Whiteout (11 page)

“Really? That's interesting.”

Toni did not think Carl was genuinely interested. She wondered what he was really after. She said, “May we rely on you to do a judicious piece that reflects the facts and doesn't exaggerate the danger?”

“You mean will I be talking about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?”

She winced. “Foolish of me to give an example of the kind of hyperbole I was trying to discourage.”

“Don't worry, I'm not going to quote you.”

“Thanks.”

“You shouldn't thank me. I'd use it happily, but my audience wouldn't have the slightest idea what it means.” He changed tack. “I've hardly seen you since you split up with Frank. How long ago is it now?”

“He left me at Christmas two years ago.”

“How have you been?”

“I've had some bad times, if you want to know the truth. But things are picking up. At least, they were until today.”

“We should get together and catch up.”

She had no desire to spend time with Osborne, but she politely said, “Sure, why not.”

He surprised her by following up quickly. “Would you like to have dinner?”

“Dinner?” she said.

“Yes.”

“As in, go out on a date with you?”

“Yes, again.”

It was the last thing she had expected. “No!” she said. Then she remembered how dangerous this man could be, and tried to soften her rejection. “I'm sorry, Carl, you took me by surprise. I've known you so long that I just don't think of you that way.”

“I might change your thinking.” He looked boyishly vulnerable. “Give me a chance.”

The answer was still no, but she hesitated for a moment. Carl was handsome, charming, well paid, a local celebrity. Most single women pushing forty would jump at the chance. But she was not even mildly attracted to him. Even if she had not given her heart to Stanley, she would not have been tempted to go out with Carl. Why?

It took her only a second to find the answer. Carl had no integrity. A man who would distort the truth for the sake of a sensational story would
be equally dishonest in other areas of life. He was not a monster. There were plenty of men like him, and a few women. But Toni could not contemplate becoming intimate with someone so shallow. How could you kiss, and confess secrets, and lose your inhibitions, and open your body, with someone who could not be trusted? The thought was revolting.

“I'm flattered,” she lied. “But no.”

He was not ready to give up. “The truth is, I always fancied you, even when you were with Frank. You must have sensed that.”

“You used to flirt with me, but you did that with most women.”

“It wasn't the same.”

“Aren't you seeing that weather girl? I seem to remember a photo in the newspaper.”

“Marnie? That was never serious. I did it for publicity, mainly.”

He seemed irritated by the reminder, and Toni guessed that Marnie had thrown him over. “I'm sorry to hear that,” she said sympathetically.

“Show your compassion in actions, not words. Have dinner with me tonight. I even have a table booked at La Chaumière.”

It was a swanky restaurant. He must have made the reservation some time ago—probably for Marnie. “I'm busy tonight.”

“You're not still carrying a torch for Frank, are you?”

Toni laughed bitterly. “I did for a while, fool that I am, but I'm over him now. Very over.”

“Someone else, then?”

“I'm not seeing anyone.”

“But you're interested in someone. It's not the old professor, is it?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Toni said.

“You're not blushing, are you?”

“I hope not, though any woman subjected to this kind of interrogation would be entitled to blush.”

“My God, you fancy Stanley Oxenford.” Carl was not good at taking rejection, and his face became ugly with resentment. “Of course, Stanley's a widower, isn't he? Children grown up. All that money, and just the two of you to spend it.”

“This is really offensive, Carl.”

“The truth so often is. You really like high flyers, don't you? First Frank, the fastest-rising detective in the history of the Scottish police. And now a millionaire scientific entrepreneur. You're a starfucker, Toni!”

She had to end this before she lost her temper. “Thank you for coming to the press conference,” she said. She held out her hand, and he shook it automatically. “Goodbye.” She turned and walked away.

She was shaking with anger. He had made her deepest emotions seem unworthy. She wanted to strangle him, not go out with him. She tried to make herself calm. She had a major professional crisis to deal with, and she could not let her feelings get in the way.

She went to the reception desk near the door and spoke to the supervisor of the security guards, Steve Tremlett. “Stay here until they've all left, and make sure none of them tries to take an unofficial tour.” A determined snoop might try to enter high-security areas by “tailgating”—waiting for someone with a pass then going through the door right behind.

“Leave it to me,” Steve said.

