by Carnegie, Jo
‘I’ve just been really busy.’
Catherine decided to play her wild card. ‘You’re not mad at me because I’m running instead of Felix in the election?’
Ginny looked stricken. ‘Of course not!’ She glanced through the door. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I should get back.’
As Ginny passed, she stopped and planted a kiss on Catherine’s cheek. ‘You’re doing a wonderful thing,’ she whispered fervently. ‘I’m so very proud.’
Catherine was left completely confused. What had that been about?
It was past 11 p.m. by the time Catherine walked up the Crescent. The house was dark and quiet. She looked up at the big, empty windows and didn’t want to go in. It felt too scarily like her old life: a big, expensive space devoid of love and laughter.
Her mobile started ringing. She got it out of her bag. It was John again. She wanted to speak to him so badly, but she couldn’t bear hearing the disappointment in his voice and realize how much she’d fucked up. She stared at the small glowing screen.
Answer it, she willed herself. Just bloody answer it …
After the tenth ring it cut off. She waited hopefully for a voicemail bleep, but the phone stayed silent. ‘Shit!’ Catherine wailed tearfully. ‘What is wrong with you?’
She suddenly desperately wanted someone to talk to. She couldn’t go to Ginny, especially after today. Catherine’s thoughts turned to Mel. Mel’s cheery company was just what she needed. She remembered Mel mentioning Mike was away; Mel would probably appreciate the company. The thought of companionship and a glass of something made Catherine feel happy for the first time that day.
All the lights were off at the Cooper-Stanleys’ house. Disappointed, Catherine started down the path. As she got to the end she heard the front door open and Mel appeared on the doorstep in a leopard-print dressing gown.
Mel was talking to someone inside. Catherine watched in disbelief as a familiar lanky figure appeared behind Mel. Tristan Jago pulled her into a passionate embrace, holding his briefcase in the other hand.
Panicking, Catherine dived behind next-door’s conifer. She heard the murmur of voices and Mel laugh softly. A moment later Tristan walked down the path, passing her by mere inches. She held her breath, convinced she was about to be discovered, but Tristan strolled off down the close and disappeared into the night.
Everything fell quiet again, but she stayed where she was. Tristan and Mel? Catherine couldn’t get her head round it. Did everyone have a secret in this town?
Chapter 72
The Powells were back in London. Conrad had insisted on an acoustics test at the Royal Albert Hall so Vanessa, the executive producer, producer, director and a bemused cleaner were watching from the wings as he strode round the stage testing his voice.
‘Lord, Conrad does know he’s going to be miked up?’ the producer muttered. It earnt him a nudge from the director, but Vanessa barely heard. She was in a world of her own.
All week she’d been making surreptitious arrangements, transferring assets, freezing bank accounts, looking into nearby houses she could rent. The meeting with her lawyer had been sobering: they would lose out to the tune of millions by reneging on contracts and losing endorsements. Vanessa had come out and been sick in the loo, and then promptly phoned a legendary PR who was an expert in damage limitation. When Conrad came for her, she’d be ready.
And he’d come earlier than Vanessa had expected. When she stopped by the Dorchester on her way home she found Tamzin on her knees in Conrad’s suite giving him a blow job.
‘Is this why you’ve been spending so much time away?’ she’d yelled after their PA had fled in tears.
‘I needed stress relief from somewhere,’ Conrad hissed back. ‘It’s not like you’re giving me any.’
‘You’re a despicable human being!’
‘I’m also your loving husband.’ He advanced towards her dangerously. ‘If you breathe a word of this, your little home video is going viral.’
Chapter 73
With less than a week until election day, campaigning had stepped up to a whole new level. So had the smear tactics, as the parties tried to bring down their rivals by any means possible. An unfortunate photo of the Lib Dem Helen Singh smoking a bong at university had been published in the previous day’s Sun. Esme Santura’s real name had been revealed as Elaine Scroggins. The Guardian had got hold of a picture of Major Bill Fairclough smoking a cigar with a member of the BNP. The major hadn’t helped his cause by saying the BNP guy had been a jolly nice chap and all serial burglars should face the death penalty.
