Drowning Rose (18 page)

Nineteen

Cass and Ben

As she lay dying, Cass Cassidy, the soap actress and runner-up in the last but one series of
Singing with the Stars
, handed her publicist the Dictaphone that contained the story of what really happened that night a quarter of a century ago.

‘This will do it,’ she said, her voice barely carrying. ‘This will have the bastards fighting over my story.’ She coughed and lay back against the pillows. Once the coughing had subsided she said, ‘But you’ll have to copy it out and add it to the manuscript yourself. I won’t have time.’

Ben Sinclair told her not to say things like that. There would be plenty of time for her to finish her memoir herself.

She grabbed his hand and yanked him down close, surprising him with the strength of her grip. ‘Promise me.’

He freed himself. ‘Of course. All I’m saying . . .’

Her hand gripped his again. ‘Promise.’

He nodded. ‘I promise.’

They both knew her illness was terminal but her sudden decline still took him by surprise. It was only a few weeks ago that they had been having coffee together and then she had looked almost healthy. She had one of those square little bodies that even then had managed to give her a sturdy appearance. Her hair had grown back and was once again coloured her trademark fiery red, and skilfully applied make-up concealed the unhealthy hue of her complexion.

She had gone straight to the point as usual. ‘So, how are we doing? How many offers have we had?’

Ben had stared past her out on to the street, as he replied, ‘These things take time.’

‘Look at me, Ben.’ He turned his reluctant gaze back on her. ‘Time, eh.’ She gave a croaky laugh. ‘Anyway, I told you I don’t care about the money. I mean it’s not as if I’m going to be able to spend it.’

‘Don’t talk like that.’

She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, but shouldn’t I be the one who’s finding the truth difficult to deal with?’ She looked around her. ‘God, I hate this bloody smoking ban.’ She pulled a placebo cigarette from her handbag and sucked on it as it were a tube of oxygen. ‘So who’s the top bidder?’

Ben’s gaze slunk off back towards the window before being called back by a sharp, ‘Ben, I said look at me.’

From inside the small Louis Vuitton holdall on the chair between them Chico gave a shrill bark as if to underline the command. Cass had threatened to leave Ben the damn dog, which was just one of the reasons he prayed she would live a long time yet.

‘OK, OK. There is no bid.’

Her smile dropped and her mouth fell open. ‘What do you mean, no bid? I was asked to do this, remember? They came to me.’

‘It’s the market. No one can remember when it was last this bad.’

‘The market was bad when they asked me to write the damn thing.’

‘Another latte?’

‘No.’

A small child had come up to them and was staring big-eyed at the bag containing Chico. ‘Shhh,’ Cass smiled at the little boy. ‘The doggie is our secret.’

The boy, eyes still fixed on the moving bag, nodded.

‘Now run along back to your mummy,’ Cass said.

The child remained where he was.

Cass sighed and turned to Ben. ‘Anyway, I’ve heard the excuse, now give me the real reason. Is it the writing?’

Ben was able to be entirely truthful as he answered, ‘No. The writing is fine. None of them could believe it wasn’t ghosted.’

‘So what, then?’ As her voice rose she started coughing and he had to fetch a glass of water from the counter for her. As he returned he gave the small child a gentle shove. ‘Do as the lady says now and run along.’

The child tilted to one side but his feet in their sturdy trainers remained planted in front of Chico’s bag. ‘What’s the puppy’s name?’

Cass sipped some water. ‘Chico. Now off you go and bother your mum or carer or whatever like a good little munchkin.’ She turned back to Ben. ‘Spit it out. As we both know I don’t have any time to waste.’

Ben was lucky that he had not had much experience with serious illness, but if he’d thought about it he would have imagined that the close proximity to death would have a softening effect on the sufferer. Meek and mild were two adjectives that would have fitted his expectations. Neither of them was remotely descriptive of Cass Cassidy as she fought her losing battle against oblivion.

