Vengeance

by Susan Lewis

  ‘Oh, darling, there’s no contest. I love you both more than anything else in the world.’

  ‘Do you, Laurence? Do you really?’

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘But what if I died, Laurence . . . I mean if I got sick and was going to die, what would you do then?’

  Laurence could feel himself frowning as the reality of her words closed around his heart. ‘Pippa, what are you saying?’ he breathed. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said listlessly. ‘I just wondered, that was all.’

  ‘Pippa, have you been to see a doctor? Has he told you something?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m all right. I was just wondering what you would do if I wasn’t here any more. Do you think you would marry again?’

  With a supreme effort Laurence forced himself to remain calm. For sure the last time she hadn’t thought about dying, but she’d been pretty maudlin for a while.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ she said.

  Not at all sure how he should handle this Laurence said, ‘I don’t know, honey. It’s not something I’ve ever thought about.’

  ‘I’d want you to,’ she told him. ‘I mean I’d want you to be happy, darling, you know that don’t you?’

  ‘It’s you who makes me happy.’

  ‘Oh Laurence, you’re making me cry.’

  ‘Pip, honey,’ he said gently, ‘do you think you could be pregnant?’

  She laughed softly through her tears. ‘No. I’m having my period.’

  ‘Do you think it’s that making you feel so low?’ he suggested.

  ‘It could be,’ but there was no conviction in her voice and once again Laurence found himself trying to stave off the panic. He was certain she was holding back on him about something and if she wasn’t being straight with him about seeing the doctor, if she had found out there was something wrong with her then he knew she wouldn’t tell him over the phone.

  ‘I’m coming home,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the next flight out . . .’

  ‘No, don’t do that. Oh darling, I’ve frightened you. I’m sorry. There’s nothing wrong with me, honestly. I’m just being silly.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I’m coming home.’

  ‘No, Laurence, please. I’m fine, and besides I’m going to Italy tomorrow. Now tell me all that’s been happening to you out there.’

  Hardly thinking about what he was saying Laurence told her about the call from Cohen, but, despite her very real delight for him and the way she was starting to sound much more herself, he was still worried.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come home?’ he said just before they rang off.

  ‘No. Like I said, I’m going over to Italy tomorrow.’

  ‘Then how about when we both get back we take that weekend we’ve been promising ourselves?’

  ‘With or without Tom?’

  ‘Whichever you prefer.’

  Pippa laughed. ‘Tom always wants to be with his daddy,’ she said.

  9

  ‘Well, are you one dark horse!’ Helena cried into the telephone. ‘I thought you said Zaccheo was in Rome.’

  ‘He came back,’ Kirsten answered prosaically, though Helena could hear the smile in her voice.

  ‘You’re not kidding!’ Helena laughed. ‘And just what have the two of you been up to since? No, don’t bother to tell me, I already know.’

  ‘What do you mean? He only answered the phone so how can you . . .’

  ‘Kirstie! There are photographs all over the centre pages of Campbell’s rag this morning of you cavorting nude in a swimming pool while Zaccheo stands by and watches.’

  ‘What!’ Kirsten gasped. ‘How the hell did . . .? Who told him I was here?’

  ‘Search me,’ Helena shrugged, as she hunted around for an ashtray, ‘but he’s found out somehow. And I gotta tell you that apart from a strategically placed fig-leaf to satisfy the censors there’s nothing left to the imagination. You look sensational!’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Kirsten cried. ‘Jesus Christ, no one was supposed to know I was here. What’s he written?’

  ‘It’s not good I’m afraid. Do you really want to know?’

  ‘Yes. No! Oh God, who told him where I was, that’s what I want to know.’

  ‘Jane?’ Helena suggested taking another puff of her cigarette as she stared casually down at the busy Crouch End High Street below her flat.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Kirsten snapped.

  ‘Well she’s the only other person who knew, that is assuming that neither you nor Zaccheo called Campbell.’

  ‘Very droll,’ Kirsten said tightly. ‘But it wouldn’t have been Jane.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because unless you told her where I was going . . .’

