by Anna Cheska
‘Oh, don’t you?’ He was smiling now – a smile straight from the freezer cabinet.
‘No, I don’t. Florrie is an elderly lady who needs to be looked after.’
‘Precisely,’ he shot back. ‘Which is why I asked you to keep an eye on her, Miss Lomax.’
Damn and double damn! Jude silently cursed her own big mouth. She’d sailed right into that. ‘But she’s not exactly incapable of looking after herself,’ she snapped. ‘And I’m on hand should she need anything.’
His mouth twisted. ‘Even though you lead such a busy life? Looking after your family, working…’ He eyed her outfit. ‘Going out on the town.’
‘Well!’ What a nerve he had. Did he want to control the lives of all his tenants, was that it? Did he imagine he could buy her compliance in his plan to get rid of poor Florrie with a miserly bottle of claret?
‘I’ll let you get on,’ he said, before she had a chance to let rip. ‘And I’ll see you on the second.’
‘The second?’
‘Of the month. Rent’ll be due then.’ He swung round before she could see the expression on that face, but she’d bet it was still smiling.
* * *
Jude slammed the door shut and stomped back down the hall into Hazel’s room.
‘Who was that, dear?’ her mother enquired mildly. She was prone on the pink bedspread, hair turbanned in a white fluffy towel, eyelids covered with slices of cucumber, lips adorned with segments of avocado that wobbled as she spoke. ‘I Got Rhythm’ was playing on the cassette player now. Jude peered at the case. It was the tape of Girl Crazy, another Gershwin production, no doubt.
‘Scarface.’
‘Oh, I do wish you wouldn’t call him that.’
Jude knew she shouldn’t too. ‘He’s infuriating,’ she growled.
‘What did he want?’ The avocado wobbled once more.
‘He brought some wine.’ Jude pulled on her coat. She would drink it but it wouldn’t make her any more kindly disposed towards him, that was for sure.
‘Such a nice man,’ Hazel murmured. ‘So thoughtful.’
Jude was late, she wouldn’t stop to argue with her mother now. But it was only as she let herself out of the flat that she realised she hadn’t even thanked James Dean for the wine. So now he would think her an ungrateful bitch on top of everything else. She slammed the door behind her. What did she care?
* * *
As she walked into the small living-room, the first person that Imogen registered was Marisa – mainly because she was dressed in a tight-fitting white cat suit and because she was draped (there was no other word for it) over the small rose-patterned settee in the centre of the room. Imogen was glad she’d gone for the makeover, but the fact remained that while she was wearing her old blue jeans and a sweater, Marisa looked stunning – even more so than she’d seemed in the photograph. Clear skin, strawberry-blonde hair, green eyes that were oddly transparent. Vaguely familiar. Stunning and very, very young – barely into her twenties, Imogen guessed.
And she seemed so unlike anyone Edward would have dallied with (but what did she know?) that Imogen could only stare.
‘Someone to see you, Marisa dear.’ The woman who had answered the door left the room, presumably to put the kettle on.
Marisa looked her up and down. ‘Who the hell are you?’
Not exactly one for small talk then. Imogen tried to stand up straight but she could feel herself drooping alarmingly. ‘May I sit down?’ Without waiting for a reply she chose the similarly patterned armchair opposite the settee which also happened to be the closest thing to hand. It was that or fall over.
‘Alex, darling.’ Regally, Marisa beckoned someone over from the far corner of the adjoining dining-room. ‘What are you doing in there? Come and sit here by me.’
Imogen squinted at Alex darling as he came through the half-open frosted glass doors and moved closer. He seemed to be avoiding her eye. Tall, lean and kind of crumpled-looking. Very blue eyes, nose a bit on the large side, wide mouth, serious stubble. The man who had come into the flower shop – twice. She sniffed. Sandalwood and mandarin – an elusive mixture. She had smelt it earlier on today too. She knew who Alex darling was. ‘Father bloody Christmas!’
‘Spot on.’ The man called Alex now met her gaze with one of apparent relief, took a step towards her and held out his hand. ‘Auntie Imo.’
Marisa’s boyfriend? Imo stifled an inappropriate and gin-induced giggle. His handshake was warm and firm, just the way she liked it.
