by Susan Lewis
Realizing that her mother hadn’t called yet, she was about to try her when the telepathic airwaves beat her to it. ‘Hey, Mum,’ she chirruped as she clicked on. ‘You remembered!’
‘Remembered what?’ her mother countered.
‘Ha ha. Are you treating us to a few days at a luxury spa for some M and D bonding, or should I expect a back brush for the shower to replace the one that broke?’
‘Did it break? You didn’t tell me. I can return it.’
‘If I didn’t know you were joking I’d think you were weird.’
‘You think that anyway. So what are you doing today?’
‘Meeting the GaLs for lunch at Beaufort House. We’ll probably still be there at teatime.’
‘Well try not to make a fool of yourself. Drink tends to do that to a person.’
Vivienne mimed yadda yadda yadda and smiled as she said, ‘And what are you doing today?’
‘Working, of course. You know Saturdays are my busiest day, and Jan left yesterday so there’s no one to run reception. I’ll be frazzled by the time we close, so lucky I’m not going out tonight.’
That wasn’t unusual for her mother; she hadn’t had much of a social life since her marriage had ended, although Gil still frequently drove the fifty or so miles from his home to take her to dinner. Strange, but Vivienne kept reminding herself that it was her mother’s life, not hers, so if Gina and Gil wanted a long-distance relationship with unspecified benefits it was their business, not hers.
‘Are you seeing Greg today?’ Gina asked.
‘No, but we’re supposed to be meeting some friends for lunch tomorrow. I might have to cancel, though. I’ve got so much on at the office …’ She checked to see who an incoming text was from and said, ‘Mum, sorry, I have to go. I’ll call again later, OK?’
There was a brief silence, and Vivi wasn’t sure whether her mother was hurt or annoyed, probably both. ‘If you have time,’ Gina replied. Her tone betrayed nothing more than a soft sigh that said she was used to being cut short, since it happened all the time. And where did I get that from? Vivi thought defensively as she rang off. Her mother had been cutting her short all her life.
The text was from Michelle, her best friend since they were five; Michelle who’d been like a sister to her until their lives had taken such different paths, Vivi to go off to London and uni, Michelle to stay in Kesterly, marry young and have a family. They’d remained in touch mostly through birthday cards and the occasional text, but in spite of Vivi being godmother to both Michelle’s children they hardly ever saw one another now. There was a time when it would have broken Vivi’s heart to think of them drifting apart, in a way it still did, but life, ambition, motherhood and all sorts of other demands meant they no longer had much in common.
Michelle never forgot Vivi’s birthday, and Vivi desperately wished she could say the same, but more often than not she was late with a text, and later still with cards. She was generous with presents, though, especially for the children, and Michelle always sent photographs to show how delighted they were with the new toy or book or outrageously expensive designer wear.
Happy Birthday to you. Hope you have a fabulous day. We all send love. What are you planning? Are you even in the country?
Remembering she’d been in Dubai the last time she and Michelle were in touch, Vivi couldn’t help wondering how interested her friend really was in her life. Probably not very, for Michelle had never been ambitious, caring little for the crazy kind of jet-set existence that was so totally at odds with the plodding and predictable world of Kesterly. But it was typical of Michelle to show an interest: kind, considerate, full of fun and mischief, she had a way of making a person feel valued and special even if they no longer shared girlhood dreams. What a gift that was. Vivi wished she had it, but every time she tried to focus more on matters outside work something would come up and everything else would be forgotten.
She texted back: Tx for the happy birthday. You’re amazing. In London. Seeing the GaLs at Beaufort House. Should be fun. Had Michelle ever heard of Beaufort House? She’d know who the GaLs were, though she might not remember all their names. She was aware, of course, that they were Vivi’s closest friends now, just as Sam, Michelle’s husband, had become her closest friend.
What mattered was that they’d always been there for one another while growing up. Nothing would ever change that; Vivi just hoped a time would never come when they lost touch completely, though she was aware that it easily could.
