The McCabe Girls Complete Collection

by Freya North

  Matt looks perplexed. He bites his lip and furrows his brow. ‘I don’t know if that’s possible,’ he says, running his hand down her back and cupping her buttock in his hand. As she climbs the stairs a step ahead of him, he slips his hand right up her skirt, right between her legs. They stop on the landing and have a really good snog, not caring who might see them. No one does. ‘Once a week?’ Matt says, with mock horror. ‘How exhausting!’

  Matt has requested a meeting with Rodney and Judith. Rodney is suddenly irrationally terrified that Matt is going to hand in his notice and inform them he has a job editing a lad’s mag. He confides this fear to Judith who looks at him as if he’s a halfwit.

  ‘Come in!’ Rodney cries, to Matt’s knock. ‘Have a seat! Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?’

  Judith is seriously worried that Rodney is going to come straight out with some huge pay-rise offer. ‘What can we do for you, Matthew?’ she asks.

  ‘It’s like this,’ Matt says. He sits down and settles himself very comfortably in the chair. ‘I was at home a couple of weeks ago. And the long and the short of it is that my mother would like to direct further funds from my late father’s trust to Trust Art.’

  Rodney beams. Judith has to stop herself licking her lips. Rodney can’t help himself from giving Matt the thumbs up. ‘Specifically, the funds are for a salary,’ Matt continues, ‘for a job position to be titled the Henry Holden Research Fund.’

  ‘How terrific!’ Rodney enthuses, though still unsure of the precise demands of such a job.

  ‘My mother wants to encourage other collectors – or their families – to donate or loan documents or works of art for the Holden Researcher to organize, to collate, to disperse.’

  Judith and Rodney are absolutely hanging on Matt’s every word. ‘Such people need to know that there’s a place and a specialist who will analyse and archive and, if they wish, rehouse their collections.’ Rodney starts clapping.

  ‘Did you realize,’ says Matt, looking at his nails and then looking from Judith to Rodney and then back again, ‘that Fen McCabe did not come across Abandon?’

  ‘She didn’t?’ Rodney looks horrified, Judith looks very interested.

  ‘No,’ Matt confirms, ‘Abandon came to her. Or, specifically, the man who owns it. He approached Fen because he trusts her, because he knows that her absolute love for art would mean that hers are the safest hands in which to entrust his beloved collection.’

  Now Judith is starting to look a little horrified while Rodney just looks riveted.

  ‘The Holden Research Fund should sponsor Fen,’ Matt says. ‘She’s a brilliant scholar, a thorough archivist and she’s a respected art historian.’

  ‘Hear hear!’ Rodney cries, thumping his fist on his desk and grinning at Matt and at Judith.

  ‘So that’s a weight off your hands,’ Matt says to Judith. ‘You can get on with your work without worrying about managing the rehousing of Abandon.’

  Judith shifts in her seat. Her eyes are dark with distress and humiliation.

  ‘It’s right that the project should be given to Fen,’ says Matt, ‘don’t you think?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ says Rodney, ‘Judith?’

  Judith coughs but manages to nod.

  ‘Crikey,’ says Rodney to Matt, ‘can I thank your mum in person?’ Matt smiles. ‘Righty ho! Bloody waste of time and money Fenella’s leaving do this morning – we’ll have to have a welcome-back do now, too!’ Matt smiles. ‘I say,’ says Rodney, ‘who’ll go up to the Archive to tell her? Shall you or I?’

  Matt smiles. ‘I think Judith should,’ he says.

  EPILOGUE

  And you, great sculptor – so, you gave

  A score of years to Art, her slave,

  And that’s your Venus, whence we turn

  To yonder girl that fords the burn!

  Robert Browning

  Fen McCabe is packing her bags. She glances out of the window. If London leaves are dull brown this morning, she knows for sure that those in Derbyshire will be burnished copper, all shades of russet, auburn and gold. She considers what to pack. It won’t be cold enough for her Puffa jacket but the nip in the air will necessitate a couple of layers plus a chunky polo-neck. Thick socks and walking boots. Nivea for the face, after an afternoon stomping the moors with the wind and probably some rain and an overall chill. Invigorating! She can hardly wait to arrive. She’s taken a day off work. Now that she has a salary, she has proper holiday entitlement too.

