Thus Amber had acquired these riches. Dr Giles would love it, she supposed. Tonight was the night; he was coming for supper and would probably stay for breakfast. Did she want him? The truth was that she wasn’t sure, but, having offloaded her virginity in her early teens, she was no shrinking violet. She couldn’t have Alex Price, so she would take the next best thing. The next best thing seemed to be in love with Kate Price, so they had something in common, didn’t they?
It was a daft situation. Giles had revealed he knew Kate when they’d met again at the club and was clearly crazy about her, while Amber’s need for Alex lingered even now, long after he had pledged himself at the altar of some other female. Perhaps they could comfort one another, Amber and Giles. Oh well, this wasn’t getting supper on, was it?
There would be no pudding; she had explained that to him. If he needed to end the meal on a sweet note, there was ice cream in the freezer. ‘And I’m tasty enough to be afters,’ she told herself aloud in the kitchen. Spanish omelette and a good green salad after a starter of homemade soup should be sufficient for a body-conscious doctor. After supper, it would be anybody’s game.
As long as she was in charge, of course.
*
Père Pierre Dubois came home at three in the morning after ministering extreme unction to a man who had reached his century two years earlier. People who lived alongside the glorious Loire had a tendency towards longevity, and even now, at so great an age, the frail soul had lingered at the gateway for hours.
The priest kissed the stole and put it away with the rest of his vestments. After swallowing a mouthful of single Scotch whisky, he went into the hallway, locked the door, and was preparing to go upstairs when a loud crash from two floors up startled him. ‘Michel?’ he called as he ascended the first flight. There was no reply. Was the man ill, or worse? Should he go back down for stole and oils?
The second flight was steeper, more difficult than the first for a priest in his fifties, one whose name had been put forward on a list for deputy bishop. He didn’t want to be a bishop; he preferred to work at grass roots level where real people lived, and just at this moment he needed his English friend to be alive and unhurt.
Max was on the floor, eyes wide open, but unresponsive.
‘Michel?’
There was no reaction.
Pierre knelt on the floor. ‘Please wake, my friend.’
The man on the floor began to speak, but not to him. ‘We never did the kidnap. Papers said they found the stuff. I didn’t kill him. You know that, Bernadette.’ After these few words, the rest was mumbled nonsense.
The man of God blessed himself and his guest, who was talking gibberish to the saint. ‘She is trying to help you, mon ami. Unburden yourself and let her offer you comfort. When you are ready, you will come to me and I, too, will hear your worries.’ Taking his rosary from a pocket, he began the first decade. He offered his prayers to Bernadette, who would put them in the hands of the Blessed Trinity and the mother of Jesus Christ.
‘What happened?’ asked the large man on the floor.
Startled again, the priest opened his eyes and looked at Max. ‘You fell from the bed but did not wake. Is your head sore?’
‘No. I had a dream.’
‘Yes, you were talking.’
Max sat up, stood, and placed himself on a bedside chair. ‘She woke.’
‘Our little nun?’
‘Yes. She floated towards me and talked in French. I’ve no idea what she was going on about, but she made me feel better. She was carrying a baby and pointing at me. About three times she said something like “say twa”.’
‘C’est toi means this is you in your innocence. I think she tells you to be as innocent as you were as a baby. Bernadette has hope for you. See? She comes not to priest, cardinal, or Pope; she comes to you, a man who works the soil and digs graves. She is of the people and for the people.’
‘You make her sound like a communist.’
Pierre laughed. ‘Communism is . . . socialism parfait – perfect. But it doesn’t work, because people in charge take money and hide it for the day when they are no longer in power. Humanity is frail and quick to sin.’
‘No need to tell me that. You could paper this room with a list of everything I’ve done wrong.’
‘You have remorse. You will repent – this I am sure.’
‘Glad you are. Have we any bread?’
Pierre nodded.
‘Right, I’m going down to make some toast. Talking to a dead nun makes me hungry. It’s hard work when they speak in French.’ He stood and left the room.
