Promises to Keep (17 page)

“Can you wake me up at . . . oh!” She colors instantly as Susie gestures to two steaming mugs of coffee on the table.

“Shit,” Steffi whispers in a panic, her hands flying up to her hair. “Is he still here?”

“No.” Susie laughs. “He just left. Cute!”

“Was he? I don’t even remember what he looked like.”

“Yes, you do. Sandy-colored hair, messy, great smile. Preppy.”

“Preppy?” Steffi looks horrified. “Are you sure? That’s not my type. I would never have had a fling with someone . . . preppy.”

“Well, you did. He was preppy, and very cute. He left his number with me and made me promise to give it to you.”

Steffi grabs the card Susie is holding and bursts out laughing. “He’s an architect! No way!”

“You mean he’s not a struggling musician?” Susie, married to a struggling musician, raises an eyebrow.

“Right! Or a wannabe actor, or a novelist who’s written the greatest American novel since Tom Wolfe and is waiting tables until he’s discovered . . .”

“Or a drug addict, of course. You’ve always said those have had particular appeal for you,” Susie adds.

“Exactly. An architect! Now that’s funny.”

“So are you going to call him?”

“A preppy architect?” Steffi peers at Susie closely. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Of course I’m not going to call him.” And with that she rips up his card and walks over to put it in the trash can. “Much too normal, plus I don’t even remember him.”

“Let me remind you.” And she does, shaking her head in dismay. Then she says, “I can’t believe you’re not going to call him. He was a good guy.”

“How many times have I told you?” Steffi laughs. “I don’t do good guys. Well okay, let me rephrase that. I might do them for a night, but I know myself. I get bored. I need a bit more excitement. And a tattoo.”

“What?”

“A tattoo. I’ve never dated anyone who hasn’t had at least one tattoo.”

“Really?”

“Really. Nor do I intend for that to change.”

“So you now remember that architect-boy didn’t have a tattoo?”

“I now remember. Great body, no tattoos.”

Susie sighs. “It just seems a shame. So what did you want to ask me?”

“I was going to ask you to wake me up before my mom gets here, but now . . . Jesus, look at the time. No point going back to sleep. Maybe I’ll sleep in the back of my sister’s car.” And picking up the cup of now-cold coffee on the table, she drains it and heads into the bathroom to take a shower.

 

 

“W
ake up, sleepyhead.” Honor turns around from the front seat. “We’re almost there.”

“Wow!” Steffi sits up and stretches as she emits a loud groan. “That was awesome. I slept the whole way.”

“We know.” Callie tuts. “You snored too.”

“Sorry.” Steffi shrugs lightly and gazes at the landscape shooting past, the trees which clear every so often for a gorgeous old house or horses grazing behind a white split-rail fence.

“This is pretty. Are we here?”

“We decided to go to New Canaan for lunch,” says Honor. “We’re going to grab something to eat and do some shopping. Oh my!” She looks out of the window at the storefronts. “Isn’t this pretty!”

“This is gorgeous,” Callie says. “I can’t believe I don’t come here more often, but—Oh. My. God! Steffi!”

Steffi turns her head, and at exactly the same time they both excitedly shout, “Ralph Lauren!”

“What?” Honor frowns.

“My favorite store!” Callie exclaims, now jiggling up and down in the car seat with excitement. “And I never get to go!”

“It is her favorite store,” Steffi reaffirms. “Much too preppy for me, even if I could afford it.”

“It’s not preppy,” Callie says, and sighs. “It’s classic. Let’s find a parking spot. I have to get in there.”

“Jeez, Callie.” Steffi starts to laugh. “Calm down. You’re like an addict needing a fix. Relax.”

“No, seriously, I can’t relax. Did you see that patchwork coat in the window? I want it.”

Honor looks at her daughter in amusement. “Callie! I never knew you were such a shopper.”

“I’m not,” Callie says. “But this is Ralph Lauren, Mom! This is a whole other world.”

Once inside, Callie becomes businesslike. A saleswoman stands just behind her, her arms piled high with clothes that Callie hands back.

“Do you have this in a medium?” she says, or “Does this come in any other colors?”

Honor walks over to Steffi, who is wistfully fingering a silk tunic. “Darling? Aren’t you even going to try anything on?”

Steffi shakes her head. “There’s nothing in here for me, and anyway it’s too expensive. The only thing I quite like is that scarf, but I wouldn’t spend the money.”

“I’ll buy it for you,” Honor says, and Steffi’s face lights up. “I’m your mother,” she adds with a smile. “It’s my job.”

Eventually the three women leave the store laden down with bags. Callie has indeed bought piles of clothes, Steffi has a bag of her own, and even Honor found a long, cream, cashmere wrap she fell in love with.

“I’m starving,” Steffi says. “All that shopping worked up an appetite. Can we go and get something to eat?”

“Maybe we can find somewhere for you to work?” Callie says. “A little vegan restaurant around the corner?”

“Doesn’t have to be vegan.” Steffi shrugs. “That would be perfection, but I’ve cooked everything before and I can certainly do it again.”

“So you’d be happy to shove your hand up the inside of a chicken and pull out the gizzards and the liver and feel it all slimy on your hands?” Callie teases.

“Ew!” Steffi makes a face. “God, Callie. Do you have to be so gross?”

“Just checking to see how willing you are.”

“You do what you have to do,” Honor interjects. “And Steffi would be fine. How about over there?” She gestures to a pretty sidewalk café with a small fenced garden and tables outside.

