Cathy Kelly 3-book Bundle

by Cathy Kelly

  Katharine was the wife of a client, not one herself. Which was like being the third violin in an orchestra. If Rob had moved on, Charles would be four steps ahead of him.

  ‘Thank you for calling, David,’ she said. ‘I appreciate your kindness.’

  ‘For my money, he’s crazy,’ David replied quickly. ‘Really crazy.’

  Katharine felt a tear slip down her cheek.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and hung up.

  Prague had been one of her favourite places in the world. The cupolas with their candied almond colours and the sense that the whole city was a magical film set waiting for the child catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

  She’d said she might come to Romania for the end of filming.

  ‘Not a good idea, darling,’ Rob had said. His voice was part Welsh gravel, part molten steel. Instantly recognisable. When he phoned restaurants asking for a reservation, the person on the other end of the line always hesitated. As if the voice that had graced so many films couldn’t actually do anything so mundane as book a table.

  Not that he’d phoned anywhere himself for years. He had an assistant to do that for him. Or Katharine.

  There was always one person in a famous couple who deferred to the other. On the outside, they were the Hartnells, dually famous and successful. But in reality, Rob was the one who got the mega-budget Hollywood movies, while Katharine got quirkier, character parts in thoughtful films. She did theatre while American Express asked Rob to do commercials.

  She had a line of BAFTAs, but Rob had the power. He wasn’t the sort of man who could come second to anyone. Katharine had understood that.

  Now she got out of bed and went into her huge dressing room to prepare for her busy day.

  A wardrobe expert had set it all up for her. With money, one could pay people to do absolutely everything. From organising what to wear to what to eat. And yet it wasn’t possible to pay a person to live your life. You still had to do that yourself, and when it went wrong, nobody but you felt the pain.

  ‘Pain helps us grow,’ insisted Anders Frolichsen. ‘You must embrace pain, Katharine, my love. Pain is what we are about. Pain and love.’

  ‘Anders, you say the most wonderfully crazy things, darling,’ she used to say affectionately. ‘Wait till you’re older. You won’t say that. You’ll say, “No more pain, bring me vodka and happiness!”’

  Anders was the young playwright who’d written a play specially for her. A dark drama about an older woman’s affair with her son’s best friend, it was beautifully written and a joy for any actress. A passionate Swede, he was twenty years her junior and she was having a marvellous time with him.

  She didn’t love him, not the way she’d loved Rob. She might never love anyone like that again, with that naked, pure love that laid a person open to being hurt.

  But she adored being with Anders. He was funny, warm, kind and mad about her. It didn’t hurt that he had the body of an athlete and a definite resemblance to Viggo Mortensen.

  She’d grinned when the first photos of her and Anders appeared in the tabloids.

  Katharine gets over grief with younger man screamed the headlines.

  The pictures were a thrill after the horrific photos of her after Rob had vanished.

  Her CV had been reduced to one hideous photo of her leaving her house with no make-up. The picture of tragedy.

  The shots with Anders rather made up for that. She hoped Rob had seen them too.

  He’d contacted her only once: a drunken phone call on a crackly line from somewhere in the Caribbean. LeBoyer’s tentacles stretched wide. There would be plenty of wealthy people with nice private islands willing to let Rob Hartnell stay for a few months. Imagine the cocktail-party gossip among the super-rich: ‘I got a super yacht.’ ‘I bought a football club.’ ‘I let Rob Hartnell have the house on the island for two months. We’re close friends, you know.’

  Katharine had been watching Sunset Boulevard for the nth time one evening when she picked up the call. Normally, she let the answering machine handle it after six rings, but tonight, she didn’t think and picked it up. Nobody spoke. She knew it was him, though. She could sense his breathing, even that was memorable.

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Katharine.’

  He’d been drinking: it was obvious in his voice. Not to many people, but obvious to her. The clipped RADA-esque syllables, although he’d never been to RADA and was bitter about it, were slurred just a fraction.

