by Ros Carne
As she sketched out the rest of the afternoon in her mind, her eyes followed the movements of the children playing on the deck of the outdoor cafe, a temporary glass and wood structure that reflected the old brick of the main gallery. Two little girls aged about eight and ten, dark-skinned and with braids pinned around their heads, were teaching an infant to walk, swinging him forwards and backwards. A man was tending to an older boy in a wheelchair, feeding him chunks of cake. On the other side of the table a mother scooped a tiny bundle out of a pram, pulled up her T-shirt and started to breastfeed. Mel watched the lives of these gentle strangers, feeling a stab of loss for the big family she might have had, would have had, if Claude had stayed.
She called Jacob again. Still no answer. Then, just as she was wondering whether to set off to find them, Natasha approached with a tray.
‘What happened?’ asked Mel. ‘You’ve been ages. Where’s Jacob?’
‘We’ve been a bit naughty. The queue at the cafe was so long, we bunked off into the gallery. I wanted to show Jacob my favourite painting. You must know it. The Guido Reni of St John? Spitting image of your son. Anyway, when we set off for the cafe, Jacob told me he needed to get home. Next minute he’s stomping off across the grass.’
‘Shit.’
Natasha looked surprised by the vehemence of her reaction. ‘Said he had a headache and didn’t want to be in the way if we were talking shop. Does he normally disappear like this?’
‘Not since he was six years old. And he didn’t say anything? I mean you’ve no idea why he went? Did you ask about his arm? He’s sensitive about that.’
‘No to all those. He said he’d go and see his granny some other time.’
Natasha’s airy casualness grated, but what could Mel do? If she returned to the flat, her own mother would be upset. And Jacob might not even be at home. He hated Mel following him, ‘tracking’ him as he called it. Though given what had happened this morning she had good reason to keep an eye on him. And this sudden disappearance was plain rude. He hadn’t even taken the trouble to text. What was it about Natasha? She always seemed to be around when things went wrong, when Mel was in the midst of some crisis.
She reached for her cappuccino, kicking herself for inviting Natasha in the first place. There were a few questions she needed to ask for the reference, but she could easily have dealt with them over the phone. Why had she been so stupid? And now she couldn’t think of a word to say to her pupil who sat staring at her with her fake green eyes, their unreal tint glinting in the sunlight. Her pale skin looked like porcelain. Nothing about her seemed real.
Natasha’s pupillage would be over in three months. If she stayed at Bridge Court after that she’d be a squatter. Squatters were hard to get rid of. Mel would write a bland reference and get shot of her. She was about to mention the reference when Natasha spoke.
‘So you’re off to see your mother?’
Why did everything Natasha say feel like it had a double meaning. Was it the voice? The half-smile? The private smirk beneath the breezy surface?
‘Yes. I won’t linger. Mum will be anxious. She’s a worrier.’
‘Jess told me she was a famous actress.’
‘Not that famous. Unless you’re into soaps.’
‘Oh, I love soaps. Which one?’
‘You won’t have seen it. It finished years ago. Canada Row.’
‘Canada Row! It was my total favourite when I was a kid. Who did she play?’
‘Darcy Black.’
‘Darcy Black! Awesome. She was huge.’
The ardour sounded genuine. Darcy Black the powerful, elegant businesswoman whose stilettos strutted through Mel’s solitary childhood, who paid for her private school and, Isabel liked to remind her, her Cambridge education, had won the jagged heart of her volatile pupil. The Natasha she was looking at across the table was, for the first time that day, 100 per cent authentic.
‘Yeah, she was a big deal for a while. Then they killed her. She never got over it.’
‘How awful.’
‘Well, that’s showbiz. Nothing lasts. But I didn’t come here to talk about my mother. There are a few things I need for your reference. I know you’ve been busy. But I thought if you could give me the names of some of the judges you’ve been in front of, I could have a word with them about your advocacy. I haven’t seen that much of you recently.’
She felt like adding ‘and make it snappy’. If Natasha chose to disappear with her son for half an hour it was her decision and Mel wasn’t going to hang about for her. Then, for the first time, it crossed her mind that Jacob’s disappearance might have something to do with Natasha. Though that was ridiculous. They didn’t even know each other. Natasha mentioned a few names. Mel tapped them into her phone, asking casually, ‘And out of interest, who’s your academic referee?’
‘From my crap uni? Waste of time.’
‘North Bank? Was it that bad?’
‘Not posh enough for the Bar. Not “Oxbridge”.’ Natasha’s voice rose in mock gentility and her fingers mimed quotation marks in the air. Mel was conscious of other people listening, the nice family staring from the next table. But Natasha was not about to stop. It was as if she wanted the whole park to hear.
‘I think you know one of the lecturers there. Paul Freedman?’
A cold blast ran through Mel at the mention of Paul’s name. How much did Natasha know? Had she read all the emails? Or had she just noticed the name, read a single message and then realised the correspondence was confidential. Any normal person might do as much. And it was quite possible that Mel had left the page open.
‘He’s an old friend,’ she said, unwilling to give away too much information.
‘A bit more than that I think.’ Natasha’s eyes gleamed in excitement. The expression on her face was almost a leer.
