A Question of Identity (6 page)

‘Thanks for the lunch, Mum. It was delicious.'

‘At least for once you've some decent food inside you.'

As Rona's usual lunch tended to be a sandwich or something on toast, this was a fair comment, added to which, disliking cooking as intensely as she did, on the evenings Max stayed at his studio she tended to dine off salads, takeaways or ready-meals, and occasionally, fancying none of these, visited Dino's, an Italian restaurant six minutes' walk from home. It was indeed fortunate, she acknowledged, that Max was an excellent cook, and enjoyed taking over whenever he was home.

‘Love to Lindsey, if you see her,' Avril said, as Rona kissed her goodbye.

‘Will do, and remember me to Guy and Sarah. Hope your supper party's a success. I might beg the quail's egg recipe, to pass on to Max!'

In stark contrast to Avril's restrained welcome, Paola King came running down the path to greet her and, as Rona climbed out of the car, flung her arms round her and hugged her enthusiastically.

‘Rona! Oh, how good it is to see you,
cara mia
! Come inside and tell me all your news!' And Rona, having been, as always, slightly on edge in her mother's company, happily relaxed.

The house was exactly as she remembered it, warm and welcoming with its brightly coloured rugs, exotic pictures and all-pervading smell of baking. A low table had been drawn up to the fire, ready laid with a tray on which Rona recognized the promised
copate
.

‘You're spoiling me!' she said. ‘I'm not ten any more!'

‘Everyone should be spoiled once in a way!' Paola declared, pouring the tea. ‘Now, tell me about the book you are writing. So many books and articles! George and I are so proud!'

‘Well, this one has rather a chequered history,' Rona said ruefully.

Paola sobered, her hand going to her mouth. ‘How thoughtless of me! Of course – that poor woman. Such a tragedy!'

‘Yes. It's coming along now, but I'm not enjoying it as much as usual.'

‘And that clever husband of yours? What is he working on at the moment?'

‘Well, apart from taking four classes a week and putting in a full day at the art school on Thursdays, he's been commissioned to do a portrait of some local dignitary – I forget his name.'

‘Such a talented family!' Paola enthused. ‘I boast about you to my friends! “These famous people are friends of my daughter,” I say!'

Rona laughed. ‘And we boast that Magda's
our
friend! I lose track of how many boutiques she has now.'

‘Eight,' Paola supplied. She stirred her tea thoughtfully. ‘You went with her on Friday, I think, to see this . . .
ipnotista
?'

‘That's right.' Rona hesitated. ‘He was . . . very good.'

‘I do not like this . . . messing with the minds of people.'

‘I admit I had reservations, but it seemed pretty harmless. He didn't make her do anything too way-out.'

‘
Her?
' Paola repeated sharply. ‘Magdalena was
involved
?'

Oh God! Rona thought. Why hadn't she been warned about this?

‘Just as one of several groups,' she said hastily.

Paola brushed that aside. ‘What did he do to her, this man?'

‘Well, he . . . put them all to sleep, of course, and then they were told the Queen was there, and that a snake had escaped, and they reacted accordingly.' Her voice tailed off. ‘I'm sorry,' she ended, ‘I thought you knew, but it wasn't any big deal, honestly.'

She looked anxiously at her hostess, who was staring down at the tea tray. Finally, Paola looked up, her eyes troubled.

‘You wonder why I make the fuss like this, but we found when she was young that Magdalena is . . .
sensibile
—' She shook her head impatiently, searching for the right word.

‘Susceptible?' Rona suggested uneasily, resolving not to mention her later relapse.

Paola nodded vigorously. ‘She has much imagination – it is that, of course, that makes her good at her job – but when she was small, there were times she could not separate what was real and what was not. She had an imaginary friend. Did you know about that, when you were together at school?'

Rona shook her head, her unease growing.

‘Anna Lisa, her name was, and every day a place must be set for her at table. George and I would hear the child talking to her in her room at night.'

‘Lots of children have imaginary friends,' Rona said. ‘I'm sure it's nothing to worry about.'

‘And such nightmares!' Paola was continuing. ‘She would wake screaming, night after night.'

