

  From behind her word processor Prue, one of the secretaries, watched Corrie – she was the only one not laughing.

  The weekend before Paula and Dave had come up to London to help Corrie move into her new studio. It had been Corrie’s idea – following Paula’s advice that she should try to win her colleagues over – to throw a house-warming party. Paula had helped her word the invitations that were now sitting on everyone’s desks, and Corrie fervently wished that Paula could have been there to see the response for herself – perhaps then Paula would understand how futile any effort was to befriend these people. Had she been anywhere else in the world then Paula’s philosophy might have worked, but Corrie knew by now that people in London were different. She didn’t know why, they just were – and she hated them, every last one of them. The question now was, did she want to become like them in order to survive, or should she just give up and go home to Amberside? Whatever, it didn’t look like there was going to be a party. And as much as it hurt her, it baffled her that anyone could throw a person’s kindness back in their face this way.

  Picking up her scissors she started to cut a story from the newspaper on the current European summit. Her eyes were so full she could barely see the words. Annalise had asked her to collect together everything she could find on this summit for a programme she was hoping to persuade Luke to do later in the month. Right now Annalise was off the coast of Scotland filming an oil rig. What Corrie wouldn’t have given to be with her – or better still that Annalise should be here in the office. The acid remarks, mockery and practical jokes were put on hold when Annalise was around.

  An hour later, as she usually did mid-morning, Corrie put on her coat and went out to get sandwiches for those who wanted them. Almost four months had passed now since she’d moved to London and she was still no closer to finding a friend than she had been the day she arrived. The loneliness was by now so overwhelming that she really didn’t think she could stand anymore. She missed her mother desperately, and for that reason was afraid to go back to Amberside. Her failure in London, coupled with all the memories of Edwina in Suffolk, could just about finish her altogether. Sometimes it felt as though she had no place to go in the world – she just didn’t belong anywhere anymore.

  But that wasn’t true, she told herself as she handed over her order in the sandwich bar. She had her little studio in Chelsea. For a moment her heart lifted at the thought of its welcoming walls, its friendly air and the way her quirky furniture seemed so at home there. Never mind that everyone had smashed to pieces the pleasure she’d felt inside at the opportunity to show it off, it was still hers and she loved it.

  When she returned to the office it was deserted – with the exception of one of the secretaries. ‘They’re all in the studio,’ Prue told her, ‘looking at the new set.’

  Corrie’s eyes showed her surprise as she turned to look at Prue. Someone had actually spoken civilly to her.

  Prue smiled. ‘Take a look on your desk,’ she said.

  Corrie turned to her desk half afraid that there was another cruel trick coming up, but all she saw was a pile of handwritten notes. Dreading what might be written on them she put the sandwiches down and picked up the
first page. She read it, blinked hard, then read it again. It was from Perkin, accepting her party invitation. She turned to the next one, aware that her heart was starting an unnatural rhythm. It was from Cindy Thompson, a producer, also accepting her invitation.

  Corrie sat down. Her hands were shaking as she leafed through the rest of the notes. Every one of them was an acceptance. ‘I should be delighted to come …’ ‘Really looking forward to Friday …’ ‘… so kind of you to invite me …’ ‘… do we bring a bottle?’

  Corrie looked up, but Prue had gone. Then she heard voices and guessed everyone was on their way back from the studio. Quickly picking up her bag she ran out to the ladies. She didn’t want to face them right now. Part of her was burning with resentment that they had been so scathing about her party an hour ago, but another part of her was starting to simmer with euphoria. It was going to work! The olive branch she’d held out had been taken. She could hardly wait to tell Paula.

  She left early that Friday to get things ready. Since she’d received their acceptances no one had actually mentioned the party again, but although their aloofness was still apparent, the jibes and jokes at her expense had mercifully stopped. Before leaving that afternoon she made a shy announcement that no one needed to bring a bottle, she had plenty – and she was looking forward to seeing them all later.

