‘It doesn’t matter to me – stay as long as you like.’ Jo plonked herself down in a chair, her voice still querulous. ‘I’m just livid after a fucking awful journey. Forgive my language, but British bloody Rail really surpassed themselves today. Of course, it’s Sunday isn’t it, so they do these sodding engineering works. They turfed us out at Eastleigh and made us catch this potty little bus. It meandered all over the countryside, stopping at every godforsaken station it could find. And even when we were back on the train, there were more delays at Woking. You won’t believe this, Catherine, but I’ve been travelling seven hours altogether.’
‘Gosh, it sounds horrendous. You must be absolutely whacked.’
‘Too right! I need a stiff drink. Or maybe camomile tea would be safer. I’m in a frightful state. And it’s not just the bloody trains. I’ve been given this commission. I’ve got to go to Sicily. Tomorrow.’
‘Sicily?’
Yeah. And if I don’t buck up I’ll never be ready in time.’ Jo laughed suddenly unwinding her long scarf and draping it across her knees. ‘I shouldn’t be complaining. I’m lucky to have the chance. It’s only because the girl they asked originally went down with some weird bug today. So Elite phoned me at my parents’ and begged me to drop everything and fly out to Palermo. Imagine – it’s seventy degrees there. I’ll need a bikini and some sun-screen. Actually, I don’t know what to take – or what to expect. I’m meant to be covering a writing course run by David Davine-King.’
‘Wow,’ said Catherine. ‘You’re brave!’ David Davine-King had been splashed across the papers last week. Not only had he abandoned his fourth wife for what must have been his fortieth mistress (tempestuously Italian and famous in her own right), he was also conducting a highly public quarrel with his publishers.
‘Oh, he’s nothing like as bad as he’s made out to be. But the set-up’s rather odd, I must admit. He’s running the thing in his girlfriend’s villa and it sounds more like a palace. I mean, most creative writing courses are held in dilapidated farmhouses, and you sleep in spartan dormitories and take turns with the cooking – and it’s shepherd’s pie and veggie-burgers or starve. But he’s hired a professional chef for the week. And apparently the rooms are really sumptuous. I can’t decide whether to turn up in jeans or a tiara.’
Catherine laughed. ‘Both, by the sound of it.’ Maybe that’s what she should wear tomorrow evening. With nothing in between. ‘How long are you going for?’ she asked, trying to keep her mind from leaping back to Simon.
‘Till Friday. They want me to stay for the whole course and keep an eye out for any extracurricular activities. David’s in particular. He’s got such a reputation, they’re sure he’ll try it on with one of the young students as soon as Francesca’s back’s turned. Look, I mustn’t stay here rabbiting – I’ll go and put the kettle on.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Catherine offered, ‘if you want to start packing.’
‘Oh, five more minutes won’t hurt. And anyway, I’m starving. Look, you do the tea and I’ll make some cheese on toast.’ She led the way into the kitchen, stopping short when she saw William. ‘Oh hell!’ she said. ‘The cat. I’d forgotten all about him. I’ll never make that vet’s appointment and get to Heathrow in time. Catherine, you couldn’t be an angel and …’
No, said Catherine silently. Don’t ask me.
‘The vet’s not far – Prince of Wales Road. I’m afraid Nicky’s car’s not insured for anyone else, but you can always take a taxi.’
I’ve no money for a taxi, Catherine said under her breath. I’ve got to do that too – find a cash dispenser and then go on to …
‘You’ll need a cardboard box to put him in. There’s a nice strong one out by the dustbin. We haven’t got a cat-basket, needless to say.’
Catherine found her voice at last. ‘Listen, Jo, I’m terribly sorry but I don’t think I can manage it. I’ve got an awful lot to do tomorrow.’
‘It won’t take long, I promise – an hour at the very most.’
‘Yes, but I’d planned to get off sharp, you see. I’ve arranged to have coffee with my in-laws and I have to go home first to get the car. I’ve let them down once already, so I don’t like to change the plans again.’
‘Okay, forget it.’ Jo hacked a piece of bread off the loaf and stared at it dejectedly. ‘I’ll phone the vet first thing and cancel the appointment. I’ll take him next Monday – if I haven’t been sent somewhere else.’
