The Ballroom Class (39 page)

‘I said in the meeting,’ said Katie, levelly, ‘I haven’t had time to co-ordinate comprehensive reports. I’m just covering all bases.’

Eddie leaned forward, dropped his voice to an unpleasantly intimate croak, and said, ‘I thought you were a smart lass, Kate.’

‘I am.’ Katie took a step back. She could smell Eddie’s brown-sauced breakfast roll on his breath.

‘Then have another look at those leases. Think of the lovely new development and how much nicer the town centre will look with an eco-mall. Sometimes, sadly –’ his lips drooped down at the corners to indicate deep regret – ‘eggs must be broken to make sexy retail/residential omelettes.’ He turned back to the machine and selected a king-sized Mars bar, and a king-sized Twix, and, while the mechanisms clunked, he went on, ‘It’s not our job to break the eggs, love, just to pick ’em out. And I think the developers, and the architects, and the local government redevelopment funding bods and I would prefer to get on with this project while the frying pan’s sizzling, so to speak.’

He bent down in anticipation of his Mars bar and Twix, keeping one meaningful eye on Katie’s face as he did so.

God almighty, thought Katie, irritated, he really does think he’s in his own sleazy cop drama.

There was an anticlimactic pause when Eddie’s hand flapped around in vain as nothing appeared in the slot.

With an annoyed tut, he turned his attention to the machine, gave it a hefty wallop on the side, at which point two Mars bars, a packet of Revels and a sesame seed bar fell out.

The sesame seed bars were only in there as part of a council healthy-eating initiative. No one ever selected them.

A broad smile cracked across his face. ‘There we go,’ he said, handing it to Katie, while pocketing the rest. ‘Everyone’s a winner.’

And if Katie hadn’t got it, he added a huge wink, and waddled off towards the executive car park. ‘If anyone wants me after two, I’m in the office. On the fourteenth hole!’ he bellowed over his shoulder.

Katie refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how enraged she was by his attitude, and stormed back to her office to work out what she could do next.

At exactly the same time, Bridget was having an unsettling moment in the bank, and not, for once, because she couldn’t quite remember if she’d taught the cashier.

‘No, that can’t be right,’ she said, smiling politely at ‘Sean’ (Sean Barnes? Sean Thornton?). ‘I think there must be a computer error. I know there’s at least eight thousand pounds in that account. Can you check again, please?’

She flashed an apologetic grimace at the man behind her. A queue was building up. Maybe lunchtime wasn’t the best time to sort out bank arrangements, but she hadn’t been able to sleep properly last night, thinking about that great big balance on the card. Yvette from the bridal shop had phoned, all coos about how show-stopping Lauren’s dress was going to be, but she ‘needed card details for the deposit so the dressmakers can get started on it’ – as if royal dressmakers were standing by, waiting for Lauren’s nod. Bridget had to admit, what with all the compliments and deference, she’d felt an intoxicating little flicker of Lauren’s wedding fever as she’d read out the magic numbers: it wasn’t even like spending money. When Bridget thought about it, she realised Yvette had barely mentioned a figure. She glided over it so discreetly that if Bridget hadn’t jotted down £850 deposit in her wedding notebook, it wouldn’t even have lodged in her brain. That was the problem with weddings. Eventually the actual cost of things just turned into a series of meaningless numbers.

But when Bridget had made a few calculations, she’d realised that that £850 took her dangerously close to the limit on that card, with her other secret one also nearly maxed out with catering deposits and band-booking fees, and suddenly she’d lost her nerve about her clever credit arrangement altogether. The total amount loomed over her subconscious like a loose mountain of bricks just waiting to flatten her.

So she’d decided to get it paid off, and damn the two interest-free weeks remaining. She’d probably lose a pound or two in interest by withdrawing the money and paying it off before she absolutely had to, but it was worth it just to get her peace of mind back.

You’d make a terrible gambler, Bridget told herself, wryly. No matter how good Frank thinks you are with money.

The cashier frowned at the screen. ‘Won’t keep you a moment, Mrs Armstrong.’