‘But she grew out of them,' Rona insisted.
I had some pretty lurid dreams
, whispered a voice in her head.

Paola sighed. ‘I worry too much. George always tells me so.'

Gradually, thanks to Rona's sustained efforts, the conversation teetered on to a more even keel, but for the first time in her life she was glad when it was time to go.

Having driven round the corner from the Kings' house, she drew in to the kerb, turned off the engine, and, reaching for her mobile, pressed the button for Magda's number.

‘Magda Ridgeway.'

‘Mags, it's Rona,' she said rapidly. ‘I've just left your mother. Why on earth didn't you warn me not to mention your going on stage?'

‘On . . .? Oh, Friday, you mean. God!' Her voice rose suddenly. ‘You didn't tell her?'

‘Of course I did! She asked about it, I told her, and she hit the roof.'

Rona heard Magda's indrawn breath. Then she said more calmly, ‘Well, don't worry about it. She believes meddling with the mind is against God's will, or something. She probably thinks I'll be stuck in purgatory.'

But Paola's concern had been more immediate. Rona said hesitantly, ‘She seemed to link it with the imaginary friend you had as a child.'

Magda gave a snort of laughter. ‘She's not still on about that? Dear Anna Lisa – I haven't thought of her in years. Mama probably thinks I actually
saw
her, that I'm psychic or something, whereas the truth is I was simply lonely. As you know, I'd no friends till I met you.'

‘Well, I'm very sorry if I upset her. Perhaps . . .?'

‘Yes, I'll give her a call and set her mind at rest. And
I'm
sorry, not to have warned you in advance. It just never occurred to me, but with hindsight it should have done.'

Lindsey phoned that evening.

‘I've been catching up with last week's
Gazette.
There's a review of the show at the Darcy, so I thought I'd ring and see how you enjoyed it.'

‘What was the critic's verdict?'

‘Oh, he was quite impressed. Were you?'

‘Yes, all the acts were good. Max made a fool of himself by challenging the telepath, and had to sit down with a red face!'

Lindsey laughed. ‘Serves him right! Was his telepathy as good as ours?'

‘Well, apart from Max and a couple of other links with the audience, it was mostly guessing playing cards.' Rona braced herself. ‘And talking of guessing, who do you think we saw at the Bacchus beforehand?'

‘Haven't a clue.'

‘Hugh and his new lady friend.'

There was a long pause. Then: ‘Did you speak to them?'

‘Literally en passant. He was a bit embarrassed, I think.'

‘No reason why he should be.' Lindsey's voice was brittle. ‘What's she like?'

‘Sleek, sophisticated, in her forties. All I got was a cool nod.'

‘Name?'

‘Mia Campbell. Have you heard of her? He introduced her as a work colleague.'

‘Means nothing to me, but I've not been near HW&B for years. The entire staff has probably changed.' A pause. ‘She's attractive, then?'

‘Reasonably. She has vibrant red hair, which makes Hugh's ginger look faded.'

When Lindsey made no comment, she added, ‘And my other news is that I had lunch with Mum today.'

‘Really? How come?'

Rona said wryly, ‘She wanted some things from the deli.'

‘Par for the course! How is she?'

‘Fine. By the way, did you know she's selling the house when she and Guy get married?'

‘
Our
house?'

‘Yep. It came as quite a shock, actually.'

‘But . . .
why
? There's loads of room for both of them.'

‘She said they wanted somewhere new, with no ghosts from the past. And we can choose what we want, after Pops and Catherine have had their say.'

‘Too bad I didn't know that earlier!' commented Lindsey, who'd recently spent a large amount on new furniture and fittings.

‘It's silly, but it quite upset me. I like to think of it
being
there, more or less as it's always been, and Mum ensconced in it.'

‘Where will they live, did she say?'

‘I don't think they've started looking yet.'

‘It's odd to think the divorce will come through after Christmas. Then there'll be a spate of family weddings!'

‘Well, two, anyway – unless you're thinking of making it three?'

‘Not a hope!'

‘Did you see Dominic over the weekend?'

