by Carol Smith
Poor sod, she thought, rather him than me.
The service droned on and the vicar rose to give his oration. Fine words, noble sentiments but was this the Catherine Palmer any of them knew whose virtues he was so lavishly extolling? Had he, Beth wondered, ever even met her? She was growing fidgety, as she always did in church, so she switched her attention to the rest of the congregation to avoid incurring another of Imogen’s glares. This child was turning into a regular tartar: if Beth weren’t careful, she’d grow up to be another Eleanor Palmer.
Which drew her attention back to the front pew and the fine-looking man seated between Eleanor and Sally. As if sensing her eyes upon him, he turned slightly in his seat and it all came back in a flash. Of course, the vet. However could she possibly have forgotten? She remembered him clearly now from the hospital, and how much she had admired him then. The unfamiliar groomed look had thrown her off the scent. In sober suit and tie, with his hair and beard well combed, he looked less like Wild Aboriginal Man but every bit as hunky.
Duncan Ross indeed, the Australian who had been so kind to Catherine in these last harrowing weeks, and was obviously now doing a prop-up job for her mother. But, then, anyone who would devote his life to healing sick animals must be a bit special. Beth wasn’t in any way an animal freak herself, could take them or leave them, but always respected selfless devotion. Unlike those entirely in thrall to Mammon . . . and her eyes flicked back to Oliver in his elegant suit with the exquisite unhappy wife by his side. The comparison might be unkind but it was fair. Next to that fine, upstanding man, the Nugents seemed like creatures from another planet.
• • •
Sitting right at the front of things, her arm pressed tightly against Duncan’s, Sally was in seventh heaven. She knew she should be feeling something for the dead, but God wasn’t listening, and anyhow Catherine had been sick; even at its best her life couldn’t have been that much fun. Face it, she was a loser. In absolute truth, it was a happy release, though no one so far had had the guts to say so. Despite her schooling, Sally did not believe in an afterlife or retribution beyond the grave or any of the other rot the priest was spouting from his pulpit. Life was for the living; there was nothing more.
It was a shame about Catherine, who had seemed nice enough, but all this sermon was giving Sally was renewed determination to get out there and live a bit while there was still time. Nobody really cared about Catherine’s death, other than that selfish cow of a mother, and then for all the wrong reasons. Sally didn’t believe she had ever really loved her, not deep down, but was putting on all this show for the benefit of the audience. And because she was dead scared of ending up alone, as well she might be.
Maybe now that Catherine, her prop, had bitten the dust, the old trout would finally get her act together and start living a proper life again. After all, there was nothing really wrong with her; Sally had sussed that out right from the start. She liked the old girl and respected her, recognizing another con artist when she saw one. In her prime, Eleanor Palmer must have been a truly foxy lady, worth a dozen of her namby-pamby daughter. Sally found her amusing and something of a challenge. And by following her instincts and sticking around for the fun, look where she was sitting now, right up next to this sensational man whose strong, suntanned hand lay so close to hers she could feel it radiating warmth. She had to resist a burning urge to lean across and lick it.
It was a first for Sally, and she had a nasty feeling Beth had been right all along, that this was the one she had been waiting for. Her defenses were always in place and her baggage mentally packed, then right out of the blue along came Duncan Ross, the wild Australian vet, and alarm bells started to ring.
She felt his hand on her arm.
“All right?” The blue eyes were concerned though the smile was reassuring. She felt like a wounded hedgehog and wanted to curl up under his chin and lose herself in the safety of his beard.
She beamed from under the brim of her Garbo-esque hat.
“I’m fine.”
The blue eyes crinkled, the grip on her arm tightened fractionally, and then—goddammit—he switched his attention away from her, back to the old bat on his other side.
• • •
Addison Harvey was perspiring heavily, not only because of the sprint from his golf game in Sunningdale to get to this service in the heart of the West End on one of the busiest Saturdays of the year, but also from the weight of his conscience that was threatening to bring him down. He had had to come and if it had not been for the fact that his partner this morning was president of a major Japanese pharmaceutical company, he would have ducked out of the game altogether. He hated funerals, particularly those of patients, but duty obliged and there were certain occasions decorum forbade you to miss.
