And then there was the day of the accident. The day that everything changed. Later she overheard details, whispered conversations when the grownups thought she wasn’t listening. On the night itself, she had a clear memory of her parents coming to say goodbye before they left, she even fancied she could still smell her mother’s perfume as she bent over to kiss her cheek. She was in a red cocktail dress, her blond hair swept back off her face and held with a diamond clip. They were going to a Christmas party. She gazed at her mother, speechless with admiration, thinking she looked just like Grace Kelly in the old movie they had watched the previous afternoon. ‘High Society’. ‘You’re sensational!’ That was the song that Frank Sinatra had sung, and even today Caroline couldn’t hear it without tears coming to her eyes.
‘You’re sensational Mummy!’
Her mother had laughed and kissed her.
‘Sensational? What about me? Am I sensational too?’ her father had asked teasingly, standing back to show off his dinner jacket and black tie.
‘Not as nice as Mummy!’
‘What??’
He had pretended to jump on her with a lion’s roar, tickling her and ruffling her hair so that it stood up in all directions and she had screamed and giggled and said ‘Daddy! Don’t!’ as she always did.
Ice on the road, she heard the adults whisper, a sudden skid, a van coming too quickly in the opposite direction, a head-on crash.
Afterwards there had been two years living at Willowdale, with the grandparents, Grandfather and Grandmother MacDonald. Caroline had never been able to call them ‘Grandma and Grandpa’. They were in their eighties, impossibly ancient to ten-year-old Caroline. There was a succession of nannies to look after the two girls, but none of them stayed long. The farmhouse was old and badly-heated, the younger child, Annabel, a tiny screaming despot who held the rest of the household in thrall.
Caroline’s father, Robbie, had been the youngest of three children. His elder brother, Angus, had been born with spina bifida, and had died at the age of fifteen. Now, with the death of her second son, Grandmother Macdonald’s health declined steadily. There was another child, a girl, much older than Robbie, who was rarely seen. She’d left England in her twenties to make a career for herself in the Civil Service Overseas.
Caroline would never forget the day a bright red sports car, gleaming with chrome, drew up outside Willowdale and a small woman in her early sixties sprang out from behind the wheel. She was wearing a brilliant blue scarf the exact colour of her eyes. She stood for a moment, hands on hips, then marched towards the front door. Margaret MacDonald had come home. In a matter of hours she had transformed the household, arranged a nurse for Grandmother MacDonald, taken charge of the bewildered Grandfather, hired a firm of builders to sort out the leaky roof and the ancient heating system and magically charmed the mutinous Annabel.
When Grandmother MacDonald died the following month, followed shortly by her husband, Margaret came to a decision. She had never married, was staunchly independent, and had a manner that was politely described as ‘forthright’. It was rumoured that there were many in the little circle of ex-pats at her final posting who heaved a sigh of relief at the news that she would not be returning. But whatever she lacked in social graces, Margaret MacDonald had the courage and generosity to give up the life she had built in order to take on the problems of her aging parents, and, after their deaths, to assume entire responsibility for her two nieces, one an adolescent, the other a child of four. Caroline could not think of many people who would have done, or indeed could have done, the same. At the end of her first year at Willowdale, Margaret was joined by an equally indomitable lady, Birdie, a lifelong friend, and together the two women threw themselves into the task of bringing up a couple of strange children and trying to patch up the rambling old house in Wiltshire which had been in the MacDonald family for almost a century.
For Caroline, the arrival of Aunt Margaret had marked a new era. In the lonely years following the death of her parents, she had stood on the threshold between two worlds, the dim, muffled existence of her grandparents, and the strange and turbulent fantasy world of her little sister. Maturity had come early as she tried to cope with the different demands on her attention. Her grandparents, broken by family tragedy, were exhausted at having a lively little girl in the house who spent her time running in and out of rooms, turning up the sound on the television, and frightening the cat. Annabel was affectionate and petulant in turns, wanting to sit on Grandma’s knee and cuddle, or stamping her feet in rage when she couldn’t have what she wanted. The nannies came and went, with long gaps in between. When Margaret MacDonald arrived, she found the household was being held together thanks to the efforts of a small fair-haired girl with dark solemn eyes and an attitude of stoic acceptance. Caroline remembered the new sensation growing in her chest, the utter relief as realisation dawned that from now on, things would be alright, and that she didn’t have to cope with everything on her own. Aunt Margaret was there.
