Shit. ‘Are you absolutely sure? I was sitting by the window—’
‘Ah ken where ye were sittin’. It’s no here.’
He ended the call, all thoughts of charm fleeing. No point in wasting energy on her now.
What could have happened? He’d hopped on a train to Edinburgh, but he hadn’t looked at the notebook on the train, he was sure of it. He’d gone to Marta’s and packed, but definitely hadn’t emptied his pockets. Then to Janie’s, but again, there had been no occasion to look at his notebook.
What, then? It had been picked up by someone in the café, someone who had taken his seat before the place had been cleared possibly. That seemed the most likely.
The loss was catastrophic. He had to hope that whoever had found the book would put it in an envelope and post it to him. He had to pray for it. He might even be moved to send a reward.
Above him, the departures board flashed up his gate. Time to go.
There was nothing he could do about it now.
Chapter Twenty
Marta spotted Tom’s keys as soon as she let herself in. They were sitting neatly on the hall table like a precious gift.
He’s gone. The realisation brought a shaft of sunlight into her heart.
Beside the keys, an envelope. She ripped it open. A bill from Mr Morrison for the repair of the washing machine. Reasonable, thank heavens. Tom or Jake must have let him in.
‘Jake? Hi! I’m home!’
Her answer was a crash and a muffled thud from upstairs.
‘Jake?’
She took the stairs two at a time, her slim legs scissoring across the treads.
‘What’s happened? Are you all right?’
He was in Tom’s room – the spare room, she corrected herself mentally, spare. Free. Empty. Vide. Frei. The start of a new era of peace and order, of togetherness and renewal.
But Jake was looking anything but renewed. He’d been raking his hair with his hands, a clear sign of stress, and he was flushed. The bedclothes were heaped in an untidy pile behind the door and the bed itself was skewed across the room.
‘What are you doing?’
Now that she could see he was unhurt, irritation surfaced. He didn’t have to strip the bed or tidy and clean the room, she would have done that. Marta liked cleaning, she found it therapeutic. What she did not like was disorder. She stepped into the room to straighten the bed.
‘You should have left that to me.’
‘Left what?’ Jake asked shortly, dropping on his knees behind the bed so that all she could see was his rump. She pulled up short, unable to move the bed until he shifted.
‘The bed. The tidying. Now that Tom’s gone—’
‘Gone.’ Jake’s head appeared above the mattress and he twisted back onto his feet. ‘He’s gone all right – and the bugger’s taken my iPod with him.’
‘Your iPod? Surely not.’
‘It’s disappeared, Marta. I left it in the bathroom this morning and unless you have “tidied” it somewhere in your inimitable way, it has disappeared. Conjured by His Luvviness’s amazing and famous sleight of hand from the cold, hard surface of the bathroom ledge into some snug and barely visible pocket no doubt.’
‘I can’t believe Tom would do that, Jake. Are you quite sure—’
‘I’ve looked everywhere.’
‘Mr Morrison was here,’ Marta said, clutching at an unlikely straw in the form of Archie Morrison’s well-padded person.
Jake stopped moving restlessly and stared at her.
‘Are you seriously suggesting Mr Morrison came up to the bathroom and pocketed my iPod?’
The friendly plumber had fixed the leaky taps, the faulty central heating, the badly lagged pipes and broken cisterns in Jake’s parent’s aging 1930s bungalow so often that Mrs Davidson Senior almost regarded him as one of the family.
Marta quailed.
‘No,’ she admitted, ‘I don’t think your playlist would be quite Mr Morrison’s thing.’
Jake, his hands clutching a small pile of assorted packaging he had salvaged from under the bed, sat heavily on the mattress.
‘I’ve been offered that contract in London.’
‘Oh.’ She swayed and leaned back against the doorpost for support. ‘Oh, Jake.’
Her mouth was dry.
‘You won’t take it,’ she managed at last. It came out not as a question but a statement.
