by DH Smith
Deal with that if and when.
The regency ringlets were passable. A change, but disappointing. She saw the same face under the Shirley Temple hair. She looked down at her shoes, the marine blue Rigolettos that had become ordinary once out of the Regent Street shop. It really was time for a big shoe buy. She must change what she could of herself so she could live with the bits she couldn’t.
And why sit like this on her own? It was maudlin. She needed a lover to be mad about her, to garnish her, to be amazed by her. She adjusted the double string of pearls. Were they too old fashioned? Of course they were. Stupid. But she resisted the pull of her jewel box. Not again, the same tawdry stuff. This will do.
Was it long enough yet? Were there sufficient people? Enough to dilute her and Leon. She pulled at her cleavage. Enough to be sexy, but not the burst of the tart. All the fuss over those droopy lumps. Up, out, show a little, flaunt, as if they were her and the rest of her body simply their support.
How insufferably stupid. All this bathing, changing, hair-dos, all so boring. She was always the same, no matter what.
But, here was the point, she could fool others she wasn’t. A little sad they were so easily fooled, but she must take what she could. And get out of this room. To be told, what a wonderful dress. Oh I love those shoes! How do you keep your figure! She must go down and find an audience. Too much of herself made her want to weep.
Dabbing a little perfume on both cheeks (she should not smell of skin), she turned away from the truthtellers, stood up tall, a little adjustment of line, and as if on a cue, stepped out of the bedroom.
At exactly the instant that Leon left his room.
She stood at her door, contemplating going back in, as if she had forgotten something. He was coming her way. She must face him. He would be round and about all evening. She mustn’t be seen to be a coward.
Begin.
She stood her ground as he approached. He was wearing a well-cut, dark blue suit, the jacket done up by a single button. She had watched him in the past, doing it up, undoing it, trying other buttons, in an insecurity she recognised, but laughed at in him. Another quasi-regimental tie. How Leon yearned to have gone to the right school, been in the right unit.
How alike they were.
‘A truce in no man’s land,’ she said with a smile.
He stopped by her, looked her up and down, as if she were in a shop, but took care to show no approval.
Leon nodded. ‘A truce.’
Downstairs could be heard laughter and the clink of china and glass. There were sufficient people to keep them safely separate for the evening. They simply had to make it down the stairs together. Once in the throng, the busyness of the room, the calls on them, their different rings of colleagues and friends, would, they both hoped, be sufficient buffer against encounter.
Quietly, he said, ‘This can’t go on, Joanna. One of us will have to move out.’
‘I’m not,’ she said.
He stiffened. She could see him battling, fists clenching and unclenching; he wanted to smack her, to cow her into a corner, punch and kick. Until she accepted.
Fuck him.
‘Truce,’ he seethed. ‘Just don’t shag anyone in public, dear.’
‘Ditto,’ she replied.
She took his arm, the very image of the well-to-do loving couple, and together they came down the stairs, nodding and welcoming those in the hallway who had just come, their coats being taken into the cloakroom. Once on the level, they separated. He to shake hands with various colleagues, exaggerating the welcome, she to embrace wives. The perfect hosts.
‘So good to see you, Jack,’ said Leon, clasping his hand with both of his. ‘There’s so many people I’d like you to meet.’
Chapter 23
A string quartet were playing on the lawn in front of the summerhouse, the musicians in a glowing apex in the twilight, created by two towers of lights on the lawn halfway between the musicians and the big house. Earlier, Jack had had to move all his workings inside the summerhouse, out of view. The front windows were complete, and had had a coat of varnish. He knew they looked good. Most of that down to the design, nothing to do with him, but the slight lean of the summerhouse meant each window had to be fitted individually. Laborious but necessary.
Jack wandered out into the garden, curious at the music, but also at a loss. He knew no one. Carol wasn’t around. Was it going to be one of those evenings? He considered sitting down, pretending to be a classical music lover.
