by Karen Swan
‘I’m afraid so. We really had no other choice.’ He sipped from his coffee again before returning it to the table and looking back at her with a kind smile. ‘But it’s by no means the end of the road for Henry’s quest. We’re desperately disappointed not to have the club’s name and flag associated with the trip, of course, but with a reputation like his, he should have no problem securing the rest of the funds.’
‘Well, it’s more of a timing issue than anything,’ she said quietly, bitterly wishing Henry hadn’t been all but promised the grant in New York: it had meant he’d stopped looking for the funding elsewhere and had focused on nailing the itinerary and booking the rest of the crew instead. How was she going to tell him it was over? How would he tell all of them? There was no way that they could raise that kind of money in the time they had left. They were leveraged to the hilt . . . She thought suddenly of the divorce settlement sitting untouched in her bank account but dismissed the idea as quickly as it had come. Besides, Henry would never want to use Gil’s money to bankroll his work, she was sure of it. She sighed. ‘This was pushing it as it was,’ she said quietly, the flat tone of defeat hammering down her words. They had fallen into every cliché – put their eggs in one basket, counted their chickens before they’d hatched, run before they could walk – and with less than a fortnight until departure, it had come back to bite them. ‘Obviously he can only travel there during the summer months. Once the sea freezes . . .’ It was professional humiliation, the entire thing a shambles . . .
‘Ah yes, yes, of course. I hadn’t thought of the small matter of being iced in.’ He tutted pensively, one finger tapping his lips. ‘Hmm.’
Cassie took heart from the gesture. Was there still a chink of hope after all? ‘This was simply the final round of funding needed to make it happen, you see – obviously if he’d had any inkling things would fall through with you, he’d have lobbied elsewhere, but as you said, it was pretty much just a formality. Everything else is in place,’ she said, a pleading note sounding in her voice. ‘UNEP, the UN Conference on Climate Change – it’s taken months to get them all on board and signed up, and the National Geographic Channel was really interested in running it as a series afterwards . . .’ She looked at him hopefully.
He looked back at her through focused eyes, as though reading her mind. ‘Well, you know . . .’ he said, stretching out the words thoughtfully, ‘maybe this thing isn’t dead in the water yet.’
She sat straighter, feeling like her heart was doing shuttle runs in her chest.
‘There’s always next year’s grant, and I have no doubt that everything I’ve just said about Henry will still apply – possibly even more so – twelve months from now.’
No. Cassie visibly deflated, giving a polite but weak smile in return as he beckoned the waiter over for more coffees. He didn’t get it. Assurances about next year were no good to her when she and Henry were already worrying about next month’s rent. They’d been planning their finances around this expedition since the spring; they’d been banking on it setting them up to Christmas and a bit beyond. Now what were they supposed to do? The salary she drew at Eat ’n’ Mess was barely enough to cover their food and the repair bills for the car; and C et C, the restaurant in Paris where she retained a minority stake, may have a four-month-long waiting list for a table, but with significant start-up costs still to cover, the company wasn’t issuing any dividends yet. The divorce settlement flashed like a red light in the back of her mind again.
‘A top-up?’ He held up the coffee pot.
She gave an abject shake of her head, feeling suddenly uncomfortable to be sitting in this grand salon in her market clothes like a modern-day Pygmalion. She watched as the other members shook out their papers, brows furrowed as they studied the business and sports pages. If the grant was completely out of the picture, surely there must be a few high-net-worth individuals in the club – in this room, even – who could be persuaded to part with the outstanding sum? Exploring was and always would be the pursuit of rich men’s whims, and $120,000 was mere pennies to the billionaires who played these adventurous games.
The question was, how to find them without having to beg?
The light was fading by the time she got home, pulling into Denbigh Place with a weary sigh. After leaving Bob Kentucky, she had driven over to Zara’s flat in Stockwell to apologize and give her the lowdown on Archie – her poor business partner had had to go it alone at Ascot today, sans eclairs – and they had gone through the menus and shopping lists for their next job, an all-day affair at the Gold Cup polo at Cowdray Park this weekend.