  Her first stop was at Marks and Spencer where she bought quiche and pâté, French bread and cheese, crisps and nuts, all kinds of dips and chopped vegetables, cocktail sausages, olives and a gâteau. The wine merchant on the King’s Road helped her to the studio with the glasses, ice and drink she had ordered – and even offered to help her put up the balloons. As a gesture of thanks Corrie invited him to come along too, but he had other plans, he said. Maybe next time.

  ‘Definitely next time,’ Corrie smiled, only just resisting the urge to hug him as he left. Perhaps Londoners weren’t so bad after all.

  By seven o’clock the food was laid out on the antique pine dining table she’d got from a Sunday auction at Lots Road, and the drink and glasses were set up in the kitchen and on a dilapidated Welsh dresser she’d bought at the same auction. The furniture, a cosy cottage sofa, an old arm chair, a glass topped coffee table supported by two wooden elephants and her TV and video, was all pushed up against the walls with her potted plants and vases of ostentatious ferns and feathers. There was plenty of room for dancing, she’d taken the oriental rugs off the wooden floor to make it easier and she’d bought over a hundred pounds worth of CDs earlier in the week. Selecting one by T’Pau, she turned it up good and loud while she went off to take a shower.

  An hour later she was wearing her new tight black dress with a scooped neck and a frill just above the knee, black high heels and tights, a pair of enormous jet earrings and her hair was coiled into a bun on the top of her head. She grinned as she looked at herself in the mirror, twisting and turning to get herself from all angles. She didn’t look at all bad, she decided. Even the thick brown eye-liner she’d carefully circled her eyes with didn’t look as tarty as she’d expected. And the freckles across her nose barely showed beneath the heavy Revlon foundation cream. She pouted her caramel lips – the same colour as Annalise wore – and giggled. She’d left a message on Annalise’s answerphone telling her about the party, but she hadn’t heard from her yet. Annalise wasn’t due back from Scotland until eight o’clock though, so she probably wouldn’t arrive until much later.

  Draping her dressing gown over the end of the brass bed, she picked up her glass of wine and went to lean over the balcony to survey the room below. It looked perfect. Balloons bobbed from the stair rail, bowls of crisps and nuts were scattered about, and the two peculiarly shaped candle lamps either end of the mantlepiece cast a rosy, romantic glow over the room.

  Michael Jackson was playing on the CD now and Corrie danced her way down the stairs, clicking her fingers and singing along at the top of her voice as she went to help herself to more wine. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel happy.

  She glanced at her watch. Eight thirty she’d put on the invitations, ten minutes to go. She’d give Paula a quick call to fill in the time.

  By nine thirty she was still sitting alone. She was feeling slightly sick, which she put down to the four glasses of wine she’d already drunk.

  ‘No one ever turns up to a party on time,’ Paula had tried to reassure her when she’d called her for the second time, just over half an hour ago.

  Corrie wandered outside, stood at the top of the steps and looked up and down the street. There was no one in sight.

  At ten o’clock she turned off the CD and went to sit on the bottom of the stairs. As she sat there, still hoping beyond hope for someone to arrive, she listened to the police sirens wailing in the distance and the sound of the occasional car as it seemed to slow outside her studio then drive on. At ten fifteen she looked at her watch again and as the last flicker of hope died despondency and defeat washed over her.

  She should have known. She should have realized they would do something like this. But why? What did they get out of being so mindlessly cruel? Why did they need to do it? She knew the answer of course, they did it for sport. Because Alan Fox enjoyed victimizing someone. And she, the naive little girl from the country, was that someone. There couldn’t be any other answer, since not one of them knew her well enough to have any other motive. So often over the past weeks she had wondered how they would all feel if they knew the pain she was trying to hide, the pain of losing her mother, of being rejected by her father and now the pain of the way they were treating her. But even if they did know, would they care? Of course they wouldn’t, and why should they? She was nothing to them, and what was she looking for anyway, their pity to go along with her own self-pity?