But if looks could kill, Marisa Gibb would have had her stone dead on the carpet. ‘Who the hell is Auntie Imo?’ she snarled. ‘What do you want? And how do you know Alex?’
‘Ah.’ She was quite an operator. Imogen noted that Alex had positioned himself a few feet away from the settee and out of Marisa’s range. She wondered where to start. But didn’t she have more reason to be on the offensive? She had a grievance and a half to offload, and this girl could have it all, it was about time. ‘My name is Imogen West,’ she said stiffly, just as Marisa’s mother returned with the coffee.
There was a thud and a crash as the tray landed on the floor. Imogen stared at the hot liquid soaking and steaming into the grey and white pile of the carpet, Alex stared at the woman who had dropped it and said, ‘Are you all right, Naomi?’
But Marisa and her mother just stared at Imogen. They both knew of her existence then. That much was obvious.
Marisa was the first to regain control. She unfolded herself from the settee. ‘You’re Edward’s wife,’ she said.
‘Yes.’ Imogen tried to keep the anger burning, but the room was spinning and it was hard to be self-righteous when your brain wouldn’t keep still. ‘I certainly am.’ Or was.
Chapter 13
‘How clumsy of me.’ Naomi Gibb was frantically sponging the carpet, her pink face clashing madly with her ginger hair. ‘How very—’
‘Imogen.’ Rather surprisingly Marisa, ignoring her mother’s immersion in carpet-management, seemed to have warmed considerably. ‘I’ve wanted to meet you for so long.’
To Imogen’s utter amazement, she came over and planted a cool kiss on her cheek.
Imo blinked up at her. ‘Oh, I betchyerhave.’ She tried to lace the words with all the scorn of an injured wife. But she couldn’t quite recapture the mood somehow, and the slurring didn’t help. Besides, it was Edward she was furious with, Edward who had done the betraying, and Edward who wasn’t here to answer all the questions she had burning away inside. Fiercely, Imogen pushed her fists into her eyes. It was hardly fair. But she mustn’t cry – not now.
Marisa was doing her regal beckoning routine again. ‘Alex, Alex…’ She seemed determined that he should share in this … well, this whatever it was.
For some reason it felt like a reunion. Which was plainly ridiculous, Imogen told herself firmly. The reunion of the other women? Heaven help them all.
‘Alex? However do you know Imogen?’
He fixed her with a penetrating stare from those blue, blue eyes. ‘I bought some flowers from her,’ he said. ‘And a hyacinth.’
Imogen suppressed a wave of mad laughter. Laughter and tears were battling for dominance – doubtless the gin again.
‘And then we met up in Kirby’s.’ He scratched his jaw.
‘Almost,’ Imogen put in, wondering in the midst of this weird situation whether he was still feeling the after effects of the white beard. ‘Though I didn’t recognise you.’ She remembered how odd his behaviour had been, and knew she should bring the conversation back to Edward and Marisa, but couldn’t for the moment think how to do it.
‘Not very good at the Santa routine, am I?’ He laughed, but still looked uneasy and far too big for this pretty, flowery room, Imo decided.
‘Alex is an artist.’ Marisa, sleek in her white cat suit, was all pride and possessiveness.
But if he was Marisa’s boyfriend, what about Edward? ‘What do you paint?’ she asked Alex, allowing herself to be diverted,
aware that she needed to think this through. In the meantime, Marisa’s mother was still frantically sponging the grey and white carpet.
‘He paints life,’ Marisa replied for him.
‘What, all of it?’ Try as she might, it was becoming harder and harder to see Marisa Gibb as a contender for the Other Woman. Something was wrong but in her inebriated state Imo couldn’t work out what it might be. Naomi had fetched kitchen towels and was keeping her head down. And Marisa … well, Marisa was smiling. A bit too much under the circumstances.
‘Edward kept you extremely well hidden,’ Imogen said sadly. ‘You must think me very stupid, but I had no idea he was involved—’ she hesitated. Should she say this in front of the girl’s mother and boyfriend? ‘—with another woman.’ What the hell? She deserved it.
She noted Marisa’s swift glance towards her mother. Clearly, her daughter’s liaison came as no surprise to her. ‘Until I found your photo.’
