by Carol Smith
It was amazing how a person’s needs could expand to fit any space. Six months ago, when she first took it over, this house had seemed wonderfully roomy, particularly for just one person, but take a look at it now. It was depressing really. The only good thing was that Georgy had so far been so busy, she had not yet had time to do much serious shopping, so the bedroom was not as cluttered as it might be. But still.
Her mind flew, by automatic reflex, to Ripplevale Grove and Gus’s spacious house . . . but that way lay only bitterness so she shut off her dream and ran downstairs. She would not allow that German to spoil things for her. She would make a plan and carry it through but was not yet sure what she wanted to do. She only knew she lived for her work and Gus Hardy. Sometimes she frightened herself with the intensity of that emotion.
Nights she couldn’t sleep, which were frequent, Georgy would lie in bed with the telephone cradled on her chest and dial his number, over and over again, content just to hear it ring in his empty house. Sometimes it would be answered, usually by a bad-tempered Karl but occasionally by Gus himself, and then Georgy would hold her breath and listen to her heart beating in terror lest she be discovered.
Once Karl had even challenged her by name—“Is that you, Georgy, you cunt!”—and she had rapidly hung up. Then cursed herself for her foolishness in so feebly giving the game away. For several weeks she had left them alone but the compulsion did not go away. Karl’s aggression, she told herself, must mean something. If he was that scared, surely that meant there was still hope for her. Maybe Gus did care for her after all. Maybe his cruel confession by the canal had been nothing more than a cover-up, because his feelings for her were actually so strong.
She had tried pumping Beth but found it impossible to get hold of anything concrete. Beth simply smiled and uttered evasions and encouraged Georgy on to safer subjects. And occasionally set her up on blind dates which patently did not work. And Imogen was worse than useless since she was just a kid who broke into foolish giggles whenever Georgy brought Gus into the conversation, no matter how subtly.
She wondered what her father would make of Gus and if she dared introduce them. She rather fancied Emmanuel would disapprove. He was highly protective of all his daughters, detached though he might be these days with his work and his brand-new family, and basically frowned on what he termed the arty types Georgy hung around with. He didn’t go so far as Myra, who prayed nightly for a dentist or accountant to sweep her eldest daughter off to Scarsdale, but viewed with suspicion anyone who did not have a regular job with proper hours. A real mensch was what he was looking for for Georgy but they were not that easily come by. Not, at least, in Georgy’s experience.
It was nine-thirty already and time to get going. Today Georgy was going backstage to photograph the Bolshoi Ballet who were newly arrived in London and shortly to open at the Albert Hall. It was a great assignment and she was lucky to have got it, thanks to a friendly picture editor on the Telegraph Magazine who had used her a lot, admired her work, and thought she deserved a break. Georgy was a professional through and through and, once on a job, tried always to deliver the goods. If she’d only had the confidence to recognize it, her work was every bit good enough to stand up for itself and a lot of this basic angst was really uncalled for. But that was Georgy’s nature, part and parcel of her inherent talent. If she had been able to relax, she might have lost her edge. If she lost her edge, then she was no better than the other million photographers, all fighting for a living. It was a vicious circle.
She was due at the Albert Hall at ten-fifteen and the shoot was likely to last all day, or at least until the dancers were ready to quit. Then she thought she might pop round the corner and look in on poor old Catherine who was, they told her, not at all well and apparently not improving. Georgy felt a twinge of conscience whenever she thought of Catherine. She knew Sally saw her regularly and also, occasionally, Beth. Ever since that awful day at Vivienne’s when Catherine had scared them all so much by collapsing, she had meant to do something herself but had never quite got round to it.
Flowers might be nice, or at least a card. Or some smoked salmon or something like that, for her to nibble when she didn’t feel up to a proper meal. Or a book, maybe, if only she knew what Catherine liked. Myra would have made her chicken soup but that wasn’t Georgy’s thing at all. In truth, she scarcely knew her even though they had shared a hospital ward. Then Georgy remembered that dreadful New Year’s Eve and how lonely she had felt when she collapsed at King’s Cross. Lonely, vulnerable, and longing only to die. She would definitely do something, if only she could find the time. She’d make a note to remind herself on the bulletin board in the kitchen.
