by Carol Smith
Duncan looked at her shrewdly but didn’t pursue it.
“In New Zealand?”
“In Auckland.”
“So now you’re traveling the world, seeking your fortune?”
It sounded a touch patronizing but he was simply being kind.
“Something like that.”
He was tall and athletic and even Sally, with her vigorous stride, had trouble keeping up with him. An awful urge came over her; she badly wanted to hold his hand.
“Catherine’s very sick,” he said after a while. “She’s beginning to ramble on about the past. Beats me why her mother keeps her at home. She really should be in hospital, being properly nursed. That old woman’s in no condition to look after her. Sometimes I don’t understand the Brits, particularly the ones who can afford it.”
Sally listened but said nothing. From what she had seen, she had an idea there was some sort of collusion between Eleanor and Addison Harvey but she didn’t know for sure and it was not her business.
“It’s always a sign of a fading mind, like somebody drowning. On and on she goes about things that happened whole decades ago, as if she’s confusing then with now. About this doctor, sometimes I think she confuses me with him. It’s almost embarrassing the things she says, poor love. If only that old harridan were a shade more maternal and sympathetic.”
“I know that doctor,” said Sally after a pause. “He was my doctor too. He’s rich and vain and condescending, and furthermore he doesn’t give a damn, not about his patients. He just notches them up as one more item on his hefty bill.”
Duncan was surprised at her vehemence. Sally too.
“No, the one I’m talking about has been around quite a while,” he said. “Right from her nursing days, before she went to Sydney. Some guy she knew and loved when he was still a student.”
Sally was startled.
“Addison Harvey?” she said. “The posh Harley Street gynecologist we were lucky enough to get on the National Health?”
“That’s the one. But I promise you, she knew him before, it’s all she talks about when I sit at her bedside. That, mixed in with a lot of other extraneous stuff, about Australia and freedom before her ma got her back into her clutches.”
“She did?” It was news to Sally. And disturbing. In the past few weeks she had spent a lot of time with Catherine, listening to her ramble on, but she had never dropped a word about knowing Addison Harvey so well. Or, for that matter, anything else relating to her past.
They reached Duncan’s street and he squeezed Sally’s arm in a friend’s embrace and said he imagined he’d be seeing her around.
“Take care,” he said as he crossed the road.
But he doesn’t really mean it, she thought woefully, watching his long easy stride as he crossed the cobbles to his own front door. He’s not going to give me a single thought. For the first time she could remember, Sally Brown felt distinctly out of control, positively lightheaded, as if she were coming down with something.
Help, she thought, remembering Beth’s prophecy. Could this be what she was talking about?
There was no doubt about it, Duncan Ross was a man. With a capital M. And Sally, for the first time ever, wasn’t at all sure she was going to be able to cope.
• • •
Joe was cranky and trade was slow, so Sally said she had a headache and was going home. She was still feeling very strange and badly needed to think. She strolled up to Brompton Cemetery and set herself down on a secluded seat among the strange Victorian tombs. It was mid-evening and the sun was going down, slanting shafts of orange light along the avenues of graves. She loved this place, it was so still and otherworldly, and the only people she was likely to meet among its weird ornate structures and overgrown foliage were solitary men, loitering—customers, no doubt, of the famous gay pub at the other end of the cemetery, a few yards to the right along the Brompton Road.
Georgy lived somewhere close, she knew, and at any other time Sally might have dropped by and taken a glass or two off her. Goodness knows, she had done it often enough before when she felt in the mood, but the American girl was not the easiest of company and Sally could never be sure whether Georgy liked her or not. She had the brittle, uncompromising exterior of the driven New Yorker, suspicious of other women and poles apart from Sally’s own laid-back disposition and outlook. Yet Sally had no particular ax to grind and they were, as Beth was fond of pointing out, two strangers displaced. Maybe, one of these days, she’d give it another go.