‘No; Nicole and David invited me for a meal on Saturday, and suggested I stay overnight, so I could enjoy a drink. There was another couple there I'd not met before, and we had a jolly good evening. I didn't get home till yesterday afternoon.'

Rona's eyes fell on the school photograph, propped up against the toaster, but she was determined not to mention it till Lindsey did.

‘Sorry,' Lindsey said quickly, ‘there's someone at the door – I'll have to go. See you.'

‘See you,' echoed Rona, and thoughtfully replaced the phone.

F
or the next three days, Rona worked steadily on her book. It had taken her a considerable time to sort out the mass of letters and diaries that Gwen Saunders, Elspeth's personal assistant, had delivered after Elspeth's death, and even longer to brace herself to read them. She had never before written a biography of someone she'd met personally, and couldn't rid herself of the sensation of prying into private papers.

In particular, it was painful to read of Elspeth's long friendship with Chloë Pyne, a fellow artist who lost her life under a tube train, and of Chloë's ill-fated love affair. Had Elspeth lived only days longer, she would at least have learned she wasn't responsible for her friend's death.

On the Thursday afternoon, after a somewhat gruelling two hours, Rona closed the diaries, turning instead to the folder listing Elspeth's paintings, with a note alongside of the galleries or private collectors who owned them. Over the last months she'd visited several galleries in Manchester, Liverpool, Dublin and Edinburgh, as well as a couple of Stately Homes where her work was displayed.

Elspeth was known principally for her obsession with clouds, which she had painted in every imaginable way, and Rona admitted there were times when she never wanted to see another cloudscape. Max, however, had been able to talk her through several pictures, pointing out the different techniques employed to achieve the desired effect, and she humbly accepted that, to him, each painting had an entirely different character.

She was trying to decide where to visit next when she was interrupted by the pealing of the doorbell, followed by hysterical barking from Gus, who, assuming she was deaf, took it upon himself to alert her.

It was rare to have visitors in the afternoon, but, glad of the excuse to leave her desk, Rona ran downstairs and opened the door to find her father on the step.

‘Pops!' she exclaimed. ‘How lovely! Come in!'

Tom Parish returned her hug and bent to pat the excited dog. ‘I hope I'm not being a Person from Porlock,' he said. ‘You're not at a crucial stage, are you?'

‘No, and glad of the break, to be honest. Come downstairs and I'll make some tea.'

‘I hoped you might, so I bought a cake en route.'

‘Even better!'

He sat down at the table, fondling Gus's ears and watching as Rona filled the kettle. ‘It seems ages since I saw you,' he commented.

‘I know, Mum made the same complaint; I had lunch with her on Monday.'

‘How is she?'

‘Very well.' She turned to him, a thought striking her. ‘Did you know she intends to sell Maple Drive?'

‘No, though I rather thought she might.'

‘But . . . surely you own half of it?'

Tom shook his head. ‘I made it over entirely when we separated. It was the least I could do.'

‘Well, she's intending to invite you and Catherine to choose what you'd like.'

‘That's very generous of her.'

‘I suppose they'll be faced with trying to fit the contents of two homes into one.'

‘We'll be spared that, at least. All I took at the time were my books and personal papers, and, as you know, I'm renting the flat furnished. Avril did offer me my choice of ornaments and pictures – even furniture – but I felt they belonged where they were. So, my pet –' he took the mug of tea she handed him – ‘far from having to squeeze in our belongings, we shall have to look for more. In view of which, if that offer still holds, I might welcome the chance to reconsider.'

‘Catherine will be selling her bungalow, then?'

‘Yes; like your mother and Guy, we decided we wanted a home new to both of us.'

Rona, opening the cake box, felt a spasm of regret. She loved the tranquil charm of Catherine's home.

‘Oh, lovely – lemon drizzle!' she exclaimed, lifting out the cake. ‘My favourite!'

‘Which is why I bought it.'

‘You're a star!' She cut two generous slices, and handed him a plate. ‘How's Catherine?' she added, seating herself opposite him.

‘A bit down, actually. She's worried about Daniel.'