The Bolshoi Ballet were doing a major gala season and Georgy was aware what a plum of a job she had landed. During the four weeks they were in London, their repertoire was to include a wide range of classical ballet, ranging from Sleeping Beauty and Swan Lake to Spartacus and The Stone Flower. This would mean a number of photo calls, so her schedule was fairly hectic. But it should be well worth it. Apart from the Telegraph, she had a number of other interests too in this particular spread and high hopes of selling her pictures around the world.
One of these days, if she stayed on in London, she really ought to be thinking about getting herself an agent, but good agents were hard to come by and she was still too much of a newcomer to know who to go to. She would ask her magazine contacts what they recommended. It was too much for her to cope with and at times made her quite ill with anxiety.
But the dancers were amazing and as the music got to her, Georgy relaxed and let herself be swept along with the passion and excitement of Tchaikovsky. She shot film after film, in both color and black and white, and the more they danced, the more she got involved until she was at one with the music, throwing herself into it and expending so much energy she found herself trembling and quite wrung out with sweat.
It was after seven by the time Georgy managed to drag herself home, as exhausted as if she had been dancing the Nutcracker herself, wanting only to dump her heavy equipment on the living room floor and go soak in a long, hot bath with a tumbler of Jack Daniel’s to help ease the pain. She was nibbling a cracker and waiting for the tub to fill when the telephone rang. She thought about not answering it, she was so exhausted she couldn’t face anything new tonight. But it might have been Dad or even Gus and she couldn’t afford to risk it.
It was Beth, sounding sober and subdued. Catherine was dead, she told her. Late the night before, in her sleep. Alone.
Part
Four
Chapter Thirty-two
The seafood restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf was a welcome relief after the conference. Large plate-glass windows pivoted open to let in the cooling sea breezes and light flashed off the harbor, reminding him of home. He ordered champagne to celebrate his recent marriage and his colleagues joined him in a toast.
“Not a bad way to spend a honeymoon.”
“Not when it’s all expenses paid.”
A waiter approached.
“Call for you, Dr. Dawson.”
“Here?” Who could have tracked him down; who knew where he would be?
“Wifey missing you already?” joked one of the others.
“More likely run out of traveler’s checks.”
He crossed the airy room to the corridor outside, where the waiter indicated a row of telephone booths, all but one of them empty.
“Dawson.”
“You probably don’t remember me.”
The voice was pleasant and entirely unthreatening. He relaxed. It was amazing how patients could track you down, even here, thousands of miles from home. It could be irritating but was part of the celebrity being a successful surgeon bestowed. He glanced at his watch. Mustn’t keep them waiting. The meetings were due to start again at two. There wasn’t a lot of time.
“So what can I do for you?”
“One moment, Dr. Dawson. If you’ll forgive me.”
A p
ause, then light footsteps. A shadow darkened the opening to the booth where a stranger stood blocking the spectacular view.
“Dr. Dawson? You don’t remember me, do you? But then, why on earth should you, after all these years?”
A pleasant face, not especially memorable. Casually dressed with a friendly smile. Again he glanced at his watch.
“Yes?”
The knife-thrust when it caught him was done so skillfully, in and under and up beneath the rib cage, straight to the heart, that he would have been impressed by the speed and the sheer professionalism.
If only he’d had the time.
Chapter Thirty-three
They buried Catherine on a warm Saturday afternoon in early May. The service was at Holy Trinity, Brompton, to be followed by internment across the river at Putney Vale Cemetery because Lady Palmer, when it came to it, could not endure the thought of her sole remaining flesh being consumed by fire and preferred that her daughter should lie in peace beside her father.