Jake’s nostrils flared, his eyes widened and he turned to her with barely suppressed violence. Marta jerked back with shock, and her elbow hit the door frame with a jarring crunch.
‘Don’t tell me what I will or won’t do, Marta. I’m sick of it. Absolutely sick of it, do you hear me? For years you’ve told me what I should do – do you realise that? Go for this promotion, Jake, move to that office. Buy some new clothes, Jake – or worse still, you’ve gone and bought them for me as though I don’t even have a mind or an opinion of my own. We’ll spend Christmas here, New Year there. We’ll go to Corfu for our holidays. We’ll learn to ski. There’s been no end to your decision-making, Marta.’
‘I thought—’
‘What? What did you think, exactly?’
‘You didn’t seem to mind. I thought you liked being organised. You’ve always been so absorbed in your own work, you seemed quite pleased that things just ... happened ... around you.’
He had got up from the bed and was staring out of the window. ‘This cottage ... living in Edinburgh, for Christ’s sake ... did I ever have any part in any of the big decisions of our lives?’
She took a tentative step towards him. ‘Jake? What’s the matter, darling? What’s changed? If you’re upset about Tom, he’s gone now—’
‘Tom! Tom!’
He swivelled round so swiftly that she squeaked like a frightened kitten.
He said, slowly and carefully, ‘Bringing Tom Vallely here to stay was a perfect example of just what is wrong in our relationship, Marta. You spend your entire life helping people. Very laudable, I’m sure. Unfortunately, sometimes that has a serious impact on the people closest to you and you just don’t think it through before you go jumping in feet first.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘Think about it. Just when I needed your support most, all I got was an intruder in our lives. Making himself at home. Helping himself to our food, our drink, our money—’
‘I didn’t know that he would—’
‘Know? I don’t suppose you did, Marta. But you didn’t stop to think either, did you? That day he arrived – you hadn’t even bothered to call me, to let me know he was coming.’
Disbelief at the change in her husband was changing into dread. All this anger ... something was pouring out of him that had clearly been long suppressed, something that altered him, made him a different person.
Or perhaps it wasn’t like that at all? Maybe the fault was hers, maybe she’d been blind to his needs and his feelings, selfish in a way she had never understood.
‘Don’t do this, Jake. I know it’s only for a few months, but don’t go. Please? I really need you.’ When did I last tell him I loved him? She raked her memory and found no references. ‘I love you. Don’t you love me?’
‘Love you?’
Jake ran his hand through his hair. She watched as it stood on end and longed to go to him, smooth it down, but didn’t dare.
‘I don’t know any more, Marta. I can say that quite truthfully. Maybe it’s not all your fault. It was easier for me to let you make the decisions. But things have changed. I lost my job.’
The earlier anger had dissipated and sad weariness had replaced it.
‘I’ve tried so hard to hold everything together, gone along with your suggestions about agencies, applications, revamping my CV. I’ve tried really hard – and when that didn’t work, I took the job in the bar.’
Marta held her breath.
‘I’ve been on the edge, Marta, hanging on above a sheer drop. The last thing I could handle was competing for your attention ...’
His voice trailed away and the uncharacteristic flare of temper subsided.
How had things come to this? From a mislaid iPod to a full-scale row.
‘Let’s talk again later, Jake, you’re too upset right now. Here, give me a hug.’
The fury might have burned itself out, but he clearly wasn’t prepared to unbend.
‘I found this lot under the bed,’ he said, avoiding her arms and instead indicating the rubbish he’d found. He picked out one item and held it out to her. ‘Looks like a notebook of some kind. You might want to post it back to him. I’m doing a double shift tonight. I’ll sleep in here. Tomorrow I’ll pack some stuff and move to my mate’s until I go down to London.’
‘Jake! You aren’t serious? This doesn’t have to happen. Stay. Surely we can talk at least?’
