Puppies Are For Life (8 page)

‘Oh, yes.’ Katy sniffed. ‘There’s still some junk by the looks of it. What’s all that stuff up there?’

Susannah swallowed. To the uninitiated it might not look much. ‘Well –’ she ran a hand through her hair – ‘those pretty little coloured things on the top shelf are called smalti and the others lower down are called tesserae. And that stuff over there is for making mortar.’

‘Grief, Mum, whatever are you up to now?’

‘What? Oh … nothing. I’m just having a go at mosaics.’

‘Oh.’ Katy nodded. ‘Mosaics.’ She had at least heard of such a thing.

Perhaps she might even be interested.

‘Look –’ Susannah darted into the room and took one of her teapot stands down from a shelf. ‘I’ve started by making these. I figured that if I could manage something like this then I could tackle bigger things later on. Because the principle’s much the same, you see. There are several methods of going about it; I’m not sure whether I’m doing it right, really, but … trial and error, I suppose. I’m having a go at a coffee table now. That design over there –’

‘Have you sold anything yet?’

‘What? No … no. I haven’t sold anything yet.’ Susannah’s jaw tightened. Katy was no different from Paul. ‘Give me a chance! I’ve only recently got started. Now if I had a bit more time …’

‘Kettle’s boiled,’ Katy called over her shoulder. She was already back in the kitchen, trying to
get the lid off the biscuit tin using only the heels of her hands. It flew off with a clang and she stuck her nose inside. ‘Oh, Mum, there’s nothing in it!’

‘Of course there’s nothing in it.’ Susannah ran over to the kettle. ‘I haven’t bought biscuits since the day you left home.’

‘Have you got any chocolate cake, then? Or my favourite cornflake crunchy stuff?’

‘Katy, for heaven’s sake. When have I had
time?
’

‘Oh, but you could make some cakes, couldn’t you? And you must have something nice somewhere.’ She began to search through the cupboards. ‘I’m absolutely starving.’

‘But –’ Susannah shook her head in exasperation – ‘you must have made yourself some lunch, didn’t you? Or – or breakfast?’

‘I had a bowl of that rabbit food you and Dad like. I couldn’t find Shreddies anywhere.’

‘Well, we don’t eat –’ But Susannah gave up then; the phone was ringing insistently and she still hadn’t brewed the tea.

‘Hello,’ she snapped, tucking the cordless receiver under her chin. It was almost bound to be Paul, checking up on things as usual. He phoned most afternoons to make sure she was home safely – or to check that she was chained to the cooker, perhaps?

With her hands free she managed to pour water on the teabags while frowning at Katy across the room. Katy was flapping her hands at her and
mouthing that she was going upstairs to have a bath. Oh, for a lovely hot bath!

‘Hello?’ Susannah said again when the caller still didn’t speak. The aerial had been making hissing noises.

‘Oh, hello,’ came the smooth reply, and Susannah pressed her ear closer to the phone. It was a man, but she couldn’t place the voice.

‘This is – er – the mug who bought Lucy-Ann,’ the voice explained, and her shocked ‘Oh!’ came out more like a strangled ‘Aargh!’

Her thoughts had been so far from the likes of Harvey whatever-his-name-was that she was completely thrown. Moreover, he had actually bought her doll! Was he about to demand his money back?

‘I hope you don’t mind my phoning you like this,’ he went on, ‘but – well you
are
in the book, as you know … under H,’ he added good-humouredly, to cushion her obvious surprise.

‘Yes … yes, we
are
in the book,’ she found herself echoing stupidly. She and Paul had been impressed at having got in the directory so soon. But what on earth was all this about? She wandered back into the work room for no particular reason, and slid on to one of the stools.

‘Do you phone everyone in the book?’ she asked, wincing at her damn-fool question. She leaned her elbows on the table and one of her fingers found its way to her mouth. She bit down on it hard so that it hurt.

‘Um … no,’ he answered cautiously. ‘I only phone people I know.’

