A Perfect Heritage (51 page)

‘Anything happening?’

‘No, no, just doing my Georgian architecture project.’

There was no way she was going to tell him Saul was there. Either he would want to speak to him, or he would fret in that ridiculous way that she wasn’t doing enough for him. She shied away from the third reason. Which was that she just didn’t want Patrick to know, for reasons that were hardly formulated, even in her subconscious. She just felt it was . . . wiser that he didn’t.

‘Good girl. Glad to hear it. Well, I’m awake early, as you can tell—’

‘No, not really. What is the time there?’

‘Five thirty. It’s a very nice morning and I’m just going up to the pool – it’s on the roof, rather nice, then I’ve a meeting at eight.’

‘Marvellous,’ she said briskly; and then thought she was being a lot less than generous, and said, ‘How’s it going?’

‘Oh, pretty well, I think. Definitely home tomorrow. In fact, I’ve booked my flight.’

‘Again,’ she said.

‘Yes, again.’ He was clearly irritated by this. As he should not have been, she thought. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were OK.’

‘I’m fine, thank you. We’re all fine.’

‘Good. Children? Milly?’

‘Patrick, I said we were all fine.’

‘Good. Well, see you tomorrow. No, what am I saying, the day after tomorrow, keep forgetting the extra seven hours.’

‘Great. Look forward to it. Bye, Patrick.’

‘Bye, darling.’

Putting down her phone, Bianca thought remorsefully that she really was a bitch; twice in one day she’d been vile. First Lucy, then Patrick. Patrick, who’d always been so loyal, so long-suffering about her absences; she really owed him a little tolerance. She sighed.

‘Bianca!’ Saul, calling her from the hall.

‘I’m in here, got the coffee. Go back into the snug and I’ll bring it.’

When she went in he was sitting on the sofa, his head flung back, his eyes closed.

She sat down beside him, set the tray down.

‘OK. So what did your lawyer say?’

‘He said,’ and his voice seemed to be dredging some depth of misery she had no concept of, ‘he said we
could
try to stop her. Not that we
would
. That it might not be easy. I mean, how could it not be easy? She has no right!’

‘Saul . . .’

And then he turned to her and there were tears in his eyes, and his voice was breaking and he said, ‘Bianca, I cannot bear this, I really cannot bear it.’

And then he started to sob, loudly and hoarsely: and then he reached for her, and took her in his arms, and held her against him so hard, so desperately that she could scarcely breathe, and she pulled his head down on to her shoulder, finding herself profoundly moved by his awful, dreadful grief, murmuring platitudes, soothing nonsense about how it would be all right, and she was sure he would find a way, stroking his hair, kissing his forehead. And then suddenly he was kissing her on the mouth, hard, almost angrily, and she tried to resist and found herself quite unable to, and all the strange, struggling, intense emotion that had existed between them ever since that first odd evening in the restaurant was released, a huge violent bolt of it, and she kissed him back, her desire for him so powerful she was shocked at it herself.

It went on for a long time that kiss; finally, he pulled away from her and sat back, his green eyes boring into hers, and after an oddly long silence, he said, ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I really shouldn’t.’

As always, his behaviour was totally unexpected. No heady spiel about him being carried away, or how lovely she was. She sat, still physically shocked, half amused, half intrigued to hear what he might say next.

‘I do find you so attractive, you see. And I do enjoy being with you.’

‘Well – that’s nice to hear.’ It was a fatuous response she knew; but anything not fatuous would have been dangerous.

‘It’s why I didn’t want to have a drink with you this evening.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well. Patrick being away. I thought it would be a bit – unwise. Especially after the other evening.’

She stared at him.

‘What other evening?’

‘Outside that bar. When I – well, when I put my arms round you. I wanted you so much, it was terrifying me. That’s why I pushed you into the taxi. I didn’t dare stay with you a moment longer.’

