“How are you, Max? Enjoy the party last night?”
It was Jason Laide. She had suspected it might be.
“You know I did, Jason. You were there.”
“I’m talking about the real party. The one you had with Andrew Ford.”
“Yes. Everything went fine. We got on well.”
“And did you get the information for me?”
“Of course not. I could hardly come straight out and ask him, could I? He’ll have to trust me first.”
“Losing your touch, Max? There was a time you could screw the information out of anybody, man or woman, in ten minutes.”
Maxine felt her skin go hot and then icy cold. Jason, in a way that only he could, was referring to the girl-on-girl video he had of her. He knew she had never had sex with a woman. Not off camera anyway. Bastard!
“You don’t want him to be suspicious, do you?” she asked as casually as she could manage. “He’s an intelligent man. He needs careful handling.”
“You’re the girl to give him that. Don’t take too long about it. I want to know as quickly as possible. I’m not the only one after the information.”
“Okay. I’ll contact you soon.”
She put down the phone before he could deliver any more veiled threats. And then she smiled. At least there was an upside to this. She could contact Andrew Ford again with a clear conscience. She had not been given an option.
* * *
The day passed quickly and relatively demon-free for Ella. It was so much easier to escape her nightmares when she was working. The challenge involved in her job seemed to draw her mind away from the things which haunted her. Away from Karen Trevor.
She was standing now in front of a long bay window, gently stroking the rich fabric of the curtains. It was Indian silk, cool and delicate. The maroon background was embroidered with an intricate design in gold thread. Hand-embroidered. Countless hours of ceaseless and most likely underpaid labour. The hands which had created this beautiful pattern were probably cracked and sore. Lifting the cloth to her face she rubbed its coolness against her cheek. She felt the raised pattern of the tiny, painstaking gold stitches.
“Are you alright, Ella? Do you need a drink of water or something?”
Ella dropped the cloth, aware that she had lost concentration. Not good. Not while working. She forced the smile back onto her face and turned towards her client.
“Just admiring your drapes, Sharon. They lend the room an air of formality but yet the colour is warm and inviting. Perfect with the Indian teak dining suite. Do you intend selling this house furnished or unfurnished?”
“The whole idea in selling is to have a change. I don’t want to bother with any of this stuff. You’ll sell it either way. You and Andrew are the best at this property game.”
Ella smiled and it was a genuine smile this time. Her first of the day, maybe of the month. She still had pride in her work and appreciated the compliment. She knew she could get a good price on this property. It was a spectacularly large house and the interior design was state of the art. And then there would be the replacement property. The budget available seemed to be unlimited. Just a matter of finding the right place. Jason Laide had deep pockets.
“Where exactly would you and Jason like to move to? Does your husband have any preferences?”
“Blondes and redheads,” Sharon laughed.
Ella had of course, like everyone in their circle, heard of the Laides’ open marriage yet she was surprised at Sharon’s casual reference to her husband’s affairs. But then, according to rumour, Sharon had her own share of extra-marital relationships, many of them with men almost young enough to be her sons.
Ella stood and shook the other woman’s hand.
“That’s it for now so. I’ll work up the ads and run them by you before we commit.”
“I’m sure it will be fine. Besides, I’ll be away for a while. A ski trip actually. But don’t worry about access. Jason will be here. You come and go as you please. I’ll be looking forward to seeing the ‘Sold’ sign when I get back.”
Ella relaxed a little. Sharon Laide would not be a difficult client to satisfy. Change was all she needed. Ella left with a sneaking admiration for Sharon Laide’s attitude to life. Maybe a little change was all anyone needed.
Chapter 3
It had been the usual unhurried, silent Sunday morning they had both come to dread. That was until Andrew mentioned he had made an appointment for Ella to see another doctor. Ella had been hurt at first. Then anger and outrage at her husband’s arrogance took hold.
“You had no right,” she had shouted at him but when she calmed down she realised that Andrew would not have done something like this unless he was feeling desperate. In a moment of understanding, she tried to imagine what it must be like for him. She knew she had become silent and morose. What other way could she be with a head full of death and destruction?
“He can’t be up to much, can he?” she asked. “What specialist would take an appointment over the phone without a referral and without actually speaking to the patient? Not very professional. Or is it that you spun him a good story?”
Andrew took a deep breath and she could see him struggle for calm and almost succeed. Almost. She knew him too well. His anger and resentment still shone through his blasé words when he spoke.
“It’s entirely up to you, Ella. Your choice. Stay the way you are or try to move on.”
The words were so subdued, so falsely neutral, that Ella realised this new doctor had coached Andrew in what to say. Appropriate language to coax the reluctant patient. An incompetent, incapable patient. Fuck! He must be a psychiatrist!
“Have you made an appointment with a psychiatrist for me? You think I’m mad, is that it? How dare you! How could you?”
“How could I not? I can’t cope with your black moods. I can’t cope with the hours of silence, with seeing you getting more and more withdrawn. You’ve cut me out of your world, Ella. I don’t know what’s going on with you. Edmund Quill is certainly not helping. What else could I do?”
