Olivia's Luck

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘But … she was seeing Hugo!’ I felt panic fly through every vein, strange flutterings besieged me. ‘I-I thought it was Hugo she was so infatuated with, so besotted by and –’

  ‘Oh, Hugo,’ she interrupted impatiently. ‘Heavens, for a bit, maybe, but he was far too puppydog-ish for her. Good Lord, he followed her everywhere, hung on her every word – much too needy for our Imo. No, no, Sebastian is altogether a different kettle of fish, very much his own man, far more cerebral and eminently more suitable for Imo.’ She smiled, raised her eyebrows confidentially. ‘D’you know, I think I can quite confidently say that This Is It, Olivia? Isn’t that marvellous? Because I know that you and Molly – and, good heavens, even Hector and I at times – had almost given up on her, almost despaired of her ever finding the right man and settling down, but I honestly believe that this time, she’s finally done it!’

  I gazed into the confident, grey eyes beaming down at me. But what about me? I wanted to say. Surely I found him first?

  ‘And you didn’t really want him, did you, my dear?’ she said softly, putting a hand on my arm as if reading my thoughts. ‘You told him so, remember? Although actually, he was terribly embarrassed about that. Came round one afternoon and told us about it.’

  ‘Wh-what d’you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ she gave a tinkly little laugh, ‘between you and me, he wasn’t really aware that there was anything to finish!’

  I stared at her. It occurred to me that this was actually an incredibly bitchy remark. I straightened up.

  ‘Well, Ursula, believe me, there was. We’d become very fond of each other. Maybe he was too upset to admit that.’

  A spot of colour came into each of her high, pale cheeks. She glared at me.

  ‘Olivia, I’ve known you for many years, since you were a little girl, in fact. I’d hate to see you make a fool of yourself.’

  ‘I have no intention of doing that.’

  ‘Good, because I feel I must warn you that this time you’d be out of your depth. This time you’re in an entirely different league.’

  ‘What d’you mean, this time?’

  Her sharp grey eyes went cold. ‘I mean this time, as opposed to last time. When you crept in and took Johnny right from under her nose.’

  I stared at her, aghast. My mouth dropped. ‘I did not!’ I managed to gasp. ‘God – how can you say that? Imogen finished with Johnny, she –’

  ‘Oh, she cooled it with him, all right,’ she said impatiently, ‘but she hadn’t actually finished with him, hadn’t actually ended it, and that’s the difference. No, no, she was testing him, Olivia. She wanted to marry Johnny, you see, and she was adamant about that – had been right from the very beginning – and we all knew that, the whole family knew, and frankly I’m surprised you didn’t, or perhaps you chose not to, hmm?’ She sighed. ‘But she was so young, you see, still so very young.’ She pursed her lips as I gazed, horrified at her. ‘For a long time, too, I’d felt that Johnny had had the upper hand in the relationship, was a bit too … well, a bit too conceited, too big for his boots, so I concocted a little plan, a way to bring him down a peg or two. To test him out. Imogen was convinced he was the only one for her, but I wanted to see if Johnny was up to it, if he was up to marrying my precious daughter. I wanted to bring him to heel,’ she breathed, ‘to deserve her, to beg her to have him back!’

  I stared at her, astounded. ‘What – so you told her to cool it with him?’ I gasped. ‘To hardly even speak to him after Oliver’s funeral, to never come home at weekends and – and to sleep with Paolo in Italy!’

  Her face closed. ‘Don’t be so crude, Olivia. No, I merely suggested she play the fish a little, make him jealous, make him see that there were other men besides him who were attracted to her, desperate to take her out, see what his reaction would be. And he reacted pretty well, I must say. He even trekked all the way out to Italy to get her back, and I was impressed. I thought that with a little more of the same treatment she’d bring him quite conclusively to his knees, have him begging to marry her.’ Her eyes hardened. ‘But I hadn’t reckoned on you, Olivia. Hadn’t reckoned on your part in the tale. Because then you appeared on the scene, didn’t you? You, with your green fingers and your broken home, wheedling your way into Angie’s garden with your secateurs and that wide-eyed, little-girl-lost routine of yours, winding yourself like bindweed around a broken-hearted Johnny.’