Toni began to feel calmer. She put on her coat and went outside. The snow was falling more heavily, but she could see the demonstration. She walked to the guard booth at the gate. Three canteen staff were handing out hot drinks. The protestors had temporarily stopped chanting and waving their banners, and were smiling and chatting instead.

And all the cameras were photographing them.

Everything had gone perfectly, Toni thought. So why did she feel depressed?

She returned to her office. She closed the door and stood still, grateful to be alone for a minute. She had controlled the press conference well, she thought. She had protected her boss from Osborne. And the idea of giving hot drinks to the demonstrators had worked like a charm. It would be unwise to celebrate before seeing the actual coverage, of course, but she felt that every decision she had made had been right.

So why did she feel so down?

Partly it was Osborne. Any encounter with him could leave a person feeling low. But mainly, she realized, it was Stanley. After all she had done
for him this morning, he had slipped away with barely a word of thanks. That was what it meant to be the boss, she supposed. And she had long known how important his family was to him. She, by contrast, was just a colleague: valued, liked, respected—but not loved.

The phone rang. She looked at it for a moment, resenting its cheerful warble, not wanting to talk. Then she picked it up.

It was Stanley, calling from his car. “Why don't you drop in at the house in an hour or so? We could watch the news, and learn our fate together.”

Her mood lifted instantly. She felt as if the sun had come out. “Of course,” she said. “I'd be delighted.”

“We might as well be crucified side by side,” he said.

“I would consider it an honor.”

THE snow became heavier as Miranda drove north. Big white flakes swooped onto the windshield of the Toyota Previa, to be swept aside by the long wipers. She had to slow down as visibility diminished. The snow seemed to soundproof the car, and there was no more than a background swish of tires to compete with the classical music from the radio.

The atmosphere inside was subdued. In the back, Sophie was listening to her own music on headphones, while Tom was lost in the beeping world of Game Boy. Ned was quiet, occasionally conducting the orchestra with one waving forefinger. As he gazed into the snow and listened to Elgar's cello concerto, Miranda watched his tranquil, bearded face, and realized that he had no idea how badly he had let her down.

He sensed her discontent. “I'm sorry about Jennifer's outburst,” he said.

Miranda looked in the rearview mirror and saw that Sophie was nodding her head in time to the music from her iPod. Satisfied that the girl could not hear her, Miranda said, “Jennifer was bloody rude.”

“I'm sorry,” he said again. He obviously felt no need to explain or apologize for his own role.

She had to destroy his comfortable illusion. “It's not Jennifer's behavior that bothers me,” she said. “It's yours.”

“I realize it was a mistake to invite you in without warning her.”

“It's not that. We all make mistakes.”

He looked puzzled and annoyed. “What, then?”

“Oh, Ned! You didn't defend me!”

“I thought you were well able to defend yourself.”

“That's not the point! Of course I can look after myself. I don't need mothering. But you should be my champion.”

“A knight in shining armor.”

“Yes!”

“I thought it was more important to get things calmed down.”

“Well, you thought wrong. When the world turns hostile, I don't want you to take a judicious view of the situation—I want you to be on my side.”

“I'm afraid I'm not the combative type.”

“I know,” she said, and they both fell silent.

They were on a narrow road that followed the shore of a sea loch. They passed small farms with a few horses in winter blankets cropping the grass, and drove through villages with white-painted churches and rows of houses along the waterfront. Miranda felt depressed. Even if her family embraced Ned as she had asked them to, did she want to marry such a passive man? She had longed for someone gentle and cultured and bright, but she now realized that she also wanted him to be strong. Was it too much to expect? She thought of her father. He was always kind, rarely angry, never quarrelsome—but no one had ever thought him weak.

Her mood lifted as they approached Steepfall. The house was reached by a long lane that wound through woods. Emerging from the trees, the drive swept around a headland with a sheer drop to the sea.

The garage came into view first. Standing sideways-on to the drive, it was an old cowshed that had been renovated and given three up-and-over doors. Miranda drove past it and along the front of the house.

Seeing the old farmhouse overlooking the beach, its thick stone walls with their small windows and the steep slate roof, she was overwhelmed by a sense of her childhood. She had first come here at the age of five, and every time she returned she became, for a few moments, a little girl in white socks, sitting on the granite doorstep in the sun, playing teacher to a class of three dolls, two guinea pigs in a cage, and a sleepy old dog.
The sensation was intense, but fleeting: suddenly she remembered exactly how it had felt to be herself at five, but trying to hold on to the memory was like grabbing at smoke.

