Never Too Late (13 page)

bathroom.

When her mother had died after six months’ battling

cancer, Evie remembered sitting in the bathroom, listening

to the sounds of her father weeping alone in his bedroom.

He never cried in front of her or Cara, seemed to think it

was wrong to let them see how devastated he was by his

wife’s death.

Evie had been seventeen at the time and had listened to

him for weeks before she went in and told him to cry with them and not on his own. She’d been his rock, Andrew Fraser had always said afterwards. The one who kept the

family going.

She remembered how her father had comforted her

when Tony was killed by that speeding car. How they’d

gone for long walks in the forest with Gooch’s grandmother,

Sadie, gambolling along in front of them, golden

nose in every bush and clump of grass. Her father had been

a lifeline in those horrible first few months when she’d

been getting used to being a widow so soon after she’d

become a wife. Now someone was going to ruin all that:

Vida Andersen. Evie didn’t know what hurt most - the

fact that he hadn’t told her or the fact that another person

was going to come into their cosy family of four.

Olivia stroked Sasha’s cheek gently, pulled the duvet up

around her daughter’s neck, then tucked in the big

woollen rug she’d found in the airing cupboard. It was

still cool in the room, even with the giant oil-filled

radiator rattling away in one corner. Asleep, Sasha snuggled

into her cosy cocoon, happy and warm in her

brushed cotton jammies and the Rupert Bear socks Olivia

had insisted she leave on.

Exhausted after a busy day, Sasha had fallen asleep

quickly. Olivia wished she could join her. Her early rising

to get the Christmas baking done had left her worn out.

She kissed her daughter and left the room, the door ajar so

the light from the landing would shine in. Olivia hated

leaving her daughter alone in the small bed in this big

double room. Sasha was used to pretty yellow wallpaper

with bunnies scampering around and her butterfly night

light on the dresser in case she woke up and was scared.

This room had gloomy purple cabbage roses on the walls,

an ugly chandelier thing that looked like a dusty octopus

and lots of large, shadowy furniture for monsters to hide

behind. Your classic childhood nightmare.

‘I’ll keep an eye on Sasha,’ Sybil de Were had said earlier,

waving one hand airily, the other clutching her third gin

and tonic. Or at least the third gin and tonic she’d had

since Olivia and Stephen had arrived. It was impossible to

keep up. At the age of sixteen, Olivia had given up on

keeping tabs on the amount of booze being consumed in

the Lodge. ‘You’d want a degree in quantum physics to

know how many bottles they get through,’ she’d complained

to her best friend, Evie, at the time, not that either

of them knew precisely what quantum physics was. All she

knew was that she was forever finding three-quarter-empty

bottles of brandy stuck in the airing cupboard and empty

wine bottles jammed in the bottom of the bin. Why her

mother - and it was always her mother who hid them bothered

hiding the bottles amazed her. Olivia knew they

both drank like fishes.

‘We won’t be long at the Erasers’,’ she said firmly now,

not keen on relying on her mother’s babysitting techniques.

‘We’ll only stay an hour’

‘Don’t fuss, Livvy,’ muttered her father from the depths

of his chair where he was fumbling through the TV guide

to see what was on next. ‘The little mite will be fine here.

Although,’ he peered at her over his reading glasses, ‘I

don’t know what you want to bother going to Andrew

Fraser’s party for. The man’s a bore and he’ll be glued to

that horrible American woman as usual.’

Olivia’s eyes widened.

‘What American woman?’ asked Stephen, momentarily

surprised out of his bad mood. He’d been poring over his

briefcase since he’d got there, muttering that he had work

to catch up with and refusing Olivia’s offers of tea and

sandwiches, and her father’s offers of brandy.

‘That horrible woman who’s bought the old Grange on

Bracken Road,’ interrupted her mother, voice vicious. ‘She

thinks she’s irresistible. Thinks every man in the village

can’t take his eyes off her.’

