The Real Katie Lavender (5 page)

Neil’s office door was closed, and out of courtesy – his brother might have a client with him – Stirling knocked and waited. There was no reply. He pressed the handle down and pushed the door open. There was no sign of Neil; the office was empty.

Frowning, Stirling took the lift downstairs. Out in the car park, he saw that his brother’s Porsche was gone. Had Neil simply forgotten about meeting him after work? Or – as unlikely as it sounded – was he avoiding him?

He drove home and tried ringing Neil from his car. The call went straight to voicemail. He left a message: ‘Hey, what happened to our chat after work?’

A matching pair of Range Rovers was parked on the drive at Willow Bank. Nobody had told him that Scarlet and Rosco were coming to dinner. Not that his family had to report in to him with their every movement, and anyway, his children were welcome to visit any time they wanted.

He found everyone outside on the terrace, a glass jug of Pimm’s on the table. ‘Hello, darling,’ his wife greeted him from her chair. ‘We decided that since it’s such a lovely evening, we’d have dinner out here. That OK with you?’

He kissed her cheek. ‘Of course.’ He went over to his daughter and kissed her. ‘How’s my favourite grandchild coming along?’ he asked.

‘Still making me throw up,’ she said with a grimace.

Rosco laughed. ‘Just wait till it’s born, then you’ll really know what throwing up’s about. You’ll be covered in the stuff. And a lot more besides.’

Scarlet threw a pistachio nut at her brother. ‘Don’t be so gross, or I’ll make sure you get covered in more than your fair share of whatever is going.’

Stirling moved round the table to where Charlie was standing awkwardly to attention, waiting to shake hands with him. You’d think that after two years of being married to Scarlet he would have realized there was no need for him to be so formal, but no matter how many times it had been pointed out to him, not just by Stirling but by Scarlet, he still insisted on doing it, and as a consequence, Stirling was forced to go along with the tiresome charade. ‘Charlie?’ he said affably. ‘How’s things?’

‘Fine, sir,’ Charlie said, pumping away at Stirling’s hand, ‘just fine. And you?’

It was the same response every time. It didn’t matter if they’d only seen each other twenty-four hours ago; they went through the same awkward exchange. Extricating his hand, Stirling excused himself. ‘Give me five minutes to change and I’ll be back.’

‘Twenty minutes and supper will be ready,’ Gina called after him as he disappeared inside the house. ‘I’m doing your favourite, medallions of pork. And there’s a bottle of that Chianti you really like already open for you.’

Passing through the kitchen, he poured a large glass of the Chianti and took it upstairs with him. He stood at the open window of the bedroom and looked down on to the garden and the river beyond, fringed with willow trees. It was a view that never failed to give him the most satisfyingly intense pleasure. He often considered it to be one of the finest views in England, if only because it was so very English. He loved the river; he loved the constancy and the innate sense of nature’s life force flowing through it. He stood for a moment longer, drinking his wine, enjoying the view and listening to the happy animated chatter of his family floating up to him. Not for the first time, he thought how lucky he was. He had everything in life he wanted. How many could say that? Mind you, he’d worked damned hard for it. He and his brother. Together, and from scratch, they’d created a highly successful business. He still couldn’t believe his luck at times. Although he knew very well that luck had nothing to do with it. It was guts, determination and hard graft that got you to the top of the pile. And kept you there.

He changed out of his suit, put on a pair of jeans and a faded Rolling Stones T-shirt from the band’s last European tour – he and Neil had gone to Twickenham to see them – and went back downstairs.

They had just settled into the meal when Scarlet said, ‘Dad, Charlie and I have come up with this brilliant idea.’

Rosco snorted and rolled his eyes. ‘Here we go.’

‘Oh yes?’ Stirling said, ignoring Rosco. ‘Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?’ The last time Scarlet and Charlie had had a brilliant idea, it had not only fallen flat, but he’d lost the money he’d put in to help get the business off the ground. And when he said ‘off the ground’, he meant it quite literally – the brilliant idea had been to offer hot-air balloon trips, their target audience being the romantically inclined who wanted to surprise their loved one with a proposal they’d never forget. They’d called the company Sweep Your Intended Off Their Feet. An old school chum of Charlie’s had been involved, a chum who had recently been on a course to learn how to fly hot-air balloons.

