by Sarah Duncan
'So what happened?'
'My mother ran off with a Tunisian airline pilot.'
'Did you go too?'
'No. She left us all.' Patrick sat up. 'I ought to get some work done. Lord knows why I'm telling you all this, you're probably bored to tears.' He gave a little laugh.
'No, I'm not. How old were you?' She moved up so she was beside him.
'Mmm? About seven.'
Isabel kissed his shoulder. 'Poor boy.'
'Yeah, well, that's the way it goes. Besides, I wasn't really badly off, I had three splendid surrogate mothers in my half-sisters. I went to live in Rome with my mother in my teens, after I was chucked out of school. I was persona non grata at home, as you can imagine, and Dad had remarried and got another new family, so he wasn't really interested anyway.'
He spoke lightly, but Isabel could sense the hurt behind the words. She could imagine him as a small dark boy, perhaps already tall for his age, bewildered at his mother's departure, then a sulky teenager rejected by his father.
'What about you?' Patrick surprised her by saying. '
Me?'
'Yes. You've had the Sherwin tale of woe, now you tell me something about your family.'
'Um. Well, I'm an only child - so no sisters to surprise you with - and my father was a businessman. My mother didn't work, although I think she would have liked to, but she had my father to deal with. Sometimes things would go well with the business, and sometimes they wouldn't. You never knew what would happen next. He would arrive at school in a helicopter for Sports Day, but then the next minute the deal would have fallen through and we'd be living on soup. We moved around a lot, depending on the money, everything from a caravan to an Elizabethan mansion, ending up in a terraced house in East Sheen. I still own that. My poor mother, she was always waiting for the bailiffs to turn up. I promised myself that I would give my own children a proper home and that we'd stay there. Not that I've managed that very well so far: Michael's already lived in four different countries. But here we are.'
'Your father sounds quite a character.'
'He was. He looked a bit like Errol Flynn, but shorter and without the muscles. Or the tights.'
'Tights?'
'You know, Robin Hood. And a cigar. He always smoked a cigar, even when he was broke.' Isabel smiled, remembering him talking expansively, cigar in hand. 'He would have loved mobile phones,' she said, looking at Patrick. 'You'd have got on.'
'Did he get on with Neil?'
Isabel shifted in the bed. 'He encouraged Neil. With hindsight, I think he thought Neil was responsible and would look after me. You see, my mother had died a few years earlier, and he suspected he was ill, although he didn't tell me. He was only trying to protect me, but I wish I'd known. He died three months after we married. I was stuck in Saudi with Neil. He didn't let the hospital tell me he was so ill; he knew I'd be on the first plane back. So he died alone, without me.' She pressed her lips together. 'Still. Nothing I can do about it now.'
Patrick stroked her hair. 'Poor little girl,' he said gently.
Isabel rubbed her cheek against his chest. 'Makes two of us then.'
- ooo -
She was thinking about Patrick and that exchange when she and Neil were driving over to Helen and George's house for dinner on Saturday night. She had quite forgotten about the invitation until Helen had phoned her on Friday to change the arrangements slightly. The invitation had been for supper but Helen said that George had decided he didn't want supper, but a proper dinner party. Wednesday had been the best yet, with Patrick tender and considerate. Loving, she would have said of anyone else, but that word was banned. She had felt stroked all over, inside and out. Loved. She stared sightlessly out of the window at hedges and trees going past in a blur, while in her head she and Patrick talked, their voices low and contented. The next day he'd been irritable, as if she'd come too close, and he had to put up the barriers again. She sighed. If she'd learnt anything in the six weeks she'd known him, four as his lover, it was that he was unpredictable and edgy about any emotions.
George and Helen's driveway was blocked by two cars so Neil parked their car hard against the verge to allow for any other passing traffic, but it meant Isabel couldn't open the passenger door and had to clamber out over the gear-stick. There didn't seem an elegant way of achieving this, but she felt particularly inept, clutching a box of chocolates in one hand, and getting her legs stuck under the steering wheel. She prayed that the plum suede high-heels, worn for the first time since meeting Patrick, wouldn't catch and ladder her tights.
