Friends for Life Page 4

  Duncan appeared, ushering out the Plunkett-Smiths, who stopped for a further word with Vivienne and promised her an invitation to dinner, very soon.

  Duncan grinned broadly at the sight of Vivienne, and Catherine watched her light up inside. How well she understood that feeling; a woman like Vivienne, with so many other things going for her, deserved only the best and Duncan was so wonderful he could probably have any woman he wanted, if only he could be bothered. Despite her midnight longings for him, Catherine knew she was nowhere in his league, but Vivienne Nugent was something else entirely. In a way it was a pity she was already married. By anyone’s standards, Duncan Ross would be a most colossal catch and Catherine had always favored happy endings.

  The woman with the Alsatian followed Duncan into the surgery and Catherine nipped out from behind her desk and slipped the bolt on the door. That was it for the weekend, thank God. All emergencies were automatically rerouted to the other surgery.

  “How’s your mother?” Vivienne asked. Catherine was touched she remembered.

  She shrugged. “Much as ever.”

  That said it all, though Vivienne was not to know since Catherine was rarely expansive. She had learned long ago that this sort of question was nearly always rhetorical, that most people were too immersed in their own problems to care about yours. Still, it was nice of her to ask.

  Vivienne flicked open a thin gold compact and quickly checked herself in the mirror. Even here, in the shabby waiting room, she acted as if she were playing center stage, something Catherine was more than a little accustomed to with her own mama. Well, good luck to her. Catherine had often seen Vivienne’s photograph in one or other of the glossy magazines littering the surgery, and envied her dazzling self-assurance as well as the opulent lifestyle that apparently protected her from the starker realities of life. Hers was obviously a real fairy-tale marriage, for her husband was equally prominent (she saw him too, in the City pages) and gorgeous as well. So what if her pampered cats did have imaginary ailments and rarely needed anything more serious than the occasional nail clip? At least she took proper care of them.

  Today, Vivienne wore beige suede, with a casually draped Hermès scarf and slim, well-fitted lace-up shoes which subtly displayed her shapely calves and the elegance of her feet. The discreet gold pin on her lapel had the distinctive mark of Cartier, and three interlocking bands of different-colored gold encircled her delicate wrist to match the Russian wedding ring. Small wonder Duncan was such a fan. This one was the genuine article. Even an Aussie could tell.

  • • •

  Eleanor was practicing her scales when Catherine let herself into the flat later and hung her maroon raincoat on the antlered hall stand in the lobby. She could hear the full, fruity voice, still excellent for its time of life, warbling up and down with gusto from the room that these days was designated the music room. She carried her library books into the kitchen, switched on the kettle and the old black-and-white television to catch the seven o’clock news, then went on through to greet her mother.

  Eleanor stood in front of the grand piano, dressed dramatically in purple from head to foot. Today, because they were expecting no company, her hair was tied up in a garish chiffon scarf but she was wearing her full war paint, including eyelashes, plus the famous pearls she was hardly ever without. She ran through a few phrases from Aida, then leaned forward and extended one puffy cheek for her daughter’s kiss. She smelled of eau-de-Cologne and sickly sweet talcum powder, as if fresh air never touched her, which, in fact, it rarely did. She didn’t ask how Catherine’s day had been—the subject of Catherine’s newfound independence was still very much a war zone between them—just peered at the faded sheet music on the piano and launched into Lucia di Lammermoor’s dying aria.

  Eleanor Palmer had always been supremely selfish. It was one of her most distinctive traits and something her downtrodden daughter secretly envied. Her primary reaction to her husband’s early death had been irritation, for it caused them to quit the Embassy at the height of the season and leave Vienna, which was, so she insisted, her spiritual home. Now that Eleanor was comfortably ensconced next to the Albert Hall, her London social life was at its height, and her musical soirées as firmly a part of drawing-room society as they had been when she was still the wife of an ambassador. Eleanor was coping with widowhood with her usual aplomb. As the years went by she grew statelier and more impressive and her voice, that glorious gift, still rang forth across the rooftops of Kensington Gore until Catherine had visions of poor Prince Albert on his lonely throne across the road clapping bronze hands over anguished ears to shut out the racket. But that, she knew, was ungenerous. If she only had one iota of her mother’s spunk, she’d never have let her own life get into such an unholy mess.

