by Carol Smith
“How nice,” she said, with an enthusiasm she was far from feeling. “I’ll certainly come if I can. I’m sure I can rearrange things. Anything I can do to help?”
And, while Vivienne whittered on about it just being a few old pals informally round the table in the conservatory, her inner voice said, Cripes! What in hell’s name do I wear?
What did you wear, for lunch with your lover’s wife, in his own house, in his absence?
“Sackcloth and ashes,” said Deirdre, disapprovingly.
“A dagger in your sock and keep both hands in view,” said Jane, who was married to a Highlander.
“A gumshield and a gun,” said Sally, ever the practical one.
• • •
Vivienne’s house, when she got there, turned out to be gorgeous. Beth had driven past on a number of occasions, of course she had, but had never dared loiter or even give it more than a passing glance. Now she pulled up outside, in full view of anyone who happened to be watching, and sat for a while just gazing before she undid her seat belt and got out. It was early Victorian and stucco-fronted, gleaming white in the morning sunshine and counter-pointed by a magnificent magnolia tree in full flower. The Boltons was a beautiful garden square with a church in the middle, as quiet and immaculate as Beth’s own picturesque enclave off Ladbroke Grove. After a quick check in the car mirror that she wasn’t too much of a wreck after her hectic morning, Beth walked up the immaculate path and banged on the gleaming knocker.
A smiling woman with smooth brown skin and blue-black hair opened the door. She wore a blue cotton uniform and starched white apron. It wasn’t often, Beth reflected, that you encountered liveried servants these days in London. She followed her across a black and white marble floor into an inner hallway dominated by an immense rococo-style gilt mirror and marble-topped console table.
Vivienne appeared at the top of the stairs, smiling and holding out her hands.
“Beth, my dear, how nice to see you!”
She wore a plain silk shirt in dramatic gentian blue over narrow black pants, and sapphire earrings that would have been able to breathe more easily in a bank vault. Beth, aware of the turmeric stains on her own baggy sweater, swallowed nervously and smiled back.
“Nice of you to invite me. Hope I’m not the last.”
She ran up the stairs and they kissed lightly on each cheek before Vivienne led her into a vast sunny drawing room overlooking the square. Catherine was there already, prim on a Regency chair covered in golden watered silk and toying with a glass of sherry. She was clearly relieved to see another person.
She does look bad, thought Beth sympathetically.
“What a gorgeous room!” she said. “Like Versailles. I’m surprised you let hoi polloi pollute it.”
Vivienne smiled. She was used to this sort of comment and occasionally wondered if a slightly less formal sitting room might be an idea, for gatherings such as this. A den—or was it a rumpus room the Americans called it? She’d give it some thought. They certainly had enough space.
“So how’ve we all been?” asked Beth, accepting a glass of chilled Chablis and reclining into the cushions. “All better, I hope?”
Vivienne nodded, hoping to glide over the subject, but Catherine hesitated.
“I’m still in quite a lot of pain,” she said apologetically, “something to do with the aftereffects of surgery.”
“And running around after that terrible old mother of yours,” remarked Vivienne, offering salted cashew nuts in a silver dish.
There were voices in the hall and Dorabella showed Sally into the room. She wore her familiar patched jeans and scruffy boots, surmounted by a striped poncho, over a man’s denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. She looked enchanting, positively edible.
“Hi there, folks, g’day!” she said, pecking Vivienne on the cheek as she passed and crossing the room to give Beth a sloppy kiss. “Isn’t this just ace!”
She gazed round Vivienne’s palatial room like Alice in Wonderland, childishly delighted by so much splendor. Beth relaxed, prepared at last to enjoy herself. When Sally entered a room, she brought the sunshine with her.
Georgy arrived late and flustered, laden down with cameras and complaining. Vivienne shook the outstretched hand, gave her a flickering smile, then led them all down to the garden room, a huge, glass-walled conservatory filled with running water and luscious plants.
