Next of Kin (18 page)

‘Oh really, Gareth,' she said, frustrated. ‘You can't be serious. You don't just accept jobs from random people you meet on the street.'

‘He wasn't a random person,' he protested. ‘He's a close friend of Alexander Keys.'

‘Alexander is a book reviewer and not a very good one at that,' said Jane. ‘Every time I buy something on his
Times
recommendation I end up regretting it enormously. And anyway, when was the last time I saw you reading a book? You don't even have one beside your bed.'

‘It's not a job working with Alexander, it's something else entirely.'

Jane wasn't to be put off but was beginning to grow curious. ‘Well who is this fellow anyway? What's his name?'

Gareth racked his brain; he knew that his whole argument might suffer a fatal blow if he couldn't even remember that much but then, fortunately for him, the dam of memory finally broke and it all came flooding back.

‘Owen Montignac,' he said cheerfully. ‘His name's Owen Montignac.'

‘Owen Montignac?' asked Jane, equally surprised. ‘You don't mean Peter Montignac's nephew, do you?'

‘Yes, I believe I do,' said Gareth.

‘Well that puts a different perspective on things,' said Jane, breaking into a smile and standing up from the bed now. ‘He's one of the wealthiest landowners in England.'

Gareth nodded, not wishing to dissuade her of that fact.

‘And what job does he have for you exactly?'

‘I'm not entirely sure,' admitted Gareth. ‘But he gave me his card and told me to call on him later in the week and we'd discuss things then.'

‘Well then I suggest you do,' she said. ‘But are you sure you wouldn't prefer to go in for the law? It is what you studied for after all.'

‘I think I'll just see what this Mr Montignac has to say first,' said Gareth. ‘I can make a decision then. It can't do any harm to find out, can it?'

Jane nodded. ‘I suppose not,' she said. ‘But decide soon. I can't keep your father from cutting off your allowance forever, you know. It's only because I worry about you—you know that, don't you?'

‘Of course, Mother,' he said, grinning at her, aware of how easily he could wrap her around his little finger. She laughed and shook her head.

‘Oh, Gareth,' she said, feeling a sudden rush of love for her only child. ‘You'll be the death of me one of these days, you really will. And tidy this place up,' she added, looking around the room in disdain. ‘It looks like a pigsty in here.'

She went out then, still smiling affectionately to herself, and closed the door while Gareth reached for his trousers which were lying on the floor beside the bed. Digging in the pockets he found the small card he had been given the night before.
Owen Montignac
, it read.
The Threadbare Art Gallery, Cork Street, W1
. Nothing else. Simple and to the point.

Gareth frowned. An art gallery. He didn't know much about art. Still, it was better than nothing, he reasoned, putting the empty mug back on the bedside table and returning to his former position underneath the blankets where he quickly fell asleep again.

3

STELLA MONTIGNAC SPENT THE
morning shopping on Regent Street and it was only a short walk from there across Burlington Street and Savile Row to her cousin's art gallery. She had gone out with the intention of cheering herself up by spending a lot of money but had changed her mind halfway through her spree, thinking it might be insensitive to turn up to meet Owen laden down with shopping bags. The autumn fashions would be in the shops in a few weeks' time, she knew, and she would plan a special trip up to London from Leyville then to purchase an entirely new wardrobe.

As she turned on to Clifford Street she saw a familiar figure walking along the pavement towards her, a woman of her own age, a face from her past. She knew instantly that it was a girl she had been at school with some years before but wondered whether she would recognize her in return, so her eyes flitted back and forth in semi-recognition until they finally met and both acknowledged the relationship.

‘Stella Montignac,' said the girl, stopping first and breaking into a smile, her eyes darting immediately to Stella's hands to see whether she wore an engagement or wedding ring. ‘It's Vicky Hartford. You remember me, don't you?'

‘Of course I do,' said Stella. ‘It's been a long time but you haven't changed a bit.'

‘I hope that's not true,' said Vicky. ‘What a coincidence our running into each other like this.'

‘Yes it is, I suppose,' replied Stella who couldn't see why it was a coincidence at all. Unanticipated, perhaps, but not a coincidence.