Her father's dark blue Ferrari was at the front of the house, where he always left it for Luke, the handyman, to put away. The car was dangerously fast, obscenely curvaceous, and ludicrously expensive for his daily five-mile commute to the laboratory. Parked here on a bleak Scottish cliff top, it was as out of place as a high-heeled courtesan in a muddy farmyard. But he had no yacht, no wine cellar, no racehorse; he did not go skiing in Gstaad or gambling in Monte Carlo. The Ferrari was his only indulgence.

Miranda parked the Toyota. Tom rushed in. Sophie followed more slowly: she had not been here before, though she had met Stanley once, at Olga's birthday party a few months back. Miranda decided to forget about Jennifer for now. She took Ned's hand and they went in together.

They entered, as always, by the kitchen door at the side of the house. There was a lobby, where Wellington boots were kept in a cupboard, then a second door into the spacious kitchen. To Miranda this always felt like coming home. The familiar smells filled her head: roast dinners and ground coffee and apples, and a persistent trace of the French cigarettes Mamma Marta had smoked. No other house had replaced this one as the home of Miranda's soul: not the flat in Camden Town where she had sown her wild oats, nor the modern suburban house where she had been briefly married to Jasper Casson, nor the apartment in Georgian Glasgow in which she had raised Tom, at first alone and now with Ned.

A full-size black standard poodle called Nellie wagged her whole body with joy and licked everyone. Miranda greeted Luke and Lori, the Filipino couple who were preparing lunch. Lori said, “Your father just got home, he's washing.”

Miranda told Tom and Sophie to lay the table. She did not want the children to put down roots in front of the TV and stay there all afternoon. “Tom, you can show Sophie where everything is.” And having a job to do would help Sophie feel part of the family.

There were several bottles of Miranda's favorite white wine in the
fridge. Daddy did not drink much, but Mamma had always had wine, and Daddy made sure there was plenty in the house. Miranda opened a bottle and poured a glass for Ned.

This was a good start, Miranda thought: Sophie happily helping Tom put out knives and forks, and Ned contentedly sipping Sancerre. Perhaps this, rather than the scene with Jennifer, would set the tone for the holiday.

If Ned was going to be part of Miranda's life, he had to love this house and the family that had grown up in it. He had been here before, but he had never brought Sophie and he had never stayed overnight, so this was his first major visit. She so wanted him to have a good time and get on well with everyone.

Miranda's husband, Jasper, had never liked Steepfall. At first he had gone out of his way to charm everyone, but on later visits he had been withdrawn while there and angry after they left. He seemed to dislike Stanley, and complained that he was authoritarian, which was odd, as Stanley rarely told anyone what to do—whereas Marta was so bossy they sometimes called her Mamma Mussolini. Now, with hindsight, Miranda could see that Jasper's hold over her was threatened by the presence of another man who loved her. Jasper did not feel free to bully her while her father was around.

The phone rang. Miranda picked up the extension on the wall by the big fridge. “Hello?”

“Miranda, it's Kit.”

She was pleased. “Hello, little brother! How are you?”

“A bit shattered, actually.”

“How come?”

“I fell in a swimming pool. Long story. How are things at Steepfall?”

“We're just sitting around drinking Daddy's wine, wishing you were with us.”

“Well, I'm coming after all.”

“Good!” She decided not to ask what had changed his mind. He would probably just say
long story
again.

“I'll be there in an hour or so. But, listen, can I still have the cottage?”

“I'm sure you can. It's up to Daddy, but I'll talk to him.”

As Miranda cradled the handset, her father came in. He wore the waistcoat and trousers of his suit, but he had rolled the cuffs of his shirt. He shook hands with Ned and kissed Miranda and the children. He was looking very trim, Miranda thought. “Are you losing weight?” she asked.

“I've been playing squash. Who was on the phone?”

“That was Kit. He's coming, after all.” She watched her father's face, anxious to see his reaction.

“I'll believe it when I see him.”

“Oh, Daddy! You might sound more enthusiastic.”