  ‘Is that what you phoned to tell me?’ she said, unable to hide the bitterness in her own voice. This wasn’t how she’d intended to play it. She’d planned to be coolly magnanimous, not the shrewish woman scorned. But in her mental fantasies, she’d always had time to prepare. Now, late in the evening and unprepared, she was raw and bitter. The real Katharine.

  ‘Yes, I had to say sorry,’ he said. He was using his humble voice.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  More silence.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He wasn’t being Rob the actor any more, he was being Rob the man. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’ve broken what we had,’ she said. ‘It’s over. There’s no going back. But you know that,’ she added, ‘else you wouldn’t have run away.’

  ‘Charles said I should disappear.’

  ‘Thank you, Charles,’ she said acidly. ‘Is he listening in?’

  Charles listened in on many of Rob’s calls, especially the potentially difficult ones.

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Is she with you?’

  Katharine didn’t want to say Megan Bouchier’s name. Naming her gave her a dignity.

  ‘No, it ended there and then. She’s disappeared.’

  ‘Waiting to appear naked in Playboy and tell all, I daresay,’ Katharine snapped, and then was sorry. She’d sounded so bitter. ‘That was beneath me,’ she said. ‘I better go, Rob. I’ve got company.’

  ‘Your young Swedish lover, no doubt?’

  He was the one who sounded bitter now.

  Katharine allowed herself a small smile. ‘Perhaps,’ she said and gently put the phone down.

  Today, Rob was not on her mind as she sat in the back of the chauffeured car on her way to the theatre for rehearsals. The play was opening within a week. The producer was so excited that he was now talking Broadway.

  ‘With an actress of your calibre, it can’t fail,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t count your chickens,’ said Katharine. She’d never have said that before. Before Rob left her. She’d have pretended that her excitement matched his, because that’s what the money men wanted, wasn’t it? Enthusiasm. But the new Katharine said what she thought. It was a very freeing thing to do. ‘Let’s find out whether people want to see it in London before we get excited about New York.’

  The car slid to a halt outside the stage door, and Katharine was ready to run in when a woman appeared and blocked her way. A small, dark-haired girl with huge eyes and –

  Katharine drew back instinctively.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Megan Bouchier. ‘It was the only way I knew to talk to you.’

  Katharine stared. ‘You? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to say that I should never have gone to bed with your husband, that I can only say sorry. It sounds lame, but I had to do it, come to see you face to face.’

  Katharine had recovered somewhat. She looked Megan up and down. The girl was stunning in the flesh. No lines furrowing her brow, no grooves of experience turning her young face into an old woman’s mask: she was young and beautiful. She could have anyone. Why Rob?

  For a brief moment, Katharine wanted to reach out and hit Megan Bouchier so hard, she’d fall over.

  This woman had been responsible for the destruction of Katharine’s life.

  But no. She’d been partly responsible herself. She looked around quickly. No photographers, thank heavens. She said to Megan, ‘I was just going into the theatre. You should come into my dressing room. This should not
be done on the street.’

  Megan nodded.

  ‘You’re brave, I’ll give you that,’ she said to Megan and strode through the stage door and on to her dressing room.

  Katharine could destroy this young woman forever, brand her a whore, a publicity-grabber. She would never recover professionally. The risk was that neither would Katharine. They’d both be tarred with the same brush: Rob Hartnell’s roadkill.

  No, that shouldn’t happen.

  ‘And I am sorry,’ Megan said humbly.

  They’d reached the sanctity of Katharine’s dressing room now. Nobody had looked askance at the two women walking in, they’d clearly assumed Katharine had brought somebody with her that day.

  Nobody would guess that this girl was Megan Bouchier.

  Katharine shut the door and stared at Megan critically. Why Megan had turned up was beyond her, yet she could tell that this woman wasn’t the enemy. She wasn’t the weapon of destruction in Katharine’s life. Rob had been that. Those other pictures before Megan, they’d been affairs too, except he’d managed to lie his way out of them. Shame on Katharine for not knowing.

