Guilty Pleasures (42 page)

The door bell rang. She took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes before she opened it, expecting it to be Johnny.

Tom Grand was standing at the door. She’d seen him at the Feathers on Friday night and they’d made a vague plan to all have Sunday lunch.

‘I hope I’ve not disturbed you.’

‘No, come in,’ she said with faux verve.

‘I was just passing. Johnny’s not answering his mobile. I was wondering if we were still on for lunch today.’

His smile made her feel less alone.

‘Are you OK?’ said Tom, finally examining her face.

‘Yes.’

‘You’re not.’

‘You’re right,’ she laughed sadly, puffing out her cheeks so they looked like little round apples on her face.

Tom made coffee while she told him what had happened.

She didn’t spare a single detail. She knew Tom was Johnny’s friend but it was cathartic, and anyway, she had always considered Tom to be kind and fair if one of the flakiest men she’d ever met.

‘Johnny’s a twat,’ said Tom angrily, swigging his coffee. ‘As for this Chessie character. Why would she leave her husband, seven months pregnant?’

They both looked at each other. ‘Someone else.’

‘Typically my car is in the garage and the trains are going to take forever.’

‘I can drive you if you want,’ Tom said, shrugging.

‘Are you sure?’ She didn’t know Tom well and it was a big ask, especially as he was Johnny’s friend.

‘You promised me Sunday lunch. We can get it on the way to St Ives.’

Cassandra touched back down again in London on Sunday evening and immediately directed her driver to take her straight to Giles’s apartment on a tree-lined street in Chelsea.

‘Cassandra. This is a surprise,’ said Giles, opening the door with a glass of wine in his hand. Over his shoulder, Cassandra could see a grey-haired forty-something man hovering at the kitchen door.

‘This is Stephen, my friend from Norfolk,’ said Giles smiling. ‘We were just about to eat. Squid-ink pasta and scallops: there’s enough for three.’

There was a delicious smell permeating around the flat, but she was in no mood to eulogize about his delicious cuisine.

‘Whatever you’re cooking, I think you’d better turn it off. I’m here to talk not eat.’

‘Is there something wrong?’

She ignored his question and instead walked into the small, immaculately furnished living room, taking a position by the large bay window. Glancing at his friend, Giles followed her and shut the door behind him.

‘Cassandra, what on earth is wrong?’ he said, now looking very concerned.

She stood quietly for a moment, arms folded in front of her chest.

‘You’re fired,’ she said finally.

Giles’s mouth dropped open.

‘Are you joking?’ he stuttered, his face paling.

‘No, Giles, I am not,’ she said simply, picking up a photo from the window-sill and examining it. Giles sank into a blue leather wing-chair.

‘But why?’

She looked at him, his eyes welling with tears, and felt no pity. She had helped him, trusted him, and this is how he repaid her. It only confirmed to her that her philosophy of life had been correct all along: trust absolutely no one.

‘You knew the Georgia Kennedy shoot was confidential and yet you told Glenda McMahon.’

‘I did not,’ he said quietly. ‘I never would do that.’

She snorted. ‘You were in New York last week. Look me in the eye and tell me you did not visit US
Rive.’

Colour had stained his cheeks and his aristocratic façade was visibly shaken.

‘Yes, I went in to see Alannah, the features director. But she’s my friend. We met to go for coffee.’

Cassandra met his gaze full on.

‘Of course,’ she said walking to the door.

Giles sprang from his chair and grabbed her by the arm.

‘I swear I did not tell a soul about the Georgia Kennedy shoot. After all our time working together – after our years of
friendship
– you should believe me.’

Cassandra snorted. ‘After all my time in the industry, Giles, I believe no one.’

She looked down at his restraining hand until he finally released her, his arm flopping by his side.

‘Goodbye, Giles,’ she said. ‘Enjoy your squid.’

Tom drove Stella down to Trencarrow in Julia’s car, fearing his own beaten-up Mini might not make it past Bristol. Stella winced every time Tom lit one of his red label Marlboros, trying not to breathe the noxious fumes that filled the car. But she knew she was in no position to complain. It had been so nice of him to drive her down to her father’s farm in St Ives and he seemed more than willing to listen to her relationship traumas as they hurtled down the A303. It wasn’t until they were passing Stonehenge that Tom finally noticed Stella’s polite coughs.

