Friends for Life

by Carol Smith

  Big, broad, male, capable Duncan, with those strong, serviceable wrists and sensuous hands. There was something so basically physical about him, it made Vivienne quite weak just remembering. Since the night he escorted her to Autumn Crocus he had been scarcely out of her thoughts, and the dreams she had about him, both waking and sleeping, were dirty in the extreme. After the show he had taken her out for a late supper, to a small trattoria she had not before encountered, informal and intimate with just the right level of lighting, where he was greeted like one of the family. They had ordered a simple meal, just salad and grilled fish, and Vivienne had had the heady experience of sitting close to a man she revered and pouring into his sympathetic ear all the things that were currently vexing her, those, at least, that bore repeating.

  And he listened without interruption as if he were fascinated, occasionally touching her hand, once stretching out a finger to flick a lock of her hair from her eye, all the time holding her gaze with his wise, all-seeing blue gaze. By the time he signaled for the bill, she felt almost too weak to rise. All the way home by taxi, she was intensely aware of his strong male presence beside her, and her heart beat faster as she wondered if she dared invite him inside for one more drink. He kept the taxi waiting while he walked her to her door and when she finally summoned the courage to issue the invitation, took her silently in his arms, held her against his chest for a moment, then kissed her on the hair and let her go.

  “Better not,” he said softly, with what she sensed was genuine regret. Then he smiled, squeezed her hand, and let her go. She had been dreaming of him ever since.

  Vivienne felt an attack of the vapors coming on and dodged on down one floor to the Dress Circle bar for a cup of cappucino and a wicked slice of Black Forest gâteau while she indulged this particular fantasy. Duncan Ross was a man of mystery, to be sure, but he was also a man of principle. In her more rational moments, she knew there was no way she was ever going to get closer to him, so after she had sipped at her coffee and eaten a couple of mouthfuls of the sinful cake, she ruthlessly pushed aside her plate, paid her bill, and then wandered on along the street for a rapid trawl of Harvey Nichols and a glass of chilled wine at the Fifth Floor bar before hitting Bond Street, her true spiritual home.

  She didn’t bother with an appointment but Jean Paul was ready for her. A girl took her packages and helped her into a gown while the man himself ran practiced fingers through her hair and gazed at her through half-closed eyes, like the seer he was, before directing her to a washbasin and summoning the manicurist to deal with the silk-wrapping of Vivienne’s nails. The rain still sluiced down, heavier now, and outside in Bond Street shoppers hurried by under umbrellas while Vivienne relaxed into the womblike comfort of Jean Paul’s salon and gave herself up to his care.

  Vivienne shopped for one basic reason: a need for love. She was not aware of it but once she realized the magical effect her platinum credit card had wherever she went, she was hooked on the gratifying attention it brought and could not now get enough of it. It was potty training all over again. The more she bought, the more they oohed and aahed and the better she felt as a result. She found a pair of Charles Jourdan boots that really suited her, so she bought them. Then returned next day for five more pairs in all the available colors, in case she needed them when they were out of stock. She saw a silk shirt in classic black that went well with her Chanel suit, so she took it in beige and cerise as well, as basics for her spring wardrobe. And so it went on. Shopping made her feel good, that was all that mattered, and each new purchase was a reason to celebrate—and step up the spending.

  Much the same was true of Jean Paul’s salon. The moment she set foot within the perfumed inner sanctum, with its hushed music and thick-piled carpets, she felt cosseted, cherished, and, most of all, important. The staff ministered to her in every possible way and time spent there meant a temporary immunity from the harshness of the real world. Today was a gray, wet Saturday and ahead of her loomed another uncharted weekend which Vivienne preferred not to think about. Jean Paul was there as he always was—smiling, sympathetic, with his artist’s hands—to assess her mood and subtly massage her ego by making her remember just how beautiful and fascinating she really was. He did not come cheap but that was all right. In his own area of expertise, he was the master.

