False Step (13 page)

‘Ground floor and basement. The costumes might take some time. She thinks they're worth something, and we can't afford to overlook any source of income.'

‘That's true. Look, I'm not happy about her having the keys. Also, I think we ought to have checked over his sheet music and tapes. Suppose I get there early tomorrow before the agency woman, see if there's anything we've missed? Then I can pick up the keys from her when she's finished. It would save you time and trouble.'

‘People don't realize, it's getting to be the busiest time of the year.'

‘It's lucky I've time then, isn't it?'

Bea opened the front door of her house, only to come up against the arm of the settee which usually resided in her office downstairs. On top of the settee sat the two big chairs in which clients usually sat. Behind them, precariously leaning against the wall, were the glass windows from her bookcase. Question: where was the bookcase? She hadn't expected to have to clear her office completely, so what was going on?

As she stepped into the hall, she realized that she was going to have to negotiate her way over the length of her office carpet, which had been rolled up and jammed between the settee and the hall table on the floor. She wasn't sure the settee looked safe to lean on, so put out a hand to the table to keep her balance as she made her way along.

Maggie erupted from the kitchen, mobile to her ear as usual, to pantomime a dance of frustration, pulling faces and gesturing towards the sitting room. Maggie also had the radio on in the kitchen. Maggie didn't seem able to function without a lot of background noise.

From the basement came the merry shouts and well-timed thuds and crashes of men at work. From the living room came the mellow tones of Max, either dictating to his secretary or on the phone.

Oliver bumped into Bea from behind as he, too, made his way along the obstacle course.

Maggie switched off her mobile and said, ‘I know! I'm sorry. I couldn't stop him. The workmen needed to attack the plaster and I couldn't put the furniture out in the garden because it's been raining.'

Ouch. More disruption, more expense. Bea helped Oliver, who was burdened with his laptop, to make it safely across the carpet on to the tiled floor beyond. ‘I hardly dare ask. My desk?'

‘In pieces on the landing upstairs. The dragon – I mean Miss Brook – has been taking calls and dealing with agency business as best she can on the dining table, but she's asked me to tell you that this is no way to run a business, and of course I agree. She's gone for the day now, but Mr Max …'

Bea nodded, pushed open the door to the sitting room and gasped.

‘Told him so,' said Maggie, at her shoulder. ‘I said you wouldn't like it.'

Bea blinked. Chaos! At the dining-table end of the room, there was a comparatively orderly area where a typing chair, computer and printer had been in use. Presumably this was where Miss Brook had been working.

Max was seated at her patience table in the window overlooking the garden, with his laptop open in front of him, and her landline phone to his ear.

Max's secretary, a fawning dormouse of a woman with wispy greying hair and a blouse and skirt to match, was seated on the settee, trying to type on a keyboard attached to an ancient computer, both of which were perched insecurely on the coffee table. In between, covering the floor and chairs in every direction, were piles and piles of files. The scene reminded Bea of nothing so much as a cross-section of a hypocaust in a Roman villa, with the files taking the place of the pillars of bricks in the cellar which supported the floor above and allowed for underfloor heating.

She felt a surge of rage. She wanted to kick and shout and demolish Little Miss Something-or-Other, and tear into Max and shove him out of the window, over the stairs and into the garden. She wanted to scream. Well, why shouldn't she?

Control yourself, Bea Abbot. If you did let fly, you'd only have to pick up the pieces afterwards.

It would be worth it, though.

No, it wouldn't. Think what Hamilton would have done.

He wouldn't have put up with this, now would he?

No, he wouldn't. But he'd have asked ‘Why the mess?' first.

Miss Something-or-Other was on her feet, dithering, almost wringing her hands. She'd interpreted Bea's expression well. Max ended his phone call and got to his feet, ducking his head, looking at her with pleading, puppy-dog eyes. Her grown-up, Member of Parliament son, reduced to small boy status, knowing he'd done the wrong thing, but hoping against hope that she wasn't going to punish him for it.

Her throat was dry. She managed to say, ‘Yes?' She was pleased with herself that she hadn't lost her temper.

