by Sophie King
‘So that’s why you think you killed her?’ Amber’s voice was flat. Like a weather report.
Nick stared at her. ‘I put the idea into her head. And now I’m terrified in case Julie finds out exactly how her mother died and stops eating too.’
‘What do you mean, “how she died”? What happened?’
Nick tried to talk but the words wouldn’t come out. Amber spoke again: ‘Why does it scare you that Julie might find out?’
Nick stood up, almost knocking over his chair. ‘Because she didn’t know her mother had anorexia – I said she died of cancer because I was scared Julie would stop eating. Look, Amber, I’m sorry but this isn’t working. You don’t understand and you’re driving me crazy with your rubbish about giving me gifts and saying, “Why?” all the time. Juliana is dead and it’s my fault. And nothing you can sodding say is going to help me accept that.’
He strode to the door and turned. Amber looked shocked and, for a second, he was pleased. ‘Don’t you want to finish your session?’ she asked, almost like a child with the Alice band that was too young for her middle-aged, frown-dented forehead.
‘What does it look like? Frankly, Amber, as a counsellor you’re hopeless. In fact, I’d say you were in the wrong job.’
He slammed the door and walked down the stairs, out into the daylight and back to normality. Had he been too hard on her? Maybe. But it was true: she had been hopeless in that she had made him feel worse about this whole bloody mess instead of helping him reach his own conclusions, as counselling was meant to do.
For a few minutes, Nick walked up and down the high street, trying to regain his composure. All around him, there were normal people. A woman with a pushchair and a waist so wide it wobbled under her shapeless skirt, but who, judging from the way she was smiling at her child, didn’t seem worried about her appearance. A young couple, arms entwined, who almost walked into him. A scruffy woman in a pink coat, who handed him a leaflet that he folded and put into his pocket. If he had had more patience with Juliana, if he had taken the time to make her feel better about herself, he might have been walking down this street with her now.
It was only the realisation that his parking ticket would soon expire that made him return to the car. Miserably, he fumbled in his jacket pocket for his car keys. His hands felt the phone, bigger and bulkier than his own, which he must have put it into his pocket when he was helping Harriet with her bag. He could turn it on to see if he could find her home number, but that seemed like an invasion of privacy. Slowly he put it back into his pocket. With any luck, he’d see her tomorrow on the school run and be able to give it back.
11
EVIE
‘. . . and the siege in Ohio continues. It’s eight forty a.m.
According to a new survey, families spend more on travel costs than on food or entertainment. The average adult forks out sixty pounds a week on petrol or public transport . . .’
Interesting. Evie made a note on her iPhone as she revved the engine on the Pargeters’ immaculately swept gravel drive, which boasted two ostentatious and unnecessary lamp posts by the stone steps that led up to the front door.
‘Where Does Your Money Really Go?’ might make a good feature. Her readers would consider sixty quid a lot of money but, frankly, she was surprised it wasn’t more. She and Robin spent more than that on drink each week. The radio was always good at sparking feature ideas. And for taking her mind off the problems in the back.
‘Come on,’ she said, drumming her freshly manicured fingers on the steering wheel. She was tempted to hoot. Martine was always late getting the kids ready when it was Evie’s turn to pick up Josh and Alice. Bloody cheek, especially when Simon and Sally were, no doubt, sleeping off yesterday afternoon’s performance, blissfully oblivious to the chaos below. School runs could only work when everyone stuck to their schedule and was in the right place at the right time. And if Simon and Sally couldn’t cope with that, they should learn to.
Where were they? Impatiently, she turned up the radio. Evie’s own life was so busy, especially when the girls were with her, that she hated wasting even a minute when she could be doing something else.
‘According to a report by the Association of Building Societies, over eighty per cent of women say they are happier after divorce or separation compared with fifty-three per cent of men. The Association interviewed nearly two thousand men and women all over the country.’
Another good idea, mused Evie, reaching for her iPhone again. In her experience, women were usually better at making changes in their lives and coping with them. Definitely a feature. Just as there was another about men who couldn’t find things in the house. She’d almost been late this morning because Robin couldn’t unearth a clean shirt. Even though he had all day to find it himself, he still needed her help. Ridiculous! Some men needed a map to get to the linen cupboard – just as Martine clearly needed a stopwatch to get the kids out of the house.
Right, that was it. She was going to get out of the car and see where the hell they were!
‘Here they come,’ said Leonora.
If there was one thing that stirred the twins out of their early-morning lethargy, it was picking up Josh and Alice: they might spot one of their famous parents. Leonora, Evie knew, nursed secret hopes of being a television presenter herself on one of the inarticulate teen programmes that dominated early evening television. Sally had fuelled her hopes when she had airily promised to find her a work experience placement when she was older.
‘I am so regretting,’ said Martine, bustling out behind the children. ‘Alice she will not get up. Your music, Josh, where it is?’
‘B-b-bugger. It’s in the m-m-music room.’