‘My photo?’ The girl was all smiles again. ‘Have you got it with you? Let’s see.’
Imogen was aware of her own scowl as she groped in her bag. She handed it over.
Marisa perched at her feet, so close that Imo could have touched that strawberry-blonde hair. What was going on? She was behaving more like Daisy than a rival in love. ‘Oh, that one. He took it when…’
‘You’re not at all what I expected,’ Imogen blurted. Surely this girl could see that she hadn’t come here to listen to memories, to be tortured by details of a relationship she’d never imagined could be possible?
‘I’m not?’ Marisa frowned.
‘No. You’re so…’ What? Beautiful? Icy? ‘So young,’ she said, aware she was close to tears once more. Only, why so many tears when she wasn’t even sure if she had loved him? ‘What on earth did you see in Edward?’
‘See in him?’ Marisa looked utterly bewildered, her smooth brow puckered in a frown.
Slowly, Naomi pulled herself up from the floor. Her face was still flushed, Imogen observed, but then she had put a lot of effort into cleaning the carpet.
‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ she said softly. ‘Marisa is Edward’s daughter.’ She came closer to rest her hand gently on Imogen’s arm. Her eyes were full of sympathy. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Daughter?’ Imogen struggled to make sense of the word. She stared at the hand on her arm, red from carpet cleaning, and shrugged it away from her instinctively. She did not want sympathy. ‘Daughter?’ she repeated. Had she heard right? Had she drunk more gin than she remembered? Imogen put a hand to her head. She had been so sure … There was the photo, the bank statements. And yet, now it all fell into place. She looked down at the girl, still sitting by her feet, head turned, half-smiling, as if waiting for her to comprehend. Marisa’s age, the photograph, the money that had been regularly transferred – even the kiss on the cheek from the girl herself. Imogen groaned.
‘Are you all right?’ Apparently Alex was the only one here not part of the same big happy family.
‘Oh, my God.’ Did she feel a fool. ‘Why didn’t Edward tell me?’ What was wrong with having had a child before they’d even met?
There was another awkward pause.
‘It’s a long story,’ Naomi said at last, seemingly not sure of her ground.
Had they been married? Imogen wondered. Or just had an affair long ago? ‘Why did he keep you such a secret?’ she asked Marisa.
‘Does Edward know you’re here?’ Marisa’s mother, answering question with question, had a very strange expression on her face.
‘What?’ Imogen stared at her. ‘Does Edward know? Hah!’ She heard someone laughing hysterically and then realised who it was. But, oh, God. She looked from Alex to Naomi to Marisa and then back again. They didn’t even know he was dead.
* * *
In the Gull and Gherkin Jude was considering whether or not to invite Roger back to the flat. She had been on the singles circuit for long enough to be aware of the safety aspect – using 141 before she returned a call left on her Heart to Heart tape, not giving out her address, meeting in a public place and so on. But she was so tired of it all, so needy of personal contact, a little bit of trust from time to time.
‘Another drink?’ he asked.
Jude considered. She didn’t know that she wanted to stay here any longer. The Gull and Gherkin – despite its name – was not an old-fashioned pub. It was light and bright and boasted circular pale pine-veneered tables, high chrome bar stools and leaflets about what was playing at Chichester Festival Theatre. There was nothing wrong with the place but it wasn’t high on atmosphere. ‘I’m not bothered.’ She threw the ball back into his court. He had been generous with the drinks, while his suggestion that she accompany him to a friend’s party next month seemed to indicate an intention to stick around for a while.
‘Or do you fancy coming back to my place for coffee?’ He laughed as he said it. ‘Don’t take that the wrong way.’
Hmm. Intuitive or experienced? Jude regarded him over the rim of a wine glass that was almost empty. Pale blue eyes, fair hair, chunky body. Nothing to write home about, but she wasn’t exactly God’s gift herself. He was divorced, no kids, no obvious emotional baggage, worked as an electrician. And now he had managed to put her on the spot. ‘I have to get back. My daughter,’ she reminded him. Her mother would be there too but she hadn’t told Roger yet about her living arrangements. She had implied that there would be a baby-sitter to be relieved, of course. It was always useful to have that to fall back on.
‘Yes, I see.’ He hesitated.