Sadly, it never took off – again, quite literally – as they’d had such a run of bad weather they could never actually get the balloon in the air. The only time they did, it was blown miles off course until it finally thudded to the ground in the middle of a farmer’s cornfield. The couple on board had been so terrified by the experience they had threatened to sue, and it was only when Stirling had stepped in and calmed the waters with a gift of considerable generosity by way of compensation that they backed off.

But as bizarre as some of Scarlet’s ‘brilliant ideas’ were, Stirling always listened. He badly wanted her to succeed with something, to have something of her very own. Academically she had never been in the same league as her brother, and after muddling her way through university, switching courses after her first year and later flunking her finals, she moved to London and flitted from one job to another, usually reception work, where a pretty face and long blonde hair could be put to good use.

When she and Charlie got married, they moved out of London and set up home in the house that Charlie had inherited from a great-aunt who’d died the previous year. Woodside was a ramshackle Edwardian property in a poor state of repair, which Charlie, with the help of yet another chum, was supposed to be doing up – he hadn’t got very far with it.

Scarlet put down her knife and fork and laid a hand on Charlie’s forearm. She beamed at Charlie and then at Stirling. ‘We just know you’re going to love what we’ve come up with, Daddy.’

Rosco groaned. ‘Give me your wallet, Dad, I’ll keep it safe for you.’

‘Oh do shut up, Rosco!’ Scarlet pouted.

‘Now, now, you two,’ Gina intervened, ‘no squabbling, not on such a perfect summer’s evening.’

From her silky tone, Stirling suspected that Gina had been complicit in arranging the evening with Scarlet, making it as perfect as she could, cooking his favourite supper dish, remembering which wine was currently his preferred choice, in short setting the scene for a buttering-up session. She probably hadn’t bargained on Rosco joining them, though. As with most siblings, there was always an element of argy-bargy between Rosco and his sister. Usually Rosco was overtly dismissive of anything she tried her hand at, and if Stirling was to be brutally honest, he had to admit that his son had a point, Scarlet did flit like a butterfly from one dream to the next, convinced that she was on the verge of greatness. The caveat was always that ‘greatness’ needed a helping hand; in particular, her father’s helping hand.

‘Ignore your brother, Scarlet,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Tell me about this idea you and Charlie have come up with.’

‘We want to turn Woodside into a sort of sanctuary, a place where people can come and detox and de-stress themselves. We’ll run courses on all sort of things, like . . . like . . .’ She looked to Charlie for help.

‘Er . . . like yoga and er . . . massage and stuff.’

‘You mean a healing centre?’ asked Rosco, an eyebrow raised.

‘Yes, exactly,’ Scarlet said.

‘A sure-fire winner if ever I heard one.’

‘Please don’t be sarcastic, Rosco darling,’ Gina said.

‘Actually I’m not being sarcastic; I’m being serious. There are enough fools out there clamouring for precisely this kind of claptrap; it’ll be money for old rope, like taking candy from the proverbial baby.’

Scarlet turned her face to Stirling. ‘What do you think, Daddy? Do you like the sound of it?’

‘It sounds very interesting,’ he said. ‘How much research have you done?’

‘Oh, none,’ she said brightly. ‘We only came up with the idea on Saturday. Isn’t that right, Charlie?’

Charlie nodded.

‘We wanted to see what you thought of it before we went any further,’ she continued. ‘So what do you think? And be honest.’

Scarlet always said ‘be honest’, and the sad truth was, Stirling never was. Bottom line was, he couldn’t refuse her anything. ‘Well,’ he said carefully, unable to bring himself to admit that funds were a little low right now, ‘the first thing that strikes me is that Woodside is going to need an awful lot of work doing to it. Have you thought how much time, money and effort that’s going to take? And of course, if there are any major structural changes to be made, you’ll have to have planning permission, and that always takes time. And before any of that takes place, you’ll need permission for change of use.’

Scarlet wrinkled her nose. ‘You sound like you’re pouring cold water on the idea.’

‘Not at all. I’m just ensuring that you know what you’re letting yourself in for. You know I’ll help you all I can.’

Her face lit up. ‘Really?’

