by M. B. Shaw
She would have to do better next time.
Chapter Five
Rachel Truebridge felt a muscle in her jaw start to twitch.
She could not believe this. This couldn’t be happening. It was a bad dream, and any moment now she would wake up, relieved and laughing. Several weeks had passed since the Grimshaw shoot out in Hampshire, and the whole of England was now deep in pre-Christmas cheer, putting up decorations and skiving off work early for drinks parties and mince pies. Rachel had been too – until today.
‘Try not to take it personally, Rachel. As I said before, this is not a demotion.’ Tony Dymoke, the head of drama, was still talking, but Rachel was barely listening as his Brummie voice bounced off the white office walls.
She was thinking about a different voice. A voice that had made her promises. A voice that had lied and lied.
‘We have two really exciting projects we want you to spearhead. It’s just that Grimshaw really only needs one producer, and John Pilcher—’
‘Is a visionless moron,’ Rachel jumped in caustically. In a fitted Victoria Beckham suit and ruffled blouse, she’d made sure she looked her absolute best for today’s meeting. Sexy but powerful was the message. In control. And yet the truth was that with each passing second, Rachel Truebridge’s ‘control’ was being prised out of her hands by grasping, unworthy, backstabbing men. ‘Pilcher’s a pen-pusher, Tony, and you know it as well as I do. Grimshaw is my series.’
‘It’s an ITV series,’ Tony Dymoke said pompously. ‘We’re a team, Rachel.’
‘Some team,’ Rachel scoffed. ‘John Pilcher’s stabbing me in the back and you’re letting it happen. I’ll go to court, Tony. I mean it. And to the press. This is classic sex discrimination. I won’t just roll over.’
Her mind wandered back to the lawyer who’d left her messages a few days ago. ‘I’d like to talk to you about Dom Wetherby. I believe you may have information about his past that might be relevant to a case of mine. Perhaps we can help each other?’
She’d dismissed the guy as a crank at the time, but now she found herself wondering whether she’d saved his number.
‘Oh, give me a break.’ Tony Dymoke pushed back his chair in exasperation and ran a hand through his thinning hair. ‘You’re getting a pay rise and two series instead of one. You’d be laughed out of court.’
‘I don’t care!’ To her fury, Rachel found herself fighting back tears. ‘I’ve given eight years of my life to Grimshaw. If John Pilcher thinks I’m going to sit back and—’
Her boss cut her off. ‘Are you really that blind, Rachel? It wasn’t John who wanted you off the series. Even if he did, do you really think he has that kind of influence? Think about it.’
Rachel opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. Her mind was racing. John Pilcher was a slimy snake of a man and he’d long been gunning for her job; that much she knew. But Dymoke was right. John didn’t have the clout to depose her. Not on his own. Her mind drifted back to last month’s shoot at Hazelford. Pilcher’s spiteful words rang in her ear: ‘Everyone knows Dom wants you out.’
‘Dom told the network flat out he won’t work with you anymore. Now, I don’t know what went on between the two of you, and I don’t want to know. All I know is Wetherby had lunch with the CEO, OK? This is as far over my head as it is yours. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.’
Afterwards, Rachel couldn’t remember leaving Tony Dymoke’s office. She couldn’t remember getting her coat, or walking to the Tube, past all the glittering Christmas lights, or getting off at Angel and navigating the short maze of streets from the station to her flat off Upper Street. All she was aware of was the bitter, burning sensation in her chest and the refrain pounding in her head, like a song on repeat.
He’s trying to ruin me!
The bastard’s trying to destroy my career.
Well, he won’t get away with it.
Not this time.
This time, Rachel was going to do something. Hit back. Hurt Dom, the way he’d hurt her.
What the hell had she done with that lawyer’s number?
When the doorbell rang, it was late, after eleven, and Rachel was drunk. A string of gin and tonics had deadened the shock, but not her anger, or her resolve.
There was only one person who paid her house calls at the flat after eleven. Wrenching open the front door, her defiant glare morphed into an expression of genuine surprise when she looked into her visitor’s eyes.
‘What the hell do you want?’
