‘How have you been? I haven’t seen you for a while.’
Daisy didn’t answer immediately. She picked up a tea towel that was lying on the arm of a chair.
‘The cat’s been up on the furniture again.’
She flapped the towel ineffectually and gave Penny a smile. Penny swallowed. As far as she knew, Daisy didn’t have a cat, at least not any more.
She didn’t need to look far to know that Daisy was finding it hard to cope. In just six months the state of her little cottage had depreciated alarmingly. Once it had been spick and span and shiny as a new pin. Now there was the rather stifling smell of the unkempt. Not a nursing home smell, because that was always masked by disinfectant, but a rank, greasy staleness.
She inspected Daisy’s dress, and suspected that she had been wearing it for some time, perhaps even at night as well as in the day. It was creased and stained, and Penny could discern sweat patches under the arms. She had no tights on, just slippers. Daisy had always dressed impeccably.
‘Daisy, I wonder if I could go and get myself a glass of water?’
Daisy frowned slightly, as if in the back of her mind she recognised this as a trap, but she smiled and nodded.
Penny slipped into the kitchen, suspecting it would provide more clues. What she saw there made her heart sink further. There were dirty plates everywhere, opened tins with half-eaten contents, some of them mouldy. Apple cores and orange peel, toast crusts.
‘Daisy,’ she said carefully, ‘I think we should see about getting you some help in the house.’
‘I don’t need help.’ The little woman’s riposte was stout.
‘Perhaps someone who could come in and do a bit of washing-up and cleaning—’
‘I do my own cleaning. Are you saying I’m not clean?’ There was more than a touch of querulousness now.
‘No. It would just be nice for you not to have to worry. Don’t you think?’ Penny tried to keep her voice as neutral as possible.
Daisy stood in the middle of the room, arms by her side, mutinous in her silence. Penny wondered desperately what tack to try next. What she really needed to do was get Daisy into the surgery and have her properly assessed, but she felt fairly sure she wouldn’t co-operate at this juncture.
‘Have the family been to visit?’
Penny knew Daisy had a daughter who lived somewhere near Oxford, but who rarely came down to Devon.
‘Yes, yes.’
Daisy nodded enthusiastically, but the lack of detail in her response made Penny suspect that she was either lying or didn’t have a clue what she was saying.
‘That’s nice.’ Penny took in the thick layers of dust - not that that was a crime, she was no slave to the duster herself - the greasy grime round the sink, the piles of newspapers, the empty milk bottles that hadn’t been put out, some of which still had milk in that had gone rancid. She felt a surge of anger that it had to come to this, that no one else seemed bothered about Daisy’s welfare, that if it wasn’t for the fact that she was actually a caring doctor who happened to have the time to pop in on impulse, then this woman would probably fester in her own mess until she died, probably of some vile infection she would pick up from the lack of hygiene. How many other elderly patients were there out there, neglected and forgotten? She watched as Daisy walked over to the sink and squirted some washing-up liquid into the bowl.
‘I’ve been a bit off-colour,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m feeling much better.’
She ran the hot tap and looked Penny straight in the eye.
‘I’m getting on with it.’
She started gathering up the mugs that scattered the work surface. Penny sighed. She wasn’t going to get Daisy to admit there was anything wrong. In fact, to all intents and purposes, she probably didn’t know there was a problem. She must be living in a hazy approximation of her previous existence, where reality was slightly blurred and memories slipped out of the mind’s grasp like quicksilver. But no doubt there would be a tiny, constant nag of fear, a sensation that there was no going back and nothing to be done, like going on a fairground ride and regretting it as soon as the chairs started swinging too high.
Penny decided sensibly that there was nothing she could do now without distressing Daisy any further, but resolved to bring her plight up at the practice meeting. They could draw up a plan of action, and at least she would have the support of other professionals, who might be a bit more objective about the situation. Perhaps she was reading too much into it. Perhaps Daisy had just been a bit off-colour, and was simply slowing down. She hoped so. She wouldn’t wish dementia on anyone.
As she drove back through the village, Penny saw the lights on in Myrtle Cottage and wondered if she should pop in to see how Charlotte was getting on. The sensible GP and mother of two told her that would be the right and kind thing to do. But the frustrated, embittered and jealous middle-aged divorcee saw Charlotte as competition, and couldn’t quite bring herself to stretch out the hand of friendship. It wasn’t Charlotte’s fault that she had managed to elicit an invitation to Withybrook Hall within five minutes of meeting Sebastian, but Penny felt aggrieved. OK, so she had been asked too, but only by default, and she had known Sebastian for much longer. Chumming up with Charlotte would be tantamount to sleeping with the enemy. Although, on the other hand, there were those who said keep your friends close, but your enemies closer . . .
In the end, however, she just felt too tired, and if she was to go round she should at least bring a bottle of wine or a box of chocolates. She would earmark her visit for later in the week, when she felt less oppressed by the world.