It was the first really springlike day of the year—the British climate grew more erratic by the minute—and Beth and Imogen, having arrived early in order to ensure they could park, had time to stroll in the shady gardens behind the church and listen to the full-throated birdsong issuing from the chestnut trees. The air was thick with the sweet, nostalgic smell of freshly cut grass and the paths were edged with pale harebells and blue aubretia.
Poor Catherine, thought Beth as they perched on a bench next to an imposing Victorian tomb surmounted by a gray stone funerary urn swathed in carved cloth. Just her luck to miss the best of the weather. From the little Beth knew of her, it seemed to sum up most of Catherine’s all-too-short life. As more cars began to arrive and park in the forecourt immediately behind the vast domed splendor of the famous Oratory, Beth and Imogen walked back across the lawn to take their places in the church; not so far forward as to be conspicuous yet close enough to get a good view of what was going on. On this sort of occasion it was hard to know the exact pecking order among the mourners but if need be, thought Beth, and vast numbers of the Palmer family were to show up, they could easily move.
She need not have worried. By the time the service was actually under way, the church was less than a quarter full. First a handful of elderly ladies in hats, carrying large, square handbags, with their slightly doddery husbands in tow, wandered noisily up the outer aisles, chattering like a flock of starlings, residents no doubt of Albert Hall Mansions, come en bloc to show their respects. Next, a clutch of slightly seedy, similarly elderly theatricals, with dyed hair—the men as well as the women—and unusually pale skin, as if the light of day, let alone this glorious spring sunshine, rarely touched it. They were dressed in dusty black, every one of them, and Beth loved them on sight. They were like walk-on parts from her beloved Nottingham Playhouse. One even sported a feather boa that had certainly seen better days.
Oh goody, she thought, grinning to herself. The opera groupies are here in force! Let the play commence! Imogen, sensing the grin, turned slightly in the pew to fix her with a stern look which warned her to behave. The organ started to play a melancholy threnody in a minor key and the grin was wiped from Beth’s face as Vivienne Nugent swept past up the center aisle, followed at a respectable pace by her husband.
It was several weeks since Beth had last seen Oliver and it simply hadn’t occurred to her that he might appear at Catherine’s funeral. After all, as far as Beth knew, he had only met the poor soul once and then only fleetingly, and since he could not, by the wildest stretch of imagination, ever be thought of as a dutiful husband, it was extraordinary he should be here today. She had to admit he was looking particularly tasty, in an expensive Italian silk suit that subtly enhanced the slate-gray eyes, and against her better instincts, she felt the familiar tug of desire in her lower regions. Oh dear. Would this feeling never go away? She would almost certainly have to face him once the service was over, though what on earth she was going to say, she hadn’t the faintest idea.
It never even entered Beth’s mind that Oliver had contrived to be here today purely in order to see her. Though he would scarcely admit it even to himself, he had missed Beth these past four weeks and was irritated and slightly rattled by her continuing unavailability. What they had together was good, at least that was what he had always thought, and today’s excursion was a bald attempt to confront her in order to deduce at first hand exactly what might be going on. Oliver was not used to this sort of treatment; in fact, he had never experienced it before. He needed some answers and he meant to get them, even if it did mean having to sit through this dreary funeral.
The Nugents slid into a pew several rows ahead of Beth and Imogen and Vivienne glanced back at them and smiled. She was wearing a neat little navy suit with the minimalist stamp of high couture, and her glossy black hair was short and sleek, setting off to perfection her exquisite bone structure. They were a classy pair, the Nugents, no doubt about that, and Beth felt a warm glow of pride as she studied the back of Oliver’s unyielding head as he sat reading his service sheet. She could tell he was cross. She knew him that well.
Since the debacle of Vivienne’s lunch party, Beth had been avoiding Oliver, though she was still not entirely sure why. After all, they had been together for two passionate years and it was not as though she had not known right from the start that he was married. No, it was due more to some primordial sense of what was right—the instinct that had caused her to let go of Gus all those years ago, even to stand joyfully by and watch him flex his wings and fly away, knowing he would soar that much higher without the ballast of her and the baby on board.