He patted her hand. “We all love Kit, but we know what he's like. I hope he shows up, but I'm not counting on it.” His tone was light, but Miranda could tell that he was trying to hide an inner hurt.

“He really wants to sleep in the cottage.”

“Did he say why?”

“No.”

Tom piped up: “He's probably bringing a girl, and doesn't want us all to hear her squeals of delight.”

The kitchen went quiet. Miranda was astonished. Where had that come from? Tom was eleven, and never talked about sex. After a moment, they all burst out laughing. Tom looked bashful, and said, “I read that in a book.” He was probably trying to seem grown-up in front of Sophie, Miranda decided. He was still a little boy, but not for much longer.

Stanley said, “Anyway, I don't mind where anyone sleeps, you know that.” He looked at his watch distractedly. “I have to watch the lunchtime news on television.”

Miranda said, “I'm sorry about the technician who died. What made him do it?”

“We all get weird ideas into our heads, but a lonely person has no one to tell him not to be crazy.”

The door opened and Olga came in. As always, she entered speaking. “This weather is a nightmare! People are skidding all over the place. Is that wine you're drinking? Let me have some before I explode. Nellie, please don't sniff me there, it's considered vulgar in human society. Hello, Daddy, how are you?”

“Nella merde,”
he said.

Miranda recognized one of her mother's expressions. It meant “in the shit.” Mamma Marta had fondly imagined that if she swore in Italian the children would not understand.

Olga said, “I heard about the guy who died. Is it so bad for you?”

“We'll see when we watch the news.”

Olga was followed in by her husband, Hugo, a small man with impish charm. When he kissed Miranda, his lips lingered on her cheek a second too long.

Olga said, “Where shall Hugo put the bags?”

“Upstairs,” said Miranda.

“I suppose you've staked your claim to the cottage.”

“No, Kit's having it.”

“Oh, please!” Olga protested. “That big double bed and a nice bathroom and kitchenette, all for one person, while the four of us share the poky old bathroom upstairs?”

“He particularly asked for it.”

“Well, I'm particularly asking for it.”

Miranda felt irritated with her sister. “For God's sake, Olga, think of someone other than yourself for a change. You know Kit hasn't been here since . . . that whole mess. I just want to make sure he has a good time.”

“So he's getting the best bedroom because he stole from Daddy—is that your logic?”

“You're talking like an advocate again. Save it for your learned friends.”

“All right, you two,” their father said, sounding just as he had when they were small. “In this case, I think Olga's right. It's selfish of Kit to demand the cottage all to himself. Miranda and Ned can sleep there.”

Olga said, “So no one gets what they want.”

Miranda sighed. Why was Olga arguing? They all knew their father. Most of the time he would give you anything you wanted, but when he said no it was final. He might be indulgent, but he could not be bullied.

Now he said, “It will teach you not to quarrel.”

“No, it won't. You've been imposing these judgments of Solomon for thirty years, and we still haven't learned.”

Stanley smiled. “You're right. My approach to child rearing has been wrong all along. Should I start again?”

“Too late.”

“Thank God for that.”

Miranda just hoped Kit would not be offended enough to turn right around and drive away. The argument was ended by the entrance of Caroline and Craig, the children of Hugo and Olga.

Caroline, seventeen, was carrying a cage containing several white rats. Nellie sniffed it excitedly. Caroline related to animals as a way of avoiding people. It was a phase many girls went through but, Miranda thought, at seventeen she should have got over it.

Craig, fifteen, carried two plastic garbage bags crammed with wrapped gifts. He had Hugo's wicked grin, though he was tall like Olga. He put the bags down, greeted the family perfunctorily, and made a beeline for Sophie. They had met once before, Miranda recalled, at Olga's birthday party. “You got your belly button pierced!” Craig said to Sophie. “Cool! Did it hurt?”

Miranda became aware that there was a stranger in the room. The newcomer, a woman, stood by the door to the hall, so she must have come in by the front entrance. She was tall, with striking good looks: high cheekbones and a curved nose, lush red-blond hair and marvelous green eyes. She wore a brown chalk-stripe suit that was a bit rumpled, and her expert makeup did not quite hide signs of tiredness under her eyes. She was gazing with amusement at the animated scene in the crowded kitchen. Miranda wondered how long she had been watching in silence.