by Wendy Holden
Lots of people she had cultivated had relatives at Oxford; there could be a way back in.
Chapter 4
The Shropshire Arms had changed, Alexa thought, opening the door on what had been a room full of sticky carpets and fruit machines to find newly exposed flagstones and artfully mismatching wooden tables with vases of fresh flowers.
And Polly Stevenson had changed even more. That could not possibly be her. Panic and shock coursed through Alexa as the pretty, slender woman with shining brown hair waved from a corner table. Was it actually at her though? Alexa looked behind her to check, but there was nothing to see but the chic striped bucket chairs and exposed brickwork of the bijou new dining area.
Was this really Boz Eyes? But there was no sign of a squint; the eyes examining her as she approached were big, dark, thick-lashed and absolutely regular. Cheekbones had come from somewhere. And had she had a lip job?
‘Allison?’
‘Alexa,’ Alexa corrected stiffly.
‘Oh yes.’ Alexa noted, annoyed, that Polly seemed amused, for some reason. ‘You’ve changed your name.’
‘As have you,’ Alexa shot back.
‘How do you mean?’ Polly’s eyes widened in surprise.
‘Well, whatever happened to Boz Eyes?’ Alexa asked brightly, throwing her jacket on the back of the chair, pulling it out and sitting down.
She saw Polly flinch. ‘The squint’s gone. A while ago.’
Still touchy about it, Alexa thought, half triumphant, but half cautious too. She might need this woman. She had better be careful.
‘You look the same, though,’ Polly added, to Alexa’s silent fury. The remark was not, however, payback for the squint remark, or even intentionally provocative. The snapping snake eyes and black hair were the same, as were the thin lips and skinny frame. And even as a schoolgirl, she had given this same impression of both hiding something and knowing something the rest of the world didn’t.
‘I can’t look the same,’ Alexa said indignantly.
Polly regarded her, head on one side again. Certainly, Alexa was more dressed up than before – the studded leather miniskirt and high-heeled sparkling sandals looked more nightclub than country pub, even if this one had been given an aristocratic makeover. She felt underdressed in comparison, in the same old white jeans that were her faithful standbys for any night out, teamed with the usual black top. There had been no time for make-up, not that she bothered with it much these days.
‘Maybe your hair’s a bit longer,’ she conceded. ‘Why have you changed your name by the way?’
Alexa smiled enigmatically and swung her hair about. The gesture concealed inner panic; Polly might know some useful people. The story must be got right. ‘It’s not really changed,’ she said quickly. ‘Alexa was my middle name anyway. And my mother’s maiden name was MacDonald.’
Polly stared. ‘Really?’
‘Mmm hmmm,’ Alexa confirmed smilingly. Now that danger was over, she could continue gathering clues from Polly’s appearance. Thick hair, thin figure, she noted; the physical ideal of the upwardly mobile. And that white jeans/strappy black top look was totally Kate Middleton, absolute Liz Hurley. Especially with that long, shiny dark brown hair tumbling about those tanned shoulders.
That really was a serious yacht tan. A real villa bronzing. Who did she know? Alexa opened her mouth to ask.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Polly asked suddenly. She felt rather unnerved by the other girl’s stare.
‘Oh . . . yeah . . . Champagne, don’t you think?’ It seemed years since Alexa last tasted what she had previously enjoyed several times a day.
It was Polly’s turn to stare; the Shropshire Arms had only ever served beer and lager before. But perhaps the Duchess had made over the wine list too.
‘Anything wrong?’ said Polly, having arrived back at the table with a champagne flute and a glass of rosé for herself.
‘I suppose I’m used to better vintages.’ Alexa put the flute down with a twist of her lips. She smiled patronisingly at Polly. ‘I expect we both are.’
‘Not me.’ Polly shook her head. ‘After a long day’s exploring ancient cultures, I usually relax with a beer.’ Or several, in the case of most of her colleagues. Archaeologists, on the whole, had less delicate tastes than champagne.
Alexa smiled. It was the Oxford point of entry she had been looking for. ‘I’m fascinated by ancient cultures, too,’ she drawled.
‘Are you?’ She wouldn’t have guessed it by looking, Polly thought; although there was a definite touch of the site bunny about that miniskirt.