  At five forty-five Vivienne left with new nails, hair that had been trimmed and restyled, and a makeup job from the Japanese stylist that might have turned heads as she paid her bill but would be lost on the empty house in The Boltons. On an impulse, she crossed Piccadilly and dropped into the Ritz for a martini in the Palm Court. It was a pity to look so good and have it go to waste. A girl in a long black skirt was playing the harp and a couple of tables of Japanese tourists were finishing smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches as Vivienne sat in solitary splendor in one mirrored corner and waited for her drink. This was the hour when the city was at a lull, the shoppers were heading home on their Underground trains, clutching their chain-store packages and thinking about supper, while visitors and Londoners alike were preparing for a night on the town. The tourists at the nearby tables, just settling their bills, doubtless had plans for a nap and a shower and a change of clothes, followed by the theater or dinner in a Soho restaurant.

  Only Vivienne seemed to be alone; on occasions like this she felt it more acutely. Stopping off here had been a mistake. All she had to look forward to was an empty house and the television remote control to help her while away another empty evening. She ordered another drink and tried to look as if she were waiting for someone. She knew she was looking good and, although she did not show it, was gratifyingly aware of the deference of the waiter and maître d’ as well as the occasional admiring glance from men passing by. But it wasn’t enough, not nearly. Vivienne Appleby, debutante, had thrived on admiration. Vivienne Nugent was more mature and altogether too bright for such a wanton waste of her best years. Sitting alone in a lit showcase like this simply made her feel sad and futile, like a creature from the red-light district of Amsterdam.

  She studied her glossy new fingernails, long and immaculate and totally useless, and glanced at her face in the ornate mirror, a mask of perfection. And for what? No one really cared for her. What was it all about and where was it going to end? She was still paying for what she’d done to Celia Hartley but surely by now she had served her sentence many times over. Vivienne drained her second martini and called for her bill.

  The rain was clearing but the early Saturday rush hour had begun and the chance of a taxi was virtually nil unless she was prepared to wait in line on a breezy, mud-spattered street, which she was not. She thought about going back inside but resisted the impulse. Vivienne was reserved and nicely brought up, and sitting alone in bars, even one as exclusive as the Ritz, was not really her scene. In the end she impulsively leapt onto a number 14 bus, ran upstairs to escape the crush of shoppers, and, by a stroke of good fortune, found herself alone in the front seat on top, with a panoramic view across Green Park. The sun came out, bathing the leaves in pale light, and Vivienne felt a strange lift to her spirits.

  It was years since she had traveled on public transport and she had quite forgotten the special pleasure of riding so high at the front of a London bus, able to see all around her and rediscover the beautiful city she took so much for granted these days. They progressed along Piccadilly, past the flaming torches of the In and Out Club at Palmerston House and on to Hyde Park Corner and the newly appointed Lanesborough Hotel, once St. George’s Hospital, where as a child Vivienne had had her tonsils removed. Then on down Knightsbridge, familiar to her at street level yet so much more appealing now she was riding above the traffic and able to see the architectural details of the buildings and listen to the cheerful chitchat of people all around her.

  She craned her neck to look down on the impressive sweep of Harrods’ windows, then across toward Brompton Oratory and the Victoria and Albert Museum, as the bus swung left past South Kensington Underground station and
into the Fulham Road. The sun was close to setting, tingeing everything with a mellow, golden glow, and the rain had soaked away entirely. The streets had thinned to a casual, meandering flow of people and, to her surprise, Vivienne found she was suddenly enjoying herself and was half inclined to stay on the bus past her stop and venture on to the wilds of Putney, or wherever it was headed.

  Just before the lights by the ABC cinema on the corner, however, she rang the bell and descended. She crossed the road and went into the Pan bookshop for a brief browse before heading home. She loved this bookshop, perhaps the best in London, and bought an Anita Brookner novel and the new Elizabeth Jane Howard as well as the biography of Muriel Spark which she had been meaning to read for some time. That was something she could do this weekend; she could read. She could sit in the garden of her beautiful home and indulge her mind for a change, and if the rain returned, which it probably would, she could move into the conservatory on which she had lavished so much time and money.

