by Lulu Taylor
Sara shrugged. ‘Oh, sometimes. If he needed a shoulder to cry on. I suppose he didn’t tell you about it?’
‘No.’
Sara smiled, her lips twitching as though she couldn’t quite resist showing her pleasure at this. She twisted her glass between her fingers, watching the last of the shimmering liquid as it swayed inside. Then she said quietly, ‘He understood me.’
Caitlyn felt as if they were trembling on the edge of some kind of revelation, as long as she went carefully. She spoke slowly so that she didn’t give away her racing heart and quaking voice. ‘Did he? In what way?’
‘He knew how I ticked.’ Sara frowned. ‘I liked that. It wasn’t always the most . . . flattering thing in the world. He’d tell me off. Did you know that? Men don’t usually tell me off! Patrick did.’
‘When did he tell you off?’
‘When we talked.’ Sara lifted her wine glass up to drain the last rivulet, then put it back on the table.
‘How often did you talk?’
‘Quite often. Emails. Chats. We were in touch.’ Sara smiled at her. ‘Friends.’
‘Of course. Friends.’ Caitlyn could see that Sara was having a little game with her, dangling something just out of reach. She was sober enough to know exactly what she was doing.
‘A special . . . friendly relationship.’ Sara sighed again, almost luxuriously. ‘He knew me. Inside out.’
‘I had no idea,’ Caitlyn said. ‘He never said.’
Sara blinked her slow blink. ‘No,’ she said, ‘you didn’t.’
Caitlyn didn’t know how she got through the next few minutes, as she stood up and said she was too tired to talk longer, and showed Sara, swaying on her feet now, the way to the guest bedroom. Inside, she was shaky, almost tearful, but she managed to hide it until she was safely inside her bedroom with the door shut.
In her bathroom, cleaning her teeth, she saw her own frightened gaze staring back at her.
My God, she wants me to believe that she had something going on with Patrick. The thought was devastating. It was everything Nicholas had said about Sara, and more. She wants to undermine me, demean me, frighten me. Why would she do that? I know he didn’t desire her, I know it.
It had been such a pillar of her life that Patrick had not been attracted to Sara that she felt everything would collapse if that were not true. But was he such a good actor that he could have concealed it? Over all those years, could they have been hiding something from her? She had never doubted him.
But I know that she had lunch with Patrick and he didn’t tell me. He gave me her favourite perfume as a gift – was that a mistake, or was Sara’s hand behind it, giving me a little clue that she was with him when he chose it?
An image played suddenly in her mind, of the bank statements she had looked at and the payments that had been made. Something chimed, two pieces of a puzzle that unexpectedly connected. Caitlyn pulled out her phone and went with shaky fingers to Sara’s Instagram account. There they were – the many photographs of her perfect life and the gorgeous projects she worked on, with their chirpy comments and shout-outs to the people involved.
Caitlyn scrolled back through the images she had looked at just the other day, and found what she was looking for. It was a photo of a large and exquisite bunch of tulips so dark they were almost black.
Beautiful bouquet arrived for me today – I’m a lucky girl. I loved being bunched!
So gorgeous #RoseYardFlowers
The text swam in front of her eyes and she squinted to be sure she was reading right. Rose Yard Flowers. I’ve seen that name before. On Patrick’s bank statements.
Then it’s true.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tommy sat in the window seat, a blanket round her fur coat, her fur hat on, and stared out at the endless whiteness. The others had abandoned the ice-cold drawing room but Tommy went there when she needed a respite in a place where she wouldn’t run into Fred. It made a change from the darkness of her bedroom, at least.
She sighed and wrapped her arms tightly about her knees. Such moments of peace were rare. There was always so much to be done, keeping order in a house that was occupied at all hours of the day by the whole family. Sending the children out to play meant coats and boots and socks to dry out, and hungry, cold people to restore to warmth. There was housework, laundry and mealtimes to manage too. Ada couldn’t cope alone and Clara would not be seen until the thaw came. They all had to muck in, which in practice meant Tommy, while Gerry was on child patrol.