  Pulling herself to her feet she crossed the room and started to clear the table. All this food, wasted, she was thinking to herself as a single fat tear splashed onto the back of her hand.

  ‘How can they be so mean?’ she asked aloud, biting her lips to stop herself crying any more. She picked up the quiche and carried it to the refrigerator. When she went back into the room she started gathering up the bowls of nuts and crisps and then she saw the photograph of her mother, smiling up at her from the coffee table.

  ‘No!’ she sobbed, turning away quickly. ‘No, no.’

  Grief and loneliness swelled so heavily through her chest she could barely breathe. She was locked into a welter of such overwhelming unhappiness that the only movement she could make was to bring her hands to her face. She had tried, had tried so hard …

  ‘Oh Corrie!’ Annalise cried, when Corrie opened the door. ‘Corrie look at you,’ and she wrapped her arms around her.

  ‘They were going to come,’ Annalise said, ‘I promise you they were. And it was a wonderful idea of yours, it shows a generosity they just don’t deserve.’

  Corrie pulled away from her, rubbing her fingers under her eyes to wipe away the kohl-blackened tears. ‘So why didn’t they come?’ she asked, still shaking from the way she had jumped when Annalise had knocked on the door.

  ‘Because apparently, just after you left the office this afternoon, Luke called up and invited everyone to a party at the Royal Garden.’

  ‘I see.’ Corrie didn’t bother to point out that someone could have called her to let her know – what did it matter now? And she could hardly blame Luke when he probably didn’t even know about her party since she hadn’t invited him. It had seemed a bit presumptuous inviting the boss, she’d thought, especially when she’d never actually spoken to him.

  ‘So why are you here?’ she asked Annalise.

  ‘Because when I turned up at the other party half an hour ago, straight from the airport, and Prue told me about your party I guessed you’d be sitting here all alone.’

  Corrie forced a smile. ‘Thanks, it was nice of you to come. But you don’t have to stay. I expect you want to be with Luke.’

  ‘Sure I do. But why don’t you come along too? T
his’ll keep, well most of it will, and you can throw your party tomorrow. Come on, we’ll hop in a cab.’

  ‘To be honest I don’t really feel in the party mood any more,’ Corrie said.

  Annalise looked around the room. ‘Oh you’ve gone to so much trouble,’ she sighed. ‘And this is such a lovely place, Corrie. Oh please say you’ll come to the other party, I can’t bear to think of you sitting here all by yourself.’

  ‘No, really, I’d rather not,’ Corrie answered. She didn’t add that she’d taken all the humiliation she could handle for one night – maybe for one lifetime. And as she showed Annalise back to the door she was already composing her letter of resignation.

  On Monday morning Corrie was at the office early. Alan Fox was already there, so too were Billy Jones, two of the secretaries and Perkin. They all looked up as Corrie walked in, but no one spoke.

  Corrie’s face was pale, her lips compressed in a thin tight line as she crossed the office, hung up her coat, then marched straight over to Alan Fox. He looked up in surprise, but before he could utter a word Corrie’s fist smashed into his face.

  ‘You are a fucking asshole!’ she spat, and turning on her heel she marched back out of the office and into the ladies.

  It took her several moments to get her breath back, but by the time she had splashed her face with cold water and dried it she was grinning. God, that had been worth it, just to see the look on his face. She’d never done anything like it before in her life, but she’d do it again just for the sheer satisfaction she was feeling now. She’d even made his nose bleed.

  Of course she had to go back in there and face them all again, but what the hell, she was going to hand in her resignation today anyway.

  By the time she returned to the office several others had arrived. Their whispering stopped as she walked in the door and they all turned to stare at her. Ignoring them Corrie walked over to her desk. The mail was piled high, and taking the letter opener out of her drawer she sat down to open it.