  Clutching her books along with her Harrods packages, Vivienne turned the corner into Gilston Road with a lighter step and a firmer resolution and smiled as she passed the great Victorian villas with their abundance of cherry blossom in full flower. This really was a marvelous city and she had the great good fortune to live in one of its most luxurious parts.

  Enough of this sitting around at home, feeling sorry for herself and waiting for something which was unlikely now to happen. All of a sudden Eugene Appleby’s genetic gift took over and Vivienne was gripped by a fierce determination to get out there before it was too late and live life to the full again.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The line outside the V & A was so long and the weather so wet that Catherine gave up immediately and walked on instead to the Natural History Museum to take another look at the dinosaurs. She badly wanted to see the Fabergé exhibition but simply hadn’t the strength to stand that long, particularly in drizzling rain that was already making her uncomfortable. Maybe she’d try again during the week, or some other day when the weather was a bit better, though these days trying to hit a fine day in London was about as futile as aiming for a hole-in-one. She would doubtless end up missing it altogether as she had so many other times in the past—exhibitions, films, plays—all through a basic lack of energy.

  She loved the Natural History Museum, especially since its facelift, and was content just to shuffle along inside its main hall, in another queue but one that was actively moving, looking up at the stained-glass windows and the wonderful detail of the interior now that it had all been cleaned up. She was surrounded by a group of schoolchildren, each with a backpack containing a sandwich lunch, and she tuned in to their conversations with a certain amount of pleasure, envying the enthusiasm and imagination that youth still held.

  Ruth Ann would be pretty near grown up by now, possibly even with a baby of her own. Catherine could just see her, standing here beside her in the queue, listening to these children prattle and enjoying their high spirits as much as she did herself. What friends they would have been, mother and daughter, with the sort of close relationship Catherine had only ever dreamed of. She thought back to her years as a student nurse, rooming with the gang of other girls in Lambeth. That was the sort of closeness she would have known with her daughter, for she would never have allowed Ruth Ann to leave her side until she was properly adult and made the break of her own free will.

  What happened to Catherine could never have happened to Ruth Ann. She would never have dreamed of leaving her own daughter stranded, alone in a strange country during her formative years, forced to grow up alone and make her own mistakes, without benefit of parental love or guidance. Ruth Ann would have grown up strong and fearless, safe in the knowledge that she could always run home to her mother for solace and support.

  Nor would Catherine ever have allowed her own career to get in the way of being a proper mother. As soon as the pregnancy began to show she had planned to quit nursing, at least for the first few years, and devote herself entirely to raising her child and giving appropriate support to her husband and his career. They would have been a proper family in a permanent home. Any energy left over from child-raising would have gone into furbishing the love nest, building a secure and happy setting in which Ruth Ann could grow.

  Eleanor had never known about Ruth Ann, the grandchild that never was and now never would be. Just occasionally, at moments of extreme exasperation, Catherine felt like throwing the whole sordid story in her face, if only to watch her disbelieving shock, but managed always to hold off at the last minute, which was probably just as well. Ruth Ann was part of Catherine’s secret life, never to be shared by another living soul, particularly the demanding mother who had made her life such a living purgatory and was still quite capable, given an extra weapon, of grabbing it and using it to inflict the most excruciating pain.

  Now that she had Sally to play with, Eleanor was behaving better, but who knew how long this latest phase would last. Sooner or later they were bound to fall out, Mama and her new little friend. As it was, Catherine wondered exactly what Sally’s motives could be. No matter how sweet her nature, only a saint could endure the day-to-day contact with a selfish tyrant that had worn away at her own existence but which Sally seemed to find so diverting. Surely it wasn’t the money she was after? Despite appearances, there was not a lot of it and Sally was far too free a spirit to be bothered with anything so mundane. No, most probably she was simply being kind and would one day grow bored and walk away. For the present, however, life at home was unusually serene and Catherine was taking full advantage of it.

