The House On Willow Street (22 page)

“Suki! Hello!” trilled Delilah.

Class A or antidepressant drugs, Suki wondered. Or merely the permanent ultrahappiness required if one wanted to stay married to a grumpy billionaire? Clark Verne, in common with most billionaires, was always grumpy. The amassing of
money seemed to do that to people, a fact which mystified Suki. If she was rich, she’d be so happy she’d never stop smiling.

“Hello, Delilah,” said Suki, tilting her cheek to be air-kissed. Once, she’d thought it made sense to stay friends with people like Clark via their wives. Now, she couldn’t really see the point of fake friendships.

“You look super, darling!” Delilah went on enthusiastically.

Suki flashed the regulation thank-you smile, and followed it up with, “And so do you!”

They were not pals and never would be. For a start, Delilah didn’t do women friends. Secondly, Suki didn’t fit comfortably into any niche. She wasn’t rich, but she wasn’t one of the eager women hanging around the fringes of power, either. She’d had a very public career and wouldn’t hesitate to remind men of that if they fell into a discussion of money and politics, ignoring all female interjections. That gave her a certain power, as did her former marriage. To these billionaires, Kyle Senior still represented the seat of power, and Suki had evolved various strategies to make sure they knew that separation from her husband had not meant separation from the Richardson clan: “I dropped by the compound in Hyannis over the summer,” she’d say idly, and suddenly they’d all be hanging on her every word.

Suki knew she was pretty glamorous in her own right. The liaison with Jethro hadn’t hurt in that regard. And her heavy lidded eyes with the death line of black kohl and the rippling hair told the world that she was a somebody. But the Richardsons bestowed extra glamour, no doubt about it.

Tonight, however, Suki was fed up with all the fakery. Truth was, she wasn’t part of the Richardson clan anymore. She was only invited to the compound on the rarest of
occasions, and only then because Kyle Senior was a great believer in the old adage: “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

“I got a phone call from a friend recently,” Delilah said idly.

Suki waited.

“Well, not a friend, exactly. More of an acquaintance.”

Suki tried to maintain an expression of polite interest. As if she cared about Delilah’s friends. A chat with her dermatologist about the latest laser treatment was probably Delilah’s notion of female bonding.

“She’s had a couple of phone calls from someone who’s a researcher for Redmond Suarez. It seems the latest book he’s working on is about the Richardsons . . .”

Suki could barely hear the rest of the conversation. She didn’t want to hear it.

“. . . I said we were friends and, of course, you know them—after all, you married one of them! But I’d have to check with you first.”

Somehow, Suki’s expression remained neutral.

“Yes, Delilah, he’s writing a book about the Richardsons,” she confirmed, her heart fluttering with panic. Always better to sound as if you knew everything up front. Knowledge was power.

“I don’t know much about it, but if someone wants to write a book about a great American dynasty, I’d hate it to be tawdry,” Suki managed to go on. “You know how Kyle Senior and Antoinette value their privacy. The
Family
—” she deliberately emphasized the word in the way people said things like the
President
—“want us to meet to discuss it.”

In reality, Antoinette had left a crisp message on Suki’s answering machine that sounded more like a command than an invitation: “Come to the compound on Tuesday afternoon.
You can stay overnight. We need to talk about Mr. Suarez and his nasty little book.”

Suki took Delilah’s hand and held on to it. “They will be so thrilled you didn’t talk about them, that instead you came to me with this,” she said, smiling ingenuously.

If Delilah was discomfited by Suki’s apparent calmness, she didn’t show it. Botox, naturally. Delilah’s brow was smooth as alabaster.

It was time for her to go.

“Thank you,” Suki said again, embracing Delilah’s bony frame. “I must phone Kyle and tell him this,” she added with a hint of sadness.

Last time she’d spoken to Kyle, they’d had a blazing row. But Delilah didn’t need to know that.