He waved away a waitress with a tray of glasses of wine, but took a canapé off another. The four musicians, two violinists, a violist and cellist, were in black. The two men in dress suits, the two women in long dresses. They were thirty-ish and utterly intent on their playing. It was perhaps their concentration that held Jack as much as the music. He’d stay a while, try to listen, though it wasn’t his music, then perhaps get some food and look for Carol.
And then he saw Joanna, coming out the French windows, scanning the plane of the lawn, spotting him, putting up a hand, and making her way over.
‘Hello, Jack,’ she said, looking him up and down. ‘Apart from your shiner, you scrub up nicely.’
‘You don’t look bad yourself.’
His eyes wandered over her curves, unhindered. There was no ‘what are you looking at?’ about Joanna. But rather a banner, saying, Look! Feast! Take a knife and fork.
‘Let’s not beat about the bush,’ she said, noting his attentions. ‘I’ve been around too long for that. I don’t want to sleep on my own tonight. And you are first in line.’
The animal in him stretched its chain. ‘Meaning I get the first five minutes?’
She threw up her hands in denial. ‘I go for all-nighters. I’m not totally a whore.’
Carol crossed Jack’s mind. It would be the end with her. But he must go one way or the other. And had no choice really.
‘Your place or mine?’ he said.
‘Yours,’ she said. ‘Too complicated here.’ She tweaked his nose. ‘Don’t look so scared. I’m worth it.’
Her sexuality sang. He could hear no other notes.
‘Do you know my address?’
‘It’s on your contract, on my desk, dearest.’ She caught sight of a couple who had just come out into the garden. ‘I must do hostessy things. Midnight, your place.’
Their eyes caught for an instant. He nodded, and she left him, hailing the other guests in delight. He wondered what was genuine, so much of Joanna being an act. Though strangely she’d always been honest with him. Not that their relationship had any age, but she didn’t pretend, beyond the usual pretences of clothes and make up. But then, he was no threat. A one-nighter without complications.
Enjoy.
It had been a year of abstinence. Not by choice. Getting off drink, his share of childcare, tired out after work. Depression and the hassle of the divorce. Anyway, the best women were always spoken for. There had been those that fancied him, but he’d been fussy, too fussy perhaps. Though with the continuing drought, he was inclined to jettison his standards.
Until Joanna.
And then Carol, knowing she’d be so much better for him, but in his heat she’d flashed away.
Now abandoned, he was aware of standing on his own under one of the house lights, a drink in his hand, a picture of isolation. He should get some food, look busy nibbling whatevers, sit down near a group, maybe they’d invite him in.
He made his way through the French windows into the lounge.
‘Ah! Jack.’
Leon pounced on him. ‘I’ve been wondering where you were.’
‘Listening to the quartet,’ he said.
‘Fine players, fine players.’
Jack doubted he’d heard a note.
‘Did you fix that door earlier?’ went on Leon.
‘A temporary repair,’ said Jack. ‘I’d like to talk to you about it and that house in general.’
‘Not now,’ dismissed Leon. ‘Not the place for it. I
n the morning. Now, I’d like you to meet Sir Joseph Atwood.’
Sir Joseph was a portly, short man in his 60s, with a few wiry grey hairs on a mostly bald dome. His face was florid, the sort of face Jack recognised from Alcohol Halt. Boozers were everywhere. Sir Joseph, he learned, had come in a chauffeur driven Rolls, and from the height of whiskey in his glass it was likely the chauffeur would be carrying him out. A safe journey at least, unlike some of Jack’s from various dives.
‘How do you do, Sir Joseph.’
‘Quite a shiner you have there, Jack.’
Jack attempted a smile and put out his hand. They shook. Sir Joseph had a clammy, shivery hand.
‘Jack is a builder,’ said Leon. ‘And a fine one. He’s done lots of work for me. I recommend him highly. He tells me he’s very interested in your Docklands work.’
From the overblown introduction, Jack wondered whether Leon had started on a market stall selling dodgy china.
