False Step (15 page)

The girl took her cuppa and shuffled out of the room on those impossible bunny-rabbit bedroom slippers. Did she take them off to mount the stairs?

Bea found herself smiling. She was now relaxed enough to go to sleep, too. Two o'clock. If she could get in six hours' sleep, she'd be all right.

Even with nearly six hours' sleep behind her, Bea didn't really feel up to talking to Nicole. She stood outside the door of her daughter-in-law's flat, and took deep breaths. She wished she liked the girl. It would make it so much easier to talk to her. Bea had always thought her an ambitious, selfish, anorexic, fake blonde. Hamilton had guessed that her marriage to Max would only last if he managed to get promoted to office. Hamilton hadn't liked her, either. Hamilton had been an excellent judge of character.

So why bother trying to save the marriage?

Well, because Max seemed to have some genuine feeling for the girl. He'd admitted he'd felt some physical attraction to the younger, livelier sister, but he said he'd resisted the attraction. Maybe he had, maybe he hadn't. But he'd chosen Nicole over Lettice even though he knew it might mean the withdrawal of their parents' backing. Also, he seemed to have some insight into Nicole's character, an insight which Bea certainly didn't have. Nor Hamilton.

Was the girl really as shallow as she appeared to be? Or were there hidden depths, tra la?

Bea rang the bell, and tried to think kind, warm, fuzzy thoughts about Nicole, who didn't, incidentally, seem all that keen to see Bea. She had some appointment somewhere – pedicure, waxing of the bikini line? Only with reluctance did she agree to give Bea a few minutes.

‘Nicole, my dear.'

The door was held open, but there was no pretence at warmth or welcome. Nicole's little dog Hamish rushed at Bea with excitement. Bea picked him up and cuddled him. He licked her hands and face, his tail going nineteen to the dozen. At least there was one person glad to see her.

‘Oh, Hamish. Do give over,' said Nicole, but didn't bother to remove him from Bea's arms. Bea held on to her smile, and stepped inside. She'd never liked this rented flat much; it faced the wrong way so it didn't get any sun, and was furnished in minimalist fashion with stripped floors and a lot of overhead lighting which was not helpful to ageing eyesight.

Nicole tapped her way on high heels ahead of Bea into the reception room. She was wearing a short skirt revealing long, tanned legs; her hairdo was perfect, ditto her manicure; designer wear for shirt and waistcoat. Lots of gold chains and a few too many rings on her fingers.

‘Coffee? A drink?' A tray was laid out for both on a low table.

At eleven in the morning? Bea put Hamish down and accepted a cup of coffee. It was cold, but she wasn't going to complain. She seated herself, unasked, and said how nice Nicole had made the flat look.

Nicole shrugged. She picked up a mobile phone, looked at the display, put it down again. ‘I suppose it will have to be given up, like everything else.' She turned a hostile face to Bea. ‘I'm expecting a call from an old friend. He's taking me out for the day.'

‘I sympathize. I did the same thing when my husband walked out on me. But he was a serial womanizer, and Max isn't that.'

‘Isn't he?' Nicole leaned back in her chair, playing with one of her gold chains, twisting it round her fingers. Soon it would cut into her neck …

‘You know what he's like. Small boy, worried to death, toes turned in, big puppy eyes … worse than Hamish when he's been a little bit naughty, isn't he, my pet?'

Hamish said, ‘Wuff!' Boot button eyes fixed on Bea. He liked Bea.

‘Little boy, my foot! I caught him halfway down my sister's throat. What do you call that?'

‘He didn't think fast enough, did he? She latched on to him, knowing he was a soft touch. She heard you coming I suppose, and got him into a clinch before he could work out what was happening.'

‘Tcha! If you believe that …'

‘I believe he loves you, rather than your sister. He says she's always wanted what was yours. Is that right?'

Nicole stared into the distance, seeing … what? A series of tussles which had always led to her defeat? She shrugged.

Bea wondered if she dared invent a selfish sister for herself, and decided she couldn't. It would be so easy to get caught out. She could, of course, ask for help … perhaps? No, no. She'd been overdoing that line lately. Well, if not that, she could ask for some hint as to how she should proceed?
How about a little help here, Lord?