‘But you don’t know me. Not really.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that … We had tea together. We talked. And I bought your doll. Isn’t that enough to be going on with?’

‘Well … yes, I suppose it is.’ Susannah closed her eyes. If she didn’t manage to come out with something intelligent soon she would kill herself. ‘Er – how is Lucy-Ann? Did your wife like her after all?’

‘Very much so. She certainly did.’

‘And – and was it a special birthday? One of the dreaded Os?’

‘Not particularly special.’ A slight pause. ‘She was thirty-three this time.’

And make of that what you will, Susannah thought, her eyebrows rising a little. Quite an age gap.

‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘she was my secretary at the bank, you see. A few years ago now. I was branch manager at the time.’

‘Oh.’ Susannah picked up a pencil which she twirled around her fingers as she listened. She visualised a blonde sitting on her boss’s knee, giggling. High heels, split skirt, and a blouse that strained its buttons. A gold-digger if ever there was one.

‘Which bank are you with?’

‘I’m … not actually with the bank any more.’ Something like a spit hissed through the receiver.
‘You know how it is these days: they decided they couldn’t afford to keep me on. I’ve been given the golden handshake a little earlier than I ever dreamed.’

‘There’s a lot of that around,’ she said. And could it really happen to Paul? ‘Will you be able to get another job, d’you think?’

‘Hardly likely at my age. I’m keeping my old contacts, though, just in case; an ear to the ground, so to speak. Anyway, I didn’t call you to whine down the phone about my troubles. I want to come and see you.’

The pencil leaped out of her hand. She hunched over the phone and massaged her temples. ‘I can’t think why,’ she said, literally curling in on herself with embarrassment. ‘I – I wasn’t exactly civil to you the other day, was I?’

‘Weren’t you?’ he lied glibly. ‘I can’t say I noticed. But I’ve been told I have a thick skin.’

Suddenly something inside Susannah clicked. Recalling their meeting had brought back something he’d said; and she wondered how it had failed to impress itself on her at the time. ‘You knew the pot stand was Roman, didn’t you?’ she blurted out. ‘A Roman design, I mean.’

‘Well, of course I knew what it was! Any fool ought to have been able to recognise that much.’

But not my smart-arse husband
, she thought.

‘And that’s what I wanted to come and see you about, your mosaic stuff. I’d like to see what you’re doing. If I may.’

‘Really?’ Susannah gulped down her surprise, her eyes swivelling to the coffee-table design she had pinned on the wall. This man was genuinely interested? She simply had to be dreaming.

‘You – you’re very welcome, of course,’ she said, ‘but I’m afraid there’s not much for you to see at the moment. I – I’m actually between commissions.’ She stuck her tongue in her cheek and chewed it.

‘Nevertheless,’ he insisted, ‘I imagine you have a studio?’

‘I – yes, yes I do. Here. Here, at home. Right here.’ She was nodding like a puppet now.

‘So you could give me some idea about … it’s Turnpike Cottage, isn’t it? That’s what it says in the book. So I could drop in … when? Sometime, let’s say, on Monday, perhaps?’

‘Well … yes. You could come … yes!’ She stopped nodding and forced her tumbling thoughts to sort themselves out. ‘Could you come at about half past four, do you think? I’ll try to be here by then.’

‘Four-thirty on Monday it is, then. Fine. I’m very much looking forward to it.’

Susannah ignored the buzzing tone with which he left her. Her head was up by the ceiling and her feet were somewhere above the ground. Her heart hammered frantically against her rib cage, because he had made it sound as though he wanted to commission something. But what on earth had she done that she could show him? The answer was: precious little.

She simply must get down to some work. But when?

It was several seconds before she realised that Katy was watching her from the door. How long she’d been standing there Susannah had no idea, but a light of suspicion lingered in the girl’s watchful gaze.

‘Mum,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘I can’t turn the bath taps on.’