He was truly extraordinary. He talked, behaved indeed, like a virginal adolescent. What was it Patrick had said about him? Something about people like him, doing the job he did, being a bit unhinged and not caring about people, only the money. She supposed it must create a lack of balance.

‘Oh Saul,’ she said, wary of hurting him, still feeling her way, ‘but it was such a nice surprise.’

‘What was?’

‘Well – what you did. Put your arms round me. As you put it.’

Could that, perhaps, she thought, make him do it again? Just sitting looking at him made her want to tear her clothes off; she had always found him sexually disturbing, she realised, just denied it, crushed the awareness through sheer force of will. Now she felt weak, almost sick with it; the will defeated, she was floundering, helpless, longing for more.

But he didn’t do it again; he frowned at her, drew further away.

‘So how would you have put it?’ he said. He sounded slightly belligerent.

‘Saul, it doesn’t matter.’

‘No, no, I want to know.’

‘I – I thought of it as a hug.’

‘That doesn’t sound very sexy.’

‘Sorry.’

‘No, no, don’t apologise. I’m just trying to work all this out.’

Now what did that mean? ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I was – well, I was a bit surprised. And especially by the taxi bit. But I suppose I’m getting used to you.’

‘What do you mean, getting used to me?’

‘Your not being too much like other people.’

‘No,’ he said, and sighed heavily, ‘no, I know I’m not. I wish I was. In some ways.’

‘Well I don’t,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘I like you how you are. There are plenty of people to be like each other.’ This was becoming very convoluted.

‘So you do like me?’ he said, his tone at once anxious and defensive.

‘Yes, I do, Saul,’ she said, abandoning caution. ‘I like you very much.’

‘And do you – well, find me attractive? Sexy, I suppose I mean?’

‘Of course I do! Can’t you tell?’

‘Oh God,’ he said, and he looked quite distraught.

‘What does God have to do with it?’

‘It’s just that it’s more – more complicated in that case.’

‘Saul, there’s nothing to be complicated. At the moment,’ she added.

‘Of course there is,’ he said, ‘if I find you sexy and you find me sexy, that has to be complicated. Given our situations.’

‘Well, in that case,’ she said, smiling again, ‘if you’re worried about that, why come round here, to my house, knowing my husband is on the other side of the world. Especially as you turned down having a drink with me earlier.’

‘That was different,’ he said, his voice almost indignant, smiling back at her, a quick, awkward smile.

‘Oh really? In what way?’

‘I needed you,’ he said, as if explaining that night followed day. ‘You were the only person who would do.’

To say he was unlike anyone she had ever met was an understatement of enormous proportions.

And now what was going to happen?

Chapter 46

She could never remember feeling such a mishmash of emotions. Angry. Stupid. Outraged. And, of course, relieved.

So relieved. It was like all the clichés rolled into one, a huge burden lifted, coming out of a long dark tunnel, able to breathe again – wonderful. But – he was evil. There was no other word to describe him. It had been an inspired plan of his, that was for sure, but what sort of warped, sadistic mind would conceive it.

‘Hi!’ It was Jemima, smiling at her in the doorway. Susie got up from behind her desk and hugged her.

‘Oh, Jemima, I love you!’

‘Hey, steady on. What’s happened?’

‘I called the studio just now, from a payphone, seemed a bit more subtle than ringing the flat, asked for him, and some girl said he wasn’t in today, he was doing a shoot of his own, could she give him a message. So I said yes, could she say his girlfriend had called and could he ring me back, and she said, sounding a tiny bit cautious, “Zoe?” and I said yes, and she said, “Oh hi, didn’t recognise your voice, thought you were working together today. Yeah sure.” Easy as that.’

‘Oh my God!’ said Jemima. ‘The bastard. The total bastard.’

‘I know. Incredible, isn’t it? I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. My immediate reaction was to call him on his mobile, but then I thought no, revenge is a dish best eaten cold and all that, so I’ll just wait for his next call. And say – well, I haven’t quite worked out what I’ll say. But I’m looking forward to it already. Jemima, I don’t know how to thank you. I really really don’t.’