Catherine had got off relatively lightly. Everyone knew her past. In the face of the colourful new accusations, her ‘Champagne Charlotte’ moniker was seen as a bit old hat. Annoyingly, Tristan Jago was managing to stay squeaky clean as well. The hard-working social worker seemed dedicated to his cause, a pillar of the local community.
It was extremely frustrating as Catherine knew exactly which member of the community Tristan had been showing his pillar to. But what could she do? Mel was a good friend. She had to stick a smile on and suck it up.
Besides, there was a sense things were starting to change. The PM’s visit had altered everything. Catherine was now third in the MORI polls, behind Tristan and the bong-smoking Helen Singh. The press was starting to describe her as a late contender, a possible masterstroke for the beleaguered government. Perhaps, they were saying, the PM’s wild card would pay off.
Catherine’s campaigning became even more zealous. Desperate not to spend any time at home where the empty rooms reminded her of John’s absence, she passed every waking hour tramping the streets. Even Clive and Kitty were expressing concern she was pushing herself too much, but Catherine did what she’d always done and threw herself into work. She knew her marriage was in real trouble. But every minute she kept busy meant she didn’t have to face up to what was happening.
Catherine was dead on her feet by the time they got back to the High Street that evening. She could see Ursula Patel behind the counter at Soraya closing up for the day. Telling the others she’d see them back at base, Catherine knocked on the door. Mrs Patel looked up and smiled. ‘It’s open,’ she called. ‘Come in!’
The boutique was a wonderful relief from the hot dusty day. ‘My dear, you look exhausted.’ Mrs Patel gestured to the velvet armchair in front of the counter. ‘Take a seat.’
Catherine sank down gratefully. ‘How are you? Please tell me something that doesn’t involve the case against wind farms or someone’s wall falling down.’
Mrs Patel gave a regretful smile. ‘Rather worried, if you really want to know. This council meeting is hanging over our heads like a black cloud. Dilip’s getting up four times a night with the stress.’
‘He’s not the only one. We just have to cross our fingers and hope for the best.’
‘Anyway, to what honour do I owe this visit?’ Mrs Patel smiled. ‘You’re a very important and busy person these days.’
‘In fact, I do want something. Or to buy something. I need a new dress for election day.’
‘Of course. Why don’t you sit there and I’ll pull you out a few things?’
In the end Catherine settled on a silk belted Diane Von Furstenberg in peacock blue. Despite her protestations Mrs Patel insisted on giving her a generous discount.
She handed the bag over. ‘Have you heard from John?’
‘A few times.’
Ursula Patel observed her across the counter. ‘My dear, is everything all right?’
‘Not really.’ Catherine felt her lip wobbling, and burst into tears.
The blinds were swiftly pulled down and the door locked. Mrs Patel handed her a box of tissues and let her have a good old cry.
‘I’m sorry,’ Catherine sniffed. ‘I’m just so tired.’
‘Of course you are,’ Mrs Patel said soothingly. ‘This must be a very emotional time for you. All this pressure and stress, and with John being away.’
‘I’ve driven him
away,’ Catherine said, bursting into fresh floods of tears.
‘There, there. I’m quite sure that you didn’t.’
‘We haven’t been getting on.’
‘I did think something was up. Oh, my dear.’
Catherine exhaled shakily. ‘It’s all such a mess. You know, with my career I’ve always been so sure of my instincts. I could communicate what I wanted in an instant. It’s completely different with my marriage. John sees me as this problem to fix, but I don’t know what makes me happy.’
‘You have to keep talking,’ Mrs Patel said firmly. ‘Communication is the most important thing in a marriage. Even if it’s something you don’t want to hear.’
‘Do you and Dilip ever argue?’
‘Of course we do. Especially when he leaves his cotton earbuds by the side of the sink!’ Mrs Patel smiled. ‘I’m sure I have habits that annoy him as well.’
Catherine looked at this tall, graceful woman whose husband was three inches shorter than her and walked around in socks and sandals all year. ‘How do you make it work? Because I could really do with the advice right now.’