  ‘Me! It was you who told her.’

  ‘I did no such thing.’

  ‘Sorry, but you did. Well, actually it was me you were talking to, but Jane was there. See what I mean about that girl, she’s got a metaphysical state that makes you forget she’s in the room. Anyway, it was just a thought. My reckoning is that it was Pippa. It might even have been Jane who told Pippa, but it was more likely Zaccheo. She’s his editor and she’s a friend of Campbell’s.’

  ‘I’ll ask him,’ Kirsten said. ‘But I don’t think it was Zaccheo, as far as I know he hasn’t spoken to anyone since he got back. So try calling Jane to see if she did mention anything to Pippa. I want to find out once and for all who’s giving Campbell his information.’

  ‘All right,’ Helena said, without much enthusiasm. ‘Anyway the main reason I’m ringing is to ask if I can stay over at your place tonight. Melissa Andrews is holding some teenage garden party this afternoon for her pimply faced daughter and I said I’d lend some moral support. And, as they live just around the corner from you, I thought I could get smashed and crash out at yours.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ Kirsten answered.

  ‘Thanks. Now, what I really want to know is just exactly what is going on over there with you and Signor Marigliano?’

  ‘Not now,’ Kirsten said, lowering her voice as Zaccheo came into the room.

  ‘Ah! He’s there I take it. Well just answer me yes or no. Are you screwing him?’

  ‘Mind your own business.’

  ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘Now I am, yes.’

  ‘Now you are?’ Helena repeated mulling it over. ‘Obviously there’s something behind that. Well, you can tell me when you get home. So, what’s he like? Does he live up to his reputation?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Is it serious?’

  Helena was aware that Kirsten had turned slightly from the phone, probably to look at Zaccheo she thought as Kirsten said, ‘Mmm, I reckon it could be.’

  Helena toyed with the idea of telling her what was in the papers that morning then, but decided not to. Kirsten would find out soon enough, so why burst her bubble now? It sure was going to upset her once she found out though. THE FOX CIRCLES THE COOP, was the headline, and after giving the general low down on Zaccheo’s literary successes, not to mention his wealth, Campbell had gone on to point out that he was a close friend of ‘one of the Kirstie Doll’s old flames, whose nanny, as disclosed in an earlier column, has already been enticed into the Meredith web. So it still remains to be seen just what the Kirstie Doll is planning over there in Italy.’ He was turning Kirsten’s life into a regular soap opera and as far as Helena could tell the nation was glued. She had to confess that even she found it compelling reading, and when the stories were accompanied by pictures of Kirsten in the altogether she could understand why Campbell’s rag was boasting yet a further increase in sales. If Kirsten wasn’t quite so gorgeous no one would be interested, but as it was she had become the woman everyone loved to hate. Or mock, as the newspaper reviewers had on the early morning chat-show Helena had just been watching.

  ‘Well,’ Helena said, ‘I guess I’m just going to have to wait for the real lowdown, but whatever i
t is, babe, enjoy it!’

  ‘I will,’ Kirsten smiled, and promising to call again in a few days Helena rang off.

  Much later in the day, having read Campbell’s column so many times now she virtually knew it by heart, Helena was leaning against the door jamb of Melissa Andrews’ Edwardian house nursing a very large vodka and feeling so thoroughly wretched as she contemplated her life that she couldn’t even work up the energy to find a nice young boy to help take her mind off things. Hearing a screech coming from the garden she looked up, tried to focus on the heaving mass of nubile young bodies, and promptly wondered if she was going to be sick. Being fat and over-forty when you fancied men who were fat and over-forty was bad enough, but when you fancied the hell out of fresh-faced youths with skinny hips, barely developed muscles and inexperienced cocks it was pure torture. God, what she could teach them if she could just get her hands on them, but there was nothing doing – at least not while Melissa was around. She’d have a fit if she thought Helena was planning to corrupt the sons of her bourgeois friends.

  But it wasn’t fair, Helena grumbled to herself as she downed the vodka in one go. There was Kirsten over there in Italy getting her brains humped out by the only man fat and over-forty Helena could conceive of screwing and here was she standing in a doorway like a frustrated old spinster who’s only chance of fulfilment that day was to go home and masturbate.