“You go in. I’m just going to stand outside for a minute,” Callie says.

“Is everything okay?” Steffi asks.

“Just a bit of a headache coming on, and the cool air helps.”

“Another one?” Her mother looks concerned, so Callie goes on to explain Lila’s theory about the menopause.

“You need to go to the doctor.”

“I will, I will. I had an appointment the other day but then a client called and I had to run over there. I’ll go next week. Definitely. So what do you guys feel like eating?”

 

Some time later, the salads have been eaten, the sparkling mineral water drunk, and the bill has been called for—Honor’s treat—when Steffi’s phone rings.

“Oh hey, Mason! We’re just finishing lunch in New Canaan . . . You are? . . . Sure we can come now . . . Don’t worry, I’m with my mom and my sister and she has GPS in the car so we can just plug it in. Okay . . . Great.” She finishes the call and looks at Honor and Callie. “Mason’s already there,” she says. “And he says we can come over now if we’re ready. Callie? Do you want me to drive? You look terrible.”

“I’ll be okay.” Callie squints; the pain is now significant. “I think this is turning into a migraine. Can we stop at that drugstore we passed at the top of the street and get some painkillers? This is pretty bad.”

“Let me drive,” Steffi says.

“No, no.” Callie shakes her head, wincing as she does so, then stands up slowly and gingerly. “Honestly I’m fine, and I’d rather drive.”

Steffi and her mother exchange a look, but Honor shrugs. There is no arguing with Callie when she makes up her mind, but the sooner they get some painkillers into her, the better.

Callie drives with her eyes now half closed against the pain, concentrating furiously on getting to the pharmacy. The pain is like a vise in her head, and she is feeling increasingly nauseated. This is like the others, but stronger.

Just get to the pharmacy, she tells herself, the voice in her head drowning out concerned mumbles from her mother and sister. And then everything goes black. She isn’t even aware of slowly driving across the road and into a street lamp. As Honor screams and tries to grab the wheel, Steffi covers her head in horror.

 

 

W
alter Tollemache sits down at his computer and sighs wearily as he opens his inbox and sees yet another email from Hiromi.

And his morning had been going so well.

He misses being married, certainly misses having someone to look after him, and yet . . . and yet . . . there is something so nice about being in the house by himself, not having anyone chatting away to him first thing in the morning, being able to enjoy his cup of tea as he sits on the bench outside and pets the cat—the only good thing to have come out of his brief marriage to Hiromi.

In the early days, when they were courting, when she was still pretending to be sweet and docile, she brought him a kitten that she had “rescued” from the pet store. Walter had never been a cat person, but Hiromi adored the kitten and so he tried very hard to like it too, and it quickly became clear to him that this was a very unusual cat, much more dog, in fact, than cat, and so he and Brutus became firm friends.

They stayed firm friends, he and Brutus, through the marriage.

Hiromi insisted on Brutus’s being at the wedding itself, dressed in a miniature tuxedo, which Walter found completely mad, not to mention rather cruel, as Brutus seemed terrified by the very loud drinking and singing, and ended up meowing rather pitifully in his crate in another room.

Walter was rather terrified too. He had thought this was going to be a tiny, private wedding. So tiny and private, that Hiromi said it would be just the two of them. It would be more romantic, she said. He told Callie and Steffi hours before the wedding, attempting to brush over it nonchalantly in the hope they wouldn’t be upset.

They were less upset at not being invited to the wedding than they were by the very fact that he was marrying Hiromi.

“She’s very nice,” he kept repeating. “And she looks after me.”

“I don’t trust her,” Callie said. “And I think she’s a gold-digger.”

“Ha!” Walter barked with laughter. “She’ll be disappointed there, then. This stream of gold doesn’t run particularly deep at all. The glory days of the Tollemaches are long gone.”

“I don’t think Hiromi knows that,” Callie said. “How did you meet her again?”

“Through friends,” he said. As he always did.

Which wasn’t actually true. He had in fact met her through a website specifically designed to introduce Japanese ladies to American men. The website was clear that the purpose of these introductions was to help the men appreciate the glories of a subservient, docile, sweet and charming Asian wife.

There were pictures of older gentlemen who were thrilled with their gorgeous younger—much, much younger—wives, and testimonies by the men, saying they had never been happier, nor better looked after, in their lives.

It was about time, Walter thought, that he had some looking after. Honor had looked after him for a while, until she decided their fourteen years together and two daughters had been a terrible mistake, and she couldn’t possibly stay in such an unhappy and dreadful situation.

And then came Sally, who was forever having crisis after crisis, and looked to Walter to sort them out. He was enormously flattered for a while—he hadn’t played the knight in shining armor role, and he found it suited him. But ten years of drama was exhausting, and when her drama ended up being an affair with a work colleague, he almost clapped with relief.

Sally begged for forgiveness, and Walter honestly had to use all the acting skills he had to pretend to be furious.

Luckily, they had never actually formalized their arrangement, hence—thank you, God!—no alimony with Sally. Then came Eleanor, who was delightful, but a little too space age for his tastes; and suddenly a younger, malleable wife seemed . . . appealing.

When Hiromi started corresponding with him, enclosing pictures of her sweet, shy smile, he was captivated. She was forty-six, which he decided was a perfect age. Not so young that it would be inappropriate, but mature. A woman, rather than a girl. She had been married once, when she was young, but, she said, it had been more of an arranged marriage, one to please her parents.