Kicking off her flip-flops, she was about to read her other texts when Michelle came through again. Millie wants you to know that her little brother should be called Eeyore because he cries like a donkey.
Vivi broke into a deep, throaty laugh, and for a few minutes they texted back and forth as though almost five-year-old Millie was sending the messages about her new pony and the present she and Mummy had sent to Vivi for her birthday that smelled lovely.
Ten minutes later Vivienne stepped into the shower and closed her eyes as a power-charged flow of warm water cascaded over her. She spun around, lifting her face to the jets, and put a hand to the wall as she swayed. She was thinking about her sweet little godchildren, Millie and Ash, and what a pity it was that her own children (when she finally got round to having them, and that wasn’t going to be any time soon) would be so much younger than them. And maybe, with her living in London and them way across the country in Kesterly-on-Sea, they wouldn’t even really get to know one another. That felt sadder than sad, given how close she and Michelle had always been, but the only solution would be for her to meet and marry someone who wanted to live in Kesterly, which was never going to happen. Nor, considering Sam’s business as a local builder and Michelle’s own ties to Kesterly, were they ever likely to move to London.
By the time Vivi was ready to leave the flat she’d taken three more calls from various friends, and had managed to book herself a Shellac manicure for eight on Monday evening. She probably ought to make a hair appointment sometime soon, too, for the random whirl of waves clustered around her face and neck was in need of some taming.
Wearing ripped skinny jeans, a pair of flat strappy sandals and a waist-length leather jacket, she decided to walk to Beaufort House. The weather was too good to miss a moment of it, and capturing its buoyancy in her stride she seemed about to break into a dance as she started off down the street.
As she was turning into the Fulham Road her phone rang again, and seeing it was her half-brother, Mark, she swiftly clicked on. ‘Hey you! What are you doing up so early?’ she cried.
‘My phone went off,’ he grumbled. ‘I was working until four this morning and I’m back on at five this evening, but no one cares about me.’ A sport and exercise student at Birmingham Uni, he’d taken a job as a barman at Pitcher and Piano to provide himself with some spending money. His father, Gil, was covering the lion’s share of his other expenses, including his rent and the small car he used to bomb around town. ‘Happy birthday,’ he said with a yawn.
‘Thanks. So Mum called to remind you?’
‘What do you think? Not that I’d forgotten, I just wouldn’t have remembered until I woke up. So, are you back from New York?’
‘Yesterday. Off to Singapore on Wednesday.’ Of course. That was why she couldn’t make a sushi dinner with Greg and the others. She’d better check her calendar to be sure she was up to speed with everything else. Waiting for an ambulance to cut its siren as it pulled into Chelsea and Westminster A & E, she started across the road, saying, ‘Any chance of you getting to London sometime soon? I feel as though I haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘Since Christmas,’ he reminded her, ‘but I get that you’re missing me. It happens. I have to deal with it all the time.’
Laughing, she said, ‘So how many hearts have you broken this week?’
‘Lost count, but hey, who’s taking care of mine?’
‘That tough old thing? I think it can take care of itself.’
‘Brutal. How�
��s Greg? Are we ever going to meet him?’
‘He’s OK. Actually I haven’t seen him since …’ She tried to think. ‘It’s been too long. Did you get to the Six Nations match in the end?’
‘You bet. The bloke’s a genius. I already thanked him for the tickets, by the way.’
‘Great. Did Gil go with you?’
‘Sure. Then we drove all the way back to Kesterly to take Mum for dinner in case she was feeling left out.’
Vivienne had to laugh.
‘Did she tell you she’s taken up running?’ Mark asked.
‘You’re kidding.’
‘No, I went out with her while I was there. She’s pretty fit, actually, but I guess that’s no surprise when she goes to the gym quite regularly. Dad reckons the running thing is so she can run with you when you go home, or maybe she wants to do a marathon with you?’