‘Mmm, do you know Jamie Athelhampton? His family’s the oldest in England.’
‘Who?’
‘You are at Oxford, aren’t you?’ Alexa asked suspiciously. If Mum had got that wrong this was an entire evening wasted.
As, to her relief, Polly nodded, she added, forcefully: ‘Then surely you know Piggy Athelhampton. Owns half of Dorset. Everyone knows Piggy.’
‘I don’t know Piggy,’ Polly said. ‘Does he do archaeology?’
‘Archaeology?’ Alexa, taking a sip of champagne, almost choked in surprise. ‘Why would he do that? Why would anybody?’
‘It’s what I do,’ Polly said mildly, sipping her rosé.
Alexa’s mouth dropped open. To go to Oxford and do archaeology? Was Polly mad? ‘But isn’t archaeology all boiler suits, huge boots and hard hats?’
‘To an extent.’
‘Wandering around in muddy holes with beardy men and snaggle-toothed women with glasses?’ Alexa had once seen Time Team, but only by accident. She had assumed it to be a programme about top-of-the-range watches.
It was an uncharitable way of describing some of her colleagues, Polly thought. But that there was a grain of truth could not be denied. She shrugged and took another sip.
Alexa was now frantically trying to connect the new idea of Polly being an archaeologist with the established one of her as a member of Oxford high society. ‘You specialise in castles?’ she blurted desperately. ‘Stately homes?’
‘Roman toilets, actually.’ Polly took another sip of wine.
Toilets? Alexa almost fell off the wooden cottage chair recently stripped and polished at the Duchess’s behest. Polly studied in a place where the streets were paved with peers. And had emerged with a passion for ancient privies.
‘So what about you?’ Polly asked calmly. ‘What are you studying?’
‘I’m, um . . .’ Alexa racked her brains. She had no intention of admitting to Polly Stevenson that she had failed her exams, was living with her parents and had no prospects of any sort. ‘Actually, I’m taking a break from studying at the moment.’
‘Really?’ Polly’s archaeological instincts sensed something being concealed. ‘What are you doing with your break?’
Alexa’s eyes dilated in panic. She had imagined herself doing this evening’s cross-examining, not the other way round. Suddenly, out of the blue, Socialite magazine shot into her mind. ‘I’m going to London,’ she said, in a rush. ‘I’ve got a job on . . . on . . . a glossy magazine.’
‘Which one?’ Polly asked immediately.
‘Socialite,’ Alexa shot back boldly.
Polly shook her head. ‘I don’t know it,’ she said, finishing her wine with a smile.
Chapter 5
Polly had found it oddly hard to explain what had happened to Mrs Pankhurst. ‘You took a lift from a stranger?’ Dad had deduced, disapprovingly. ‘Then you forgot to take the bike out?’ he had probed, incredulously. ‘But where is it now? Where is he? Who was he?’ Questions that were hard to avoid as she now depended on Dad to take her to Oakeshott every morning.
Mum, meanwhile, was teasing her about being distracted. She seemed convinced Polly had ‘met someone’ the night of the glorious reunion with Allison Donald. ‘Do you good to have a boyfriend’ she teased.
‘So long as he’s not like the last one,’ Dad had rejoined, with feeling.
‘Have you got a boyfrie
nd, miss?’
Kyle’s voice broke loudly into her thoughts. Polly looked up from where she was squatting in a corner of the trench, photographing the foundations from a previously uncaptured angle. ‘That’s a rather impertinent question, Kyle,’ she said, trying to smile.
‘Is it?’ The boy looked genuinely surprised. ‘But Mrs Butcher told us in assembly the other day that there was no such thing as impertinent questions, only impertinent answers. She said someone called Oscar Wilde had said that.’
Polly raised her eyebrows. Mrs Butcher’s mission to raise her pupils’ sights was as unceasing as it was impressive. ‘And anyway, miss,’ the irrepressible Kyle continued, ‘we were wondering. About your boyfriend. I said I thought you must have one, being so pretty and everything.’
The other children, who were listening avidly, began to giggle.
Kyle pressed on. ‘Poppy thought you hadn’t, didn’t you, Poppy?’ He looked accusingly at his schoolmate. ‘She said she thought you needed a nice man, didn’t you, Pops?’