‘What are you saying?’
‘You told me all about him in Daly’s. Remember? We went for a drink a couple of months ago. I mean I know he’s married and everything, but he’s kind of attractive. I don’t blame you.’
Mel stared at Natasha who was suddenly as ugly as she was beautiful, hard and cold in her skimpy dress with her manicured fingernails and perfectly streaked hair. She wanted to put her hands around that slender neck and squeeze. Then, with equal intensity, she wanted a cigarette. But she had given up smoking sixteen years ago.
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ She heard her mother’s voice in her own, arch, dismissive, false. But it was not a complete lie. She had no memory of any such conversation.
‘You must have forgotten. We were at one of the inside tables. You asked where I’d done my law degree and I told you I’d been to North Bank. Then you asked if I knew him. You obviously wanted to talk about him.’
‘You’re mistaken.’
Could she have said something? She’d probably had a few glasses of wine that evening. Her memory might be hazy.
‘I mean I know what it’s like when you’re keen on somebody. You just want to talk about them all the time.’
‘I can’t believe I ever spoke to you about Paul.’
Natasha smirked. ‘You told me you were shagging him.’
It was as if someone had whacked Mel’s chest from the inside with a mallet. She leapt up and grabbed her bag.
‘Impossible. I would never use that word.’
Her heart was thumping. Thoughts swirled. Why had she come? She should have gone straight to her mother’s. And why had Jacob run off? What if something bad had happened to him? But that was ridiculous. Why should something bad happen to him in a London park on a Sunday afternoon? It was not as if he was in a gang. Or was he? She was spiralling. She took a deep breath and looked back at Natasha whose expression was simultaneously sympathetic and opaque.
‘Oh, Mel, you look upset. Listen, it’s cool. I don’t remember what expression you used – bonking, making out, getting laid, having an affair. I’m not going to judge you. Your bloke pissed off. Why shouldn’t you have fun t
oo? It’s your business.’
‘Please keep your voice down, Natasha.’ The sudden assumption of intimacy was unbearable, like having your flesh rubbed down a cheese grater.
Mel’s words had no effect. Natasha, usually so controlled and calm, was energised. ‘I won’t mention it to anyone. I mean, you’ve done nothing wrong. Not really. You’re not the married one.’
The word ‘married’ bounced off the walls of the pavilion. Only the consciousness of spectators and some deep-seated habit of good conduct prevented Mel throwing the other woman off her chair onto the wooden deck. Her chest was thrumming. She stood, waiting for the sensation to pass. A small cloud drifted across the afternoon sun and was reflected in the mirror beside them. Voices were hushed, people staring.
‘Please, sit down, Mel.’
Something in the cool clarity of the instruction cut through Mel’s agitation and she sat. The drama was over, the audience members returned to their tea, cake and families, drifting back into conversation. Natasha cut a slice of cake and offered it. Mel shook her head. She couldn’t speak. The nice family was packing up to go. Through the fog of her rage against Natasha, she felt a stab of loss at the realisation she would never see them again.
Natasha reached her hand across the table as if to apologise. But what she said was far from an apology. ‘Listen, how about you write me a nice reference and…’ She paused.
‘And what?’
‘And I don’t say a word.’
At that moment the sun caught the side of Natasha’s face and her eyes shone, twin diamonds of light against the startling green of her irises. Her hand was still stretched towards Mel’s which was gripping the edge of the table. And for the first time it crossed Mel’s mind that her pupil might not just be a troublemaker, not just unfeeling, but a little mad. Mel pulled her hand away as if that madness might be contagious. ‘Don’t touch me.’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ said Natasha.
‘Are you serious?’
‘And if you take me to meet your mum, I’ll be your friend forever.’
Natasha was smiling now as if she really believed her words might have influence. Mel jumped up. It was time to be 100 per cent clear.
‘Listen, Natasha. I wouldn’t let you anywhere near my mother. Or my son for that matter. Oh, I was prepared to hear you out when I came to meet you. I know you had read at least one of my emails, but I was ready to believe you came across it by accident. I could forgive that. But no. It’s obvious it was no accident. You had a purpose. You deliberately read my correspondence. You saw your opportunity for meddling and now you want to use your knowledge. And you think I would take you to meet my mother? You’re out of your mind. There’s no way I would let you near anyone I care about. What’s wrong with you?’
And, without waiting for an answer, she stood up and strode away across the grass.
Chapter Twenty-four
Natasha
Natasha aimed an imaginary automatic rifle at Mel’s back and let off a volley of bullets. But Mel kept walking. In less than a minute Natasha had leapt up and followed.
The gallery was closing, visitors bunched around the main gate, setting off for buses and cars. Mel disappeared into the throng and Natasha was forced to elbow through to locate her. She pushed past the inevitable complainers.
‘Watch out!’
‘Where are your manners, young lady?’
‘In a rush are we?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she explained, ‘I need to get to the hospital urgently. My mother’s had a bad accident.’
They stood back.
On the main road she looked both ways, spotting Mel about fifty yards ahead, recognisable from her steady gait, broad shoulders and solid hips, advancing down the pavement past the parked cars in the direction of the village.
