Victoria smarted. She wasn’t going to let that one go.
‘I can’t wait to move back home though,’ she said firmly. ‘Not long now.’
‘Why? What’s so great about living at home?’ sighed Katherine.
‘I mean as a married woman.’
That shut her sister up.
Neither Katherine nor Victoria would ever have confessed to each other, let alone to themselves, that they envied each
other’s lives. Happily married Victoria longed for her sister’s single lifestyle, the partying, the lack of responsibility, the one-night stands.
The truth was that Victoria’s engagement, wedding, marriage and motherhood had not thrilled her half as much as she had expected. And now they were over.
She and Charles had squabbled over the choice of her engagement ring – in the end, she had had to help pay for the one she wanted. One year later, on the afternoon of 17 July, Victoria Virginia Octavia Markham, swamped in satin and tulle, surrounded by paparazzi, hangers on and three hundred of her closest friends and family, had smiled the radiant smile of a blushing bride. Which hadn’t been easy. She was nursing a migraine the size of her father’s bill, clutching a hand-sewn, beaded bag crammed with painkillers and tampons to her scaffolded bosom and dodging the surprise sheet rain.
But she’d done it.
For the first few months of her marriage to Charles, Victoria had been unbearably smug. She had done it! She had married. She had peaked. She deserved to coast for the rest of her life.
Then the news hit home of her husband’s ‘inheritance’.
Then, after their first anniversary – which Charles forgot – the truth dawned on Victoria with horror. That was it. The End. Never again would she feel that light-headed, heavy-gutted joy of the first kiss. (She wasn’t thinking of Charles now.) Never again the first stuttering declaration of love, the delicious uncertainty. (Or now.) This was it. For ever. Her life was over. (Now she thought of him.)
There was only one thing for it. She had to have a baby to fill the void. A little girl she could dress in pink and call her
own and pass down all her well-learned lessons, neuroses and paranoias to – someone who would really understand her.
She loathed being pregnant. The pain, the wind, the stomach, the ankles, the sexlessness. Men stopped looking at her in the street, women eyed her bloated stomach with sympathy. Then the labour – surely there should be some way round it? ‘I mean they’ve cured TB,’ she had said weakly to Annie afterwards, ‘you’d have thought they’d have done something about labour.’ And then the relentless responsibility of parenthood. No one could ever have prepared her for that.
And to top it all, the tiny alien she produced was a
boy
. And it looked like Charles instead of her.
With all the determination of a mating salmon, Victoria fought every self-preserving instinct and got pregnant again almost immediately. Get it all over with.
‘Never let anyone tell you that the first one is more special than the second,’ she’d told Annie, as she’d lain in bed waiting for her due date. ‘Believe me, the first one is a shock, the second one is a fucking miracle.’
And
another
boy. She just didn’t understand it. She was so feminine. How could two weenies grow inside her stomach? Nothing made sense any more.
Right. That was it. No more babies. No more sex. No more hope.
But there was one thing that kept her going. Her older sister, not having gone through any of these experiences herself, had no idea how nightmarish they all were. She had no idea that secure, comfortable Victoria, with her two healthy heirs, longed to have back Katherine’s social life, her lie-ins and her flat stomach.
And damned if she was going to tell her.
In her turn, Katherine longed for her sister’s elevated status. She was sick to death of playing the singles game. All the men she met nowadays were too stupid, too young, too arrogant, too far past their prime or too full of emotional baggage for her.
Why the hell hadn’t anyone decent proposed to her? She was handsome, wealthy and sharp. If she were a man, she’d have had several wives by now, let alone mistresses. But she seemed to scare men off and the older she got, the more disillusioned she became and in turn, the more terrified they became. Most of the men she met nowadays were looking for harmless young wives, which were becoming harder and harder to come by. In fact, the only direct consequence of feminism in Katherine’s world had been to cause a rise in the value of harmless young wives.