‘But that’s another week. And he’s hardly eating anything. Don’t you think he ought to go a bit sooner?’
‘Well, yes he should, ideally. But if there’s no one free to take him…’
Catherine glanced from Jo to William, feeling guilty on both counts. Jo and the others had been generous with everything: food, clothes, friendship, time. And, as for the cat, he looked the picture of misery, huddled in the comer with half-closed eyes. ‘Okay,’ she said, abruptly. ‘I’ll take him. No, honestly, it’s no trouble. It’s just that’ – she gave an embarrassed smile – ‘I haven’t any money left. I mean literally not a penny. But if you could let me have, say, a tenner, I’ll write you out a cheque.’
‘Of course. Make it twenty if you want. Is there anything else you need?’
‘Well, I’d love to borrow some shoes – size five and a half. Any old thing’ll do. Those purple boots are crippling me. And Nicky’s are all too big.’
‘And mine would be too small.’ Jo put her tiny foot beside Catherine’s to illustrate the point. ‘You could always try Fiona’s. I’m not sure what size she takes, but she’s roughly your height so you might be lucky.’
‘But won’t she mind?’
‘We’ll phone her. I want to speak to her anyway, and find out when she’s coming back.’
Catherine glanced at her watch. ‘You don’t think it’s rather late?’
‘Oh, no. She never goes to bed before midnight, not even at her mother’s. She’ll probably be glad of a chat. It’s so dreary for her there, looking after an invalid in the wilds of Herefordshire.’
Jo unwrapped a hunk of Cheddar and broke off a piece to taste. ‘Do you want some cheese on toast, Catherine?’
‘No thanks. I’ve been eating all day. We had marvellous food at Jonathan’s and then we went on to this tapas bar. In fact, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll take my drink upstairs.’ It would be more tactful to leave Jo to make the call in private. The mysterious Fiona might object to her room being occupied, her possessions commandeered.
‘Right, I’ll come up and see you as soon as I’ve spoken to Fee. And I’ll bring the money and draw you a map for the vet. Oh, and you’ll need a front door key. Gosh, you are an angel, Catherine. I just can’t thank you enough.’
‘No wings yet,’ Catherine laughed, pretending to feel for them on her shoulders. ‘See you in a while, then.’ She walked slowly upstairs, rearranging Monday in her mind. The vet’s appointment was at ten, so she should be back with the cat by eleven at the latest. If she left straight after that, she would be home by half past twelve, and could drive to Jack and Maureen’s for a brief lunchtime snack instead of coffee. She’d still have most of the afternoon free. Jo and Nicky and Darren had full-time jobs, for heaven’s sake, yet they managed to fit in a social life without all this stupid fuss.
She closed the bedroom door and put her cup down on the desk, suddenly catching the eye of the model in the poster. He was as blatantly naked as Simon had been just now, with the same seductive expression. She walked over and stroked her finger slowly down his body – down, and further down.
‘Oh, lord!’ she said, looking him straight in the eye. ‘How the hell will I sleep with you here?’
Chapter Nine
William weighed a ton. Catherine shifted the box from one arm to the other. The cat was struggling violently inside his cardboard prison and the string cut into her fingers, leaving painful red marks. She kept glancing around for a taxi, but hadn’t seen a single free one since she left the surgery. And anyway, s
he was worried about the expense. She had £10 to her name, and the only cash dispenser she’d found had spat her card back rudely. So much for magical Camden Town. It did indeed look sadly changed from its Sunday carnival. Gone were the cheerful crowds, the bouncy music and colourful stalls; replaced by clusters of black dustbin-bags and mounds of stinking rubbish being noisily devoured by the scrunching jaws of a dustcart. On top of everything else it had just begun to rain, but there was no way she could cope with an umbrella.
She allowed herself a brief rest, rubbing her sore fingers. William scrabbled at the sides of the box, letting out frustrated howls. It was a good thing the streets were so empty, otherwise she might have been accosted by an indignant member of the animal-rights brigade. She squatted down and peered in through the air holes, reminded of two-year-old Kate in a tantrum.
‘It’s all right, William,’ she murmured in the same soothing voice she had used when the children were small. ‘We’re almost home. Then we’ll make you comfortable and give you your nice medicine.’
