A Final Reckoning

by Susan Moody

  ‘I’m only away for a week, you know. Home tomorrow, back at work the day after.’

  ‘Seems longer, that’s all.’

  ‘Anything new to report? Any exciting developments?’

  ‘Not on the artistic front. But if you’re talking personal …’ She paused meaningfully.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mr Right,’ she said, sighing blissfully. ‘I want you to meet Nat A-SAP. Give me your opinion. Because, honestly, darling, I think this is The One. The Real Thing!’

  ‘That’s wonderful. Lorna, I’m so pleased for you,’ I said. ‘Though I can’t imagine why you’d want me to endorse someone you’ve obviously already made your mind up about.’

  ‘I was thinking we could make up a foursome, give me a chance to meet this Gavin of yours. Knock back a glass or two, have a laugh.’

  ‘Sounds like my sort of thing, though Gavin’s not hugely into the social whirl,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure he can be persuaded.’

  ‘Still at the honeymoon stage, are you? Spending the weekend in bed, calling in pizzas, watching DVDs with all limbs entwined?’

  She was so accurate that I blushed. ‘More or less.’

  ‘Been there, done that. But if you could persuade him to get out from under the duvet, honey-babe, why don’t we make it this Thursday, at that nice fish restaurant?’

  ‘I don’t know any fish restaurants.’

  ‘Yes, you do. We went there the other day. The Golden Carp.’

  ‘Harp, Lorna. The Golden Harp. And it’s not a fish restaurant.’

  ‘Never mind. Eight o’clock all right?’

  ‘We’ll be there.’

  I liked Nat as soon as I met him. Warm, smiley, losing his hair and not bothered. A calming influence on Lorna; that much was obvious from the start. We ordered champagne and drank a toast to each other. Gave our orders to the waiter and asked for another bottle of wine to be brought to the table. Chattered about this and that: affairs of the day, the dick-heads currently running the country, why no major government was bothering to intervene in the Middle East, the disgraced disc-jockeys being exposed by their victims. Nat and Gavin discovered that they had both spent time in some of the major financial cities of the world and began chalking up mutual acquaintances, while Lorna and I eyed them fondly.

  ‘Aren’t they sweet?’ she said.

  And I had to agree that they were.

  ‘So, what does your mother think of Nat?’ I asked.

  ‘She hasn’t met him yet. I thought I’d try him out on you first. But she loves the sound of him. The right age, the right job, the right religion … What’s not to like?’ Lorna laughed raucously and drank down the remains of her glass of red. ‘In fact, it wouldn’t matter if he was brain-damaged, as long as he can produce those grandchildren she’s after.’ She laughed some more. ‘I keep telling her, “Mum, I am not a childbearing vessel. I have a brain and I use it. I don’t want to sink into that sour-milk-smelling, unbrushed-hair, not-enough-sleep syndrome that’s trapped my sisters.” But Mum just laughs. “You just wait!” she says.’

  ‘So are we thinking of making this a permanent thing?’

  ‘I am. Hope he is too.’

  ‘Has he proposed?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well, just tell me in good time, so I can start saving up for my frilly pink bridesmaid’s dress.’

  ‘Frilly? Pink? Are you kidding me?’ Lorna shrieked. ‘I’m thinking a gorgeous saffron brocade for the bridesmaids, to offset my white dress, with matching hooded coats, since it’ll be a winter wedding.’

  ‘You already have the date?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘January eighteenth next year.’

  ‘Does he know?’

  Lorna giggled; a dribble of red wine ran slowly down her chin. ‘He’ll be there, I expect. If not, I’ll just have to go through it without him. I mean, I’ve been planning this wedding since God was a boy, and I’m not going to let the lack of a groom ruin my arrangements. Fill-ups, guys?’ She seized the second bottle of red wine and started slopping it into our glasses, a lot of it landing on the tablecloth in the process.

  Gavin frowned. Leaning forward, he tried to take the bottle from her.

  ‘I can do it,’ she said.

  ‘I can do it better,’ he said firmly. He was sitting well back from the table, worrying, I could tell, about his pale-coloured chinos, worn for the first time that night. ‘Give it to me.’