Miss Something – Townend? Some name like that – was ducking her head, her half glasses glinting. ‘I'm so sorry, Mrs Abbot, I couldn't think, I do realize that it's a bit of an imposition …'

Max cleared his throat. ‘A word with you, Mother?'

‘Indeed,' said Bea, controlling herself beautifully. Full marks, Bea. ‘We're going out for a meal, I gather? I do hope you apologized to Maggie.'

‘Er, I did mean … sorry, Maggie.'

Maggie said ‘Humph!' and stalked off to clash pans in the kitchen. Oliver muttered something about taking Maggie out for a meal and disappeared after her.

Miss Townend said, ‘Well, I suppose … for the day … if that's all right, Mr Abbot?' She found a coat, hat, umbrella, gloves and handbag, and made for the hallway, where they heard her squeaking her way over the carpet to reach the front door.

Bea continued to control herself. ‘I've been working hard all day, Max. So I'll wash and change before we go out, which will give you time to work out where you'll be moving to, first thing tomorrow.'

He said, ‘Oh, but—'

The phone rang and he picked it up, to say in a smooth voice, ‘Max Abbot speaking. How can I help you?'

Bea turned on her heel and walked up the stairs, negotiated her way around her desk on the landing, and closed the door of her bedroom very, very carefully and soundlessly behind her.

She wondered what she could throw, or smash, or destroy, but concluded that she liked everything in her bedroom too much to get rid of it. Then started to laugh, which was absurd, and absolutely no help at all. Except that it did stop her being angry.

She showered, and found a good caramel-coloured silk evening blouse and matching skirt to wear. Cream coloured pumps with a medium heel. She spent some time making up her face and brushing her hair to lie flat and shining. A silk wrap, similar to the one worn by the second Mrs Kent. She eyed her reflection fore and aft, put her reading glasses in her evening bag, and was ready.

Max was still on the phone when she went down so she waited, looking at her watch, till he finished the conversation and was ready to go.

‘My favourite restaurant,' he said, hailing a taxi. ‘You'll like it.' A corner restaurant, exclusive. Small. Enormous menus, real linen, a quartet of wine glasses to each table setting. It soothed Max to be greeted by name and shown to a corner table. Bea could see him aiming for his normal self-confidence, his feeling of slight superiority over lesser mortals who were not Members of Parliament. A man in control of himself and the affairs of the nation. And all that malarkey.

She reflected that he was a fine figure of a man and better looking than his father had ever been. She had often been – just slightly – disappointed that Max hadn't inherited Piers' charm and ability to talk himself into and out of situations. Hamilton had been the kindest and most helpful of stepfathers and Max had learned much from him, and perhaps even more from being sent to good schools. But there was no doubt about it, he was very much her son; in perseverance and hard work, in his belief that he was there to work for the good of his party and his constituents, in his attention to detail. And in the collapse of his marriage?

She checked out the menu and sighed inwardly. Max was trying a little too hard to impress, wasn't he? Perhaps that was something else he'd inherited from her?

She laid the menu down. Max might still need the trappings of success, but she'd grown out of that habit of insecurity. She'd grown through working all those years with Hamilton, being treated as an equal, being loved thoroughly and satisfyingly … and learning to love back. To trust. To grieve.

She'd learned to be herself. She'd learned, more or less, what her limits were. She wasn't sure that Max had outgrown his childhood insecurities, with an absent father who couldn't be relied on for five minutes, a mother working all hours to feed and clothe him, a poor quality primary school. Yet he'd blossomed later, a reasonable academic record at a good school, captain of cricket, man about town, prospective parliamentary candidate here and there and finally – bingo! – Member of Parliament with an eye on the Cabinet.

She could scold him for moving his office into her house. Of course she could. He deserved it. She wanted to, oh, so badly. But she didn't think it would do his self-confidence any good at all. She was pretty sure that if she lifted up the heavy tablecloth, she'd see his toes pointing inwards, as they'd done when he'd come to her to confess something he'd done as a small boy.

She also remembered, with a grimace, that he'd once written an essay about her which said that if he ever got into trouble, his mother would get him out of it.

‘In a draught?' he asked.

She shook her head. ‘You order. You know the kind of thing I like.'

‘Wine?'

