I actually laughed at that. ‘A pervert? Oh, don’t be silly, Sophie. Surely not…?’
She gave me such a look of contempt I immediately felt ashamed at my laughing at her. Here she was opening up to me—if only just a tiny bit—and I’d not taken her seriously. Had actually laughed at her.
‘OK, well the place at Midhope sixth-form college is there for you, but you’re going to actually have to start there this week or they’ll withdraw the offer. They’re over halfway into the new term now and we’ve been amazingly lucky to have been given a place at such a good college. If you don’t turn up pretty soon you’ll be too far behind with your work.’
Sophie looked up from where she was picking what was left of the black nail varnish from her chewed nails. ‘I’m not going to any school. I’m sixteen; I don’t have to go back. I’ll get a job and a flat and Max and I can live there.’
‘I think the law’s changed, Sophie. I think you’re supposed to be in some sort of education or training now until you’re eighteen. Anyway, it’s not what your mum or dad would have wanted.’
‘And how do you know what my mum and dad would have wanted? You must have met my mum—what? Two or three times at the most? And been married to my dad for all of six weeks? You knew sod all about them… or about me.’ She got up from the table, kicked the chair she’d been sitting on back into place and stalked to the hall door. Before she slammed it—with what must have been to her ears a most satisfactory crash—she turned back to me. ‘You are not turning my house into a bloody hotel, Clementine. You are not.’
*
The next couple of days while David, the estate solicitors and I had meeting after meeting after meeting, I saw little of Sophie. Every morning I knocked on her bedroom door, tried to get her out of bed and to college and was met by a torrent of abuse, foul language and an absolute refusal to get out of her pit. Once I’d driven Max over to his little private school—I was working on Mrs Theobold for a place at Westenbury C of E for him from next September—and accompanied Allegra into her classroom, I’d try once more to reason with Sophie: to coax, to bribe and finally, in desperation, to manhandle her out of bed and into the shower and college but to no avail.
She wouldn’t eat with us but, once we were all in bed, I’d hear her moving around in the kitchen opening the fridge and cupboards. On the couple of occasions I went down to her, to offer her a sandwich or the remains of supper, she said she wasn’t hungry, but the next morning I’d notice food was gone.
My days were so full with plans for Clementine’s I was unable to monitor exactly what she was up to. She didn’t go out at all, not even into the garden with George for a breath of fresh air. She appeared to be losing weight, she slept a good deal and would make no decision about college despite my telling her their admin department had rung several times wanting to know if she was accepting the place they’d found for her.
And then she started throwing up. Because she had an en-suite I wasn’t aware to begin with that she was being sick. It was only on one of my sojourns to her room—of which I was making at least four or five a day—to cajole her out, I saw that she wasn’t there but was being violently sick in her bathroom.
‘Sophie, let me help me you, sweetheart,’ I pleaded, shocked at her wan appearance as she made her way back to bed and pulled the covers over her head.
‘I’m fine. Go away. It’s something I’ve eaten.’
‘But you’ve not eaten anything for days.’
‘Just sod off and leave me alone.’
Over the next twenty-four hours I hovered constantly outside her room, hearing her vomiting over and over again, or went in with glasses of water and dry toast only to be rebuffed and told to go away.
I rang Izzy.
‘God, Clem, do you know what time it is? I was asleep. What’s up?’
‘It’s Sophie. I’m so worried about her. She won’t come out of her room, she’s not eating and she’s been vomiting for the last couple of days.’
‘Right, erm, let me think. OK, go into her room and smell her breath.’
‘Her breath?’
‘Yes.’
‘What am I looking for?’
‘You’re not looking for anything. You’re sniffing. I want to know if there’s a smell of alcohol—could be she’s drinking and can’t handle it. Or pear drops.’
‘Pear drops? As in Yorkshire Mixtures? You think she’s been eating too many sweets?’
Izzy tutted down the phone. ‘As in acetone smell. You know—nail varnish. If she’s anorexic and deliberately throwing up, then her body has nothing to burn and will start eating away at itself. This gives off ketones which smell like acetone…’
‘I’ll ring you back.’