  Reluctantly, she did so, while Nat and I watched the exchange with some amusement.

  Later, we walked down the Soho pavements, two couples hand in hand, laughing up at the orange-shaded sky. Thirty-somethings, in love with life, our horizons were bright. Lorna was on a high, leaning on Nat’s arm, happiness crackling in her hair. Every now and then she tottered on her heels, or sloped sideways against a lamp-post.

  ‘Ooof,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I shall ever be as happy as this again.’

  ‘You will,’ Nat said seriously. ‘I promise you that you will.’

  In the cab back to my place, I snuggled up to Gavin. ‘That was fun, wasn’t it?’

  ‘On the whole, yes, it was. Apart from your drunken friend. Nat’s a nice fellow.’

  ‘She wasn’t that drunk.’

  ‘Drunk enough. Falling about all over the place. I really dislike women who make a public spectacle of themselves.’

  ‘Gavin! That’s a bit harsh.’

  He pulled me closer. ‘I don’t think you should spend too much time with her, if you want to know the truth.’

  ‘But she’s my best friend.’

  ‘Maybe. She’s also a bad influence on you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve never seen you being so loud and noisy before. Don’t you read the government health warnings? You drank far more than is good for you.’

  ‘I did not, thank you.’ I moved away from him. ‘And where do you get off, telling me who I should be friends with?’

  ‘I was only saying—’

  ‘Yeah, well, don’t,’ I snapped. We were on the edge of our first row.

  After a short pause, he said, ‘I honestly thought she was going to pour wine all over my new trousers.’

  ‘So did I!’ I sank against him once more. Row averted; thank God for that.

  And, of course, he was right. I’d drunk far too much. Certainly too much to take part in the vigorous love-making he initiated as soon as we got into the flat. So for once, I just lay there and let it happen as he touched and kissed me in all the places he had come to know, loving it, loving him.

  The following Sunday, Gavin and I drove out to a waterside pub near Oxford for lunch. It was a gorgeous autumn day, the rivers soft and still, gulls following busy tractors as they ploughed up fields that had been abundant a month ago.

  Gavin had been away all week, and I had been extra-busy with a new sale coming up, so this was intended as a bit of concentrated us-time before he dashed off again – to Toronto this time – and I got back to my own job.

  It was a pretty place, with a terrace stretching down to the river and an ancient three-arched bridge leading from one side of the water to the other. Narrowboats plied slowly up and down, full of people sitting out in the cockpit with glasses in their hands, smiling and waving as they passed. Earnest young men sculled rapidly along, obviously training for some very important river-based event. We sat in the golden sunlight of autumn, studying the menu and looking appreciatively round at old stone and copper-coloured chrysanthemums, the gleam of brass from inside, the iridescent green necks of the mallards which waited patiently for something edible to be thrown in their direction.

  By the time we were called inside to eat, the restaurant had filled up. We sat down at our reserved table in the conservatory annexe and contemplated pleasant though unexciting food.

  We smiled at one another. He took my hand and turned it in the sunlight, which filled the conservatory. ‘Darling,’ he said fondly, ‘I really—’

  ‘Christ,
it’s Vicious Vaughn, as I live and breathe!’ a voice said.

  We both looked up at the florid man who stood beside our table. He wore a dark suit and a black tie, highly polished black shoes, a gleaming white shirt with the kind of creases which advertised the fact it had only been removed from its wrapping that morning.

  For a moment Gavin said nothing. Then he grinned. ‘Good God, Brutish Barnesy,’ he said. ‘Darling, can I introduce Leo Barnes, former rugby player, brilliant sawbones, and all-round bastard. Leo, this is my … uh … fiancée, Chantal Frazer.’ What? I tried to assume the kind of demure expression a fiancée might adopt while Gavin got up, and the two of them went into one of those half-embarrassed male embraces.

  ‘Good to meet you, Chantal.’ Barnes gave me an up-and-down look. ‘And congratulations on getting engaged to this bugger. Just as long as you know what you’re getting yourself into.’

  ‘I love you too,’ said Gavin.