‘You don’t have to. Honestly. It’s so lovely to see you looking so – so normal. And it was fun last night, I enjoyed it.’

‘Good. Oh – morning, Bianca.’

‘Good morning, Susie. Jemima, I need you in my office right now, please. Complications with the trip to Milan.’

She looked at her most harassed, Susie thought. Which was hardly harassed at all, because she was so good at appearing cool, but they were all learning to read the signs.

‘Of course. Sorry, Bianca.’

‘It’s Florence,’ Bianca said, ‘she’s ill. She sounded terrible – confused, upset, nearly in tears, says she can hardly breathe, she’s called the doctor and was of course told to go to the surgery, and she’s clearly not remotely up to that, so I’m going to go round there, see what I can do.’

‘Well, that’s marvellous of you,’ said Jemima. ‘But Bianca, does it have to be you? I could go – you must have a thousand things to do, you’re off to Milan first thing tomorrow—’

‘No, I feel I should go myself,’ said Bianca firmly. ‘I’ve actually got a clear two hours and I’m very fond of Florence. Meanwhile cancel her flight – I’ll have to go to Milan on my own. Well it’s not the end of the world, it was a bit of a self-indulgence, taking her . . . Pity, though.’

She smiled at Jemima; there was something . . . odd about her this morning, Jemima thought. No, maybe not exactly odd, but . . . different.

‘OK. Shall I call you a cab?’

‘Yes please. I’ve told her I’m coming – she protested of course, but then said the neighbour had a key. I mean, if she can’t even get to her own front door – poor Florence. Right, I’m on my way, I’ll be back for my meeting with Hattie at eleven thirty of course.’

‘Good morning, Francine. This is Lady Farrell. I would like to speak to Miss Hamilton please.’

‘I’m afraid she’s not here, Lady Farrell.’

‘Not there! Well, where is she?’

‘I’m afraid she’s ill. That’s why I’m here; she called and asked me to come in.’

‘Ill? In what way ill?’

‘I’m not sure, Lady Farrell. But she sounded dreadful. She had the most terrible cough, and quite a high temperature, she said.’

‘Well, she must call the doctor.’

‘I believe she has, Lady Farrell, and was told she must go to the surgery.’

‘How absurd! She shouldn’t accept that sort of treatment. Anyway, I need to discuss something urgently with her, I’d better go round and see her I suppose.’

‘Yes, Lady Farrell.’

‘Florence . . .’

Bianca knocked gently on the bedroom door and went in; Florence was lying on a pile of pillows, coughing incessantly, her colour high, her eyes brilliant. She looked at Bianca as if she scarcely knew who she was.

‘You poor poor thing. How are you feeling? Oh, don’t even think about answering that stupid question. Look, I’ll call your doctor, do you have his number?’

‘Yes, yes, it’s here . . .’ Florence held out a battered leather address book. ‘Dr Roberts. But he won’t come.’

‘I’m sure he will.’ Bianca smiled at her. ‘I’ll explain how bad you are. Now, what can I get you? Cup of tea, warm milk?’

‘Some hot lemon and honey would be so nice,’ said Florence. ‘You’ll find the wherewithal to make it in the kitchen. Bianca, you shouldn’t be here, you’ve got far more important things to do, I’m so sorry . . .’

She struggled to go on and couldn’t.

‘So kind,’ she finally managed.

‘You deserve it. Now, let me just tidy up a bit here . . .’ she scooped up several tissues, a glass of water, another glass that smelled, rather surprisingly, of whisky, and went to find the kitchen.

It was the prettiest little house, one of a short terrace of Victorian cottages still possessed of all its cornices and stair rails, and even a fireplace in the small sitting room. It was carefully furnished, in period for the most part, with draped curtains, button-backed chairs, a chaise longue, a round dining table with four chairs in the window, and a shabby but clearly once-valuable Indian rug on the floor. There was a very pretty watercolour over the fireplace of a small Parisian courtyard, viewed through a half open door and a photograph in a silver frame on a low round table, of a young couple, she in a white dress, holding a bouquet of flowers, he in uniform, Florence and her bridegroom, clearly, on their wartime wedding day.