* * *
Iris hurried down the High Street and round the corner into Mill Lane, anxious to get home. Hazelford was Christmas-card perfect this evening, cold and crisp and with a light snow falling, flakes drifting lazily down through the woodsmoke-filled air. How Iris loved that smell! Fires burning in the cottage hearths seemed to symbolise all that was kind and joyous and good about the season, and about this magical, idyllic place. Combined with the pealing church bells, the brightly coloured lights of the village Christmas tree at the top of the hill and the displays of toys and chocolates and glistening marzipan fruits in the shop windows, Hazelford seemed almost to be daring Iris not to get into the festive spirit.
Sadly, it wasn’t that easy. The bitter cold outside echoed a lingering chill in Iris’s heart that not even Hampshire’s most beautiful village could completely shake. For some reason, the sittings with Dom Wetherby seemed to be making it worse. There was that time a few weeks ago, when he’d brought back difficult memories of Thea. But it was more than that. Something about the author’s warmth, his happiness and light, seemed to throw Iris’s own inner darkness into painfully sharp relief.
She’d also had a horrible, vicious row with Ian yesterday. She’d gone up to London just for the day to see him. After his mean, drunken phone call when she got the commission to paint Dom, he’d apologised – an event in itself – and then invited her to lunch.
‘So we can talk through everything calmly, face to face. I don’t think the phone’s helping.’
He’d even proposed marriage counselling in the new year, and suggested a couple of names to Iris, which was an astonishing turnaround.
But it didn’t take long for the old Ian to make an unwelcome reappearance.
‘What on earth is that?’ he’d asked, laughing belittlingly at the bright patchwork coat Iris was wearing when she walked in. She’d chosen it deliberately for its cheerful colours, hoping they might inject some joy into today’s encounter. They didn’t. ‘You look like a court jester!’
‘Thanks,’ Iris said stiffly. ‘Nice to see you too.’
‘Oh, come on.’ Ian frowned. ‘I’m joking with you. You can take a joke, can’t you?’
From that inauspicious start, the meal had deteriorated quickly. When Iris raised the subject of going to see one of the counsellors Ian had proposed, he backtracked instantly. ‘Oh yeah, I called them both, but the rates are ridiculous. A hundred quid an hour! We don’t need that.’
Iris looked incredulous. ‘How do we not need it?’
‘Because,’ Ian said blithely, ‘it’s a racket. Once you move back home, things’ll get better.’
‘How? How will they get better?’
‘We can set aside a time each week to talk about things ourselves,’ said Ian, reaching for the wine list. ‘I mean, it’s not rocket science. I’ll try harder. You’ll try harder. Red or white?’
‘Neither.’ Every muscle in Iris’s body seemed to have tensed up. ‘I don’t want to drink.’
‘Since when?’ Ian laughed, beckoning the waiter over and ordering an expensive bottle of Burgundy, as if Iris hadn’t spoken. Belatedly noticing her stony face, he frowned. ‘Do you have to be so bloody miserable all the time?’
‘I told you. I’m not drinking.’
‘Well, why the fuck not?’ Ian snapped. ‘We’re here to try and enjoy ourselves, Iris. Remember that? Enjoying yourself?’
Not really, thought Iris, wishing she were anywhere else but here. Did he really not s
ee how serious their problems were, or was he doing this on purpose?
‘At least not being pregnant means you can drink at lunchtime, eh?’ He winked, grinning as the waiter returned with the bottle. ‘I believe that’s what’s known as a silver lining.’
Iris pushed back her chair and stood up. She was so angry it was an effort not to start shaking. ‘This was a mistake,’ she said. ‘I’m leaving.’
‘What?’ Ian looked genuinely amazed. ‘No, you’re not. Don’t be silly! Sit down.’
Iris put on her coat.
‘For God’s sake, this is ridiculous.’ Ian’s voice started rising. ‘I’ll drink the sodding wine if it means that much to you. Sit down and order some food.’
‘While you get drunk and insult me? No, thanks,’ Iris hissed back.