I went across the landing and back into her room. She was asleep on her side, breathing softly. I went across and had a good sniff. Nothing. God, this was ridiculous. I lay down on the bed beside her and took a deep breath at the same time as her eyes shot open and she jumped in terror at seeing my face right up against her own.
‘Jesus, what are you doing? In my bed? Next to me? You weirdo…’
As she spoke, I was hit by a rush of breath so foul I immediately drew back.
‘Sophie, I’m on the phone to Izzy. We’re worried about you—we need to know what’s wrong.’
Sophie looked at me for a couple of seconds before rushing to the bathroom and vomiting once again. I held back her hair from her hot face as she retched and then ran a glass of water for her. She didn’t push me away, but drank the water, wiped her mouth and then went back to bed.
I rang Izzy back. ‘No nail varnish smell, no alcohol smell, but really bad breath…’
‘Any possibility she’s pregnant?’
‘Pregnant? No, surely not…’
‘OK, the bad breath could be a giveaway for…’ I turned away from the phone as Sophie came into my bedroom.
‘Clementine, it hurts, it hurts so bad. I can’t bear it.’ Sophie was doubled over, her face grey.
‘Where’s the pain, Clem? Ask her where it hurts.’ Izzy was calm on the other end of the phone.
‘Where, Sophie? Show me, darling. Izzy, it’s her tummy and terrible pain in her right side.’
‘OK, sounds like acute appendicitis. Foul breath is a typical symptom alongside the vomiting and pain in the right side. I’ll get her an ambulance and then I’m on my way. I’ll stay with Allegra and Max while you go to A&E with her.’
*
While Izzy set the ball rolling with regards to accurately diagnosing and getting Sophie into hospital, it was Mel who came over to relieve Izzy and stayed the night with Max and Allegra while I remained at the hospital with Sophie. Within an amazingly short time of her arrival, Sophie was having her appendix—on the point of bursting, according to the surgeon—removed, and by the early hours of the next morning she was back on the ward in a hospital issue gown, her face, leeched of any colour, chameleon-like on the starched white pillow.
While she slept I sat at her side and when she woke, knowing once again that her parents were dead and there was no mum or dad to hold her hand, she cried silently, huge tears rolling down her pale face and onto the bed’s light blue coverlet. I realised I was crying too—for Peter and Max and now for Sophie—and I reached for her hand and held it firmly, hoping she’d realise without my telling her that I was there for her. And that I understood.
27
‘My God, if everything else is going to be as good as this—’ Izzy bit into the feather-light sponge, the thick cream shooting onto her chin ‘—then you will have customers knocking down the door to get in.’
Nodding in agreement, Grace reached for a beautifully starched snowy-white linen napkin to wipe the butter dripping from a miniature crumpet from her fingers but then thought better of it and, instead, found a tissue in her pocket. ‘I don’t want to spoil these napkins, Clem. A lot of work has gone into them.’
‘Your work, Grace.’ I smiled. ‘They must have taken ages to starc
h and iron.’
‘Totally worth it if I’m rewarded with afternoon tea like this.’
‘What do you think so far?’ I’d asked the four women over to give me their total and honest opinion about what I’d created and I stood there slightly nervous, holding my breath a bit like a child waiting for a teacher to tell them if their work was any good.
‘De-licious,’ Harriet sighed theatrically, looking round for the next taster.
It had taken over eight months’ hard work to get to where we were now and, as the main chap from the local planning department had told me, if David Henderson hadn’t been behind it, the whole project would have taken much, much longer, if it had been allowed to go ahead at all. The house had seen a continual procession of surveyors, architects, developers, conservation officers, tree people, joiners, decorators and men from the country lanes’ department. ‘There’s actually a department for country lanes?’ I’d asked in astonishment as the gang had descended with their clipboards and calculators, infuriating local commuters trying to manoeuvre their four-wheel-drives past them on their commute to Midhope train station, as well as local farmers trundling along in ancient, rusty tractors.
David had never let up for one minute, tearing strips off people who he thought tardy or incompetent, even exploding at one poor professional, ‘Call yourself a surveyor, man? Good God, you couldn’t survey the bloody wondrous cross,’ which had made me giggle and sing Easter hymns for the rest of that morning. The whole project had, really frustratingly, come to a sudden standstill for several weeks when bats were discovered in the stable block and Batman had said they weren’t to be disturbed, but had to be tempted out with their own personal bat boxes.
