Kitabı oku: «Glittering Fortunes», sayfa 5

CHAPTER TEN

THE MORNING AFTER Saffron on the Sea, Olivia arrived at Usherwood early. The calm, quiet hours she spent in the gardens were a far cry from the hectic pace of city life, squashed in on the rush-hour tube or queuing for sandwiches in a café on Holborn, and while she was still hoping to get enough cash together by the end of the month to put down a deposit on a flat, she had to admit that being back at the cove was making her happy. With every day that passed she felt herself growing calmer, more centred and more like her old self—and she’d started drawing again.

‘Something’s got you inspired,’ Florence had commented at the weekend as Olivia had torn yet another page from her sketchbook. ‘Or should I say someone?’

‘Whatever, Mum.’

‘I’m just saying …’

‘Well, don’t.’

The last thing she needed was another lecture about Addy. It was so annoying!

Why did everyone feel the need to get involved in her love life? No wonder she hadn’t brought home either of the guys she’d dated in London, if this was the kind of interrogation they’d face. She ignored the voice that suggested it was because one had been a stoner who spent his entire time ‘gaming’ with nine-year-olds in Japan, while the other’s name had been Nimrod—he was Jewish, though, to be fair.

There was a mountain of weeding to be done and Olivia wanted to plant the geranium seeds before lunch. Her mother had given her a box of vegetable roots from the allotment and made her swear to ask Mr Lomax about them. All that space and he hasn’t got room for potatoes? Florence had wedged the crate into her pannier.

Olivia wasn’t sure what Charlie had room for in his life. He was perpetually indifferent. He never spoke to her. He never looked at her. He never touched her. Not that she wanted him to touch her, but just little things, like when he came to check on her progress and she held out a bulb, plump as a miniature gourd and gritty with soil, and he would never take it from her. Or if Barbara gave her a cup of tea to bring to him and he would never accept it directly, just keep on with whatever he was doing and wait for Olivia to leave it there, offering only a curt and dismissive, ‘Thank you.’ Or when she’d tripped one day in the Sundial Garden, putting out her hands to break her fall, and he could easily have caught her, but he hadn’t.

He seemed to go out of his way to escape having any kind of contact with her. If she had been the sensitive type, it might have upset her, but it wasn’t her business to dwell on the reasons for his withdrawal and so she didn’t bother taking it to heart. She didn’t like him, so there was only so far she could bring herself to care.

‘Breakfast!’ Barbara’s call travelled across from the house.

Olivia dusted off her knees, waving over the top of the wall to indicate that she’d heard. The orange bricks were mapped with vines that were brittle with age and perishing in the heat—climbing rose and wisteria and clematis, once upon a time—and the soil beds were crusted with earth, their borders collapsing. Beaten gravel paths ran towards a central kidney-shaped plot that years ago would have bragged an abundance of colour, azaleas, rhododendrons, fragrant lavender, but now was obscured in a burst of overgrown shrubs. It was more a wilderness than a garden, yet all it took was a bud pushing through the dirt, a swallow coming to rest on the dappled stone bath and beating its wings in a puddle of rain, or the sun setting behind the towering oak and throwing it into a heavenly blaze, to reassure Olivia that everything was salvageable. There was still life here, if you knew where to look.

She crossed to the house, aromas of black coffee and smoky bacon seeping into the morning. In the hall Sigmund was gulping noisily at a bowl of water, sandy paw prints dotted across the stones from where he’d been down on the beach. She glanced around for Charlie but couldn’t see him.

‘I hope you’re hungry,’ said Barbara as she entered the kitchen. Caggie was at the window buttering doorstop slabs of toast, and smiled when she saw her.

‘Starving.’

‘You’d better be. We had a delivery from Ben Nancarrow this morning—sausages, eggs, milk, you name it.’ Barbara poured the coffee. ‘He dropped by earlier, called it “a token of my admiration”. Cato always did know how to attract attention.’