Nicole picked up her mobile phone again, and again discarded it.

Bea said, ‘What do you think about getting Miss Townend to retire?'

Nicole showed some animation. ‘About time, too.'

‘The thing is, he's so loyal, he doesn't want to hurt her. Sometimes women can see exactly what ought to be done, but men are so blinded by the old school tie, or whatever …'

‘Exactly my point! Max's predecessor in the constituency begged him to take her over when he retired, but as a secretary, she's about as much use as a … a feather duster. She's out of the Ark. Those files …!'

‘They're all over my sitting room floor. I can't move! I'm sure the whole lot could go on one memory stick.'

‘And he ought to have a new laptop and printer—'

‘And that Wi-Fi thingy, what's it called?'

‘But will he listen to me? No way!'

Bea sighed. Hamish had settled down to sleep on her foot, but she reached across to pat Nicole's arm. ‘You and me both. We can see through the big, successful Member of Parliament, to the stubborn little boy within … a little boy with turned-in toes, crying for his beautiful wife.'

Nicole was shaken. ‘Then why hasn't he called me, or come round?'

Bea took a risk. ‘He has tried. Have you been out a lot?'

Nicole nodded. ‘He could have written, or left a message on the answerphone.'

‘Too ashamed, I suppose. Too scared.'

‘Silly boy.'

‘I know. You might be amused to hear that he's run away from Lettice, by moving out of his office so that she can't get at him. I think he hopes your sister will find some other person to target.'

‘Some hope.'

‘Can you think of another way to handle her?'

Nicole stared at Bea, and through Bea, and didn't reply. The phone on the table rang, and Nicole picked it up, eyes down, excluding Bea from the conversation.

Little flirt, thought Bea, trying not to listen to the ensuing chat. Nicole wriggled and giggled, examining her fingernails. Shot Bea a look, and giggled again. Trying the age-old make-him-jealous lark.

It might succeed with some people, but probably not with Max, who at bottom lacked self-confidence. Ouch.

Bea bent forward to put her coffee cup on the table. As she leaned back, so Hamish jumped on to her lap and snuggled into the crook of her arm. Bright eyes looked up at her through his ‘fringe', begging her not to throw him out into the cold again. She liked the feel of his warm, wriggling body against her. She and Piers had only ever had the one child, and Hamilton hadn't been able to … ah well.

Nicole shut off her phone call. ‘Sorry, but I've got to throw you out. A lunch date out in the country.'

Bea was persuaded to her feet. ‘Anyone I know?'

‘I wouldn't think so. Did you have an umbrella? It's raining again.'

‘I'll manage. But about Max …?'

‘Oh, tell him … I don't know. Tell him to do his own dirty work.'

Bea thought Nicole had a point there. Out on the landing, Bea realized she was still cuddling Hamish, so had to press the doorbell again, in order to transfer him back to Nicole. Hamish gave a sharp ‘yip' of disappointment, which made Bea hasten her footsteps on the way to the lift.

Bea opened the front door to hear her telephone ringing. Knowing that Oliver and Miss Brook were up at the Kent house, and Maggie out on another job, Bea negotiated the obstacle course of furniture and carpet, and arrived in the sitting room only to hear Max's ancient secretary answer the phone. ‘Mr Abbot's office … no, this is not a domestic agency. This is the private phone for Max Abbot—'

Bea snatched the phone from Miss Townend's hand, disregarding her indignant squawk. ‘The Abbot Agency here. How may I help you?'

The phone quacked at her. Confused dot com. Umbrage was taken in large doses. Over and out. The caller rang off.

Bea replaced the receiver, trying to exercise patience. There was no sign of Max. There was dust everywhere. Eeeek! The phone had felt gritty. She dusted off her fingers, noting that the chairs and settees needed a good vacuuming before she could sit on them again. Those builders …!

‘How dare you!' Little Miss Townend was so angry she almost spat at Bea. ‘This line is exclusively for the use of Mr Abbot. If you wish to use the telephone for agency purposes, then you must go downstairs and do it there.'

Bea had an impulse to seize the woman by her bony wrist and force her to walk downstairs to view the chaos there. Crumps and bashes from the efforts of the workmen below shook the house. Couldn't Miss Townend hear them? Or hadn't Max briefed her properly?