  Fen leaves her room predictably neat and tidy. Gemma’s room, surprisingly, is meticulously spic and span. It appears, from the stripped bed and upended mattress, that some major autumnal spring clean is going on. If that’s not a contradiction in terms. Down a level, Fen goes to the bathroom. When she comes out, whistling for some reason, she is halfway down to the ground floor when she hears her name being called. It is Abi’s voice, coming from her room.

  ‘Hang on,’ Fen calls back. She places her bag by the front door and lightly springs back up the stairs to Abi’s room.

  ‘Abs? You OK?’ says Fen. ‘I was trying not to wake you – I’m off to Derbyshire, remember.’

  ‘Fen?’

  ‘Gem?’

  ‘Come and say goodbye,’ Abi is saying.

  ‘Yes,’ says Gemma, ‘come in and say goodbye.’

  Fen pushes open Abi’s door. Why anything should surprise her where her flatmates are concerned is baffling, but still she is slightly taken aback to find them both snuggled up in Abi’s bed. Fen actually scans the room for Jake, or evidence of him.

  ‘Are you looking for Jake?’ Abi asks.

  ‘Because we chucked him!’ Gemma giggles, her luxuriant curls all tousled by the demands of sleep. Abi and Gemma sit up, clutching the sheet demurely to their breasts.

  ‘He had become,’ Abi drawls, ‘superfluous to our needs.’

  Fen stands there and takes it all in.

  ‘It’s just us two now,’ Gemma explains.

  ‘Two’s company,’ Abi shrugs.

  ‘Three’s a crowd,’ Fen colludes.

  ‘Are you shocked?’ Gemma asks.

  Fen thinks about it. No, not shocked. ‘No,’ she replies, ‘seeing your room so clean and tidy – that was far more of a shock.’

  ‘We thought we’d have my old room as another lounge, a sort of non-TV, chill-out kind of den,’ Gemma explains enthusiastically. ‘Are you OK about that?’

  ‘Sure,’ Fen says.

  ‘And are you OK about this?’ Abi asks, tenderly and with hope.

  Fen regards the two of them. They look relaxed and happy. They really look rather sweet. ‘Sure,’ she says, ‘more than OK. You’re my friends!’ They look so relieved. ‘And you make a beautiful couple,’ Fen purrs in an American accent. They all giggle. A car’s horn sounds. ‘I must go,’ Fen says, ‘see you Sunday.’

  ‘Have fun!’ they call after her.

  ‘I will,’ Fen calls back, the front door open. ‘You two have fun, too.’

  ‘We will!’ they call back as the front door closes. They snuggle back down under the sheets. It’s very early. They don’t have to get up for a good hour.

  ‘Sorry!’ Fen said, throwing her bag into the back of Matt’s car under a barrage of irritating horn parps from the cars behind. She settled in and put her seat-belt on. ‘Only Abi and Gemma wanted to inform me that they’ve chucked Jake for each other.’

  ‘I know,’ said Matt. ‘Jake had his head in his hands all last night. He says it’s the most emasculating thing that’s ever befallen him.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ Fen responded, mingling concern with just a touch of sarcasm.

  ‘He’ll bounce back,’ Matt assured her. ‘He was talking about going to Amsterdam for the weekend with a couple of his old pals from college rugby.’

  ‘I doubt whether they’ll be spending much time in the Rijksmuseum,’ Fen mused. She went a little quiet.

  Matt glanced at her and put his hand on her knee. ‘Jake is talking about moving out by Christmas,’
he said.

  ‘Oh?’ said Fen.

  ‘You might think about moving in,’ Matt said, ‘once he’s gone, of course. Three being a crowd and all that.’

  Fen laughed. And then she smiled to herself. Three was a crowd, a triangle with sharp edges. She slid her hand over Matt’s forearm. She kept it there. He glanced at her, after negotiating a dustcart and some school children. Fen was smiling at him and her eyes were sparkling.

  Matt and Fen arrived in Derbyshire just after elevenses. This was Matt’s second visit. In preparation, he had had only the lightest of breakfasts this time and was therefore well able to tackle the lunch Django had spent all morning concocting with great imagination and practically every ingredient in the house.