Tonight, however, she had other things on her mind. Duncan Ross had reached her in a way she had not believed possible and she needed time to think and compose herself before she went home and had to confront that mob. Of boys. There Beth had been right.
The bench was cold so she rose and strolled along the main avenue, stopping to read the gravestones and study the funny little houses people had built for their lamented dead. There was a feeling of such peace here that Sally was lulled back into calm. Many people would be scared of such intimacy with the dead when the light was fast fading, but it reminded her of the convent and she felt strangely at home. As well she might, for she’d scarcely known any other.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Duncan. He was hunky, he was delicious, he was quite a bit older, and for some indefinable reason he scared her half to death. Sally couldn’t understand it; she had never been along this path before. The one talent she had ever really had, apart from survival, was for pulling men, right from an early age, which was one of the reasons she was constantly in trouble at the convent. But what was happening now, the changes she felt throughout her body, was something uncharted. For the first time in her life Sally Brown was seriously nonplussed—not to put too fine a point on it, scared shitless.
He was unattached, he was heterosexual, he was nice to Catherine (and her mother), yet not involved. He had smiled with appreciation when Sally entered the room and his eyes told her he admired her beauty, responded to her animal magnetism in the normal way. A cinch, she had thought—except it turned out it wasn’t. He had chatted to her, asked her questions, then walked away without a backward glance, and instinct warned her he would not be calling. It ought not to matter but it did. Dead right, it did. Sally Brown was not used to being thwarted.
Added to which, he really rattled her. Those calm eyes seemed to be all-seeing and she sensed he had her number. That was the scariest part of all and yet, for once, she felt no urge to run. Quite the reverse, in fact.
No one but Dave was home when she finally got there. He was watching the football while he pored over financial papers, the remains of a beer and a takeaway Chinese on the floor by his feet. He was sweaty and unshaven and had garlic on his breath but she lured him to bed anyhow because she needed to be held. But even more urgent than that, she wanted not to think.
• • •
“I’ll sit with her tonight, no sweat.”
Sally was at her most beguiling and could hear Eleanor beginning to soften. Silly old fool, she thought fondly, I know she’s got a recital tonight and someone really needs to be with Catherine.
On an impulse, Sally had called in sick and so was free.
“I can be there by six, if you like. Just say the word.”
“Be prompt. It is imperative I leave by six-ten at the latest.”
Eleanor’s voice was pinched and haughty; it must have cost her a lot to climb down but it meant she was forgiven. Sally could imagine her standing in the hall, holding the old-fashioned earpiece at arm’s length in order not to spoil her elaborate coiffeur. It was only Croydon but at least it was live. Good luck to the old duck if that was what made her happy. It was certainly preferable to the geriatric ward.
“Don’t worry about Catherine,” she said later, over a sherry with Eleanor in the drawing room. “I’ll see she gets to sleep and I’ll tuck her in. And I’ll stay till you get back if she wants me to.”
“And if necessary,” she said as an afterthought, “I’ll give her
her pills, though I’m sure she won’t need them as she seems so much better. And I’ll call Mr. Harvey,” she added on a lower note, “if anything at all should go wrong.”
“Don’t worry about that, he’ll probably drop by anyhow. He said he might.”
Eleanor sighed and closed her eyes with fatigue. It was all so trying, this illness business. At her time of life, she really didn’t need it. If only Catherine would pull herself together. But it was nice of this child to offer to sit. She might be wayward but she was clearly good at heart. She beamed at Sally through eyes that were suspiciously bright, then rose in stately fashion to check her mascara in the glass.
“It’s all too much for me,” she murmured as she licked a finger and smoothed her eyebrows into shape. Thank goodness she had the doctor eating out of her hand and agreeing to pay regular house calls so that he wouldn’t have to admit her to hospital. What a piece of luck that had been, running into him again after all these years. He was obviously still embarrassed by what had happened between them so long ago, and that worked marvelously into Eleanor’s selfish plan.
