If Catkin paused long enough to think about it, she realised that she had no true friends. She didn’t invite anyone just because she wanted their company. That was where she and her husband differed. Sebastian would not give a second thought to how useful someone was. And she could never tell who he would take a liking to, and who he would shun. If he didn’t like someone, he was impossibly rude, either ignoring them point-blank or goading them mercilessly. He was unrepentant, and insisted that at least he wasn’t superficial and false and two-faced, which Catkin took as a personal insult. She insisted that if they wanted to get on he had to play the game. He just laughed.
It was wearing her down, the constant tussling between them. It was almost as if he took pleasure in sabotaging her efforts. He had absolutely promised to be charm personified this weekend, and now he’d gone and dumped two unwanted guests on her. There was nothing she could do about it now.
She threw open her wardrobe to decide what to wear. She wanted to look stunning, but not overdressed. It was only Sunday lunch in her own house, after all. She selected some Sass & Bide jeans and a black polka-dot Marc Jacobs blouse, finished off with some large gold hoop earrings. Along the corridor, she could hear the sounds of her guests getting ready: baths running, hairdryers blowing, footsteps up and down the corridor as they endeavoured to paper over the cracks left by the rigours of last night’s partying. As well as Martin and Inge, she had also invited Jonathan Elder and his wife. Jonathan was a publisher who had expressed an interest in Sebastian’s autobiography, even though Sebastian had insisted time and again that he had no intention of spilling his guts for the vicarious pleasure of the middle classes. But the figure that had been muttered as an advance was a substantial one, and would go a long way towards balancing the books in the Turner household. If, as she suspected, Sebastian wasn’t coming up with the goods in the studio, then he might just have to share his innermost secrets with the world.
To counteract these heavy hitters, and as a bit of light relief, she had invited Boz Mayhew, the chirpy cockney florist who had a slot on Hello, England, and who was working his way into the hearts of the nation with his cheeky banter and light touch with gerberas. Boz was her ally at the studio, and she knew she could depend on him to keep her illustrious guests entertained and not be too contentious. And who knows, he might come out of it with his own show or a book deal. Catkin was fond of Boz, and didn’t view him as competition. They were like chalk and cheese, which was why they got on. Boz had brought his boyfriend Lee; Catkin wanted as few spare women as possible, for she knew Martin’s reputation as a bit of a lech and a Lothario, and she didn’t want his eye off the ball for a second. Or his wife upset.
All in all, the stakes were pretty high this weekend, and Catkin really didn’t want to worry about Penny Silver and some two-bit decorator who thought she was Kelly Hoppen. But to go against Sebastian at this stage was futile. They were probably trotting up the drive even now, clutching a box of Quality Street and a bottle of Jacob’s Creek. She couldn’t turn them away. She would just have to pray that they wouldn’t be too mind-numbingly dull, or worse, get drunk and come out of their shells. She’d have to make sure their glasses weren’t topped up too frequently. Normally she didn’t stint on alcohol, but she was dealing with an unknown quantity here.
Dressed, coiffed and made-up, she went down to the kitchen, where Stacey and her daughter Nikita were preparing lunch. Stacey lived in the village with her six children, and Catkin had taken her on as a cook-cum-housekeeper as soon as she and Sebastian had arrived in Withybrook. It had taken her a while to train Stacey up, but after two years she had licked her into shape. Nikita, her oldest daughter, who did the waitressing and washing-up, was more of a lost cause. She was wearing a grey zip-up hoodie and ridiculously wide jeans that trailed along the floor, her hair all over her face.
‘Nikita,’ Catkin cooed, ‘come up to my bedroom and let’s see if we can get you into something more suitable . . .’
Nikita didn’t mind being bossed about, and the rate Catkin was paying was well over what she would get anywhere else, so as far as she was concerned she could ask her to serve topless if she wanted to. She followed her obligingly up to her bedroom, and stood looking round it in unashamed awe as Catkin flipped through racks and racks of clothes, all neatly colour coded and hung on padded hangers. The room was bigger than the whole council house she and her five siblings were crammed into. The bed itself wouldn’t have fitted into Nikita’s room, which was no bigger than a cupboard, but at least she didn’t have to share it.
After several false starts, Catkin put Nikita in a black linen shirt dress and flat red pumps, and tied her hair back in a smooth ponytail. A flick of black eyeliner over her lids and some red lipstick and she looked perfect. Subservient, but sexy. Almost as if it were possible for her to be called Nikita, whereas before the notion had been risible.
‘Wow,’ said Catkin. ‘You look amazing.’
Nikita just rolled her eyes and chewed on her gum.
‘Gum out, please,’ said Catkin, holding out a bin.
Nikita gobbed it out obligingly. Catkin shuddered. She didn’t have time to do the whole Eliza Dolittle thing on her now. She’d just have to pray that the guests didn’t notice her ragged fingernails, or the love bite on her neck. Though arguably there were some men who liked that kind of thing.