  On Saturday morning, Fen and Matt decided to take advantage of the dry day and go for a good long walk, made all the more tempting by the promise of ploughman’s lunches at the Rag and Thistle halfway round. Mrs Merifield’s pickled onions were incomparable, as were the hunks of unpasteurized cheddar. The pub smelt delicious, cosy and warm and beery. It was crowded.

  ‘You can’t leave that!’ Matt remonstrated, eyeing the celery sticks and mound of home-made chutney on Fen’s plate. ‘It’s an insult!’

  ‘I’m full,’ Fen protested, stretching back and patting her stomach for emphasis. ‘What’s it worth to you?’

  ‘To me?’ Matt joked back. ‘What’s it worth to you – you’ll be hitchhiking back home tomorrow otherwise.’ With that, he tucked into the remnants on her plate. Fen settled back into the chair and soaked up her surroundings: the smell of the place, the laughter and chatter, the familiarity of it all. Her territory. She felt safe. She gazed over at Matt, sipping his beer, unaware of the splodge of chutney on his chin. She felt superbly content. She was so happy to have him here with her. She reached for her bitter shandy. And suddenly, her knee was soaking wet with it. So would yours be, after an energetic head-butt from an amorous labrador and the snout of an adoring lurcher being thrust into your crotch.

  Barry?

  Beryl?

  Fen was being licked and nudged and gruffled at by the two dogs.

  Oh my God, she thought, stroking them, pulling their ears, scrunching her fingers into their necks, oh my God.

  ‘Dogs!’ The voice came from right across the pub.

  Oh my God. James!

  She couldn’t see him. Nor could the dogs so they ignored him and drenched Fen with their affection instead.

  ‘Dogs!’

  She couldn’t see him, she could only hear him.

  ‘Dogs! Battersea!’

  Reluctantly, Barry and Beryl took their leave of Fen and slalomed through legs and bodies to the door.

  ‘Excuse me a mo’,’ she said to Matt.

  ‘Someone you know?’ he asked. Fen nodded and touched his cheek.

  She’s in the car park. The Land Rover is there. Where are they? Suddenly, the dogs bolt back at her and James’s arms prevent her from being thrown to the ground.

  ‘James!’ she gasps.

  ‘Hullo, Miss McCabe,’ he says. All the excitement has exhausted Beryl, who is sitting and leaning hard against Fen, nudging her every now and then. Barry is having a lengthy pee against someone’s particularly shiny Jaguar.

  ‘How have you been?’

  ‘Great,’ Fen beams, ‘very well. You?’

  ‘Just dandy,’ James tells her. ‘How’s Django?’

  ‘In fine form,’ Fen says. She looks at James’s boots. ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet,’ she says.

  ‘Oh yes?’ says James. Fen nods.

  ‘A bloke?’ James asks.

  Fen regards him and nods.

  ‘The chap you were sitting with? With chutney on his chin?’

  Fen smiles and nods.

  ‘Someone special?’ he probes.

  Again, Fen nods.

  ‘Then I’d be happy to meet him,’ James assures her.

  ‘He’s special to you, too,’ Fen whispers, keeping her eyes fixed on James’s face to gauge his reaction, ‘it’s Matthew Holden.’

  Just momentarily, a tiny part of James wants to shout, ‘Not fair! I want you!’ But seeing Fen so happy is balm indeed. ‘Bloody hell!’ James says instead.

  ‘Shall I’ Fen asks, ‘fetch him?’

  ‘Of course,’ says James. Fen walks briskly across the car park. She is gorgeous, James thinks to himself, but nostalgically and without longing or regret. It’s so lovely to see her. It really is. ‘Good to keep her in the family,’ James says out loud, ‘hey dogs?’

  Matt is about to come looking for Fen, fearing that the huge hounds have dragged her off somewhere. But here she is, returning, looking flushed, looking as if she’s wet herself where the spilt shandy has stained her jeans dark. She doesn’t take her chair, she comes to sit beside him, presses close next to him.

  ‘Matt,’ she says, holding his hand, ‘there’s someone I’d like you to meet. There’s someone who wants to meet you. There’s someone it is important and wonderful for you to meet.’

  ‘Not your mother returned from the cowboy in Denver?’ Matt gasps, because that’s the only person he could think of just then who would warrant such a serious preamble from Fen.

  ‘No, no, no!’ Fen says, brushing the air with irritation. ‘James Caulfield.’