The week before Clementine’s had its official opening, I’d asked Izzy, Grace, Harriet and Mel round to try out what I was going to give to the guests who had been invited. David Henderson’s business associates would mingle with the invited press, local dignitaries, wedding party planners and the owners and growers of locally sourced fruit and vegetables, and I knew everything had to be more than first rate. So, after feeding my critical judges six different canapés, I was now handing round plates of tiny, subtly flavoured pastel macaroons, finger sandwiches, delicate, crumbly scones oozing homemade blackberry jam and cream.
‘Hope this jam wasn’t made from Rafe Ahern’s blackberries?’ Mel asked, as she tasted the delicious preserve.
‘It was, actually,’ I admitted, laughing. ‘The day I threw the bag of blackberries at him I was so cross with myself for wasting good fruit, I went straight back out with Max and Allegra and we picked loads more. The field over there—’ I indicated with a nod of my head ‘—belongs to him and we just nipped out at dusk and helped ourselves. They’d only have gone to waste otherwise.’
‘I’ve not met this Ahern chap,’ Mel said, helping herself to a finger of shortbread. ‘What’s he like?’
‘Well, you will, now that you’re going to be working here.’ I pulled a face, thinking of the occasions I’d had the pleasure of meeting my bad-tempered neighbour. ‘He’s not at all happy that we’ve turned this place into… let me think, what were his words, “a sodding circus, for people with more sense than money, in the middle of my land.”’
‘He’s actually rather gorgeous,’ Izzy said. ‘In a Heathcliffe sort of way, I mean. If I wasn’t a happily married woman I’d probably have a crack at him.’
‘Well, you’d have to kick JoJo Kennedy out of bed first,’ Grace smiled, and then started laughing at Izzy’s crestfallen face.
‘The JoJo Kennedy? Rafe Ahern is with JoJo Kennedy? Oh bloody hell, sod the diet then. Pass me one of those scones, Mel.’
‘I didn’t know that, Grace,’ I said, really astonished. ‘Are you sure? What on earth would a beautiful supermodel like JoJo Kennedy see in a bad-tempered bloke like Rafe Ahern?’
Grace laughed again. ‘Absolutely sure. They’ve been together for six months at least. Apparently they met at some charity do for children caught up in the Middle East conflicts. Annabelle Ahern—you know she was a model herself back in the Sixties—told my mum all about it. Annabelle’s delighted; she’s hoping JoJo will persuade Rafe to go and live in London permanently and get him out of her hair. Mum says he’s always nagging Annabelle about how much she spends and drinks and parties. Rafe ends up footing the bill for it all.’
‘Annabelle’s great fun, isn’t she?’ I said, remembering the afternoon I’d spent over at her place. ‘When I’d murdered her hen, I actually went round to apologise. She just poured me a huge drink, told me not to worry and then gave me the lowdown on all the local gossip and showed me photographs of her and Mick Jagger and Jean Shrimpton in the Sixties. She was incredibly beautiful then.’
‘She still is, don’t you think? I’d heard M&S were after her to model their old-lady stuff.’
‘I can’t see her wanting to do that. When I went round she was wearing a mini dress and long white patent boots. Fab pair of pins on her still…’
‘I’m really envious of Grace and Mel working here with you, Clem,’ Harriet interrupted. ‘Can’t I have a job too?’
‘Harriet, you have five children to look after,’ Grace tutted. ‘How the hell can you work as well?’
‘Well, you have Jonty,’ Harriet said. ‘And I’m down to four kids now that Libby is away at university. And I have Lilian to help with the twins.’
‘Harriet, I’m only doing two days,’ Grace said.
‘Suppose so.’
I suddenly felt a bit sorry for Harriet. ‘I’m sure there’ll be something for you here eventually, once we get going, if you really want a little job, Hat,’ I said.
‘Brilliant.’ Harriet cheered up. ‘I was just feeling a bit left out.’
