Maggie put Winston down. He fluffed himself up and applied his tongue to the place where she’d huffed into his fur. ‘I suppose.’
‘Look at you now. Our clients say you’re the best at project management. You have a flair for it, you work hard, stand no nonsense from your workmen, and in a short time you could launch out on your own, if you wished to do so.’
‘I wouldn’t know how to cope on my own. You aren’t going to throw me out, are you?’
Bea gave the girl a hug. ‘Of course not. But one day, perhaps, you’ll want to fly the nest.’
‘When I’m fifty, say? Can you put up with me till I’m fifty?’
‘I might be in my grave myself, by then.’
Maggie twitched a smile. ‘You’re nice. I wish you’d been my mother, instead of . . . But we can’t choose our parents, can we? I take your point about Oliver, but me? I’m still a mess inside.’
‘Give it time. Just don’t call yourself a loser in my hearing again. Right?’
Maggie hitched her multicoloured top up over one shoulder and shrugged. But she looked a lot perkier as she went off to work.
Bea stared out into the garden. It was going to be another hot day, by the look of it. She enquired within, so to speak. How did she feel today? The answer was that although her grief for Hamilton had temporarily receded into its cave – sometimes she thought of it as a leopard, biding its time to pounce on her and drag her down – she didn’t feel satisfied with herself. Oliver’s words about crime and punishment had unsettled her. Perhaps he was right. Honoria should not have done what they believed she had done, and she should not have got away with it.
Bea seemed to remember her husband saying something about letting God do the judging. Sure. Of course. Fine. But human beings wanted justice to be seen to be done, and she felt very human that morning. And, yes, dissatisfied with the outcome of the case. Not that there ever really had been a case, of course.
Oh well. To work. She must ring Nicole, find out how she was doing in this heat. Probably not too well. Brace yourself, Bea, for a difficult visit.
Tuesday afternoon
Bea rang the bell at her son’s flat and waited for Nicole to let her in. She’d phoned earlier and been told that if she wanted to come over she could, but not to expect anything by way of tea and sympathy since Max would be out and Nicole wasn’t up to it.
She rang the bell again, and this time Nicole’s voice, sounding blurred, enquired who was there. Had she forgotten that Bea was coming over?
Once Bea was let in, she understood the reason for the delay in Nicole’s answering the entry phone. The curtains were still drawn though it was mid-afternoon, and there were dirty dishes and clothes everywhere.
‘I’m in bed.’ A weak voice led Bea to the master bedroom, which smelt stale. Dirty mugs and half-eaten plates of food littered the floor, along with a trail of nightclothes which needed to be put in the washing machine.
Bea hadn’t seen Nicole recently. The girl was by now some seven months pregnant and looked terrible. Gone was the ultra-smart trophy wife, all blonde hair, high heels, gold chains and bracelets. Here was a grey-faced, stringy-haired, drab-looking female with a bloated stomach. Ouch.
If this was what Max faced every day, then Bea wasn’t surprised he’d allowed Nicole’s beautiful harpy of a younger sister to be seen out with him. Nicole was nobody’s idea of an asset at the moment.
Bea told herself not to gape at the change in her daughter-in-law, who was lying back in crumpled sheets, sweat beading her forehead, eyes closed.
‘Are you still feeling sick?’
No reply. Bea knew Nicole had gone on being sick till her fifth month, but hopefully she was past that stage now. In reply, Nicole lifted one hand from the bed and let it fall again. Tears stood out at the corners of her eyes.
Bea remembered her words to Zander about people allowing themselves to become victims. Here was a perfect example. Mind you, it never did any good telling people to pull themselves together, did it? Though those were exactly the words running through Bea’s mind. For two pins, Bea would have turned on her heel and walked away.
She could imagine exactly what was going to happen next. Nicole would go on whining, Max would get even more fed up with her, Lettice would offer herself to him on a plate and wham, bam, ma’am, Max gets divorced, he and Lettice get married, Nicole becomes an unhappy single mother and the baby loses out. So, of course, would Max, because to Bea’s mind Lettice only cared for herself. So in the end that marriage would break up, too.