  It was ten to seven now, and soon the old girl would be wanting her supper, so Catherine slipped back to the kitchen to start preparing the poached haddock with spinach and an egg that was frequently their Friday fare. First she poured a couple of glasses of amontillado sherry and put them on a tray with a dish of salted peanuts, ready for the imperious summons once the music practice was at an end. Soon the Proms would be starting again and then all would be crazy activity for six weeks or so. A stream of overseas visitors would pour into London and Eleanor would have the supreme pleasure of once more playing the famous diva and inviting the cream of them to her personal box in the Royal Albert Hall, from where she could mince and scrape like an eighteenth-century Florentine noblewoman acknowledging her courtiers. It was perfectly sickening but something which had to be endured. And at least it provided a blessed diversion for Mama.

  Catherine had brought home the evening paper and perched herself on a kitchen stool to skim its pages while she waited for the news headlines on Channel 4. It went against Eleanor’s grand ideas to have a television in the kitchen, or indeed anywhere else in the flat, but this one remained from the days when they kept a Filipino girl and since now it was Catherine who did most of the cooking, Eleanor’s snobbish remarks went unheeded. Another dreary Friday night with storm clouds gathering and a sadistic weatherman promising squally showers in the south with nothing to break the tedium of the weekend, unless Eleanor demanded her presence at church.

  As Catherine read, she lit a cigarette, then, without thinking, lit another before the first was even finished. She glanced through the television programs for the next two days but there was nothing on that really caught her fancy except her favorite medical soap on Saturday. Her mother would not permit her to watch it, and though it sounded cowardly, she really couldn’t face the constant battle. There was a time when Catherine had possessed a certain amount of spirit but the fight had left her long ago and she had resigned herself to the knowledge that the line of least resistance was the only way to live harmoniously with Mama.

  The sounds from the music room had faded so she tossed the paper aside and unwrapped the fish from its greaseproof paper. She laid both pieces in a white enameled casserole that had seen better days—oh, how mind-blowingly tedious this whole rigmarole had become—then poured on a little milk and dotted it with bits of butter and a sprinkling of black pepper. She glanced round the kitchen with its serviceable white walls that had not seen a fresh coat of paint in the years they had lived there and its high, ornate ceiling which vanished into the shadows along with the cobwebs. When she became aware of the cigarette smoke, Catherine pried open the window a fraction, wedging it with the handle of the dishmop to let in some air before her mother noticed and caused one of her routine scenes.

  Then she picked up the silver tray and carried the sherry through to the drawing room where her mother was arranging herself in her accustomed chair. Next on the agenda would be ten minutes or so of stilted cocktail chat before they moved back into the kitchen for supper and, if Catherine was lucky and Eleanor was feeling gracious, the last fifteen minutes or so of Coronation Street. It was pathetic. Even Eleanor agreed these days that it was a shame to dirty their best linen when only the tw
o of them were home, and a sneaky glance at the despised television did help to get them through the meal.

  The weatherman had been right and outside the rain was already sluicing down, effectively obliterating the hideous canvas canopy that shrouded the ornate structure of the Albert Memorial and would for the rest of Catherine’s natural life, if the latest newspaper reports were to be believed. Why did they have to do this sort of thing, the powers that be, and deprive the ordinary people of another little everyday pleasure at a time when unemployment was high and the future of the world seemed bleak? Life was sometimes so meaninglessly sad. Catherine sipped her sherry and let her mind wander back to the time long ago when she had once, fleetingly, been happy.

  Chapter Four

  There was a note on the door when she got back from the laundry, telling her to join them at the pub. She dumped the two full pillowcases on the kitchen table, ran her fingers through her tumble of tawny hair, and long-legged it back down the steps and around the corner to the Earls Court Road. It was a glorious holiday lunchtime at the end of August. A clear blue sky but the nip of something serious in the air—time, her juices told her, to be thinking of moving on.