The phone rang again. Presumably the caller thought he or she might have misdialled the first time, and was trying again.

Bea got to the phone first. ‘The Abbot Agency. How may I help you?'

‘Well, thank goodness for that. I just got through to some idiot, a crossed line, I suppose.' The caller was the social secretary of one of their oldest clients, who wanted a butler, and wanted one straight away. Someone had let them down … a large party expected that weekend … the agency had always been so helpful in the past … could they help? Bea cast her eyes around the room, but of course Oliver and his laptop were elsewhere, the office computers were sitting on the dining room table, but hadn't been booted up that day, and she couldn't access their records quickly.

‘Give me your number, and I'll ring back in ten minutes, see what I can find for you.'

She put the receiver down but kept her hand on it. Miss Townend glared, making darting movements towards the phone and back again. Bea's steady gaze kept Max's secretary from actually wrestling Bea for it. Bea rang Oliver's mobile, and within seconds he was giving her some numbers to try. She wrote them down, with care, recognizing a couple of the names and giving them a starred rating. This client deserved the best.

‘Before you ring off … how are you and Miss Brook getting on? Are you nearly through? Did Ms Cunningham turn up? Don't forget to give her the keys before you leave.'

‘Nearly finished. Should be back within … oh, half an hour. Will report then.'

Report? He made it sound ominous.

She depressed the receiver, and started to find her client a first-rate butler for the weekend. Little Miss Townend retired to the fireplace, arms crossed across thin, bony chest, indignation in every line of her.

Tough! thought Bea.

The second man she tried was able to do it and, luckily for all concerned, had presided at a successful event for the client on a previous occasion. She gave him the details, rang the client's secretary to confirm, and put the phone down.

It rang again. Miss Townend started forward, but Bea was quicker. ‘The Abbot Agency. How may I help you?'

‘Tcha!' said Miss Townend. With little jerks of her head, she put on her coat, hat and gloves, collected her handbag and said, ‘I really cannot be expected to put up with this. Please tell Mr Abbot that I will return when conditions are back to normal. He knows where to find me.' She left in high dudgeon.

Bea thought, Good! The phone kept ringing, and she took notes, trusting that Oliver would be back when he said he would be, and could then take over. Halfway through one phone call, she heard the front door slam, but it wasn't Oliver. It was Max.

‘Hello, where's Miss Townend?' was his greeting, cutting through Bea's explanation to a new client of what they might or might not be able to do to help them.

‘Gone home,' said Bea, putting the phone down and making yet another note for Oliver. ‘She was cross because I had to use the phone.'

‘You didn't upset her, did you?'

‘Probably.' The phone rang again, and Bea answered it. A tearful young nanny, who'd been pawed by the client's husband and wanted out. Bea clicked her tongue against her teeth. Properly trained nannies knew how to deal with that sort of thing. The girl sounded a trifle on the young side to have been exposed to that sort of pressure. If Bea could have got at their records, she could have checked exactly how young the girl was. ‘You'd better come in to the office straight away. I shall need you to make a formal complaint …'

A hurricane of tears and cries of, ‘Oh, no, I couldn't! You can't ask me to do that!'

Ahha, thought Bea. Was it six of one, and half a dozen of the other?

Max towered over her, mouthing, ‘Get off the phone!'

She smiled up at him, mouthing back, ‘In a minute.'

The front door opened and closed again. This time it was indeed Oliver, with Miss Brook in tow. The tearful girl said, ‘I can't talk now,' and rang off.

Max said, ‘What I want to know is …'

Oliver appeared in the doorway and jerked his head at Bea. ‘A minute?' Oliver didn't pull rank without reason, so this was serious.

Bea said, ‘In the kitchen, in five.'

Miss Brook moved into the room, as if she were on wheels. She was probably as old as Miss Townend, but unlike that poor lady, Miss Brook was still firing on all four cylinders. She had the calm demeanour of someone who never let trivialities disturb her. She was a monument to a proper secretarial training, and ancestors who had been suffragettes and manned telephones at secret intelligence hideouts during the Second World War. She terrified weak-kneed clients but Hamilton had thought highly of her and she could be trusted never to betray a client's confidence, no matter how high profile they might be.