by Jo Carnegie
The recent scare in Montague Mews had helped her to make the decision. Everyone had been so emotional afterwards, and Saffron had realized for the first time how precious life really was. She had thought she hated her mother, but now she realized that love and hate sat close to each other on the emotional spectrum. She had to have it out with Babs if they had any chance of repairing their relationship.
Saffron hadn’t wanted to call her mother, so Velda had rung Babs to tell her she was on her way. When Saffron pulled up outside Hardwick House, Babs was already at the front door. It was a pretty little place, with two bay windows looking out on to a rather overgrown garden. Blankets of ivy crept up the wall, almost obscuring one of the upstairs windows. The gate creaked loudly as Saffron pushed it open; it obviously hadn’t been oiled for quite some time.
Babs was wearing a turquoise turban and matching scarf. Reassuringly, she looked as nervous as Saffron felt. ‘Darling!’ she exclaimed, rushing forward and kissing Saffron on both cheeks. Instinctively Saffron jerked her head back, and Babs was left rather clumsily kissing the air. She quickly recovered. ‘Come in, come in!’ she cried, leading Saffron into a long, narrow corridor. It was completely filled with paintings, piled up against the walls and radiators.
Saffron followed her mother to the back of the house, where a large conservatory looked out on to an even wilder back garden. It was obviously Babs’s studio, living room and kitchen all rolled into one. At one end was a huge easel, with what looked like mud splatters all over it. Tins of paint and jam jars filled with brushes were stacked up on every surface. In the middle of the room was a battered-looking sofa furnished with bright pink cushions, while at the other end was a small kitchen area littered with empty wine bottles. A rickety table stood off to one side with two chairs round it.
One of the walls was completely covered in what looked like magazine features. As Saffron got closer, she realized they were her articles. Everything she had ever written was up there. Some had paint swatches next to them, or unintelligible scribbles written in the margin.
‘What’s this?’ she gasped.
Babs flushed. ‘That’s my inspiration wall. I’ve cut out everything you’ve ever done. Whenever I need a surge of creativity I come over here and reread one of your articles.’ An expression a little like pride crept on to her face. ‘You really are a marvellous writer, Saffron. Your interview with Savannah Sexton was spellbinding!’
Saffron didn’t know what to say. ‘How long have you been doing this?’
‘Since the beginning of your career.’ Babs looked at her. ‘It was my only way into your life, darling, I couldn’t see how else I could get to know you.’
‘Don’t start that again,’ replied Saffron angrily, her emotion at seeing the wall quickly extinguished. ‘You knew where I bloody was, you could have come and seen me any time.’
‘What – and had the door slammed in my face?’ Babs wrung her hands anxiously. ‘I really don’t want to argue with you. Please, Saffron, can’t we just sit down and talk? I’m so tired of fighting.’
Saffron sank down in one of the chairs. ‘So am I,’ she admitted.
The kettle whistled. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ asked Babs. ‘Or something stronger?’ she added hopefully.
‘Coffee’s fine,’ said Saffron as she watched Babs fish out two dirty cups from the washing-up bowl and rinse them under the tap. Domesticity clearly wasn’t one of her mother’s strong points.
A few minutes later they were sitting round the little table drinking scalding hot cups of coffee. Saffron was sure she could taste white spirit in hers. After a few attempts to drink it, she put it back down on the table. This was so surreal. She half-expected Jeremy Kyle to pop up and wave a microphone in her face at any moment. Talk about fucked-up families!
Babs looked at her sorrowfully. ‘I know I’ve let you down.’
‘That’s a fucking understatement.’
Babs flinched. ‘I’ve made mistakes, and heaven knows, I’m paying for them. But you have to understand that through a child’s eyes, as you were at the time, you see things differently. Your father and I had, well, issues.’
Saffron raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘What kind of “issues”?’
Babs hesitated. ‘I fell in love with your father because he was so romantic and dashing. I really loved him, and for a time, I thought he loved me. But Harry was never going to settle down with one woman.’
Saffron’s face was pale. ‘Not even when I came along?’