She rested her head against the steering wheel for a moment, worn out and wondering how she was going to break the bad news to Henry. She could see the light on in their little flat and wished she could teleport herself into his arms up there, on the top floor; she loved their little flat but sometimes wished it wasn’t nestled in the grey-tiled eaves of the roof. The building itself was a junior version of the grand club she had left only hours before – cream Regency with porticoed windows, four floors and an elaborate balcony that wrapped round all the French doors on the first floor; but whereas the club was palatial inside, the flats within this building – which themselves sold for millions – were furnished in a stealth-wealth style, with antique wooden floors, Moroccan Beni Ourain rugs, oversized linen sofas and crushed-velvet bedspreads.
Their flat was the shabbiest, as behoved the attic rooms really, but even at that the rent was exorbitant and more than they could afford; Henry had suggested numerous times that they buy somewhere together instead – ‘Rent money is dead money,’ he was fond of saying – but they could never afford to buy somewhere like this, and Cassie so loved the central location and quiet street and, of course, the ancient and bowed crab apple by the rear window.
She saw the back of Henry’s head first as she let herself in. The rugby was on the telly, and he was sitting with one foot on the coffee table, his other leg bent with one arm lolling on his knee, a beer in his hand, his head resting against the sofa cushions.
‘Hey,’ she said softly, kissing his hair before she walked round the sofa, ready to snuggle into his lap. A bath and a glass of wine and they could—
‘Where have you been?’
The ice that veined his words brought her up short, stopping her feet and her heart simultaneously.
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
She blinked in astonishment, unable to process the hostility she saw in his eyes. ‘I . . . I was at Zara’s. We had to go over the last bits for the job this weekend.’
‘All day?’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘So where were you, then?’
‘Henry, what is this?’ she asked in bafflement, dropping her bag to the floor and sinking onto the edge of the sofa beside him.
‘What is this?’ he repeated with incredulity. ‘Mum’s down, Archie’s half dead, and you’re nowhere to be found and you ask me, “What is this?” Christ, I can’t believe you. You had every opportunity to be there. I needed you there. Suzy needed you.’
This was because she hadn’t been to the hospital? ‘Henry, look, just calm down. I can explain.’ She took a breath. ‘I wanted to be there, more than anything, but . . .’ She didn’t want to say it. It was like letting the genie out of the bottle.
‘But what?’ he prompted impatiently. Had he slept at all today? He looked rough and worn out.
‘They wouldn’t let me in, OK?’ she said. ‘They said only family could go in. I explained to the nurse that I was your fiancée, but she said it didn’t count.’
He blinked at her, sliding his lower jaw to the side and nodding in silence as he processed the words, his anger filling the room like smoke in a jar.
He didn’t reply immediately, instead taking a deep swig from the beer bottle, draining it, and she wondered how many others he’d had. ‘Well, she’s absolutely right, of course. It doesn’t. Engagement isn’t anything. It’s just a
nice idea, a promise you can make with your fingers crossed behind your back. It’s only one level up from a suggestion of something you might possibly choose to do someday. Or maybe not.’
‘Henry, stop.’ She could feel it beginning again.
‘Why? It’s true, isn’t it? A year and a half ago I gave you a ring and you said, “Yes,” but that doesn’t actually commit us to anything. It certainly doesn’t make us family. It certainly doesn’t mean that you can be there at the moments that count! Either one of us could change our mind at any given point and the whole arrangement would just come down as easily as a house of cards. Poof! Gone.’ He clicked his fingers hard, the gesture making her jump.
She blinked at him, feeling the first smarting of tears behind her eyes. There they were – back to their age-old argument, their only one. ‘This isn’t about us.’
‘Of course it’s about us!’ he scoffed. ‘It’s about you refusing to commit to anything beyond the next meal. We can’t buy a flat together because that would mean using your divorce settlement, and that’s your fallback, right? I mean, God knows after you caught Gil in the act, I might turn out to be just as big a bastard as him, and then where will you be?’