But at least he hadn’t backed away in horror the first time she’d mentioned Daisy. Jude finished off her wine. In fact he’d wanted to know more about her, so either he was a good actor or a genuinely nice guy. And nice guys, as Jude knew only too well, were in short supply.
‘Your place then?’
Crunch time. He took her hand. The first physical contact between them but the earth didn’t even tremble – and neither did she. ‘Nothing heavy, Jude,’ he said. ‘But we can be friends, can’t we?’
‘’Course we can.’ That settled it. There was such a thing as being too cautious, she reasoned. How could a relationship ever take off if she discounted every man before they even got to first base? She should give him a chance. And she shouldn’t be too choosy. Nobody was perfect.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘But it’ll have to be a quick coffee.’ She didn’t fancy him but she could always use a friend. And who could tell what might develop in time?
* * *
‘It was the shock.’ Naomi had fainted clean to the ground, though luckily not in the same place that she’d spilt the coffee. Now – with the help of the other three – she had come round and was sitting on the rose-patterned sofa next to her daughter.
Alex was passing round brandy on a tray. Perhaps she shouldn’t but Imogen tossed one back anyway. God knows she needed it. She had entirely neglected to consider the fact that the woman she was visiting might not know of Edward’s death. Make that women, she thought. It was incredible, and yet obvious when you came to think of it. It was Imogen who had informed everyone who had to be informed, Imogen who had dealt with everything that had to be dealt with – from bank accounts to funeral arrangements. With no mention of a daughter in his will or anywhere else how could she have known?
Imo ran her fingers through what she’d already come to think of as her new hair. She’d tried to be tactful but obviously failed miserably.
Marisa was whey-faced. ‘She’s been waiting to hear from him,’ she told Imogen as if her mother weren’t in the room. ‘He hasn’t been here for ages. She thought he didn’t want her any more.’
Want her any more? Imogen blinked at her and grabbed another brandy from the tray. What did that mean? That Edward and Naomi Gibb had been lovers right up until his death? She downed the brandy in one, pretending not to notice Alex’s look of surprise. She had been right all along – only, she’d got the wrong woman. And despite herself, sh
e felt a wave of sympathy for her. Naomi Gibb did not epitomise the typical mistress. She was small, plain, quiet. But there must have been something that she had given Edward, something Imogen herself had not …
It was what she had come here for – to find out. But now was not the time. She couldn’t ask Naomi how long it had gone on, she couldn’t ask her why. In fact … Imogen got to her feet. She couldn’t stay here one moment longer. ‘I’m sorry to have dumped all this on you,’ she said awkwardly, feeling angry, confused and upset all at the same time. ‘But—’
‘You were dumped on too.’ Alex laid his hand briefly on her shoulder.
‘Yes, I was.’ Imogen felt absurdly grateful for his understanding. Though perhaps it had been a mistake to come. All she’d done was disrupt another two lives. ‘I must go,’ she said.
The two other women barely acknowledged her exit as Imogen got up and went to find her coat. She slipped out of the front door, took a deep breath as the fresh, cold air hit her like a slap … and realised that Alex was right behind her.
‘Shouldn’t you stay with them?’ Whatever her own feelings, Marisa and Naomi Gibb had lost a man who had been centrally important in their lives – albeit a man who had also been Imogen’s husband. She’d had weeks to grieve. Their time was only just beginning.
‘They’ve got each other.’ He was brusque. ‘I’ll take you home.’
Imo barely hesitated. ‘Oh, all right.’ She wasn’t feeling great, what with the stress of meeting Edward’s other women and after the gin and the brandy and everything. It would be good to be looked after – even if it was by someone else’s man, she reminded herself. Already she and Alex seemed to go back a long way and she instinctively trusted him.
‘Good.’ He took her arm. Long, lean and smelling of mandarin and sandalwood, and the leather of his jacket. Imo relaxed.
‘So where’s your car?’ she asked.
‘I don’t have one. Where’s yours?’
Was he mad? ‘At home. I’ve been drinking.’
‘You don’t say.’ He grinned – it was a nice grin, and there was a lot of it. For some reason she thought of Jude, heart to heart and OHAC. Even on a cold night a grin could beat own car hands down, she decided.