She wouldn’t dare confess it, but she couldn’t think of anything more divine than being able to show off her own children at functions instead of her friend’s or sister’s. While she certainly didn’t envy Victoria her choice of husband, she did envy the added kudos he had given her, simply by consenting to share his surname with her. But it wasn’t just what she wanted, it was what the world expected. Katherine knew that it didn’t matter how beautiful, rich or happy she was, the world expected her to show her true worth by having a man fall in love with her enough to want to share the rest of his life with her. Or at least a wedding function. And Victoria had done it at only twenty-two.
Still, thought Katherine happily, she
is
married to a troll.
* * * * *
In just a few days, all the plans were settled.
One week after the meeting with Mr Cavendish, David
Silver, Jake Mead’s right-hand man, came to see what was until only recently George’s two-floor apartment, nod in awe at the flat’s beguiling views of the Heath and stare in awe at George’s equally astonishing views on life.
David and Jake were to stay there together while working in London. David lived in Edinburgh and the rest of the consultants lived nearby and had family obligations. Jake had a flat in Brighton and didn’t fancy commuting every morning, so it made sense to live ‘on site’ as he called it. He could commute back home once a week to see Dr Blake, to analyse how being welcomed into the family mansion of the woman who’d rejected him seven years earlier was helping his closure no end.
Two weeks later, George, his eldest daughter, Katherine, and the beautiful bright young thing, Davina Barker, flew first class to New York, leaving Annie to finish off their final bits of packing, oversee the renting out of her own flat and move into the penthouse apartment of the Hampstead family home.
Days later, Victoria and Charles’s flat down the road was sold. All it had taken was one simple phone call made by one simple estate agent. Such flats had a waiting list without ever having to go on the market.
Since hearing that the management consultants were going to be living one flight down from her, Annie would have liked to have told Susannah she’d changed her mind about moving into the family home and stayed in her flat. But then she’d have had to reveal her reason – and she couldn’t cope with Susannah knowing Jake’s identity. Typically, she had good luck finding speedy tenants for her little place.
She had no choice but to make herself at home in the penthouse flat with Victoria and Charles, while Harrods’
removal men came to take away George’s priceless furniture into storage.
Within days, one very lucky estate agent got enough commission to be able to put a deposit down on his first flat in Belsize Park.
A regular sum of money from Annie’s rent went towards the family’s now joint depleted living expenses. And three million pounds, made from Charles and Victoria’s flat, went straight into one of the Markhams’ PR accounts, ready for when the Jake Mead Associates’ invoices started arriving.
* * * * *
A week later, Annie stood in her newly unpacked room, overlooking Hampstead Heath, a steaming mug of tea in her hands.
As her eyes spanned the view, she smiled to herself. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
This could be her chance to finally put the past behind her; get on with her life. It was a sign, an omen, a message.
Either that or she could kill him.
A few feet below her, Jake Mead stood in the vast echoing room that would be his temporary home soon, looking out over the heath. It was hauntingly beautiful. His eyes stopped focusing, his neck relaxed and he felt calmer than he had done in years.
They’d practically begged him to move in – and they were paying him to save their lives.
Oh yes, he thought, stretching his neck out and almost enjoying the ache. Closure doesn’t come more complete than this.
8
THE DOOR BLEW
open, wafting Marlon inside the scruffy Samaritan office, his scarf flapping in the wind.
‘Morning all.’
He walked over to behind Annie’s chair, put down his old sports bag, took off his coat, walked straight over to Joy’s desk and sat on it.
‘How’s my second wife?’
‘Blow it out your arse, Marlon.’
‘And how’s my second wife’s mother?’
Joy sighed and sat back in her chair. ‘I left her at home with a packet of chocolate digestives and Alan Titchmarsh. She’s almost deliriously happy.’
‘When are you going to make me the happiest man in the room?’
‘You’re the only man in the room, Marlon.’
‘Tea?’
‘What’s the point? I’m still going to die one day.’
‘Coffee then. That’ll perk you up.’
‘Why? Does it come with jump leads?’
‘For you, anything.’
He turned to Annie. ‘Morning, Sunshine.’
‘Morning.’
Marlon went into the makeshift kitchen, filled up the battered old kettle and got out two chipped mugs. There waiting for him was a large parcel from the
Innovative Home Shopping
magazine, to which he was addicted.
