‘Let’s just say my stepfather, who loved me a little too much when I was younger, is dying and wants to see me.’
‘Are you going to see him?’ Fran asked, stirring her coffee.
‘Yeah, and I’ll take him some grapes as well.’
Fran thought for a moment. ‘Or you could go and stick a knife in the bastard?’
Kit almost spat coffee across the table. From what she’d seen of Frances Thornton so far that counted as an outburst.
An uncomfortable silence followed. Kit wasn’t sure what to say next. She watched as the redhead bent pensively over a coffee stirred so many times it was beginning to thicken.
She’d admitted as much as she had to get rid of the woman and yet she still sat there. Staring and stirring. Christ, wasn’t there a polo match or society dinner she had to be at?
Kit didn’t really know what to do. This woman had saved her from going into a pub. Whether she would have had a drink she didn’t know, but at least she’d been stopped. A shudder ran through her.
‘So, what’s hiding in your walk-in closet, Frances Thornton?’ Kit asked.
Fran smiled sadly. ‘How long have you got?’
Kit checked her watch. ‘About ten minutes,’ she joked.
Fran didn’t see the humour. ‘Try ten hours,’ she murmured sadly as Kit watched a multitude of emotions flit across her face.
Kit sat back. She needed to be careful; her guard was coming down a little. To walk away would be rude, which wouldn’t normally bother her with a toff like Frances, and especially a lawyer. But now she felt like she owed the woman something and she hated feeling indebted.
‘Come on, if anyone could change their life it’s you. You’re so controlled,’ said Kit.
‘You think so?’ Fran laughed harshly. ‘Yes, I’m so controlled I passed out drunk while defending an MP’s son on a hit-and-run charge.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Take her away, M’lord. Drunk in charge of a court case.’
Kit sat forward. This woman was growing in her estimation by the minute. ‘What happened?’
Fran thought for a moment. ‘My mother signed me into a private rehab centre. She declared me a danger to myself so I couldn’t leave until I was dry.’
Kit watched the hurt build in her eyes. Obviously that woman was still a very strong influence in her life.
‘When I was released I went on a bender that made George Best look like a choirboy.’
‘Act of rebellion?’ asked Kit.
‘Most definitely yes.’
‘But why would you do that after being sober for days?’ Kit asked, amazed. What she wouldn’t have given for an all expenses paid stay in a posh clinic.
‘Because I wanted to return to the place that had once protected me,’ she admitted. ‘I felt bare, naked, as though everyone could see through me. I wanted to cover up.’ She straightened in her chair. ‘And I wanted to do it my own way,’ she said harshly, pointing over the road.
‘Did it not occur to your mother to try to help?’ Kit asked, convinced everyone else’s mother had been trained on Little House on the Prairie.
‘Not a chance!’ snapped Fran harshly. Her mouth turned upwards in a definite smile. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure I’d have done her social connections any favours if she’d taken me home.’
Kit leaned forward. ‘Why?’
‘I was allowed to attend one of her dinner parties when I was about seventeen. As a lesson in social etiquette I was allowed a glass of wine. Of course Mother was unaware that I’d consumed two bottles beforehand. The only thing I can remember is that Mrs McGee, my mother’s best friend, had such a huge nose and buck teeth I became confused. After listening to her talk about her love of horses I could certainly see the resemblance and offered her a nose bag.’ Fran tipped her head and thought for a moment. ‘I can’t actually remember her visiting after that.’
Kit laughed at Fran’s expression but wasn’t sure what to say. The ice princess was melting and becoming a real person.
Fran broke the silence. ‘I won’t bore you any longer. I’ll save it for the day that you stop me from going into a pub. But for goodness sake, call me Fran.’
Kit nodded although she couldn’t quite picture Frances… Fran in a pub. A wine bar, restaurant or hotel but definitely not a pub, not Frances Thornton.
‘Are you going to see him then?’
