Intrusion: A Novel

by Mary McCluskey

  At exactly ten in the morning the following day, Kat opened the door to someone who, at first glance, looked like a stranger. Sarah, dressed in a sharply tailored navy suit and a cream silk blouse, wore her hair pulled back severely from her face and lipstick of a deep bloodred. She smiled at Kat’s surprised expression.

  “You look very—executive,” Kat said.

  “I know. I’m on my way to do battle in the boardroom. This is my corporate-warrior outfit.”

  “Corporate warrior in killer heels. It’s very smart.”

  Sarah carried a brown envelope and a white box tied with ribbon.

  “Application,” she said. “Just needs signatures. When you’ve both signed, give the package back to me. I can have a messenger pick it up. And look here—lemon tarts, baby ones. Like the ones we had before.”

  Kat took the envelope from her, placed it on the hall table.

  “I’ll get the coffee.”

  When the coffee was poured, the pastries set out on a plate, Sarah leaned across the coffee table in the living room to reach for one of the tarts. Kat did the same.

  “Two bites and gone,” Sarah said, demonstrating.

  “Oh, these are so good,” Kat said.

  “Nectar from the gods.”

  “I love the sharp lemon. Almost sour. And then the sweet.”

  “That’s the joy of them.”

  “I daren’t think of the calorie count.”

  “If God had meant us to count calories,” Sarah said, “she would not have created lemon tarts. And so—Scott. He’s still reluctant?”

  “More than reluctant. Dismissive of the whole idea.”

  “He’ll come ’round. Knowing how you feel, he must—” Sarah began, and then frowned as Kat shook her head.

  “He’s stubborn,” Kat said. “He’s always been stubborn.”

  “All men are stubborn. They can be persuaded.”

  Kat smiled then.

  “The voice of experience? So tell me more about the adoptions—do they try to match prospective parents with the babies?”

  “All screened carefully,” Sarah said. “They do their best to find a good fit.”

  “As long as he’s healthy. That’s all that matters.”

  “He?” Sarah asked with a smile. “He or she will be healthy. I can promise you that.”

  She leaned back on the sofa and delicately brushed a stray crumb from the lapel of her suit jacket.

  “Must not dent this armor,” she said.

  “It’s that kind of meeting?” Kat asked.

  “Indeed it is.”

  “You’re going alone?” Kat asked, wondering why Sarah didn’t take a couple of her executives along. Or a couple of her lawyers.

  “I love going alone. One of the things I learned from Sam, over our long marriage, was the simple art of intimidation,” Sarah said.

  “You were married a long time?”

  “Eighteen years.”

  Kat blinked, surprised, the coffee cup halfway to her mouth. Sarah must have married only a year or so after leaving the UK. She had imagined Sarah freewheeling all over Europe, living a wild, party-girl life, before she settled down. Obviously, that hadn’t happened.

  “I didn’t realize you married so soon. I thought you were in Antibes. Or studying in Montpellier.”

  “I was. I did. Briefly. But I couldn’t keep it up—my pitiful allowance wouldn’t even buy a drink in Antibes, and I hated living with Aunt Octavia. Loathsome woman, always so scared that I would steal her squat little toadstool of a husband. I couldn’t afford another semester in Montpellier, so when I met Sam I saw an opportunity.”

  “An opportunity?”

  “To change my life. He had everything I needed to do that.”

  Sarah smiled at Kat’s quizzical look.

  “He was older. Successful. Knew his way around. He taught me a lot. I wanted financial security and he married me for my breeding, as he called it. I was the original well-bred trophy wife.” Sarah gave a short laugh, reached for another lemon tart. “Ironic, really, since it turned out that I could not, in fact, breed.”

  She looked over at Kat, something like anger flickering in her eyes. Kat frowned, waited.

  “A consequence of that little clinic session years ago,” Sarah said. “Or the surgery that came after it.”

  “Oh God. I’m sorry.”

  “No matter. I was not surprised. But it was a shock to Sam.”

  “He accepted it, though?” Kat asked.

  “He had no choice.”

  “What was he like, your husband?” Kat asked, curious now.