It’s so odd that Barbara spends so little time with Molly. She’s a sweet little girl, quite merry now she’s come out of her shell, and yet Barbara ignores her almost entirely.
She hadn’t been able to look Barbara in the eye since she’d overheard the conversation with Roger, but she was more alert to the way that Barbara fluttered around her brother like a butterfly round a flower, attending to his needs, listening to him, flattering him – fawning, almost – and while Roger clearly enjoyed the attention, he didn’t seem much happier. All he really wanted, Tommy thought, was to spend time with Fred, discussing the evils of capitalism and the joy of collectivisation.
And Roger’s cooler with me too, I’m sure of it. If Barbara wants to put a wedge between us, she’s succeeding. Oh, I wish I could talk to Fred about all this. But I’ve ruined everything.
Feeling dog-tired and depressed, Tommy hauled herself out of the window seat to make her way back to the kitchen to start on tea. As she went by the piano, she stopped suddenly, frowning. There was an empty space where a silver filigree bonbon basket had once stood. She looked around the room for it, and quickly noticed that there were several other empty spaces. A trio of china pillboxes and a Dresden shepherdess had gone. The silver candlesticks from the glazed cupboard had vanished too, and so had a gilt-framed watercolour that was usually almost concealed from sight by the standing lamp in front of it.
Has Ada taken them for cleaning? wondered Tommy. But she never had before. Why would she start now?
She went quickly out of the room, across the hall and over to her mother’s side of the house. Listening at the door, she could hear Mrs Whitfield’s voice talking at length and murmured replies from Barbara. Tommy darted away, back into the hall and up the stairs. She went swiftly along the passage to the rose bedroom and quietly opened the door, her heart racing. Then she slipped inside and stood looking around at the gloomy room.
It glittered like a treasure cave. Everything she had noticed missing was there, and much more besides. The ornaments had been carefully placed around the room to dress it in a lustre of richness. The silver candlesticks stood on the dressing table on either side of the Dresden shepherdess, and the painting hung on the wall, alongside other small pictures taken from around the house. Some of the family photographs, including one of Roger taken in a photographer’s studio in Oxford, were on the chimney piece, as though they were Barbara’s own family. Going towards them, Tommy noticed a glint of something in the silver bonbon basket which sat on an antique demi-lune table. It was a sapphire ring that belonged to her mother.
‘This is outrageous,’ Tommy said out loud. ‘She’s been stripping the place bare while we haven’t been looking!’
Despite her outrage, she was nervous of being discovered, and didn’t dare risk staying any longer. Her palms prickled and her pulse was racing like the clappers as she tiptoed back across the room and out onto the landing.
‘Tommy?’
She gasped and jumped violently. Fred was standing there. ‘You frightened me!’ she cried, clutching at her chest.
‘I’m so sorry. Are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes, but . . .’ She beckoned to him. ‘Follow me!’ She went hastily into her room, held the door open for him and shut it behind him when he was inside. ‘Fred, it’s dreadful. Barbara’s been taking things from around the house. She’s got loads of it in there! It’s like Aladdin’s cave. Do you think she’s been stealing?’
Fred looked surp
rised. ‘Stealing? I shouldn’t think so. She’s just borrowed it, no doubt, to cheer up her bedroom.’
‘Then why not ask?’ Tommy shook her head. ‘It looks very sly to me.’
‘If she were stealing, she’d have hidden it all under her bed in a suitcase. And Ada goes in there to clean, doesn’t she? So it’s all quite obvious.’ He looked amused. ‘You’re imagining it, Tommy.’
‘Maybe. But I think it’s distinctly odd, especially after what she said to Roger about you and me.’
Fred fixed her with a candid look. ‘What did she say?’
Tommy began to blush hard. ‘Only that we were friends.’
‘We are . . . aren’t we?’ he asked. A shadow passed over his face. ‘At least, I thought we were.’
‘We are,’ she said stammeringly, ‘only . . .’
‘For God’s sake, Tommy,’ he burst out, ‘it’s killing me! The way you’re ignoring me! I’m sorry, I truly am. I trespassed unforgivably on your kindness, and you’ve a perfect right to cast me into outer darkness. But I’d do anything if you’d only forgive me.’