In her way, Beth loved Oliver, she truly did, and the years they had spent together had possessed their own special magic, as well as doing no end of good to her self-esteem as a working girl and single mother, past the first flush of youth.
But he didn’t belong to her, it was that simple, and meeting Vivienne in the hospital and sensing her loneliness and quiet despair had put an end to any future ecstasy as far as Beth was concerned. That was the hard truth and only now was she facing up to it. Call it northern puritanism or whatever, she knew she could not go on. It simply wasn’t right.
Georgy arrived alone and stood for one panicked moment on the threshold, daunted by the huge interior of the unfamiliar High Anglican church, longing only to run and hide. She slipped unobtrusively into the back pew, fervently hoping she would not have to take part in the actual service. The interior of Holy Trinity, illuminated by bright daylight filtering through stained glass, was vast and impressive and served to remind Georgy one more time how much she needed a studio of her own. This church would suit her needs exactly. A thin smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she imagined a troupe of Bolshoi dancers tippy-toeing across the space up front which seemed to be where the action lay. A cute choirboy in a frilly white collar was solemnly lighting the candles and there was a rustling in the choir stalls as his confreres took their places.
The organist switched to a more robust dirge and up the central aisle processed six black-clad undertakers followed by the main funeral party. The congregation rose to its feet, and watched in silence the sad little straggle of mourners. First came Eleanor, heavily veiled and looking suddenly shockingly frail, leaning on the arm of a tall man in gray who seemed vaguely familiar, though Beth could not immediately place him. Right behind, as dutiful as a daughter, came Sally, for once rather charmingly demure in a short denim skirt with matching top, her mass of hair restrained by one of her awful hats. They were followed by a further clutch of elderly folk, as frail and doddery as Eleanor herself, and that appeared to be it. Le tout ensemble. A surpliced server carrying the cross led the vicar and his entourage to their places in front of the altar and the service began.
Once in place, Sally turned and waved and Beth, amused by her lack of reverence, gaily blew her a kiss. She glanced around the church. Not much of a turnout, with scarcely anyone of Catherine’s own age apart from herself and t
he Nugents, and a rather blowsy young woman in red who was probably Vanessa, the other receptionist. Poor Catherine, thought Beth again. Was this all she had to show for a life? No friends of her own age, just acquaintances from the hospital, and apparently no close relatives either, other than the harridan who had dominated her life and probably helped to shorten it. Eleanor was still holding center stage, sniveling into a flimsy lace handkerchief, as well she might, at the front of the church in full view of everyone. Poor Catherine indeed. No child, no husband, no love of her own. Instinctively Beth squeezed Imogen’s hand and drew her closer while her eyes strayed involuntarily to the back of Oliver’s head. If she, Beth, were ever to die prematurely, she would, at the very least, know she had been amply loved. For that she was grateful.
The church door opened again and Beth watched the thickening figure of Addison Harvey sliding into the pew alongside Georgy. About time too; the very least he could do for Catherine was turn up. Beth had only the vaguest idea of the part he had played in Catherine’s life but she did know from Sally that in her last, tormented days the poor woman had seemed possessed by him and talked of very little else. Possessed, that was it; she stole another look.
Harvey was slightly red in the face as if he had been hurrying, mopping his forehead as he fumbled in his hymnbook for the appropriate page. He was expensively, even foppishly, turned out in a two-thousand-pound three-piece suit, more suitable for a wedding than a funeral, and his graying hair was cut as stylishly as any television personality’s. A man not handsome but distinguished. And, to judge from his face, not happy either.
I wonder, thought Beth, what’s he got on his conscience. Did he know she was dying and was there nothing he could do? It can’t be easy being a doctor, particularly a surgeon with so much responsibility if anything should go wrong. I make mistakes, of course I do, but if I make a mess of a recipe, I can always get new ingredients and start again. Not so when it’s human life you are tinkering with—and everyone, surely, is allowed an off day.