The three of them, Caroline, Margaret and Birdie had turned all their attention on Annabel. ‘No more Nannies,’ said Margaret. ‘We are her family. We shall bring up the child ourselves.’ A praiseworthy intention, but none of them had known where to draw the line until it was far too late. Annabel had grown up as the darling child, the delightful pet with the infectious giggle. Surrounded by two adoring women and a devoted elder sister, she grew from a small tyrant into a big one. A charming tyrant, admittedly, except when she was thwarted. Then the charmer locked herself in her room, screamed and shouted and drummed her heels on the floor. Margaret had invented a new name for her. Storm MacDonald.
Caroline had often wondered what Julian thought of this side of his fiancée’s character. He was still something of an unknown quantity, visiting the house in Wiltshire with Annabel but staying discreetly in the background while Annabel occupied her usual position centre stage. Physically he was good-looking, tall, with dark curly hair and impeccable manners. Caroline knew that he came from a wealthy background and earned a lot of money in the City. He treated Annabel like an antique dealer who has suddenly acquired a rare piece of fragile porcelain. Unfailingly courteous, he seemed to know what she wanted almost before she did. Annabel basked and glowed, delighted at so much pampering. But it was not just that her sister was pleased with her good catch, there was also something else, a flash of something triumphant in the expression of those wonderful blue eyes as she smiled at Caroline, a look which seemed to say ‘See what I’ve ended up with, whereas poor old you…’
It was a look that Caroline found both hurtful and infuriating. Still, they had all been relieved that things had worked out so well for Annabel. Caroline had been a model child, a model student. But her sister...Margaret was constantly being summoned to school to try to deal with her niece’s latest escapade; she and Birdie had spent many anxious hours driving round the little market town nearby looking for Annabel in cafes and amusement arcades when she was supposed to be in class. With the help of some expensive private tutoring she had managed to scrape a couple of passes in her final exams, then, just when they were all wondering how she would ever be able to support herself she had astonished them by landing a job at a fashionable magazine in London. Oh she’d had help from an old school friend, Gloria Winchfield, who knew somebody who knew somebody who knew the editor. But still. Though fairly low down on the ladder, it was a good start, a much better start than any of them had hoped.
And here was Caroline, driving to her good safe job in a drab suburban town 30 minutes from London . She’d been there for eight years, the work jaw-droppingly repetitive, her colleagues dull, to put it kindly. But none of that had mattered after she met Liam.
Spotting the red brick office building ahead she switched on her indicator. She parked the Mini, turned off the wipers and sat for a moment. The rain blurred the windscreen, beat down on the metal roof.
Have a good wallow, she told herself. Self-pity is such an enriching sentiment. Wha
t was it Margaret used to say? ‘The best way to cheer yourself up is to try to cheer someone else up.’ That was probably a quote from somebody or other. Caroline picked up the postcard again. She wondered to what extent the change in her feelings towards Annabel had been entangled with the change in her feelings towards Liam.
When Caroline met Liam, Annabel had been seventeen. She’d been in her final year at school, troublesome, rebellious, always complaining. As soon as the two of them met, it had been a case of instant, mutual dislike. Liam didn’t see why Caroline had to lavish so much attention on her kid sister while Annabel resented the feeling she’d been pushed into second place. Caroline had worked hard to ease the tensions between the two of them, and, gradually, much to her relief, things had started to work out. Liam had helped Annabel with her coursework. He’d put new stuff on her computer. He even gave her driving lessons in his Audi, just around the grounds of Willowdale, but Annabel had been thrilled. Caroline had prayed for things to continue. Maybe what Annabel had really missed had been a male influence in her life, she thought, watching them together. Liam had even begun to suggest Annabel should go along with them when they went out. It had seemed fun to take little sister to the theatre or to a concert, to watch her eyes widen, her lips part in a smile of pure pleasure. She’d been over the moon when he managed to get tickets for a Robbie Williams concert, telling Liam he was ‘so cool!’ Liam was flattered by her growing admiration. He liked taking the two of them out, Annabel with her long blond hair and her blue eyes on one side, and Caroline, ‘my Spanish beauty’, on the other.