As she straightened up she caught sight of her reflection in a shop window and immediately felt better. The last traces of the suburban widow had vanished; in her place stood a dashing young photographer in black leather jacket, skin-tight Levis and black kid ankle-boots (size five and a half exactly and wonderfully comfortable). Heartened, she picked up her pee-stained cardboard box, transforming it into a £5,000 Leica as she jetted off to direct a shoot in Bangkok; her minions rushing around with light-meters and props, and a bevy of male models striking suggestive poses against a moody city backdrop. There was something intensely freeing about stepping out of her own role and into someone else’s, and Fiona’s clothes gave her a sense of power; even changed the way she moved. She had never worn Levis in her life. Gerry hated women in jeans and always told her she was too fat for them, but she had gone down a whole two sizes since his death. Anyway, who cared? Fat or no, why shouldn’t she dress as she pleased?
She turned into Crosswell Road – only two more streets to go. And William seemed to have quietened at last, thank heavens. Perhaps the antibiotic injection had also contained a sedative. She shuddered, recalling his cowed form as the vet inserted the needle – William the Conqueror pathetically subdued.
As soon as they got in, she released him from the box. He shook himself, enraged, and darted under the dresser, his tail swishing menacingly. She left him to recover while she put the kettle on. The vet had diagnosed an abscess, but said it hadn’t yet come to a head and would need bathing in warm salt water several times a day. Meanwhile he had given her some pills to reduce his temperature, and told her to bring him back on Wednesday. That would be a problem. She was loth to leave the poor creature alone, but could she really stay here another two days, living like a nomad, with a borrowed toothbrush and no clean underclothes? Whatever else, she must ring Jack and Maureen. She would never make it in time for lunch – it was already ten to twelve.
Jack answered, sounding low. Since Gerry’s death all the sparkle had gone out of him and his dispirited voice had its usual effect on her: prompting sympathy and sadness (and also a flicker of resentment that he should continue to parade his grief). She had to admit she felt profoundly thankful the visit was postponed, and that in turn induced a surge of guilt. But it was such an awful strain sitting in their small front room and mouthing platitudes; having to suppress the irrational anger she still sometimes felt towards Gerry: anger with him for dying, for losing all their money.
She took off her jacket (Fiona’s jacket – she mustn’t get too possessive), and prepared the things she needed for treating William’s ear. The vet had instructed her to stand the cat on a table and wrap him in a bath-towel, so she could hold him down securely without getting scratched. Unfortunately William hadn’t been instructed to co-operate. She managed to prise him from under the dresser and get him up on the table, but when she tried to bundle the towel round his legs, he thrashed around violently, yowling in indignation.
‘William, keep still! I know this isn’t much fun. I’m not enjoying it either, but it’s going to make you better in the end.’
After several abortive attempts she succeeded in restraining him with the towel, though not before her arms were beaded with blood. He stopped struggling for a moment and she seized the chance to dab at his ear with the dampened cotton wool. The reaction was instantaneous. William burst free of the towel and sprang off the table, sending bowl and water flying, and hurtled out to the hall.
Having mopped up the spilt water, she went in search of him. He was cowering under a chair, eyeing her with suspicion and obviously ready to bolt again at the slightest provocation. She felt torn between duty and compassion. Perhaps she’d better leave him to calm down. She could do with a break herself, and a restorative cup of coffee.
Back in the kitchen she washed a mug, deliberately ignoring the other dirty dishes which had accumulated since last night. Already she was learning from Nicky and the others that there was a lot to be said for lounging about enjoying a leisurely chat, rather than fretting about the state of the house. She made the coffee, helped herself to a couple of biscuits and sat down in the most comfortable chair. She wouldn’t go haring off to Stoneleigh – it was too much of a rush and she didn’t like to leave the cat. Besides, there were more glamorous clothes upstairs than her tired old turquoise dress. Fiona had been so grateful for her promised help with William, she had offered her the run of her wardrobe. Also, she was sending a cheque to cover the vet’s bill, and would be back on Friday anyway, as her mother was going into hospital that morning.
