Staging Death (7 page)

‘Bombadier,’ he said with satisfaction, looking at his glass. ‘Cheers. And well done you.’ He touched the side of his nose. ‘And, if everything
goes according to plan, I hope to return the favour – and maybe you’ll drink something a bit stronger than that muck there.’ He peered at my Virgin Mary.

‘Working this afternoon,’ I said. ‘But what’s this about celebrating? Come on, Merry – tell!’

He donned an imaginary pair of glasses, and, removing an invisible stethoscope from round his neck, listened to my chest. ‘Do you think I’d make a good doctor – actually, a good consultant?’

‘There’s no one I’d rather trust my ingrowing toenail to,’ I declared. ‘
Casualty?
’

‘Holby City,’
he corrected me. ‘It’ll pay my maintenance arrears, which means I shall get to see Freya more often, and – to hell with Stratford! Unless I come back as Antony!’

‘So long as you demand me for your Cleopatra, darling.’ I took a sip of my fancy tomato juice. ‘So you’ve forgiven Toby Frensham, have you?’ My approach lacked subtlety, I’m afraid.

‘Forgive him? Never!’ His voice rang round the bar. Then he whispered conspiratorially, ‘I have one or two plans, sweetheart. Nothing too serious. But he won’t mess with me again.’

‘Do you suppose he even knows he’s messed with you? I’m sure it’s nothing personal on his part.’

‘That’s tough. Because it’s extremely personal on mine.’

Meredith and I didn’t linger long over our meal. He seemed to construe my disapproval of his plans to avenge himself on Toby as an attack on our friendship, despite the fact I was shouting him lunch. I tried to point out that being friends didn’t mean you had to agree with everything your friend did; indeed, being a friend meant you sometimes had to say things that no one else would risk. He pretended to be mollified, and reluctantly promised not to do anything violent, but I could see my chances of acting alongside him withering by the moment.

Much as I usually enjoy walking through Stratford, which was spectacular with spring flowers, the place didn’t lift my spirits this time. Perhaps it was because of all Merry’s stupid talk of vengeance, or perhaps because of the memory of Mr Gunter’s vicious response to a perfectly
normal call: whatever the cause, I felt uneasy. I even had a feeling that I might be being watched – if ever I directed
Hamlet
I’d have Claudius looking over his shoulder with unease the very moment Hamlet started acting oddly. Just as I was looking out for something now.

I must think of something else. My bonus. It would be nice to think about that.

So I did. Only to stop short when I realised it might take months for it to come through. Until then, I would have to exercise my usual unpleasant level of restraint in my spending – unless, of course, I could persuade Greg or Toby to help me out.

Greg would huff and puff about the need to save and be economical, reminding me – he always did, for some reason – of how he and I once had to earn our pocket money by folding newspapers into tight concertinas to make firelighters. If I really irritated him he’d remind me of the time the bathwater froze in our Blackheath bathroom. The fact that he now had money to burn, while mine had all disappeared in my sherry era, always escaped him. He couldn’t seem to grasp that I’d lost work and damaged my reputation for professional reliability when I’d turned up for rehearsals with black eyes and once a broken arm. And there was a period when I couldn’t work at all. Or perhaps he was simply being
what passed in his case for tactful. He’d never warmed to my then husband, and as soon as he’d realised how abusive the man was had urged me to leave him. But part of my ex’s abuse – I don’t even like to refer to him by name – had been to diminish my self-esteem to the point where I no longer believed I could have a life without him.

Enough of the past. Making a living in the present and believing there might be a future were what I must concentrate on. I straightened my shoulders, found a shop window in which to titivate my hair and marched into the office ready to sell igloos in the tropics.

Claire was putting down the phone as I walked in. ‘Sorry, but the guy who might have wanted to look at Moreton Priory has cancelled – slipped a disc, he says.’

I put on a brave face. ‘Well, we’ve still got the Grove sale under our belts. And I’m sure I can find something else to do this afternoon. Anything for the rest of the weekend?’

‘Not at the moment. Greg says he’s sure things will look up soon, though.’

‘I think two million pounds’ worth of sale might just constitute looking up,’ I said. ‘Any news of the Wimpoles’ offer?’ That was pretty important too.

‘The vendors are still holding out.’

‘What? For God’s sake, haven’t they heard of
the word
slump
? It’s time Greg gave them one of his bollockings.’

Her lips primped. ‘I believe he has gone round this afternoon to give them the benefit of his advice. But you know what people are like.’

We both sighed, as if five-pound notes were evaporating before our eyes.

I spoke first. ‘OK, unless I hear from you, I’ll see you next week. Anything nice planned for tomorrow?’