It had got to the point where Caroline and Liam hardly ever went anywhere on their own, a development which had begun to make Caroline uncomfortable for reasons she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Then he’d started buying presents for Annabel, small things at first, a scarf, a new CD. Later, on a couple of occasions, pieces of jewellery. Caroline had protested, saying they were too expensive, that he was spoiling her.
‘Spoiling her? Me! You can talk,’ he replied, laughing it off. ‘Anyway, she’s my second-best girl, aren’t you Nanabel?’
Nanabel. Caroline remembered his pet name for her sister, how she’d giggled whenever he called her ‘his Nanabel.’ And how Caroline herself had watched her sister, first a coltish teenager, later a sexy young woman, climb onto his knees and twine her arms around his neck. Just the same as she did now, with Julian.
She pushed open the car door and got out, glancing up at the unattractive facade of her workplace, the neon-lit windows shining through the rain. Annabel was no longer her adored little sister, eternally forgiven. The scales had dropped from Caroline’s eyes. But she also knew that she was still bound to Annabel by the strongest of ties, that she would drop everything and rush to protect her if she was ever hurt or in danger.
Sisters. It was complicated.
CHAPTER THREE. WEDNESDAY 26 MAY
As Caroline got into the lift her mind was on changes. A new job. A new town. A new flat. It was time, she thought. Time to shake off those blues, make some decisions, take back control. The advantages of working close to London were beginning to lose out to the disadvantages. She would be thirty this year, she wasn’t yet caught in the age trap, she could put her flat on the market or maybe even rent it for a while, time enough for her to find a new place, a new look. Goodbye Laura Ashley, hello feng shui and single stems of almond blossom in gray vases. She could even try to join Jill up in Edinburgh. She was picturing geometric white sofas and bleached wooden floors when the lift stopped.
She stepped out and instantly went flying sideways, banging her shoulder against the wall.
‘Oh excuse me Caroline, I didn’t see you coming!’
The girl who had nearly knocked her off feet was scrabbling around on the floor trying to pick up Caroline’s handbag and its scattered contents. Caroline, breathless, looked down at her. She was wearing extremely low-slung trousers and a much too short T-shirt. In the gap between the two was something that looked like a giant Mozzarella sliced through by red string.
‘Sheryl,’ she said, tearing her gaze away from the be-thonged buttocks of her most junior team member. ‘Sheryl. Please. Get up. Do you really have to come charging round corners at fifty miles an hour? I’ve told you before, slow down. What if I’d been carrying a hot coffee?’
The girl’s eyes blinked up at her, huge and myopic behind smudged John Lennon glasses. Her skin was bottle-tan orange, and her red hair, Caroline couldn’t help noticing, bore a disturbing resemblance to the colour of her thong.
‘Well it’s just that I was a bit late, so I was sort of hurrying.’
‘I think I got that Sheryl. You know, you could try setting your alarm clock a bit earlier. Or not staying up so late. Or just watching where you’re going. Or—oh never mind.’
She took the bag the girl was holding and proceeded to the office with as much dignity as she could muster.
‘Morning everyone,’ she said taking off her coat.
Desultory murmurs and a grunt came back. No-one deigned to look up. What if I broke into song, she thought. Belted out ‘I Will Survive’, shimmied like Shakira. Would anyone notice?
She pushed open the door into the glass cubicle that was her office. Flinging her coat over a chair she started flipping through the mail that Jen had left on her desk.