She shook her head again. ‘I'm working tomorrow.'

So was he. He didn't like the thought of it.

‘So,' she said, spreading out her enormous and very stiff napkin, ‘how are things?'

‘Oh, so-so.' He leaned back in his seat to order. ‘Two soups, and then the duck. And a bottle of something good. I leave it to you to choose.'

She opened her mouth to say that she preferred a light meal in the evenings and that he was going to be given the most expensive wine on the list if he left it to the waiter to choose. She closed her mouth again; she'd asked him to order and it wouldn't do to contradict him.

He fiddled with his fork, eyes on her face, and then eyes down. Nervous.

‘The thing is,' he said, ‘well, I know it's a bit inconvenient, but I couldn't work at the House because Lettice is there. So I asked Miss Townend to get a taxi and bring her things over to your place. I didn't realize … let me start again. Miss Townend was with my predecessor, knows everything about the constituency, the voters, who does what. Her files date back for years. She's invaluable.'

Bea wanted to sniff, but managed a small smile, instead. ‘I understand. Miss Townend doesn't care for Nicole's sister?'

He reddened. Bread rolls came and he took one, tearing it apart, shoving some in his mouth.

Manners! thought Bea. And then, I wish Hamilton were here. He knew exactly how to handle Max, how to help without criticizing him. Oh, how I miss him, my dear one. But I suppose I could always ask someone else for help. I'm not sure He could be bothered, but … well, what do I have to lose?
Dear Lord, could you spare a minute? This silly boy has got himself into a mess, and I haven't a clue how to help him. That's it. Oh, the magic word … please.

Max was presented with a bottle, sipped, said it was all right, watched while some was poured into his glass, took a gulp. Bea covered her own glass with her hand, asked for water. The waiter was not impressed. Well, she wasn't that impressed by the waiter, so that made two of them.

Max cleared his throat. The wine was relaxing him. ‘The thing is that Nicole is refusing to talk to me. It's not that I haven't tried. I have.'

Possibly twice? ‘You've been round there, taken flowers, champagne?'

‘Eh? What? Well. Not exactly, no. You see, the thing is …'

Bea sighed. ‘Nicole caught you in bed with her younger sister.'

‘No, certainly not!' He appeared shocked at the suggestion.

‘You were caught kissing her?'

‘No! We–ell … no, not really. She was kissing me, when Nicole walked in and … honestly, you never heard such a fuss.'

‘Lettice was kissing you? You'd encouraged her. Given her to think you'd like to flirt with her.'

‘No! Well, no. Of course not. You don't understand. Nicole's always been jealous of her little sister, who is … well, sort of kittenish, always laughing, joking, you know? Not meaning anything by it, but … well, she does wear very short skirts … not that that means anything, nowadays, of course.'

‘You mean that Lettice came on to you?'

He was grateful for her understanding. ‘That's exactly it. I don't suppose she meant anything by it, and I certainly didn't mean … like an elder brother … just joshing around, little sister, up for any lark, but … it wasn't serious in any way. You do believe me, don't you?'

‘Nicole didn't?'

Their soup came. She attempted hers with little sips. He drank his, greedily. He probably hadn't had any lunch. She found hers too highly seasoned, but said nothing. She wished she were back home, having lasagne with Maggie and Oliver, talking over the day's events. No stress, an easy companionship. A different sort of family gathering. Well, she wasn't at home, and she'd better get on with the job in hand. ‘You are fond of Lettice?'

‘Fond?' It was an alien concept. ‘She's … no, not really.'

‘But you'd like to bed her?'

He reddened again, pushing his empty plate away. ‘Certainly not.'

Oh yes, you would. But you aren't going to admit it. ‘Lettice likes you, though?'

‘Likes me? I suppose so. She thinks Nicole will divorce me and then I'll marry her. She says she'll be a better MP's wife than Nicole, which isn't true. Lettice is … has … I don't know. Sometimes I think she'd like to be an MP herself, only she's a bit lazy – at least, that's what Nicole says – and so she latches on to me … oh, I don't know! I can't figure her out. All I can do is shout that I'm not in love with Lettice, but neither she nor Nicole are listening.'