‘I need space, Marta. I know it’s a corny old line, but Christ, how I understand what it means. I’ve lost all my self-respect, I don’t really know who I am anymore. I haven’t worked in marketing for the best part of a year, I feel as though part of me has died and there’s nothing left to offer. It’s no good. You’re trying to have the perfect life, in the perfect home, with the perfect family, but the problem is I’m not perfect. I’m really not.’
‘I don’t want you to be perfect! I just want you to be you.’
‘Here.’ He shoved the notebook into her hands. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, before I go.’
Marta stood in the empty room and stared after his retreating figure. She dropped Tom Vallely’s notebook on the chest of drawers. The man had caused enough trouble. Posting the thing back to him could wait.
Marta watched Jake leave for his shift. His slight figure was hunched over as he marched along the path with his head down and his chin tucked in to his chest. Behind him, the gate closed with a fierce clang and in seconds he was out of sight.
The evening stretched out interminably. The cottage, so familiar and cherished, no longer felt like a haven of tranquility. Marching restlessly from kitchen to bedroom, from bedroom to hall, from hall to shower room and back to bedroom, Marta bundled Tom’s sheets into the washing machine and started the cycle. She tidied the kitchen and scrubbed it from top to bottom. The bathroom got special attention. By the time she had finished cleaning the bath and shower they gleamed with unnatural brightness. She tackled the en suite, using bleach on an old toothbrush to attack the greying grout and lifting the trap in the shower completely to remove the hair – hers mostly – that had accumulated there.
In the living room, she vacuumed the carpet and puffed up the cushions, straightened the sofa, wiped down the window. She dusted the clock that sat on the small mantelpiece. At one end stood a small Moorcroft vase, a gift from her parents on some special birthday. She had always loved its rich dark colours, the sweet mystery of its swirling leaves and flowers. She dusted it and replaced it gently. At the other end was a glass bird, heavy, rounded, stylised, its core dark red, a thick layer of clear glass defining its outer shape. The bird had come from Jake’s family, from an aunt or a grandmother, she thought. Marta could no longer remember the story of its provenance, but it formed some part of his heritage. She picked it up carefully and rubbed the cloth over it. She had dusted the thing a thousand times but for some reason, today, its weight seemed to pull and drag. She hurried to replace it, caught the long tail on the edge of the marble mantelpiece, felt the impact before hastily setting it down. There. She stood back and surveyed it. No damage. Nothing had happened. It was fine.
Turning, she started to move towards the door. A brittle noise made her stop, her heart racing. She turned, stared – and saw the tail, neatly severed, lying on the marble.
She flung herself on the sofa and howled.
Chapter Twenty-one
‘Finished the proposal for Sir Edward Chalmers’ estate planning yet, Carrie? Meeting’s starting in half an hour.’
Peter Shepherd, the senior partner to whom Carrie reported, came across to her desk. It was eight-thirty on Monday morning and she had already been at work for two hours. Forgetting her bruises, she turned and answered, ‘Just five minutes, Peter, and I’ll print everything out.’
‘Christ, what happened to you?’ Peter was startled.
Carrie’s hand flew up to her face. ‘Oh, I’d forgotten. It’s nothing. I fell over my new heels on Friday night.’
She’d spent nearly an hour this morning trying to apply make-up over the bruises, before finally deciding that it looked even worse and cleaning it all off again.
‘You women and your slavery to fashion,’ Peter grumbled, his ruddy face breaking into a grin. A big, gentle man, he had been a great mentor and supporter. Soon he would be telling her the result of her partnership review, conducted in the privacy of a full partnership meeting, the decisions relayed thereafter to the hopeful few. With a little luck and a fair following wind, there would be champagne and congratulations all round.
‘Hey, I’m in good company,’ Carrie said, elaborating her lie. ‘Naomi Campbell fell off her heels a bit more publicly on one occasion, if you remember. And at least I didn’t break my ankle.’