  But that wasn’t true, she reminded herself miserably. There was somewhere else she could go, someone else she could turn to, and the more she had to drink the more tempted she was to give in.

  She reached for the vodka again, downed another large one then poured yet more into her glass. She could hardly believe this was happening to her, but it was, and had been for some time now. Drunk or sober she was lusting for a man whom the very sight of had always made her stomach churn. Well, maybe that was a bit strong, but she’d always loathed the man. Until recently.

  Was it because she suspected he was falling for Kirsten, she asked herself dismally. Or was it because she had got so desperate now she was prepared to do anything to ease the loneliness in her life?

  A faint smile started to hover over her lips. What would he say if she called him now and asked him to meet her at Kirsten’s? Christ, what was she thinking of? How could she even consider inviting Dermott Campbell to Kirsten’s house? Would he come, she wondered. She wouldn’t know unless she asked, and why the hell should Kirsten have all the fun? She’d get a real kick out of running rings round Campbell and she was more than curious to know what he was like in the sack . . .

  An hour later Helena looked across Kirsten’s sitting room at Campbell, sitting there in the fading light, and felt her earlier defiance start to recede as all the alcohol she had consumed turned her mood morose. She noticed the way his eyes looked kind of vulnerable without his glasses. There were deep lines on his brow, more pronounced because he was frowning and his mouth looked somehow smaller in the strange shadow his nose cast over it. He wasn’t a handsome man, not really, but when he smiled . . .

  She lowered her eyes to his hands. His elbows were resting on his knees, his fingers were locked together. They were short and stubby, there was hair on the backs of them. He’d obviously come out in a rush because he’d forgotten to fasten his cuffs. He didn’t have any socks on either. Who looked after him, she wondered. It sure didn’t look as though he took much care of himself. Not the way he looked right now, anyhow. In fact, his whole demeanour suggested that he was just about as fed up and depressed by life as she was. Or was she just imagining that because it was how she wanted him to feel? But now she came to look a little closer she could see that his hands were shaking. Probably he’d been drinking too. Did he do it for the same reasons as her, to blot out the loneliness? He’d got here pretty quickly after she’d called him. Was it because he was keen to see her? No, he’d come because he thought she was going to tell him something about Kirsten. A surge of resentment suddenly lodged in her throat. Kirsten, always Kirsten.

  ‘You fancy her, don’t you?’ Helena challenged quietly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Kirsten. Who else?’

  For a moment or two he eyed her steadily, then dropped his head into his hands. His fingers spread through his hair. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘Sometimes I think I do . . .’ He raised his head and Helena felt strangely touched by the way his hair was sticking up. ‘Why did you ask me over here?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe I just wanted to talk.’

  He half smiled, half laughed. ‘To me? I thought I’d have been the last person . . .’

  ‘So did I.’

  Campbell got to his feet and stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets he walked over to the fireplace. He had no idea what was happening here, whether it was the dwindling light that had masked the contempt he was so used to seeing in her eyes, or whether it was the alcohol that was lending a sporadic gentleness to her voice. But what he did know was that he was on foreign ground in more ways that one.

  ‘It was the party,’ she said.

  He looked at her and felt for a moment as though he was swaying. Her normally bright, almost startling eyes were steeped in confusion, the smooth plains of her face seemed pinched by an emotion he wasn’t too sure he recognized.

  ‘The McAllister’s party,’ she went on. ‘You did something . . . Or maybe you said something, I don’t know. But it got to me.’

  ‘Got to you in what way?’ he said hoarsely.

  For a long time she just looked at him, then her head fell back and she closed her eyes. ‘Oh God, I don’t know what I’m talking about,’ she murmured.

  ‘You’ve seen me since then,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Look, Helena, you’ve got to know . . . I mean, it must be obvious to you . . .’ His voice trailed off and shaking his head he gazed down at the empty hearth.

  ‘What must be obvious to me?’ she said her eyes still closed.