Olivia’s tummy grumbled. After last night’s fall-out the evening had wound quickly to a close, with Cato angrily bolting his seafood and Olivia finding she couldn’t eat a thing. Susanna had chattered merrily about her plans for the party, prompting Cato to leap up and order a bottle of the establishment’s finest champagne, which he’d proceeded to quaff almost entirely himself.

‘This looks delicious,’ she exclaimed as Caggie deposited a plate in front of her. It was piled high with creamy scrambled eggs, herby mushrooms and crispy potato cakes, thick, salty rashers and sausages that popped with greasy flavour.

Susanna drifted in. She was bereft of make-up, a turban wound elaborately round her head. Immediately she put a hand to her mouth, her shoulders heaving.

‘Goodness, are you all right?’ asked Barbara.

Tightly she nodded. She was wearing a floating peach robe, and on her feet were dainty slippers with furry baubles on the front. Olivia had caught the end of one of her movies last year, a fluffy chick-flick about an eternal bridesmaid, and knew her friends would die to know she was sitting down to breakfast with its leading lady.

‘I’m seriously unwell,’ Susanna croaked, sinking into a chair.

Barbara was alarmed. ‘Do you need a doctor?’

‘I need caffeine.’

‘Here.’ Barbara was quick to oblige. ‘Have you a temperature?’

‘Something I ate,’ Susanna managed, casting a sickened squint at Olivia’s breakfast and turning a deeper shade of green. ‘I had to cut off a call to my agent, I felt so appalling. Just some dry toast, please, Mrs Bewlis-Teet.’

‘Right away.’

‘I hope it wasn’t something I cooked,’ offered Caggie.

Susanna glanced at her sharply.

‘You poor thing,’ said Olivia sympathetically. ‘Was it the seafood?’

Susanna checked the other women were otherwise occupied. She leaned in.

‘You do realise this house is haunted?’ she whispered hoarsely.

Olivia blinked. ‘No. I didn’t realise that.’

‘I heard her. Last night. A woman, crying out.’ She shuddered. ‘I was beside myself with fear. I don’t think I can sleep another night in this place.’

‘Old houses make all sorts of noises,’ comforted Olivia. ‘I expect it was the wind. Buildings like this throw sound all over the place.’

‘Whatever it was, it’s left me with the most piercing headache. That’s how I know this was a supernatural intervention.’

Olivia spiked a mushroom and put it in her mouth.

‘My psychic,’ Susanna went on, ‘she says I’m a vessel for these things.’

‘A vessel?’

‘The headache’s brought on by exhaustion. I’ve been working though the night, you see, connecting with the spirits.’ She straightened as Barbara returned with the toast. Alone again, she hissed, ‘Unfinished business, that’s what these energies are about. They simply cannot rest until the past has been rectified, until they’ve claimed their dues, and it takes somebody like me to facilitate that.’

‘Wow. That’s quite a responsibility.’

‘You’re telling me. Usherwood is swimming in it. She’ll be back.’

‘Who?’

‘The ghost, of course.’

‘How about some fresh air?’ Caggie dropped down opposite with a plate and a mug of tea. ‘A brisk walk might do you good.’

‘I’m too fragile to venture outside on my own.’

‘I’m sure the dogs will go with you.’

‘The dogs?’ Susanna echoed disgustedly.

‘Where’s Cato?’ Olivia asked.

Caggie said, ‘Still in bed, I should think.’

Susanna pursed her lips. ‘That’s right,’ she muttered. ‘And I should know, since I’m the one who left him there.’

After a feeble endeavour with the crusts, she retreated to her chambers. Olivia joined Caggie at the sink to help with the washing up.

‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ she asked. ‘Susanna thinks she heard some strange sounds in the night.’

Caggie smiled. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I do believe in night-time noises, but more often than not they’re in the land of the very much alive.’

Olivia took the back route out to the gardens, through the drawing room and on to the covered porch, from where the geometric lines of the greenhouse could be seen through the arches, glinting in the sun. The door to the library was ajar and she went to it, recalling her mother’s allotment offering, and tapped gently.