‘Henr—’ It wasn’t like that, and he knew it. How many times had she tried to explain that the divorce money felt tainted to her? How could she get across her fear to him that using the money would feel, somehow, like she was letting Gil back into their lives? But he wasn’t listening.
‘You won’t let us buy a flat, talk about having kids, set a date – all the great unmentionables that must never be brought up, the fucking elephants that fill this flat more than any of our junk.’
‘Just stop it!’ she cried, standing up. ‘You have no right to throw these things back at me like they’re not important!’
‘Of course they’re important! But you won’t ever discuss them. I’m the only one in this relationship who seems to have any kind of hope that there’s a certain future in it.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘No? Where do you see us living five years from now?’
She threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. ‘Well, how would I know?’
‘How about ten? What are we going to be doing?’
‘I don’t know!’ she cried, bringing her hands down into fists and stamping her foot on the floor. ‘That’s not how I think anymore. I like just—’
‘Living in the moment. I know! My God, do I know!’ Henry rolled his eyes, on his feet now. ‘The thing is, Cass, that doesn’t work for me – not now. If what’s happened to Arch proves anything, it’s that we don’t have a bloody clue what’s round the corner, and I don’t want to live with vague promises. I want you to be my wife, not my fiancée, not my girlfriend – my wife. I want us to belong to each other in every way possible. I don’t want there to be grey areas when it comes to us. I want to know you’re mine in good and bad, sickness and health. You may have been married for ten years, but I wasn’t and I’m not going into it expecting it to fail. I fully believe I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you. There isn’t a doubt in my mind.’
He stopped – so suddenly that she double-blinked as she realized he was waiting for her to respond. This was her cue to chime in that there were no doubts in her mind either.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. His surety was a luxury she just couldn’t afford. If they could just have a little more time without adding extra pressures on themselves, without needing contracts or titles . . .
He looked away, a mirthless laugh on his lips. ‘And there we have it. That old chestnut – once bitten, twice shy. I guess it’s a cliché for a reason, right?’
‘Henry—’
‘Forget it. I’m staying at Suze’s tonight with Mum.’
‘Henry, this is ridiculous!’ she said, turning to watch as he crossed the room in two strides and picked up a small khaki duffel bag, already packed, from the foot of the sofa. ‘You can’t just run out like this! We have to talk. Look, you’re stressed about Arch. I get it—’
‘Oh, do you? Well, that’s good to hear. Nice to know you’re so in tune with how I feel.’ She flinched at the scorn in his words. ‘Tell you what I don’t understand, though – if you didn’t want to marry me, why did you say, “Yes”?’
Words fled her yet again – her silence damning her – and Henry inhaled sharply, his hands on his hips as he stared up at the ceiling. Cassie reached for his arm, but he brushed past her, his head dropped low, and a moment later she heard the front door click shut, separating them like a sea.
Chapter Five
She was just pulling the third batch of almond macaroons – Archie’s favourite – from the oven when the doorbell buzzed. Cassie frowned as she took off her oven gloves and lay them on the counter beside the hot tray. Henry had a key, obviously, as did Suzy.
She peered through the spyhole. ‘Yes?’ she called through the door, seeing two dark heads – one significantly higher up than the other, one distinctly glossier than the other. She gave a gasp, throwing open the door.
‘Oh my God! You came!’ she cried as two of the faces she loved most in the world turned to her with pleased smiles.
‘Of course we did,’ Anouk said, hugging her hard. As ever, she smelt of nappa leather, her beige linen jumpsuit and panama putting Cassie’s pyjama ensemble of Henry’s tartan baggies – rolled low on the hips – and a khaki vest in the shade. It was barely nine in the morning, meaning the two of them must have been up at five to make it here from Paris, and yet still Anouk looked box-fresh from the Isabel Marant store.
Bas, Cassie’s best friend in New York, swooped down second. At six foot five, thin as a noodle and with skin the colour of a walnut, he was her sounding board and partner in crime, the man who’d understood the therapeutic effects of a head massage and a greasy fry-up when a girl was on a no-carbs diet and going through a divorce. Bas released her from his bear hug so that her toes touched the floor again. ‘How is he?’