‘On duty here,’ she said without enthusiasm. ‘But at least I’ve got a job. That’s something, isn’t it?’ she added with a smile.

‘It certainly is. And don’t forget, if you get anyone showing any interest in anything, I’ll be there.’

We exchanged nods and smiles. We might never like each other enough to be friends, but we were in the same boat, and would make damned sure it didn’t sink.

Now what? A bit of stern gardening? I didn’t have much of a patch, but I did like to keep it tidy. I had my name down for an allotment, too. What penny-pinching professional didn’t? At least I had my working-class credentials, and knew at first hand all about cloches and compost heaps, or in my case a couple of wormeries. So should I go and follow Rousseau’s example, or – and the
more I thought about it, the more it seemed a good idea – given Merry’s past, should I go out to Aldred House and have a word about Merry? Preferably with Toby and if not with him then with Ted, the guy in charge of security?

Aldred House it would be.

I drove right up to the house and parked in my usual place in the stable yard without seeing a soul. It seemed that my errand was more necessary than I’d feared. Where on earth was everyone who should have been looking after not just Toby but also his new family and his wonderful house?

Stopping only to lock the Ka, which wasn’t of course mine to have stolen, I legged it to the servants’ entrance, to find it locked. The front door was locked too. In a normal household living in a normal house, this wouldn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. But hitherto I’d always seen at least half a dozen folk toiling away to make Toby’s life more bearable.

Now what? I was only a freelance designer, not even an employee, in technical terms. I could scarcely raise the alarm. Even assuming I’d known who to raise the alarm with, not being able to see Ted anywhere. I couldn’t imagine the local fuzz being interested.

I started a slow stroll round the house, pausing every few yards to look and listen. Might they
be playing tennis? No reassuring plop of ball on racquet. Swimming? The pool was always heated to an embarrassing degree, but there were no shouts of glee, no splashing.

From indoors – though one or two upper windows admitted the spring air – there was no tapping of keyboards, and significantly no sounds of computer games.

And then I heard a sob. Somewhere towards the shrubbery, a woman was crying. To hell with only being a hired help. I set off as fast as I could.

To find none other than Allyn face down, shoulders heaving.

Sitting beside her – hell, she’d chosen an excruciatingly painful bench for her sorrow – I gathered her up and held her till the shuddering sobs subsided. I’d even got a scrubby tissue in my pocket she could use to mop the tears. And they were real, eye-reddening tears, the sort that puffed your face and dripped snottily from your nose.

When she realised it was me, she tensed and pushed away, turning her face to the path.

‘It’s OK. It’s OK, Allyn. Just relax.’ I put my arm round her shoulder. The bones were as close to the surface as those of one of Andy Rivers’ African orphans. I’d always known that she was ultra-slim, of course, hence my less-
than-kind
nickname for her, but I didn’t realise what such slimness actually meant. How did Toby feel about it?

She consented to leave the arm there. She abandoned my tissue, and found an elegant hankie of her own. That was soon soaked too.

‘Why don’t I go and make you a cup of tea?’ I asked. ‘I’ll bring it out here,’ I added. ‘No one will know.’ I wasn’t sure what secret I was keeping, but she seemed marginally reassured. ‘Green? Good. But you’ll have to give me your key.’ I pointed to a big, old-fashioned iron affair. ‘To let myself in,’ I explained, as if to a child.

Making the tea was easy, but I looked in vain for the biscuits or cake that ought to go with it. At last, by dint of careful searching, I ran to earth some of those puffed rice biscuits that have the texture – and, in my opinion, the taste – of polystyrene ceiling tiles. Even serving them on a lovely Royal Worcester plate wouldn’t help. I placed it and matching cups and saucers on a butler’s tray, together with several sheets of kitchen towel in case the tears reappeared. Fortunately I’d played many a housemaid in my time and was able to hold the heavy tray on one splayed hand as I relocked the door.

Eyes closed, she was now seated cross-legged on the bench, which must have challenged all her attempts to concentrate on her yoga breathing
and relaxation. At last she permitted herself to become aware of my presence, and she opened her eyes slowly, and probably warily. I was part of Toby’s past, for all I was now working for her.

I poured the tea into one of those exquisite cups, passed her a ceiling tile, and waited. She wasn’t to know I was doing an excellent impersonation of the therapist I saw after the divorce. I might have convinced anyone. In reality, I was scared – for her that she might reveal things she’d rather no one knew, and for me in case she thought the best way to make me forget any confidences was to sack me.

At last she sipped, and said, ‘I must look such an idiot.’

‘Not at all. You look like someone who’s unhappy.’

A long shuddering and probably painful sigh. ‘I’m fine. Truly, I’m fine.’

‘How fine?’ It probably wasn’t psycho-speak, but was the best I could manage.