Bea could see nothing but misery stretching ahead of them down the years.
Dear Lord, do I stand back and let it happen? No, of course not. Marriages may need a bit of a boost now and then but shouldn’t fall apart for the want of a kick in the pants, or whatever it is that’s needed here. Help required. Right?
She shook herself into action. ‘You poor thing. Let’s see what we can do to make you feel better.’
The flat had two bedrooms, both en suite. Bea inspected the second bedroom and saw evidence that Max had been sleeping there. She threw back the curtains and opened the windows, scooped up all the bedding, plus Max’s discarded shirts and underpants, and carried them through to the washing machine in the utility room. Iced lemon tea didn’t take long to make as there were plenty of ice cubes – and not much else – in the fridge. She took that and a towel soaked in ice water through to Nicole, and she cajoled her into sipping water and washing her face and hands. Weakly, Nicole tried to smile.
‘Let’s have you in the shower, and then you can move into the spare bedroom, all nice and fresh.’
Nicole protested, but Bea took no notice. ‘Wash your hair while you’re at it, and find yourself something clean to wear.’ Before Nicole had dried herself, Bea had made up the spare room bed with fresh linen.
‘But this is where Max sleeps.’
‘We’ll have him back where he belongs in a trice. Now get some more of that iced tea down you, and think about what you could fancy to eat while I strip the other bed and clean up a bit.’
There were some benefits to running a domestic agency, and one of them was knowing how to create order out of disorder and dirt. Didn’t Nicole have a cleaner nowadays? She’d been proud of herself and her flat in the old days.
‘Toast?’ Bea offered it, and Nicole took it. There was even a shade of returning pride in her appearance as she ran a brush through her hair as it dried.
‘I’ve been so miserable.’
‘You should have called me.’
‘I know you’ve never liked me.’
Bea summoned up her most robust tones. ‘Of course I like you. You’re the smartest, prettiest wife in the whole of London, and Max adores you.’
‘Not at the moment, he doesn’t.’
Had Nicole heard the rumours about her younger sister? ‘Some men are at their worst in the sickroom.’
‘I really have been sick, haven’t I? He thought I was putting it on, he didn’t understand what it’s like to feel sick all the time. No man could. And I couldn’t eat anything. I know I look a wreck.’
‘You’ll pick up quickly now you’ve stopped being sick. After a couple of visits to the beauty salon and the purchase of some glamorous outfits, he won’t recognize you. You are such an example to us all, managing to look stylish when you’re pregnant.’
‘Me? Go to a beauty salon? Looking like this?’
‘Of course not. Do you think you could look out something suitable for you to wear when we go shopping? If you could do that, I’ll get busy on the phone, booking you appointments, hairdressers, masseuse, manicurist, you name it.’
‘I don’t think I’ve anything that will fit,’ said Nicole, languidly making her way to the master bedroom and throwing open fitted wardrobe doors. ‘I was so small at first, and then I ballooned out. And Max will throw a fit if I say I want to buy some more clothes.’
‘You’ve got such beautiful shoulders. Have you something with a low neckline?�
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‘This . . .? Or perhaps this?’ Black or black. Smart, of course, but not suitable for a woman with greenish shadows under her eyes. She was so washed out at the moment that she looked like a ghost.
The house phone rang, and Nicole swooped on it. ‘Oh, Max, I can’t talk now. Your mother’s here and wants to take me shopping. She thinks I should buy things to show off my beautiful shoulders. What do you think? I mean, I know we’ve spent far too much this year already, but I really do have nothing to wear . . . Yes, I’m feeling a whole lot better, really. I mean, but a whole lot better.’ Almost, she giggled.
Bea rolled her eyes, gathered up another load of washing for the utility room, and returned with a tray for the dirty dishes. She transferred the first load of washing to the drier. Put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Nicole chattered on and on. Once Max was off the phone, she rang one of her friends, to tell her that Max had told her to go out and buy a complete new wardrobe because she’d outgrown all her old clothes. The suggestion that she should buy new clothes had acted on her like a tonic.