What did the evening ahead hold for her? Two grumpy, argumentative teenagers, who would turn their noses up at what she had cooked for them, would just about deign to tell her what had gone in their day, and would start making their demands for the week ahead. All without any concern as to how her day had gone. She loved Megan and Tom dearly, but she sometimes wished they would go against type and buck against their stereotypical behaviour. It would be such fun, she thought wistfully, if she could make spag bol and they could all sit round the kitchen table munching on garlic bread and talking and laughing. If she felt more fulfilled and less taken for granted in her home life, perhaps she wouldn’t be quite so desperate for an escape. But for the foreseeable future that’s what she was stuck with. And if she was honest, the house without them in was even worse; she hated the weekends Bill took them to his flat in Bristol. Forty-eight hours of freedom, and nothing to do. More to the point, no one to do it with.
She pulled up outside the small patch of gravel that served as a parking area next to her house. She sat for a minute before going inside. Something would have to change before long, or she would go completely stir-crazy.
Seven
Catkin slid stealthily through the door of Sebastian’s studio. She was desperate to see what he was up to, and it looked as if subterfuge was going to be the only way she could manage it. The studio was usually out of bounds to everyone, even her, because Sebastian didn’t want anyone judging his work in progress in case he found their opinion inhibiting. She was allowed to see it when it was finished, and not before. But she needed to have a look, just for peace of mind.
She couldn’t see anything. There were no canvasses on the easels, no smell of paint, no brushes thrust into pots of turps. She felt a cold chill in her heart. She was reminded of the scene in The Shining, where Shelley Duvall discovers that Jack Nicholson has been writing ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’, over and over again.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
She jumped out of her skin, to see Sebastian standing in the doorway, glaring at her accusingly.
She gave him a winning smile.
‘I just wanted a look,’ she explained hastily. ‘I’m so excited about what you’re doing. I couldn’t resist.’
He looked at her evenly.
‘Well, you won’t find it here,’ he replied. ‘Most of it’s gone to be framed.’
‘Oh.’
She looked down at the floor, not sure whether to believe him. It was a plausible enough explanation.
‘So what’s the title?’ she asked brightly. ‘The theme?’
‘Don’t Stick Your Nose In Where It’s Not Wanted.’ He walked towards her, a smile on his lips. ‘Please, Catkin, don’t interfere. You know it does my head in.’
‘OK. Sorry. I just . . .’
She starting edging her way out, knowing she was guilty of breaking one of their golden rules.
‘By the way,’ Sebastian added, ‘I’ve invited a couple of people for lunch.’
Catkin stopped in her tracks, unable to believe what she had heard.
‘What?’
‘It’s OK. I’ve told Stacey. She’s going to lay another couple of places.’
‘Who?’ Catkin knew her tone was sharp, but this could spell disaster.
‘Oh - Penny Silver. And a girl I met in the pub on Sunday. She’s an interior decorator or something. Doing up a house in the village.’
His response was irritatingly casual. Catkin drew in a deep breath. She mustn’t lose it. If she did, there was no knowing what Sebastian might do in retaliation. Bugger off and not turn up to lunch at all, very probably.
‘Right,’ she managed faintly. ‘I better go and have a look at the seating plan.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ Sebastian rolled his eyes. ‘Just let everyone sit where they want.’
‘I can’t do that!’
‘What? In case they enjoy themselves?’
Catkin swallowed. ‘Don’t take the piss,’ she pleaded. She wanted to ask him to wear something decent for lunch, but she knew that would be pushing it. He’d be in jeans with baseball boots if she was lucky, a scraggy shirt and bare feet if she wasn’t. His parents had brought him up to wear exactly what he wished, not what social niceties dictated. At their table, you could have found people in white tie at one end and semi-clad at the other, and no one seemed to mind which end of the sartorial spectrum you chose.
She’d better go and get ready herself. It was less than an hour before the guests were due to gather in the drawing room, which would give her just enough time to make herself presentable. As she hurried across the lawn, she wondered if Sebastian had been telling the truth or if he’d been fobbing her off. If he really hadn’t done any work then they’d be in deep trouble. But she knew she’d never get him to admit it if he hadn’t. It was going to be up to her, as usual, to get them out of the shit.
Charlotte spent a long time debating what to wear to lunch. She hadn’t brought a huge amount of dressy stuff with her, but although Sebastian had insisted it was casual she had spent so long this week in grubby jeans and sweatshirts that she wanted to make the effort. She settled on a red silk polka-dot frock which she always felt comfortable in, dressing it down slightly with flat black suede boots.
She surveyed herself in the mirror. It was a relief to feel human again. The week had been exhausting. She’d spent it pulling up carpets, chipping off tiles, peeling off wallpaper, and years of dust and dirt had come with it. She felt as if it was engrained in her skin and her hair. She’d soaked for hours in the bath, and rubbed herself all over with exfoliating scrub. Her nails were a disaster; she could never be bothered to wear rubber gloves, and now she was paying the price. There were small patches of childhood eczema on her palms where the cleaning products had irritated her skin. But at least she had a shell now. The house was a blank canvas, ready to be transformed. She’d decided that she couldn’t manage the kitchen and bathroom herself, that she would have to get someone in to fit them, but by keeping the units plain and simple she would just about be able to keep in budget, as long as there were no disasters along the way. But there was no doubt it was a daunting task. She had hugely underestimated how long everything was going to take, and it was far more tiring than she had thought, especially as the nearest builders’ merchant was more than twenty miles away, which meant a trip there could wipe out a whole morning.