  “Not attractive physically. Not like Scott, say. Or James. No. Not that kind of man. Short, stocky as a fire hydrant. Because he was plainspoken people assumed he was honest. He was not. He was devious, slippery in business, very focused. When he wanted something, he got it.”

  Kat had the clear impression that Sarah admired these qualities.

  “He suited me. I had no interest in those European playboys with their easy, inherited wealth,” Sarah said. “And I didn’t want someone clingy and besotted. We were very busy most of the time. Always traveling, always on the move.

  “We never bought a house, you know. Sam liked his funds fluid, had no faith in property. We rented here, there, and everywhere. After he died, the very first thing I did, after they’d taken away all the medical equipment, the ugly hospital bed, all the nasty stuff that was littering the house, was make an offer on Ojai.”

  “Oh, of course. You nursed him at home. That must have been hard.”

  “It was a nightmare. He hated hospitals. Thank God for agency nurses and a sweet doctor who was not too stingy with the morphine.”

  “Didn’t he have a morphine pump? Aren’t they calibrated? My mother, when she—”

  “Yes, he did,” Sarah interrupted, a hard edge to her voice. “And liquid morphine, too. For bad nights. Why? Why do you ask?”

  The green eyes, narrowing, had turned cold. Kat had a flash of memory of that angry face in the schoolroom all those years ago.

  “Just that my mother’s morphine was calibrated,” Kat began, then added quickly, “Anyway, so you bought Ojai? It’s a beautiful house.”

  Sarah nodded; her smile returned in an instant.

  “It is beautiful, isn’t it? But Sam refused to buy it. When I finally, finally had control of the funds, I made them an offer—too much probably—and bought it. My first real home. Well, after Lansdowne.”

  Such a strange, rootless marriage, Kat thought as she listened to this. She could not imagine it.

  “You were happy together, though? You and Sam?”

  “Happy?” Sarah leaned forward, reaching again for her coffee. Kat could smell the sweet floral scent of her perfume. “We were fine. We both had little affairs, discreet ones. He preferred professional call girls—he had some rather odd sexual preferences that I didn’t share—and he never minded my dalliances so long as they didn’t involve business rivals or other powerful men. Lesser mortals were fine.

  “We had a lot of parties. He liked me to dress up, flirt a little. I complained once about all those leering men, staring at my breasts, drooling, brushing against me.

  “You know what Sam said? Never mind. It’ll get easier when you get older. When you lose your looks.”

  Her laugh sounded warm and genuine. “He would have traded me in for a younger model when that happened. But I learned a lot. About business, about finance. I love that.”

  “No surprise. You were a math whiz kid at school.”

  “You could have got into advanced math, too, if you’d applied yourself.”

  “No chance. And you’re still good at the financial stuff,” Kat said. “So Scott tells me.”

  “I am. Good at the planning and scheming, the wheeling and dealing.” Sarah gave her suit jacket another light sweep with her hand. “As the gentlemen at today’s meeting will soon discover. They’re going to have to take me seriously.”

  “They don’t a
lready? Why? Because you’re a woman?”

  “Oh, you have no idea. At the last meeting, I asked to see spreadsheets. The board chairman told me he would send them to my accountant. I said no, I would like to see them now, see them for myself, please. He smiled, ever so kindly, and said, My dear, these things are very complicated.”

  Kat laughed. “He didn’t actually pat your curls and say, Don’t you worry your pretty little head about them?”

  “Not in so many words. But yes. That was the gist of it. Well, today I have my own spreadsheets. With some of the dead wood chopped off. A nephew who does nothing but harass secretaries, a son-in-law with the IQ of an avocado. Slugs in polished shoes, both of them.

  “Those two,” she said, making a decisive movement with her hand, “are for the chop.”

  She paused then, surprised by a sharp rap on the door.

  “You’re expecting someone?” she asked.

  “No. Not at all,” Kat said, standing. “Sounds like my neighbor. It’s her knock.”

  She hesitated as she headed to the door and turned, about to apologize for this interruption, but saw a shadow, a cold look of annoyance that crossed Sarah’s face. So Kat said nothing and moved forward to open the door.

  Brooke stood on the step, holding a silver box half covered in cellophane. She carried it through to the hall table, talking, as always, in a breathless rush, her soft voice rising and falling in a musical cadence.