Peter glanced down at the mustard Ferragamo pumps she had selected today and nodded approval. ‘You won’t fall over those, at least. Shame about the face though.’
‘Didn’t stop me from working all weekend,’ Carrie smiled ingratiatingly at him. She needed to flag up her eagerness at every opportunity.
‘Good, good,’ Peter was walking away, his mind clearly already on some other matter. ‘Good, good.’
The words floated across the room, which was now filling up as others arrived to embark on their week’s duties. A colleague, his thick black hair apparently still wet from his morning shower, grinned at her as he hung up his coat. Peter was well known for his vague utterances.
Carrie, encouraged, bent her head to her work, battling the half-hour deadline. With just a few minutes to go, she heard the muffled sounds of her mobile, its ring tone forcing itself impudently out of the confines of her bag. Quickly, she pressed ‘Print’ and bent to retrieve her phone.
Tom.
Her heart, jump-started by the name on the screen, accelerated into overdrive. A few seconds later her brain kicked in, sent an instruction to her finger and she pressed ‘Divert’. By the time she had retrieved her papers from the printer on the other side of the room, both a voice message and a text awaited her. No time to retrieve the voice mail. Quickly, she scanned the text.
Owe him? Owe him? Owe him what, for heaven’s sake? The message defied logic. Distractedly, she pulled together her papers, her notebook, her diary and her thoughts and headed for the door. Whatever Tom Vallely wanted, Sir Edward Chalmers had first call on her time.
The appointment did not go well. After less than ten minutes it became clear that, despite all the hours she had put in over the weekend, Carrie had omitted to take into account a vital piece of information and the simple oversight had invalidated most of the rest of her work. Peter Shepherd, covering smoothly, took over as much as he could, but they abandoned the meeting after less than an hour, unable to progress matters in the way that had been expected.
‘I’m so sorry, Peter, so sorry,’ Carrie said, over and over again after Sir Edward Chalmers had graciously departed. ‘I don’t know how it could have happened. My head ... I had such a headache on Saturday. The fall ... I’m so sorry.’
‘Not to worry,’ Peter smiled, but without the usual spark of warmth. ‘I’m sure you’ll have it sorted by Wednesday. We won’t be able to bill him for the work you did, of course.’
‘Of course not,’ Carrie mumbled, trying to keep up with Peter as he strode along the corridor. ‘I’ll get it done, I promise you.’
Incompetence was hardly her hallmark – and to lose the smallest iota of her reputation for proficiency at this point was unfortunate, to say the least. Peter’s comments were not exactly a threat – he was not given to that kind of language – but they were less than complimentary. Worse, she would have to work extremely hard to rectify the error in the couple of days left to her before the partnership meeting.
Implied threats appeared to be the order of the day. Later, finding the time and the courage to listen to Tom’s message, she heard what sounded remarkably like a second ultimatum.
‘Hi Carrie darling. So sorry you had to leave early. It was a blast. Listen, sweetie, I need a favour. That audition? I got the part. Good news, huh? So I can be out of your hair, D.A. Delight. We shoot in Manchester, so I’ll need to get a flat there. Problem is, I’m a bit strapped for cash right now, so—’ The ‘so’ hung suspended in time, its menace unspoken, before he resumed. ‘But give me a bell and we can discuss a way round my little problem. Hey?’
At lunchtime Carrie snatched a quick chance for some air. She pounded the pavement down Queen Street Gardens towards Stockbridge and thought through the options. Tom wanted money – so what was new? What hold did he have over her to force her to pay up?
One, the affair they had had sixteen years ago, while he’d still been living with Jane. Spilling that little secret would do her friendship with Jane no good at all.
And two, her lifestyle choice: Bed Buddies. Tom knew that Jane inclined to the puritanical and Marta to the naive and that there was every likelihood that she would have chosen to keep her personal life strictly that: personal.