Natasha’s phone was ringing. She pulled it out of her bag, saw Luke’s name and put it back. Not now. She didn’t want to lose Mel who appeared to be slowing down, practically sauntering, as if her original rapid pace had nothing to do with seeing Isabel and everything to do with getting away from Natasha.
There were no parked cars and few trees on this side of the road and Natasha continued to walk behind her. At one point, Mel stopped and Natasha leapt over a low wall in front of a large white building by the side of the road. But after a pause to check her phone, Mel set off again, waiting until traffic had stopped at a zebra before crossing the road and moving on in the same direction along the other side. Natasha remained hidden behind the wall until Mel had turned left at a roundabout. Then she ran out and down to the corner.
Peeking around the corner she saw Mel carrying on down the next residential street and turning off into a quieter side road. Making her way to the corner, Natasha next spotted Mel walking along a row of almost identical semi-detached houses, mostly painted white with neatly pointed brickwork. Any one of these would be worth a fortune.
Natasha’s phone was ringing again. Luke would have to wait. She wanted to know where Isabel lived. With careful planning she might find a way to get in there and meet her. At that moment Mel stopped, looked in her bag and took something out, swinging slowly around in Natasha’s direction. Without hesitating, Natasha walked purposefully into the front garden of the nearest house. She would be instantly recognisable to Mel in her bright green dress, but a quick glance back indicated that Mel was staring at her phone, oblivious to all else.
It was late afternoon but still warm and she remained for a few moments in the pretty garden enjoying the sun on her bare arms. A solitary blackbird was singing its little heart out in one of the trees that lined the road. Other than that, all was quiet. How different from the buzz and hubbub of Brixton. Almost like being in the country. If anyone emerged from the house she would give them a random name and say she was looking for a friend. The garden would serve to conceal her now. Luckily no one came out and she stood for a couple more minutes, admiring the well-tended beds and weed-free gravel, the shining BMW in the driveway, the large pots filled with pink flowering plants and silvery foliage. She could see herself in such a house. With Luke of course.
Mel was off the phone now and was moving on down the pavement. Natasha could see her on the other side of the crescent, eight houses away, entering a garden identical in size and shape to the one Natasha stood in now. But size and shape were the only similarities. The other garden was overgrown and ill tended, Mel’s head and shoulders just visible above what looked from a distance like a tangle of brambles. As for the house, it stood out grey and forbidding, its old-fashioned pebbledash dark with age, the paintwork on its windows flaking and cracked.
Mel crossed the garden, took a key out of her bag and let herself in. Natasha was disappointed. She had hoped to get a view of Isabel. Was Darcy Black as neglected and forlorn as the house she lived in? Natasha ventured further down the street for a better look and checked out the number on Isabel’s front door. Though she wouldn’t need the number to find the house again. The house itself was unmissable, a miniature version of the castle in the Sleeping Beauty, creepers and vines crawling up the walls. Even the curtains were drawn closed.
Then she saw a hand in one of the windows. One of the curtains was being pulled aside. Natasha jumped back, expecting to see Mel’s face. But there was no sight of her, and she was able to get one more good look at the house before turning around. It was tantalising. But she had no idea how she would get inside. Every scheme she conceived seemed hopeless. And perhaps it was time to give up mad schemes. They all went wrong. She headed back to the main road and the bus, texting Luke as she walked.
‘All good. On my way.’
Natasha stood in the bus shelter waiting for the bus to Brixton. The pursuit of Mel had warmed her but now the evening air had grown cool and with it the excitement of the day. It had all started so well but overall it’d been pretty crap. Jacob had run off, the CPS looked increasingly unlikely, and she hadn’t even managed a glimpse of Isabel Goddard. She thought about Jacob.
Stupid kid. She would never waste her time with a youngster again. It was meant as a bit of fun. He shouldn’t have answered her first message with that flirty text. The last thing she had intended was meeting him. Certainly not with his mum in tow. And now she had followed Mel to her mother’s house. For what? She wasn’t about to break in. She was feeling sick again. In two months she’d be out of work and then what? She might be allowed to squat, but squatters never lasted long.
Her eyes ranged across the metal and Perspex screen that shielded the shelter from the passing traffic. Coloured posters advertised the usual mix of West End musicals, dreary charities and bus times. They were so familiar she wondered that anyone bothered to read them. But then her eye was caught by a smaller notice, brightly coloured and laminated, the faces of three actors in bubbles floating around a single strapline. She looked again, more carefully this time. There could be no doubt. It was her. The glittering, eloquent eyes. The fine bone structure, the long nose which Jacob had inherited two generations down, the platinum hair swept back and high, the noble head. Darcy Black.
Natasha’s bus pulled in at the stop just as she started to read. ‘Meet the Stars.’ The date was Wednesday this week.
‘Door closing,’ shouted the driver.
She jumped on the bus. She had enough information to find out the rest later. Darcy Black was making a rare appearance in public. And Natasha would be there to witness it.
Chapter Twenty-five
Mel
The first thing that hit her was the smell. It was sour, musty, with a faint whiff of rotting food. All the windows were closed, as were the two sets of red velvet curtains.