  ‘Mrs Mitchell!’ I gasped. ‘You’re rewriting history! He was devastated about Imo, sure, but he was equally adamant he wouldn’t have her back, not after what she’d done!’

  She smiled. ‘Oh no. You persuaded him he was adamant he wouldn’t have her back. All those cosy little lunches in the City while you did some two-bit secretarial course and while my talented daughter studied Botticelli in Florence, waiting for him to come to her.’ She tilted her chin up at me. ‘You played on a vulnerable young man, Olivia, a man whose girlfriend was conveniently studying abroad and whose father had just died. It was insidious, calculated, and very, very shrewd, I’ll give you that.’

  I gazed at her, aghast. My God. All these years she’d thought this of me, all these years she’d harboured this bitterness, this resentment, considered me the fly in the ointment. And Imo too? I swung round to find her, but couldn’t see her. My heart lurched in horror. I also felt shocked into wondering – was this so? Was she right? But I’d asked Imo, I’d cleared it with her when Johnny and I had first –

  ‘I asked Imo, Mrs Mitchell. I wrote to her in Florence, got a letter back saying –’

  ‘Oh yes, and that was jolly clever of you too, wasn’t it?’ she sneered. ‘Let’s get it in writing. And what did you expect her to reply? Keep your thieving hands off my boyfriend? Over my dead body, you conniving bitch? What – dear, sweet-natured Imo? No, no, you knew darned well she’d give you the all-clear. You’re a sharp little thing, Olivia, you always have been. You sneaked in and –’

  ‘I did not sneak in,’ I trembled. ‘I was fully aware of how delicate the situation was and –’

  ‘Not aware enough,’ she snapped sharply. ‘And actually, for all your sharpness, not smart enough to see what was really going on, which was that Johnny took you on the rebound because he couldn’t have my daughter!’ Her voice trembled. ‘Christ, she even came back from Italy to be your bridesmaid. You made her do that, and I’ll never forgive you for that because, God help me, I had to pick up the pieces the following day. The poor child nearly had a breakdown.’

  I caught my breath in horror. Her face was pale now, taut with pent-up loathing. ‘My precious girl,’ she breathed, ‘you did that to her. And she never found anyone else, never found anyone like Johnny.’ She raised her chin high. ‘But she has now, you see. She’s all right now. She can be whole again – Sebastian’s seen to that. And we’re all so relieved, so thankful. They’re in love, Olivia, very much in love, and I’m not going to ask you not to interfere, not going to ask you not to meddle, because this time, you can’t. No one could possibly come between them now. Even if you tried, believe me, you’d be pissing in the wind.’

  Something in the vulgarity of this expression, totally out of character, and the flash of steel in her grey eyes made me realise what Molly and I had always suspected. That Mrs Mitchell was a very, very tough cookie. I stared at her jutting jaw and her hawklike nose which seemed to be almost quivering with rage, just as Imogen came rushing up.

  ‘Mummy! Are you all right? What’s happened? You … you look so upset!’

  Ursula raised a brave chin. ‘I’m fine,’ she whispered. ‘I was just explaining something very fundamental to Olivia here. Frankly, I’m surprised she didn’t know before. Any of it.’

  She held my eyes a moment longer, then turned and walked away.

  The orchestra were ready on the stage now, tuning up, violinists brandishing their bows, anticipating the appearance of their conductor. Imo stared after Ursula, then shot me a confused, anxious glance, before hastening to her mother. I watched them
go, transfixed, literally welded to the spot by the ferocity of her words. A moment later, I saw Sebastian materialise from a side door. His face wore a defended, public look as he glanced about at the audience. Then, seeing Imo at the front, quickly walked across to join her as she stood, comforting her mother. I watched as he lightly touched Imo’s back and kissed her cheek.

  Ursula’s back was still to me, but I saw her delve into her bag for a hanky and pat her eyes, as Imo reached anxiously across to clutch her hand. What is it, what’s wrong? I saw her ask. Ursula began to speak but the strings were growing louder and I couldn’t hear what she was saying, could only watch Sebastian’s face grow darker, more concerned, more – angry. Imo’s eyes widened, her jaw dropped, then as Ursula dabbed with her hanky once more, they both turned and stared in my direction, turning shocked, horrified gazes on me. There was a brief moment when we all locked eyes. Then they turned away, back to Ursula. I saw Sebastian put a hand under her elbow for support, and as she gravely nodded to them both that she was fine, fine now, they helped her into her seat.