  “I’m racing, sweet pea, but look what I found. Home spa! It’s got oil and a candle and just about everything. Oh, and the best hair conditioner. Leave it on for five minutes while you soak.”

  She leaned forward, lifted a strand of Kat’s hair, and rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Okay. It’s still a little bit dry. Leave it on for ten.”

  “Brooke. Thank you, but—”

  “It’s nothing. It was all on sale. And jeez, I’m sorry about the hideous color of that little headband. It said magenta on the package, but I had a peek and it’s the color of those awful lawn ornaments in Florida. Flamingo? Flamingo pink? You’ll look like a teenager.”

  She laughed, touching Kat’s arm gently.

  “And listen. My new gardener. Have you seen him? He has muscles. And he’s handy, too. Does Scott still need someone to fix that awning out back? This guy could do it. I’ll send him over. Well, he’s fixed the pool pump. And the heater. It’ll stay warm for a couple of days if Scott wants a swim. Does he still have the key? You know how he—”

  She stopped speaking then, finally aware of Sarah, who was watching, with an amused expression, from the sofa.

  “Oh my God. You’ve got company. I’m so sorry,” Brooke said. She looked over at Sarah and waved. “Hi there. Sorry to come barging in like this.”

  “This is Sarah. An old school friend,” Kat said. Sarah lifted her hand in acknowledgment but did not stand.

  “Hello, Sarah,” Brooke said, her smile blazing.

  “Sarah, this is Brooke,” said Kat. “My friend and neighbor and an incorrigible bringer of gifts.”

  “How very sweet,” Sarah said. “Pleased to meet you, Brooke.”

  “Oh, I just love your accent!” Brooke said. “Look, sorry to interrupt. We’re not filming until later and I thought I could just race this stuff over to Kat.”

  “Filming? Ah, you’re an actress?” Sarah asked.

  “Oh no. God, no. Advertising. We’re filming a commercial.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It’s fun. Most days.”

  Sarah lifted her coffee cup, regarded Brooke over the brim of it. Kat imagined the two women conducting the fast assessment that those interested in fashion and status do when they first meet: Brooke guessing the designer of Sarah’s business suit, noting the diamond studs in her ears; Sarah taking in Brooke’s silk blouse, the neckline a little too low, the shimmering bronze of her lipstick.

  Sarah soon looked away and put down her cup in a slow, deliberate manner. It was a subtle dismissal, but Brooke picked up on it immediately and turned back to Kat with a grin.

  “Okay. I’m gone. I’ll be around late afternoon if you need anything. So—later, alligator. Bye, Sarah.”

  A hug for Kat, and then she was at the door, waving good-bye.

  Kat closed the front door and returned to the living room.

  “Do people really still say that?” Sarah asked. “Later, alligator?”

  “Brooke does. As a joke.”

  “Ah. I see. So Scott actually has a key to her house?”

  Kat frowned, puzzled.

  “Her house? Oh no. He has a key to the back gate. The pool gate. He used to swim there early mornings. We all used the pool—” she said, faltering. “At one time.”

  “How nice for you. She’s quite the live wire,” Sarah said.

  “She’s lovely. I would have been lost without her.”

  “Really? Well, I should move, too,” Sarah said, standing. “Get a few of those heads rolling.”

  Kat reached for the coffee cups, noted the last lemon tart left on the plate, and longed to just pick it up and pop it into her mouth.

  “Do you want that last tart?” she asked.

  “Why not?” said Sarah, reaching for it at once and biting into it.

  She glanced at Kat’s face and laughed.

  “If you wanted it,” she said, “you should have taken it!”

  As she walked Sarah to the door, Kat, still wondering about James, asked in a voice that she tried to keep casual, “You had a date, then, after the closing the other night? Someone to join you at the Ritz-Carlton?”

  Sarah stopped and turned, amusement in her eyes.

  “And you want to know who it was? Caitlin! A lady never tells. As of course you know,” she said.

  “Okay. None of my business. Sorry.”

  “But you’re guessing it’s the young stud James?”

  Kat shook her head, cheeks pink.