Bea sent up an arrow prayer. Lord, I think I know how to save this marriage, but it involves Piers and I’m not sure that he’s going to agree. He’s so busy, and he doesn’t paint society beauties – if that’s what you’d call Nicole – and altogether I’m at my wits’ end, so . . . please?
She made some more toast, poached an egg and took it in to Nicole, who was still on the phone but had managed to crawl into some jeans and a white top which didn’t look too bad. In fact, the girl was gradually transforming herself from grim-looking waif back to an approximation of the stylish woman that she had once been.
Dear Lord, please make it all right. And while you’re about it, you know how fidgety I feel about that other case. I know I have to leave it to you to judge, but . . . it bugs me, as much as it bugs Oliver, that Honoria has got away with it. All right, I know. None of my business. I do worry about things which are none of my business, don’t I? It’s just that I feel, I don’t know, as if I’ve missed a trick. Oh, I give up. Forget it. I intend to.
Summoning a taxi, Bea took Nicole on a shopping expedition which left Nicole bubbling over with excitement . . . and Bea exhausted. The cost of the shopping expedition was not mentioned, but Bea had a horrid feeling that she would in due course have to offer Max a sub. Classy clothes don’t come cheap.
When Bea finally crawled back to the office, she found Oliver working like an octopus, manning several telephones and his computer all at once. Also the phone was ringing unattended in reception. No sign of Maggie; well, she wasn’t in the office today, was she? No sign of the invaluable Miss Brook, either. Now that was unusual.
Oliver took one phone away from his ear long enough to say, ‘Miss Brook’s got an emergency dentist’s appointment, and there’s a snarl-up over someone missing a plane in the Middle East and . . . Yes, I’m still here.’ He went back to the job.
Bea plunged into the fray, answering the phone, pacifying one client and making another appointment for the other. The phones kept ringing.
When she surfaced, she felt hot, tired and thirsty. Also, she realized with a shock that she’d intended to refill the freezer and organize supper and hadn’t done it. But whatever else she had to do, she must first ring Piers.
Oliver went to run his head under the cold tap, and he helped himself to a drink from the fridge. ‘Phew! What’s for supper?’
Bea sent him a Look and pulled the phone towards her again. This couldn’t wait.
‘Piers, glad to have caught up with you. Listen, there’s a bit of a crisis.’ She explained what a wreck Nicole had looked that day, and although a shopping expedition had restored some life to the girl, Bea feared it wouldn’t last.
‘Then, I had an idea which might transform their marriage.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Now, don’t kill me, I know you’re fully booked, but would you consider painting Nicole’s portrait? Not Max’s, but Nicole’s.’
Piers was silent.
Bea bit her lip and flexed her back. Wondered if he’d give her a curt ‘no’ or think up some good excuse for not doing it.
Piers sighed. ‘You think you can blackmail me into painting her because I owe you and Max something?’
Now it was Bea’s turn to be silent. Piers had once said he’d like to paint her but had never fulfilled his promise. He’d probably forgotten all about it, though she hadn’t. Not that she was going to remind him about it. Definitely not.
He said, ‘You say she’s heavily pregnant. Blonde, ripe and ready for it? I don’t do that sort of chocolate box stuff.’
‘No, I know you don’t.’
‘Of course, it’s highly commercial. Would she strip, do you think?’
‘What? Piers, I didn’t hear you suggest that! What would Max say?’
‘Hm. I forgot; he’s too strait-laced to be true, nowadays. Except when it comes to other young blondes.’
‘You wouldn’t want to paint Lettice though, would you?’
‘As a harpy, perhaps. But Nicole . . . I mean, what does Max see in her?’
‘You’ve often told me that you don’t always know what you’re going to reveal in a person when you start to paint them. Just for once, couldn’t you flatter her?’
‘I don’t flatter. Did you say she’s got grey-green shadows under her eyes, and her hair is lifeless? I could paint her as a victim of her pregnancy.’