After that things became a bit of a blur. Iris walked out onto the street and Ian followed her and an ugly public screaming match ensued. Both of them had accused the other of being insincere and hypocritical, of not making a real effort to try and fix the marriage.
‘We can’t talk if you’re not here!’ Ian yelled at one point. To which Iris had yelled back, ‘Well, we can’t talk if I am here either, can we? Look at us!’
Not until she was alone in the back of a black cab, heading to Waterloo Station, did Iris give way to tears. Ian, she suspected, had gone back to their table and drowned his own sorrows in the expensive wine, no doubt downing the entire bottle. His drinking was definitely part of the problem. Although recently, Iris knew she’d been hitting the bottle increasingly herself.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am a hypocrite.
I know the marriage is dead, but I’m still going through the motions.
After her sitting with Dom today, Iris had dashed into the village to pick up some cheap Mr Kipling’s mince pies, her favourite, and (guiltily) a small bottle of sloe gin to go with them. She’d planned to cheer herself up with a long, indulgent evening at the cottage, rearranging the furniture in her doll’s house from top to bottom and installing the new standard lamps she’d bought from her favourite American supplier online.
Ian had once called her doll’s-house obsession ‘playing God’. Iris had been offended at the time, but perhaps he was right about that, too. Then again, wasn’t that the same thing he did, creating characters in his plays whose lives he got to control? And didn’t Dom Wetherby do the same with his books, and Ariadne with her sculpture? Wasn’t all art, at least in part, ‘playing God’? An acted-out impulse to control?
Quickening her pace, Iris chided herself for brooding again about Ian. After yesterday it was clear that she couldn’t go home for Christmas – if their flat in Clapham could even be called ‘home’ anymore. At some stage, she would have to ring him and agree some sort of official ‘plan’, not just for the holidays but for next year and the rest of their lives. But it didn’t have to be done today. Today she could be alone and happy. Focus on the present. That was what all the self-help books said. That and stop drinking yourself into oblivion.
A clatter behind her made her jump. Iris had reached the far end of Mill Lane now, the part where the last of the cottages petered out and gave way to a few hundred yards of empty road before the imposing walls of Mill House suddenly appeared and she took the left-hand turn down to the river and along the track that led to her cottage. The noise sounded like someone bumping into an old-fashioned metal dustbin. Except there were no dustbins here, only fields to either side of the lane, with a few wiry goats their sole occupants.
‘Hello?’ Iris called into the darkness.
Silence.
The sound of her voice, isolated and querulous on the night air, made her feel more frightened.
You’re being ridiculous, she told herself firmly. It was probably a goat knocking over a water trough or something.
Even so, she quickened her pace. The feeling that someone, or something, was following her intensified. She heard cracking twigs – footsteps? – followed by a whining sigh or groan that could have been the wind but could also have been something else, something human. By the time she finally reached Mill Cottage, her cold fingers fumbling with the key as she tried to turn the lock to the side door, her heart was pounding so violently it was difficult to breathe. She was so isolated, so totally alone. No one would hear her if she screamed.
Stop catastrophising, she tried to tell herself. If someone was there, he’d have jumped you by now. But terror trumped her logical thoughts. Bursting into the kitchen as the door finally swung open to receive her, Iris whipped round and slammed the door shut behind her, sliding in the deadbolt and dropping her shopping on the floor, weak with relief.
For a moment she contemplated ringing her friend Annie Proctor. They hadn’t spoken in a while, but the urge to hear a reassuring human voice was suddenly very powerful. But Annie was miles away, and wouldn’t be able to do anything to help if Iris really were being followed. Maybe she should call Ariadne instead, up at Mill House, just to let her know what had happened? But she quickly realised how stupid she would sound if she did that.
What had happened? Nothing, that’s what. She’d heard a few, normal country noises after dark and got herself spooked. Safe now in the warm, bright normality of her kitchen, Iris’s fears began to recede like evening shadows. Her heart rate slowed, and her breathing returned to its usual rhythm. Even so, she decided she would work on her doll’s house down here tonight, close to the Aga and the woodburner.