Ella put her head in her hands and closed her eyes. What could anyone do? Maybe she was mad. How sane was it to be seeing a dead woman’s face day in, day out? Awake and asleep, Karen Trevor relived the horrific moments of the accident over and over again in Ella Ford’s head. That was not sane, not normal. Karen was refusing to die and refusing to allow Ella live. Why? Why? Why?
“He’s not a psychiatrist. He’s a psychologist.”
Ella lifted her head and looked at Andrew. “And that makes a difference?”
“Well, yes. I’m not saying you’re mentally ill. Just that you need help getting over the accident. You’ve made it very clear that you don’t want to communicate with me. Maybe you would find it easier to talk to a professional.”
Ella thought about it. Maybe she could explain to someone who was used to dealing with every demented aspect of the human mind. Fuck! How had she come to this? An instant of slaughter and a lifetime of nightmares.
She bowed her head into her hands again and squeezed her forehead as tightly as she could. Still her thoughts kept swirling around that wet road and the out-of-control Land Cruiser. Andrew touched her shoulder. She felt her body instantly stiffen. He dropped his hand angrily and walked away from her. She tried to feel sorry but there was no pity for the living in her psyche. She was too obsessed with the dead. Or more correctly, she thought, with those who were supposed to be dead. A tear, hot and salty, tracked down her cheek. She felt the heat and wetness of it and none of the relief the shedding should have brought. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that Andrew was standing at the door, his knuckles white on the hand grasping the door handle.
“Your appointment with Dr Peter Sheehan is for tomorrow afternoon. I’m leaving the details on the hall table. Please let his office know what you decide.”
Ella listened to him speak in cold, clipped tones. She did not care. He did not touch that place inside of her which felt the
pain.
It was some time before she noticed that Andrew had left the house.
* * *
Andrew tried to convince himself that he was not following a plan, that phoning Maxine Doran was only a whim. He just happened to have her number in his phone. He was in need of a little normal company, someone soft and feminine and sane. The excuses built as he listened to her phone ring out. It had been a long shot anyway. She could be in another country, away on one of her glamorous assignments. Or more likely out to lunch with a moneyed boyfriend.
He pulled onto the hard shoulder of the road. Where to now? It was early Sunday afternoon and here he was sitting in his car not knowing how to spend the rest of the day. He could go into the office. He could go to the park and feed the blasted ducks. He could go anywhere except home. Or at least the place he used to regard as home before Ella had her accident. Guilt began to nag at him. Maybe he should go back to her, try to get through her layers of hostility. He shivered at the thought. Ella protected her suffering as if her life depended on it. The suffering was her life. Outside of work, she did not allow anyone or anything else to share in her martyrdom. He could not go back to her for more rejection, more pained looks, more silence. It was a beautiful day, unseasonably warm and bright. He would not allow his wife to rob him of the sunshine. “Fuck her,” he muttered as he turned the key in the ignition.
Just as he had the car in gear, his phone rang. He glanced at it, deciding not to answer if it was Ella. It was Maxine. The ring tones seemed to shiver with her perfume, her warmth, the sheer animal sexuality she exuded. Andrew grabbed his phone.
“Hi, Maxine. How are you?”
“Sorry I missed your call. I was in the shower.”
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to enjoy the image of Maxine Doran, wet and naked, emerging from her shower.
“Are you still there, Andrew?”
He opened his eyes and shook his head to clear it. He was behaving like an adolescent.
“Just wondering if you’re busy,” he said, forcing himself to sound casual. “I’m going for lunch now. Would you like to join me?”
“It’d be great to get away from the city for a while. How about we find a nice quiet country pub?”
“Sounds perfect. I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes. Okay?”
“See you soon,” she said and to Andrew’s ears her words were full of the promise of glamour, excitement and glorious sex.
* * *
“Well done. I shouldn’t have doubted your powers of persuasion.”
Maxine looked at Jason Laide and felt her stomach churn. He was sprawled on her bed, beads of sweat trickling from his ginger-haired chest onto the white mound of his belly. Bastard, she thought as she smiled at him.
“I told you I’d get your information. Haven’t I always done what you wanted?”
“Am I to assume then that this prissy little Sunday lunch is going to be somewhere near Ballyhaven?”
Maxine nodded. She had not thought of that but it seemed like a good idea now. A natural way to bring up the topic she needed to discuss with Andrew. She walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, far enough away so that Jason could not touch her.
“I want our agreement in writing, Jason. We are quits after this job. I want the video back.”
He rolled over onto his side and his eyes narrowed as he stared at her from underneath his ginger brows.
“I call the shots. You’re free if and when I say so. You owe me big-time. You’ll never be able to pay me back, you little trollop! You’re nothing more than a high-priced whore.”
Maxine stood up quickly and began to dress. Name-calling was usually Jason’s prelude to sex, anger his aphrodisiac. She slipped quickly into a top and jeans and grabbed her jacket.
“I’ll ring you later,” she called back over her shoulder as she left her apartment to wait for Andrew in the lobby.