But for more reasons than one, most of them still churning around in his brain, Addison needed to be here today, to see Catherine decently laid to rest and to grieve a little for her in public while he dared not do so in private. Phoebe had tuned in to his mental turmoil but did not know what it was about. It had been hard shutting her out, though he was in the habit of doing so. Phoebe was a dear soul, quite the best thing to have happened to him even apart from the money, and he knew he had never deserved her. But there were areas of his life even Phoebe could not be permitted to share and this was definitely one of them. My God, if she only knew.
She had hovered over him at breakfast, aware of something troubling him, concern in her eyes. “Are you all right, hon?”
“Fine, just fine. Where are my socks, the ones that go with this Lacoste shirt? Not that it matters, of course, but I’m going to be late and Hideo Yosaki controls more than a billion dollars’ worth of drugs. Do you realize what that means to the likes of us?”
Phoebe found his socks, then folded him in a quick embrace.
“I know something’s bothering you but I don’t know what. Drive carefully, dear heart. It’s only a game and I don’t care how many drugs he controls, I want my husband back alive.”
As she stood in the doorway of their beautiful mock-Georgian mansion, she asked what time he’d be home for lunch. Or did golf with a drug king on a Saturday morning, when he ought rightly to be cutting the grass, also include giving him lunch?
“Didn’t I tell you?” Addison was stricken. “I won’t be back, at least till late. There’s something I have to do at the hospital.”
If he told her the truth she’d want to come too, and he could not bear the thought of her witnessing one of his mistakes. Not that she’d judge him, of course. He knew Phoebe well enough to know she would only love him more, and that he couldn’t take. Cursing himself for his ineptness, he watched the familiar shutters click down over the eyes of the only woman he had ever remotely loved, however inadequately.
Why do I have to lie? he asked himself, as the Rolls pulled away down the curving drive. She’ll only think it’s another woman.
Which, of course, in a kind of way it was. Catherine Palmer lay heavily on his mind and, now that it was too late to make amends, he knew she would also haunt his conscience. All the way up to London, as he purred along the motorway in his expensive car, he thought about her death and whether it could have been avoided. She had been going to die in any case, he’d known that since he first saw her X-rays, but at that point she’d been nothing more to him than a faceless patient, not the girl he had so tragically betrayed all those years ago.
He tried to blame her mother but knew he was fudging the issue. Eleanor had called him spineless and, although it stung, he knew there was truth in what she said. The ideals he once had, that Catherine had so much admired, were long ago vanished, subsumed into a much more powerful drive, ambition. He had worked hard for what he had gotten and wasn’t about to risk it. The call from the Palace could come at any moment. With that promise hanging over him, he would keep his guilt to himself and, if his luck continued to hold, no one would ever know what part he had actually played in Catherine Palmer’s death.
&n
bsp; • • •
“For all the saints,” sang the congregation, and Beth, heart brimming, rose on her toes to give it her very best. This was terrific, she loved this hymn; in her eyes this was what church was all about. They had sung it at school, on special occasions, and it awoke all sorts of memories, stirring and good. Duncan Ross, at the front of the church, heard her soaring, melodious voice and glanced back with instinctive pleasure. Now that was a woman for a man to look at twice; feisty, clear-eyed, unafraid, and in her prime. Generous and entirely unaware of just how attractive she really was. This positive assessment, based on just a couple of fast looks, surprised even Duncan. He had been too long in this town, away from the sunshine and the simple life, and his tastes were growing jaded. This woman, Catherine’s friend, singing like a lark from the middle pew, reached out to him in some subtle way and reminded him of all he had been missing.
Better watch it, he warned himself as he followed the old lady out of the pew and down the center aisle. Or before you know it, you’ll be in big trouble.
“Hi,” was all he said later in the forecourt, coming over to greet her with outstretched hand. “I’m Duncan Ross. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Beth Hardy.” She wiped her damp hand on her skirt before taking his, to disguise her nervousness. “And this is Imogen Hardy, my daughter.”