Mrs Patel looked thoughtful. ‘You need common ground. Dilip and I agree on how to raise Pritti, and the importance of family. Respect is important, as is being kind to each other.’ Mrs Patel smiled. ‘Dilip can drive me crazy, but he’s always made me laugh. You have to have fun together.’
‘I can’t remember the last time John and I had fun together,’ Catherine said sadly.
‘Talk to him. Look into your heart, Catherine, and find what’s troubling you.’
‘Do you think I should wait until he gets home?’
‘I think you should do it sooner.’ Mrs Patel looked serious. ‘Be careful. You don’t want to get to the point where you can’t get him back again.’
Catherine got home and headed straight for the loo. Ursula was right, they hadn’t been communicating. Or rather John had, and she – irrational, defensive, stubborn – had pushed him away.
Her behaviour had been reprehensible. Catherine only hoped he’d forgive her. And suddenly, a huge piece of the jigsaw fell into place. The mood swings and low-level nausea she’d put down to nerves. The permanently full bladder and inexplicable craving for McCoy’s ridged steak crisps …
She still had some spare pregnancy tests in the bathroom cabinet. She got one out and re-read the now familiar instructions.
She was still staring at the words ‘Pregnant 3+’ when her mobile started ringing out in the hallway. She knew instinctively it was John.
The phone was lost in the depths of her handbag. ‘Fuck’s sake! Where are you?’ Catherine whipped it out just as John’s number cut off before her. Missed call.
‘I’m here!’ she cried, frantically redialling. ‘I didn’t miss you!’ A second later: ‘You’ve reached the voicemail of …’ John was leaving her a message.
Her voicemail beeped with a message a few minutes later. ‘You have one new message,’ the automated voice intoned. ‘Message received today at ten twenty-two p.m.’
‘Bloody get on with it!’ she shouted. Her heart swelled as she heard the familiar Geordie burr.
‘Hi, Cath. I was hoping you’d pick up, but you’re probably out campaigning. I hope it’s going OK, we’re in a pretty remote place but I’ve been getting BBC News when I can. I saw you with the Prime Minister the other day. You looked great.’
There was a long, horrible pause. ‘Cath, sweetheart, we’re in a load of trouble here.’
She felt her heart detach and roll down to the bottom of her stomach.
‘This is the world’s worst timing. But I can’t keep pretending. I owe you the truth about how I feel.
‘The truth is, Cath, I’m not sure we have a future together.’ His voice sounded broken. ‘You’ve only ever been the one for me, Cath. I’ve waited my whole life for you. But now I’m starting to wonder if it was just a romantic notion, an ideal I had of us being together.’
Catherine’s legs dissolved underneath her. She slid down the wall.
‘All I’ve ever wanted to do is love you and look after you. You’re an amazing woman, Cath, and I’ve been so proud to call you my wife. Your independence is one of the things I’ve loved most about you, but now I realize you’ve been trying to tell me something. I can’t seem to make you happy, Cath. It’s like I suffocate you, and that’s a bloody horrible way to feel. I’m starting to wonder if I made you feel like that all the way along.’
The line crackled, muffling John’s voice. Or was he crying? ‘I used to think loving someone was enough to make it work. Now I’m not so sure. I can’t be with someone who doesn’t want to be with me. We’re both too good to live our lives like this.
‘I can’t believe I’m saying this into a voicemail. Then again,’ a wry note entered his voice. ‘It’s the only time I’ve been able to tell you how I’m feeling without it descending into an argument.’ There was another burst of static. ‘I’m going off on a trip by myself for a few days. I don’t know if there will be any phone reception. I’ll let you know when I’m back. Thinking of you always, good luck on Thursday.’ The call ended abruptly.
Catherine was shaking so much she dropped the phone twice. ‘John!’ she cried. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. Please, please pick up.’
It was too late. It went through to voicemail. He’d already turned his phone off.
She put her face on the cold floor and howled.
Chapter 74
Fleur drove into the yard that night and immediately sensed something was wrong. The house was too still. Jumping off her quad bike, she raced inside.