Nikita’s make-over accomplished, Catkin went down into the drawing room to make sure that everything was as it should be. It was a beautiful room, with French windows facing out onto the lawns. But Catkin thought that it was faded and old-fashioned. The whole house, in fact, felt as if it had been preserved in aspic. In some ways that was good, because they couldn’t actually afford to refurbish it, and it was still impressive in a faded-grandeur sort of way. Besides, Sebastian wouldn’t countenance any changes whatsoever, no matter how minor. It was almost as if he wanted to keep the house as a shrine to his parents and their Bohemian lifestyle. Rather unexpectedly, he adored both of them, which was slightly at odds with his snarling, world-weary image. He wouldn’t have a word said against them, or what they stood for. They were sacrosanct. Catkin struggled with this, especially as she felt no real loyalty to her own parents. She didn’t bother to keep in contact with either of them, not even a Christmas card. It seemed hypocritical. What had either of them ever done for her, after all?
She stood by the French windows for a moment, so close to the glass she could feel the cold air pulsing through. She looked out at the lawn, and the incredible landscape beyond - a small wooded valley leading to the moors behind, unfolding their way towards the dark purple sea, which could just be glimpsed in the far distance. It was almost infinite. You couldn’t look at the view and not gasp with admiration.
Catkin picked idly at one of the window frames. It was crumbling. If she poked hard enough, the wood and the paint would fall away, so she stopped. It was a little bit how she felt herself - that if someone poked her hard enough, she would crumble. It was such hard work keeping it all afloat, but she was so close, so close . . . she couldn’t give up now. Catkin wanted to live life to the full. She craved fame, wealth, recognition, influence. She had married Sebastian not because he was a ticket to this, but because he was bloody impossible, her biggest challenge. She knew the day she broke his spirit and tamed him was the day it would be all over. There was a constant battle between them. She was the sensible adult, the one who kept it all together, while he was the naughty child. She had to find a way of getting what she wanted without breaking the magic that had brought them together. She didn’t want to impose her will upon him. She couldn’t. But for them to be in partnership, and rule the world, that was her dream . . .
She heard a footstep on the oak floorboards behind her.
‘Catkin . . .’
She turned. It was Martin Galt. His very success floated into the room before him. He had steel-grey hair cropped very short, and a Bermuda tan. He wore a well-cut suit with a blue shirt underneath, no tie, and a
white-gold band on his wedding finger that fooled no one. A supremely confident man. But Catkin was a supremely confident woman.
She crossed the room and kissed his cheek. He smelled of Tom Ford. He put a hand on the small of her back and pulled her in to kiss the other cheek, lingering a fraction too long. She drew back, and fixed him with a dazzling smile.
‘So, Martin, have you enjoyed your weekend?’
‘Enormously. Though I was hoping for a chance to talk to you in private at some point.’
‘Oh?’ She looked at him archly, managed not to become flustered. Her heart was pattering. Was he going to suggest the very thing she wanted?
‘You’re amazingly charismatic.’ He held her eyes in a steady gaze which, despite all the skills she had honed over the years, she couldn’t quite read. ‘Your eyes are stunning.’
She blinked, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Thank you.’
‘They remind me of the sea just off Turks and Caicos.’ He reached out and touched her cheek with the back of his forefinger, a light touch that said it all. She did her best not to jerk away. She knew this type. She would have to play along, at least for the time being. ‘We should have dinner. Discuss possibilities.’
‘You’ve got my number.’ She dropped her voice to a husky whisper.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Yes, I have . . . got your number.’ He paused for a moment, nodding gravely. ‘In fact, I know exactly what your game is. I know exactly what this is all about. Frankly, Catkin, I prefer a more direct approach. You needn’t have gone to all this trouble. You should just have come straight out with it.’
She told herself to stay calm. He was just trying to unnerve her. She put up a hand to brush back her hair and gave what she hoped was an enigmatic smile.
‘Why don’t you tell me what it is you want?’ His voice was low.
She could feel unease floating into her guts. He was testing her, pushing her, and she couldn’t quite work out how to play him. Men like Martin had gargantuan egos. One step wrong and she could screw her chances for good. But she knew instinctively that he would value balls and nerve above everything.
‘You know exactly what I want,’ she countered. ‘My own show. Prime-time exposure. And if you don’t give it to me,’ she finished bravely, ‘then someone else will. It’s up to you.’
He laughed, showing a flash of expensive dentistry. Then stopped, leaning into her. She could smell his recently used Rembrandt toothpaste.
‘How far would you go, Catkin, to get what you wanted?’
This was the make or break moment.
An image of her name emblazoned on the screen flashed into Catkin’s mind. She looked at Martin. He wasn’t unattractive. It wouldn’t take long . . .
What the hell was she thinking? It was out of the question. No - she had to gain his respect, but not offend him. A flirtatious rebuff was what was needed. A lightly teasing refusal would keep him interested without compromising her. With maybe just a hint that she could be persuaded if he persevered. It was a fine balance. It would all have to be in the eyes. Catkin widened hers slightly.
‘I’ve never slept with anyone to further my position, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Oh?’ He allowed his gaze to flick around the room. ‘How did you end up with all this, then?’