‘All right then. I’m afraid the problem is with you.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Ben felt himself blush. He looked up and around him as if a reply might be found written on the walls of the coffee shop. Eventually he told her, ‘You’re not big enough any more. You can get away with a pretty uneventful life if you’re a massive star but if you’re not up there then there needs to be something major in your life to justify your place in the publishing schedules.’ He paused, then he said, ‘I’m truly sorry, Cass. I know how much this book meant to you.’

‘Not meant, means. And it means everything. Everything, do you understand.’ She sipped some more water. ‘I’ll be dead soon. Gone. What will I have to show for my life? I have no husband, no children. What will there be left of me? Of my time in the world? Some old episodes of a television soap.’

‘Everyone loved Beth Howard.’

‘Not enough to spend five quid at Tesco on my autobiography, it seems. So how long have I got?’

Ben shifted on his wooden chair. ‘What have the doctors told you?’

‘Oh that. I’m not talking about that. I mean, how long before they forget me? The public. My fans.’

‘It’s impossible to say.’

‘Five years?’

He assumed a cheerful air. ‘Anything is possible.’

‘So not five?’

He shook his head slowly. ‘I think even Princess Di was struggling a bit at five.’

‘Three?’

Ben sucked in air between his teeth and shook his head.

‘Don’t. You look like a plumber facing a dodgy boiler. Two, then?’

Ben hated what he had to say but he had suddenly realised that the one thing he owed her now was the truth. ‘I would say that anyone remaining in the public eye for more than a year after their . . . their . . .’ He looked at her for help. He was young, and death, his own or anyone else’s, did not become him.

It was her turn to shake her head. ‘For heaven’s sake, Ben, the word is
death
. My death. You deal in PR every day of the week. It’s what you do. How long before they stop writing about me?’

‘I’d say we’d be lucky to get twelve months.’

‘Twelve months.’ The toughness evident through the months of illness and treatment seemed to abandon her. Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘So you think I might not even get a year before I’m . . .’ she stopped, unable almost to say the word ‘. . . forgotten?’

Ben was more used to considering his own feelings than those of others; in fact, if he thought about it, which he didn’t, he could only imagine the interior lives of others as sparsely furnished as a monk’s cell from the vantage point of his own
House & Garden
extravaganza. What he did understand about was the hunger to be noticed. To die and for it really to be the end was as impossible to contemplate for him as it appeared to be for her.

‘I have no family,’ the actress said again. ‘And as I’ve realised of late, nor do I have many real friends. I’ve got you, Ben, and,’ she paused and hauled the little dog, tail-end first, out from the bag. ‘And Chico.’ Her pale green eyes filled with tears but she kept her gaze on his. ‘This can’t be it, Ben. It mustn’t be. Do you hear?’

He felt his own gaze flicker. ‘I don’t know what . . .’

Her hand clamped down on his. ‘You must, Ben. You must help me. Promise me you won’t let it end like this.’

He freed himself from her grasp only to clasp her hand again. It felt as light and as thin as an empty glove. And the distance between them even when touching seemed endless. His throat constricted. In his way he was fond of Cass. ‘You’re sure there’s nothing else you can give them?’

At first he thought she hadn’t heard, so he asked again. ‘You’re sure there’s nothing?’

Her short bark of a laugh made him startle. She opened her mouth as if she were about to speak then shut it again. Contenting herself with just a shake of her head. He leant forward and fixed her gaze with his. ‘Look, Cass, if you want to sell this book you need to have something worth selling.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘Got to go, I’m sorry. Let me know if you come up with anything.’

