Bad Sisters

by Chance, Rebecca

  Her warning had been, as far as Deeley was concerned, 100 per cent successful. She was never coming back here. The past was firmly put behind her now, and it was going to stay there forever.

  Maxie

  ‘Darling! You’re a bloody genius!’

  Olly burst into the living room, blond fringe flapping in excitement, did a comedy double take, and skidded to a halt at the sight of his adopted daughter playing on the Aubusson rug with the nanny.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, his face falling. ‘She’s down here, is she?’

  Maxie was so used to Olly’s habit of asking her questions whose answer was already blindingly obvious that it barely annoyed her any more. Most Sloane men tended to do it, she’d found; it was their tribe’s passive-aggressive way of pointing out a situation they didn’t like, while simultaneously indicating that it was the woman’s job to resolve it for them.

  ‘Ten minutes more,’ she said, glancing at the elegant chiming clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Then bath and bed.’

  ‘She’s being such a good girl, Daddy!’ said the nanny bravely, looking up at Olly over Alice’s curly head. ‘She hardly ever cries, do you, sweetie?’

  Alice gurgled and clutched her toy rabbit even tighter. She was indeed a very good-natured child, and as Maxie had assured Olly, very pretty, with huge, saucer-wide, liquid dark eyes and a fluted pout of a mouth.

  ‘Probably learned it didn’t do her any good at the orphanage,’ Olly observed, giving both Alice and the nanny a wide berth as he walked gingerly round them to the bar on the far wall. ‘Just like prep school, I imagine. More you cry, more they whack you. You learn jolly quickly not to make a whimper, I can tell you.’

  The nanny, a nice Australian girl, flinched, instinctively pulling Alice into her arms for a cuddle. Alice beamed up at her; she was a quick learner and had already worked out that her nanny was the main source of love and affection in this comparatively cold country.

  ‘No, she’s working out very well,’ Maxie said. She was sitting at her correspondence desk, writing emails; the desk was inlaid Georgian rosewood, had been in the Stangroom family for generations, and Maxie had coveted it as soon as she’d laid eyes on it. Though it wasn’t as practical as something more modern would have been – her laptop was a little cramped, too large for the shallow surface, its rubber base catching on the inlaid surface of the desk – the desk made her feel gracious and aristocratic, like the chatelaine of a manor house, writing letters, keeping the account books, filing bills into the elaborately carved pigeonholes, making sure that every aspect of her miniature empire was perfectly organized. Like the baronet’s wife she would be when Olly’s father died, and they became Sir Olly and Lady Stangroom, and Maxie’s mother-in-law moved into the Dower House.

  Maxie simply couldn’t wait.

  ‘G & T, darling?’ Olly said, reaching for the Tanqueray bottle.

  ‘Slimline for me,’ she said automatically, closing her laptop and turning to face him. ‘What is it, Olly? You sound excited.’

  ‘Promotion!’ he said, beaming at her with what was probably exactly the same happy smile he’d worn when he was six and unwrapping his Christmas presents to find the Thomas the Tank Engine train set he’d wanted for months. ‘It’s pretty much in the bag! Junior minister! The chief whip told me today.’

  ‘Oh, Olly!’ Maxie’s eyes glittered. ‘That is exciting!’

  ‘All very hush-hush, of course,’ he said anxiously, glancing down at the nanny, who was blowing raspberries into the fat curvy creases on Alice’s neck, making her charge chortle with glee.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Maxie said, reaching out her hand for the glass tumbler of gin and tonic. ‘She’s signed a cast-iron confidentiality agreement.’

  ‘You think of everything, darling,’ he said fondly, bending to kiss her forehead. ‘So clever. And, you know . . .’ he gestured towards Alice, who was trying to purse her lips to kiss her nanny, ‘that’s turned out to be a great idea of yours too. He as much as said so. Very positive PR.’ He stood back, leaning against the mantelpiece, one arm along it, the other bringing the glass of gin and tonic to his mouth: the English gentleman in his own home, master of all he surveyed.

  ‘Bedtime for baby!’ the nanny said over-gaily; she had been keeping one eye on the clock ever since Maxie’s reminder ten minutes ago, ready to whisk out her charge on the dot of the appointed time. Picking up Alice and swinging her with practised ease onto one hip, the nanny came over to Olly and Maxie.