Susannah sat beside Paul on the train to Paddington, glad that neither of them had to commute every day. Nothing could be more depressing than this daily slog to work and back, she decided, her eyes roving the rows of men and women huddled in winter overcoats, and watching rain as it spattered against the windows because it was still dark outside and there was nothing else to look at. In comparison to these people she felt almost as if she were on holiday, even if she was going on her father’s pointless errand to the solicitors.

Paul, the
Telegraph
held up in front of him, appeared oblivious to the passengers and the weather. And to his wife.

He wasn’t usually petty, but Susannah wondered whether he was a little put out at having to ‘slum it’ in second class: being on official business he was entitled to first-class travel, and he had downgraded because of her.

Normally he drove to his office in Swindon, but today he was going for a JAR.

‘For a what?’ Katy had asked, when her mother
had told her where they were going, and why. ‘It’s a long way to go to a pub.’

‘It’s not the sort of jar you’re thinking of. It means: Job Appraisal Review; having a chat with the boss.’

‘Oh.’ Katy quickly retreated. Anything that went on in offices, she didn’t want to know about right now.

And neither do I, thought Susannah, emitting a gentle sigh but nevertheless picturing the piles of work waiting for her back on her desk. Now, if she could spend all day doing mosaics … She hadn’t yet told Paul about Harvey Webb coming round to look at her studio. What would he make of it? Maybe she wouldn’t tell him at all – unless something concrete came out of it. Oh, she should be getting on with it, though, not sitting here going to London. At this rate there would be nothing for Harvey to see.

The train had drawn into Reading.

‘I don’t know how long I’ll be,’ Paul muttered out of the side of his mouth. ‘We’d better make our separate ways home. If we don’t end up on the same train, you can have the car. I’ll get a taxi from the station.’

‘OK,’ she agreed, vaguely disappointed. She’d been half-expecting him to suggest meeting for lunch. She could murder a lunch somewhere nice … Covent Garden, perhaps? She hadn’t been there for years. They’d often strolled through it when they first met – only then it had been the real
McCoy, selling fresh fruit and vegetables; not what it was today.

Perhaps Paul hadn’t suggested lunch because he planned to meet up with some of his old colleagues. Perhaps he had other meetings; other things to do. He hadn’t been very forthcoming, actually; in fact he’d been unusually preoccupied …

After the briefest of goodbyes they parted on the concourse at Paddington.

Surely, she thought, watching him striding away from her, he couldn’t be worried about what his boss would be saying to him later? Normally he earned high praise. No, he could have nothing to worry about.

Paul found himself bending over Wesley Morris’s secretary – and admiring her marvellous breasts – with little recollection of how he had got there. His journey from the escalator at Paddington to the department’s building off Tottenham Court Road had passed in a blur.

Susannah had dominated his thoughts. Katy’s home-coming hadn’t improved her mood, and he’d been so sure it would. If anything it had made her worse. Well, OK, maybe she was worried about Katy – weren’t they both? But what a way to show it! Shunning the girl, pretending nothing had happened, that it would simply go away – that was no way to deal with the problem.

And then there was the matter of his interview. He had heard Susannah tell Katy that he was going
to London for his annual JAR. He hadn’t bothered to put her right. He had carried on stepping into his trousers, nearly ripping the stitches in his annoyance with her. If she had so little interest in him these days that she couldn’t recall that he’d had his JAR two weeks ago – well! He wasn’t going to remind her.

Not that he could have told her much about his meeting today. Wesley Morris had been vague over the phone. But he had a pretty good idea what it would be about, and could have confided his worries to her. Then she could have helped him prepare himself for the worst; told him everything would be all right. Comforted him. Hell, that was what wives were
for.

As it was, he must face things alone. Feeling worried. And insecure. Because this, surely, was it. What else could it be but his marching orders? Sorry, mate – more staff cuts to be looked for, more savings. Sod off, thanks a lot, goodbye.

It couldn’t have come at a worse time either. They were going to have to support Katy again. They had overspent on the cottage. Bought a new car. Booked up a fortnight’s skiing in February. Of course he would get a nice lump sum … but a drastically reduced income. Supposing they lived till they were ninety? You can’t live off a lump sum for ever.