Suki never drove up to the Richardsons’ compound in Hyannis without feeling a sense of mild astonishment that she’d once belonged there. The seat of political power, a bit down the road from the Kennedy compound. It was all heady stuff. Back in the day, the Richardsons had been friends with the Kennedys in spite of their political differences. Kyle Senior had socialized with JFK and Jackie, and Suki used to love listening to his stories about those far-off days before it all ended so horribly in Dallas. Of course she’d exhibited only idle interest. Nothing marked someone out as a rubbernecker more than “Tell me more . . .” requests.

And yet all that seemed so long ago. Suki had lived many lifetimes since she married and divorced Kyle Junior.

Antoinette, the family matriarch, was seventy-nine now, with steely gray hair and a steely gray attitude. Her day uniform had never deviated in all the time Suki had known her: cashmere twinset, pearls and woolen skirt in winter, and silk or linen blouse and silk skirt in summer, also with pearls.
Of an evening, she opted for crocodile pumps (never during the day—far too common), something in crepe de chine in a jewel color, and a hint of face powder and lipstick that had probably been on her bureau since Roosevelt was in power.

Suki couldn’t imagine Antoinette sitting in Dr. Frederik’s office asking for a top-up of Botox. Her frown lines presumably did as they were told, much the same way as the compound staff leaped to do her bidding. Worrying about physical beauty was for lesser mortals.

In her day, Antoinette had been what people called a handsome woman. Noble bones, a strong chin and a gaze that made her son quail. Nothing much had changed. Handsomeness certainly lasted longer than prettiness.

An uneasy truce had existed between Suki and her former mother-in-law since the first day they met. Suki’s background—checked ruthlessly by Kyle Senior’s private investigators—was certainly top drawer. Impoverished gentry, but gentry nonetheless.

Even Antoinette had been charmed by Suki’s father, who was the perfect example of an Irish gentleman landowner with more than a whiff of academia thrown in for good measure.

Adding to the patina of class, Suki could talk the talk about antiques, thanks mainly to Tess’s interest in the subject.

“Daddy had a full set of Audubon prints, you know, but they had to be sold,” she might say, which was entirely untrue but impossible to check. Her father only remembered the things he’d had to sell when they’d had some special significance to the family, so should Antoinette ever ask if this was true, he could be relied upon not to recall one way or the other. Suki was clever enough to know that the best lies were the ones where you couldn’t be caught out.

Her father had cried over selling the Walter Osborne portrait of his grandmother, but a growing interest in Osborne as a painter and the roof in the west wing falling in had coincided and it had made sound economic sense. She’d mentioned the sale of the Osborne too and had craftily added in a little Pissarro and a minor Watteau as well. She had no intention of letting her new in-laws spend too much time with her family, so it was safe to lie. For all Antoinette’s much-vaunted blue blood, she hadn’t grown up in a house with beautiful art, had she? She’d had to marry it.

Throughout the marriage to Kyle, Antoinette never ceased to remind Suki that she wasn’t a suitable wife for her darling son.

In return, Suki got to slip little digs into her conversations with Antoinette. Like the time she’d meanly identified Antoinette’s charming collection of floral bowls as fake Meissen rather than the real thing. Suki had absolutely no interest in antiques unless they were worth something and Meissen certainly was, so she could tell the difference.

Plus, during her one and only visit to the compound, Tess had told Suki she thought it was wonderful that Antoinette wasn’t hung up on original everythings, but kept items of sentimental value like the Meissen copies. Tess, silly girl, had meant it as a compliment; she admired people who collected valuable and nonvaluable things and displayed them side by side. It meant they liked what they liked, rather than what was expensive.

Suki knew Antoinette too well to fall for that. Clearly her mother-in-law thought those bowls were the real McCoy.

“I do adore Meissen copies,” she’d said, waving a hand over the display of bowls occupying pride of place in the formal drawing room. “So very clever, and equally adorable, aren’t they?”

Antoinette’s lips had tightened imperceptibly.