Her body ached. She had muscles in places she didn’t know she had. And she hadn’t been sleeping all that well. She thought she would fall into bed and pass out, but she found she was restless, easily woken by the strange sounds of the countryside - owls and foxes - and when she did sleep she had disturbed dreams.
So all in all her reflection didn’t please her. She looked pale, tired, and she’d definitely lost weight. Usually that would delight her, but it made her look even more drawn. She did the best she could with some tinted moisturiser, a lick of mascara and some lip-gloss.
For a moment she wondered if she was being foolish accepting Sebastian’s invitation. There were going to be other guests there, people from London. Might she be recognised? Probably not - people usually didn’t recognise people out of context, she was using her maiden name, she had a convincing cover story. She was going to risk it. After all, why should she have to spend her life in exile when she wasn’t actually guilty of anything?
Catkin pulled the towel off her head impatiently and rough-dried her hair, still seething from Sebastian’s latest bombshell.
She knew Penny Silver; she’d been to her a couple of times with minor ailments and she thought she was perfectly pleasant, but she didn’t want a middle-aged GP at her lunch table talking about bunions and pubic lice, for heaven’s sake. And the other was some misguided creature who thought she could make a fortune by slapping a bit of emulsion around. Bloody Sebastian. Why did he always have to go and put a spanner in the works, just when she had worked out the perfect table plan? Now she had two spare women - two! - both as dull as ditchwater with nothing to bring to the party.
Deep down Catkin knew she was being vile and control-freakish, and that really she should be laid-back and chilled and welcome in any of Sebastian’s waifs and strays. She knew that was how the house had been when he was younger. His parents were wealthy drop-outs who had ushered all and sundry into their lives, and it had been an enriching experience. From tramps to tsars, you could have fallen over anyone at Withybrook Hall in its heyday. Catkin had seen the pictures and heard the stories.
But that wasn’t how it worked these days, sadly. You couldn’t drift around associating with any old Tom, Dick or Harry if you wanted to get on. Success meant mixing with success, and you had to be very careful to keep your finger on the pulse of who was in the ascendant and who was about to fall out of favour. It was suicide to be linked with failure. You had to cling to the ones who were on their way up, ditch those on their way down. And it was a full-time job keeping tabs on it all.
Catkin was ruthlessly ambitious, and she had a dream: for herself and Sebastian to be the king and queen of all A-list couples, the ones whom everyone looked to for the next direction. She wanted the nation to hang on their every word, the papers to follow their dress, their décor, their eating habits, their holiday destinations. But she didn’t want to be seen courting this exposure. She wanted it to be an organic process, a discreet and seamless ascendancy. Charles Saatchi and Nigella Lawson rather than David and Victoria Beckham. And she didn’t see why it couldn’t happen. Sebastian was already renowned, if not infamous, and she was becoming better known. She was desperate to move on, however. It was time she had her own show, something with a little more gravitas. Teenage dilemmas on daytime television were all very well, but she wanted a vehicle that had more depth, that allowed her more searching questions. Celebrity counselling. On the Couch with Catkin was her working title. It wasn’t quite In The Psychiatrist’s Chair, but to be a major star you had to dumb down a bit, and she couldn’t remember ever seeing Dr Anthony Clare in Hello!. She had a vision of herself on a plush purple velvet sofa, sporting Christian Louboutins and horn-rimmed spectacles. Sexy and brainy, that was her selling point.
And this weekend, she had finally snared the man she wanted to sell herself to. Martin Galt was an independent producer whose company specialised in high-rating, personality-led reality television. Catkin was going to present
him, discreetly, with her well-thought-out, carefully written proposal, having spent the last twenty-four hours softening him up, pampering him and his rather insipid wife Inge.
Catkin’s house parties were legendary. London people always seemed very amused by the idea of an English country weekend, and were only too eager to accept her invitations. The parties were a mixture of traditional country pursuits and sybaritic self-indulgence. She organised clay pigeon shooting on the lawn, or croquet matches, or fishing trips. The evening was a lavish, six-course dinner accompanied by the finest wines. She made sure her guests had a weekend to remember, that her skills as a hostess were branded on their brain. She wanted them to come away feeling as if they could never repay her hospitality, because there would come a day when she would call in the favour. She certainly hoped Martin Galt was feeling indebted. She had arranged an afternoon’s shooting the day before with a local syndicate, and it had cost her an arm and a leg. Personally, she didn’t see the point of standing about in a freezing bit of countryside taking pot-shots at birds that had been bred to be killed. But it was a prestige sport, with immense snob value, and had seemed to impress her guests.
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