  They had reached the entrance to the dinosaur exhibition and were filing down a long, dimly lit corridor to the start of the display cases. The children all around her were questioning and exclaiming and Catherine found herself back in her own childhood, when the world was full of wonders and her patient, mild-mannered father would lead her round this very museum with the time to talk and listen and educate. How she missed him.

  Even though she had seen this exhibition before, Catherine found it fascinating. It really was quite mind-boggling to think that these vast creatures had roamed the earth more than sixty-five million years ago, a period impossible for the human mind to grasp, rather like counting the stars. When you set yourself to contemplating infinity, today’s worries faded into insignificance, like the dull ache in her lower abdomen which had now returned and was quietly ticking on like incipient toothache. What a drag it was turning out to be. Catherine broke away from the queue and went to sit on a bench until the sudden spasm of queasiness had passed. Was she never going to be entirely well again? She feared that her operation at St. Anthony’s had not done the trick. Instinct told her there was worse to follow.

  • • •

  Catherine’s childhood had been dull but safe and she still retained fond memories of the brief periods they spent in London, in pampered surroundings with easy access to all the wonderful things the capital had to offer. Her father, when not preoccupied with diplomatic matters, had been an attentive parent and had treated Catherine like a tiny adult with whom he would have quite advanced conversations. They had walked for hours in Kensington Gardens, where J. M. Barrie had once exercised his dog, and the statue of Peter Pan was a favorite target for their Sunday strolls. Catherine still returned there quite often, when life was getting her down, to stroke the worn heads of the tiny bronze animals and try to recapture some of the magic she remembered from those childhood days.

  Her early memories of her mother were rare and not at all distinct. Then Eleanor had been at the height of her fame, traveling long distances all over the world for a single performance in some grand opera house, heralded as the greatest soprano of her generation. Even at diplomatic functions, it was Eleanor who hogged the limelight. There was one much-recounted occasion when she even upstaged Princess Margaret with the sheer force of her physical presence.

  Looking at their faded wedding pictures, Catherine often wondered h
ow the flamboyant Eleanor Goddard had ended up marrying the quiet, mild-mannered Nicholas Palmer. In those days, when she was feted worldwide, they said she might have chosen whoever she liked, yet in her late thirties she had suddenly opted out of the main game and settled for marriage to a slightly stuffy, self-effacing diplomat, light-years away from the glittering galaxies to which she was accustomed.

  And, even more remarkable, the marriage had worked. All credit to her, Eleanor had made an exemplary diplomat’s wife and had thrived on the sort of formal occasion that Catherine had always found so stifling. It was interesting how life ambitions varied. Catherine’s own idea of heaven was comparatively modest: marriage to her one true love and the privilege—for that was what it would be—of taking care of him and raising his children. Money had never been a lure, perhaps because she had never really had to do without, and the memory of the tedium of the social occasions her mother had so much loved still filled her with a cloying sense of claustrophobia. God, but those people had been awful—fawning, insincere, terminally third-rate. Just thinking about them now and remembering added to her sudden feeling of faintness.

  But Eleanor had survived and was still going strong, of that there was no doubt. In all probability, the way Catherine was feeling now, she would outlive even her daughter. More than anything, she loved to hold center stage and, once she achieved that, some of the beguiling qualities that must have ensnared a host of men in her youth rose again to the surface so that she could appear quite human. To outsiders, that was, to fans and opera buffs and casual acquaintances like Sally, who only ever got to see the charmer on the surface, never the monster beneath.

  The rain had reduced itself to a depressing dampness when Catherine finally found the strength to leave her bench and hobble home. She hated Saturday afternoons with only Sunday to look forward to, two days cooped up alone with Mama and the prospect of another terrible row which Eleanor often used as a weapon to enliven the tedious weekend hours.