Friends for Life

by Carol Smith

To Beth’s utter amazement, even Oliver turned up, looking as he obviously felt, like a spare prick at a wedding, embarrassed and out of place, fiddling with his car keys and wishing he could be anywhere else but here.

  “Vivienne sent me,’’ he explained, almost apologetically. “She thought there might be something I could do.’’

  With his money, influence, and power, he meant; that was not lost on Beth. He glared past her at Duncan, who was standing serenely by, not in any sort of hurry, content simply to wait. Beth saw the direction of the glare and smiled.

  “Not a thing, thanks,’’ she said softly, reaching up to touch his cheek. “You’re a dear to have come but there was really no need. Look at me, safe and sound, out on bail and planning to prove my innocence.’’

  She glanced around. Even Sally had come, bless her heart, and was sitting with Imogen in the back of Duncan’s Land Rover, waving like a thing demented, clearly enjoying every minute of it. As well she might; this was very much Sally’s sort of scene and the sheer absurdity was bound to appeal to her zany sense of humor.

  “Well, if you’re sure,’’ said Oliver darkly, suspecting he was being made an ass of and resenting it.

  “Quite sure,’’ said Beth firmly. “Lots of love to Viv and tell her I’ll be around later to fill her in on all the gory details.’’

  That was more or less the final straw. Looking as if he would like to disembowel her on the spot, Oliver took his leave, nodding curtly to the curious hordes and driving off noisily in his Mercedes.

  “Pompous prat!’’ remarked Gus cheerfully, then gave Beth another hug and released her to Duncan. Gus was a gentleman. He knew instinctively when it was time to make an elegant departure; another excellent reason for loving him so much.

  It was balm to Beth’s ears to hear they had picked up Karl as well and that he was still languishing in St. Pancras police station, the subject of further questioning.

  “But why?’’

  “His own fault entirely,’’ said Gus serenely. “It’s that bolshie manner, I’ve always told him it’ll land him in trouble in the end. A few hours in the cooler will do him no harm at all and may make him more respectful in the future, particularly where authority is concerned. Actually, I was going to tell you—I’ve given him the boot.’’

  Beth was astonished. And he seemed so calm and matter-of-fact about it, too. Wait till Georgy heard . . . Then she remembered.

  “Why, what happened?’’

  “Oh, we’d been heading toward nowhere fast. It was long overdue. In some ways he’s a dear fellow but he does have the most amazingly murderous temper. We had a bit of a tiff after the lovely day at Vivienne’s, and he ended up doing some damage around the house, which is something I really won’t tolerate.’’

  He flashed his boyish grin. It was clear he wasn’t in the least concerned.

  “Broke some of the downstairs windows by hurling beer bottles at them,’’ he said. “Well, that was it. I told him he had to go. So off he went, roaring into the night, full of venom, looking for a fight. The next thing I heard was they’d got him in the cooler and won’t even let him out on bail. Not till they’ve checked his movements last night.’’

  Beth was amazed at his coolness. But why should the police pick on Karl? Surely his connection with Georgy was tenuous in the extreme, even if he did have a lethal temper? The police were certainly thorough. Gus explained.

  “Karl has always loathed the very idea of Georgy; just seeing her brings him out in hives. Sees her as some sort of a threat or something lunatic like that. He avoids her whenever he can, and when he can’t, showers her in poisonous bile which he simply can’t control. You know how these things go. And they get noticed, you’d better believe it, particularly in a small, incestuous world like the theater, which thrives on gossip and sexual innuendo.’’

  He laughed. “They’re pretty bloody thorough in the Met, I can tell you. They nose around and uncover all kinds of things. I know it’s upsetting, but at least they’re doing their job. And I suppose it means if anything awful happened to any of us, we’d get the same protection. Let’s hope. Unless, of course, you happen to be queer.’’

  Unless, of course, you happen to be guilty.

  They had cross-examined her for several hours, taken detailed statements over and over again, about her knives, their different uses, their locality, and who had access to them.

  “It was probably Dreardre wot done it,’’ said Sally darkly. “She always did remind me of Norman Bates’s mother.’’

  They all laughed.