‘Still critical, but stable, at least. I was just on my way over to Suzy’s to get the latest.’
Bas looked her up and down. ‘You sure it’s only Arch who’s sick? You look like hell.’
‘Thanks!’ she half laughed, half wailed. She had yet to look in a mirror, but she knew it wouldn’t be pretty. ‘I’d like to see how good you look on three hours’ sleep,’ she said, hoping they wouldn’t notice her puffy, reddened eyes. ‘Come in, come in.’ She stepped back into the tiny hall, aware that Henry’s sailing jacket – newly waxed – on the pegs behind, stank like burnt rubber and the coir matting, which had cost £99 per metre in the store, now looked like a cat basket. ‘Coffee?’
‘Like you need to ask,’ Anouk replied, taking off her hat and tousling her hair lightly. Anouk was famously hard core about her drinks, only ever choosing knock-you-out black coffee, cognac or, at the other end of the spectrum, purer-than-thou mint tea; she refused to believe that water that came from taps was drinkable and would argue to the death that anything with milk in it was an abomination.
Cassie looked over at Bas. ‘Tea?’
‘Never change, baby.’ He winked. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got some—’
‘Oh yes, I do. English breakfast or Earlers?’
‘Full English, definitely,’ he sighed with an elaborate hand flourish.
She grinned. She had thoroughly converted him to English tea during her stint in New York and they had long ago moved on from bog-standard PG Tips to the more delicate and rarefied strains of boutique tea companies – Prince & Sons was their new favourite and Cassie sent regular batches over to him, as it wasn’t yet available in the US.
They walked into the kitchen, her visitors staring in amazement at the racks of cakes – madeleines, eclairs, macaroons, millefeuilles – stacked high on the worktops.
‘So someone was up early,’ Bas said with an arched eyebrow.
Cassie reached for the espresso caplet and dropped it into the coffee machine. ‘Just ge
tting ahead for a big job we’ve got on Saturday,’ she said, avoiding his eye. She knew that he knew she baked when she was stressed.
‘But these pastries won’t keep,’ Anouk argued, finger-pinching a flake of millefeuille.
‘They freeze well.’
Bas’s hand reached for a warm macaroon.
‘Enough. Those are for Arch.’
‘Really?’ Bas said. ‘You honestly think that’s what the doctor’s going to order for him after a major heart attack? Sugar and fats?’
‘Oh.’ Cassie sagged dispiritedly. She hadn’t thought of that. ‘Well, just a couple. I don’t want anything happening to you too.’
‘To me? Ol’ snake hips?’ Bas grinned, biting into one of them and closing his eyes in pleasure. ‘Ugh! I’m starving.’
‘If I’d known you were coming, I’d have got in some bacon and black pudding.’ Another acquired taste they had bonded over.
‘There’s always elevenses,’ he grinned, shrugging his eyebrows hopefully.
The kettle boiled and Cassie turned away, aware of looks being passed behind her back as she reached for the cups. ‘Stop that.’
‘We’re worried about you,’ Bas said, advancing with concern.
‘It’s Arch you should be worried about.’
‘Of course! And we are. It’s why we’re here. But is that all that’s really going on in your life right now?’ His eyes flicked over to the half-empty bottle of vodka she’d forgotten to return to the freezer last night, the spoon still in the empty tub of Phish Food ice cream. ‘Where’s Henry?’
Cassie’s hand hovered above the kettle for a moment before she began to pour. ‘He’s at Suzy’s. Hattie’s down looking after Velvet, so he’s keeping her company, what with Suze staying overnight at the hospital.’
‘Why didn’t you go too?’ Anouk’s voice was direct, as ever, and Cassie knew if she turned, she’d see that all-knowing look in her friend’s eyes.
‘Because Hattie’s in the spare room, so Henry was sleeping on the sofa. It doesn’t seem right to sleep in Suze and Arch’s room when . . .’ Her voice trailed away as she tried not to remember the image of Archie wired up like a circuit board. She turned round with the cups in her hands, keeping her eyes down. ‘Anyway, it was only for the night, and I saw Hattie yesterday morning when she arrived.’