She dipped a biscuit in her coffee. Dunking biscuits was not done in Manor Close; nor in her childhood home, come to that. Her father had been a stickler for good manners, and had set great store by cleanliness and tidiness and stoical English reserve – all the virtues Andrew seemed to have inherited (from the grandfather he’d rarely seen). Strange how she had never rebelled, either as a child, or later. Well, of course her marriage to Gerry had been a rebellion in itself, but, that aside, she had continued to be tidy, clean and industrious; to be ‘good’, in short – the ‘good girl’ expected by a poor struggling widowed rather. Goodness had become a habit, so that once she was married, she did her best to be a good wife and mother: devoted to her children, loyal to Gerry, patiently making allowances for the temperamental actor or stressed-out businessman. And after moving to Stoneleigh, she still felt a need to toe the line; not to let her son down, or put a foot wrong with Antonia, or untidy a show-house. She found herself concealing things – the fact that she bought lottery tickets (which she knew Andrew would regard as a total waste of money); her visit to a psychic. (‘Your husband is happy and peaceful and sends greetings from the spirit-world.’ Okay, perhaps it was a load of rubbish; none the less it had given her great comfort.)
One of the problems with Stoneleigh was that she always seemed to be waiting – waiting for Andrew and Antonia to come home in the evenings, or back from golf, or functions; waiting to eat until they were ready; waiting for them to suggest an outing; or waiting for the morning if she was stuck up in her room. Waiting to live, in effect. And the extraordinary thing was, she hadn’t even realized the full extent of her imprisonment there. Of course, it wasn’t their fault – or Gerry’s, for that matter. She had been her own gaoler. Yet here at Gosforth Road, she had no set persona and nothing was expected of her, so she could re-invent herself. In fact, if only William hadn’t been ill, she could have had a blissful time today, with Camden to explore and an attentive man to take her out this evening.
The thought of the cat reminded her that she ought to be bathing his ear. She went to seek him out, astonished to find him curled up on the sofa, fast asleep. The shot he’d had must have contained a tranquillizer. It seemed a shame to disturb him, so she decided to nip out while she had the chance – not to explore Camden but to find a functioning cash-dispenser and buy some basics, like clean pants.
‘William,’ she whispered, ‘
don’t move a whisker till I’m back. I won’t be long.’
Nearly two hours later she returned breathless to the house, imagining the worst. He might be feverish, delirious, miaowing pitifully for help. Fiona would never forgive her. And it was her fault, entirely. She had got distracted by the shops – so intriguingly different from the ones in Worcester Park, and selling things like dried African scorpion, sunglasses with windscreen-wipers, pasta in the shape of breasts, with exaggerated nipples, and even fetish footwear and ball-gowns for transvestites. And she’d wasted more time in the chemist’s, picking out the right nail varnish for her toes, trying to choose between Midnight Blue and Bilberry.
She unlocked the front door and rushed to find the patient. He was still lying on the sofa – not asleep, but certainly nowhere near expiring. He fixed her with a baleful stare; his green eyes evoking thoughts of Simon. Green eyes were rare in men. She had only come across them in bad romantic novels, where they were usually combined with sensuous mouths, broad shoulders and masterful temperaments. Simon had narrow shoulders and seemed laid-back rather than masterful, but his mouth was more than merely sensuous – it was electrifying, voracious.
Oh lord, I’m nervous, she thought, as she dumped her shopping on the kitchen table. She decided to leave William for the moment; first she’d treat herself to her Camden-Town-style lunch. The main course was a carton of curried beans from a Burmese take-away. Take-aways were extravagant, but today she was on holiday, and at least she had resisted the temptations of spicy wild-boar sausages, brazil-nut bread, even mind-expanding Whizzard Tea. Pudding was a Mr Men yoghurt – Mr Lazy, of course.
Tucking into her beans, she deliberated on the choice of numbers for next Saturday’s lottery. Something connected with Simon, perhaps. Yes, thirty-one for his age, and maybe eighteen for his birthday (which was 18 May, he’d told her), and then the last four digits of his phone number. That particular combination might be lucky. It wasn’t such a senseless waste of money. Three people she knew had won quite useful sums. She imagined seven million pounds arriving at the door: not a flimsy cheque, but sacks and sacks of shining solid coins. She’d book a flight to Delhi, where she would shower largesse on Kate and all her Indians, then trek through the Himalayas, tour Nepal by camel, while away an indolent month in Tibet. She filled in the lottery ticket and, reluctantly returning to earth, washed her hands and went in search of the patient.
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