They stood nodding at each other, both waiting for the other to play the opening gambit of the conversation and finally things became awkward and Stella gave in.

‘I've spent the entire morning shopping,' she said in an exhausted tone. ‘Couldn't find a thing I wanted.'

Vicky glanced at the three bags she was carrying and doubted that. ‘I haven't seen you in such a long time but I'm actually very glad I ran into you,' she said in a hushed tone and Stella knew immediately what was coming next. ‘I read about your father in the paper last month. I was very sorry to hear about it. I meant to write to you at the time but I've just been so busy.'

Stella nodded. ‘Thank you,' she said.

‘Was it very sudden?'

‘Well, it was unexpected,' admitted Stella. ‘He'd been sick on and off for years but no one expected him to go quite like that. In his sleep. Perhaps if there'd been some warning we would have been more prepared, but there we are. It was peaceful, I suppose.'

‘I'm sure it's been terribly hard,' said Vicky. ‘How are you coping?'

‘Oh I'm fine,' said Stella in a dismissive tone, suddenly anxious to get away. It was coming back to her now how much she had disliked Vicky back in her school days. An insufferable gossip who was never happy unless she was discussing someone else's business, she had managed the remarkable feat during their years together of keeping on the right side of everyone. No matter which power group in the school happened to be in control at the time, she always found a way to ignore all the malicious things she had ever said about them behind their backs by pretending that she had never been friends with anyone but the person standing directly in front of her. As corrupt as a politician and as duplicitous as a schizophrenic, Vicky had been one of the people Stella had been happiest to get away from during her exile to Switzerland.

‘My own father died a few years ago,' said Vicky. ‘You probably heard about it.'

‘No,' said Stella, shaking her head, unsurprised that suddenly it had all become about Vicky rather than her. ‘No I'm sorry, I hadn't heard.'

‘Well,' she said, looking a little offended. ‘He did. It was terribly upsetting for everyone but we soldiered on and that's what you must do, Stella. You must soldier on.'

She lunged forwards and for a horrible moment Stella thought that she was going to take her face in her hands and kiss her but it turned out she had simply lost her footing on the pavement and slipped slightly.

‘We really should go for lunch,' suggested Vicky. ‘You won't have heard my news.'

‘I can't, I'm afraid,' said Stella. ‘I'm meeting my cousin.'

‘Your cousin?' she asked, looking interested now. ‘Not that terribly handsome boy who used to come to visit you in school all those years ago? The one who nearly got you thrown out?'

Stella felt her face pale a little. ‘You knew about that?' she asked.

‘A lot of people did. I saw you climbing out your window one night and the two of you heading down the driveway together. The year before you left us. It was his hair that I remembered the most. What was his name again—Oliver, wasn't it?'

‘Owen.'

‘Oh yes, that's right. Most unusual. We were all a little in love with him. And you're still in touch, isn't that lovely!'

‘Well he is my cousin,' explained Stella with a smile. ‘Of course we're in touch. He's all I have left now, in fact.'

Vicky nodded. ‘Well you can rest assured that I never told anyone whatever pranks the two of you were up to. And compared to the things that happened in our final year, after you had left us of course, going off on midnight walks was neither here nor there.'

‘I'm sorry I missed that,' said Stella, hoping that the strain of sarcasm in her voice would not go undetected.

‘Oh you were better off. Living the high life at that finishing school in Paris.'

‘Geneva,' she corrected her.

‘Oh Geneva, was it? How lovely. I've never been to Austria.'

Stella smiled and opened her mouth to correct her again but thought better of it. That was another thing about Vicky that she had forgotten; her plain stupidity. But that final year of school when her education had been interrupted by her father's decision to send her to Geneva was not something she liked to remember at all. It had been Margaret Richmond who had arranged it all of course. It was Margaret she had to thank for nearly destroying her life. Or perhaps for saving it.

‘Anyway, I must get on,' said Stella. ‘Owen will be wondering what's keeping me.'