Bianca peered at it, fascinated; they were both smiling at the camera with a joy that shone down the sixty-odd years, Florence so lovely, a flower-trimmed straw hat on her wonderful curls, he both handsome and rather dashing, a flower tucked rakishly into the officer’s cap that was tucked under his arm. Clearly a sense of humour, then: he looked fun, Bianca thought. How sad it was; such happiness and such love doomed to extinction, like so many such wartime marriages. And all part of Florence’s sad, lonely story, Bianca thought, and left the room swiftly, feeling suddenly as if she was prying; she was supposed to be looking after Florence, not poking into her past. The kitchen was traditional, distressed pine cupboards, Italian tiled floor, all clearly high quality and expensive – how did Florence afford these things? Bianca wondered for the hundredth time. The tiny garden was full of shrubs, admittedly rather February-bare, but still pretty, with a stone seat at the rear, and a female figure, also in stone, clearly Victorian, in the furthermost corner, gripping a harp with one hand, and some rather cleverly trained ivy with the other. That wouldn’t have come cheap either . . .

Bianca called Florence’s doctor, told a sullen-sounding receptionist that if a doctor didn’t call to see Miss Hamilton soon, she wouldn’t like to answer for the consequences, and made the hot lemon and honey drink.

Florence was lying with her eyes closed; she managed a smile and indicated the bedside table.

‘If you could just put it there – so kind, Bianca, so very kind . . .’

‘I hope it helps. The doctor will be here soon. Just let me make room for the cup. I’ll move your book and this—’

‘This photograph’ she was about to say, and then didn’t. For the photograph, little more than an enlarged snapshot really – no, actually a snapshot, she thought, only half-looking at it, nicely framed, but clearly very old, faded black and white, showing a rather glamorous young couple. And here she focused on it with shocked and total attention, felt her heart thud, her mind blur. The man’s arm was around her shoulders as they smiled in front of a courtyard, clearly a Parisian courtyard, and it was – yes, it was surely the one in the painting she had just seen downstairs. And the woman, so beautiful, with wild curling hair, and huge eyes, so young, no more than thirty, wearing a tightly waisted, swirly skirted dress, the height of late fifties fashion, was unmistakably Florence, and the man, dashingly handsome, was also instantly recognisable, for a portrait of him hung in the boardroom at Farrell House. The man was Cornelius Farrell.

And suddenly everything became very clear.

‘Yes, that’s right, pull over here, please.’

Athina looked up at Florence’s little house wondering, as she always did, how anyone could endure to live in something so cramped. She had often suggested Florence sold it and moved into a modern flat with a few more conveniences – ‘So much more suitable at your age,’ she would say, as if Florence was a decade at least older than she was, instead of five years younger, and Florence always said that she loved her home and she had no intention of leaving it for a soulless modern flat.

The fare was nine pounds ninety; Athina gave the cabbie a ten-pound note, told him graciously he could keep the change, marched up to Florence’s front door, and rapped sharply on the brass knocker several times.

And was more than a little disconcerted to find it opened by Bianca Bailey; who seemed slightly less cool and even more disconcerted herself.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘oh, Lady Farrell. How – how nice to see you. Do please come in.’

Bianca could think of only one thing at first, as she confronted Lady Farrell: of the photograph she had placed back on the bedside table, where Florence clearly liked to keep it. After which she thought several more things, that Lady Farrell must be prevented from seeing it at all costs, that it would be fairly difficult to prevent her as she was already halfway up the stairs after giving Bianca a gracious nod; and that Florence was far too feverishly confused to think to remove the photograph and place it out of Lady Farrell’s sight.

‘Lady Farrell,’ she called, rather hopelessly, at the imperious back now almost at the top of the stairs, ‘do let me make you a coffee or something. Florence is asleep, and the doctor is about to arrive.’