And this, Vivienne was thinking, is why my mother is so confusing. She doesn’t mention anything about it to me, but Gil is probably right, she’ll have me in mind on one level or another, because she always has – and if not me then Mark, or Gil, then back to me …
‘Listen,’ she said to Mark, ‘I’ll let you get some more sleep before you have to go back on shift. Speak soon. Love you.’
‘Right back at you,’ and he was gone.
She pressed on towards Beaufort Street, and checked her phone to see if any more texts had arrived in the last few minutes. Several had: more birthday messages from friends and colleagues, also one from Gil, who had no doubt also sent flowers, because he always did.
The only person she knew for a fact she wouldn’t get a call or anything else from on this, or any other day, was her real father, because she never did.
Beaufort House was in the World’s End part of Chelsea, on the corner of Beaufort Street and the famous King’s Road. It was an area that Vivienne found as electrifying as the City where she worked, though for entirely different reasons. The buzz here was all about being social, cosmopolitan, and fabulously multicultural. The restaurants were as diverse as their deliciously exotic ingredients, the fashions as outrageous as they were expensive and the interior design shops as inspirational as a genie’s bottle full of crazy dreams. It could hardly be more different from her home town with its unedifying mix of tired terraces, fish-and-chip shops and donkey rides. On the other hand, she was ready to concede that Kesterly had its charms too, just not enough of them to have kept her there past her eighteenth birthday, when she’d launched herself with high excitement and yes, some trepidation on London. Being in the capital had been her goal for as long as she could remember, so too had been studying hard and working her way into a high-powered job that would open doors to all kinds of other worlds, and make her feel as important and accomplished as she’d always longed to be.
It was happening every day, sometimes in small ways, other times in great significant bursts. The headiness of success was as intoxicating as the champagne she and her friends cracked to celebrate it while the satisfaction of knowing she’d bested a rival, or helped seal a long-fought-for merger, was perhaps the greatest kick of all. Though she wasn’t particularly aware of how much everyone valued her as a colleague or friend, the way she was greeted as she entered the bustling, airy bar of Beaufort House made her swell with pride and pleasure.
‘About bloody time!’
‘Happy birthday!’
‘Champagne’s on you.’
‘Someone get the goddess a glass.’
The other five GaLs were already there, grouped around their usual table next to the window, and as a flute was thrust into Vivienne’s hand it seemed the entire room joined in a rousing chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’.
It was exhilarating and hilarious as perfect strangers bowed or raised glasses, and a couple of bar staff shimmied about with more champagne.
As the fun died down and Vivienne sank laughing into the chair they’d reserved for her, she gasped and laughed again as Trudy pointed her to the pile of gifts at the end of the cushioned bench seat.
‘All for you,’ Trudy declared exultantly.
‘All for one, one for all!’ Sachi sang out, her engaging French accent resonating even in those few simple words.
Saanvi, whose stunning black hair and exquisite features made her as exotic as the Indian divinity she was named for, began passing the gifts along. Saanvi’s much older husband ran a global macro hedge fund, where Saanvi had recently been promoted to head up the quantitative risk management team.
‘How many carats did Greg manage?’ Shaz, their Australian derivatives lawyer, wanted to know. Though Shaz mainly worked out of Frankfurt, she was back and forth to London all the time.
‘I’m sure it’ll be at least seven,’ Vivienne shot back, causing another raucous uplift of glasses to toast the prediction.
They’d shared so much during their time at uni that sometimes it felt as though they hadn’t had a life before. They never judged one another in negative ways; they did everything they could to support each other, because they understood who they were and what power their friendship gave them.
These GaLs were her family away from home, the rock that kept her safe and strong; the exclusive network that made everything possible.
‘Are you in Singapore on Thursday?’ Trudy wanted to know.
‘I leave on Wednesday,’ Vivi told her.
‘Saanvi, did you hear that?’ Trudy demanded. ‘She is going to Singapore on Wednesday.’
‘Brilliant,’ Saanvi responded triumphantly. ‘Email me your details and I’ll make sure I’m on the same flight. Where are you staying?’