But he must stop all this day-dreaming and concentrate on the coming interview. Keep his mind on one problem at a time … and try not to stare at
Wesley’s secretary: she was giving him the strangest of looks.

‘Go right in,’ she told him from under her lashes. ‘He’s expecting you any minute now.’

Paul’s gut twisted as he opened the door. He may have been on good terms with Wesley for many years but that wouldn’t make the next half hour any easier.

‘Bad trip?’ Wesley asked, smiling thinly from behind his desk. ‘You’re looking a bit frazzled, Paul, to say the least.’

‘No, no,’ Paul lied, taking the proffered seat. ‘I’m fine. Never better. How about you?’ He leaned forward, squinting. ‘What on earth have you got in your hand?’

‘A tennis ball,’ came the swift explanation. ‘You squeeze it like this, you see, over and over again, and it’s – er – meant to be terribly good for you.’

Paul nodded knowingly. ‘So that’s the latest, is it?’

Wesley was always on to some gimmick or other. One week it might be buckets and buckets of water, because he’d heard that you should drink umpteen pints every day; another it might be a bunch of seaweed stuck up your nose supposedly to increase your sex drive. If Wesley thought there might be something in it, he would do it.

‘And how is this moth-eaten, hairless sphere that looks like something you whipped off your dog going to do the least bit of good?’ Paul asked.

‘Well, it builds up your bones … or your
muscles … or something.’ Wesley ransacked his memory, still squeezing for all he was worth. ‘Or is it supposed to relieve stress? You’ve got me there, Paul. Can’t remember. Just know it’s doing me good.’

‘Obviously not as an
aide-mémoire
,’ Paul murmured. He straightened his face and his tie. His stomach gave another warning wrench. In a moment he would know his fate. ‘I suppose you
do
remember why you sent for me?’ he asked, propping his left ankle on the opposite knee.

‘Ah.’ Wesley’s eyes slid sideways to the window, and a second later came back to the ball. Giving it a final crush, he placed it in a pin tray, then leaned back in his chair to face Paul.

What he was thinking about right then was anybody’s guess. His expression gave nothing away.

‘Frank, this must stop. Right now.’

‘What? What must? I’m not doing anything.’ Except raking around in his ear.

Jan clicked her tongue; shook her head. ‘You know very well what I mean.’

Frank put down his cup of coffee. ‘I’m sitting here minding my own business.’

‘And worrying yourself half to death. You don’t fool me, Frank May. I’ve known you far too long.’

‘Yes.’ Frank sighed. ‘I know. I can’t help it. I know that daughter of mine too. She’ll have been to the solicitor’s by now, and she’ll not have handled things properly.’

‘Now, Frank, that’s most unfair. Susannah will do her best.’

‘But it won’t be anywhere near good enough. She’ll allow herself to be fobbed off. She’ll agree with everything he says.’

‘“He” might be a woman.’

‘The girl never had any spine. No spunk – not like you or me – no nerve.’

‘You can hardly expect her to take after me. I’m not her natural mother.’

‘No.’

‘She’s like Rose, from what I can gather. And I wouldn’t have said
she
had no spine. She knew how to get what she wanted, didn’t she? And so does Susannah, when pressed. There are more ways of skinning a cat, as they say.’

‘Can’t say I’ve heard that expression … but you’re right, of course. And maybe that’s what I’m afraid of. Susannah will get what she wants all right, which is for me not to get Bert’s house. And she’ll get it in her own quiet way by doing sod – absolutely nothing: simply going through the motions with the solicitor, and not really pushing my case.’

‘But I can’t see the solicitor “going through the motions”,’ Jan said. ‘Wouldn’t it be in his interests to have someone contest the will? Wouldn’t that give him more work and more fees, in the long run? He should take up your case like a shot.’