Kit shrugged. She had the feeling that time was running out on her. The last few grains of sand were falling in the hourglass. Bill’s condition pressured her into a decision. Even now it was not completely her choice. He was running out of time and therefore so too was she.
‘I think you should go,’ Fran stated definitely.
‘Easy for you to fucking say!’ Kit snapped.
Fran nodded. ‘But do you still think about it? Do you hate yourself for being weak and pathetic and not doing anything to help yourself? Do you still lie awake at night feeling like she… I mean he controls you?’
Kit knew Fran was no longer talking about her. She looked around to see if anyone was looking at the raised voice – they weren’t.
‘I’m sorry,’ Fran apologised, regaining her composure.
Christ, thought Kit, even her straitjacket is from Harvey Nichols.
Fran finished her coffee and picked up her jacket. ‘But if he’s dying you’re not going to have too many chances, are you? Go for yourself, not for him. My God, you shouldn’t do anything for him! But see it as part of the healing process. He can’t hurt you any more. What he did back then hurt you. What more can he do to you?’
‘But it’ll bring it all back,’ said Kit, not quite as convinced as she had been.
‘Bring what back? It never left you anyway.’
Maybe Fran was right. Maybe it would be better if Kit went. The thought terrified her. Just the idea of seeing him again scared her rigid. But Mark was right also: Bill was here and until she faced him, he would follow her everywhere.
What was her main fear? The terror of seeing him again or letting go of a deep, dark hatred that ran around her body carried within her blood which would then force her to move on? But would she regret it if she didn’t go? She realised that the decision was not as cut and dried as she’d thought.
‘So, you gonna charge me for this hour or what?’ Kit asked with a wry smile.
‘No, it’s on the house,’ Fran said, returning the smile as she walked away.
6
Fran
Fran catapulted from the uncomfortable blue chair before the words ‘lunch break’ had left the speaker’s mouth. Having been wedged between a portly barrister and a homely paralegal, she was relieved to feel her body adjust back to its natural shape.
Seminars arranged by the Law Society had never lit fireworks in her soul but today’s offering, focused on a Criminal Defence Service update, had so far failed to turn up anything she hadn’t already digested from the newsletter.
The feeling of disinterest that had accompanied her every waking breath had not lessened during the train journey into Euston, passing through one suburban backyard after another. The manila folders had remained unopened in her lap, her mind unmotivated by the same old stories inside the covers. Instead, she had settled back, content to watch the steam lift from the rooftops as the early morning sun had warmed the frosted tiles.
She headed towards the front entrance of the Trafalgar Hilton, eager for some air. The boardroom had been filled to capacity and stifling. Her gaze rested on the entrance to the National Gallery and instantly recalled a school trip when she was fourteen. The first day of the four-day stay had been spent inside that building and somehow the visits to the Planetarium, St Paul’s Cathedral and Tower Bridge had failed to live up to the wonder she had felt on that first day. Instantly she visualised some of the exhibits within and a bubble of excitement formed in her stomach. How she would love to re-visit those works of art with a deeper appreciation for colour, depth and expression.
She imagined returning to the buffet lunch on the first floor of t
he hotel. The finger food would be flattened by droll conversation that never veered from the topic of the day. Prosecutors, defenders, barristers would soak up the moisture of the air with their arid conversation.
Her gaze returned to the gallery like a pirate spying a hoard of buried treasure. Dare she venture into the unknown for just an hour?
Like a gatekeeper, her mother’s voice wafted into her mind like someone else’s cigarette smoke, uncomfortable and unbidden. Get back upstairs and network, Frances. Use this time to further your career. Make contacts for the future.
She shook her head to rid herself of the unsolicited advice. Stronger was the urge to free her analytical mind, if only for a short while.
Blimey, I used to be indecisive but I’m not so sure now, she thought to herself as her legs moved of their own volition. Maybe, just a quick scoot round some of the rooms and then back for the second half of the seminar, she told herself as she entered.