‘I’m not sure yet,’ Vivienne replied, ‘but I’ll put it in the email. Oh my God, what’s this?’ She pulled the softest, palest pink something from a satin-ribboned box with velveteen stripes and diamanté studs. ‘Oh, you’re kidding me. Myla silk pyjamas. I’ve always wanted a pair …’
Trudy threw out her hands. ‘How on earth did I know that?’ she demanded in amazement.
Vivienne pressed a hand to her chest as she laughed, then leaned forwards to embrace her friend. She coughed to try and clear the tightness in her lungs and sat down again to open more presents.
From Saanvi there were two tickets for a day full of treatments at the Thermes Marins spa in Monte Carlo. ‘Oh wow!’ Vivienne cried, completely blown away. ‘We haven’t been there since we graduated. This is amazing.’
‘Open this one next,’ Shaz insisted, pushing a small silver-wrapped packet into Vivienne’s hand.
Vivienne’s eyes widened with astonishment when she found more tickets, this time for a helicopter transfer from Nice to Monaco.
‘And in this one,’ Sachi told her, ‘you will find a voucher for two return flights to Nice – and a little something else to go with it.’
The something else turned out to be a night at the Hotel de Paris.
‘Now all you have to do,’ Trudi pointed out, ‘is decide which one of us you’re going to take with you.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Vivienne protested. ‘How on earth am I going to do that? Can’t we get our diaries together and work out a time for us all to go?’
‘Best idea I’ve heard all day,’ Shaz concurred, refilling the glasses.
As Vivienne watched and joined in the bubbling excitement she pushed at her chest again, as though the pressure might disperse the ache. She really ought to eat something before downing the champagne, or she’d have another dizzy spell. She reached for a smoked salmon hors d’oeuvre and popped it into her mouth. Delicious, heavenly, so she tried another.
Shaz was asking her something, but for some reason Shaz’s voice seemed to be coming through water. It bobbed back to the surface with sudden clarity as she said, ‘Vivi! Are you all right?’
Vivienne laughed. ‘Of course,’ but the room was dipping away and lurching back as though she were on a ship in a storm, and when she tried to lift her glass she found she couldn’t move her arm. Everything hurt, she realized, her whole body, and the pain
was clenching so hard into her chest …
‘Vivienne!’ someone shouted. She thought it was Saanvi.
‘Oh my God!’ Hands were closing around her arms. ‘She’s fainting. Get her some air …’
Vivienne’s face contorted as she tried to breathe. ‘I don’t … It’s …’ she gasped.
‘Her lips are blue … Oh Jesus! Vivienne!’
‘Help! Someone. We need help.’
Vivienne was still trying to breath.
‘Let me through. I’m a doctor, clear some space.’
A man’s face came into view, blurred and dark and moving close.
‘Call an ambulance,’ he barked. ‘Do it now. What’s her name?’
‘Vivienne.’
‘Vivienne,’ he said urgently. ‘I’m going to lie you down …’
She was trying to listen, even to laugh, because this was funny wasn’t it, or embarrassing … It couldn’t be real, but it hurt so much …
‘Deep breaths,’ he was saying, moving her roughly to the floor. ‘Come on Vivienne, you can do it. In, out. In, out.’ His fist was banging into her chest.
She tried. In … The noise was awful. Rushing, ripping, breaking … ‘Mum,’ she murmured weakly.
‘In, out.’ The world was going black. He was still banging her chest … ‘Stay with me,’ he shouted angrily. ‘Vivienne. Stay with me.’
CHAPTER TWO
SHELLEY
Summer 1984
It was a crackpot idea.
Everyone had said so.
Friends, families, even Shelley and Jack, whose plan it was, thought they were crazy, but hey ho, they’d gone ahead and done it anyway. Why not? They’d spent holidays at Deerwood Farm as far back as when they were knee-high to tadpoles, as Shelley’s uncle Bob used to call them. They’d continued to come as teens, helping out in the barns, running wild and loving every animal as if it were a pet – and every mouthful of Aunt Sarah’s home bakes as if they were the very best in the world, which they were.