  ‘Kiss for Mummy and Daddy?’ she asked rather nervously, but Maxie smiled approvingly and tilted her head, giving Alice one smooth cheek to kiss. Olly obediently followed suit, though he was clearly awkward.

  ‘I say, Max,’ he said when the door had closed behind Alice and her only caregiver, ‘it still seems bloody odd to be – y’know – her “daddy”. Bloody odd. Can’t really get used to it, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘It’s early days,’ Maxie reassured him, stretching out her long slim legs in front of her and crossing them at the ankles; her legs were one of her best features, and she always took pleasure in looking at them. ‘You’ll settle in. And really, Olly, you won’t be spending much time with her anyway. I’m going to organize everything just the way your mother did. She’s practically given me notes.’

  ‘Seen but not heard, eh?’ Olly said more cheerfully. ‘Or rather, not even seen that much? Excellent. Mummy was quite right. Small children are such ghastly bores. Have ’em down for an hour before dinner, make sure they’re on their best behaviour, then pop ’em off with the nanny so the grown-ups can have their fun. Right?’

  ‘Absolutely, darling,’ Maxie confirmed. ‘Your mother and I see completely eye to eye on this.’

  ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it!’ Olly said happily in an execrable American accent.

  Then he remembered something important. His mouth formed into an O of concentration, and nerves caused him to set down his glass on the marble of the mantelpiece slightly louder than he’d meant to, the rattle attracting Maxie’s attention away from the happy contemplation of the neatly stockinged curve of her ankles.

  ‘The thing is,’ he started, ‘and it may not really be anything at all – it’s just a word Tristram had with me today . . .’

  The hesitance of his tone, the slight stammer as he pronounced the dreaded name, had Maxie immediately springing to attention, her back straightening as she focussed on her husband.

  ‘What is it?’ she said sharply. ‘Spit it out, Olly! What’s happened?’

  ‘Well,’ Olly said, his blue eyes clouded with confusion, ‘Tristram mentioned to me today that he’d like you to pop in and have a word with him in his office. At your own convenience, he said, which means—’

  ‘Pronto,’ Maxie finished, cutting in.

  ‘Exactly.’ Olly looked baffled. ‘Can’t think why he wants to have a talk with my wife. It’s all very unprecedented. Bit of a mystery, really.’

  Maxie’s forehead did its best to crease, and failed. Too much Botox. Instead, little wrinkles appeared up each side of her nose; when most of your major face muscles couldn’t move, the others overcompensated frantically. Sir Tristram Cavendish was the chief whip of the party, a ruthless powerbroker with a reputation for utter efficiency and terrifying intimidation skills. Effortlessly charming, cold as ice, the disapproving raise of Tristram Cavendish’s left eyebrow was enough to snap wayward backbenchers into the party line once more. It was a very bad idea to defy him; Sir Tristram knew where all the bodies were buried. At this thought Maxie shivered. That expression, never a favourite of hers, had become positively taboo since Deeley had come back to London.

  ‘I’ll ring him first thing in the morning,’ she said briskly, standing up; decades of practice had taught Maxie to cloak her nerves in a sheath of steely resolve. ‘It’s time for dinner. Roast chicken and potatoes, your mother’s recipe. I taught Prabhita to make it today.’

  Olly gazed at her admiringly. ‘I say, Maxie, you are amazing,’ he blu
rted out. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  Maxie stroked his cheek affectionately as she passed him, leading the way to the dining room.

  ‘Not a thing, darling,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You wouldn’t do a bloody thing.’

  Maxie had been to the Houses of Parliament many times before, of course. Loyally sitting in the public gallery, watching Olly make speeches, or – more often – shout abuse at the opposition. Dressed up to the nines for the State Openings of Parliament, in a variety of elegant hats and suits. And equally smartly dressed – if rarely in a hat – for the endless round of dinners, cocktail parties and drinks on the Commons terrace, with its glorious view of the Thames below.