‘I did not,’ riposted Poppy, obviously untruthfully.
The class looked nervously at Polly.
‘I’m grateful for your concern,’ she said, good-humouredly. ‘Now just get back to work, the lot of you.’
The site settled down, interrupted only by the occasional interested passer-by. Polly had by now delegated the quips and question-fielding to Kyle, who revelled in the responsibility. ‘No, we’re not digging for gold, we’re digging for two-thousand-year-old toilets!’ she heard him state now. ‘But if you want modern ones, there’s some by the entrance.’
When Polly, frowning into her viewfinder, heard a flutter of talk from the children, she assumed it was yet another ambling elderly couple and did not look up.
‘She’s over there, mate,’ she heard Kyle say.
Polly raised her head from her camera to find herself looking at a pair of legs in jeans; up, up, up and eventually meeting Max’s dark blue eyes. Time stood still. The noise of the children faded far into the distance.
Napoleon, meanwhile, dived into the trench and began to lick her knuckles with a rough, warm tongue. Then he rolled over on to his back and lay pleadingly waving his great paws.
The children roared. The Labrador wriggled in ecstasy, thumping his tail appreciatively on the ground.
‘I think he wants to be forgiven,’ Max said gently, jolting Polly out of her trance. She blushed.
‘Forgiven for what?’ Kyle was demanding.
Napoleon gave Polly another grateful lick. She poked him. ‘You’re forgiven, you old ham.’
‘Isn’t he just.’ Max was shaking his head, smiling. ‘I’ve brought your bike back, by the way.’
‘The porter at the garden gate’s got it. I didn’t want to leave it in the bike racks in case someone stole it.’
Polly glanced at him; was he teasing her? Who in their right mind, after all, would steal Mrs Pankhurst? ‘Thank you,’ she muttered, as crowds of butterflies wheeled round her stomach.
‘I mended the puncture,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
‘And I cleaned it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So you have to come out for a drink with me now, don’t you?’
Polly sensed the children listening. Self-consciousness rushed in on her like a tidal wave.
‘You don’t have to,’ she said, more grumpily than she’d intended.
‘Oh miss!’ she heard Poppy say under her breath. Kyle, meanwhile, clutched his hands to his head as if his favourite team had missed a goal.
‘I know,’ Max said easily, skating over her mood as if it was ice. ‘But I’d like to. I’ll come and pick you up, shall I? I know where you live, as they say.’
Alexa had spent the morning in her bedroom reading Socialite magazine. The idea of working there, which had suggested itself so unexpectedly in the pub, had gathered momentum overnight.
It had, Alexa was sure, come straight from the desperate depths of her unconscious. But as a solution to her problems, it could scarcely be bettered. An upmarket glossy magazine, the sort that covered the grandest weddings and parties and employed scions of the nobility in exchange for access to their address books was exactly where she needed to be in order to gatecrash her way back into society. Why had she not thought of it before?
And yet two considerable obstacles stood between Alexa and the realisation of this ambition. Getting the job in the first place would be difficult. Positions on glossy magazines were highly sought after. Applying in the normal way would be pointless. She would be in competition with the best-connected people in the country.
The second problem was accommodation in London. Many of her university friends had homes in the capital. But thanks to the disaster that had been Reinhardt, Alexa was no longer in touch with any of them. She had burnt all her bridges, and with them all possibilities of free accommodation.
‘Dinner!’ yelled Mum from the bottom of the stairs. Lunch, Alexa corrected silently as she reluctantly sloped downstairs.
Dad, already tucking into pork pie and beans at the kitchen table, eyed her as she drifted through the door. No one at home ever waited for everyone to sit down, Alexa thought disdainfully. Still less stand behind their chairs until all diners were present.
‘Got some news for you,’ Dad announced, tipping more ketchup on his pie. Alexa’s stomach twisted in disgust. She hated ketchup.
‘What news?’ she asked haughtily, sitting down and deploring the absence of a napkin. Unless he was about to announce the acquisition of a penthouse in Mayfair, or the takeover of the publishers that owned Socialite, nothing he could say could possibly interest her.
‘Need a job, don’t you?’ Dad demanded. ‘Well, they’ve got vacancies at Tesco.’