  ‘No, seriously,’ Barnes said to me. ‘I hope you can control the lad. He can be really nasty when roused, as many a one-testicled prop-forward can confirm!’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Gavin.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Barnes, sniggering like an adolescent boy with a copy of Playboy. ‘Or not, as the case may be.’

  ‘What are you doing down here, anyway?’ said Gavin. ‘I thought your sphere of influence was in Hong Kong.’

  ‘It is, but …’ Barnes waved across the room where a table of four men, all with black ties, were guffawing over some joke or other. ‘We’re here for Charlie Leeming’s funeral.’

  ‘Charlie’s Leeming’s … Charlie’s dead?’

  ‘Heart attack. He was at some bankers’ do, stuffing meat and two veg into his face, keeled over, died on the spot. I assumed that’s where you two were off to.’

  ‘Barnesy, please. Do we look as if we’re dressed for a funeral? Anyway, I wouldn’t cross the road to rescue Leemers from a rabid tiger, as you well know.’

  ‘We weren’t any fonder of him than you were, old man. We’re just going along to show support for poor old Sally—’

  ‘Sally?’

  ‘Sally Preston as was. Clive’s sister. She married Charlie all those years ago, and now, at last, her luck has turned and she’s shot of him.’

  ‘A charming sentiment,’ said Gavin. ‘Is Clive here too?’ He twisted round to look at the guys over at the table, who had stopped laughing and were staring over at us. Their expressions were not particularly friendly.

  ‘Clive. Woodsy. Bradley. Edwards. You remember them. They certainly remember you!’ Barnes looked at me. ‘Rugby’s a violent game, Chantal, but Gavin here turned violence into an art form, didn’t you, old boy?’

  Gavin shrugged. ‘No more than anyone else.’

  Barnes raised his eyebrows, but didn’t comment.

  The waiter appeared with our food, and Gavin sat down again. ‘Give them all my best, and condolences to Presty, on his sister’s behalf.’

  ‘Will do.’ Barnes moved back to his own table.

  Gavin had his back to them, but I could see them hunched forward as they cast sideways glances in our direction, clearly discussing us in lowered voices. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant encounter, as I could tell from Gavin’s expression. ‘What was that all about?’ I said.

  ‘Bunch of boys from Singapore,’ he said briefly. ‘We used to play rugby on Saturday afternoons. It was good fun.’

  ‘You don’t sound as if you liked them much.’

  ‘I didn’t. Any of them.’ He put a forkful of food in his mouth and chewed slowly. ‘No, that’s not true. They weren’t a bad lot. You met Charlie Leeming at that weekend, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did you like him?’

  ‘Heavens, no.’

  ‘That lot over there were all supposedly friends of his. Says it all.’

  ‘But he was young to die, wasn’t he?’

  ‘You saw him, sweetheart. Face like a tomato about to burst. That’s always a sign of high blood-pressure.’

  ‘Poor chap. You wouldn’t really wish such an early death on anyone.’

  ‘Of course you wouldn’t.’ He laid his big hand over mine, and we were both silent, both remembering those much earlier deaths.

  After a long while, I spoke hesitantly. ‘Gavin, I know you wish I’d just leave it to lie, but is it possible that Lady Forshawe was responsible?’

  ‘Who?’ He was astonished. ‘Jennifer Forshawe? Clio Palliser’s best friend? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’

  His reaction was mixed: irritation that I kept on and on about it all, and a strange sort of excitement. ‘Why on earth would a respectable woman like Jenny Forshawe want to kill two kids? It’s just unbelievable.’

  ‘But you agree that it’s at least possible.’

  ‘It would never in a million years have occurred to me, but yes, I suppose it’s at least possible.’

  ‘Which could mean that poor old Clio spent twenty years in Broadmoor for something she didn’t do.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And if we can prove it, then finally my sister is avenged.’

  ‘That too.’ He squeezed my fingers, which he was still holding. ‘Does it still mean so much to you?’

  I smiled at him. ‘You wouldn’t believe how different I am from when we first met. All the angst and horror and fury … it’s almost gone, though of course I’ll never get over the regret. But nonetheless, I would still like to have it settled.’