‘Is there a problem?’ she asked, nervously.

The cashier printed off a slip. ‘No, I don’t think so. The money was transferred into your current account yesterday by your husband? Here are the details.’

‘Oh, fine.’ Relief flooded through Bridget’s chest. ‘Fine. In that case  . . .’

‘But then he withdrew the whole lot.’ The cashier looked embarrassed. ‘He did have ID, Mrs Armstrong. Perhaps he’s planning a surprise for you?’

Bridget stared in horror, then plastered a smile on her face. ‘Perhaps he is.’

‘While you’re here, would you like to talk to someone about extending your overdraft again?’ he asked, but she was already sweeping her bag off the counter. She just had time to get home before she had to get back to school for yet another meeting.

‘I’ve given it to Lauren, so she and Chris can get a mortgage and get on the housing ladder,’ said Frank, smiling with a paternal pride that normally Bridget would have found adorable but now made her want to scream.

‘But why didn’t you tell me?’ she asked, trying not to let her panic show through. She relaxed her grip on the edge of the kitchen table, but her fingers still itched to fasten onto something. Frank’s neck, perhaps.

‘I did try, love, but you were in a rush,’ he said, easily, as if she was checking on the recycling collection. ‘We had an appointment with the building society yesterday about the mortgage, me and Lauren. They had to act fast, or else they’d have lost the place – ask her. She’s very full of it.’ He laid his knife and fork on the plate. Bridget had interrupted his lunch of sliced ham and chips. She was too distracted even to worry about his cholesterol.

‘She didn’t mention it to me,’ she said.

‘I think she only found out a day or two ago herself. But that’s the way with houses these days, isn’t it?’ he added, knowledgeably. ‘Why? Is there a problem?’ His forehead creased. ‘I reckoned if we hadn’t known about the money till now we wouldn’t miss it. Better that Lauren has it, to help her get set up. I mean, even I know property’s a prudent investment.’

Prudent investment. Honestly, thought Bridget, breathing hard through her nose. Frank had so much time on his hands these days he even read the Money sections.

Don’t panic, she told herself, as the lists and lists of the money she owed flashed in front of her eyes. Get all the facts first.

‘It’s an excellent investment,’ said Bridget, tightly. ‘So, in terms of the actual cash  . . .’ No, that was the wrong way to approach it. That would set off alarm bells. What she wanted to know was whether Frank had given Lauren a
theoretical
deposit, in which case she might be able to get it back, or whether her nest-egg was now a real-life, non-refundable deposit.

But Bridget knew that snatching the house-deposit money from Lauren, even if things weren’t already in motion, would be more than she could bring herself to do.

‘Is she  . . . is she moving out soon?’ she said instead.

Frank’s face softened. ‘That’s what she thought you’d be worried about! No, she’s got to get the money paid up front with Chris’s share, and the mortgage arranged, but the house won’t be finished until spring. So you’ve got your chick at home till then, don’t worry!’

‘Good,’ said Bridget, faintly.

‘Have you got time for a chip?’ Frank pushed his chair back from the table. ‘I can put the deep-fat fryer on again.’ He regarded it lovingly; it was his new favourite toy – again, bought from his new favourite electrical shop in town. ‘We should have treated ourselves to one of these beauties years ago  . . .’

Bridget looked at the kitchen clock. Twelve minutes to two. There wasn’t time to have a meltdown right now. It would have to wait.

She pushed away the dread starting to envelop her, but it was like trying to fight back fog.

‘I’ve got to get back to school,’ said Bridget faintly.

Katie had wanted to phone Hannah to wish her happy birthday as soon as she woke up, but she had made herself wait until they’d all be up and having breakfast – pancakes, she knew. She and Ross, and now Hannah and Jack, had pancakes for birthday breakfasts.

Ross had answered on the fifth ring, and passed the phone over with minimum acknowledgement of her ‘Happy birthday!’ – he claimed he had to change Jack, but she could tell her didn’t want to talk to her.

That had been hard, knowing she’d killed the easy way they’d always had of talking.