His blue eyes met her gray ones and liked what they saw. Liked the look of the daughter too, standing there quiet and well behaved, waiting for her mother to be through, hiding her boredom.
They beamed at each other and something intangible flashed between them like summer lightning, full of promise.
• • •
Oliver was seething. Vivienne could feel pure rage radiating through his sleeve, though for the life of her she could not fathom why this should be. She had not forced him to accompany her to this rather dreary funeral, far from it. She had not even suggested it, in fact, since he did not know the dead woman and Vivienne herself had intended to make only a fleeting appearance out of solidarity for the five of them in hospital together. But all of a sudden, just as she was dressing, Oliver had appeared and announced that he thought he would drive her there. It was not very far, she had said, concentrating on her eyeliner, just along the road, in fact, but he said that was okay. He hadn’t anything else he particularly wanted to do and since it was a funeral, it would be fitting. They should do more things together as a couple. They were in danger of drifting apart.
Vivienne said nothing as she outlined her lips and blotted them dry but she was pleased, very pleased. And she smiled inside, careful not to show too much emotion for fear of scaring him off. She was learning. And maybe there was a vestige of life yet in this tired old marriage.
Now, however, that mood of optimism had flown right out of the window and things were back to normal, with a vengeance. Oliver was in a rage, which was rare, and she really didn’t know why. He was fiddling with his car keys and saying they had to be going, while the congregation was still pouring out of the doors and there was the burial still to be got through, across the river in Putney. He had had a brief word with his old pal, Addison, and now was glancing at his watch at ten-second intervals and muttering something about a meeting he had just remembered in the City. On a Saturday afternoon too, when previously he had told her he had a clear weekend.
Well, go and do it! thought Vivienne viciously, and then she caught a glimpse of Lady Palmer, all scrunched up with grief and supported by the vet and that nice girl, Sally. And Beth was standing right by with her daughter and Georgy—and all of a sudden she knew where she wanted to be. In level tones, she told her husband he could leave, that she would be all right. Then she walked across the churchyard in shoes that had only ever trod carpet before, and joined the group.
• • •
They had lowered the coffin and spoken a prayer and watched Eleanor, aided by Duncan, as she feebly shoveled earth. And now they were slowly dispersing, Sally with her arms around the sad old lady as she leaned heavily on Duncan’s arm, with Beth and her daughter standing by. Vivienne, her chic Italian shoes all crusted with mud, stood on the edge of things, looking on and wishing there was something she could do to help. Then she noticed Georgy, also standing alone, a similar hesitation writ clearly on her face.
Why, thought Vivienne, she is as lonely as I.
And without further thought she stepped forward and tapped the American girl lightly on the arm.
“I’m going to grab a cab back to Kensington,” she said. “Care to share it and come home for a cup of tea? I rather think we’ve earned it, don’t you?”
Chapter Thirty-four
Vivienne and Georgy were sitting in the conservatory drinking killer martinis, on the rocks. Vivienne actually preferred her Stolichnaya neat but Georgy, in her forceful way, reminded her she was with an American now and insisted on making cocktails New York style—tons of crushed ice, a hefty slug of vodka, and just a whisper of extra-dry vermouth as a garnish.
“After this you’ll never look at another gin and tonic, I guarantee,” said Georgy, handing one glass to her hostess.
It was only ten to five but no one was there to judge them and anyway, Vivienne had long ago become immune to what people thought. When she wanted a drink, she had one. Only when Oliver was around did she try to put any sort of restraint on her intake.
“L’chayim!” said Georgy gutturally, raising her glass in a toast. “Your very good health!” responded Vivienne, taking a sip and visibly wincing. Wow! Her eyes widened with pleasure as the dryness of the martini hit her taste buds.
“Mm, you weren’t exaggerating. Not bad at all. Though usually I prefer my poison undiluted. Does the job that much quicker, I find.”