There was, three, an outside chance that he would threaten to reveal her secret to the partners at Ascher Frew. He was smart enough to know that any question mark against her character would jeopardise her chances of success in the firm.
As she passed the traffic lights on Howe Street, she forced herself to be analytical. There were three choices open to her.
Option A, she could refuse to do whatever it was he was going to ask her.
Option B, she could comply with his request. Or, Option C, she could temporise, try to outwit him while she thought of the alternatives.
Perhaps it depended on what his demand was. ‘I need your help.’ What shape or form might that help take? Money, most likely, but maybe Tom would demand to see her again. Feebly, Carrie felt her forehead. Enough trouble had been caused by that little blow to her head already, she couldn’t afford to expose herself to any possible further physical violence. She would pay almost anything to avoid that.
By the time she had tramped down Howe Street and north to Raeburn Place, Carrie was sweating with apprehension.
Get it over with, Carrie. You have no choice. Do it. Do it now. You haven’t much time.
When she got to the charming Victorian artisan houses known as The Colonies, in a traffic-free spot next to the Water of Leith, she pulled out her mobile. Before she could change her mind, she dialled Tom’s number.
‘Hello, Delight.’ The sound of his voice was chilling. Carrie sat down on a low wall, her phone clamped to her ear.
‘Hi, Tom.’
‘So sorry you had to leave so sharp on Saturday morning.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ Carrie lied, feeling sick.
‘We could have had loads more fun.’
‘I know.’
‘And now I have to move to Manchester.’
‘Yes! Congratulations, Tom, on getting the part. You must be pleased.’
‘The part? I knew it was in the bag as soon as the audition was over. Half way through, really. I could tell from the reaction.’
‘Congratulations again.’ The man’s ego was as big as a mountain. ‘Big career move, huh?’
‘Well, I’ve done television before, of course, Lots. But I guess a regular part won’t do me any harm for a while.’
‘No. Great.’
‘Thing is, Carrie darling, nice as it sounds, the pay cheque won’t kick in for month or more, so a little loan to help with the deposit on the rent wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘Won’t your agent advance you the cash?’
Tom snorted with laughter. ‘Angela? Tight as a rat’s arse with cash. No, darling, it’ll have to be you, I think.’
‘I’m a bit tight myself this month.’
This time the laughter was full-bellied. ‘Come on, Carrie, don’t give me that. Short of cash? You? A partner in a big law firm, with your luxury flat and your smart car and no family to spend the money on?’
‘I’m not a partner, Tom.’
‘But soon will be. Anyway, I’m not trying to fleece you, darling,’ he sounded nonchalant, ‘just borrow a few hundred quid.’
‘Do I hear an “or” somewhere?’
‘Or?’ He sounded injured. ‘Or? You think I’m trying to blackmail you? Darling Carrie, nothing could be further from the truth. Though come to think of it I don’t suppose your dear friend Jane would be too impressed if she knew you’d two-timed her in London.’
So she’d been right.
‘And I guess your boss there in that smart law firm in Edinburgh would be, shall we say, just a little surprised to learn of some of your extra-curricular activities.’
‘How much do you need, Tom?’
‘Very kind of you to offer, darling. A couple of grand would set me on my way and I wouldn’t need to trouble you again.’
‘A couple of grand?’
‘Come on, Carrie, what’s that to you?’
‘I could lend you five hundred.’
‘Oh I think not. I’ll need more than that to get the kind of flat I’ll need. It’s not so much, now, is it?’
Carrie sighed. There was little point in bargaining. Tom Vallely was very lacking in negotiating skills. ‘All right. Just this once.’
‘So sweet.’
‘Tell me where to send the money.’
‘A bank transfer would do just nicely, Carrie.’ He gave her the details. ‘What a pleasure it has been meeting you again.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure.’
‘Bye for now.’
‘Goodbye Tom. I’ll see you on the telly.’