The next day, the bowls were gone.

Life as Kyle Junior’s wife was all about savoring such victories. It was petty of her, Suki knew, but her mother-in-law was equally petty—and Suki liked to win. She wasn’t the matriarch, not yet. But watch this space, she seemed to be saying to Antoinette.

And then it had all ended when Antoinette found out. But by then, Suki’s daydreams of becoming the next Jackie O had been dust for a long time anyhow.

The fierce animosity between the two women had not diminished with time. Suki and Antoinette still loathed each other, but these days they met so rarely that they could just about manage to put up with each other. Especially with Senior on hand to remind them to keep it civil.

“Nobody needs to know our business—understand, girls?” he’d growl in that gravelly voice that brooked no disagreement.

And the “girls” had both toed the line.

As Suki approached the front door, she knew that, for today at least, Antoinette would have declared a truce where she was concerned. The Redmond Suarez biography was threatening the family and they needed to join forces to fight off the common enemy. After that, they could resume the old hostilities.

Mrs. Lang, the housekeeper, opened the door with a frozen smile on her face: “Hello, Mrs. Suki. Lovely to see you back again.”

“Mrs. Suki” was the courtesy title decided upon by Antoinette once the divorce was final. It wasn’t quite as bitchy as “demoting” her to Miz Power, but was another telling detail.

“Hello there, Mrs. Lang,” Suki said, marching into the
hall, pulling her weekender suitcase behind her. She knew Mrs. Lang didn’t like her, but she didn’t care.

As usual, the house smelled of money and beeswax polish. The antiques—all genuine, Suki was pretty sure because she’d looked—gleamed from constant dusting, while the pictures, all by major American artists, were beautifully lit. Two old leather couches—the sort of thing Ralph Lauren was famous for, but clearly a much earlier vintage than his iconic designs—sat on either side of the huge hall with tapestry cushions scattered upon them, decorated mainly with nautical themes and the American flag.

Suki went straight to her bedroom. She was always assigned the blue bedroom at the back of the house where they were no views of the sea. It was definitely one of the lesser bedrooms. Once you were put in a bedroom in the compound, it was your spot for life. She tidied up, put on a soft pink sweater and went down into the great room.

The lights were set Hyannis-style for November—Antoinette was a penny-pincher who insisted that no bulb could be of a high wattage. Consequently, the house was like an ill-lit restaurant and reading was impossible, except in places like Senior’s study or your bedroom, provided you’d had the foresight to smuggle in a decent bulb. It had been many years since she’d stayed there, nothing had changed lighting-wise; fortunately Suki had brought a little battery-powered reading light, just in case. On the other hand, the wine was always good and she expected to imbibe well tonight.

The bad news was that Kyle Senior wasn’t home yet. That didn’t suit Suki. If there was one person who’d understand what this all meant, it was Senior. He was the one she needed to talk to before dinner. Senior liked his booze and, once dinner started, she’d never get to talk to him alone.

A swish of silk and a hint of Rochas eau de parfum in
the sea-facing drawing room signaled the arrival of Antoinette Richardson.

“Good evening, Suki,” said Antoinette, a gracious smile fixed on her face. “How lovely to see you. You do look well.”

Antoinette regally proffered both cheeks for a brief kiss, a habit picked up on travels to Europe. Though she would have preferred to shake hands, Antoinette was nothing if not an elegant hostess and her manners almost never slipped, not even when greeting the woman she considered had come close to ruining the political career of her firstborn.

Greetings over, Antoinette withdrew, sat primly on a couch and gestured for Suki to do the same.

“What have you been up to, Suki dear?”

Suki smiled back. Two could play this game. Bloody bitch probably knew exactly what she’d been up to: living in that pokey house, struggling to resurrect her career and make ends meet. If Antoinette was half the matriarch she pretended to be, she should have made damn sure that anyone connected with the Richardson family didn’t need to scrape a living by doing appalling lectures in cold college halls.