By the time she’d visited the micro gallery Fran knew that she would not be returning for the second part of the seminar. With the decision made she waited for a drum roll and the appearance of the National Guard, on her mother’s payroll, to escort her back to the hotel. When none appeared she collected floor plans and set off on her wondrous journey.
She passed a group of schoolchildren resplendent in navy uniforms and hats. They walked behind their teacher with forced solemnity and boredom. From twenty feet away they looked identical. Fran wondered idly if their parents would notice if they were switched for the school holidays.
She began at the Sainsbury Wing, pausing to admire Mantegna’s Agony in the Garden and Bellini’s Madonna and Child. She moved on to the West Wing and perused works by Poussin, Rembrandt and van Dyck, unaware of the time. Prolonging the anticipation of the impressionism of the East Wing, she paused for coffee. The schoolchildren had morosely followed their teacher in another direction and although other visitors milled about conversation was minimal. It was a place of observation and, to Fran, reverence, but she almost laughed out loud at the efforts of one woman who was tiptoeing along as though surrounded by eggshells. To her acute embarrassment, her four-inch stiletto heels clip-clopped along on hollow flooring.
One particular painting entranced Fran. The First Outing by Renoir featured a young girl observing the crowds at the theatre. She had always favoured the French artist after reading that for the last twenty years of his life he had been forced to paint with a brush tied to his arm after his hands were crippled by arthritis. She admired and respected his determination to share his gift with the world at great pain to himself. How wonderful, she sighed, to be able to produce such beauty from a memory, a vision. To paint something that came completely from within. To let your mind and hands wander experimentally over canvas. To practise with colours, textures, ideas.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said a soft, husky voice from behind. Fran started. She’d been so entranced by the innocence of the young, unsophisticated girl that she hadn’t heard anyone approach.
She turned to agree. Her eyes rested on a face not far from her own. The first thing Fran noticed were the piercing blue eyes set in a face devoid of all make-up but more beautiful than anything she’d ever seen. Perfectly shaped eyebrows gave her features a striking intensity. Fran did a double take.
The woman’s soft pink lips formed a slow smile as she looked back at the painting. Fran appraised her briefly, a habit inherited from her mother. She guessed her to be around thirty, slim with a long graceful neck, accentuated by the short, blonde hair that was almost white, giving her an angelic quality. She wore light blue jeans and a white silk shirt. Inch for inch she matched Fran’s height.
Fran wanted to move away – she felt gawkish next to this paragon of grace – but she couldn’t. She was curious, the way an average child at school is in awe of the beautiful people.
‘What is she thinking, I wonder?’ the stranger asked.
Fran pulled her eyes back to the painting, the faint smell of jasmine surrounding her.
‘I think she’s innocently envious. She feels young and awkward and envies their age and sophistication.’ Fran spoke quietly in the library atmosphere but her opinion was definite. She became lost in the brush strokes of the painting; she could have been talking to a tree. ‘I don’t think she looks comfortable in the surroundings. She’s on the outside looking in, almost.’
‘Hmm, possibly. Or does the flash of dark red hair, visible below the bonnet, tell us she has spirit and will be what she wants to be?’
‘Maybe both,’ agreed Fran, enjoying the conversation.
‘Red hair, not dissimilar to yours,’ observed the stranger.
Fran smiled at the comparison.
‘Do you think we’d make the same observations about her if the artist had gone with his first impression, no pun intended?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ admitted Fran.
The woman moved closer and pointed. ‘Originally there was a male companion at her side. That gentleman there with his back to her, his jacket formed part of the figure.’
Fran enjoyed the sound of the husky voice with a slight accent that she couldn’t place. She observed the painting thoughtfully. ‘No, the effect would not have been the same.’
‘I agree.’
‘Do you paint?’ asked Fran, wishing to prolong the conversation.
‘Goodness, no! I’m merely an observer of fine works. You?’
‘No, I’m a lawyer. I enjoyed art as a child.’
‘Does that mean you don’t paint any more?’
Fran shook her head.