In silence they contemplated the mysteries of the law, but could come to no firm conclusions.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Frank groaned. ‘This is awful. I want to be there! Why didn’t I go and sort it out for myself?’

Jan finished sewing a button and broke the thread. ‘That letter from the builder hasn’t helped much, has it?’ She closed her sewing box with a snap. ‘Fra-ank …’ she said after a while.

Frank looked up, alerted by his wife’s change in tone.

‘Frank, perhaps another trip to England is called for after all. Not just for you, but for me as well.’ Her eyes gleamed with excitement and sudden hope, while Frank’s narrowed shrewdly as he studied her. He saw plans almost written there in ink. ‘Are you thinking,’ he said slowly, ‘what I think you’re thinking? Because –’ he struggled with himself – ‘I’m not sure I can do what you want me to.’

‘What, admit that we made a mistake?’ Jan took Frank’s coffee and tipped it down the sink. ‘Have all those know-alls who said we’d regret it proved right? Well, maybe your ego will suffer slightly in the beginning. But who cares if we look like silly fools? In the long run it will be worth it, won’t it? Come on, Frank, shift your body, get weaving. There’s a heap of work to be done.’

Natalie was two steps from Simon before she even noticed him. She had emerged from the school entrance carrying a basket, apparently oblivious to other staff members leaving with her. Now she plodded down the steps, taking her time. She
stopped at the sight of his trainers, looked stricken, and glanced around her. It was as if she were seeking escape.

‘You shouldn’t have come here!’ she hissed from the back of her throat. ‘I thought I said you were to phone.’

‘What’s the matter? Do we stink or something? Are you ashamed of us?’

Her eyes drifted down to the buggy. ‘And you shouldn’t give Justin those lollipops. He’s far too young for things like that. What if he swallows the sticks?’

‘As if you really cared,’ Simon sneered, then found to his dismay that Justin was calmly offering his mother the sticky red sweet, presumably so she could take a lick at it. Anyone watching would have thought he’d only been parted from her for a minute, and that she was the most wonderful mother in the world.

What a joke. Instead of bending down to his level and saying, ‘Yum yum, thank you,’ like any well-adjusted adult would have done, Natalie ignored him.

She shifted her basket to the other hand. ‘Well, have you found yourself somewhere to live yet?’

‘No. We might have to sleep in the car.’

She knew he didn’t mean it. ‘The sensible thing would be to sell that, wouldn’t it?’

‘Not until I have to.’ Simon kicked the wheels of the buggy. ‘How will I shift my gear from the flat without a car? Not that I’ve anywhere to shift it.
I’m having a problem, if you must know, finding somewhere to rent. Everyone’s charging the earth. Or they don’t want to know about kids. So I thought –’ he cleared his throat – ‘I’d go to my parents’ like you suggested. Just for a while, of course. Until I can sort something better.’

Natalie nodded slowly but refrained from passing comment, much to Simon’s relief.

‘So why don’t you come over this weekend to see us? Before Justin forgets who you are?’

There was fat chance of that, Simon thought bitterly; Justin was lolling out of his buggy now, grinning hugely, gurgling for all he was worth, and trying to attract Natalie’s attention. Little traitor. Why couldn’t he grizzle and whine at her, the way he’d been carrying on all day?

‘I might come, if I can make it,’ she said. ‘But I might not. What … what have you told your parents?’

‘About us? I haven’t told them anything yet. I’ll think of something when the time comes. Don’t worry. I won’t blacken your name. I won’t, honestly.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Not that you give a damn.’

‘Oh, but I do. Your parents are OK. I wouldn’t want them to think me … because I’m not. Not really. I’m not! Anyway –’ she lifted the basket to chest-level, looking worried and confused. ‘Must go … got tons … see you soon, I expect.’

‘Yeah. See you soon. You will come, though?’

But she’d stirred herself to a half-hearted jog and was already some way down the street. She really couldn’t wait to get away from him, it seemed.

‘You will come, won’t you?’ he yelled after her. But somehow he wouldn’t bet on it.