  But it wasn’t really funny. They asked questions about Beth’s relationship with Georgy; how long they’d known each other, how often they met, whether they ever quarreled, stuff like that. Superfically, she seemed to be in the clear. After leaving Vivienne’s house, in front of a whole gang of witnesses, she had taken Imogen home and not left the house again that night. Imogen could swear to that; except that for most of the time she had been tucked up fast asleep in bed.

  “It’ll never stand up in court,’’ mumbled a policeman, but it would have to do, at least for now, so they let her go. On condition she didn’t leave the country, or even town, without first reporting to the local police station. Fair enough. Beth had no plans for going anywhere and was as anxious as the next person to identify Georgy’s attacker.

  Whoever that might be. Beth’s money would be on a casual intruder but the police were pretty positive that whoever it was had a key. There might, of course, be loads of duplicate keys floating around but until the police could contact Josh Hunter, they wouldn’t know for sure. And to complicate things still further, Josh was off on a photo call in China and not expected back for a couple of weeks, while his wife was reportedly somewhere in the Midwest, visiting her folks.

  Yet why would a casual criminal risk entering an empty house, lying in wait for its occupant, a total stranger, all but kill her, and then leave empty-handed? It made no sense unless she had disturbed him in the act, in which case how did the downstairs light bulbs come to be missing? Very Ruth Rendell, thought Beth, the crime novel addict. Perhaps he was a light-bulb thief. She was about to share that hilarious thought with the others—then remembered poor little crumpled Georgy, lying so sick in hospital, and thought better of it.

  “Probably it was just a drug-crazed down-and-out,’’ she told Duncan as she lay that night on the sofa in his arms. “And Georgy was a random target. Maybe her friends are careless about who they let into their house. It’s easy to get a duplicate key cut.’’

  “Unlikely,’’ said Duncan into her hair. “Those are Banham locks and you practically have to swear on your grandmother’s grave before you can get a copy made. That’s what makes them special. They are supposed to be foolproof.’’

  The last thing he wanted to do was alarm her, particularly after all she’d been through already, but Duncan was pretty concerned, and not just about Georgy. First Catherine, now this—possibly just a macabre coincidence but until he was sure, he wasn’t going to take any chances. Beth was the best thing that had happened to him in years; with him her safety came first.

  • • •

  Vivienne locked the door of the brand-new studio and stowed the key in her dressing table drawer. After all the hard work they had done on its refurbishment, she couldn’t bear the thought of Oliver bursting in and making a mockery of her dreams. She felt weak and unwell and absolutely drained of emotion. She hated to be selfish but it was hard to have to lay aside a vision that had been gathering momentum for so many weeks. Meeting Georgy had changed her life and opened whole new vistas to her. After years of sterile inactivity, squandering money because she was lonely and bored, she had seen the chance of making something worthwhile of her life and maybe doing a little good as well. Now Georgy was gone and the dream was dead. Even if she were to recover, the chances were that the dominant father would snatch her back home to the States where he could keep his eye on her in future.

  And she missed her. Wi
th a wrench, Vivienne realized that the younger woman was fast becoming the daughter she had never had. No Georgy meant no studio. It was that simple. Today was the day Vivienne had planned to start work, phoning around and drumming up business; setting up appointments for her talented new partner. Listlessly she reached for the telephone and booked instead an appointment for a wash and blow-dry with Jean Paul. A visit to the beauty parlor was the drug she always turned to whenever the going started to get tough. It was an automatic reflex action. She knew she could always depend on Jean Paul for a mind-caress and a sympathetic ear. Lately, she had been just too busy to care if her ends needed trimming or her roots coloring but the sudden loss of Georgy gave her an overwhelming need for a dose of tender loving care. Even though she knew she would have to pay for it through the nose.

  The salon, as usual, was a whirl of activity but Jean Paul, eager as a lover, rushed to kiss her when she came through the plate-glass door. He helped her out of her jacket, lavishly admired her understated Gucci dress, then ran sensuous fingers through her hair.

  “Très bon,’’ he murmured. “Just a little bit of color I think, to lighten your spirits, n’est-ce-pas?’’