Which meant, Olivia knew instantly, that the horrible

American woman was obviously very good-looking. Sybil,

who’d been a great beauty before she got stuck into

drinking a bottle of spirits a day and developed more

spider veins than a spaghetti junction road map, loathed

other good-looking women, as Olivia knew to her cost.

Her mother hadn’t been able to cope the year Olivia had

turned thirteen and changed from a scrawny ugly duckling

into a slender Nordic swan. Sybil’s friends, when she’d had

such things, had all shared one particular quality: they

were all extremely plain.

‘So old Andrew has found himself a woman after all

these years?’ said Stephen, fascinated. ‘Do Evie and Cara

know about this?’ he asked Olivia.

She shook her head slowly, thinking of what would

happen when Evie did find out. Her best friend adored her

father and idolised her dead mother. Nobody, absolutely

nobody, would ever be good enough to fill Alice Eraser’s

shoes.

But then, Olivia consoled herself, Andrew Fraser probably

felt the same way himself or he’d have got a partner

years ago. Her parents were making mountains out of

molehills as usual, probably because Andrew had stopped

asking them to his party when they hadn’t turned up

three years in a row. There was no way he’d bring a new Woman

into his life after all these years.

The moment she walked into the Frasers’ holly

bedecked hall, Olivia knew she’d been wrong. The small

house may have felt like an oven after the icy temperature

of the heatless Lodge, but the atmosphere was about a

thousand degrees lower.

They were among the last to arrive and through the arch

from the hallway Olivia could see Evie standing beside her

father, her pretty face uncharacteristically stony. A woman

dressed in an elegant rose-coloured cashmere dress stood

on the other side of Andrew Fraser. From the smile on his

face and the way he kept a hand affectionately stroking her

arm, Olivia didn’t have any trouble in identifying that

‘horrible American woman’.

‘Is it my imagination or is there a very unpartyish

atmosphere in here?’ murmured Stephen as Rosie took

their coats, a rictus of a smile on her face.

‘Welcome to the house of pain, Aunt Olivia,’ she said

between gritted teeth. ‘The drinks tonight are Hemlock

Cocktails, Digitalis Slammers or the Cyanide Seabreeze,

which my mother will mix for you.’

‘Your granddad’s friend, huh?’ asked Olivia, looking at

the elegant woman in pink.

Rosie raised her eyes heavenwards. ‘News certainly travels

fast around here. I don’t know why they base media

networks in London and New York. They should pick

Ballymoreen - everyone here knows everything the

moment it happens. Yes.’ She looked miserably at her godmother. ‘The introduction of Grandpops’ fiancee has caused an earthquake. Eight point five on the Richter Scale

is my estimate.’

‘Fiancee?’ gasped Olivia. ‘They’re getting married? I

didn’t even know he was going out with anyone.’

‘I’m going to get some food,’ Stephen interrupted

rudely, moving in the direction of the kitchen. Olivia

suppressed her impatience He’d refused her offers of a

snack at home, now he was going to demolish all the party

goodies as if he hadn’t been fed in a month. He was still

punishing her for earlier.

‘Don’t talk to me about it,’ groaned Rosie, visibly

relaxing now they were on their own. She always appeared

a little uptight in Stephen’s company, although Olivia

could never figure out why. He liked Rosie, thought she

was clever and destined for great things.

The girl leaned against the hall radiator. ‘It’s the first we

heard of it too. Mum didn’t even know he was seeing

someone until we got here today. The thing is, Vida’s

lovely and he’s crazy about her. It’s quite sweet really,’

Rosie added reflectively, ‘that old people can fall in love.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Olivia, gently pulling a lock of her

goddaughter’s lustrous long hair in pretend outrage, ‘he’s

hardly old, and you don’t forget about love as soon as you

hit forty.’

Rosie grinned. ‘Only joking. You old folks are so sensitive

about your age. Anyway, her name is Vida Andersen, she’s tres chic, lived in Manhattan for years and is loaded. She’s renovating this big house down the road and she’s got a

fiercesomely posh Lexus parked outside. Grandpops can’t

stop smiling at her; the dogs love her and …’

‘… your mother loathes her?’ Olivia finished the

sentence.