“Oh, boy!” breathed Sally, standing on the threshold and soaking in the warm, damp, heavily scented air. “This is some place you’ve got here, Viv. You ought to charge the public a fiver a time to see over it. You’d soon make the running costs back. I bet where Georgy comes from they’d have coach tours to a house like this.”
A table draped with a pink linen cloth was set for five next to a shallow indoor pool where huge goldfish lazed in deep green water, illuminated from beneath. Dorabella placed cold mineral water and another bottle of Chablis in the ice bucket beside Vivienne’s chair, then withdrew to the trolley to serve the food.
“Well,” said Beth. “This was such a good idea. How great to see you all again, looking so much better.”
And she found she really meant it, despite her original misgivings.
They smiled at each other, pleased to be together again.
“Thought I wouldn’t recognize you in your clothes,” cracked Sally, and even Vivienne smiled as she poured the wine.
“It seemed a good idea, a little reunion. To see how you all were doing; to catch up on the news.”
Mustn’t let on how relieved she was they had all turned up; at all costs, mustn’t let the loneliness and panic show through.
“I’ve gotta be out of here by three,” said Georgy, as if reading her.
“Me too,” said Beth, glancing at her watch. “We’re working girls, you know.”
“I’ve got a shoot on the South Bank. A new ballet company from Hong Kong, opening next week in Les Sylphides.”
“How fascinating,” said Vivienne in her best society voice. “What lives you girls do have. Unlike me who’s little more than a housewife, I’m afraid.”
Some housewife. Chatelaine of a castle more like, thought Beth.
Dorabella had made omelettes which melted in the mouth like butter, and a crisp green salad. Beth took a forkful, then raised her hand in the air with finger and thumb joined in appreciation. Bravo!
“Exquisite!” she breathed. “With cooking like this at home, who needs to go out?”
Or stray, she thought. Even less understandable.
“Oh, it’s all Dorabella’s doing,” said Vivienne, handing them a silver dish covered with a linen cloth, containing warm rolls. “The kitchen is her preserve entirely.”
“Well, when she gets bored with luxury living,” said Beth with a smile, “tell her there’s always a humdrum job for her with me.”
They chattered on, catching up on each other’s lives, then Dorabella wheeled in fresh strawberries and a pot of coffee.
“Anyone want cream?” asked Vivienne. “No, didn’t think so. Everyone’s so healthy these days.”
“Except for me,” said Georgy, lighting up a fag in that selfish way Americans had. Catherine hesitated just for a second, then rummaged in her handbag for her own packet. Vivienne let it go. Normally she hated people smoking in her house, but what the hell. Friendship was what counted; all of a sudden she was beginning to reassess her priorities.
The conversation shifted back to hospital, specifically to their suave consultant.
“He’s not really handsome,” said Georgy, “but he sure as hell is glamorous.”
“It’s power what does it,” said Beth. “That’s always a killer. Combined with money, of course. He must be making a pretty packet.”
“We know him socially,” confessed Vivienne, “at least, I know his wife and Oliver plays squash with him at one of his clubs.”
Her secret must be safe, she had decided that some time ago. His medical ethics must surely protect her, and certa
inly Oliver had never said a word.
Catherine fell silent and Beth saw she had grown unnaturally pale.
“Do you still see him, Catherine?” Something was wrong.
“He’s been to the flat a couple of times.”
Then she is iller than she’s letting on, thought Beth with compassion. Poor soul. How brave she is.
“Probably fancies you,” said Sally with a grin. “I don’t mind telling you, I wouldn’t say no to a bit of that myself. You can tell he has a roving eye. Doctors always do.”
Vivienne was reaching for the coffeepot when there was a crash and Catherine hit the floor. She had fainted clean out.
“Crikey,” gasped Georgy, “do something.”
But Beth and Sally were already there, one on each arm, helping her up.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” muttered the poor woman in confusion as she regained her senses. “I really don’t know what happened. I don’t think I’ve had too much to drink.”
“You’re ill, that’s what,” said Beth firmly, “and we are going to take you home.”