Pierre scratched his head. Too tired for complicated thought, he remained sure of just one thing. Michel was going to be baptised a Catholic.
Eleven
Tim Dyson fell in love with Monica as soon as she walked into his Rodney Street office. She greeted him with a lengthy monologue on the subject of chairs in the waiting room, which items she termed both ugly and uncomfortable. This complaint drifted into another, because his decor was all wrong. ‘It’s boring,’ she advised him. ‘You haven’t got no vocal point in here or out there.’ She jerked a thumb in the direction of his waiting room.
‘What would you suggest as vocal points?’ he asked, stressing ‘vocal’.
She blinked several times, as she suspected that he was taking the piss. ‘A bit of colour. Paintings over the fireplaces, a proper table in the waiting room with an unfinished jigsaw on it, something for people to do.’
‘I could open a poker school, I suppose.’
‘Don’t talk soft. Them what’s addicted to gambling would never go home. Don’t be taking the wee-wee out of me, because I’m fit for you, lad. I might talk Scouse, but I’m an expert when it comes to things like decorating. I mean, look at these bloody curtains. As cheerful as a funeral in the rain.’
He laughed.
‘What’s funny?’ Monica demanded to know. ‘I work for Kate, so she trusts me. She knows I know what’s what.’
‘And what is what, Monica? Let’s get down to business.’
She lowered her chin and pondered. ‘There’s something wrong with me. I’m a terrible mother. I’d rather paint or do a bit of tiling. I hate grouting, though.’
‘Normal so far,’ he told her. ‘Most sensible people avoid grouting.’
‘And most sensible women don’t refuse to listen to a pregnant daughter, take another two girls to Spain and leave a two-year-old baby in his cot till his dad comes home.’ She blinked again; her eyes were rather damp.
‘I agree. Which is why I’d like to make an appointment for haematology at the Royal. Let’s have a look at your blood and see what we can find. I don’t believe you have anaemia, because you live up ladders, so you seem strong enough. This could be hormonal. HRT might be part of the answer.’
Monica folded her arms.
Recognizing this action as self-protection, he awaited onslaught.
‘I’m not having a heart attack, not for nobody.’
‘It would be a mini dose.’
‘I don’t care if it’s a do-si-dose in country dancing, I don’t want it.’
Tim managed not to grin. ‘Do you still have sex with your husband?’
She gave him a stare that conveyed a very rude message.
‘Well? Come on, Monica, tell me the truth. This can work as long as you stop hiding cracks behind wallpaper. Do you have sex with your husband?’
‘No. He uses another woman for that. Lois, she’s called – I check his phone, you see. There was even a photo what he’s deleted. All teeth and tits, she is, and her roots needed doing – about two inches were dark brown.’
‘So which came first, then? Was it the chicken or the egg?’
She tilted her head to one side. ‘For an educated bloke, you don’t half talk some shit, shite and sugar.’
‘I’m qualified in all three disciplines. Well? Sex?’
‘Not since Troy.’
‘The baby you left behind.’
> ‘Yes.’
‘So the egg came first – your baby boy. How were you after delivering him? Sad, tired, weak? Not interested in life?’
She nodded. ‘Looking back, I was bad after Kylie, worse after Britney, screaming after Chelsea and . . . and angry after Troy. When I got brought back from Barcelona with my middle two, the police doctor said I had no pattern to follow because me mam died when I was little. Can it be that?’
He pondered. ‘It might be. If you’ve had post-partum depression for fourteen years, that’s nothing to joke about. Tell me, do you lose self-control?’
‘Erm . . . not really. I just get on with what I’m doing.’
Tim walked round the desk and perched on the edge of it. He liked this woman. ‘You cook for your family?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who puts the baby to bed?’
‘My husband or our Kylie.’
‘Never you?’
‘Sometimes, like when everybody’s out or doing homework.’