‘You should, it’s a shame to waste artistic ability.’
Fran took a step backwards. ‘Excuse—’
‘I’m sorry,’ the woman apologised. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude but an expression of longing passed over your face. That must mean that you miss it.’
Fran folded her arms in front of her. The perceptiveness of the figure disturbed her. ‘I’m a lawyer,’ she repeated.
‘Yes, you said. That’s what you do, not who you are.’
Colour suffused Fran’s face.
‘I’m sorry, I’m a little forthright sometimes. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
Fran smiled to ease her discomfort. She liked the openness with which the woman spoke.
‘Frances.’ She held out her hand.
‘Martine.’
They both looked around uncomfortably for a moment. Neither knew whether they were saying hello or goodbye.
‘Umm, I don’t mean to be presumptuous but I haven’t eaten yet and my stomach tells me it’s after six. Would you like to join me?’
Fran hesitated. She ought to be thinking about getting home but she was intrigued by this woman’s easy manner, the quiet confidence that surrounded her. Fran wasn’t sure she wanted their meeting to end just yet. She realised that she was hungry and her only other option was to endure the plastic, half-frozen offerings on the train.
‘I’d like that,’ she replied with a sense of rebellious freedom.
‘Great, I know a lovely little Malaysian place not far from here.’
‘I don’t have a car. I’m only here for the day.’
‘I don’t bother when I’m in London, it’s easier to walk or take the tube.’
Well, that explains the svelte figure, thought Fran.
The restaurant was small and dimly lit; the décor was dark and close. Low-wattage bulbs shone just a little light from diamond-shaped downlighters reflecting back off the wall. The tables were low and intimate, yet there was something revitalising about removing one’s shoes to sit on the floor to eat as though it were an occasion not a necessity. Tantalising aromas of strong herbs and spices greeted them as they sat.
A mahogany counter shielded the open cooking area from the rest of the restaurant. Immediately Fran felt at ease.
‘It’s lovely,’ she breathed.
‘I make a point of eating here every time I’m in London.’
; ‘You don’t live here?’
‘God, no! I love London. The vitality and life here refreshes me. It’s busy and exciting but I couldn’t live like that permanently. It’s too exhausting.’
Fran felt the same way. It was a city that took your breath away. The sheer history was overwhelming.
‘I think when people make the mistake of moving to places they fall in love with, the magic dies, don’t you think?’
Fran watched the animated face before her. She could listen to this woman all day and not be bored. There was vitality about her that brought Fran out of herself. They had met only an hour earlier but she felt instantly at ease. She would have liked to see her mother’s face at the vision of her sitting on the floor, barefoot, about to eat.
She’d never eaten Malaysian fare before and so deferred to Martine, who ordered Loh Bak (spiced pork roll) for starters, Rendang Daging (beef curry) for main course and they jointly decided to wait for dessert.
The waiter took their order while Martine described an art exhibition she’d recently attended. Fran craned her neck to watch the activity behind the counter. She could hear the lull of the sweet voice and when she turned her head Martine’s amusement was obvious.
‘Or I could be boring you to tears.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s just—’
‘Come on.’ Martine tapped her hand and began walking towards the counter. Fran followed.
‘Excuse me, my new friend is having trouble listening to a word I’m saying. She finds the activity here far more riveting. Would you mind if we watched for a moment? Then I might be able to hold her attention.’
The three chefs agreed with laughter, enjoying the opportunity to create for an appreciative audience.
Fran could have died with embarrassment. ‘You’re mad,’ she whispered into Martine’s ear, again overcome by the captivating aura surrounding her. She could see that people reacted positively to Martine.
Both watched in fascination as the intestinal tracts of the prawns were hooked out. They were then shelled and chopped to a fine paste. Spring onions, soy sauce, water chestnuts and other ingredients were added to the mixture, which was teaspooned into individual bean curd skins and then deep-fried.
The Forgotten Woman: A gripping, emotional rollercoaster read you’ll devour in one sitting Page 10