by Jill Mansell
Katerina shook her head. ‘Too cold outside. I can pop in on my way to school tomorrow morning. I’ve got an essay to be getting on with tonight, anyway.’
‘OK.’ In the chilly hallway, Izzy wrapped herself up in her brown leather flying jacket and flung a white woollen scarf around her neck. Grabbing her keys and helmet, she gave her daughter a final kiss. ‘I’ll be back by one-thirty, fans willing!’
‘You’ll be back a lot sooner than that,’ said Katerina drily, holding up the carrier bag which Izzy had forgotten, ‘if you don’t take your clothes.’
Izzy hummed beneath her breath. Her teeth were chattering too violently to risk singing the words aloud; she’d end up with a shredded tongue. Her beloved motor bike, a sleek, black Suzuki 250, was a joy to ride during the summer months, and it was certainly economical to run, but travelling to and from work in sub-zero temperatures was - she couldn’t think of a better way of describing it - a real bitch.
Still, at least the roads weren’t too icy tonight. Maniacs notwithstanding, she’d be at the club in less than twenty minutes. And who knew, tonight might just be the night to change her life . . .
Having cleared away the debris of their early evening meal, changed out of her school uniform into black sweatshirt and leggings and emptied a packet of Liquorice Allsorts into a pudding bowl for easy access, Katerina settled herself in front of the fire and wondered what it must be like for people who hated solitude.
Katerina adored it, as much as she adored their small but cosy flat, situated over an ironmonger’s shop in a quiet road just off Clapham High Street. It was only rented, of course, but Izzy had thrown herself into redecorating with her usual enthusiasm and flair for the dramatic the moment they’d moved in eighteen months earlier. And although she might not have been able to afford the luxury of wallpaper she had more than made up for it with richly shaded paints, striking borders and her own dazzling sense of style. Many hours of multi-coloured stencilling and artful picture-hanging later, the effect had been as spectacular as Katerina had known it would be and within the space of four days the flat had become a home.
It was one of Izzy’s more unexpected talents and if Katerina had been less loyal, she might have wished that her mother would consider a career in interior design, or even good old painting and decorating. Admittedly, it wasn’t likely to bring her fame and fortune beyond her wildest dreams, but it was decent, gainful employment and was even rumoured to bring with it a reasonably regular wage . . .
Katerina simply couldn’t imagine what it might have been like, growing up with a mother who didn’t sing. As far back as she was able to remember, Izzy had always been there, careering from one financial crisis to the next and at the same time eternally optimistic that the inevitable big break was just around the corner. When she was very small Katerina had perched on beer crates in dingy, smoke-filled pubs and working men’s clubs, sipping Coke and listening to her mother sing while all around her the audience got on with the serious business of getting Saturday-night drunk. Sometimes there would be appreciative applause, which was what Izzy lived for. At other times, a fight would break out among the customers and Izzy’s songs would be forgotten in the ensuing excitement. Periodically, the hecklers would turn out, either joining in with bawdy alternative lyrics or targeting Izzy directly and laughing inanely at their own imagined wit. Katerina’s eyes would fill with tears whenever this happened and the longing to land a seven-year-old punch on the noses of the perpetrators would be so great that she had to grip the sides of the crate upon which she sat in order to prevent herself from doing so. In her eyes, her mother was Joan of Arc, a heroine hounded by ignorant peasants. Afterwards, Izzy would laugh and say it didn’t matter because she’d earned £3.40, she would press the 40p into her daughter’s small hand and give her a hug. It didn’t matter, she would explain cheerfully, because everybody needed to start somewhere; that was a fact of life. And anyone who could survive an evening in a working men’s club on the outskirts of Blackpool was going to find Las Vegas a doddle in comparison.