He looked at the floor and decided to go for broke. ‘You’ve left Pete. You ran out on Troy and Kylie ran away from you. Your little boy is living with your pregnant fourteen-year-old and Pete’s getting help at home. Am I right so far?’
‘Stop it.’
‘You’re living in Kate’s house and ordering men about.’
‘All right, all bloody right.’
He gave her a broad smile. ‘Monica, the soft-as-shit lefty psychologists would say you’re finding yourself, and there may even be something in that. But all I know is this – you’re a good and gifted woman whose communication skills could use work, but you’ll get there. You married too young and had too many kids. So you looked past them and distracted yourself. Perhaps there’s more to it, but we’ll deal with that possibility another day. One last word – Pete.’
‘What about him?’
‘He doesn’t want Lois, love. He wants you. Pete wants the ordinary life with his family around him.’
Monica burst out laughing. ‘He wants the ordinary life when he wears a frock, a load of makeup and high heels?’
‘That’s his job, his talent. But the childminder’s a good idea.’
‘Is she?’
‘Yes, she is. You need to do some courses on design and all that stuff. Get qualifications on paper. Stick with Kate – she’s the best. So. Blood tests, have dates with your husband, get used to the kids. See this job through for Kate, have a family dinner at weekends, take the young girls and Troy to the beach – it’s not rocket science.’
‘Are you qualified in that, too?’
‘Of course. I’ll see you in two weeks, then. You’ll get a letter about the blood tests. We need to look at your endocrine system, too.’
‘Eh?’
‘Glands. Go on with you. Start enjoying life, Monica. But remember you have a family and you are missed. And loved.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She picked up her bag. ‘How many Our Fathers and Hail Marys do I have to say?’
‘Bugger off. I may allow you to improve my decor when you have time. Now, go home.’
She did as she was told.
Tim sat smiling to himself; he was looking forward to working with Monica.
I wake.
We’re knotted together like a child’s shoelace before said child has learnt to do the job properly. I always wake before he does, so I get the chance to look at him properly. Alex is the most beautiful creature on God’s earth. That dark promise of beard has appeared, and his lips are slightly parted. Soon, his eyes will open; I can tell that from the change in his breathing and some movement behind the eyelids. He’s dreaming.
Since the hypnotist did his job, there have been no nightmares. My man used to shout and kick during the night. Occasionally, when waking him was difficult, it was like going eight rounds with a heavyweight wrestler, but Alex was asleep and didn’t know what he was doing. Now he’s more relaxed, since he told me his terrible truth.
We’ll be going soon to visit my parents and to introduce Alex to Amelia. Luckily, she remembers nothing of the night when her father almost killed her, so she displays no fear of men. She knows her daddy’s dead, and I’ve kept some photographs of him and one with the pair of them sitting on the front steps of my London house. I’ll give her some of the truth when she’s much, much older. For now, the story goes, ‘You fell and banged your head, and the doctors had to look inside to make you better. Don’t be sad. Your hair will come back.’ And yes, it’s growing well. The poor child’s under guard because of Jim’s missing minions, but she’ll be home soon.
Amber Simpson was a strange girl. After several dates, Giles decided that while she was ace in bed, she spent the rest of the time talking about her job, her prospects, her ambitions, herself. Other than those subjects, conversation was centred on Alex Price and what a wonderful employer he was. She was selfish, determined and cold except when under the covers of her bed. Amber stressed the fact that this bed had not come from Mrs Price. He knew she was lying. The item was an antique four-poster, possibly French and definitely out of reach of Amber’s limited means.
It took a while, but he found himself telling her more about Kate and the time she had spent with him after her daughter’s ‘accident’. While keeping quiet about small details like the fact that Kate Latimer had shot her husband, he admitted that he had grown fond of the woman, and that she’d suddenly moved away to Liverpool.
They were at Amber’s table having breakfast in the flat, Amber’s new home which was filled by furniture she said she had bought from Kate. So he was sitting at Kate’s table, on Kate’s chair, was looking at Kate’s Victorian dresser.