She stared at him, mortified. ‘No . . . no . . . you’re wrong. You don’t understand!’
‘You’re grieving,’ he said. ‘Of course I understand that. It’s too soon. Your husband—’
‘Stop it!’ Tommy cried sharply. She put her hands on her ears. ‘I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want you to either!’
Fred looked shocked, then said, ‘Of course not, I’m being horribly clumsy. Tommy . . . I’m so sorry . . .’
Tommy curdled inside, with embarrassment and something else that was horribly, shiveringly intense. ‘I can’t talk about it. I’m sorry, Fred. Please. I must get on now.’
It took all afternoon to overcome her emotions and go back downstairs for dinner. Fred was there, and the chasm between them seemed wider than ever. He looked worn and sad, his expression defeated. He was polite but remote, and she felt wretched.
Why is it so hard to tell him the truth?
But she had locked it away so deeply in her own heart, she could barely admit it to herself.
As Barbara passed her a serving dish, Tommy noticed a mineral glint on the other woman’s earlobes and saw she was wearing large diamond earrings that Tommy had never seen in her ears before.
‘Here you are, Tommy. Carrots,’ Barbara said, then turned to murmur in Roger’s ear.
Tommy stared at her. Where did those diamonds come from? Such rich jewels didn’t seem to sit very well with Barbara’s portrayal of herself as a desperate poor widow supporting a young child alone.
Mother’s got studs like those – but there’s no way Barbara could have borrowed them, not the way she’s borrowed the other things. But then, there’s the sapphire ring. That certainly came from Mother.
She eyed Barbara across the table, watching as she talked to Roger, laughing and murmuring under her breath. Her blonde, pink-and-white beauty had something jagged and bloodless about it. Tommy could see sharp collarbones protruding beneath the white cashmere jersey, and the long thin fingers deftly manoeuvring cutlery in elegant, minute movements. Occasionally Barbara’s pale blue gaze would flicker up at Tommy and then away without expression.
Why is she watching me? Then Tommy caught herself up. Why am I watching her?
She had the uncomfortable feeling that they were each a threat to the other, and that they’d been locked in a battle for some time that she was only now becoming aware of.
She is slowly but surely taking over. I can feel it.
She looked over at Gerry, who was frowning at Barbara, and guessed that her sister knew it too.
But how will we stop her?
The next day, Tommy took the opportunity of Barbara going on her promenade with Roger to visit her mother, who was sitting by the stove in her sitting room, the dogs curled at her feet.
‘Thomasina, hello, how nice of you to come by,’ her mother said with a touch of sarcasm, as Tommy came in. She was stitching away at her cushion cover with lime-green silk.
‘Well . . . I’ve been rather busy,’ Tommy replied with a laugh. ‘Ada has had me cleaning cupboards this morning. It’s quite an education.’
‘I’ve no doubt. But you needn’t obey her orders, you know. She is paid help. You are not.’
Tommy sat down in the flowered chintz armchair opposite her mother. It was pleasant to be in the fuzzy warmth emitted by the wood-burning stove. ‘We’re all mucking in, you know.’ As she said it, she knew it was untrue. That great Marxist socialist Roger never lifted a finger. Barbara was nowhere to be seen when there was work to be done. Fred hardly could, even if it occurred to him that laundry and cooking weren’t done by magic. Her mother was not to be moved from the warmth and comfort of her sofa. That left Ada, Gerry and Tommy taking care of the house, while Thornton did his best to clear snow outside.
‘Mother,’ Tommy said, taking a deep breath and pushing away her resentment. ‘I want to ask something. About Barbara. Have you been giving her jewellery?’
The skein of lime-green silk stopped in mid-stitch, then her mother said, ‘I have lent her one or two pieces. Why is it a concern?’
‘It’s not a concern, I simply wanted to make sure that you knew she had your sapphire ring and, I think, your diamond earrings.’
Mrs Whitfield’s mouth stiffened as she slowly drew the thread through her canvas. ‘Are you calling me a fool, Thomasina?’