  He examined her shrewdly through narrowed Gallic eyes and instantly divined the weight of angst in her soul.

  “Madame is a little sad today, I think? Here!’’ He snapped his fingers at a junior with kohl-rimmed eyes and hair like a stiff bleached bottlebrush. “Get madame gowned and washed, then bring her a magazine to read and some herbal tea. Passionflower today, I think. Madame looks as if she needs a little soothing.’’

  He took her hand and kissed it reverently.

  “I won’t be too long, chérie. I have just one lady to attend to and another to brush out, and then I’m all yours.’’

  The patter was corny but it never failed. Even though Jean Paul hailed from Hackney, not Paris, she didn’t care; it was all part of the illusion he created in this elegant, womblike place, the feel-good factor that kept his clients happy and made them his devoted slaves.

  The girl brought her Vogue and Marie Claire but today Vivienne was feeling sorry for herself and could do no more than flick halfheartedly through the glossy pages. The clothes, the jewelry, the beauty treatments, the furs; more meaningless trappings of a life she no longer relished. She glanced around the luxurious pink and silver salon, at women she saw regularly yet still scarcely knew, whiling away their own empty hours the way she had done for so many years; a pointless succession of hairdos, facials, manicures, whatever, in a vain attempt to keep the years at bay and hold on to the attention of the wealthy husbands who paid their bills. And who, in the end, always strayed.

  “Mon Dieu! Quel visage!’’

  Jean Paul had appeared behind her with panther tread and caught the expression of utter desolation on her face. His tapering, prehensile fingers massaged her neck, kneading the knots until the tension fell away and a soft smile returned to her face. She looked at him with warmth. Expensive he might be but, bless him, he certainly knew how to hit the spot.

  “Better, ma chère?’’ he purred in her ear, almost as if he really cared. It was this persuasive charm that earned him his captain of industry salary and an appointments book fuller than Princess Di’s; his facility to charm and soothe, rather than any fancy fingerwork with the scissors.

  He set about combing, clipping, and threading her hair onto tiny squares of silver foil, all the time giving her one hundred percent of his attention, the fake French accent edging more toward East London as he grew careless. A chubby manicurist, wrapped in a cerise overall, drew up like a tug alongside Vivienne, with her wicker basket of polishes and tools, and set to work on the flawless nails. Sometimes she had her toes done too but today she had neither the energy nor the interest. Who was there, after all, to see them anymore? Oliver had hardly been home since the night he virtually raped her but, in light of what had happened to Georgy, she realized she simply no longer cared.

  Jean Paul was practically on his knees now, weaving and dancing around her with his smooth talk and his silver paper, and all of a sudden Vivienne failed to find it cute. It was a wicked waste of money to be pampered like this for no reason at all, while her friend was lying broken in the hospital, possibly dying. With a jerk of sudden revulsion, she told him sharply to get a move on as she had just remembered an important appointment on the other side of town.

  Georgy might be out of it but Vivienne was barely in her prime, with the rest of her life still ahead of her. She would go ahead with the studio as planned, in the expectation that Georgy would recover; that was the very least she could do. And if that didn’t work, she’d think of something else. She’d had one great idea already, so why not more? She would call Phoebe and arrange a meeting to see what the two of them could dream up together. They would start a mutual support group to prop each other up while their husbands were occupied elsewhere.

  She told the manicurist to leave her nails unpainted, slipped her a heavy tip to make up for any offense, and strode off into Bond Street, a changed woman with a heart unexpectedly lightened.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Vanessa opened the door to show out an elderly lady with a similarly decrepit dog, and glanced back up the mews. The girl was still there. Sitting in the sun, wearing a floppy denim hat over her streaming hair, humming to herself and smiling. She had been there for the past two hours and showed no signs of ever moving on. For some reason, this irritated Vanessa profoundly. She looked exactly like a sixties’ flower child; if there had been any daisies handy, she would have been weaving them into a chain. Vanessa closed the door and sniffed. Today’s layabout generation, each as feckless as the next. She was only thirty-four herself but motherhood had made her middle-aged. She just could not bear to see anyone else enjoying themselves.