  ‘Who’s James Caulfield?’ Matt asks. Fen’s eyes are darting around his face. ‘Oh!’ The penny has dropped. ‘The chap with the Fetherstones?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Fen, ‘and two dogs.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Matt says.

  They stand up.

  ‘Matt,’ says Fen and she cups his lovely face in her hands and kisses the smear of chutney off his chin. ‘Matt,’ she says and she takes his hand and kisses the palm of it, laying it against her cheek. She closes her eyes for a moment. ‘Matt,’ she says, with an ecstatic smile, ‘you have a half-brother.’

  AFTERWORD

  Fen was meant to be my fourth novel – yet it became my fifth. It is the only book I’ve started twice – initially in 1997, then again in 2000. I was at a bit of a low ebb first time round but luckily the opportunity to research Cat came along so I threw myself into the world of the Tour de France instead and picked up Fen almost three years later. Of course, I’d come to know her better through writing about her sister, Cat. The novels are set within the same time frame so I had an inkling of what she’d be up to during the setting of her own story. Sometimes I feel little more than my characters’ PA – they bring me their tales and I take dictation. Really, I have little control over what they do. Some people talk to trees, some people talk to themselves – I talk to my characters, but I am far from being their puppeteer. My job is to relay their stories to you. Which is why, sometimes, my own voice comes through – encouraging them when they lack confidence and, more often, scolding them for misbehaving! Fen falls for two very different men simultaneously – but she is far from being an old trollop and I became extremely fond of her and totally embroiled in her dilemma. This was the novel where I also fell utterly in love with Django – interestingly, he is perhaps the most popular of all my characters amongst my readers.

  I thoroughly indulged my love of art whilst writing Fen – specifically, my own obsession with Rodin. I also drew upon my experiences (both good and, er, interesting) of working in the art world – as an archivist at the National Art Collections Fund (then located a stone’s throw from Tate Britain) as well as for a private sculpture garden (deep in Wiltshire – and worthy of a novel in its own right!). The only way I could truly bring to life the works of fictitious Julius Fetherstone was to sketch them out – otherwise, they were almost impossible to describe and I’d become befuddled about whose limb belonged to whom! My study walls were papered with photos of Rodin sculptures and my own drawings on behalf of Julius. I’m always enormously flattered when readers tell me that they’ve been to the Tate … but there were no Fetherstones on display!

  Rereading Fen recently, I was struck how, despite being my fifth n
ovel, it was the first of my books where emails became suddenly a natural part of a couple’s courtship – though there’s still a distinct absence of text messaging! However, the landline phone calls between Fen and James have a real frisson which perhaps would have been diluted via casual texting and it makes the distance between London and Derbyshire feel marked. I’ve always loved Derbyshire, specifically the area around Matlock and my great friends the Merifields enabled me to stay and potter around – and were rewarded with cameo appearances!

  Of course, my second novel Chloë featured a wide range of animals during her trip to Wales. In Fen, James’s dogs Barry and Beryl were true characters in their own right as well as strategic to the plot. Location, too, was more than a backdrop as it also aided and abetted the characters’ actions. The tension between town and country was crucial – not least because I was a city girl with a yearning to live rurally. It also defined James and Matt and made their differences so obvious – thus making Fen’s choice so difficult.

  My books are pretty raunchy – but whilst writing Fen I became pregnant with my first child. My hormones were all over the place and parts of the book were, if I say so myself, downright filthy! In fact, it’s the only book of mine where my editor, Lynne Drew, has taken her red pen and actually crossed things out – with notes in the margin which varied from ‘Too much information!’ to ‘Tone it down’ and, most memorably, ‘YUK’! I do of course have the original uncensored version, stored in the loft at home – and I’m open to offers … Perhaps one day I’ll publish it – under a pen name of course!

  Fen’s choice between Matt and James – both such smashing blokes – really had my readers divided and from the letters I’ve received it’s obvious that both chaps have equally passionate fans. Want to know a secret? I would have gone for James, myself. I had hoped Fen would too but, as I’ve said, my characters have minds of their own – it was her choice, her decision, and I had to respect that. And if you’ve read Home Truths – which takes up the McCabe story five years on – you’ll know she made the right one.

  Freya North

  Spring 2012