But Sally wasn’t listening. She was thinking about Catherine, who was obviously very ill. Thinking about Duncan, too. With a bit of luck, maybe he’d drop by. If she concentrated hard and willed it to happen, wasn’t that what she had read? He was a kind man with a good heart and he did, after all, work just around the corner. Didn’t she deserve some brownie points for being here at all this evening? (And did she really want to see him, to let him know how she felt? She still had mixed feelings about that.) And what else would he be doing on a Thursday night after he had closed the surgery?
Yeah, yeah, said the cynical voice in Sally’s head. A guy like that in a city full of voracious women?
But Beth had told her it could happen and Beth was her Fairy Godmother who would never lie.
The doorbell rang from downstairs.
“That’s the car,” said Eleanor, snatching up her wrap and checking in her beaded bag that she had all her necessities.
“Break a leg,” said Sally cheerfully, seeing her out. “And don’t fret about a thing. I’ll be here.”
• • •
Catherine did indeed look a poor, sad thing when Sally, having washed the glasses, stole in and took up her seat at the bedside. The room was in deep gloom and all Sally could make out was the waxen face on the pillow.
“Tom?” said Catherine feebly. “Is that you?”
Sally realized that Catherine must be talking about Addison Harvey—she’d been referring to him as “Tom” ever since she fell ill. She paused a second, tempted to lie. What harm could it do and it might bring a flutter of hope to the wasted creature in the bed. She had always been a skilled impersonator and it was possible, in this light, that Catherine wouldn’t know the difference. Then she saw the potential danger and stopped herself in time.
“No, it’s me—Sal,” she said, patting Catherine’s hand. “Probably he’ll be here soon. I bet he finds it hard to stay away.”
Catherine smiled. Sally could just make it out in the half-light.
“He never leaves me,” she confided, in the same low voice. “Always here by my side, night and day, dear man.”
Sally leaned over and plumped up the pillows.
“I told you he fancied you,” she said brightly. “All you’ve got to do now is get well so that you can give him a proper run for his money.”
“He’s most probably doing a gig,” murmured Catherine. “Out on the town with the Sawbones Seven. He’s a marvelous clarinetist, you know, he could have turned professional.”
Sally was surprised. Here was a turn-up for the books indeed, if it were true; staid old Mr. Harvey playing in a band, whoever would have thought it? Or was it just another sick fantasy of a fading mind? She thought of the middle-aged man with his thickening waist and slightly stooped shoulders, due, no doubt, to a lifetime in the operating theater, hacking his way through human gristle and fat. And the graying hair and disillusioned eyes. It was hard to see him as a youthful Lothario but these days all Sally could think about was a pair of straight-shooting blue eyes that were beginning to haunt her dreams.
She smoothed Catherine’s forehead and felt that it was clammy.
“I’ll get you a cup of chamomile tea,” she said. “And I’ll sit with you awhile until you’re ready to sleep.”
She went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle, then on into the bathroom, where she rummaged in the medicine cabinet and found Catherine’s prescribed pills. Either the leprechauns, or Addison Harvey, would see she got them. Sally wasn’t particularly bothered; she had a date. Catherine smiled faintly but her eyes were already beginning to close. It wouldn’t be long now. Sally sneaked a look at her watch. It was almost ten and she didn’t want to be late.
As it was, she needn’t have worried. At five past ten Addison Harvey arrived, letting himself in with his own key.
“Still here,” he said, clearly surprised to see her and not altogether pleased. “And how’s my patient this evening?”
Sally was flabbergasted. So Catherine’s murmurings were not, after all, simply the product of a sick mind. If he had his own key, he must really feel something for her. Well, well, well; her jokes had been more on target than she thought.
“Not so good,” she said. “She seems a little feverish but she’s sleeping now. I was wondering whether to give her her pills but thought I ought to wait until the proper time.” She put the bottle into his hand. “Is there anything else I should do or is it all right if I go now?”