Alexa felt as if she had been shot. She doubted a more shocking thing had ever been said to her in the course of her entire life; Atticus’s death and Reinhardt’s father included. She choked, even though she had not eaten anything. ‘Tesco!’ she managed after a glass of water.
‘Yes,’ Dad said, fixing her with an oddly piercing stare. ‘Tesco. They treat their staff well. Perfectly good career.’
It was crucial not to panic. Playing for time, Alexa slid her shaking knife into the enormous lump of greasy pork pie that lay on her plate. ‘I’m not sure Tesco’s quite me,’ she said, dropping her voice to a frail whisper and looking appealingly at her mother. ‘I’m university-educated,’ she added, choosing her words carefully.
Her father’s face reddened. ‘That’s not what I’ve heard,’ he said shortly, forking in another lump of pie and chewing violently. ‘That university of yours rang us just now. Small matter of unsettled fees.’ His eyes glinted into hers from beneath his gathered brows.
Alexa quickly dropped her gaze.
‘What did you spend your money on, eh?’ Dad slammed the ketchup bottle down vehemently. ‘Not your course, by the sound of it. You haven’t even passed, they said.’
Alexa stared at the jelly – its clear amber colour so ironically reminiscent of a yellow diamond – between the pork pie crust and the lumpy pink meat. Tired, frustrated and, rarely for her, slightly frightened, she was tempted to throw herself on her parents’ mercy. But was honesty really the best policy? Telling her father the truth – that the money had gone on cases of champagne for cocktail parties and bespoke tweed suits for shooting weekends – was unlikely to calm him down.
She therefore took the only other course open to her. Shoving aside the plate of pie, she buried her head in her arms and wept hysterically. After a few seconds, after which she calculated her eyes would be piteously red and bloodshot, she looked up and directed her anguished gaze at her mother. ‘I didn’t want to tell you about the breakdown,’ she heaved between sobs.
Her mother responded magnificently. ‘Breakdown! Oh, love!’ she said, reaching clumsily for her daughter’s hand, her voice so warm with sympathy and concern that Alexa almost felt guilty.
‘Breakdown?’ D
ad echoed suspiciously. Although the heat, Alexa noted with relief, seemed to have gone from his fury.
Alexa propped herself on her elbows, pushed back her hair dramatically and placed her hands over her face. ‘I just couldn’t cope,’ she sobbed into her palms. ‘I needed the money for the medicine. The therapy sessions. The, um, doctors.’
Neither of her parents said anything, although their silence took different forms. Alexa, an expert in social temperature, felt the loving and concerned warmth from her mother’s side of the table meeting, over the ketchup bottle, the chill blast of suspicion and disbelief from her father’s. There was clearly more work to do.
She stood up, still sobbing, and threw Dad an impassioned and accusing glance. ‘It was hell!’ she cried dramatically. ‘You’ve got no idea. You can’t even begin to imagine what I’ve been through!’
As she fled through the sliding door of the kitchen, she reflected that her parting shot had the advantage of being true, at least. The rest, of course, could be disproved by one single phone call to her tutor.
In her bedroom, Alexa buried her ears in her nylon pillows, expecting a storm of fury to break downstairs. Yet the house remained calm. After some minutes had passed, there was a knock at the door and her mother came in.
‘Hello, love,’ Mum said gently.
Alexa, edging away at this dangerous display of maternal closeness, winced inwardly at Mum’s brown nylon trousers, lemon cotton blouse and the worn grey towelling slippers that completed the outfit. How could this woman be her mother? It was many years since she had finally, regretfully, abandoned her childhood fantasies about being a princess who’d been swapped at birth. But occasions like this brought it all back.
Her mother, as usual, was clutching the local freesheet. Was it bloody welded to her or something? It was even open at one of the coach tour ads.
‘What do you think of this, Allison, love?’ Mum asked brightly, holding the page closer for Alexa to see.
Alexa, wincing at the use of her real name, stared at the newsprint a few inches from her face. What was she supposed to be looking at? Her eyes were running up and down the columns, but beside the half-page ad for Vernon’s Bus Trips, she could see nothing but a report about the local Women’s Institute enjoying a knitting demonstration.