Friends for Life Read online

  They drifted through the imposing entrance of the exclusive club in Berkeley Square and, as the others headed for the main room and the roulette tables, Vivienne was drawn to a smaller side room containing only a few people, all of them clustered round a green baize table watching two men play vingt-et-un. One was Lord Lucan, whom she already knew slightly; the other, the handsomest man Vivienne had ever seen. That was the first time she ever set eyes on Oliver Nugent. She knew at once she had to have him. It hadn’t been easy and later Vivienne tried to block out some of the details of the period leading to her marriage to Oliver.

  Well, the girl had been silly, there was no denying that, as well as almost certainly unstable too if you listened to just a fraction of the mutterings at the time. (William Hickey had hinted at it in the Express and it must have cost old man Hartley a pretty packet just to hush it up. Or so they said.) Face it, if she had really loved him the way Vivienne did right from the start, how could she possibly have just stood aside like a piece of wet lettuce and watched him being snared by another woman? It simply made no sense and to this day Vivienne felt she should not have been made to shoulder so much of the blame. She had endured an uncomfortable few weeks, during which she had popped home to Gloucestershire to look after her ailing mother, or so she said, and just lain low until the ugly rumors that were circulating had run their course and died down. Which, of course, they did eventually, leaving room for true love to win the day.

  Right from the start it was plain to Vivienne, and later also to her parents and their set, that this was indeed a marriage made in heaven. On that triumphant day in early March, when she stood on the steps of St. Margaret’s, listening to the roar of the crowd as she leaned on her husband’s arm, she had known for certain her fairy-tale romance was meant to be. She had conquered a great deal of adversity to get this far and intended to live happily ever after. Now, years later, she was still working at it.

  • • •

  The Ambassador’s party turned out to be more amusing than Vivienne had hoped, despite, once more, spending an evening without Oliver. Quite a number of her more fun friends were there, including the divinely decadent-looking painter Richard Brooke. Vivienne ended up joining them for supper at a stylish new bistro one of them knew in Battersea. It was farther afield than she was accustomed to go and she felt slightly wicked as she arrived home at The Boltons by taxi, slightly the worse for drink. The car was parked outside so Oliver must be home, but no light shone from the drawing room and even the bedroom was empty, with only the side lamps on and her nightdress neatly folded on the pillow. Vivienne kicked off her shoes, shrugged out of her fur, and stumbled back down the stairs for one more shot before she turned in. She made it a double, couldn’t be bothered to add ice, then scooped up Isabella, who was weaving and mewling around her ankles, and carried her up to bed.

  From the floor above she could see a dim light and hear the sound of distant talking. He was obviously incarcerated in his study, making late-night phone calls, and that could mean he’d be entrenched for hours. She considered interrupting him—it was her house too—then remembered the vodka she had drunk and thought better of it. He really hated it when she had too much to drink and although she knew she was totally in control, she could not face another ugly confrontation so late at night. With luck, she’d be safely asleep by the time he deigned to join her in the bedroom. She undressed swiftly, slid inside the peach satin nightgown, and dived into bed, leaving her makeup on. Isabella followed her and one of her claws snagged the expensive satin as Vivienne snuggled comfortably into her pillows.

  “Tomorrow morning, my duck,” she said, kissing the moist nose, “we’ll pop in to see Uncle Duncan and have your lovely paws properly manicured.”

  That cheered her up. A visit to the vet, no matter how light the pretext, always acted as a tonic, not least because she fancied him mightily. Not only did it get her adrenaline pumping but it gave her the illusion of doing something worthwhile, caring about her cats. She knew the sexual attraction was entirely reciprocated even if Duncan Ross was far too much of a gentleman to act upon it. That, after all, was part of the allure. Vivienne was used to being admired and there was no denying that the hunky Australian, with his relaxed manner and attractive drawl, did wonders for any girl’s morale. The Noble Savage, that was how she thought of him, and she had to admit to herself that she found it fairly thrilling simply to be in his presence. She had a recurring fantasy of him throwing her to the surgery floor and having his way with her while his other patients and that constipated receptionist sat quietly waiting in the crowded room outside.

  That was what she’d do tomorrow, and afterward she’d go and look at Saint Laurent. The new collection must be in by now. If she wasn’t quick off the mark she’d miss the best. Then, hearing a slight movement from above, she swallowed the contents of her glass in one gulp, dived beneath the covers, and feigned sleep, just like a guilty child.

  Chapter Three

  What Catherine liked best about her job was its contrast to the rest of her fairly tedious life. Just walking down the friendly little Kensington mews, with its uneven cobbles and picturesque hanging baskets, and inserting her own key into the pretty, blue-painted door, made her feel she belonged at last to the real world. It seemed like paradise after the stifling confinement of Albert Hall Mansions. She would have liked it well enough had she just been a cleaner or there to do the filing, but she was actually a receptionist in a much-respected Kensington veterinary practice, which gave her day a focus and a sense that she was doing something she enjoyed which was also useful and rewarding. At first she had only worked two afternoons a week, all the time her mother would allow and then only grudgingly, but as she grew more confident, she also gained in usefulness so that when the other receptionist took time off for maternity leave—a late baby and totally unexpected—the vet asked Catherine, as a personal favor, if she could possibly cover for her until things got back to normal. Catherine, overwhelmed after all these years at being actually needed, let alone noticed, overcame her fear of her mother’s petulance and agreed.