She glanced at Sally and together they helped Catherine to her feet and across the conservatory to the door.
“Sorry about this,” mouthed Beth to Vivienne, “but I think she probably needs to be in her own bed.”
In the hall they came face-to-face with Oliver, returned home unexpectedly early, but scarcely a glance passed between him and Beth. With astonishing cool, all he did was open the heavy front door and stand aside to let them pass. In the street, his Mercedes was drawn up right behind Beth’s Volvo.
Bet that gave him a bit of a turn, she thought as they helped Catherine into the passenger seat.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Catherine was shaking and weeping, both at the same time, and when they drew up at Albert Hall Mansions, Sally had almost to carry her from the car. It was no great chore; the poor creature was little more than skin and bone.
“Let me,” she said, ringing the doorbell. “This could be tricky but I reckon I can swing it. You’ve no idea what we are dealing with here.”
After a long wait, just as Beth was beginning to fear there was no one at home, the metal cover behind the pinhole eyeglass was pushed aside.
“Who is it?” demanded an imperious voice.
“It’s Sal, Lady Palmer,” called back Sally. “With Catherine, back from lunch.”
There was a further pause while the cover was replaced and they could hear the scrape of the chain being removed. Then the door slowly opened and there stood Eleanor, wrapped in a patterned silk kimono, with all her war paint on. She had obviously been lying in wait.
“At last,” she said ungraciously. “Whatever time do you call this?”
“Catherine’s sick, Lady Palmer,” said Beth, ushering her inside. “She needs to lie down and I think we should call the doctor.”
Eleanor appeared unmoved but shuffled ahead of them down the musty corridor toward Catherine’s dimly lit room at the rear. There was something slightly touching, Beth thought, about the girlish bedroom with its faded quilt and a row of childhood books, still in their musty dust jackets, lined up in a narrow bookcase next to the bed. She half expected to see one of those Beatrix Potter lamps but the one on the bedside table was quite plain, a faded dusky rose with a fringed shade.
“What on earth’s the problem?” asked Eleanor, annoyed at having her own thunder eclipsed. “Too much to drink at lunch, I’ll be bound. Catherine can be very silly.”
Beth ignored her. She and Sally helped Catherine onto the bed and Beth wiped her damp forehead with a clean tissue.
“How’re you feeling now?” she asked softly, reaching for Catherine’s pulse and not liking what she felt.
“I’m all right,” muttered Catherine, overwhelmed with shame. “I feel such a fool for spoiling the party.”
“You didn’t spoil it,” said Beth, fluffing up the pillows so that she could lie back more comfortably. “We were about to go in any case.”
“I think we should leave her to rest,” she said to Eleanor and, brooking no argument, ushered both her and Sally from the room.
“Exactly how sick is she?” demanded Beth, when they were seated together in the airless front room, where dusty sunlight filtered through heavy net curtains that were none too clean.
Eleanor flicked one plump hand in the air in a theatrical gesture.
“Oh, it’s nothing really,” she said dismissively. “Catherine always was a sickly child. No stamina, that’s the problem, just like her father. He died and left me when I needed him most, right at the height of my career with the world at my feet. I had to leave the Embassy and all my friends in Vienna and come back here to live on a widow’s pittance. Catherine, of course, came home to be with me, as was only proper. She was skulking in Australia at the time, doing a little nursing job, but her heart was never really in it, I knew that. She wasn’t a lot of help to me either, I can tell you, not when I was trying to pull together the ruins of my life.”
Miserable old cow, thought Beth grimly but Sally brought them down to earth by bouncing to her feet and offering to call the doctor.
“Does she still see Mr. Harvey?” she asked. “Or is there a local GP who would come?”
Eleanor shook her head in horror. A local GP—too vulgar for words. Nothing less than the consultant gynecologist would do, but she still looked doubtful. She always suspected her daughter of making a fuss, though she had to admit she did look peaky today.