‘Of course not! Why would I?’ Tommy was confused. ‘I just want to be sure you know what’s happening.’
Her mother put down her sewing and fixed Tommy with a cold stare. ‘Of course I do. I know exactly what’s going on.’
Tommy frowned. ‘What is?’
‘Don’t pretend you’re not up to your old tricks.’ Mrs Whitfield was clearly seething, and had been since before Tommy came in. ‘I’d hoped you’d learned your lesson. But obviously not. You come in here with your nasty insinuations about an honourable woman when you ought to ask yourself why it is that you haven’t turned out more like Barbara Hastings.’
‘What do you mean?’ Tommy said, hurt.
‘She’s so elegant. Always perfectly turned out, and with such beautiful manners. She’s a support to us all, without trying to take over, and she retains her dignity. She doesn’t try to be a skivvy. Besides which, she made a very proper marriage.’
‘I see,’ Tommy said icily. Hurt burned in her chest. ‘You mean she hasn’t put herself forward like I have.’
Her mother sighed again, picking up her sewing once more and staring at the stitches so she would not have to look at her daughter. ‘I think you know what I mean.’
‘Say it, why don’t you?’ Tommy said, her breath coming faster and her fists clenching. ‘You want to, you always have. I’ve felt it for years. You want to, you say it in a hundred different ways every day.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ her mother replied testily.
‘Yes, you do! You mean that my marriage wasn’t entirely proper, don’t you?’
‘Well, it wasn’t,’ said Mrs Whitfield flatly.
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ hissed Tommy. ‘Don’t you think I paid for it?’
‘I have no idea, I’m sure.’
‘Well, I did, in ways you can’t imagine.’
‘Don’t be disgusting.’
‘Oh . . . go to hell!’ cried Tommy, turning and running out of the room, bumping into Barbara as she did.
‘I’m sorry,’ Barbara said silkily. ‘I was just getting . . .’
But Tommy didn’t stop to talk to her, rushing away into the hall instead, to stand alone in the dark under the stairs so that she could control her trembling lips and the tears that flooded unwanted down her cheeks.
I want comfort. I can’t bear all this alone. But I have to be strong.
She straightened her shoulders and prepared herself to face everyone as normal.
I want Fred.
She suppressed the thought as soon as it came into
her mind. Fred was dangerous, and that was that. The safest way, the only way, was to cope with it all on her own. That was the promise she had made to herself and she intended to keep it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
As soon as Sara had left the next day, Caitlyn ran up the stairs to the spare room and uncovered the boxes. She tugged a few down onto the floor, yanking open their lids and pulling out the contents. The box she’d opened before was now at the bottom but she found what she was looking for, lifting the bank statements out with shaky hands. Yes. Here it was. Every month, there was a payment of hundreds of pounds to Rose Yard Flowers.
She went back to Sara’s Instagram account. The date of the photograph was the day after a payment to Rose Yard Flowers of £125.
Oh no. Surely not. Please . . . not that.
She called Theo Ronson, Patrick’s accountant.
‘Well, Caitlyn,’ he said when she’d explained what she wanted to know. ‘I’m not sure there’s much I can tell you. Patrick said that this account was for his private use.’
‘So not a business account? He didn’t reclaim what he spent as expenses?’
‘No, he didn’t. Sorry I can’t be of any further use.’
‘That’s fine, really. You’ve been a help,’ Caitlyn said wretchedly. So her theory had been wrong. It wasn’t business. Pleasure, then. Oh God. ‘I’m very grateful.’
When she’d put the phone down, she went back to Sara’s Instagram account. Now the pictures filled her with violent distaste. She scrolled through, going back years, recognising some outfits she’d seen Sara wear, some of the locations, and even some of the parties.
Then she saw it. A photograph of a hand and wrist wearing a watch she knew well, resting on a table by a Martini glass. The caption said: A preprandial with a handsome man with exquisite taste #luckygirl #shyclient.
Fighting an urge to be sick, Caitlyn texted Nicholas.
Can you come up here? I really need to talk to you. C
Nicholas arrived a few hours later, when his tutorials were finished, clutching a bag of croissants.