  “Hi, Sal!”

  Dave and Sam were settled at a wooden table on the pavement, full tankards before them, legs stretched out along the benches, making the whole table their territory. She grinned as they made room for her and took a swig from Dave’s full pintpot as Sam went off to fetch her one of her own. Living with a group of guys certainly had its pluses. It was a good time, a golden time, and she was glad she had made it to London.

  A fine spiral of wood smoke rose from the tennis courts opposite, behind the garden center where they were already burning leaves.

  “Well, old muckers,” said Dave, their leader, stretching out full length to make the most of the retreating sun. “So what are our plans?”

  “Plans?” For a second she was startled. Had he read her thoughts?

  “Plans. What are we going to do? The last bank holiday until Christmas, remember.”

  “Oh.” Sally relaxed and tucked her knees, in their tight jeans, childlike under her chin.

  “Do we have to do anything? Can’t we just sit?”

  It was a comfortable group and for the time being she was content. She had met them in Amsterdam, at a bar in the Joordaan on one of the lesser canals, got on with them, and followed them to London where they shared two floors of a house in Lexham Gardens, right on the edge of the Earls Court Road. “Kangaroo Valley” it used to be called because of the preponderance of Aussie and Kiwi visitors, but that was a term you didn’t hear so much these days.

  “Carnival?” suggested Sam, the broker, from his bench on the other side of the table. He loved watching Sally, found it hard to keep his eyes off her, for which he was constantly being ragged by the others. He gloried in her beauty and absolute lack of inhibition. She was a child of nature, free as a feral kitten with her mane of tawny hair, her freckled skin, and those strange translucent eyes that were as clear and as shallow as a rock pool yet at the same time oddly unfathomable.

  Jeremy came strolling round the corner from the direction of the flat, hands stuck into blazer pockets, head down, thinking. Sam waved and Sally immediately straightened, arching her back and running languid fingers through her hair, displaying her delectable breasts under the skimpy T-shirt and the wide smile that welcomed the world indiscriminately. Sam gritted his teeth. He wished she would not be so blatant, that the attraction of the Englishman were not so apparent, but that was Sally all over, heart forever on her sleeve, incapable of dissembling. Jeremy crossed the road to join them, flipping his fingers to the barman inside to indicate that they all needed a drink. He sat astride the bench next to Sally and grinned at them.

  “This round’s on me. I won a hundred and sixty pounds on a nag at Cheltenham on Saturday. Not bad going on an outsider.”

  Sally pulled a floppy cotton sunhat down onto her unruly hair and fixed her catlike eyes on him from under its brim. Whenever Jeremy was around she seemed quite mesmerized, though why was not at all clear, at least to Sam. Dave was taller, broader, far more fit, while he himself was no mean looker, or so the girls back home had always allowed him to believe. Jeremy was nothing special, your average condescending middle-class Englishman, slightly on the weedy side if he was going to be dead honest, but with an edge to his wit and an aura of being in charge which dated back, Sam supposed, to the days of the Raj. Whereas his own ancestors had arrived in Botany Bay aboard a convict ship, so legend had it.

  He hated to see Sal mooning over Jeremy like this. She was worth ten tight-arsed Englishmen any day, only she didn’t appear to realize it. It was all part of her charm. The truth was he had adored her ever since that moment four months ago by the canal, when she had first come loping along with the sun on her hair and a light in her eye that they had all found instantly challenging. They had liked her looks right then but before any of them had had a chance to make a move on her she had dumped her knapsack on the ground and perched on the wall of the lock in front of them, long legs swinging.

  “Hi, guys. What’s cooking?”

  And that was it, more or less. She had been with them ever since, attaching herself quite naturally to the group without any need for explanation. Sally Brown was a free spirit and now seemed always to have been part of their lives. Like them, she was a New Zealander, cruising the world on her own and, as it happened, vaguely headed to London. She had simply tagged along. There was room in the flat for another small one since one of their fellow Kiwis had just moved on, and Sally filled the slot, fitting in as naturally as any of the boys. She couldn’t cook, which might have been a minus, but then neither could Rod, as Sam was quick to point out. And she was better looking than Rod, and her socks smelled better.