Babs shook her head sadly. ‘Your father was a serial womanizer. I wasn’t the first woman he charmed, and I certainly wasn’t the last.’
There was a long pause. ‘I didn’t know,’ said Saffron eventually. Her voice had become duller. ‘I thought he left you because you were so awful to live with. That’s the impression he gave me.’
Babs gave a small smile. ‘Of course he did, he knew what a hero he was to you. You were the only good thing he produced in his life, and he couldn’t bear to smash the illusion. That’s why I didn’t tell you the truth, either. You already hated me, what good would it have done to have felt the same way about your father?’
Saffron tried to swallow the lump in her throat. ‘I know I haven’t been the easiest daughter,’ she admitted.
Babs put her hand over Saffron’s. This time she didn’t pull away. ‘Darling, will you forgive me?’ she asked. ‘I so badly want to be a proper mother to you again.’
Despite her heartfelt plea, Saffron wasn’t going to let her off the hook that easily. ‘You can’t just waltz back into my life after all these years and claim that right. Velda’s been so much more of a mother to me than you have.’ Babs looked crushed. When Saffron spoke again, her voice was gentler. ‘Let’s start off as friends and see how we get on, shall we?’
Babs bit her lip. ‘Whatever makes you happy. I really am so pleased you came down today.’
As Saffron drove past the entrance to the Maltings some time later, Ash King was lying spreadeagled on the double bed in the granny annexe. Angie had done his washing again, and the beautifully pressed clothes were laid out on the back of a chair. The first time she’d done it, Ash had felt a bit awkward. He was used to doing his own washing at home, and besides, he didn’t want some woman he hardly knew going through his boxers. Angie, however, wouldn’t hear of it.
‘Ash, it’s really no problem. I can throw them in with our stuff.’ Secretly she liked doing it, it made her feel like she still had a role as a mother.
Ash put his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling. That conversation seemed like such a long time ago, and so much had happened since then. Angie and Freddie had gone out of their way to make him part of the family. They were so easy and, well, normal, to be around. Ash knew he’d been lucky. But the more settled he felt in Churchminster, the more guilt he felt about his dad.
If anything, his close relationship with the Fox-Titts – and especially Angie – only highlighted how fucked-up his and his dad’s was. Would his dad ever put him before the drink? Because that, deep down, was the root of Ash’s anger.
He sighed. His brain was hurting from all this shit.
Once an alcoholic . . . he told himself, reaching for the TV remote.
It was dark by the time Saffron got back to Montague Mews. Velda was lying on the sofa watching television, but clicked it off and sat up expectantly when her niece walked in.
‘How did it go?’
Saffron sat down in the chair opposite her. ‘Better than I thought, actually. It pains me to say it, but I now realize my mother isn’t exactly the Wicked Witch of the West I’d built her up to be.’
Surprise and hope flooded Velda’s face. ‘Does this mean you’re friends?’
Saffron sighed. ‘Friends are what we’re aiming for. She wanted to slip into the doting mother role straightaway, but I’ve told her she has to work harder than that.’
Velda gave a small smile. ‘She really does love you, Saffron. It’s just that my sister ha
s never been able to deal with real life. The moment it gets too hard, she retreats into her world of paint and watercolours.’
Saffron’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Christ! I hate to think what her state of mind is like. Have you seen those things?’
‘Belle has got a rather unusual style,’ said Velda tactfully.
‘You can say that again! Who buys that stuff?’
They both burst into laughter. ‘I needed that,’ said Velda, wiping her eyes a few moments later.
APRIL
Chapter 57
AT SOIRÉE, IT was a time of highs and lows. The Savannah Sexton interview had been picked up all over the world, and the issue was simply flying off the shelves. Savannah had begun a whirlwind round of red-carpet appearances for the premiere of Power Trip, and barely a day went past without her being plastered across a newspaper or magazine. As expected, her performance received rave reviews, and critics were hailing it as Oscar-worthy. At that moment in time, Savannah Sexton was the most famous woman on the planet, and the public couldn’t get enough of her.