‘You said it.’ Rosie paused. ‘Come on and I’ll get you a

drink before you enter the gladiatorial arena.’

In the kitchen, Stephen was digging into a plate of

tortilla chips with two slavering dogs for an audience.

‘You wouldn’t like tortilla chips, pooches, they’re too

hot,’ Rosie said, patting both dogs. ‘Drink?’ she asked

Stephen.

‘A glass of red wine,’ he answered.

‘Make that two,’ Olivia added.

Rosie got glasses, poured out some wine and, standing in

front of the tray of booze so nobody would notice, poured

a stiff vodka for herself, filling it up to the top with orange juice.

‘Your parents aren’t coming, then?’ she asked Olivia

when everybody had a drink.

Rosie didn’t mind Olivia’s parents. They always offered

her real booze when she visited them, and gave her

cigarettes. She thought Sybil was particularly hilarious. A

real tough old bird.

‘No,’ Olivia said. ‘They’re babysitting Sasha.’ She hoped

so anyway.

‘I’ve got the most wonderful present for Sasha for

Christmas,’ Rosie said enthusiastically, sloe-black eyes shining.

‘It’s a doll with a carry cot that can he turned into a

back pack.’

They were discussing the merits of a baby doll that

didn’t scream all night or projectile vomit, when Andrew

Fraser and Vida came into the kitchen.

‘Olivia,’ he said, hugging her warmly. “I never saw you

come in. How are you?’

‘Great, Andrew,’ she replied fondly. ‘You certainly look

happy.’ He did, she thought. He looked as though somebody

had turned a light on inside him. Rosie was obviously

right: he was deliriously in love.

‘You must be Vida,’ she said, turning to the woman

beside him. She was even better looking up close. Her skin

was remarkably unlined and the soft pastel colour she

wore brought out the glow in her skin. Only the faintest

creping around her throat hinted that she was over fifty.

‘And you’re Olivia,’ said Vida with a smile. ‘I’ve heard so

much about you, you’re like a third daughter to Andrew.’

Olivia coloured with pleasure.

‘I’m Stephen, Olivia’s husband,’ he said, giving Vida the

benefit of his most urbane smile.

They shook hands.

‘And speaking of daughters, where’s Cara?’ Stephen

added.

‘She’s coming on the late bus,’ Andrew said. ‘Poor girl

had to work late. She’ll be here by nine, I daresay.’

He began checking the pastries heating up in the oven,

while Vida took more sliced up vegetables for the dips

from the fridge.

Olivia could see quite plainly why her own mother and

Evie couldn’t stand Vida. She looked like the sort of

woman you saw in advertisements for designer mail order

clothes for the mature woman, subtly elegant and reeking

of style.

That cashmere dress undoubtedly cost more than Evie

earned in a week from Wentworth Alarms and the pearls

were definitely real. Olivia’s mother had had ones just like

them until she’d had to sell them.

Olivia knew that her friend could probably have just

about coped with her father dating some mumsy, overweight

woman from his painting class, who wore frumpy

dresses and wasn’t a real threat to the status quo. But Vida

Andersen had threat written all over her and Olivia couldn’t

imagine her getting those manicured fingers covered with

paint. Deep down behind her wary facade, Evie was so

insecure she couldn’t cope with people like Vida at all.

“I believe congratulations are in order?’ Olivia said

hesitantly, wondering if she was supposed to know or not.

Vida shut the fridge, a radiant smile on her face. ‘Yes,’

she said. ‘We weren’t going to tell anyone apart from the

family but we’re both so happy we want to shout it from

the rooftops.’

Putting a baking tray on the hob, Andrew went to his

fiancee and put an arm around her waist, momentarily

oblivious to their guests. Rosie stifled a giggle and Olivia

winked at her.

At that precise moment, Evie hurried into the kitchen,

clutching a tray of empty dishes and a stack of glasses. Her