  The orchestra had gone very quiet and the audience were hushed with anticipation, with only the odd muffled cough punctuating the silence. Imo sat down next to her mother with Sebastian beside her. Realising suddenly that I was the only person in the hall left standing, I turned and made my way shakily back to my place at the rear of the auditorium. A moment later, Hugo Simmonds took the podium to an enormous roar from the crowd. I sat, dazed and bewildered, watching blankly as he acknowledged the audience, then turning his back on them, he raised his arms, brought them down with a flourish, and with a blast of trumpets and horns, the music began. I looked down and realised my programme was shaking on my knees. I must have listened to three, maybe four bars of the piece, before getting up, gathering my bag and my programme, and leaving the hall.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I don’t remember hailing a taxi, sitting shocked and white-faced as I no doubt did in the back, gazing blankly at the thronging London streets as they swept by, or even arriving at the car park, and somehow, dazedly, finding my car, but I suppose I must have done that too. I do remember the drive home, though. I remember how dry my throat felt, how knotted my chest was, and how I had to keep a really firm grip on the wheel to stop my hands from shaking and the car from veering into another lane. But if my body was having problems reacting properly, my mind was compensating by going into overdrive. Imo and Sebastian – of course. God, what a fool I’d been! It was him she’d been angling for all along, not Hugo. Cosy dinner parties at her parents’ house, all no doubt arranged by her Svengali, Ursula, and then yesterday – why, I even saw Imo, alone, going into his house. Why hadn’t I clicked? Even Hugh had hinted at it now I came to think of it, and of course, she’d been so thrilled when Johnny and I got back together, coming round with flowers, hugging us, tears of relief in her eyes: ‘Oh God, guys, this is what we’ve all been hoping for!’ Well, of course it was, of course!

  I buzzed down the window and gulped in some air. So – how long had it been going on? While he’d been seeing me? If indeed he had been seeing me, I thought with a jolt, because actually, in his eyes he probably hadn’t, which would explain his reluctance to comply when I offered him my body on a plate after Molly and Hugh’s barbecue, and his bemused expression when I popped round later to inform him that our tempestuous affair was over. No wonder he’d looked surprised. No wonder he hadn’t broken down in floods of tears. As far as he was concerned I was Mrs Friendly Neighbour with whom he had the occasional matey drink when he wasn’t canoodling with his main squeeze, Imogen Mitchell! I thought of Imo’s beautiful, shining face tilted up to his and a hot flush washed over me. ‘Don’t make a fool of yourself,’ Ursula had said. Well, it was too late for that. I’d done that already. In fact, it occurred to me I’d been doing it for years. About thirteen, to be precise.

  Yes, thirteen years ago, I thought with a wave of misery, when Imo had apparently decided she wanted to marry Johnny, but unlike me, had thought through the implications, had known intuitively what she was taking on. She knew full well she had to bring a man like Johnny to his knees, drag him out to Italy, shove Paolo in his face, humiliate him, have him storm off in high dudgeon, but all the while be waiting, waiting for his anger to cool, for his unquestionable passion to surface, for him to beg her, on bended knee, to come back, at which point she’d have tossed her blonde head, slipped on her Gucci mules and returned to have him right where she wanted him. Except that she hadn’t reckoned on me, creeping stealthily in, like some fat, spotty teenager who’d never been allowed to join in the games, and who’d spotted a gap and gone for it. Oh yes, in I’d nipped, always on the sidelines, always marginal, but, boy, was I seizing my chance now – but only, mind, only because Johnny had no one else to play with.

  I gritted my teeth and breathed hard. And I’d never been enough for him, never – I saw that now. He’d always wanted more, needed more, and so he’d turned to Nina. It wouldn’t have happened if he’d married Imo – she was more than enough for any man – and now, because of me, because of my pathetic eagerness to have him at any cost, there was carnage all around. Broken marriages, mistresses, thwarted love affairs and at the heart of it all, a small, fatherless, disabled boy. My heart lurched. My fault. I shot my chin up and swallowed desperately, but it was no good, tears were falling relentlessly, sliding silently down my cheeks as chaos howled inside me. It was all of my making.