  ‘Nothing,’ he whispered. How could he tell her when he might be reading this all wrong? She’d never wanted him before, couldn’t stand him near her . . .

  By the time Helena spoke again night had shrouded the room and the only light was from a streetlamp outside. ‘Talk to me, Dermott,’ she said. ‘Tell me how you really feel about Kirsten.’

  He turned and moved slowly back to the sofa. ‘Helena,’ he said when he was sitting, ‘you’re looking at someone who’s so mixed up that right now I don’t know how I feel about anything.’

  Helena smiled then let her eyes drift to the Provençal landscape hanging above the marquetry cabinet. ‘Kirsten slept with someone once just to secure my job,’ she said. ‘That’s how good a friend she is to me.’ Her eyes returned to his. ‘I’ll sleep with you, Dermott, to stop you doing what you are to her.’

  He rubbed a hand over his unshaven chin and swallowed hard. ‘I don’t want you to do that,’ he said.

  Helena’s heart turned over. She was only using Kirsten as an excuse. ‘Why? Because you’d rather sleep with her?’

  As his eyes came up to hers he smiled, sadly. ‘No. Because it wouldn’t do any good. You know it’s not me who’s driving this vendetta.’

  ‘Does it bother you that she’s still in love with Laurence?’

  ‘If she is then what’s she doing over there with Zaccheo?’

  Helena laughed. ‘I thought you had the answer to that. Finding another way of getting close to Laurence.’

  ‘Laurence’s marriage is sound. She won’t get him back.’

  Helena shrugged. ‘You’re the one who wrote the story. But maybe you’re right, she won’t get him back, but do you really think you stand a chance?’

  ‘It’s not her I want, Helena.’

  It was Helena’s turn to stand up. She crossed the room, switched on a lamp then drew the curtains. ‘Then who is it you want?’ she heard herself say.

  She was standing behind him so neither could see the other’s face. ‘You know it’s you,’
he said huskily.

  ‘But you said just now . . .’

  ‘I don’t want you under those circumstances,’ he growled.

  ‘The real truth is, Dermott, you don’t know what you do want. Tell me, why haven’t you gone to print on the real reason Kirsten and Laurence broke up?’

  Campbell turned to look at her. Helena averted her eyes and walked over to switch on another lamp.

  ‘Are you holding back on it to protect her?’ she demanded.

  ‘In part. Helena, look, can you just tell me what’s going on here? I mean, it’s like you’re sounding jealous or something.’

  ‘Is it?’ she snapped and suddenly, to his amazement, she started to cry.

  ‘Helena,’ he said going to her and trying to put his arms around her.

  She shrugged him away. ‘Just tell me when you’re going to print it, Dermott. Stop keeping me in suspense this way.’

  ‘I’m not going to print it,’ he said.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because I can’t.’

  ‘Because you’ve fallen for her.’

  ‘No. Because if I even mention it to Dyllis she’ll print Laurence’s name too. Now listen to me. Listen!’ he said, catching her arm as she made to move away again. ‘You’ve got no reason to be jealous of her. Not where I’m concerned. She’s a beautiful woman, a man can be forgiven for losing his head . . . Helena, listen!’

  ‘Just tell me who told you about the break up, Dermott! I know I told you everything else, but I didn’t tell you that. So who was it?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you.’

  ‘But she’ll think it’s me. If you print it, she’ll think I told you . . .’

  ‘Look, come and sit down,’ he said, putting an arm around her and leading her to the sofa.

  ‘Oh God!’ Helena sobbed as he pulled her head onto his shoulder. ‘What’s going on here? You’re a bastard! A loathsome, despicable bastard who’s blackmailing me into betraying my best friend . . . I should hate you. I do hate you.’

  She lifted her head and as her huge, watery eyes stared back at him he wondered how the hell he could get so mixed up about his feelings when all he had to do was look at her to know that she was the only one he wanted. He lifted a hand and smoothed a tear from her cheek. ‘Tell Kirsten what you’ve done,’ he said. ‘Don’t let her find out from someone else.’