  But she had never really been nervous visiting what MPs familiarly called ‘the House’ before. Her three years studying at Oxford had been such an arduous apprenticeship that everything afterwards had seemed, as Aunt Sandra used to say, as easy as winking. Maxie had officially been doing an undergraduate degree in PPE – politics, philosophy and economics – but her real subject for study was the aristocracy that she longed to join. The rich, privileged boys and girls, the ones called Olly, Alastair and Toby, or Kate, Serena and Samantha. The ones with country houses, private incomes, pink cheeks, blonde hair, butter-soft skin and the air of ineffable superiority that comes with the security of knowing that you rule the world. Some of them were quite bright, but most of them were not; and yet they were still at Oxford, the university Maxie had struggled so hard to win a place at – mostly because their families had been attending the colleges there since the dawn of time, and admissions tutors loved the old family connections.

  Maxie had watched them, learned from them; she shopped where they did, talked like they did, and been clever enough not to try to mix with them socially until she had assimilated their ways. Then she had joined the Oxford Union, the famous debating society, and done well enough to be considered possible future MP material. Maxie had always been able to talk people into things. But she had preferred to capitalize on Olly Stangroom’s open-mouthed admiration of her looks, brains, and naturally dominating personality, and decided to mould him, instead, into her ideal MP husband, with his mother’s total approval. Lady Stangroom had been happy to overlook Maxie’s common-as-dirt origins – even help her avoid social faux pas – in return for Maxie’s skill in pushing, tugging and bullying Olly into becoming a suitable Member of Parliament, electable to the family seat which his father had held for thirty years.

  By now, after all she had been through, all she had done to get where she was, Maxie should have felt able to deal with any situation. So she was surprised that, after her long walk down oak-panelled, oil-painting-hung corridors, as Sir Tristram Cavendish’s secretary rose, smiling, to take her coat and assure her that he wouldn’t keep her waiting long, her stomach was fluttering with nerves. The chief whip was one of the most powerful members of the parliamentary party, able to make and break careers, put forward his protégés for advancement, pull all kinds of invisible strings to make his puppets dance as he wanted.

  Tristram Cavendish had worked his way up the ranks, one of many assistant whips, effortlessly outshining all his rivals. He’d become deputy whip very speedily, and then unseated the chief whip in a palace coup that still, years later, had people retelling the details of his utterly unscrupulous manoeuvrings in hushed, awed voices. He spoke for the prime minister, whose enforcer he was. If you voted against the party, it was Tristram you had to answer to: a terrifying prospect.

  But Olly was the last MP who’d ever dream of voting against the party; he was loyal through and through, partly because of Sloane tribal dedication, partly because he was too stupid to contemplate an alternative.

  That might be the problem, Maxie thought, turning over in her mind various theories as to why the chief whip wanted to talk to a prospective junior minister’s wife. Is he worried that Olly’s just too thick for the job? And if so, how on earth do I reassure him?

  ‘Maxie! My dear! How very nice to see you!’

  Lost in speculation, she hadn’t even noticed the door of Tristram Cavendish’s office open. Maxie was pleased with herself; she didn’t jump to her feet, as one tended to on hearing his authoritative, plummy tones. Instead she stood up elegantly, smoothing down her tailored skirt, smiling at the man facing her. Tall and imposing, the chief whip had the air of a 1950s film star, an actor cast to play a politician; he radiated professional authority.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to see you too, Tristram,’ Maxie said in a voice just as clipped and upper class as his.

  ‘Daphne, I’m going to have a nice little chat with Mrs Stangroom,’ Sir Tristram said, standing back and gesturing expansively at Maxie to enter his office. He glanced at the grandfather clock on the wall. ‘Goodness, is that the time? Five thirty already? Just finish up for the day and run on home – don’t bother to wait for me.’

  ‘Absolutely, Sir Tristram,’ the secretary said, as Tristram closed the door leading to the outer office.

  ‘Right, let’s have a drink,’ he said cheerfully. ‘The sun is most definitely over the yardarm! What’s your tipple, my dear?’

  ‘G & T if you have one, thanks.’ Maxie settled herself in the visitor’s chair behind the wide expanse of leather-topped, mahogany keyhole desk, a huge Victorian monster. The dark green leather was studded with brass, the desk boasted rows and rows of drawers with shining brass handles; its sheer scale dwarfed the modern additions of a very up-to-date computer, and Sir Tristram’s mobile phone, personal organizer and various purring gadgets.