  And all that time, I thought wretchedly, wiping my face with the back of my hand, all these years Imo must have secretly hated me. Must have swallowed it bravely, but how her guts must have twisted every time she looked at me, every time she saw Johnny and me together, came to our home, sat at our table. Always in her mind – that should have been me! And I never knew!

  I pulled off the motorway with an astonishing lack of care, horns blaring in my wake, and sped blindly away into more traffic. The sky was darkening overhead and a rainstorm threatened. At length it broke, and I drove the rest of the way in a torrential downpour, concentrating hard on the frantic dance of the windscreen wipers, grateful for their distraction.

  When I finally pulled up in my drive I turned off the engine and sat for a moment. The rain had abated to a dismal drizzle and I leant forward and rested my head on the wheel. My insides were twisting themselves into a fierce ball of anguish, but I knew too that monthly abdominal cramps were also to blame. How convenient of my reproductive system to make its presence felt at this particular moment. Thank you, God. I dragged my head wearily from the wheel, massaged my tummy and leant back, reliving for a ghastly moment Sebastian’s face as he’d turned to look at me. Shock and disbelief seemed to be the overriding emotion in those dark eyes. So what exactly had Ursula said? That I was intent on the same, destructive course of action that I’d perfected thirteen years ago? That I was determined to muscle my way into his life and crowbar her precious daughter out, at all costs? I rested my head back wearily on the head-rest, and it was at that moment that I realised I wasn’t alone.

  Just round the corner of the house, in the little car port that no one ever used, was a car I didn’t recognise. It was blue, an Escort, I think, and it occurred to me that I didn’t know anyone who drove a car as middle-aged as that. Its position in the car port rather than dumped in the middle of the drive gave it an alarming gravitas too, as if it had been carefully positioned, and as if its owner knew they may have to wait some time. Why yes, of course, I realised with a start, it belonged to the protagonists in the other disastrous chapter in my life, the chapter which, despite my desperate efforts to keep it under wraps, had clearly been unfolding relentlessly in my absence. The jolly old police. Oh yes, the boys in blue, who no doubt had been told I was out, but armed with a search warrant and an unending ability to sit soft and drink copious cups of tea, had camped out patiently in my sitting room, awaiting my return. Oh good. More music to face, and why not? Might as well get it all over in one day; might as well face a symphony as a
string quartet.

  I got out and slammed the door hard, rehearsing, slightly defiantly in my head – why yes, officer, I’m well aware that one of my workforce recently knocked off his wife, but seeing as it was a complete and utter accident I decided to give him a day’s grace to get away. You see I –

  ‘Ahhh!’

  I leapt inches in the air as someone stepped out of the shadow of the hedge and caught my arm from behind. Terrified, I swung round.

  ‘Lance!’

  ‘Shhhh!’ He put his hand gently over my mouth, glancing quickly about to check I hadn’t been heard.

  Wide-eyed I stared at him, then nodded to let him know I wasn’t going to shriek again. Slowly, he took his hand away.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I gasped, when I’d regained the use of my vocal cords. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m waiting for Spiro,’ he whispered. ‘The police should be back with him any minute. I don’t want them to know I’m still here.’

  ‘Spiro?’

  ‘Yes, poor bastard, he’s down at the station. They took him there this morning. He’s been there all day, being questioned.’

  ‘Oh God! And you too?’

  ‘Most of the day, but they let me out on bail a couple of hours ago.’

  ‘On bail!’ I stared. His face was very pale under his tan. ‘But, Lance, you weren’t even there when Vi died! You were here with me that weekend. You haven’t done anything!’

  ‘Quite, but in the absence of Dad or Alf, Spiro and I are all they’ve got to go on. You were right to go to London, Livvy.’

  ‘Did they want to speak to me?’ I whispered fearfully.

  ‘Yes, but only as a matter of course. Just as a formality, so they said, and certainly not as desperately as they wanted to speak to us,’ he added drily.

  ‘But,’ I glanced back at the house, confused, ‘why is Spiro down there? I mean, if they’re up here –’