Evie raised her recently waxed eyebrows, both at the swear word and the existence of a music room. Poor kid. His stutter was getting worse, despite the treatment he was having. ‘Run and get it, then,’ she said, firmly but kindly, ‘or we’re going to hit all the traffic. Come on, Alice, in you hop. Strop yourself in next to Jack – I mean “strap”.’
A Freudian slip if ever there was one, she thought, as she waited for them to get in, then crunched down the drive and waited again, this time for the huge black electronic gates to open. Sod Martine. She’d forgotten to press the release button.
This time she was going to hoot.
‘You’ll wake up Mummy,’ said Alice. ‘We’re not meant to make a noise in the morning.’
‘Then your au pair ought to remember to do the gate,’ retorted Evie, hand on horn.
At last! Evie swung the Discovery through, just missing the right-hand gate, which seemed out of synch with the left.
Natalie whistled. Evie ignored her. She had enough to worry about without another battle with her step-daughters. For a start, she was still livid with Robin. How could he have forgotten to pick up the kids last night?
‘Anything could have happened to them,’ she had raved, when she’d got back from a late-night meeting and discovered what had happened. ‘What’s got into you, Robin? It’s not as though you’ve got much else to do.’
OK. She shouldn’t have said that. Not when redundancy was the new impotency. But it had just come out of her big mouth and now it was too late to suck it back in.
Slowly Robin opened the bottle of Chardonnay. ‘Actually, I had an interview. Remember?’
She hadn’t. ‘How did it go?’
‘They’re going to let me know.’
They were always going to let him know. And when they did, he would spend weeks applying for more jobs that would eventually let him know. In that knowledge, they had spent last night as far apart from each other as their double bed would allow. Usually, at some point, Robin would reach out for her and clasp her to him. Last night he hadn’t bothered.
Even in our sleep we’re growing apart, thought Evie, wistfully. Despite its sadness, the phrase had a good ring to it. Maybe a coverline. But first she had the conference with Bulmer to get through – the one that should have happened yest
erday but which he had cancelled at the last minute. Evie knew why. He was trying to unnerve her. Well, let him. He might be the publisher but he couldn’t scare her with his ABC figures. Just For You was all over the place. It screamed its presence at the top of the stands in Smith’s. It was an intelligent, interesting glossy, and it was her baby. She’d show him.
‘F-f-fuck.’
Evie turned, eyes flashing. ‘Josh, I won’t have that word in this car. Jack will pick it up.’
‘Fuck, Fuck,’ chanted Jack. Leonora giggled.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Natalie.
‘D-d-did anyone pick up the v-v-violin when Martine got it out of the music room?’
‘No,’ said Evie, ‘because we’re not your servants. As it was, we had to wait while you got your music.’ She shouldn’t have spoken to him like that, as she would to her own, in case he told his parents. But, really, that boy was impossible.
‘In that c-c-case,’ said Josh, cheerfully, ‘I m-m-must have left it on the drive. C-c-can we go back?’
‘No,’ snapped Evie. ‘We can’t. I am not your father’s chauffeur. I have an important meeting to get to and I haven’t got time to chase up things you are old enough to be responsible for yourself.’
‘That’s so rude, Evie,’ said Leonora, disapprovingly.
‘Tough. I’m sorry, Josh, but you’ll just have to explain to your music teacher that you left your violin behind. Maybe it will teach you to be more organised.’
‘You m-m-mean, teach M-M-Martine.’
Evie felt a flicker of sympathy for the young woman. It couldn’t be easy coping with those two – they’d be a challenge for the most experienced mother. ‘Don’t blame your au pair. She’s doing her best.’ She glanced into the rear-view mirror.
Josh was looking at his shoes, downcast. ‘I don’t mean to sound harsh,’ she said, more gently, ‘but you need to learn to take responsibility for yourself. You all do. It’s part of being grown-up.’
‘But you’re always saying we’re not grown-up yet,’ retorted Natalie.
‘You are when it suits you, young lady. You keep telling me you’re grown-up enough to sit for hours on the computer without me checking what you’re up to. And you think you’re grown-up enough to go to that party on Friday even though it’s in a bar.’
‘Well, I am.’
‘Your father and I disagree.’
‘I’ll ask Mum.’
‘Do. If she rings.’
She shouldn’t have said that. Rachel hadn’t called that week, and every time the phone rang one of the girls had rushed to it, hoping it was their mother.
They drove on in silence. ‘I’m sure your mother will ring tonight,’ said Evie, as a conciliatory gesture.
‘Shut up,’ said Leonora tersely.
‘Don’t be so rude.’
‘Then don’t be rude about Mum not ringing.’
‘I wasn’t.’
But she had been, thought Evie, miserably. She had descended to their level while a good step-mother would have seen it from their point of view and made allowances for a pair of teenage kids who were not just going through the usual hormonal angst but also had to cope with their mother flitting from one man to the next.
She pulled over. ‘Hop out here, everyone. Quickly – I’m blocking someone in. ’Bye. Have a good day. And, girls?’
The twins glared at her from the pavement.
‘What?’ said Natalie sullenly.