‘I mean, I have a wonderful life.’ She spread those emaciated hands expressively. A huge diamond came almost to life in the sudden burst of sunlight. ‘Look! A house to die for, staff ready to do my slightest bidding, wonderful boys, a husband who adores me.’

The order in which she recited her list made
my ears twitch, but I didn’t remark on it.

‘So why should I be so unhappy?’ she asked, in a wail worthy of Jocasta.

You tell me, sister.
But I didn’t say it aloud. And perhaps I didn’t even think it aloud. I’d had bad enough times when my bank balance probably matched Greg’s. But I didn’t think that even bad-boy Toby would ever raise a finger to a woman he adored enough to indulge as he did.

When she didn’t respond to her rhetorical question, I posed it a different way myself. ‘Why do you think you’re unhappy?’

Her eyes welled up again. She shook her head. But she dug visibly deep, and insisted, ‘No, I really am fine. No problems.’

At least none she could reveal to someone she saw as a rival for Toby’s affections. The worst thing was that for a moment – in my head – I might have been. No, all I wanted to do now, surely, was play Cleo to Toby’s Antony. Adultery, despite the temptation, had never, ever been on my menu. So what was my excuse for coming here, if not to catch Toby on his own? I could hardly tell Allyn I was so hard up I wanted to touch him for a loan.

If she didn’t want to confide in me, the least I could do – for her dignity’s sake – was play the role she wanted, that of interior decorator. And an interior decorator could hardly tell her client
that it was clear that she obviously wasn’t fine, and did have problems.

‘I’d been hoping to speak to your secretary,’ I began. ‘Miss Fairford.’

She showed a modicum of interest.

‘I spoke to her last night,’ I continued, ‘but I think she might have got a colour name wrong. So I just thought I’d check.’

She shook her head. ‘Miss Fairford never gets anything wrong.’

Somehow that sounded less of a compliment than it should have done.

‘She seems very efficient – hard-working, too,’ I pursued, one worker supporting another. Getting work with Allyn would look good on the girl’s CV; getting the sack emphatically wouldn’t. But now was not the moment to talk about Miss Fairford’s need to earn a living. ‘Would you mind if I looked at the room again?’

‘Of course not. I’ll take you, shall I?’

Now that was progress. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Trouble?’ She sighed emphatically. ‘Toby has taken the boys to a soccer match, of all things, with their tutors as well. A cup tie? Is that the right term? The new nanny doesn’t arrive till Monday. Miss Fairford – no, it’s her day off; that awful German blonde Greta – or is she from Lithuania? – she’s gone to some organic farmers’ market.’

A market on a Saturday afternoon? I thought they were generally morning affairs. But she was an employee too, so I said nothing.

‘I’d adore to show you the room.’

I bent to pick up the tray but she stopped me. ‘Someone’ll deal with that. Let’s go.’

So did she hate being waited on hand and foot or not? Perhaps she didn’t know herself.

She walked in silence to the house. Only then did I realise I didn’t have my files with me. How could I look efficient? Or perhaps she’d welcome a bit of old-fashioned absent-mindedness.

I clapped my hand to my forehead. ‘My notes! They’re still on my desk at home.’

‘Let’s just talk this through again.’ There was real panic in her voice, as if I’d suddenly become a vital support. ‘I’ll find some paper somewhere. There’ll be some in the kids’ room unless that’s been tidied away too. Everyone Toby and I employ is so damned tidy, Miss Burford.’ That sounded suspiciously like another sob.

‘Vena, please.’

‘Allyn. Toby says by some fluke everyone we’ve chosen is anal-retentive.’

I was about to quip that it was better than their being anal-expulsive but wasn’t sure if she did schoolkid humour.

By now we had reached the guest suite Miss Fairford and I had looked at last night.

‘It’s so elegant,’ she sighed. ‘And all those cool tones – you think they’re too cool, don’t you?’ she asked, with a swift glance at my face.

‘It depends whether you want to show them off or make them welcoming,’ I said. ‘All sorts of bright colours were popular at the time this wing was built – and I mean bright…’

During the next few hours, we drank more tea, this time on the sheltered, sunlit terrace and she toyed with another ceiling tile. Hardly to my surprise, she didn’t finish it, but crumbled it onto a Ritz of a bird table.

‘The trouble is, they don’t seem to like them,’ she observed, sadly. ‘Nuts, seeds, even breadcrumbs – they disappear as soon as we put them out. But these, they just lie there and lie there.’ She poked them with her beautifully manicured index finger.

‘I can’t blame them.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Me neither.’

‘Do you have a wheat allergy or something?’ As questions go, it was a bit straight – but more tactful than asking outright if she was anorexic.