‘How fantastic is all this for me?’ Mel asked, collecting up the dirty plates and napkins. ‘To be honest, I wasn’t really happy to come back up north after ten years in Essex. I know I said I was, but Julian and I always thought we’d end up with a B&B in the Cotswolds, not in Yorkshire. And I really didn’t want to leave my job. Not having kids like you lot, I certainly didn’t want to be at home all day twiddling my thumbs.’
‘Mel immediately came to mind when David and I were initially discussing what staff we’d need,’ I explained to the others as I offered a tray of minute pistachio triple-chocolate brownies. ‘I knew she’d had to leave her job as a personal assistant and wasn’t happy about it.’ I smiled across at Mel. ‘I can’t tell you how good she’s been at the paperwork, at organising all the work people so that I’ve been able to get on with planning menus and cooking and deciding the different type of events we’re going to hold here.
‘God, Clem, please don’t bring out any more food,’ Izzy said, frowning. ‘If I’m now in competition with JoJo Kennedy, for heaven’s sake, I’m going to have to start watching what I eat.’ She eyed up a miniature cheesecake left on a slate serving plate. ‘Is that lemon, Clem? Yes? Brilliant, lemons aren’t fattening—and such a shame to leave it by itself.’ She polished it off in one before looking at her watch. ‘Going to have to make a move, girlies. Afternoon surgery starts at three, I’m afraid. Now, before I go, we did say, Clem, that once you’d sorted out this place we’d have a night out in Leeds. In the red-light area? See if we can persuade Lucy to make contact with you?’
‘Izzy,’ I said, frowning, ‘this place is not exactly sorted, is it? This is only the beginning.’
‘I know, I know. But I know you as well, Clem. I know you want to find out exactly where Lucy is. See if she’s OK? We’ll all come with you, make some enquiries on the streets, go back to the gay bar where she was dancing…’
I didn’t want to talk about this. ‘You’re making it sound as if it’s a girls’ night out you’re planning. You know, take a charabanc and go and stand in Chapeltown in our best going-out clothes; goggling the prossies, seeing how the other half live.’
‘That’s not fair, Clem,’ Izzy said, offended. ‘We want to help you find her; the last piece in
the jigsaw as it were. She’d be able to stay here with you, get off the heroin, maybe work with you.’
‘It really isn’t as simple as all that. Jesus, who’s that banging on the door?’ I shot up from the table, scattering brownies as I went, happy to end that particular conversation.
‘Who the hell’s left that damned great car on the lane so that no one can get past?’ Rafe Ahern nodded down the drive to where the roof of a rather battered green Range Rover could just be seen poking through the hedge at the bottom of the drive.
‘Ah, Mr Ahern.’ Izzy smiled, extending a hand as she joined me on the doorstep. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. Very pleased to meet you. How’s JoJo? Still wooing the catwalk?’
‘Is it yours?’ Rafe snapped, ignoring Izzy’s outstretched hand. ‘What gives you the right to park there, blocking the road so no one can get past?’
‘Oh, come on,’ Izzy said, rebuffed. ‘You’d have to be driving a damned great tractor not to be able to get past…’
He gave Izzy a particularly sardonic look before indicating, with a nod of his head, the ancient bright red tractor that was parked behind Izzy’s car, its engine rumbling and spluttering like a bad tempered drunk. ‘I knew this would happen, er…’ Rafe Ahern was obviously racking his brains, trying to recall my name, if he’d ever known it in the first place. ‘Er, once you started on this ridiculous project of yours.’ And then, turning again to Izzy, asked, ‘Why the hell can’t you park in the drive?’
Izzy drew up her full five foot two inches, smiling patiently and sweetly. ‘Mr Ahern, it may have escaped your notice but in the back window of my car there is a very large and very distinct card bearing the words DOCTOR ON CALL. I am that said doctor and I’m here on an official visit to tend to this good lady. Her… her bunions have become the size of… of onions.’ Izzy nodded towards me as I stood, staring at her in astonishment. ‘Now then, dear, I suggest lots of bed rest, cut out holes in your slippers to ease those swollen joints and absolutely no high heels.’ And with that, she sailed down the drive singing, to a very familiar tune:
Looking For Lucy Page 26