'No stars tonight,' said Neil, looking up at a sky brought close by a dark bank of cloud. 'D'you want to grab a torch?' Isabel thought about climbing back over the gear-stick to get at the glove compartment.
'No, we'll be fine. The drive's not that long.'
At night the yew trees were distinctly menacing, rustling with malice. Isabel walked close to Neil. It would be childish to say she was scared of the trees, but she found his solidity reassuring. They turned the corner and could see the house, the windows lit up and low-wattage lights feebly illuminating the pathway to the front door. It looked absurdly formal.
'I bet you anything that Helen will get the women to withdraw after dinner while George dishes up the port,' Isabel said, remembering the Victorian dining room. 'It's just the sort of thing he'd insist on.'
'Don't be ridiculous. No one does that nowadays.'
They had to step carefully up the flagstone path that was slippery with evening mist. Isabel kept catching the heel of her shoes in the cracks and slipping, so Neil put a steadying arm around her. It felt odd to be held by Neil, almost as if he was a stranger.
'Just you wait,' she said, aware of the pressure of his hand.
'You don't like port anyway.'
'But I want to be offered the choice. And I bet he's stingy with the booze. Let's hope Helen will have made something alcoholic for pudding.'
'Sherry trifle,' Neil suggested.
'Tiramisu.'
'Syllabub.'
'Um ... um ... um.' Isabel could only think of things like spotted dick and Sussex pond pudding. 'I know, rum truffles.'
'Nearly got you there.' He gave her a gentle push.
'Didn't.' She pushed him back.
'Did.'
Isabel stuck out her tongue at him. 'Know-it-all.'
'You're just jealous,' he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze.
'You're in a good mood,' she said, suddenly realising that it was ages since they had gone out together. Perhaps if we did things together more often, just us, there would be more life in our marriage, she thought. Neil rang the doorbell, then, as they heard steps coming to answer it, pinched Isabel's bottom hard so that she was caught by George with a grimace of surprise on her face.
'Isabel! You look surprised to see me.'
'George, of course not, it's lovely to see you.' She kissed him lightly on the cheek. 'I was just going to murder Neil.'
'Well done. Neil, good to see you alive and not murdered. Come on in and have a drink.' He led them into the drawing room and indicated the other guests. George rubbed his hands together.
'Now, who do you know?'
Four faces turned towards her. Mary Wright's was as welcoming as a slab from Stonehenge and Justine was looking as bland as if rain had washed all expression away. The two men were unknown to Isabel, though not for long.
'My husband, Richard,' Mary said, social graces presumably beating private misgivings, introducing a portly man with hair sprouting from his ears.
'And this is Quentin Anderson,' Justine added. Isabel shook his hand, which was disturbingly soft and cool. His face was plump and slightly pink as if his razor had newly scraped his skin. Perhaps he's rich, Isabel thought, and was ashamed of her meanness.
Isabel introduced Mary to Neil. 'And you remember Justine, don't you?'
'Of course,' he said, rather stiffly. Isabel was surprised; she'd thought he'd quite liked Justine when they'd met. As far as she
could remember Justine had put herself out to be entertaining. Maybe it was just meeting all these new people at once. It was a long time since they had been to a formal dinner party rather than a casual barbecue in someone's back yard.
'So, you're working for Mary's little brother,' Richard Wright said, swaying backwards on his feet to counterbalance the weight of his paunch. 'He's quite a handful, I've heard.' Isabel prayed Neil hadn't heard.
'I really couldn't say. I just do the paperwork and answer the phone.'
'Pretty young thing like you, thought he'd have difficulty keeping himself to himself, if you know what I mean.' He leant closer, so Isabel got a good view of the network of spidery red veins that webbed his face and the flakes of dandruff along the parting of his corrugated hair.
'No, I don't know what you mean,' she said as coldly as she could.
'Terrible reputation that boy's got.' Richard shook his head. 'Terrible one for the ladies. But I expect you can handle yourself.' His eyes twinkled at her in a way that should have been avuncular, but which Isabel found sinister. Had Mary said anything?