‘Aha!’ he exclaimed, eagerly unwrapping it. ‘I’ve been waiting for this.’
His wife had long since stopped letting his parcels be sent to their home and they now arrived at the Samaritan office where there was always someone to receive them.
‘Look at this, look at this!’ he exclaimed, excited, his hands up in mid-air. He was wearing glowing white gloves, and beaming at them proudly.
‘Fingered oven gloves! Isn’t that just the cleverest thing? Simple, yet brilliant! How do they do it?’
Joy and Annie nodded obediently.
Annie left the office. This week Marlon’s shift was taking over from hers and he always managed to come in extra early whenever Joy was in. A few calls today including one from a sex caller who, for the first ten minutes of the call had successfully fooled Annie that he was in the last death throes of emphysema.
As Annie drove back home, she wondered what chaos she’d find there today. Victoria and Charles had been quick to realise the benefits of moving in with her. Apart from the fact that she was an unpaid nanny and babysitter, she had also quickly become their referee in every debate, discussion, row and fight. She was the ballast in the see-saw that was their relationship. And although neither of them could say the words out loud, they were both equally tense at the prospect of becoming penniless. Annie was their in-house counsellor.
Not only that, but Victoria assumed that any woman without children had time on her hands. Not so. Annie had filled her life to the rafters with things that made it hugely worthwhile. Try telling that to a wife and mother though. Victoria, bless her, saw her baby sister as her own personal handmaid, confidante and nanny. It was proving exhausting.
Worse than that, both Victoria and Charles made the easy assumption, like so many other people that, because Annie kept her thoughts, observations and opinions to herself, she had none.
She wandered into the flat and threw down her coat, before hearing heightened voices in the lounge.
‘Give Auntie Sophie’s lipstick back to her NOW.’
‘It’s all right, he can have it to play with if he wants it.’
‘NO HE CAN’T!’
‘Harry, stop chewing Auntie Fi’s hair, it’s full of chemicals.’
‘No it’s not, I have an organic hairdress – OW!’
Annie opened the door.
Victoria’s two young sisters-in-law – Charles’s younger sisters – Sophie and Fiona, were sitting shoeless and cross-legged on the floor with their nephews. Both boys were laughing loudly, three-year-old Bertie holding a Bobbi Brown lipstick just out of his Auntie Sophie’s reach while she tickled him, four-year-old Harry standing on his Auntie Fi’s knee, looking as shocked at the handful of her thick hair that had accidentally found its way inside his mouth as she did. Both girls were clearly thoroughly enjoying themselves. It was only Victoria who, sitting on the leather sofa, looked utterly miserable. When Victoria was in a bad mood, nothing made her feel worse than being surrounded by happy people. She
looked up at Annie and her eyes warmed slightly before turning hard.
‘Been out shopping?’
When the group on the floor saw Annie, they erupted. The boys ran to their Auntie Annie and both Sophie and Fi got up eagerly. Annie was delighted.
Annie had always felt close to her sister’s two sisters-in-law, although twenty-year-old Sophie and eighteen-year-old Fi did sometimes have the unconscious habit of making her feel like an ancient old hag. It wasn’t so much their youth as their unending optimism.
‘Any sign of life downstairs?’ Annie asked the room in general, as carelessly as she could.
‘Ooh yes,’ replied Fi. ‘Charles is down there now with Jake and David. They’re moving in properly any day now. Charles says they’re splendid fellows and they’re all going to play golf sometime next week.’
‘I caught a glimpse of one of them downstairs just now,’ joined in Sophie. ‘He’s absolutely gorgeous.’
‘That’ll be David,’ said Annie, before thinking.
They all looked at her.
‘How do you know?’ asked Victoria.
Woops.
‘Um. Um. I don’t. I just can’t imagine someone called Jake being gorgeous. Has he got three legs?’ she finished feebly.
Gorgeous?
Jake? Impossible, surely? Mind you, she reasoned, it was amazing what you could do with mirrors and lighting nowadays. And let’s face it, Sophie did think Prince Edward was ‘a dish’.
She calmed down a bit.
Just then Charles returned from downstairs. He was smiling broadly.