  At noon there was a gap between patients so Duncan emerged into the mews for a breather.

  “G’day!’’ said Sally, slithering off her perch and walking barefoot across the cobbles to greet him.

  “You shouldn’t do that,’’ said Duncan automatically. “With all the dogs there are around here, you never know what you might pick up.’’

  “Chance would be a fine thing.’’ Her white teeth gleamed and her tongue licked lips as ripe and firm as the flesh of a peach. There was no escaping her innuendo and, in spite of himself, Duncan found that he was smiling. Sally was a bit over the top but beguiling nonetheless.

  “So what brings you here?’’ He was not to know she had been loitering there all morning just to catch a glimpse of him.

  Vanessa knew, though, as he led her back into the waiting room. With a slightly pursed mouth, she clattered away at her keyboard, rejecting Sally’s friendly overtures. Stupid cow, thought Sally. She’s hardly older than me but just look at her. What was it about this man that he chose to surround himself with dried-up old prunes with sex appeal in inverse proportion to his own? First Catherine, now this one, already on the slippery slope to spinsterhood despite the shiny new ring on her finger. She was not to know it was Duncan’s deliberate policy. Women with nothing much else to offer were, he found, inclined to be better workers. It might be sexist but it was the truth. He had enough on his hands already, with the ailing animals and their often very silly owners, without cultivating trouble on his own doorstep too.

  “So what gives?’’ He propped his tall frame against the doorpost and looked down at her with a lazy grin.

  Sally said the first thing that came into her head, which was not at all her usual style. Normally she was cool-headed, but not today. She had waited so long for just this moment, yet now found herself strangely tongue-tied.

  “Actually, I need a job. I thought maybe there’d be something going here.’’

  She stared at Vanessa in cool defiance but Vanessa had her own surprise up her sleeve. Just as Duncan was spreading his hands in apology, about to fob Sally off, her voice piped up from behind the computer.

  “Actually, I was rather hoping for som
e time off next week,’’ she said. “My parents are coming to stay and I’d like to take them around a bit. With the baby, of course.’’

  Her smug smile was spoiled by the lipstick smudged on her teeth, but Sally felt like kissing her. She turned to Duncan with a smile so radiant, there was no way he could possibly refuse her.

  “Have you done this sort of work before?’’ he asked doubtfully, his eyes beseeching Vanessa to get him out of it, cursing her for speaking up without first consulting him. But his plea fell on deaf ears; Vanessa could be relied upon to put her own interests first.

  “I’ve worked in an office and I know how to file,’’ said Sally easily.

  “Then you should have no problem here,’’ said Vanessa. “Stick around and I’ll show you the ropes. It’s all perfectly straightforward.’’

  “Actually,’’ Duncan heard her say confidentially as he closed the surgery door, “you’ll be doing me a favor.’’

  Sally was still there when he emerged again at twenty past one, with a cricked neck and a thirst on him like a bushfire. She was hovering in the doorway with her hat back on her head so he could see nothing for it but to ask her to join him for a drink. Might as well be friendly.

  “To cement our working relationship,’’ he said dryly, and she fell into step beside him, still beaming that radiant smile.

  “I’ll be back at two,’’ he told Vanessa firmly and was startled to see that even she was smiling now. This girl could obviously charm the pants off anyone who came within radiation distance, so he’d really have to watch it. Well, they’d be working cheek by jowl for at least a week, so now was the time to get to know her better. Also, there was something tugging at the furthermost corner of his mind, something Beth had said, that he’d quite like to get straight with her now—if only, for the life of him, he could remember what it was.

  • • •

  Sally looked a bit scruffy but her clothes were clean and she managed always to turn up on time and smile continually, which was a major plus after some of the moaning minnies he’d had to put up with in the past. And although her recordkeeping left much to be desired, she was quite brilliant with the animals and their owners, who fell under the spell of her luminous charm in seconds. After Catherine, with her lingering tristesse, and Vanessa, with that little pinched mouth, this was indeed a welcome change. This girl had the spirit and enthusiasm to be a real asset if she stuck at it. If Vanessa wasn’t careful, she’d likely be finding herself out of a job.