Georgy wrinkled her nose in pleasure. This classy lady was proving to be quite a revelation. She had not warmed to her in hospital and was still finding it hard to shrug off that blatant snub in Harrods. Yet here she sat in her majestic home, letting her inhibitions slide just like a regular person, and she was generous too. And the house was to die for, there was no question of that. Ever since that lunch, Georgy had longed for an excuse to see it again and now here she was, comfortably ensconced in a white wickerwork two-seater, upholstered in a subtle mix of turquoise and emerald which blended beautifully with the lush greenery and cascading water. The lady had taste as well as money. In a different scenario, she might have made it as a professional designer.
“Yes,” she said, leaning back. “This is definitely the life.”
Vivienne was pleased. She watched the admiration in Georgy’s eyes and her battered ego preened. Her first impressions of Georgy had been similarly offputting. In fact, she had not liked the American one bit, finding her pushy and aggressive and altogether too loud. But since she had recognized the girl’s innate loneliness, reflected in her own, she realized that the brash manner was no more than a social barrier. They said rude people were often simply shy but Vivienne had always dismissed that as just so much claptrap, though often kindly meant. Yet here was a kindred spirit sitting smiling at her and, what was more, appreciating her house, always the clincher where Vivienne was concerned.
Georgy, her inhibitions draining away with the combined onslaught of the martini and the humid, almost tropical, earthy smell of the vegetation, was gazing around the magnificent room and thinking, Wow! What couldn’t I do with a space like this! It was only a pity Vivienne didn’t have a son. He would be young yet, but well worth waiting for, even if she had to abduct him from kindergarten in order to have her wicked way with him.
“Do you have any children?” she asked idly, and saw Vivienne stiffen and the shutters clang down.
“No.”
A flash of something like pain shot across her face, to be rapidly concealed behind a tight, social smile.
Oh-oh, thought Georgy, cursing herself for not thinking. With all this money and nothing apparently to do all day except dream up new color schemes for her showcase of a house, there had to be some
thing. With half a brain she should have sussed that the lack of tiny pattering feet was more than just an oversight. Rich Brits liked to breed; that, surely, went with the deal.
“We never got around to it,” said Vivienne after a pause, twirling her long-stemmed glass and avoiding Georgy’s eye. What she was too ashamed to add was the real truth, that for too many years she had put off conceiving for fear of ruining her knockout figure. A goddess without a heart; how true that was. She reached for the vodka bottle but Georgy had got there first.
“Let me,” she said, jumping up. “I’m butler today, remember?”
“And now it’s too late,” said Vivienne despondently. “Since this latest little hiccup.”
Me and my big mouth . . . Of course, she’d had a hysterectomy and Georgy simply hadn’t thought. How awful! Imagine being told you could no longer conceive, no matter what, particularly when you had a solid marriage and a house like this . . . unbelievable. Hung up as she was herself about finding Mr. Right and settling down before she was too old—which to Georgy meant before she was thirty—she could not imagine a more frightful scenario. Especially with a husband as dishy as that who must surely want a son.
Thoughts of Gus, superimposed by the enchanting Imogen, flashed across the screen in Georgy’s brain as they did so often, but this time she expunged them. Not now; now was not the time. She might have her fantasies but this sad lady was seriously hurting and the least she could do was try to lighten things up. So she told Vivienne instead about the Bolshoi Ballet and the work she was doing backstage and, as she warmed to her subject, she was relieved to see the finely etched lines gradually ease themselves away from Vivienne’s beautiful face.
• • •
Oliver, more put out than he could ever remember, stormed off to his office in Bishopgate even though he had no real reason for going there on a Saturday, when the markets were not trading. He just needed to absent himself from his wife and the spectacle of Beth, looking more luscious than ever, making herself agreeable to a bunch of geriatrics and some hairy Antipodean who looked like an outtake from a Harrison Ford movie. All he wanted was to elbow his way through the pathetic crowd and carry her away; instead he roared off in his Mercedes to the City, to cool his heels in the empty halls and endeavor to regain his equanimity. He wished now he had never offered to involve himself in that depressing funeral of some sad sack he had scarcely met and whose name he had already forgotten. But Vivienne had let slip that Beth would be there and that, where Oliver was concerned, was like aniseed to a dog.