There was no answer.

She stood for a moment, thinking what to do. She ought to walk away, but her surroundings were so quiet, and the curiosity that had landed her in it on more than one occasion so great, that she found herself applying the slightest touch of pressure.

The door swung open to reveal a handsome office, wall to wall filled with books. A sliding ladder awarded access to a higher mezzanine, and a semicircular balcony jutted out above a large bust of Richmond Lomax. The smell was of leather, sandalwood and a recently burned fire. A bureau was opened to reveal scattered papers and hastily handwritten notes, and in the corner of the room a grandfather clock ticked mournfully. At the window was an impressive antique globe, polished by sunlight, and in the distance she could make out the dense green smudge of the forest.

She crossed the threshold. A mist of dust was suspended, dancing in the haze, and she felt if she walked straight through it she would leave an imprint, a mark of her trespass, like a hole punched in paper.

Without meaning to, Olivia came to his desk. Her fingers hovered over the clutch on the drawer, before slowly easing it open.

Inside was a jumble of ink-dry pens, loose drawing pins and a stapler snapped at its spine. She fed a hand in and caught the sharp corner of a piece of paper, which she slid into view. It was a black-and-white photograph of a young woman, worn at the edges as though it had been handled many times. She lifted it out.

At first Olivia thought she was looking at Beatrice Lomax, before deciding it was too contemporary. This looked as if it had been taken in the last five years.

The subject was reclining in the shade of a tree—here at Usherwood, Olivia guessed—and she wore a white vest with a pretty lace collar, beneath which the picture was severed. A loop of hair was wound around her finger and a playful smile danced on her lips. There was a glimmer in her eye, of secrets, of intimacy, that suggested she was sleeping with whomever was behind the camera.

Olivia brought the image closer. She flipped it round. On the back it read: Now and always x

Her phone beeped. It made her jump, the tinny chirrup at odds with this dusty, hi story-soaked space. She placed the photo on the desk and scooped the phone from her pocket. An unrecognised number flashed up and she clicked on the message.

Drink at the Anchor, Friday, seven p.m.? Addy x

Pleasure soaked through her. She stared at it.

Get a grip, Olivia.

She couldn’t help it. Was it a date? It sounded like a date. A flurry of butterflies flew free in her tummy. There was a kiss on there. He never did that.

Quickly she replaced his number with the old one she had for him. Her fingers were shaking. She told herself off for being silly.

She was fumbling to compose her reply when a voice came from the doorway:

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

The phone slipped from Olivia’s hand and she scrambled to retrieve it.

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, ‘I, er …’

‘This is private.’ Charlie’s stare was fierce, his words violently quiet.

‘Of course.’ She moved towards the door. He grabbed her elbow. It hurt.

‘What were you looking for?’

‘Nothing, I—’

‘Something you could sell to the papers?’

‘No.’ She was wounded he would think that of her. Td never do that. The door was open and I … I don’t know.’ Her mouth went dry. Why did he have to look at her like that, stripping her naked, making her feel like a silly like child?

‘Let me go.’

Their faces were inches apart. He was huge, his frame engulfing hers. His grip was painful. ‘I told you when you started here that the house owes you nothing,’ he said. ‘This is a job, do you understand? Not a fucking museum.’

‘I understand.’

He released her. ‘Never let me find you here again.’

She rubbed her arm. It was the same he had tended to the night Cato had knocked her down. A confusion of feelings assailed her and she translated them as anger. How dare Charlie Lomax make her feel like this? How dare he bully her, intimidate her with his size, his presence, his aristocracy, the advantage of his sex?

‘I won’t,’ she retorted. ‘Don’t worry.’

He frowned at her hard.

‘You work for me,’ he told her. ‘Watch what you say.’

What she said? There was only one person in this room who needed to get their attitude checked. The words were free before she could swallow them.