At school the next day, Katerina’s teacher had found her poring over an atlas in search of that elusive town. In answer to the question, ‘What’s it like in Las Vegas?’ Miss Brent had replied with a disapproving sniff, ‘It’s a town where everybody gambles,’ and Katerina had been reassured. Lambs gambolled in fields. In her imagination, Las Vegas became one big, emerald-green field, with all its inhabitants skipping and bouncing and smiling at each other. ‘My mum’s going to take me to Las Vegas,’ she confided happily. ‘When we get there, I’m going to gamble every day.’
Las Vegas, needless to say, hadn’t happened. Izzy’s big break had stubbornly failed to materialise and life had continued its haphazard, impecunious course, although at least working men’s clubs were now a thing of the past. Platform One, where Izzy had worked for the past eighteen months, might not be Ronnie Scott’s, but it was situated in Soho and the clientele, on the whole, were appreciative. Here, in London, as Izzy always maintained, there was always that chance of a chance . . . one never knew who might walk through the door one night, hear her singing and realise that she was the one they needed to take the leading role in the show they were currently producing . . .
This didn’t happen, of course, but Izzy had never tired of the fantasy. Singing was her passion, what she was best at. She was doing what she had to do and Katerina didn’t begrudge her a single impoverished moment of it. Who, after all, could possibly begrudge a mother who would cheerfully splurge on a primrose-yellow mohair sweater for her daughter and survive on peanut-butter sandwiches for the next week in order to redress the precarious financial balance? And if her impulsive generosity never failed to alarm Mike, who was one of those people who got twitchy if their electricity bills weren’t paid by return of post, Katerina adored her mother’s blissful disregard for such mundane matters as financial security. If the bomb was dropped tomorrow she’d much rather have a deliciously soft, mohair sweater to keep her warm, than wander the rubble-strewn streets wondering how all this was going to affect her pension plan.
She was a third of the way through the Liquorice Allsorts and already on to the second page of her essay when the phone rang. It was two minutes past eight. Smiling to herself - for despite all his apparent sophistication Ralph could never bring himself to miss Coronation Street - Katerina picked up the receiver.
‘I suppose your mother’s out,’ said the brusque voice of Lester Markham.
Katerina replied sweetly, ‘I’m afraid she is. How are you, Mr Markham? And how is—’
‘Never mind that,’ he interrupted harshly. ‘I’ll be a damn sight better when I receive the last two months’ rent your mother owes me. Tell her I’ll be round at nine o’clock tomorrow morning for payment. In full.’
Katerina popped another Liquorice Allsort - a black-and-brown triple-decker, her particular favourite - into her mouth and gave the matter some thought. Lester Markham looked a lot like Jim Royle from The Royle Family, only maybe a bit grubbier. He didn’t have as much of a sense of humour either.
‘I thought we only owed one month,’ she said carefully.
‘Plus another month in advance,’ snapped Lester Markham, ‘which she used up in December and conveniently appears to have forgotten about.’
Oops, thought Katerina. So that was how Izzy had acquired the money for their splendid Christmas Eve dinner at Chez Nico.
‘Of course,’ she replied in conciliatory tones. ‘I’ll tell her as soon as she gets home, Mr Markham. Don’t worry about a thing.’
‘I’m not worried,’ he said in grim tones. ‘You’re the one who should be worried. Just tell your mother that if I don’t receive that money - and I mean all the money - tomorrow morning, you’ll both be out of that flat by the end of the week.’ He sniffed, then added quite unnecessarily, ‘And I’m not joking, either.’
Chapter 3
Gina didn’t know why she was doing this - she wasn’t even sure any more where she was - b
ut she did know that she couldn’t go home. Anything was better than returning to that empty house and having to relive the nightmare of Andrew’s departure.
Her fingers tightened convulsively, gripping the steering wheel of the Golf so hard that she wondered whether she’d ever be able to prise them free. And she was definitely lost now, but since she didn’t have anywhere to go, it hardly seemed to matter.