* * *
Ella dragged the ironing board from the utility room into the lounge. She had a mountain of ironing to do. When everything was organised, she switched on the television and began to press and fold, press and fold, finding peace in the repetitive actions. She occasionally glanced at the home makeover programme on the television, amused at the frantic activities of the crew.
She had got halfway through her pile of ironing when the doorbell rang. Iron in hand, she froze. Who in the hell could that be? Nobody, but nobody, called to see Ella Ford any more. Small blame to them. She had made it very clear that she was no longer interested in their chatter and did not need their pity. The doorbell sounded again. She could not ignore it because whoever was there would have heard the television and seen her car on the driveway. It rang again. It was obvious they were not going to go away either.
After unplugging the iron, she began to make her way slowly to the hall. The bell rang for the fourth time just as she raised her hand to open the front door. Annoyed, she pulled the door open quickly and then just stood there staring at the man on the doorstep. A wave of icy cold washed over her and she held onto the doorjamb for support.
“Mrs Ford! Ella! Are you all right? I’m sorry. I’ve startled you. I should have phoned first.”
Ella’s eyes were riveted to a point just left of his head. A shadow wavered there, shimmering and swirling. She knew, with every fibre of her being, that Karen Trevor was bleeding and screaming and dying inside that shadow. She would see it all again, the terror, the pain, if she could not find the strength to look away. Ella dug deep.
“Come in, Mr Trevor.”
“Call me Rob, please,” he said as Ella led the way to the kitchen.
“Tea or coffee?” she asked, her hands shaking as she filled the kettle.
“Coffee would be fine.”
They were silent as Ella busied herself with mugs, sugar and milk.
“It’s been a long year, hasn’t it?” he said when she’d handed him his coffee and sat opposite him.
Ella looked at the man sitting at her kitchen table and was not sure how to answer him. It would be a year tomorrow. Three hundred and sixty-five days since the accident. Yet Ella was not altogether aware of the passing of time. It seemed to her that she was still stuck back in that day, on that flooded little road, locked into the horror of the crash.
“Yes,” she agreed. “In some ways it has.”
“I know what you mean. Sometimes I feel it was only yesterday that my wife and son were with me, laughing and full of hopes and dreams. Other times, it seems like they never existed at all. That Karen and Ian are only a figment of my imagination.”
Ella gripped her coffee mug tightly and thought about that. Suppose it had all been imagination. Suppose Karen Trevor had never existed. Had never given birth to the blonde-haired little boy named Ian. Then Karen could never have crashed her Land Cruiser, never have lost her own life and destroyed Ella’s. She looked closely at Rob Trevor and saw in the dark circles under his eyes and the deep wrinkles on his face that he was suffering too.
“It must be very lonely for you now,” she said and then remembered how annoyed she got when people tried to second-guess her feelings. She expected an angry reply, a curt response to her insensitive remark. She had not expected the tears that welled up in his eyes.
“You know Manor House. It’s historic and beautiful. But I’m afraid it has lost all its beauty for me. Every room, every painting, the gardens, the stables, all remind me of Karen and Ian. I will never come to terms with what has happened as long as I am living there.”
“Are you thinking of selling?”
“That’s why I’ve come to see you today. I believe you’re back at work these past six months. Will you handle the sale for me?”
Ella’s first reaction was an instinctive no. It was hell enough living with the memory of the accident and Karen’s continuous presence in her life without involving herself further with the Trevor family. But then some half-remembered piece of psychobabble made her realise that maybe that was exactly
what she needed. Face her fear. That was it. How could she be afraid of Karen Trevor if she was handling the sale of her home, getting rid of her earthly ties, finally burying her? Admitting to herself that her line of thinking was illogical, if not insane, Ella stood up from the table to get the coffee pot.
“More coffee?” she asked.
Rob nodded, never taking his eyes off her face as she poured.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I think I’ve upset you. I just felt that Karen would want you to be the person to do this.”
“I didn’t know her. I never met her.”
“You were the last person to see her alive.”
The words hung in the air between them. Was he blaming her for surviving when his wife and son had died? He had not been like this when he’d come to visit her in the hospital. Understanding and sympathy and complete exoneration of any blame had been his message to her then. Maybe they had both changed in the intervening time. She noticed suddenly that his hair had got greyer, his body thinner. What a fucking mess!
“All right,” she agreed. “I’ll value the property for you, explain our terms and outline your options. Then you can decide if you wish to go ahead with the sale.”
“I must. I have no choice.”
The despair in his voice struck a chord in Ella’s mind which reverberated long after Rob Trevor had left to return to Manor House.
* * *
It would have been nice to go to a crowded place. A place where he could show off the beautiful woman by his side, where he could revel in the envy of every man who laid eyes on Maxine Doran. Even though she was dressed casually – jeans, a wispy top and a faux-fur jacket and high-heeled boots – she still exuded glamour and that indefinable factor which set beautiful women apart from the merely attractive. Andrew realised as he drove further from the city that he was far enough away from his home ground not to be recognised but that Maxine would probably be known wherever she went. It would have to be a very quiet pub for lunch.
Ebb and Flow Page 3