  It hadn’t been easy, of course. There had been monumental scenes at home, with slammed doors and heavy sulks and the usual song and dance, but for once Catherine had stood firm, surprising herself, and her mother even more. The new arrangement had become a fixture, even though the baby was now born and weaned and Vanessa back in the fold. Catherine worked for part of every weekday and was also available to do extra hours when necessary which, because the practice was thriving, meant more and more time clocked up each week. It made her feel really great. It was not the money, which could not have been further from the top of her list of priorities, but the fact that something very basic had altered in Catherine’s life. To her own surprise, she found she was actually happy—happier than she had thought it possible ever to be again.

  The vet, Duncan Ross, was a strong, calm and charismatic Australian, vital and full of energy. Catherine liked him a lot, largely because she felt at ease with him and he made her feel safe. She also liked the informality of the practice which, despite its smart address, had a door constantly open to all comers, while providing a service that was both efficient and humane. Duncan’s reputation was widespread and Catherine felt a warm glow at belonging to his small team, in a way part of his extended family. Walking home at night along the busy Gloucester Road, worn out from another stressful day spent answering the telephone, updating the records, and doing her level best to stay calm when other people were panicking and sometimes being difficult and occasionally rude, she had the satisfying feeling of a good day’s work well done, something she had not experienced for years. Occasionally they had a drama, even a tragedy, and it was a rare day she didn’t feel she was really contributing. For that reason alone, life had taken on a whole new meaning.

  Duncan was quite wonderful to work for. Despite his size—he was six-foot-four and muscular with it—he had the gentlest of touches with his small, nervous patients and
a natural affinity with anything four-footed, which meant that even the most panic-stricken animal rapidly grew calm under the soothing probing of his skillful fingers. Animals trusted him, and so did their owners. The quivering acceptance in the eyes of the creature on the examination table Catherine saw reflected in the owner; if anyone could make things better, Duncan could. Quite a number of his regular customers were openly and longingly in love with him and, even after all these months, Catherine’s own heart beat that much faster whenever he was near, a feeling she found pleasurable but also a little scary.

  Animals were Duncan’s passion and he was lucky enough to have found his vocation at an early age. The kindness in his bearded face as he examined a sick pet was truly inspirational, yet in many ways he remained something of a man of mystery. He was always alert to other people’s problems, prepared to listen to the most trivial of worries and hand out advice when it was asked for, yet, Catherine had learned, he very rarely said anything about himself. He came from Western Australia, by way of the Chicago stockyards, was fortyish, single, and extremely attractive, but beyond that his life was a closed book. Which, of course, only served to make him that much more alluring. Catherine was constantly having to fend off inquisitions from fascinated pet owners curious about his private life and availability, and, as a result, had grown fiercely protective of him.

  Just the prospect of seeing him made her leap out of bed in the mornings, while the very nature of the work brought its own catharsis. For the first time in years, at least while she was in the surgery, she knew a sort of peace. At last her life had found some meaning again. These days she walked with a sprightlier step and her pale eyes were that much brighter so that even Duncan Ross, preoccupied though he so often was with his work, became aware of the subtle change. Amazing, he thought to himself with compassion, at times she can be almost pretty.

  • • •

  It was late afternoon on this particular Friday and the last few patients were in the waiting room, pressed up together like passengers on a Calcutta bus. Duncan had it about right; he had no time for what he called fripperies so that, no matter how much money came rolling into the lucrative practice, most of it was plowed straight back into improved conditions for the animals and the latest and most advanced scientific equipment. Pandering to the comfort of the owners who actually paid his bills came at the bottom of his list but Catherine rarely heard anyone complain; far from it. For some odd reason, being with animals seemed to tame even the most difficult and cantankerous of the regulars, and women who would not normally be able to sit still for more than five minutes at the hairdresser’s without calling for attention or demanding coffee or to use the phone would wait indefinitely without so much as a murmur until Duncan was free to cast his eye over their own beloved pet. That was the thing about animals, they were tremendous levelers. And it certainly didn’t hurt that most of the owners fancied the vet rotten.

  Perched behind the computer, being in charge, was the part Catherine liked best. It gave her a feeling of belonging, something she really wasn’t used to. The phone rang constantly, which in other circumstances might have rattled her, particularly when Mother was going through one of her more trying phases and Catherine’s head was heavy from a night without much sleep, but here, surprisingly, she found she could cope. The animals were adorable and not all of them sick, and she even enjoyed chatting to their owners, many of whom seemed keen to linger and unload some of their anxieties onto her. It was, she realized, like nursing all over again, a bit like being a priest or a shrink, somewhere to take the weight off your feet and a load off your mind. Mainly she felt proud to be doing something so worthwhile. She had, if she were honest, taken up nursing in the first place in order to escape from the hell of home but also because she did basically take life seriously and wanted to feel she could do some good in the world as a contrast to the hollow environment in which she had been raised.