Evie swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You will be,’ said Leonora, tucking her arm into her sister’s. ‘Come on, Nattie. Let’s go to school. At least people are nice there.’
Evie dropped off Jack at nursery and made her way to work, feeling wretched. She hadn’t meant to be bitchy about Rachel but the girls were impossible.
Bulmer, of course, was already waiting for her in the meeting room. It was furnished, according to minimalist taste, with just a pale beech table and eight chairs at the sides with a ninth at the top that he was sitting in. Janine was with him (how did she do it, considering she had kids too?), leafing through some papers.
‘Ah, Evie.’ Bulmer glanced at his watch, although Evie knew she was five minutes early. It wasn’t her fault if Janine and he chose to get there even earlier. Janine looked immaculate in a crisp white shirt that made her look both feminine and professional. Bulmer, on the other hand, was displaying his usual poor taste: today, his shirt was dark plum with a yellow spotted tie. His waist bulged out of his expensive suit and his hair – what was left of it – was either greasy or over-waxed. Evie often wondered how old he was. Forty, maybe, forty-five. But she had to admit he was good at his job. Bulmer had a reputation for getting the most out of magazines – and for being ruthless in achieving his aims. Evie knew at least two editors who had been told to clear their desks at an hour’s notice. Well, she wasn’t going to be another.
She settled herself in the chair opposite Janine, then poured a glass of sparkling water from the bottle on the table and got out her notes. At conference, she and Janine discussed the features they hoped to put into the next issue. They worked eight weeks in advance, like most magazines, which meant it was tricky to be both time-sensitive and up-to-date.
‘I thought we could do something on the new report that says over eighty per cent of women are happier after divorce or separation compared with fifty-two per cent of men,’ said Evie.
‘Actually, Evie, it’s fifty-three per cent,’ said Janine, smoothly. ‘We were discussing that while we waited for you.’
‘Yes.’ Bulmer narrowed his eyes – Evie couldn’t help wondering how any woman could bear to go to bed with that mass of blubber. He had nothing – absolutely nothing – going for him, apart from his salary.
‘By the time we come out, the tabloids will have done it to death,’ Bulmer went on. ‘It would be much cleverer to pursue Janine’s idea of turning it round and seeing what the children feel. Are they happier after their parents’ divorce?’
‘We could interview five families, representing different socio-economic groups,’ said Janine.
Evie listened while she outlined the feature idea. She had to admit it was a good one. Blast. She should have considered the timing herself but that row with the kids in the car had blunted her thinking.
‘Right,’ said Bulmer, tapping his pen impatiently on the table. ‘What else have you got for me?’
‘Something on why women are so disorganised and why men can’t find things,’ said Evie.
Janine laughed brittly. ‘Had a bad morning, Evie?’
Bulmer frowned. ‘Rather sexist, isn’t it?’
‘Not really.’ Evie tried to marshal her thoughts but they wouldn’t get into line. ‘Some men need a map to get to the linen cupboard.’ She paused, waiting for a laugh. None came.
‘I’m the organised one in our house,’ said Bulmer. ‘What else have you got?’
Evie ran through her ideas, followed by Janine. Bulmer picked up on some, played with them and tossed them out. After an hour or so, the editors from Practicals, Cookery and Health came in. Finally, when it was well past lunchtime, they had completed the flatplan for the October issue.
‘Right, everyone.’ Bulmer looked round the table. ‘Thanks for your input. I’ll be e-mailing you all shortly to confirm what we’ve agreed. Evie, can you stay behind for a bit?’
Great. She was starving and desperate for the loo – had been for the last hour. She hoped he wasn’t going to ask her for lunch to go over ideas for the Special – the name given to specialised editions of the magazine that ran alongside the regular monthly ones. The next – focusing on family issues – was due out in January. Evie hadn’t yet pulled her thoughts together on it.
He waited until the room was empty. ‘Thank you for your time, Evie.’
A chill flitted through her. Bulmer was at his most dangerous when he was polite. Again, he narrowed his eyes. Just like Shere Khan, thought Evie. Jack adored Jungle Book which they were reading together, i
n picture book format, at bedtime.
‘I have to say, Evie, that I wasn’t impressed by your ideas today, or the ones you came up with last month or the month before that. Circulation figures are continuing to drop, and if we don’t do something about it all our futures will be at stake.’
‘But—’ began Evie.
‘Please let me finish.’ Bulmer was drumming his stubby fingers on the table alongside the ring he had made with his glass of water. ‘I want a proposal from you by Friday on how to turn this magazine round. If it doesn’t sing, your head is on the block. Right?’
Evie nodded numbly. OK, so she hadn’t been performing in the way she used to before Jack – and before she’d met Robin. But that was because she had other things in her life now. Not that she could tell Bulmer that.
Her head on the block?
Evie shivered as she gathered up her papers.
Two of them unemployed was too unbearable to think about.
12
KITTY
Bernard Havers, acting head of St Theresa’s senior school, looked annoyed. ‘Would someone please turn off the television? We haven’t finished yet. Now, does anyone have any more questions about the Ofsted visit?’