She heard him say, ‘It’s Mummy!’ with an enthusiasm he clearly didn’t feel – Ross was too decent to start manipulating Hannah’s loyalties – and suddenly there she was on the other end, the familiar deep breaths, a bit snuffly from a cold.

‘Happy birthday, Hannah!’ said Katie, and tried not to let her misery show through.

She listened in the empty kitchen to Hannah’s breathless giggles about how she and Molly had got hair braids and there were tropical pools and Jack’s swim nappy had come off and he’d run around
nude
, and she wished desperately that she was there too. Her heart skipped at the excitement in Hannah’s voice. It didn’t sound as if her absence was holding up the fun much.

‘. . .  and Jo took me to get my face painted and I was a fairy queen!’ finished Hannah. ‘Jo gave me a dressing-up box and it’s full of tiaras and wings and wands!’

‘Well, I’ve got a lovely present for you here for when you come back tomorrow,’ said Katie. ‘I can’t wait to see you, darling! Won’t be long now!’

There was an ominous pause at the other end.

Stupid, Katie chided herself, seeing Hannah’s face crumple in her mind’s eye, you shouldn’t have said that.

She knew it was selfish, but she couldn’t help it – it only slipped out to make herself feel better.

‘Hannah? Hannah?’

Ross was back on the phone, and in the background, Katie could hear grizzling. Her stomach dropped.

‘Thanks for that,’ said Ross.

‘Well, it sounds like you’re having a great time,’ retorted Katie, defensively.

‘We were. Look, I’ll get her to call you later, OK?’

And he’d hung up, before she could ask him how Jo was, or how he was, or whether Jack had been happy to sleep in a strange cot.

Katie rushed home from the office to see if there were any messages from Hannah and Jack. She’d been ringing Ross’s mobile on and off all day, but he hadn’t answered.

By now, nearly six, she knew the kids would be having supper, or getting ready for bed, so she tried Ross’s mobile again before she even took off her coat.

He answered his phone on the second ring.

‘Hi, Ross!’ Katie made herself sound cheerful. ‘Can I talk to Hannah? Is she in the bath?’

‘Katie, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to talk to her,’ he said. ‘She’s dressing up with Molly for supper and Jo and I want to try to get them into bed for seven, so we can get something ourselves. We’ll be setting off tomorrow morning before lunch – why don’t you ring then so there’s no tantrum about leaving?’

‘But  . . .’

‘Katie, I’m thinking of her, not you.’ Ross sounded less wimpy than usual. ‘She was upset after you called this morning. It took Jo ages to distract her.’

Jo. Of course. SuperJo the SuperMum.

Don’t be a bitch, Katie told herself, rubbing her tired eyes.

‘Well, if she  . . .’

‘If she asks, we’ll phone. But I don’t think she will.’ He softened. ‘That’s not because she doesn’t love you, it’s because she’s having a good time. Be happy about it.’

And he rang off.

Katie sat back and stared into the silent, tidy sitting room where her lavishly wrapped presents (pink bike for Hannah, new shirt and aftershave for Ross) sat accusingly by the sideboard. The house felt empty. It smelled wrong. The longer she sat still, the more doubt and guilt about what she’d set in motion attacked her from every shelf and discarded toy, and then her eye fell on the CD of dance music that Bridget had brought round for her.

I could go to the social dance, she thought. Bridget’s expecting me. She even asked if I was going.

The little act of thoughtfulness touched Katie’s battered heart so much that she found herself heading for the stairs, to change out of her work suit.

Katie showered quickly, one ear listening out for the phone all the time, and then changed into the first dress that fell to hand – a plain black thing that never needed ironing. At least at the social, all she’d have to think about would be her feet, and it would fill in three of the twenty-six hours until they were back.

She tried not to look at the big brass bed in the bedroom as she pulled on a fresh pair of tights. Ross had chosen it, and she paid for it with her first Christmas bonus money. It was going to be their heirloom, he’d said. A bed for lying in on Sundays, for letting kids pile on between them. He used to wrap tinsel round the frame at Christmas, and paper flowers on her birthday. Well, before the children came along and they were both too knackered to bother.