  Growing up in embassies, with all the pomp and ceremony that involved, had not really constituted a proper childhood, in addition to which she had also had to endure the nerve-wracking experience of being constantly on the edge of the limelight with a mother who was feted as an international star. Catherine had inherited her father’s reserve and still cringed with distaste at the memory of all that glitter and glory which had, fortunately, come to an abrupt end with her father’s tragically early death. Then, they had been obliged to clear out of the embassy in Vienna and return, somewhat ignominiously, to London where they had both lived in semi-seclusion ever since. Lady Palmer still chafed at the loss of the diplomatic life but Catherine, much though she had loved her father, felt a quiet relief. Life with Mama was by no means easy at the best of times but at least it meant she could return to some semblance of a normal life. And, after all those sterile years, here she was, at last, doing her bit to help make some other wretched creature’s day a little brighter. It was more than she might have hoped for; she knew she was lucky to have been given a second chance.

  The patients in the waiting room were a fairly representative selection of the mixture of types who floated in to see Duncan on a regular basis. A depressed-looking woman in head scarf and mackintosh sat close to the door, hugging against her knees an elderly Alsatian with rheumy eyes and a pronounced limp, while next to her—engaged in lively and slightly overloud conversation—were the Plunkett-Smiths, an aging baronet with a facial tic that Duncan said denoted generations of inbreeding, with his brittle, arriviste third wife, whose face grew sourer yet more blandly unlined on each successive visit.

  Perched on the shoulder of the baronet’s overcoat was a splendid scarlet macaw, watching the activity in the room with an alert eye and muttering to himself in a low tone. Catherine really liked Hercules, the bird, who came in every few months to have his claws and beak trimmed, but she was altogether less sure about Sir Lionel and his lady, in reality a long-forgotten Rank starlet who had been clawing her way up the lower echelons of the aristocracy ever since. Mama, in her snobbish way, would certainly not approve of them, but then those who did pass the acid test of Eleanor Palmer’s approval were very rare creatures indeed.

  There was the crunch of tires in the mews, the muted slam of an expensive door, and in came the beautiful and stylish Mrs. Nugent, clutching one of her exotic Burmese cats. Now Catherine could relax and smile. She genuinely like Vivienne Nugent, who was a regular dropper-in. Despite what Vanessa, her colleague, said about her having it in her to be a right bitch-on-wheels at times, Catherine had never found her anything but charming. She also liked the beautiful cats, who resembled their owner with their grace and beauty and large luminous eyes.

  Vivienne returned her smile distractedly, placed Isabella on the bench beside her, and slowly unwound the silk scarf from around her neck. She nodded slightly to the Plunkett-Smiths and scratched the bird’s extended neck with one manicured nail. Lady Plunkett-Smith, ingratiating as always, flashed two rows of perfectly capped teeth and graciously moved up a little so that Vivienne could squeeze into the space beside her, like rush-hour travelers on the tube.

  “It’s hot in here,” she announced, ignoring Catherine’s presence. “You’d think he’d have air-conditioning at the very least.”

  Take your fur coat off, then, you stupid woman, responded Catherine silently, and saw her feelings reflected in the brilliant eyes of Mrs. Nugent, who looked as if she might even slip her a wink. Right on cue, the buzzer went to summon the next patient, and as the Plunkett-Smiths rose to take their turn, the rest of the waiting room could see that Hercules had done a number right down the back of the baronet’s expensive coat. At least, thought Catherine, the bird has taste.

  “It is a little warm,” confessed Vivienne, once the door had closed behind them, fanning herself with a cat AIDS leaflet as she crossed one elegant knee over the other. “For the time of year, that is.” And gave an apologetic smile.

  Isabella stretched and yawned, then stepped daintily back onto her mistress’s lap. There was nothin
g wrong with her, Catherine could see from the shine on her coat that she was in tiptop condition, but Vivienne was always fretting about her cats and it was, Catherine supposed, better to be safe than sorry, particularly when you had the wherewithal to pay the exorbitant bills. Although any thought on the subject of pregnancy brought Catherine out in a cold sweat, she couldn’t help being curious about Vivienne. It seemed odd that she had never had children. Then she shook her head in irritation at the pettiness of the thought. None of your business, she told herself sharply, as she did so often. Keep your nose out of other people’s lives if you want them to do the same by you. Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about Vivienne, draped so elegantly in front of her as if the uncomfortable bench were a quilted sofa in the Palm Court at the Ritz. Poor soul, she reflected. Probably some health problem she’s far too brave to mention.

  She looked at her and politely enquired about the racing calendar and whether Vivienne was going to be at Ascot again this year. Vivienne smiled wanly. It was, she confided, the most awful bore but yes, dear friends always organized a party and she could not let them down.

  “Though I doubt my husband will make it,” she said. “Something always seems to come up on the other side of the world and I end up having to drag out there on my own. Usually in pouring rain.”