  Besides, life happened. People changed, men grew tired of what they’d insisted they always wanted and, one day, they reached out to a different woman simply because she was there.

  No reason, just the opportunity had been there.

  ‘Why did you come?’

  ‘To say sorry. I hurt you and I am sorry. I wanted to say that I thought he loved me. I didn’t fall into bed with him as an on-location thrill. I’m not that sort of person, although,’ Megan admitted, ‘you probably think I am. But I’m not. I was seduced by what he said to me and…’ This was the hardest to admit: ‘…what I thought he meant to me. I wanted to be protected and loved. I thought Rob was the man to do it. I never thought about you, and I’m sorry. I think about you all the time now.’

  Katharine roared with laughter. She was sexy when she laughed, Megan realised. This award-winning actress was a real-life woman away from the cool image of the BAFTA-winning professional.

  ‘I have thought about you too,’ she said. ‘Not kindly.’

  Megan flushed. ‘I can understand that. But I had to see you face to face and apologise. He wasn’t in love with me, you see. You could have had your marriage back if we hadn’t been caught…’

  ‘Oh no, little girl,’ said Katharine, shaking her head. ‘We couldn’t. You see, I am not one of those women who let their man stray, hoping he will come back eventually. I believed him when he said he loved me. I never knew there were other women. I trusted him implicitly. Now I’m pretty sure that all those other times he was seen with women and he told me it was purely innocent, it was anything but. Did you think we had a deal going where I turned a blind eye? Not me, Megan.’

  It was the first time she’d said Megan’s name and although Megan knew that Katharine could make any word sound any way she liked, her name did not sound like a curse coming out of Katharine’s mouth.

  ‘I loved him too. He betrayed both of us, although it’s not such a betrayal when you are young and the man is not your husband.’

  ‘I was stupid. I didn’t see through him and I hurt you. I hurt me, too, but I know that’s immaterial. My mistake, my punishment.’ Megan shrugged. ‘But if it’s any consolation, I’ve learned a lot. I’ve learned that if you don’t have absolute truth in your own heart, you can’t expect it from anyone else.’

  She needed to say all this to Katharine, even if the other woman didn’t want to listen. Hurriedly, she rushed on: ‘I’ve learned about true friends and about moving on from silly notions I’d carried through from being a child. I grew up.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Katharine, amazing herself with how calm she was being right now.

  She poked around in this mental forgiveness. Very strange. It wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d played the wronged wife a few times on stage and screen, and this wasn’t the usual response.

  ‘I’ve wondered a lot about Rob and you,’ she said. ‘I like to think it must have happened because he’s getting older. It’s hard for him. Ageing hurts men, too. Plus, the business is changing. The fans want the same, but different and better. That’s a hard act to follow. They remember a film like a moment in time. They see something like Storm Cloud and they remember themselves then, the world then, and they want every one of Rob’s films to recreate that magic, but it can’t. They’re no longer the same person. But they don’t understand that. They say “Why is Rob Hartnell losing it?” when, really, they have changed too much for them ever to see him the same way again.’

  Megan sensed that Katharine was voicing, perhaps for the first time, the thoughts that had filled her mind for the last seven months as she tried to make sense of Rob’s betrayal. ‘Why are you being nice to me?’ she asked.

  Katharine was taken aback by the question. I’m not particularly being nice to you, she thought. I’m being nice to myself. If it’s all your fault, it means he chose you over me because you’re younger and he ignored all our history, all the love we had. That way, it’s my fault because I couldn’t hold him. That’s not what happened. This is about Rob and what he chose to do. Many women, I think before you. Lots of lies to me. No, it’s not you, you were just there. And it’s not me, I just wasn’t there.