  “No. Well, maybe I just—” Kat stopped. “You’re having an affair with James?”

  “An affair? Good heavens, no. An occasional dalliance, one might say.”

  Sarah’s mouth curled and her eyes were full of mischief as she looked at Kat.

  “I have rather high standards, of course. But I have to say that boy really does know what he’s doing. Woodruff, on the other hand, is like a first-time schoolboy every time. He simply does not have a clue. Or any control whatsoever.”

  “Woodruff?” Kat said, astonished. “I thought you disliked Woodruff.”

  “Well, of course I dislike him. What’s there to like? But he’s been useful, in his weird little way. But sexually, oh my goodness. His poor wife.”

  “Sarah!” Kat said, pretending shock. “Stop it. These are Scott’s colleagues. I’ll never look at Woodruff in the same way again.”

  “But I haven’t told you about Miyamoto yet!” Sarah said, eyes sparkling. She laughed. “Just teasing, Caitlin. All right, enough of this naughty talk. I need to get going.”

  Kat opened the front door.

  “Thanks for coming, Sarah. I know how busy you are.”

  “Busy indeed,” Sarah said. “After this I have to get back to Malibu. I have your husband and team out there. Scott with Glenda, of course. Maybe James, too. We should get a lot done.”

  She paused before she walked to the car.

  “Take care, Kat. Call me. Let me know when you’ve convinced Scott about the adoption. When the papers are signed. I’ll stay on top of it for you.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  Kat watched Sarah march to her car. The corporate outfit had transformed her—she even walked differently. She had always loved to dress up. Years ago, they would raid her Aunt Helen’s attic for cast-off clothes, giggling as they tried on furs and hats with feathers and rows of yellowing pearls. Always just the two of them. Sarah never wanted to show the other girls those gorgeous heirlooms, a fact that baffled Kat. Only one time did they wear the old clothes out in public. Kat could r
ecall the occasion clearly. A birthday party for a girl Sarah despised.

  Tracey Sullivan, deputy head girl, was another day girl but one with a very different background from Kat. Her father, a self-made man with a dozen car dealerships, was well known throughout the Midlands. It was rumored that he contributed large sums to the convent school. He appeared in his own commercials occasionally, red faced, yelling. Sarah called him the Shouty Man and called Tracey the Shouty Man’s Daughter.

  “We should go to this party,” Sarah had said when Tracey’s birthday-party invitation appeared in her school locker. “Looks interesting.”

  “You’re kidding,” Kat said. “You hate Tracey.”

  “With good reason. I hear that she’s whispering stuff about my mother. Vicious bitch.”

  “So why do you want to go?”

  “It will be fun. We can dress up.”

  “Not me. I wasn’t invited,” Kat said, blushing, feeling oddly ashamed.

  “What? Why?”

  “I’m a day girl, remember. Council-house kid.”

  “That’s ridiculous. She’s a day girl herself.”

  “From the other side of the tracks. You know what she’s like. She’s such a snob.”

  “Come on. We’ll go. Your invite is probably late.”

  An invitation turned up in Kat’s locker the next day.

  “What did you say to her?” Kat asked Sarah.

  “Moi?” Sarah asked, eyes wide. “Nothing at all. Listen, let’s visit Aunt Helen, borrow a couple of her outfits. Tracey will look like the Sugar Plum Fairy—you just know she will.”

  At Lansdowne, Aunt Helen waved them toward a huge closet.

  “Help yourselves,” she said, yawning. “But do bring back whatever you borrow because I may have to sell it all eventually. And please don’t take the ermine stole. People tend to steal it and it’s no longer insured.”

  Helen had an accent with the sharp edge of cut glass and dressed with the kind of shabby elegance Kat had only ever seen in movies: silver hair in a casual knot on her neck, a tweed skirt, a single strand of pearls. She had been engaged once, briefly, to an army officer from a family with a double-barreled surname and a history of military service. He had died, not in battle but in a boating accident in the South of France, a fact that Sarah found amusing and shared with Kat. Helen wore her ring still, a huge square-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds. At first, she terrified Kat. Later, Kat realized that Helen’s air of superiority was not intended to intimidate but was simply the easy, unassailable confidence of her class.