“If you think it’s really necessary,” she said grudgingly. “He is very expensive. Harley Street, you know.”
“Not if you see him on the National Health,” said Beth patiently, aware that Lady Palmer had not once shown her face in the hospital. She nodded to Sally to make the call. “And Catherine is obviously pretty poorly. Anyone can see that.”
Anyone with half an eye, was what she meant—anyone but her mother, now preening in front of the clouded antique mirror at the prospect of receiving such a distinguished visitor. She looked like Madame Butterfly with her chalk-white makeup and heavily accentuated eyes, and the piled-up boot-black hair that needed only a pair of knitting needles to complete the effect. She’s ridiculous, thought Beth, a vain, pampered, totally self-absorbed old woman. A creature from another age. What she needed, literally, was a breath of fresh air in her suffocating, self-indulgent life. Beth longed to rip aside those musty Miss Havisham curtains and throw open the windows.
“He’ll be here within the hour,” announced Sally. “He’s just winding up in his consulting rooms and says he’ll drop by on his way home.”
They were lucky, Beth realized. It was not easy to get a consultant to call, and so promptly too. Either the Palmer name still meant something in posh circles or Catherine was a lot more sick than they realized. Probably both. Beth glanced at her watch but Sally said she’d stay. Her hours at the pub were fairly flexible and she knew Joe wouldn’t mind if she were late for a change. Beth turned to her with a smile of relief and kissed her cheek. The breath of fresh air was here already; lucky Eleanor. Lucky Catherine.
• • •
“You know something, I think he does fancy you,” said Sally later, sitting at Catherine’s bedside after the doctor had withdrawn, stroking her hand as she tried to get some sleep. “You should have seen his eyes while he was examining you, full of compassion and concern—really caring.”
The examination was over and Eleanor had summoned Addison Harvey in her usual imperious manner and was now incarcerated alone with him in her womblike drawing room. Sally, who was getting to know the old lady well, half expected to hear the notes of the piano at any moment and the diva begin to warble. She had absolutely no compassion, that terrible old woman. It was something with which Sally empathized entirely.
The confrontation in the drawing room was, however, not at all as Sally imagined. When Addison Harvey, flushed and concerned, walked in and found himself facing the old lady, done up like a Japanese geisha and waiting fo
r him enthroned in a high-backed chair, all they could do was stare at each other and gasp.
“You!”
“Great heavens! I never imagined such a thing! Wherever did you come from?”
“From Harley Street. I’m your daughter’s gynecologist, or weren’t you aware of that?”
Even after all these years, the mutual dislike was as fresh as ever, as tangible as a sexual frisson.
“But your name? You’ve changed it?”
“My mother’s. It seemed more . . . fitting.”
Eleanor gave a vulgar chuckle, relaxing her guard for the first time.
“Trying to be posh—eh? I must say you’ve improved a little, without the pit village accent.” She waved one hand vaguely in the direction of the sideboard. “Go over there and pour us both a port. I feel we need it after all this. My goodness, whoever would have thought it.”
She sat and clucked and shook her head as Addison, like an automaton, did as he was bid. He selected from the cupboard a pair of fine embossed glasses which he dusted off and half filled with port. His head was reeling with shock. The truth was, until this moment he had not recognized his patient, and it was all proving too much for him. He was not as young as he once had been; his heart was working overtime and he felt an attack of asthma threatening. He needed, more than anything, to regain his self-control, time on his own to think before he had to answer any questions.
“Well, you seem to have done all right for yourself,” she pronounced, once the glass was in her hand and he was seated. “Better than I would have expected.”
With an experienced eye, she noted the cut of his suit and handmade shirt; the designer haircut and heavy gold signet ring. She might be old now and fairly infirm but her connoisseur’s eye was as sharp as ever and her standards hadn’t slipped.
“I’ve been lucky.” He stared into his glass. Modesty did not sit well on him but he was still severely shaken by this confrontation; running his mental eye rapidly over Catherine’s notes, shocked by what he now knew, shaken to the core by the implications.