There was that word ‘victim’ again. Ouch. Bea winced. ‘If you could produce a chocolate box picture, it might save their marriage, give Max a different view of her, and supply her with the courage she needs to carry on being his wife.’
‘Until next time.’
Bea was silent. Piers was right. There probably would be a next time. If Piers was anything to go by, Max would still be attracting women in his sixties. Why, she herself had sometimes wondered what would happen if Piers were to suggest a little light dalliance with his ex-wife, but . . . No. NO! Kill that thought. She was not going to go down that road.
Piers said, ‘Tell you what. I’m due to start another portrait tomorrow. Maybe I’ll make some preliminary sketches of my next subject – distinguished scientist and all that – or, better still, take some photos and ask her to send them on to her husband, who’s in Australia at the moment, if I remember rightly. She can ask his opinion which pose to use. That would give me some time to paint Nicole, on one condition. That you let me paint you sometime, too.’
She didn’t know whether to be flattered that he still wanted to paint her or annoyed that he’d forgotten he’d already asked her. Both. ‘At sixty plus? And beginning to look it?’
‘Mm. Every line showing and promise me, no Botox. Now that portrait I could submit to the Royal Academy next year. So, it’s a deal?’
‘You’re mad.’
‘No, I’m a materialistic bum. If I do one chocolate box picture, I’ll be inundated with requests from pretty women with nothing between the ears, to paint them, too. I shall double my prices and clean up. And then I’ll be able to pay for your guttering to be replaced.’
‘Idiot!’ said Bea, laughing. ‘Give me a couple of days to get her prettied up again. Right?’
‘Get her into something soft, lavender or blue-grey or lilac. Plain, but with a low neckline. I’ll paint her as a mature beauty wearing her pregnancy with style and grace.’
‘And when you paint me?’
‘I don’t care what you wear. You’ll be looking straight at me, through me. Eyes following me round the room. A strong woman and a good one. Now say goodnight, Bea. I’ve got to get busy rearranging my schedule.’
She put down the phone thinking, Thank you, Lord.
Oliver appeared in the doorway, preoccupied, fiddling with his tie. ‘Something came up and I’m going out, right? I’ll grab a bite to eat later. Shouldn’t be too late, though.’
‘Uh-huh.’ One down and one to go. Perhaps she’d take Maggie out for a meal. Oliver banged the front door as he left. Or perhaps that was M
aggie returning? She sighed, rubbed her back. Shopping with Nicole had been a tiring business.
Later Tuesday evening
Well, that was a job well done, wasn’t it!
Her preparations had paid off. She’d rung the Chocolate Boy at work that afternoon, pretending to be their disgraced Office Manageress. She’d asked him to call on her that evening, as she had something important to tell him. The fool had sounded excited, agreed to meet her. Fine, so that was him out of the way with no alibi.
Then she’d driven in to check where he lived. She was surprised to find it was such a good address. She’d found a parking space almost opposite. A good omen. A quiet backwater of a street, but with darkened glass windows on the Range Rover, no one could see in. A phone call to his landline produced a quavery voice saying he’d gone out for the evening. An old woman. Housekeeper? House owner?
She said, ‘He left his mobile phone at work. I said I’d drop it in for him on my way home, but I’ll need a signature if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course. How long will you be? I’m just cooking supper.’
‘It won’t take a minute.’
And it didn’t. She rang the doorbell, pushed inside. She saw an elderly lady, easy to shove off balance. There was a thin scream as the woman went down, then a thud or two. She’d brought the hammer with her, was wearing plastic gloves. Overalls absorbed the blood.
She opened doors till she found the Chocolate Boy’s bed-sitting room, gathered his laptop, briefcase, and leather jacket together and left them in the centre of the room. Then she went upstairs to the old woman’s bedroom, easily spotted, the only one on the first floor in current use. She rummaged for jewellery, found some in the top drawer of the chest of drawers. Back down the stairs. She tucked some into the Chocolate Boy’s toilet bag and some under the mattress of his bed. She counted to ten. Stood still. Stilled her breathing. Looked around. Checked she’d done everything she’d meant to do. Something was boiling over in the kitchen.
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