Having packed a couple of suitcases with guilt-ridden haste, Andrew had left their Kensington home at ten minutes past six and Gina, not knowing what else to do, had switched off the oven and run herself a hot bath. Then, unable to face the thought of taking off her clothes - she felt vulnerable enough as it was - she had pulled out the bath plug, watched the foaming, lilac-scented water spiral away, and reached instead for her coat and car keys.
Driving around the Barbican for forty minutes had been both stupid and unproductive. Gina knew that, but knowing too that somewhere amid the multi-layered nests of purpose-built apartments was her husband, she had convinced herself that if only she could locate him, he would come back to her. She had even found herself peering up at lighted windows, willing him to appear at one of them. Looking down into the street he might recognise her car. Then, overwhelmed by remorse he would rush down, fling his arms around her and beg forgiveness . . .
But, of course, it hadn’t happened, because there were simply too many apartments and because by this time his silver-grey BMW would be locked away in one of those expensive, security-conscious car-parks. Furthermore, her husband would undoubtedly have far more interesting things to do than gaze out of a window. He had a mistress, a pregnant mistress, who was probably with him at this minute, exulting in her victory and listening with quiet amusement as he relayed to her the events of the afternoon.
How To Discard An Unwanted Wife, thought Gina bleakly, a lump rising in her throat once more as she accelerated, pulling out to avoid a haphazardly parked car. Andrew and his mistress were probably talking about it right now, reassuring each other that since they were in love, nothing else mattered. What was a used wife among friends, after all? They were probably in bed, too, making passionate love and laughing at the same time because Andrew had been so clever and it had all been so wonderfully easy . . .
Blinded by tears, she didn’t see the junction looming ahead until much too late. The next moment a sickening thud and the grating shriek of metal against metal shuddered through the car. Screaming, Gina slammed on the brakes and slewed to a halt as another dull thud echoed violently through her eardrums. Trembling so violently that she could barely get the seat belt undone, she fought rising nausea and wrenched open the car door. Fear and panic propelled her - somehow - towards the figure of a motor cyclist lying immobile in a pool of ice-blue light reflected from a nearby cocktail bar. My God, she thought, whimpering with terror, I’ve killed him . . . he’s dead . . . oh please, God, don’t let this be happening . . .
Izzy wasn’t dead. Dazed, distantly amazed by the extent of the pain tearing through her legs - and by the astonishing fact that she wasn’t kicking up more of a fuss about it - she lay in her crumpled position at the roadside and listened to the sound of an hysterical female yelling, ‘I’ve killed him . . . someone help . . . I’ve killed him.’
Opening an experimental eye, Izzy found herself at grating level. Now everything was starting to hurt and to add insult to injury the icy wetness of the road was beginning to permeate her clothes. But at least she could see her bike which was oddly reassuring, even if the front wheel was badly buckled and the handlebars appeared to have twisted in all the wrong directions.
Then she saw the legs of the female who was making all the noise. Thin, pale-stockinged legs in high-heeled, mud-splashed shoes loomed before her.
‘He’s not dead!’ screamed the voice that went with them, and Izzy began to lose patience. Attempting to raise her head in order to see the injured man for herself - how many people had been involved in this accident, for heaven’s sake? - she couldn’t understand why she wasn’t able to do so. Embarrassed by her own weakness, she glared at the skinny, stupid legs in front of her. ‘Make up your mind,’ she said irritably. ‘And will you please stop screaming? He’s still going to need a bloody ambulance, whether he’s dead or not.’
‘She isn’t quite herself, but you mustn’t let it worry you,’ explained the young male doctor reassuringly. He neglected to mention that Izzy - to the delight of the night nurses - had just informed him that he had a gorgeous body. ‘It’s the after-effects of shock combined with the sedatives we needed to give her,’ he continued, his eyes kind. ‘She didn’t sustain any concussion.’
It was three-thirty in the morning and the rest of the ward was in darkness as the doctor showed Katerina into the side ward beyond the sister’s office. Dry-mouthed with trepidation, Katerina stood at the end of the bed and gazed down at her mother, propped up against a mountain of pillows and apparently asleep. With her dark hair spilling over her shoulders and her make-up smudged around her closed eyes she looked so small and pale that Katerina found it hard to believe that all she had sustained were cuts, bruises and a broken leg.