She gave an involuntary gasp. He was implying that her marriage was a sham. She tried to keep her voice steady. ‘I love my husband very much.’
‘Really?’ His tone was beyond disparaging.
‘Yes. She does.’ A languid drawl from the doorway made them both start. ‘Christ, Catkin. I don’t know how you deal with these tossers on a daily basis.’
Sebastian strolled into the room. Her heart melted. He was wearing a white shirt and jeans, and his beloved Berluti calf-skin moccasins. He’d made the effort, and she knew it was just for her. How could she have wavered, even for a moment? Because she couldn’t deny to herself that there had been a second when she had entertained the idea of sleeping with Martin Galt, if it meant getting what she wanted.
Martin remained as cool as a cucumber.
‘Don’t pretend it doesn’t happen in the art world, Sebastian,’ he shot back. ‘No one in the fame game is whiter than white.’
Catkin’s heart sank. All the effort she had gone to, and it had all gone up in smoke. She might as well cancel lunch right now. She’d known from the outset it was going to be a disaster. But just as she was about to snap to Martin that she’d phone for the minibus now if he wanted to leave, Nikita led Penny Silver into the room.
Sebastian leaped across the room to give her a hug.
‘Penny!’ he greeted her warmly. ‘Welcome to the lions’ den. This is Penny,’ he turned to Martin. ‘And if you try anything on with her you’ll have me to answer to.’
Penny looked rather startled by this unconventional introduction. Martin didn’t turn a single steel-grey hair. Catkin felt as if she might be about to pass out.
‘Nikita,’ she said faintly, ‘could you bring in the champagne? I think we could all do with a drink.’
Charlotte pulled on her camel coat with the faux fur collar and snuggled it round her neck. She decided to walk to Withybrook Hall. It was only half a mile up the road, and she craved fresh air. The village was sleepy and quiet as she strolled up the high street. She’d heard the bells ring out at about half past ten, but everyone must be back from church by now. She imagined the families inside their houses, sliding their Sunday joints into the oven, peeling potatoes, rolling out pastry for apple pies . . . She hurried on to where the houses dwindled away and the road narrowed, twisting up a hill lined with a traditional Devon bank wall. It wasn’t long before she reached the entrance to Withybrook Hall - a set of double gates which led to a long, sweeping drive that curved around an expanse of lawn surrounded by beech trees, oaks and acers. At the end of it stood the house. It was a classic Georgian rectory. Long and low, painted white with a grey slate roof, it had two large bay windows either side of a pillared entrance approached by wide stone steps.
It was idyllic and stopped Charlotte in her tracks. The November breeze ruffled her hair, and she could smell the distant sea. She gave the smallest of sighs. This would have been Ed’s dream. This must have been what he had in mind when he made his massive error of judgement. She could picture him imagining them in a house like this, their children frolicking on the lawn, swinging from the branches of the massive oak. She remembered all the brochures she had found over the years. Tears stung her eyes for a moment. Where were they now? He was stuck in prison, and she was working on the hardest job she had ever done in her life, for the smallest return, and with no idea where she would go and what she would do once it was finished.
She gave herself a little shake. This was her day off, and she was determined to enjoy it. She ran up the steps and took hold of the lion’s head knocker, giving two sharp raps. She had to move forward. She wasn’t going to let her past spoil her future.
The girl who answered the door seemed vaguely familiar. Charlotte couldn’t place her until she greeted her with a croaky Devon burr and a shy smile.
‘All right?’
Charlotte peered at her more closely. It was the girl from the post office; she’d popped in several times this week for baked beans, fresh eggs and fish fingers from the dodgy freezer when she couldn’t face the thirty-mile round trip to the supermarket.
‘Nikita?’
The girl nodded, embarrassed. ‘I feel like a right div.’
‘You look gorgeous.’
‘If Brindley ever saw me, he’d take the piss something wicked.’
‘Brindley?’
‘My boyfriend. He’d laugh his head off.’
‘I doubt he would.’ Charlotte couldn’t believe the difference in her.
‘May I take your coat?’ Nikita held out her hand and smiled, as Catkin had taught her. Charlotte slithered out of her coat and handed it over.
‘I didn’t know you worked here.’
‘We
ekends. Me and Mum. My sister Montana has to look after the kids. But it’s OK. Mrs T pays good money, and we get to take the leftovers home. They last us till Wednesday, usually.’
Having heard voices, Sebastian shot out into the hall.
‘Charlotte. Thank God you’re here. I’m surrounded by complete tossers.’ He handed her a glass of champagne with a grimace. ‘Get this down your neck. You’re going to need it.’
He led her through into the drawing room. Charlotte’s experienced eye took in her surroundings; traditional English, nothing but the best though nearly thirty years out of date. Yet somehow it was timeless, with its plump sofas, occasional tables scattered with trinkets and photo-frames, the club fender in front of the fire. It wasn’t at all what she had expected. She’d imagined stark punk-rock minimalism - ironic stags heads next to brightly coloured works of art, high-concept lighting and pony-skin rugs. Nothing redolent of family life. This room felt happy, cosy, welcoming, unthreatening.
Marriage and Other Games Page 17