‘I’ve told you I’m sorry,’ she answered furiously. ‘What do you want me to do, beg? A working relationship goes both ways, you know. You can’t demand respect if you’ve never shown any to me, and from where I’m sitting you haven’t even bothered. You think that because of who you are and because of what you have we should all bow down and worship the ground you walk on—well, that’s not me and it never will be, and if that disappoints you then I suggest you find someone else to sort out your precious estate. Perhaps if you weren’t so aggressive all the time, I might have a better idea where I stand. Perhaps if you weren’t so shut off I mightn’t be afraid to say two words to you in the morning. Perhaps if you talked to me once in a while I might like you a bit more. Perhaps if you cared at all about other people or what they might be feeling then you’d have a shot at understanding what I’m on about. I’m only trying to do the right thing here; I’m only trying to do my job. I’m sorry if you feel I’ve overstepped the mark, but it’s not my fault Cato drags me along to things just so he doesn’t have to spend time alone with you.’

Charlie watched her, steady except for a lightning flinch. It was like glimpsing the solution to a profound mathematical equation, only to have it snatched away.

His eyes fell on the desk, as she had known they would.

He picked up the photo of the woman, examined it before replacing it in the drawer. The wood slid back into place with a grateful hush.

‘Get out,’ he said.

She didn’t wait to be told again.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

LATER THAT DAY he took the dogs up Lustell Steep, the highest point of the cove. In winter, harsh winds thrashed in from the Atlantic, the chalky, salt-encrusted walls of the remote Candle Point lighthouse taking the worst of the poundings. Today, at the height of summer, the tower seemed a different world: a peaceful, patient thimble on a rocky outcrop, the ocean silent and still.

The contrast was one of the things Charlie liked most about being by the water. Knowing it from childhood, he could never consider a land-locked life. The sea was an eternally changing animal; black with fury one day and smiling blue the next.

For years he had taken refuge in the moods of the ocean. It was impossible to imagine not waking to it each morning, the slender ribbon of water a reminder that the earth held mysteries he would never be able to answer. As a child he had spent time at his Uncle Barnaby’s cottage, further down the cove, overlooking the waves: he would sit at the window for hours, gazing at the sheet of iron and waiting, half hoping, for some disturbance to its surface. We know more of outer space than we do of the ocean, Barnaby had told him. It’s deeper than you can imagine, and full of wonderful secrets. It was a half remembered house, and his uncle a half remembered man.

Barnaby had been his mother’s brother. He had left the cove when Charlie was five: he had fallen out with Richmond, though about what it was never discovered. They had neither seen nor heard from him since; his name was never spoken. Where was he? Was he even still alive? Childhood acceptance of his uncle’s dismissal had somehow seeped into maturity. It was just how things were. Charlie rarely thought of him, and pushed him away now. The past was a foreign land.

Comet was sniffing about in the gorse, his tail emerging from a wiry tangle before he heard his master’s whistle and his head shot up, ears keen. Charlie launched a stick and both dogs darted after it across the heath, legs scrambling, and the tussle seemed to tip in Sigmund’s favour before a third hound appeared over the brow and joined the frantic pursuit. Charlie recognised it as the Montgomerys’ young sheepdog, and sure enough Fiona followed behind, shouting her puppy’s name.

She managed to untangle him from the mêlée. ‘Charlie, hi. Long time no see.’

Fiona owned the Quillets Vineyard with her husband Wilson. The winery was renowned for its grapes and was annual supplier to the prestigious Dukestone Flower Show, as well as, many moons ago, to Usherwood. Fiona had become friendly with the Lomaxes, she and Beatrice especially close. Since the tragedy they had fallen out of contact. It was Charlie’s fault, partly—she reminded him too much of his mother. He recalled the women outside on the veranda on late summer evenings, sipping cordial and conversing in shadowy, private murmurs. He had wanted badly to know what they spoke about. After bedtime, pressing his ear to the stuck-fast window, he could see their heads dipped towards one another, exchanging thrills and surprises.

‘Fiona.’ He nodded. ‘How are you?’