She made the transfer at the bank in Stockbridge. Might as well get it over with. Half way up the hill, her pace slower now, she was beginning to set the incident aside and get her mind back on track, when her phone rang again.
‘Hi Jane, great to hear you,’ she answered, seeing the caller identity.
‘How could you, Carrie? Friends for ever we swore at school. D-don’t you remember? Friends. Is that what friends do? Well, is it?’
‘Sorry?’ Carrie said, taken aback by the ferocity of the verbal onslaught. ‘What are you talking about, Jane?’
‘You know what I’m talking about. Tom.’
‘Tom?’
Christ! She knows.
‘I asked you to take care of him and you—’ The stutter, magnifying by the word, seemed to lock Jane’s tongue in a complete knot. ‘—b-b-b-b-betrayed me.’
‘I didn’t. Jane, he told me it was over between you. He was just waiting for the best moment to tell you.’
The laugh that came down the line verged on the hysterical. ‘Don’t give me that. I was living with him. How could it be over?’
‘He told me—’
‘He told you. Right. And you believed him. You didn’t even think to ask me if we had a problem before you jumped into b-bed with him?’
I should have asked Jane, Carrie thought, of course I should. Jane was absolutely right – you simply don’t sleep with your best friend’s man.
The guilt Carrie had felt for all these years rushed towards her like a tsunami and threatened to engulf her. Every instinct told her to turn and flee to safe ground – but where was safe? No chance of running and little chance of turning back the wave either. Still, she tried.
‘I’m sorry, Jane. Really. So, so sorry. I didn’t mean to ... he told me ... I believed ... what can I say? How can I make this better?’
But Jane was crying now, great sobs that made talking almost impossible. Carrie picked out some words.
‘... Never trust you ... Emily ... Marta’s stealing my daughter ... I thought we were friends ...’
‘Jane, listen—’
How could she get her to calm down?
‘—I’ll come round. Let’s talk. We’ve got to talk, Jane.’
‘Fuck you, Carrie. Just fuck you.’
The line went dead.
Carrie stared at her phone.
Jane never swore – and she’d already transferred the money to Tom.
Christ, what a day.
Marta texted her four times in the afternoon, but Carrie, consumed with guilt about Jane and incandescent that Tom had manipulated her into giving him a great deal of cash, could not bear to get back to her. What would she say? Better to lie low.
Two messages from Marta on Tuesday. By Wednesday nothing.
Couldn’t be urgent.
The summons to the top floor came sooner than Carrie had anticipated.
‘Carrie? I know it’s short notice, but could you come up to the boardroom please?’
The polished voice of the well-groomed and super-efficient Pammie Wynne-Armstrong, Henry Frew’s right-hand woman, took Carrie by surprise. It was just two days after the rescheduled meeting with Sir Edward Chalmers.
‘What, now?’ she asked inelegantly.
‘Yes, please, if you can.’
‘Right. Of course. I’ll be there in five minutes.’
The partnership. That was all Carrie could think of as she strode purposefully to the loo to tidy up, thanking the heavens that she was wearing the Cavalli jacket and, by chance, a very fine gold necklace, her favourite. What had prompted her to select them this morning? Some deep, hidden sense of anticipation? Or pure luck? She fingered the necklace as she examined her reflection. At least the bruise had faded to a dull yellow that, finally, she had been able to browbeat into submission with a good tinted foundation. She took a brush out of her handbag and tidied her hair. Looking good.
Two minutes later she was knocking on the door of the boardroom.
‘Hello, come in.’
Pammie, who never had a sleek black hair out of place, opened the door for her and waved her to a vacant chair. Henry Frew, white-haired but remarkably vigorous looking, sat at the head of the table. Susan James, head of Human Resources, was on his right, Pammie was making her way back to her chair on his left, then there was Peter Shepherd, glancing up at her, then away, then down at his papers. She advanced a few steps, enjoying the feel of the deep, rich pile of the carpet under her feet. This was what it was all about. She could smell success.