Then, as if sensing that she had company, Izzy opened her eyes.
‘Darling!’ she exclaimed, holding out her arms. ‘Come here and give your poor battered mother an enormous hug.’
‘How are you feeling?’ Katerina said, kissing Izzy’s cheek and sending up a silent prayer of thanks for whoever had invented crash helmets.
‘Well, absolutely delightful as a matter of fact, but that’s because of the pills they’ve been shovelling down me. Tomorrow, no doubt, everything will hurt like hell. Did they tell you about the madwoman ploughing straight into me? Apparently I went flying through the air like a trapeze artist, then . . . splat!’
‘At least you’re alive,’ said Katerina, tears pricking her eyelids as she gave Izzy another hug.
‘And you’re positively indecent,’ replied Izzy sternly, doing up the unfastened top buttons of her daughter’s white cotton shirt. ‘Make yourself respectable, child, before that young Adonis behind you starts getting ideas.’
‘Mum!’ She stifled a smile, not daring to turn around.
‘Don’t laugh. I know what these doctors are like. Do you hear me, young man?’ she went on, waving an admonishing finger in his general direction. ‘This is my daughter, seventeen years old and as pure as she is beautiful, so I want you to control yourself.’
‘Don’t worry about me, Mrs Van Asch.’ The doctor, busy filling in charts at the foot of the bed, sounded amused. ‘I’m a married man.’
‘They’re the worst kind,’ said Izzy darkly, her eyes narrowing even as Katerina attempted to cover her mouth. ‘And you should be ashamed of yourself for cheating on your wife. Why, she’s probably at home right now, thinking you’re busy at work, while all this time you’re here instead, you wicked man, drooling like a pervert over my innocent teenage—’
‘Mother!’ It came out as an agonised whisper. Long accustomed as she was to Izzy’s outrageous talent for extracting blushes from people who’d never blushed before in their lives, this was too much. This was truly mortifying.
‘It really is quite all right,’ the doctor smilingly assured Kat, as the door to the side ward slid open once more. ‘Ah, you appear to have another visitor. Just five minutes, I think, then Mrs Van Asch really must get some rest.’
Having flown into a panic after receiving the call from the hospital, not believing for a moment that Izzy had sustained only ‘minor injuries’, Katerina had phoned Ralph and luckily found him at home. It was Ralph who had brought her to the hospital, Ralph who’d been waiting in the dimly lit corridor outside the ward, and Ralph, blond and handsome, who now entered the room and moved towards Izzy’s side with love and concern in his eyes.
‘Sweetheart, we were so worried about you . . .’
‘I’m fine,’ said Izzy happily, lifting her face for a kiss. Then she pointed at the metal cage covering her legs and gave him
a woeful look. ‘Well, I’m fine but my leg isn’t. We aren’t going to be able to have sex for weeks. Oh Mike,’ she concluded piteously, ‘isn’t it just the most depressing thing you ever heard?’
Chapter 4
In medical parlance it was known, enigmatically, as ‘complications’ and they took a desperate turn for the worse the following day. Having hastily explained to Ralph that Izzy was under the influence of mind-bending drugs, Katerina had only partially - minimally, even - succeeded in convincing him that it had all been a ridiculous slip of the tongue. And when Mike had telephoned the flat the next morning to speak to Izzy, and Katerina had told him about the accident, she reasoned that she could hardly have done anything else. The man was in love with her mother, after all. He had to know that she was in hospital.
Consequently, and quite naturally, Mike had rushed in to visit Izzy, and to deposit armfuls of exotic hothouse flowers around her bed. It was sheer bad timing, combined with Ralph’s lurking suspicions, which brought about the unfortunate tête-à-tête-à-tête that had subsequently ensued.