‘Oh, fine, fine.’ Her dark hair was escaping from her trapper’s hat, and around her neck she wore a lanyard and whistle. She sounded it to zero effect and shot Charlie a wry grin. ‘Being kept busy with this one.’

‘Is the business going well?’

‘We can’t complain. It’s been a super year for champagne. You must come by,’ she urged warmly. ‘Wilson and I would love to see you at the house.’

‘Thanks. I might.’ But they both knew he wouldn’t.

‘I hear Cato’s back?’

‘He is.’

‘It’s ages since I’ve seen you both. I catch him on TV sometimes—it’s hard to believe it’s the same person.’

‘Oh, he’s the same.’

‘Send him my regards?’

‘Of course.’

She smiled. ‘What about you? Are you still taking photos?’

How lightweight that sounded against his brother’s achievements. A while ago Charlie had exhibited at the Round House gallery, to the cove’s unanimous acclaim, but since then he’d become buried by the estate and it had seemed an indulgent pursuit. Someone had to dedicate himself full-time to the running of the house, and it wasn’t going to be his brother in LA. It had occurred to Charlie that this might be a lame excuse, and the real reason he had turned his back was because it was painful; that it brought Penny too much back to life when he had to accept she was dead.

‘Not really,’ he admitted, ‘not any more.’

‘That’s a shame. You always had such a love for it.’

The wind picked up, an eerie whistle as it blew across the grasses. Fiona said, ‘I was so sorry about your girlfriend.’

‘Oh.’ He lifted his shoulders, looked to the ground. ‘It was years ago.’

‘I know. Even so.’

‘Even so.’

‘I kept meaning to come to the house, and there never seemed to be the right opportunity. Time passed and then … After Bea and Richmond, I don’t know, it just seemed too unkind. If I’m totally honest, Charlie … Well, I didn’t know what to say.’

‘That’s OK.’

The dogs rushed over, sniffing the ground. Charlie was relieved at the diversion. Fiona’s pup was begging attention from the others, scampering after their tails, rangy with adolescent spirit.

Perhaps if you cared at all about other people …

Olivia’s words came back to him. He held them down.

‘Is it true Usherwood’s throwing a party?’ Fiona was watching him brightly, buoying the conversation with what she imagined to be a positive topic.

‘Ah, just an idea.’ He ran a hand across his chin. ‘We haven’t confirmed it.’

‘I overheard the girls at the yacht club talking,’ Fiona explained. ‘There are certainly a lot of eager young ladies out there willing to make up the numbers!’

News travelled fast. And while it pained him, the facts couldn’t be ignored. Charlie had consulted the budget for the coming year, and the party, with its grisly entourage of press attention and media deals, would help no end. He would have to swallow his misgivings and consider the wider picture. It would be one night, and after that only a week before Cato and Susanna returned to the States. Usherwood would become a singular detour in their whirlwind calendars, a diversion they would describe to friends in a fond, patronising way, and life on the estate would resume as before. Only this time, there would be cash at his fingertips. Charlie’s share of the profits would lift the place back on its feet—he had to believe it.

‘I should get home, Fiona. It was good seeing you.’

She paused, as if she wanted to say something more, something important, before changing her mind. Instead she said, ‘We all miss them, you know.’

It looked for a second as if she might reach out to touch him. She didn’t.

‘I know how proud she’d be,’ Fiona said. ‘Of both of you.’

Bringing the dogs to heel, he started up the slopes and didn’t look back.

Usherwood had just slipped into view, a castle on the sweeping horizon, when he spotted a couple of figures mounting a stile, and by the look of it making a meal of the descent. Cato was clad in Charlie’s old Barbour and was jabbing the air with a stick.

‘That’s it, Mole; one leg over, now the other!’

The summons carried across the empty field. As Charlie got closer, he saw Susanna struggling over the gate, one leg dangling in trepidation over a slick of mud.

‘You want me to put my feet in that?’

‘You’ve Wellington boots on, what’s the problem?’