  ‘When it’s over, it’s over,’ was what she said out loud. ‘I didn’t think it was over with Rob, but clearly he had other ideas. Anders, the man I’m seeing, is right: you did me a favour. I would have preferred if the favour had been done quietly, without the whole world knowing and watching, but Rob and I have lived in public view for a long time. I know the score. You’re young, so he can look foolish and middle-aged. If you were my age, it would be worse. This way, he rejected a woman who became older. His loss.’

  ‘Thank you and, for the last time, I am sorry,’ Megan said.

  The door to the dressing room opened.

  ‘Katharine –’

  The words died on the lips of the tall, blond man at the door. Anders loomed over the pair of them, in tattered jeans and a snowy-white dress shirt. He hadn’t shaved that morning and blond stubble covered his broad, chiselled chin.

  He recognised Megan instantly, despite her new hair.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he growled, standing protectively by Katharine’s side. He expected a catfight, Katharine thought, amused. Wasn’t that what men thought women did: claw each other’s eyes out with nails, pull hair. The real female fights were much worse – women ripped into each other with scorn and then continued the verbal hatchet job forever afterwards.

  Anders grabbed Katharine’s shoulders and held her so tightly, it hurt. He glared down at her.

  ‘If she has come to gloat, don’t say anything. Don’t do this to yourself. He is not worth it.’

  ‘She came to say sorry,’ said Katharine.

  His grip relaxed. He looked from Megan to Katharine and continued in a softer voice: ‘That took courage. It is the sort of thing you’d do.’ He looked at her proudly and proprietarily. ‘You’re brave and strong. I don’t understand why you stayed with him.’

  Anders had never, as far as Katharine could recall, ever said Rob’s name out loud. said it was always your husband or him.

  ‘He’s a coward, runs away rather than facing the music. She did you a favour, I told you already. Wouldn’t you rather know you were married to a coward?’

  ‘You’re a romantic, Anders,’ Katharine said in wonderment. ‘I never realised.’

  ‘The soul of a poet, my mother says,’ he murmured.

  ‘I should leave,’ Megan said. Just once more, she stared into Katharine’s eyes. ‘I wish you only happiness,’ she said, and walked out of the dressing room.

  As she made her back through the theatre and on to the street, her whole body was shaking with nerves. She’d promised herself she’d do this, and she had. The truth was hard to stand up to but once you started, you had to keep doing it. Apologising to Katharine was one of the first
steps in her new life. Talking to Rob didn’t register. She didn’t need to see him ever again. She could get on with the rest of her life now.

  25

  Beltane

  We talked about the old festivals when we lived in New York. Strange that we didn’t talk about them so much at home. The canon didn’t like talk about the old ways, and people didn’t like to upset him for fear the bishop would be round.

  I loved Beltane. It’s a pagan festival of fires and the potency of the earth, when the earth gods and goddesses joined together in a wild dance. The church isn’t so keen on that type of carry on. My mother liked to sleep outside on Beltane, but we had to promise not to tell anyone.

  She never allowed me to do it because of my bad chest, but I said I would, someday.

  I never did, you know. I never danced and hopped over the fire the way some people told me they did in their hometowns. I missed all that. If I had my time again, I’d do it all, Eleanor.

  Connie’s fortieth birthday arrived with midsummer. As a teenager, she’d hated having her birthday during the summer because there was nobody around to have a party with.

  ‘What will we do for your birthday?’ asked Nicky on a Saturday afternoon in June as the sisters sat in Titania’s and worked their way through two beautiful pastries.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Connie, with her mouth full. School had broken up for the summer holidays and the big exams had gone well, she thought, although nobody would know for sure until the results came in August. But she’d made no plans and given little thought to how she’d fill the time. ‘I could go on one of those “holidays” where you have a facelift and, when you come home, everyone says you look great and you say: “It’s the sun!”’

  ‘You don’t need that,’ said Nicky dismissively.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ sighed Connie. ‘Nobody ever asks me if I’ve had Botox, do they?’ She wrinkled her brows until she looked as if she was in pain. ‘See? The new young assistant in Patsy’s was washing my hair the other day and she told me I looked like I think a lot.’