‘Oh but you haven't heard my news,' insisted Vicky, who was damned if she was going to allow her to go without imparting it. ‘I'm engaged to be married.'

Stella smiled and nodded politely. ‘Really,' she said. ‘How lovely. Congratulations.'

‘Thank you. You must forgive my excitement about it. I'm still getting accustomed to telling people. It's only been a few days.'

‘Well,' said Stella. ‘I hope you'll be very happy. When's the big day?'

‘Not till next summer, I don't think,' said Vicky. ‘Damien thinks we should have a long engagement so that we can afford a really expensive honeymoon. We're thinking about a safari in Africa. I've never been there before, have you?'

‘No,' said Stella, shaking her head.

‘Well that's what we're talking about, although we may end up doing a European tour instead. Also, Damien's just received a promotion in the bank so he thinks he should devote himself to his work for a year or so before we settle down which I think is for the best too, don't you?'

‘I wouldn't know,' said Stella with a shrug. ‘Whatever makes you happy, I suppose.'

‘And what about you?' asked Vicky, irritated by her friend's indifference and distinct lack of envy. ‘Are you married yet?'

‘No,' said Stella.

‘Engaged?'

‘No,' said Stella, surprising herself by her unwillingness to admit that, in fact, she was.

‘Oh I'm so sorry,' said Vicky. ‘But you're involved, of course?'

‘No,' said Stella again. ‘I'm neither married, engaged nor involved. I'm all on my own and happy to be so.'

Vicky's mouth dropped open and she stared at her as if she had just announced that she had a terminal illness and felt the better for it.

‘Well I'm very surprised to hear that,' she said.

‘It's a mystery to me too,' said Stella, who had no idea why she was denying Raymond's existence but enjoying tremendously the look of triumph on her old friend's face, thinking she had one over on her.

‘Do you know,' said Vicky, leaning forwards now. ‘Damien knows a great many eligible young men at the bank. It wouldn't be very difficult for me to ask him to keep an eye out for a suitable beau. What if I take your number and try to arrange a dinner?'

‘No thanks,' said Stella quickly, seeing her plan begin to backfire on her. ‘No, I'm perfectly happy as I am, thank you.'

‘Oh don't be ridiculous,' said Vicky with the pride of a spider who has already managed to snare their own fly in the web. ‘How on earth can you possibly be happy without a husband? The idea's ludicrous. No, you leave it to me, I'll organize it. We'll have you engaged by Christmas.'

‘No really, Vicky,' said Stella, feigning a look of humility. ‘It's too soon after Father's death.'

‘Oh,' said Vicky, visibly disappointed. ‘Oh I see.'

‘It wouldn't be proper.'

‘I suppose not. Although he would want you to be getting on with your life.'

‘I need more time first,' said Stella, feeling a little guilty at using the memory of her late father to get out of the social awkwardness.

‘I understand perfectly,' said Vicky. ‘Well not to worry. If I can find a husband, then anyone can.'

‘Yes, I'd imagine that's true,' said Stella with a smile.

Vicky narrowed her eyes with the faintest feeling that she might have just been insulted. ‘Where do you stay when you're in London anyway?' she asked.

‘My father had an apartment in Kensington,' she said. ‘So I'll be there in future. But I've been at Claridge's this week because the apartment needs a good clean-out. But mostly I'm down at Leyville.'

‘Well give me the address,' insisted Vicky, pulling out a pad and paper and thrusting it into her hands. ‘And I'll be in touch some day and we can have lunch.'

Faced with no choice, Stella wrote down the address and handed the pad back. The two ladies kissed and said their goodbyes and Stella continued on her way towards Cork Street, irritated that she hadn't crossed to the other side of the street when she saw Vicky coming. The insistence of her old school friends in living their lives based around whether or not they had found a suitable husband riled her. Maybe that was why she liked being with Raymond so much. He was so clearly unsuitable, she was so obviously marrying beneath her, that their relationship could only shock people. So why then, she wondered, had she not admitted it when asked? Was it because she didn't love him? If so then that was a good thing, for she had loved once and it had nearly been the end of her and she had sworn off it for life ever since.