Leon hailed someone across the room and rapidly left them, giving Jack a pat on the shoulder like a favoured pet. And Sir Joseph commenced telling Jack about his Docklands project.
Almost at once Jack realised this was out of his league. A forty storey tower block was the knight’s latest baby. Jack wouldn’t even get in on it as a sub-sub-contractor. And he knew within a very few minutes why Leon had left them. For Sir Joseph was a total bore. He spoke at you, as if you were a meeting, come especially to listen to him lecture about anything he fancied. And had no interest in your replies. Beginning with Docklands, incomprehensible without plans or drawings, names of people Jack’d never heard of, and then on to his favourite topic – tax evasion.
From which Jack learnt that only idiots pay tax. Being an idiot himself, Jack didn’t believe two thirds of what he was being told. Sir Joseph was boasting in his cups, like a young man exaggerating his sexual encounters. Loopholes, tax havens, section this, that and the other, charities, front companies, all of which Jack could not give a flying toss about, but how to get away from this torrent of self love?
It was, of course, easy. Sir Joseph had nothing to offer him but tedium, not a snifter of work. Any excuse would do. Besides which, if Sir Joseph felt insulted, the drunken fart would have no recollection of it in the morning.
Jack looked at his watch.
‘Must phone my daughter,’ he said. And took out his phone. ‘A promise is a promise. You know how it is.’ With a smile, he strolled out through the French windows to the cool evening air.
He looked at his watch. It was only quarter to ten. How much more could he take of this? He’d never expected any work out of the party anyway, not with these property dealers and shysters. And they had no interest in him at all. Joanna had the contract for the rest of his job on her desk, which presumably she’d sign tomorrow. Depending on what happened later tonight.
Carol came out into the garden looking flustered.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Jack. She’s had me running fetching fairy books, photos and whatnots. Have you been alright?’
She wore a full length, sleeveless, dark green dress. The skirt was plain up to a wide black belt at her waist, the top around her neck, across her cleavage and shoulders, was a lacy filigree. Jack couldn’t see her shoes but knew they were high as she was a couple of inches above him, whereas their last meeting it had been the reverse. Her dark brown hair was pulled off her face to a bunch at the back that was tied with a black ribbon. She was made up, eyebrows plucked and her lips purple.
‘I’ve totally neglected you,’ she said. ‘But she hasn’t given me a minute.’
‘I’m going to go home,’ he said. ‘I’m bored soppy.’
‘Oh, you’re mad at me,’ she exclaimed.
‘I’m not.’
‘I wanted to find you,’ she pleaded. ‘More than anything. But I’m still working. She’ll want me any minute I’m sure.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ve stayed off the booze.’
‘Maybe later,’ she said, ‘I could come over.’
An alarm bell rang.
‘You’ll be too tired after all her demands,’ he said. ‘And I’m exhausted.’
‘No…’ she began, and her phone rang. She sighed in exasperation, taking it out of the pouch on her belt. ‘It’s her. Can’t I have five minutes to myself?’ she said plaintively.
He kissed her on the cheek.
‘See you in the morning.’
And strode away, along the side of the house, to the garden gate.
Part Two: The Murder
Chapter 24
Donna was sunk on a stool in the kitchen, her hands flopped in her apron. On the long table beside her was a full, cold coffee. The catering staff bounced in and out, bringing in empty platters and the debris of plates and cutlery for the dishwasher. She was nominally in charge but left them to it. She’d used them often enough and they knew to be sharp; Mrs Ward had once held back a bonus because of what she called ‘slack work’.
Work had kept Donna together: the salmons and salads, the various viands and dips, hot rolls, fancy breads, and then the trifles, cakes, and water ice. But now the last teas and coffees were going round – and that was it, beyond the perpetual bar which wasn’t her concern. Besides which there were enough cakes, biscuits and nuts to last until the final partygoer left, or dropped.
Like an actor with a streaming cold who on stage plays a blinder, Donna had done all that could be demanded of her. But, curtain down, her body surrendered.