She pushed away the unconscious thought that the kitchen was also closer to the door, and escape, should she need it, and unwrapped two mince pies, sticking them in the microwave to warm. Then, lighting a comforting clove and cinnamon candle, she poured a generous three fingers of sloe gin into a Hello Kitty mug and took a long, slow sip before climbing the stairs to fetch down her doll’s house.
Walking past the open bedroom door, she froze.
There, neatly positioned on Iris’s pillow, was a perfectly carved doll’s-house-sized grandfather clock.
Iris walked over to it slowly, cold fear gripping her like the hand of a ghost on her neck.
Tick, tick, tick, went the clock, like a tiny whispering bomb. Her home, her sanctuary, was no longer safe, no longer private. She felt violated.
Shaking, Iris grabbed the phone by her bedside and dialled 999.
‘Police,’ she rasped, her throat dry as dust. ‘I want to report a break-in.’
Chapter Six
‘You see – I told you. It’s starting to move now.’
Marcus Wetherby smiled across at his wife, Jenna, as their Volvo inched forwards. It was five days before Christmas and they, like everybody else, it seemed, were on the road, trying to make their way to the Mill for the holidays. Marcus’s parents had been expecting them over an hour ago, but the M3 had other plans.
Ignoring him, Jenna turned to gaze out at the motorway traffic. Anything was better than looking at Marcus’s face, and the scratch that still ran livid down his cheek, from his left eye almost to the top of his lip. A little over two weeks ago Marcus had come home late – very late – and clearly the worse for wear. It was so utterly out of character that Jenna had struggled to process his behaviour, but the facts spoke for themselves. His breath smelled of alcohol, his shirt was rumpled, and his face was bleeding. As if all that weren’t bad enough, he’d then lied, right to Jenna’s face, making up some utter nonsense about a late meeting at a client’s country house and an accidental stumble into a rose bush – a rose bush! – a story that, ludicrously, he had stuck to rigidly the morning after, and the next day, and every day since, refusing to discuss the matter further other than to insist, with increasing irritation, that ‘There’s nothing to tell, Jenna. Nothing happened!’
And so the scratch incident had been shelved, unresolved. And now they were on their way to the Mill, where God forbid anybody should have problems of any kind, never mind a problem as big and toxic as suspecting one’s husband of having an affair, or at least a one-night stand, and lying about
it through his straight, white, smiling teeth, and where the children and Marcus’s family would be around them every minute of every day, constantly, ruining any chance of them having a meaningful conversation.
Marcus reached out, resting a hand on his wife’s leg. ‘Please don’t be angry all through Christmas,’ he begged, grateful at least that Lottie and Oscar had both fallen asleep before the Winchester turn-off. ‘Please try.’
‘I am trying,’ Jenna said stiffly.
‘I love you.’
She heard the break in Marcus’s voice. Instinctively, she slipped her hand over his.
‘I love you too, Marcus.’
And she did. She really did. She just didn’t know if she could trust him anymore. He insisted he wasn’t having an affair, and maybe he wasn’t. After all, throughout their long years together, he’d never once given her reason to doubt him. And yet Jenna knew there was something he wasn’t telling her about the other night. She just knew it.
They relapsed into silence. Miraculously, the traffic did clear, and less than half an hour later they were exiting the roundabout at the top of Hazelford Hill and chugging down the High Street towards the church and the river.
‘We’ll talk more when we get back to London,’ Marcus said suddenly. ‘I promise. But please can we leave it for now?’
In the back seat, Lottie started to stir.
‘I swear to you on the kids’ lives that I am not having an affair.’
‘OK,’ said Jenna. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do for now.
‘Are we there yet?’ Lottie asked groggily.
‘Almost!’ Marcus’s voice had already taken on the happy, magical, everything’s-absolutely-perfect tone he always adopted when visiting his childhood home. ‘We’re in the village. Look at the tree!’
‘Oh! It’s lovely!’ Lottie gasped.
And it was. Even Jenna had to admit that Hazelford looked enchanting. And the Mill, when they arrived, was even more so, decked out in holly and berries and hundreds of lit candles in preparation for the big party, a Victorian Yuletide fantasy. Ariadne had outdone herself as usual.