Not that any of this really mattered in the scheme of things, thought Catherine. If she had to listen to Adam moan one more time: ‘If only we’d got Savannah for the March issue we could have saved the magazine,’ she was going to scream.
For the second month running, the sales figures had not been released to her, but when she emailed the head of sales, she received an apologetic reply informing her that it was the express wish of Sir Robin Hackford to keep the final figures private until further notice. Catherine felt more like she was working for the FBI than a bloody publishing company. She hated being left hanging on like this, it was almost as if ‘Hatchet’ Hackford was milking it as much as he could, just to add to her discomfort.
It didn’t help that Adam was as much in the dark as she was. The penny seemed to have finally dropped that they were in real trouble, and he’d taken to hanging around in her office like a grey cloud. It wasn’t helping Catherine’s state of mind.
‘Thomasina has just put Cosmo’s name down for Eton, I don’t know how the hell we’re going to afford the fees if this all goes tits up,’ he told her gloomily one afternoon.
‘You could always try sending him to a comprehensive,’ Catherine pointed out. Adam looked at her as if she’d just projectile-vomited on his Tod’s loafers.
‘Do you think we’ve done it?’ he asked.
Irritated by his pleading expression, Catherine didn’t pull any punches.
‘Added 45,000 sales on in a month? No, I don’t actually Adam, if you want my honest opinion. Not that Sir Robin seems in any rush to put us out of our misery.’
Adam sighed. ‘Christ, if we’d only got Savannah a month earlier . . .’
Catherine resisted the urge to bury her staple gun in his head. ‘Well, we didn’t, Adam, and we probably are going to fold, and there’s fuck all I can do about it!’
Her publisher looked up, astonished, then stood up awkwardly. ‘I think I’ll leave you to it.’
A short while later, the email Catherine had been dreading came through from him.
Sir Robin’s secretary just phoned. It doesn’t look good. The board want to see you tomorrow morning at Martyr House at 11.30. I’ll meet you there.
Catherine reread it. She felt strangely empty. She had failed them all. There was nothing more she could do now.
That evening Catherine was due to attend the annual Vision Unite charity gala. She didn’t know if this was a blessing or a curse. The last thing she felt like doing was going out and facing people, but at the same time, she knew it would be easier than staying home alone, tormented by her thoughts. Besides, tickets had been extremely hard to come by and Catherine had been looking forward to it.
An extremely high-profile event, Vision Unite was one of the rare occasions when the world of magazines and newspapers came together to raise money for the charity World Vision. The newspapers added a frisson of energy and edge to the proceedings that was sometimes lacking in the world of monthly magazines.
Catherine looked across the office at the stunning Valentino dress hanging on the back of the door. She had bought it especially for the occasion, and it had cost her an arm and a leg, even with Alexander’s discount. Catherine pursed her lips resolutely. God knows she needed a night out. Sod Sir Robin Hackford, he wasn’t going to ruin this for her as well.
With bittersweet irony, congratulations for Soirée flooded in all evening. Savannah Sexton had been the one front page every editor, magazine or newspaper had desperately wanted, and the fact that she had only talked to Soirée had left them full of grudging admiration. By the time the gala had finished, and tens of thousands of pounds had been raised, Catherine was beginning to feel she’d received the same amount of compliments. It was getting exhausting keeping a smile fixed to her face, knowing that by tomorrow afternoon she wouldn’t have a job.
‘What’s the matter, darl? For someone who’s the belle of the ball you don’t look very happy.’ Fiona MacKenzie eyed Catherine wisely across the table as their dinner companions headed for the bar.
Catherine played with the stem of her wine glass. ‘I’ve been summoned in front of the board tomorrow.’
Fiona pulled a face. ‘Ouch. The preposterous “Project 300”.’
Catherine sighed. ‘I don’t think we’ve done it, Fi, and I can’t tell you how much I’m dreading telling my staff they haven’t got jobs any more.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Fiona sympathetically.
Catherine shrugged. ‘Rancid Robin is holding the latest sales figures back, the sadistic old git. I expect he’ll want to humiliate me with them in front of everyone.’