‘There’s a letter from Sidney and Watson’s about that client of theirs. You know, the one we were talking about last week. They don’t sound very happy.’
Jen conveyed the information in a nervous voice, ending in a little cough.
‘Again? Try to get them on the phone would you, Jen? See if you can find out what’s going on exactly?’
Jen gave a little gasp and looked ready to faint.
‘You mean talk to Mr Watson? Oh no Caroline I really don’t think I could. He’s always in a bad mood. You’re the only one who can handle him, really Caroline, it needs somebody really diplomatic. Like you.’
Maybe she should apply for a job as Secretary General of the UN? Muttering to herself she tossed the letter on one side and switched on her computer, watching the familiar icons fill the screen. Despite staying until after seven the previous night there were eighteen new messages waiting for her, most of them with little red flags by the side.
She spent the next hour and a half sorting through the most urgent problems. At half past ten she pushed back her chair, deciding a coffee was in order. The machine was on a table in the corner of the general office where her three staff members worked. Unconsciously she massaged her temples as she waited for the water to pass through the filter.
‘Headache?’ Jen was trying to make amends for earlier. ‘I’m always getting them when it rains. I’ve got some Nurofen in my drawer if you want.’
‘No it’s OK, it just feels a bit fuggy in here. But thanks anyway.’
Caroline forced a smile. Jen wasn’t bad, she was just, what was the CV term? ‘Lacking in initiative.’ She would perform routine tasks like a hamster on a wheel, it was the thought of actually being responsible for something which threw her into a panic. When Caroline had been ill for a couple of days in January, Jen had immediately declared herself ill as well, leaving the office to George and Sheryl. And that had been a roaring success, hadn’t it?
‘I’ll open a window!’
As if sensing her thoughts, Sheryl sprang from her seat and raced across the room.
‘Just an inch!’
Caroline’s voice was sharp. She looked over at George apprehensively. The eldest member of the team was hunched like a chicken ruffling his feathers against the cold. He sat with his head down, laboriously entering figures into an Excel table on his computer screen. Sheryl tugged at the window with a look of triumph but George didn’t raise his head.
Caroline’s phone rang. She went back inside her cubicle, leaving the door open, her mind on the permanent feud between Sheryl and George. The two of them had clashed from the moment Sheryl had joined the team eight months ago. She w
ould have to do something about it. Team building, not one of her strong points. Maybe she should invite them all for a drink one day after work? Hand out T-shirts? Sheryl the Thong, Jen the Hamster and George the Chicken. Oh my goodness she was grumpy this morning.
She picked up the phone.
‘Caroline MacDonald.’
‘Caro darling!’
She had been expecting a client or a colleague. With a start of surprise she recognised her sister’s voice.
‘Annabel? What’s wrong?’
The words sprang to her lips automatically. There was a fairly reliable short list of reasons why her sister phoned, all of them to do with emergencies.
‘I’m absolutely fine darling! Fine! Did you get my postcard?’
‘Just this morning. Sounds like you had a great time.’
‘It was wonderful! I’ll tell you all about it this weekend. Listen, I know you’re at work, but something rather urgent’s come up…’
‘Urgent?’
Annabel cut in immediately with a little laugh.
‘Don’t start getting all neurotic. Nothing to do with Aunt Maggie. No, it’s, well, it’s something a bit unexpected really…’
She hesitated, then said brightly ‘It’s about this summer actually. July. Do you have any plans?’
Caroline was momentarily at a loss for words. Various scenarios ran through her head. Caroline the Kitten-Sitter while her sister was on holiday. Caroline the Foreman, chivvying the workmen who were renovating Annabel’s flat. Or The Tourist Guide. Her sister had a way of inviting people to come and stay, people she met on a cruise, at a wedding in Miami. She was invariably astonished when they turned up on her doorstep with a pile of luggage and said ‘Hi there! We’ve just arrived in London, is the guest room ready?’
Biarritz Passion: A French Summer Novel Page 3