'If you'll excuse me, I must go and say hello to Helen,' she managed to say before escaping into the hall, ignoring Neil's questioning turn of the head. She stopped by an elaborate flower arrangement in front of a mirror and pretended to sniff a rose, breathing deeply to regain some equilibrium, gripping the front edge of the side table. The marble top was cold and unyielding to her hands. She relaxed her fingers and straightened up, de-smudging her eye make-up as best she could. Pull yourself together, she thought. It's only natural that people ask about Patrick given you're working for him. She gave herself a bright smile in the mirror that didn't reach her eyes and moved to the kitchen to find Helen.
'Hello, I came to see if I could help.'
Helen looked up, her fair hair flopping over pink cheeks. 'You couldn't give me a hand to take these out of the oven?'
'Sure.' Isabel looked around and found a pair of oven gloves. 'They smell delicious.' She pulled out a tray of scallop shells piped with mashed potato, some of them burnt around the edges.
'I wish I'd never started them,' Helen said vehemently. 'They're fiddly, take ages and they don't look anything like the photograph.'
Isabel immediately felt better. 'Never mind,' she said consolingly. 'I'm sure they'll taste wonderful.' It was so reassuring to know that other women weren't perfect cooks.
'I wanted to have a kitchen supper, just simple food and friends,' Helen was muttering to a bowl of whipping cream. 'But, oh no, George wants to make it a proper dinner party. Well, it's all right for him. He doesn't have to do any of the work.'
'Let me give you a hand. Tell me what you want doing.'
'That's sweet of you, but it's more or less under control.' Helen looked around the kitchen rather wildly.
'I know what you mean about kitchen supper, but it's fun to dress up sometimes. You can have kitchen supper anytime.' She realised that Helen was waiting for her to go so she could scrape off the burnt bits and make the food more presentable. She wanted to tell her that it didn't matter, that it was mad to expect anyone to produce restaurant-quality food at home. But she thought that if she said it, it implied that all Helen's efforts had been worthless.
'Are you sure there's nothing I can do?'
'Absolutely,' Helen said, her hands obviously itching to pick at the burnt edges. 'Go and grab a drink.'
Isabel left the kitchen and slowly went back into the hall, thinking about how difficult it was living up to standards set by other people. Her shoes made a pleasant click-clack on the wooden floor, her skirt swished around her legs. Poor Helen, she thought. I bet George has no idea how hard it is to produce a dinner party like this. Come to that, she herself didn't know much about it. Most places they had been to abroad it had been easy - and cheap - to get domestic help. The doorbell rang just as she crossed the hall. She hesitated, then called out, 'I'll get it.' One less thing for Helen to worry about, she thought. She opened the big front door.
Patrick stood there, with his arm around a woman with short blonde hair who looked familiar. With a start Isabel recognised her. The woman on the yacht, in the photograph she'd found in the office.
Chapter 11
'Patrick!' She was so surprised to see him, her legs felt as if her knees had just taken a trip to the Bahamas. 'What are you doing here?'
'What do you think? Gate-crashing, of course. Are you going to let us in or just stand there?' She could tell from the way his head was tilted back that he hadn't expected to see her, and was on the defensive. His arm was no longer round the woman-from-the-photograph's shoulder.
Isabel realised she was hanging onto the door like a crutch. She let go and stepped back to let him and his companion through. 'Would you like me to take your coat?' she said, aware that she sounded too formal, too polite.
'Thank you.' The woman slipped her coat off and handed it to Isabel, who chucked it over the banisters. She was dressed in a simple shift dress, navy but with a glittering thread running discreetly through it. It was low-cut with slim spaghetti straps that crossed over her beautifully tanned back. Isabel, who had been feeling quite sleek and attractive, immediately felt fat and frumpy.
'What a lovely dress.'
'Thank you.' The woman smiled politely showing even, white teeth. She wasn't as young as Isabel had first thought, nearer to thirty maybe.
'This is Victoria,' Patrick said. 'And this is Isabel, who works for me.'