Fiona looked genuinely upset. ‘Oh, darl, I really am sorry. And to think that everyone is green with jealousy at the Savannah exclusive.’ She sighed. ‘Life’s a bastard, isn’t it? If it’s any consolation, I’m bored off my B cups at Teen Style.’
As if on cue, a well-known media magnate staggered up, his dinner jacket gaping open.
‘Catherine, love your latest issue!’ he bellowed drunkenly. ‘If that doesn’t win you Magazine of the Year I’ll eat my hat!’
Catherine smiled falsely as he swayed back into the crowd. She stood up. ‘Come on, Fi, I need a drink.’
The bar was packed, mostly with hacks talking noisily. Fiona winked at Catherine. ‘Let’s go and swim with the sharks. I must pop to the loo quickly first, will you be OK?’
Catherine smiled. ‘I’ll survive. See you in a minute.’ She pushed her way through the crowd, but not before several people had slapped her on the back with more congratulations.
‘Two glasses of champagne, please,’ she told the barman.
The short, shifty figure of the Daily Mercy’s editor, Drew Summers, appeared beside her. ‘Get one more in will you? After all, we’re not paying.’ As usual Drew was smoking furiously, eyes darting around the room.
‘Hey, Drew.’ He was the last person Catherine felt like talking to, and in a moment of paranoia she wondered if he’d overheard her conversation with Fiona, and come to sniff around. She didn’t trust Drew as far she could throw his twitching little body.
Drew inhaled on his B&H deeply, ignoring the dirty looks from everyone around him. He’d staunchly ignored the anti-smoking law ever since it had come in, and regularly ran bits of gossip in his paper on the unfortunate ministers who had imposed it.
His beady eyes bored into Catherine’s. ‘Well, you’ve pulled it out of the bag.’
No congratulations from Drew, then, she thought. He looked around him and leaned in towards her. ‘You’ve got a way in with her people, then? Let’s say you pass it on to us and we’ll do you a favour in return.’
Catherine smiled pleasantly. ‘No thanks, Drew.’
His dark little eyes became sly. ‘Come on, you scratch our back and all that . . .’
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Fiona and, to Catherine’s disgust and horror, Isabella Montgomery.
‘L
ook who I bumped into,’ said Fiona half-heartedly.
Isabella looked straight at Catherine, her face more pinched than ever, lips twisted into a ghastly ruby smile. ‘I’ve been looking for you, my dear!’ Turning her back on Drew, she pulled Catherine towards her.
‘We’ve got so much to catch up about!’
‘Not as far as I’m concerned.’
Isabella’s smile turned even more malicious.
‘Oh, darling! There’s nothing more unbecoming than a bad loser, but John had to follow his heart. I gather he took you to his special little place as well.’ Her mouth widened into a red slit. ‘Men! Of course, with me it really meant something.’
Behind Isabella, Drew’s ears had pricked up.
‘What are you talking about?’ Catherine said, trying to keep her emotions in check. She couldn’t bear the thought of John making love to Isabella in his bed, just as he’d done with her.
Isabella’s eyes glinted like a crocodile’s caught on a night-vision camera. ‘A certain Lord Fairfax’s house? The view from the attic room window? That’s where John and I first got intimate, you know, nothing like the romantic history of a house to bring out a true attraction!’
Isabella leant forward as if they were old friends sharing a confidence. ‘I must say, I’ve never had a lover like it! You know, darling, sometimes two people are just so sexually compatible.’ She looked triumphantly at the hurt on Catherine’s face. ‘Oh, silly, you know it would never have worked between you two! John was just waiting for a real woman to come along, someone who could satisfy him properly. Not like you, darling. From what I can gather it was like sleeping with an ironing board! Men really don’t like a frigid shag, do they?’
A little piece of Catherine died inside. She now knew that she had never known John Milton at all. She’d obviously wounded his male pride and he’d taken revenge by spouting off to Isabella. She had the urge to ask Isabella where she and John had met, how long it had been going on, what on earth they had in common, but instead she turned to Fi, who was hovering uncertainly at her side, trying to decipher the tension between the two women.