Lady Farrell paused and half turned.

‘No thank you; she’ll be pleased to see me, and I would like to speak with the doctor myself anyway.’

‘Right . . .’

What should she do? What
could
she do?

Bianca looked wildly round the hall and half ran into the kitchen; a water jug stood on the draining board. She grabbed it, empty as it was, and ran up the stairs after Athina to see her disappearing into Florence’s bedroom.

She followed her in, glancing at the bedside table as she went; the photograph was still there. An oblivious Florence lay coughing, her eyes closed; she seemed unaware of Athina’s presence.

Athina was standing at the foot of the bed, staring down at her, pulling off her gloves, unwinding her scarf. ‘Florence!’ she said, and then, as that brought no response, ‘Florence, you look dreadful. How are you feeling?’

There was no reply, although Florence’s eyes flickered open.

‘I really do think,’ Bianca said, ‘she should be left to rest until the doctor arrives. Do come down and—’

‘Mrs Bailey, I don’t want to come down. I shall wait here for the doctor to arrive.’ She looked at Bianca. ‘What on earth are you doing, carrying that empty jug?’

‘Oh, is it? Goodness. Florence had just asked for water when you arrived and I suppose I must have picked up the jug and forgotten to fill it. Very stupid. Look – she clearly isn’t awake; wouldn’t you be more comfortable waiting downstairs?’

‘Mrs Bailey, I am not infirm. I don’t need to be comfortable, as you call it. I shall wait up here, as I said.’

She took her coat off and slung it over the brass bedrail, then went over to Florence and peered down at her. Any moment, thought Bianca, any moment now she’s going to look at the bedside table . . . please, Florence, move, scream, throw up, do something! But Florence lay lifeless apart from the dreadful coughing spasms.

There was the sound of a car in the street below; Athina straightened, turned and said, ‘Is that the doctor?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bianca.

The doorbell rang. Athina walked over to the window and peered out.

‘Yes, it is. He’s coming over to the house. Doctors are so scruffy these days; look at him, dreadful sort of anorak he’s wearing instead of a decent coat. Well, hadn’t you better go and let him in?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. I’ll just . . .’ and as she went past Florence’s bed, she deposited the empty jug on the bedside table, picked up the book that was lying there and the photograph with it.

‘Oh – hello.’ Lara smiled uncertainly at Bertie; he could hardly ignore her, standing in the same lift.

‘Hello.’ He smiled back, clearly equally embarrassed. ‘How – how are you?’

‘I’m fine, thank you. Yes. Er – Bertie, I’m sorry to hear you’re leaving.’

‘That’s kind of you. Yes, well I’m sorry in some ways, but it’s for the best.’

‘Well, if that’s the case – and the job sounds interesting. Bianca told me a bit about it,’ she added hastily.

‘I hope it will be. More my line of country, anyway. Literally. Did you know I was moving out of London?’

‘Yes, I had heard that.’

‘To the Midlands. Very underrated, the Midlands, in my view. I can get an extremely nice house with a big garden for less than half I’d be paying here.’

They had reached the ground floor; he stood aside to let her out.

‘Thank you. I’m on my way to the West End. Maybe we could share a cab, where are you going?’

‘Oh, not in that direction at all,’ he said, looking embarrassed, and adding rather belatedly, ‘Thank you.’

‘Oh, OK. Well, nice to talk to you, Bertie. You’re around for a little while, I hope. You won’t disappear up the M1 in a puff of smoke while we’re not looking?’ She smiled, an over-bright smile.

‘No, no. I’ll come and say goodbye, of course. When – when the time comes. Well, good to talk to you, Lara. Bye now.’

‘Bye Bertie.’

She stood looking after him as he strode out into the street and walked briskly away. She felt silly and absurdly near to tears. She had had some brush-offs in her time, but that had been quite severe. Well, she wouldn’t try again. Being an embarrassment was not her style.