‘I’ll slip!’

‘You will not slip. A bit of muck never killed anyone.’

Daintily she managed to sidestep the bog, falling dramatically into Cato’s arms and gripping his shoulders. Charlie would have preferred to return alone, but this was the direct path, and besides, he’d already been seen.

‘Charles,’ said his brother rigidly.

‘Cato.’

‘What a beautiful afternoon!’ sang Susanna, carefully scraping her boot against a knot of grass in an attempt to get it clean. ‘We’re just out for a walk.’

‘I can see.’

‘I feel so much better now, baby … This really was the thing.’

‘That’ll teach you to drink so much,’ admonished Cato, who had been nursing his own hangover for the majority of the morning.

‘It was the oysters,’ said Susanna testily.

Cato turned to him. ‘Who were you talking to down there?’

‘Fiona Montgomery.’

He scoffed. ‘That old crow’s still flapping her wings, is she?’

‘She sends her best.’

‘I’ll bet. You’ve got to watch out for these gossipy bats; the way they see it, if they rub up against you long enough some of the shine might eventually come off.’

Susanna tittered at her boyfriend’s analogy. ‘Darling …’ she feebly rebuked.

‘Believe it or not,’ said Charlie, ‘not everyone requires you to buff them up. Fiona’s got her own business—a very successful one at that.’

‘And a damn sight more successful with my endorsement, no doubt. Don’t think I didn’t see her ogling me whenever I came home from school.’

‘No!’ Susanna gasped. ‘Were you underage?’

‘I’ll say. The hag couldn’t help it. I’ll vouch if you’d left me alone with her for one minute she’d have grappled into my trousers like she hadn’t eaten in a week.’

Charlie was disgusted. He was tempted to remind Cato that far from Fiona making a fictional pass at him, it had in fact been Caggie Shaw who had awarded him his sexual initiation. On Cato’s sixteenth birthday he and the house cook had been discovered in a state of dishevelment, Caggie on her knees in the stables while Cato reclined in flagrante across a bale of hay. For a while it had looked as if Caggie might be fired, until Richmond intervened with a disinterested ‘Boys will be boys’ rationale and promises of ‘a stern talking-to’, though whether or not that materialised was anyone’s guess. Cato had been a formidable young man, sly beyond his years, and it was impossible to say from which side the persuasion had come.

Judging by the state of him this morning, old habits died hard. Cato couldn’t help himself. Each time he returned to Usherwood, no matter whom he was with, it was the same routine: he and Caggie were unable to keep their hands off each other. Charlie had his suspicions about why. Cato had never come to terms with the vanishing. After the news he had shot off to France, from France to Hollywood, from Hollywood to the stratosphere. As far as Charlie was aware his brother had never wept. He had never fought it. He had never stared himself down in the mirror and asked the eternal: what if? Not that depressing nonsense again, Cato would say, whenever the subject was raised. But the trauma had to escape somehow. Caggie harked back to his childhood. She was a fraction younger than their mother, the same blonde hair and the same green eyes. She signified the world before it ended. She was his gateway to another life. She was his carer, the only one left. She was denial.

‘We’re meeting about the party tonight,’ Susanna trilled. ‘Will you join us?’

Cato observed his brother for a reaction, and gave a satisfied smirk when Charlie consented: ‘I expect it’s best if I sit in.’

‘Knew you’d come around, old chap.’

‘We have to make money, don’t we?’

Cato’s smile faltered. For all his superficial magnanimity, he knew deep down that he wasn’t quite playing ball, and that his millions hoarded in the bank were little but a spiteful ransom. ‘Indeed we do.’

‘In that case, there’s little time to waste!’ Susanna seized her boyfriend’s arm. ‘I think I’ve had enough country air for one day. How about I fix us all a Tom Collins and we get down to business?’

Instead of negotiating the stile for a second time, Cato chivalrously lifted her over, eliciting a squeal of delight.

Charlie followed behind, keeping his distance.