They left the café together. Cass lit a cigarette while she looked around for a cab. Ben walked off to the Tube. He had reached the other side when he heard a scream and the sound of furiously beeping car-horns. It was Chico. The little dog was waddling across the busy road, hell-bent, it seemed, on ending it all. Cass was standing where he had left her, on the pavement outside the café, her bright red mouth open, her handbag and the dog’s carrier on the ground by her feet. He let go of his briefcase and ran out into the road, dodging the traffic to scoop the little dog up in his arms. As he leapt back on to the pavement he knocked into a tall woman carrying a takeaway coffee. Muttering an apology, he looked into a pair of solemn eyes and he thought for a moment he knew her from somewhere. But her smile, as she stopped to fuss over a trembling Chico, held no recognition. Afterwards, when he had handed Chico back to Cass and had seen both of them safely into a cab he realised where he had seen her. The week before he had been at an exhibition of pre-Raphaelite paintings at the Royal Academy. It was in those pictures he had seen the auburn hair and the translucent complexion. It was there those same eyes had gazed back at him from the pale faces of the rows of solemn angels and limp and tragic Ophelias.

He did not hear from Cass for three weeks after that meeting, but when she did call, it was urgent. She wanted to see him. Right then. He had a meeting scheduled with a client who actually had a future but he cancelled and took the Tube to Hammersmith instead. He was out of breath when he reached Cass’s apartment on the second floor. Her cleaner opened the door for him and Cass called out a greeting.

She was in bed, sitting up against a stack of pillows with Chico curled up by her side. When he heard Ben he raised his head from his front paws and pricked one ear before returning to his snoozing. This time no make-up could hide her pallor or the dark circles beneath her eyes, but she had wound some kind of bright scarf round her faded hair and she was wearing lipstick. The lipstick more than anything made him want to cry. He was still catching his breath and he had to haul out a handkerchief to wipe the beads of perspiration from his forehead. Cass asked him if he was all right and he felt sheepish for having panicked.

She was not feeling too good, she admitted. The doctor would be calling later. He would sort her out, she was sure. But just in case, she wanted to give him something.

Next to her Chico farted. Cass swore and weakly flapped a thin hand in front of her face. She pointed at an unlit scented candle and the box of matches next to it. Ben lit the candle and the sickly sweet smell of sandalwood rose in the air. A bluebottle, having survived the recent cold snap, buzzed and beat against the closed window.

She struggled to an upright position and twisted round to open the drawer of her ornate gilt-edged bedside table. From there she brought out a Dictaphone and handed it to him.

‘This will do it,’ she said, her voice barely carrying. ‘This will have the bastards fighting over my story.’ She coughed and lay back against the pillows. Once the coughing had subsided she said, ‘But you’ll have to copy it out and add it to the manuscript yourself. I won’t have time.’

‘Don’t be silly. There’ll be plenty of time for you to do it. You’re having a bad day, that’s all. You just told me the doctor would sort you out.’

Cass grabbed his hand and yanked him down close, surprising him with the strength of her grip. ‘Promise me.’

He freed himself. ‘Of course. All I’m saying . . .’

Her hand gripped his again. ‘Promise.’

He nodded. ‘I promise.’

A few minutes later he got up to leave, the Dictaphone safe in his jacket pocket.

She watched him leave and across the void, the voice of her old drama teacher rang out,
Girls, remember, eyes and teeth, eyes and teeth!
So Cass Cassidy opened her eyes wide and with a brilliant flash of her veneers she smiled her last smile.

Twenty

Eliza

I was walking from the Tube up the hill towards my pretty house, in the pretty square in this the prettiest, leafiest part of London. It was a quarter to six but there was still some heat in the sun and I took off my brown velvet jacket and stuffed it inside my bag. Feeling the warm breeze through the thin wool of my dress made me think of that first day each spring when, as a child, I had been allowed at last to swap the itchy woollen tights for knee-length socks and my bare legs had emerged into the sunshine like Cabbage Whites from their pupas.

As I neared the square the streets grew narrow and there were few cars and it was easy to imagine yourself in a country village. I skirted the churchyard, which was comfortingly obsolete. No fresh corpse had been lowered into its hallowed ground for over a century and the years since had served to soften the grief like the moss softened the gravestones, so you had to be right up close to think of loss rather than beauty. The sudden warmth after a cold early spring had prompted shrubs and flowering trees all to come out at once and the birds were singing.