Too weary to cry, too unhappy to move.
She knew she would be angry. Later. And then what? She, the possessor of a tied flat, if she raged at her boss – she’d be out of a job and a home.
But she would not suffer this, no matter what.
Carol came into the kitchen, snacks were required for Leon and his pals in the snooker room, but seeing Donna’s exhaustion, she transferred her request to the head waitress, who looked at Donna and said she’d see to it.
‘Donna, love,’ said Carol, a hand on her shoulder. ‘You look awful.’
‘I’m just tired,’ she said with a weak smile. ‘Been here from 7 am. I’ll lie in tomorrow.’
‘Of course you will,’ said Carol. ‘No one will be up till noon. They’re drinking as if prohibition starts at midnight. Let me help you home.’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘You’re not fine. Come on.’
And she lifted Donna under the arms, and led her at long last out of the kitchen. There was no resistance. Out, into the hallway.
‘I’ve still got my hat and apron on,’ said Donna.
‘So what?’ said Carol, as she took her through the hallway loungers and out of the main door.
The night was balmy, the sky clear. The lights of the house, and the externals, flooded the semicircular drive with its necklace of cars, the party still swinging.
Donna opened the door of her granny flat. There was no hallway, it opened directly into her sitting room. She dropped onto her sofa, her head sank forward and she began to weep. Silently at first then breaking into deep sobs.
Carol sat by her. Her phone vibrated on her belt.
‘Eleven o’clock for heaven’s sake, Joanna,’ she sighed, turning off her phone. And then put an arm round Donna who leaned into her. ‘This is not just tiredness, is it? Something’s eating you up.’
Donna shook her head, tears dripping down her cheek. ‘He’s stopping me seeing my son.’
‘Who, love?’
‘Mr Ward,’ she said wearily. ‘He’s been paying the social worker to lie to me.’
‘I’m sorry, Donna,’ said Carol. ‘This doesn’t make any sense to me.’
‘You know I have a son, Eric?’ said Donna. ‘Oh dear.’ She began weeping again. ‘I could kill him, I could murder the both of them. All these years.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ tried Carol, a little helplessly, wondering whether she should get back.
‘No thank you, dear. I’ll be alright.’ She closed her eyes, tears
welling in the lids. ‘But they won’t get away with it. Not this time.’
‘Get away with what, Donna?’
‘The social worker has been replying to my letters, saying Eric wants no contact with his mother. And it’s a lie, a dirty lie.’
‘Why would the social worker lie to you?’
‘Mr Ward has been paying her.’
Carol scratched her head. ‘I may be thick, Donna. Please excuse me. But why should Mr Ward be bribing a social worker?’
Donna opened her eyes, laid a hand on Carol’s and squeezed it gently.
‘Eric is his son,’ she said.
Chapter 25
Jack closed his eyes and turned his face into the hot spray pouring down his forehead, bubbling over his face, over his chin and onto his chest. At times such as this, he congratulated himself on taking out the useless shower that had been here before, taking advantage of a quiet week to do something useful.
Two showers in an evening. Who would believe it? He was washing out the staleness of the Chigwell party. And preparing for Joanna. So good to be away from that horde of millionaires. There are times to leave. When hanging around is the worst thing to do. Who would miss him anyway, in that throng of property developers, the dullest people on earth. Their sole topic, money: how much they are making, how much they are spending, and the crafty schemes they have for robbing the government.
Joanna would be here in an hour. At the party, he’d watched her; she had a little ring of fairy writers at one point, and then a businessman or two, making Jack itch with jealousy when he heard her laughter across the room.
She’d told him he was first in line, that she had to get out of the house. Midnight, here. But when it came to sex – could you trust Joanna? For that matter, could you trust anyone when it came to sex?
He soaped himself, arms, armpits, stomach, groin. Washing out filthy millionaires and their molls, down the drain with the suds, with his sense of inadequacy in their company. He was their servant; come here, do this, no, that. Suck up to my money.