‘You loved her,’ she accused.
‘I’m not sure,’ was his reply. ‘She spent weeks in the ward while Amelia recovered, so yes, we became friends—’
‘You followed her to Liverpool.’
‘No, I came for Alder Hey and the opportunity to study childhood cancers.’
Amber stared at him, her face devoid of expression. He was OK, but he could never be what she wanted. What she wanted was life with another man, one who had been the prime object in a takeover bid by a rich and arty-farty woman from London. Kate Price was clever; she had created the interior of this flat without ever stepping inside the place. ‘I feel as if she owns me.’ The words slipped from her mouth without permission.
‘Kate?’ Giles asked.
‘Her furniture. I paid next to nothing for it.’ She was incapable of admitting that everything had been free. It meant goodbye to a housewarming, as she didn’t want everyone to know the provenance of all this splendour. ‘She’s very high-handed. She reads his mail, knows every step he takes, and she’s a director of the company. So far, she’s contributed nothing apart from a new coffee machine in the boardroom, plus a fridge to keep our bottled water in.’
‘You don’t like her.’
Amber glared past his shoulder and nodded. ‘He loves her, you’re fascinated by her, and I live surrounded by all this stuff.’ She altered her expression and offered him a smile. ‘I suppose I’d better tell you the truth – the bed was hers. So you’ve slept in her bed, and now I’m watching your expression. You look like a man suffering from homesickness. I have another bed in my exercise room; we don’t need to make love in her shadow.’
Giles flinched slightly. They didn’t make love – they shared a sexual experience. Amber was bossy in bed, and he sometimes felt used, as if he were just a toy she played with for her own pleasure. There was a dark side to the woman, a place she fought hard to disguise, though he was wary of it. If he finished with her, there might well be repercussions, because she thought she owned him. ‘In bed, do you ever pretend that I’m him?’ he asked.
‘Do you pretend I’m her?’
‘Don’t answer a question with a question, Amber.’
‘Fantasies are allowed,’ she stated. ‘I read about that.’
‘Are your fantasies attached to him?’
‘Sometimes,’ she adm
itted. ‘Are yours fastened to her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we’re equal,’ she said. ‘Come on, now. Let’s go and have our imaginings in my exercise room and on my own bed, the one I brought with me.’
Sensing that this relationship could end only in disaster, he followed her like a lapdog into the second bedroom. While undressing, he looked at a chart on the wall near the equipment she used to hone her body. The calorific value of everything she ate was in one column, while the next line carried the number of calories used during her sessions on the machines both here and at Chillex. It was rather frightening to see her obsessive nature in figures that needed to balance.
Amber was mentally ill, and Giles had no idea of how to cope with her. He did as bidden, but had to be quick. She had a meeting, while he had work to do.
Amber Simpson was staring at Alex as if she’d crawled across the Sahara and he was provider of the bucket of water at the end of all the pain. He prayed that her expression would change before the arrival of the Queen of Sheba, who would be turning up shortly in her matron of honour garb, a ridiculously expensive dress that enhanced the colour of those incredible eyes. She should be here at the office at any moment.
Alex decided to address the issue. ‘Do you have something to say?’ he asked when Amber continued to stare after any other business was finished.
She didn’t even blush. ‘No. I’m just wondering whether your wife will be suggesting any changes at Chillex.’
He shrugged. ‘No idea, Amber, because she hasn’t yet discussed her plans with me. Don’t forget that you all have the ability to negotiate; if you don’t agree with her, she’ll take that on board.’
The manager of Chillex cleared her throat. ‘I hoped we would be finished by now. My deputy has an appointment this afternoon, so I may need to phone and ask him to postpone.’
Alex lowered his eyes, because he could no longer face the hunger this woman displayed. ‘Do as you think best,’ he advised the meeting. ‘Kate won’t be here for long, as we have a wedding this afternoon, which is why I’m dressed like a sommelier. I’m best man.’
For the Love of Liverpool Page 20