  ‘You do yourself nicely here,’ she said, her tone light, looking around at the large, beautifully proportioned room, with its vaulted stone ceilings and equally lavishly carved window embrasures. ‘Even a river view. Rather beautiful.’

  The last rays of the setting sun were streaking the grey waters of the Thames and turning Westminster Abbey, on the other side of the river, into a golden glowing mass. It was obligatory to act as if one were bored with the sight, so jaded one barely noticed it any more, so Maxie only let her eyes linger on it for a few brief moments before turning away to accept, with a smile, the brimming glass that Tristram Cavendish was handing her.

  ‘Whisky for me,’ he said, walking back to the bar, another huge, solid piece of elaborately carved wood, with two curving doors that opened to reveal an impressive display of bottles. It was a tribute to the sheer scale of the chief whip’s office that it could accommodate furniture on an equally large scale; even the modern leather desk chair into which Tristram sank, contemplating his glass of 23-year-old Macallan with a satisfied smile of anticipation, was two feet wide, with padded arms big enough for a giant.

  ‘Cheers!’ he said, raising his tumbler to Maxie, who smiled again and raised her own in return.

  But she was observing him very closely as he sipped. Tristram Cavendish was as imposing as his mahogany furniture, a big, well-built man with smooth good looks, the silver at his temples adding to his air of distinction and authority. His suit was impeccably cut; like Olly’s, it smoothed over a frame that had put on some weight since his sporty university days, but he was tall enough to carry the extra pounds, and his regular tennis and squash sessions ensured that there was a solid muscle layer keeping him reasonably trim. He was, famously, something of a dandy, impeccably groomed from his sleek hair to his buffed and trimmed fingernails. His silk tie echoed the colour of his enamelled cufflinks, which were just visible under the cuffs of his jacket.

  ‘You look most attractive, Maxie,’ he said, setting down his glass on an embossed gold coaster. ‘The perfect MP’s wife.’

  Maxie relaxed a little, enough to sip from her own glass. She glanced down at her slim-fitting navy twill suit, a silk scarf tucked in casually at the neck; a traditional outfit, but styled sleekly enough to look modern, if not cutting edge. Which was perfect. An MP, or their spouse, should definitely not look too trendy.

  She smiled ironically at Sir Tristram. ‘It’s Armani,’ she
said. ‘But for the photo calls and party conference, it’ll be M & S. Or Bilberry, of course. We’re doing a diffusion line that isn’t that expensive.’

  The chief whip’s lightly sarcastic smile echoed her own; it was very important now, post-expenses scandals, for parliamentarians and their spouses to look as if they budgeted, had the common touch. Wearing a dress from Marks and Spencer, or supporting a British designer, was mandatory.

  ‘Clever girl,’ he said approvingly. ‘A diffusion line – that’s cheaper, isn’t it? The populist touch. Very good.’

  He drank some more Macallan.

  ‘But you must be wondering why I asked you to pop in,’ he continued, as smooth as his drink of choice.

  ‘I was rather.’

  Maxie set down her own glass, swivelled the chair a little and crossed her legs, looking as unruffled as ever, though her heart was pounding.

  I so want Olly to get this promotion! Junior minister – it’s the start of everything we’ve worked for. If bloody Deeley hasn’t ruined it by blabbing to that stupid magazine . . .

  ‘Your sister,’ Sir Tristram said meditatively, swirling the whisky slowly in the heavy glass tumbler. ‘Terribly pretty girl. I must say, Maxie, your family breeds pretty fillies, eh? None of you exactly hit with the ugly stick.’

  Maxie smiled politely, though she couldn’t help but be aware that this compliment was mainly meant for Deeley and Devon. Unless you caught both her younger sisters post-chemical peel, say, there was no way that Maxie could be considered the most attractive McKenna sister. She was good-looking, and, thanks to Botox slowing down the aging process, she didn’t think she looked all of her thirty-five years. Thank God she photographed well, which helped tremendously with all the press attention for both her job and Olly’s. But she could never compete with Deeley’s LA glamour or Devon’s sexpot appeal.

  I made my peace with that a long time ago, she reflected. I may not be as gorgeous as my sisters, but I’m a damn sight more successful.