“Run along,” said Addison distractedly. He was doing this for Eleanor, as part of their bargain, but he wasn’t at all easy about it. Particularly if this bright young woman was going to be snooping around and knew how often he was beginning to make house calls. They’d have to have a further talk, Eleanor and he. The situation was growing unbearably complicated but right at the moment there was not a lot he could do about it. She had him over a barrel, that ruthless old woman, and she was well aware of it.
Luckily she only knew part of the truth. He intended to keep it that way.
Chapter Thirty-one
Georgy was bursting with marvelous news but who in this town was she going to tell? At times like this she realized just how alone in London she really was. At least in New York there were friends she could ring but here, well, here was different. For momentous news, she normally called her mother back home on Long Island but on this occasion Myra would scarcely appreciate it. She tried Gus, with whom she was still obsessed, but the Tiresome Kraut answered, as he nearly always did, so she hung up. No way, José. Karl made it abundantly clear that he couldn’t abide Georgy on any level and went out of his way to make her feel de trop on the rare occasions that their paths did accidentally cross.
Bigot! thought Georgy. Racist! Just because I’m Jewish . . . but who on earth is he to talk? The Germans hardly came out of it squeaky clean. If it hadn’t been for them, I wouldn’t be American.
So instead she called Beth and, as always, caught her cooking but not too busy to listen to Georgy’s news.
“My father’s coming to London next month. Isn’t that great?”
“Terrific, sweetie!” said Beth, the receiver jammed under her chin while she stirred the hollandaise sauce and tested its consistency. “Do we get to meet him? How long’s he here?”
“I really don’t know. Not long. He’s on a case.” Of course.
“That does sound important. Listen, I can’t really talk now or this sauce will congeal. I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll make some plans. Can’t wait to meet him!”
“Georgy’s dad’s coming to town,” she explained to Imogen, who was half listening with her nose in the evening paper.
“Big deal!”
“Now don’t be beastly, darling. For Georgy it is exciting. She idolizes her dad.”
“I thought it was my dad she idolized,” said Imogen sarcastically, and Beth grinned to herself and gave her daughter the s
poon to lick.
“Yes, well maybe. But it all comes to the same thing if you think about it.”
• • •
Georgy stood in the doorway of her darkroom and groaned. Even if she removed her photographic equipment and developing trays, there was hardly room to swing a cat, let alone a major criminal psychologist with big ideas and a fat expense account to match. She would love to have her father stay here so that she could lavish on him some of the attention she had been missing all these years, but it just wasn’t feasible. In any case, Fulham was too far from the center for Dad on one of his whistle-stop visits. Claridge’s was right in the heart of things and a real home away from home to Emmanuel Kirsch.
Looking at this small cramped space through her father’s eyes, Georgy found herself suddenly discontented. The Hunters’ bijou residence was all very convenient as a temporary London pad but not nearly spacious enough for a professional photographer who wanted to work from home, not one with as many assignments as Georgy was beginning to amass. Dreams, too. She longed for a real studio somewhere but knew she could never afford one.
Mostly she did her work in the field, wherever it took her, but there were times when that was simply not convenient, when Georgy would have liked sufficient space of her own so that she could take her time and get the lighting and background effects just right. And buy herself the Hasselblad she dreamed of, with space in which to use it properly, without having to be out at all times and in all weather, lugging enormously heavy gear because she couldn’t afford an assistant to do it for her.
“Dream on!” she told herself ruefully, as she closed the door to the bathroom which smelled of chemicals and from which she had removed the light bulbs, and edged her way along the side of the crowded room to the window, with its blinds firmly pinned into place in order to cut out the light. She would need a professional cleaner to put this place back into shape before the Hunters reclaimed it, but luckily Josh seemed settled in Paris, at least for the time being, and showed no signs of wanting to return to London.