‘Dad?’
The dogs hung back at the door, unwilling to come in. Fleur saw the gun cartridges scattered on the kitchen table.
‘Dad!’
She raced down the corridor. ‘Dad!’ She tried the study door but it was locked. ‘Are you in there?’
No answer. She was sweating with fright. No, no, no.
‘Dad!’ She started beating on the door with her fists. ‘Let me in!’
She jumped as it was suddenly wrenched open. Her father stood there, eyes puffy and bloodshot.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he growled.
‘I could bloody ask you the same thing!’ she cried. ‘Why do you always lock yourself in?’
The table was strewn with old photographs of her mother. Embarrassed at what she’d stumbled in on, angry, inordinately relieved, she went for her dad.
‘Why are there spent gun cartridges on the kitchen table?’
‘I’ve been out, shooting rabbits. What are you yelling for?’
She was close to tears. ‘I came in and thought …’
Her dad stared at her. ‘What did you think?’
She bit her lip, holding back. ‘So this is what you come in here to do? Look at pictures of Mum?’
He went back to his armchair. The way he walked reminded Fleur of the tired, stiff way her grandfather had moved round before he had died.
‘Now you know,’ Robert said. ‘The sad secret of a sad old man.’
‘It’s not sad!’ Fleur said tearfully. ‘Why don’t you talk to me about Mum?’
He picked up his glass. She looked back at the desk. There were other photos laid out alongside the ones of her mother. Fleur picked up one of her granddad as a young man. It must have been harvest time; he was standing stiffly in one of the fields holding a pitchfork.
She glanced over the other black and white photographs. The way the farm’s history was all laid out like this; it seemed so final.
Her dad picked up his glass. ‘It’s all right, lass. You’ve got Beau now. Maybe I was wrong about him after all.’
‘What do you mean I’ve got Beau? I’ve still got you, haven’t I? Dad?’ she said. ‘We’ve still got each other, haven’t we?’
Her dad wasn’t listening. ‘I won’t be a burden to you for much longer. Then you can have your life back again.’
‘Dad,’ Fleur said in a tiny voice. ‘You
’re scaring me.’
‘Don’t be scared,’ he said distantly. ‘Everything will be all right.’
Fleur went over and knelt down by him. ‘Please tell me you’re not about to do anything stupid. We’ll get through this somehow.’
That night, she hid his shotgun.
Chapter 75
Two things dominated the papers the following morning: the Beeversham by-election and the Ye Olde Worlde meeting. The Sunday Times ran a headline about the fate of the government being in Catherine’s hands. The Sunday Telegraph went with it being crunchtime for the future of rural England, asking: ‘Will it be concrete car parks or fields of dreams?’ Catherine, skimming the papers at 7 a.m. after barely sleeping, had run upstairs to be sick.
She felt utterly helpless. She’d called John obsessively all night, waking up fully dressed at 5 a.m. on the bed, still clutching her phone. Clive and Kitty had taken one look at her and asked if they should call a doctor. Numb, Catherine had gone on to autopilot. She went back out, smiling, cajoling, and talking people round. On the inside she was an empty shell.
Desperate to keep busy, she insisted on knocking on twice as many doors when they went out. By one o’clock, after she’d nearly fainted on someone’s doorstep, Kitty and Clive had persuaded her to take a break. Unable to bear the concerned looks, Catherine had asked to borrow Clive’s Volvo.
Without thinking she’d found herself driving up to Blaize Castle. The view, as ever, was heart-stopping. She looked out over the swaying fields and wondered what John was looking out on at that precise moment. Was he consumed with wretched misery and thinking about her, the way she was about him?
This place had always brought her happiness, but now it seemed so bleak. How could she stay here without John in her life? She wasn’t being melodramatic. Her husband saw things in black and white. Once he made his mind up about something, there was no going back. Maybe he was right. Maybe she had always kept him at arm’s length, and, little by little, year by year, even he had been worn down. ‘Oh, my darling,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m so scared I’ve lost you!’