  She was also terribly good-tempered and didn’t mind doing her share, though she needed someone to give her a gentle prod. Today she had done the laundry but really only because it was her turn. She never seemed to have much cash to spare yet nonetheless managed to get by. She worked sporadically at whatever came her way but never seemed fazed when she drew a blank and never, ever complained. If she hadn’t any money, then she went without. It didn’t seem to worry her that her clothes were shabby and her scuffed cowboy boots rapidly nearing the end of their life. She was a good sport, was old Sal. She had brought a light into all their lives and they were the better for it. Except, Sam thought, for this awful ache in his heart and his groin which was going to have to remain a secret until he could think of a way of resolving things.

  “We were just discussing what to do today,” said Dave, opening his eyes and levering himself into a sitting position as the barman set down foaming pintpots and collected the empties. “It is, after all, August Bank Holiday and we’re already halfway through it.”

  “We were talking about the Carnival,” said Sam, but Jeremy shook his head.

  “Naagh. Too crowded and not all it’s cracked up to be. Once you’ve seen a couple of floats and burst your eardrums on all those ghetto-blasters you’re lucky to get out without being knifed.”

  “But it’s also the biggest street carnival outside Rio,” argued Dave, irritated as he was so often by the opinionated Englishman. “They’re expecting three million punters this year. We should at least take a peek while we’re here. We might not get another chance.”

  Sam agreed. “I’m game. How about the rest of you? Coming, Sal?”

  He tried not to see the glance she shot at Jeremy, then breathed more freely when she nodded. That was another thing about Sally, she was always in there, ready for any challenge. She was brave and fearless and unstoppable. In the time they’d known her, they had taken her rollerblading in the park, hang-gliding near Dunstable where Jeremy’s family had a country cottage, sailing off the Norfolk coast, even pony-trekking in the New Forest, at which she had excelled. She’d grown up in the country, she told them, though she revealed little else. The boys accepted her just as
she was but Sam noticed, as he noticed everything, that she seemed not to like to hark back to old times, to her life in New Zealand before she hit the road. For one who gave so much of herself to so many, Sally Brown was a surprisingly difficult nut to crack.

  Jeremy glanced at his watch, then up at the sky, and shook his head. The sun still shone but there were dark clouds gathering ominously on the horizon, typical bank holiday weather.

  “Count me out. I promised Simon I’d meet him at The Windsor Castle for a few jars, then we’re going to Radlett to watch the Old Boys play.”

  Unhurriedly he rose to his feet, dusted himself down, then, almost as an afterthought, glanced at Sally.

  “Coming?” he said, without much conviction.

  “Oh, okay.”

  She hesitated for only a second, then, cramming her silly hat down on her glorious hair and grinning at the others, she leapt off the bench and followed him up the Earls Court Road.

  “Just like a little dog,” murmured Dave lazily.

  But Sam was not in the mood.

  “Cut it out,” he said savagely.

  And right on cue, typical of the British climate he had grown to respect, the first drop of rain splashed on his hand.

  • • •

  As it turned out, the Carnival was a riot and they stayed till the bitter end, despite the sporadic rain. When the crowds began to disperse, Sam and Dave split to an Indian restaurant in the Old Brompton Road and mopped up the copious amounts of beer they had consumed with chicken vindaloo and masses of pilau rice and naan bread. Dave wanted to go on drinking but Sam knew when he had had enough, so they drifted back to Lexham Gardens and were inside and slumped in front of the telly by ten, more cans of Foster’s in their hands.

  The flat was silent. No sign of Jeremy or Sally. Sam tried not to care as he passed the open door of her room and saw the usual mess—unmade bed and clothes all over the place as if she had been burgled. Jeremy’s door was ominously closed, but then it usually was, and since there was no sound from within, and the lights in the hall and passageway had not been turned on, it was obvious they had not yet returned from their cricket match. The evening was oppressively warm with occasional muted mutterings of thunder on the air.