  ‘Look, I hope you didn’t mind me saying you were my fiancée. I thought they’d show a bit more respect that way.’

  We drove home in friendly silence and spent the rest of the day in bed, enjoying the touch, the feel, the smell, the taste of each other.

  Ten

  Gavin rang. ‘My mother is coming over from Australia. I want you to meet her, if that’s all right. Or her to meet you, whichever’s more apposite. Can the three of us get together for dinner one night while she’s here?’

  ‘Of course. If …’ I hesitated slightly. ‘If you think it’s appropriate.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  I was embarrassed. ‘Nothing, really.’

  ‘You mean because introducing my girl to my mother is a significant gesture?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘It damn well is appropriate. She’ll love you. Not as much as I do, of course, but …’

  I laughed aloud. ‘Excellent. Wonderful.’ He’d never said it before. Not when we made love slowly and quietly on a rainy Sunday afternoon, nor when we woke in the night and turned to each other, or were tearing our clothes off before we’d even got through the front door, collapsing on to the floor in a frantic urgent coupling, nor when we sat over dinner gazing into each other’s eyes.

  ‘Would you like me to cook at home?’ I said. ‘Use all the best china and silver and so on? Show her how suitable I am?’

  ‘Not this time. She likes eating out.’ He hesitated. ‘Besides …’

  ‘Besides what?’

  ‘It’s all yours, is it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The silver and so forth. Damask tablecloths, crystal glasses, all that fancy stuff.’

  ‘I didn’t shoplift it from Harrods, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘No, I meant, did it come from your family?’

  ‘Gavin, I bought some of it with Hamilton, I inherited some of it from my French grandmother, I bought some of it with my very own money, and some of it was wedding presents. Satisfied?’

  ‘There’s no need to get snippy. It’s just that I’d prefer to use stuff that’s ours, rather than things to do with your first husband.’

  ‘You are being so extremely stupid that I’m going to put the phone down now, quite carefully,’ I said, annoyed, ‘before I slam it down.’ And I replaced the phone on its stand. Gavin had done this before: shown an over-the-top jealousy which was entirely misplaced. I’d explained about Ham’s death. I
’d said that, yes, I missed him sometimes but that I had moved on long ago. I’d pointed out that we were a couple now, that we were beginning to build up our own stuff. And I’d also added that I had no intention of getting rid of my possessions because of some stupid prejudice on his part. Probably not the best way to demonstrate my commitment to us as a partnership, but it was how I felt and he’d have to get used to it.

  I met them at Gavin’s favourite Greek restaurant. Paula, his mother, was tall and somewhat remote, with anxious eyes that rested frequently on her son, searching his face for something she couldn’t always find. I guessed it to be the natural reaction of a protective mother when a child has been through the kind of ordeal that Gavin had suffered, especially since she had been a single parent since her husband’s death. I hoped that seeing him with me would provide the reassurance she must have sought over the years. Apparently, she ran an import–export business and did very well at it.

  ‘Gavin’s father and I set it up together years ago,’ she told me. ‘After he died, it seemed silly to sell up; I couldn’t think of anything else I wanted to do, and I certainly wasn’t ready to take up golf or sit around gossiping at the country club.’

  But now, she said, she was thinking of moving back to England. ‘I don’t want to be idle, though,’ she said. ‘I like a garden to dig, hills to climb, rugby to watch and so forth. Gavin’s father was a great rugby fan.’ She glanced with affection at her son. ‘I’m planning to buy a season ticket or whatever it is over here so I can watch all the big internationals.’

  Gavin took my hand. ‘Chantal loves rugby too, don’t you, darling?’ He smiled at us both. ‘Maybe you can go to matches together.’

  Oh, great, I thought.

  Paula didn’t seem all that thrilled, either. ‘Is that how you met?’ she asked distantly.

  Gavin and I each waited for the other to answer his mother’s question. In the end, I said, ‘We met when we were both staying in the same hotel.’

  ‘Liked the look of him, did you?’ Paula said to me.

  ‘Something like that, Mum,’ he said frostily. ‘In actual fact, Chantal had run out of petrol and was stranded in the middle of nowhere, and fortunately I came to the rescue.’