‘Of course. Don’t I always?’

She went to him and gave him a hug. ‘You’re the best! The absolute best! I told Charlie you wouldn’t let us down. Charlie, didn’t I say Daddy wouldn’t let us down?’

Charlie nodded and looked embarrassed as Scarlet proceeded then to hug him. This was the reason Stirling could never say no to his daughter. He loved to see her happy. He loved to see that joyful expression on her face. Admittedly there had been a period of adjustment when he’d had to accept that she was all grown up and it wouldn’t always be him who made her happy, that it would be a rival for her affections who did that, but he’d never harboured any feelings of jealousy or animosity towards his son-in-law. Charlie just wasn’t that kind of a man. It would be like kicking a puppy.

‘So,’ Rosco said, ‘if we could put this delightful love-in to one side, maybe someone could pass me the wine. By the way, Dad, what the hell was the matter with Uncle Neil today? He was all over the place. The lights were on, but there was definitely no one at home.’

Later that evening, when everyone had gone and Gina was tidying the kitchen, Stirling wandered down to the riverbank, glass of whisky in hand. He followed the herringbone-brickwork path that cut the broad sweep of lawn in two and which was lit every ten feet by glowing solar-powered lamps. He sat in the dark on the wooden bench Lloyd – Neil’s son – had made for him. It was positioned right next to the boathouse where his treasured motorboat was kept. The
Lady Cecily
was a thirty-foot slipper stern launch built in the fifties, and Stirling had bought it for himself nine years ago for his fiftieth birthday. It had been a restoration project, and he’d kept to the original style of the boat, with the traditional Lloyd Loom chairs at the helm and bench seats aft along with two smaller child seats. The varnished mahogany cabinets had needed some work doing to them, but they’d come up a treat. In one he stowed wine glasses, and the other was specially lined with stainless steel and a drain put in so that bottles of wine, champagne or beer could be kept on ice. No two ways about it, it was a boy’s dream of a riverboat!

He sipped on his whisky, savouring its rich peaty smell and satisfyingly smooth taste. He heard rustling in the undergrowth and stayed very still: the night shift was about its business. Minutes passed.

Eventually he pulled his mobile out of his pocket. It was gone eleven o’clock, but he knew his brother of old; like him, Neil rarely went to bed before midnight. They often chatted on the phone late at night. Occasionally, when they were really busy, it was the only chance they got to catch up properly with each other.

Just as it had before, his call went straight to voicemail. This time he didn’t leave a message; he ended the call and dialled the landline at The Meadows. It rang and rang, until finally Pen’s sleepy voice sounded in his ear; he’d obviously woken her. He apologized and asked if Neil was there.

‘Why would he be here?’ She sounded confused, which wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Frequently she was so absorbed in what she was doing, it took her a few moments to adjust when somebody disturbed her. Things also had a habit of slipping her mind. In contrast, when it came to her great passion in life – her garden at The Meadows – she was razor-sharp. She devoted her every waking thought and ounce of energy to it. A lot of husbands would have resented playing second fiddle to a garden, but Neil never had; he’d always said he was proud of what Pen had achieved. Three times now the garden had featured in various glossy magazines, and last year it had made a brief appearance on the television. Currently Pen was getting it ready to open to the public to raise money for the local hospice. She did it every year, and made a good deal of money. Whatever funds she raised, Neil always bumped things up with his own generous contribution.

Why would he be here?
Stirling silently repeated. Because he’s your husband and lives there, was his first thought. His second was very different. Some inner instinct told him to tread warily. ‘Sorry, Pen,’ he said, ‘it’s a bad line. What did you say?’

‘I said why would you think he was here when you must know that he’s spending the night at a hotel at the airport to catch an early flight tomorrow morning.’

‘An early flight,’ Stirling echoed, as if he’d known this all along.

‘Yes, he got a last-minute booking to go off on another of his Greek sailing holidays. Now where did he say he was going? South Ionian, or was it North? Sorry,’ she said vaguely, ‘you know what I’m like, in one ear and out the other when I’m getting ready for an open day.’

The inner instinct again told him to tread warily. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I forgot all about that. How stupid of me. But he’ll be back for Cecily’s party, won’t he?’