Isabel's ego plummeted into the slippery soles of her plum suede shoes. 'Come into the drawing room and get a drink.' She walked forwards trying to act nonchalantly, feeling as if her head was spinning round. She'd always known that, logically, she was bound to run into Patrick socially at some point. It was just that, somehow, she didn't expect it to happen. What went on in Patrick's house was so far removed from her daily life, it was like some private fantasy world, unknown and separate from the normal round. And now there was Victoria. She wondered when the photograph had been taken, and she realised it could have been taken that summer and not some years before. Patrick and Victoria, together, on holiday. Possibly just before Isabel started working for him. The thought made her feel sick and cold.
'Are you all right?' Neil was at her side. 'You seem a bit...'
'What? No, no, I'm fine.' Fine, that useful word, so handy for masking anything meaningful or honest. She smiled broadly at him. 'I'm just fine. Don't worry.'
He patted her shoulder. 'We can always go -'
'Oh no, really, I'm fine.' He looked uncertain. 'Really. How's your drink?'
Neil shrugged, then looked down at his glass where a bit of soggy lemon sat in a puddle of ice water. 'It's all right.'
'You're doing better than me. I haven't managed one at all yet. Do you want me to drive?'
'It's my turn.'
'I wouldn't mind.'
'No, no, darling. You have a good time.'
She tucked her hair behind her ears several times then went up to where George was fussing with ice cubes and tonic water. Have a good time, Neil had said. Right.
'Could I have a drink please, George?'
'Isabel, I'm sorry, did you get missed out?' He made her a drink, measuring the gin carefully, and handed it to her. Keeping an eye on George she steadily drank it, feeling the cold liquid glug, glug down her throat. His eyes got larger and more distressed as she finished it. 'Delicious. Another please,' and she held out the glass, empty but for the ice cubes. George seemed as frozen as the ice cubes, so she shook her glass a little, hearing them chinkle softly. 'George?'
George poured her a small measure of gin and a lot of tonic water, his face rigid with the strain of his innate meanness fighting against the code of hospitality. Isabel thought about asking for more gin, but decided not to push her luck. Neil, watching her, shook his head slightly, but amused rather than censorious. Perhaps she would get very drunk tonight. Yes, very drunk. Mind-numbingly, brain-freezingly drunk. She raised her chin, went to the armchair
furthest from Patrick and Victoria and plonked herself down. She crossed her legs, so her skirt fell back over her thighs, and studied one of her plum high-heels, twisting her foot for a better view. The snakeskin glittered in the firelight. Fuck-me shoes, she thought. Fuck me.
Over the edge of her glass she studied the room. Neil and Richard stood in front of the fire, hogging the heat. Mary, feet firmly planted on the ground, was talking to Quentin. He, poor man, was leaning backwards as if to escape contact, but Mary's gravitational pull was stronger than his desire to escape her orbit. Justine was talking animatedly to Victoria and Patrick. Victoria kept touching Patrick, and looking up at him.
Isabel fidgeted with the bead buttons that held her top together. What if she stood up and said, 'Excuse me, but I just thought you'd like to know that I'm sleeping with Patrick Sherwin'. No, not sleeping. Anything but sleeping. Screwing, fucking, shagging. Hard-edged words, not soft, sweet ones. She hoicked out a bit of ice cube from her glass and popped it in her mouth, wrinkling her nose with the sudden cold. Wake up and feel the ice water, she thought.
'Have you forgiven me for being here?' Patrick was standing before her, his crotch level with her eyes.
'I was startled. You didn't say you'd be here.'
'Nor did you.' There was a slight pause. She fiddled with the top button of her cardigan, and to her horror it came off in her fingers, exposing more cleavage than she wanted. 'Buggeration.'
'I'm sorry you're upset,' he said, not looking at her.
'Upset? Who said anything about being upset?' She stood up from her chair, but even with her high-heels on she had to look up to him.
Patrick touched her arm. 'Isabel -'
'There nothing to be upset about, is there? I expect she's just an old friend.'