‘Sorry, are my ciggies bothering you?’ Tom asked, frantically rolling down the window. ‘God, I’m such a selfish pig.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she smiled. ‘I feel so on edge, I’ve been tempted to bum a fag off you ever since we left Chilcot, even though I haven’t smoked since I was fifteen.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t weaken now. Filthy habit,’ he grinned.

Despite his occasional thoughtlessness, Tom was good company, thought Stella affectionately. He seemed able to read her mood, making jokes and singing along to the radio to make her forget her problems, but keeping quiet when he could see a troubled, thoughtful expression on her face.

‘You know I’m going to be an emotional wreck by the end of the day,’ smiled Stella looking at Tom’s profile. ‘I just want to say thanks for putting up with me.’

‘Your dad’s wife has run off with someone and your boyfriend,
my friend,
has proved himself to be a complete arsehole. I think that’s more than a decent excuse if things get a little watery-eyed.’

‘Of course I’m upset about Johnny, but I don’t know why I feel
so upset and responsible about my father,’ said Stella tracing her finger along the car window. ‘It’s not as if we’re close.’

‘But he’s still your father,’ said Tom turning his head to look at her. ‘My dad moved to South Africa about twenty years ago and yet I still hope he’ll turn up for my birthday, or Christmas, or phone me when he hears something good has happened in my life, rare though that may be. I used to get the occasional card with a twenty quid note but even those have stopped. Even though I expect nothing from him, I still get disappointed.’

‘Does Cassandra?’ asked Stella, although it was hard to imagine Tom’s ball-busting sister having a vulnerable side.

‘Nah,’ he smiled. ‘That’s the thing about rejection. It either fucks you up or toughens you up.’

It was dark by the time they approached Trencarrow and that only added to the drama of the setting. The house stood on a grassy headland a few miles outside St Ives, only a hundred metres away from the cliff edge. Seagulls wheeled around overhead; the steely grey sea glinted in the distance. Tom slowed the car down. Gradually the road had been getting more and more narrow, until it was just a bumpy farm track and he could hear thick mud churning under the wheels. They turned the corner to see Trencarrow silhouetted against the sky; only one leaded window glowing orange.

‘Let’s get in quickly,’ said Stella as she stepped out of the car and buttoned up her coat. ‘It’s starting to rain.’

They knocked at the front door, flipping up their collars and hunching against the wind which had suddenly whipped up. The door creaked open to reveal Christopher Chase in a tartan dressing-gown and a pair of Aran socks, looking every one of his seventy-three years. There was a scratch of white hair on his chin as if he hadn’t shaved in days and Stella was sure he was even more bowed since the last time she had seen him in June. For someone who had always looked so vibrant and stylish, even in his advancing years, it was a shock.

‘Stella!’ he said. ‘Well, this is a surprise.’

She put out her arms to embrace him. ‘I told you I’d come.’

‘I didn’t think you would,’ he replied.

She introduced him quickly to Tom.

‘Ah, little Tommy,’ said Christopher with a sad smile. ‘Oh, I remember you as a wee mite on your mother’s knee. Do come in, both of you.’

Christopher led the way into the dark living room, which was only lit by a single lamp. Stella sat down on a leather Chesterfield, glad when Tom came to sit beside her. Her eyes darted around the room while Christopher fixed them a glass of whisky each from a bottle that was three-quarters empty. Trencarrow was far more expensively furnished than she remembered – like a country boutique hotel. There were at least half a dozen photographs of Chessie dotted around the room. Idly, she wondered what had happened to the childhood photos of herself, Andrew and Nancy, her half-brother and – sister from Christopher’s first marriage. At one time, they had filled the stone mantelpiece.

‘Do you know where she is?’ asked Stella when her father had settled into his wing-back chair.

‘Chessie? In London somewhere,’ he replied with the wave of a hand. ‘That’s where she met
him.
’

‘Who is he?’ asked Stella cautiously.

‘Her bloody new boyfriend, of course! I gather he’s got one of those fancy townhouses in Connaught Square near our flat.’

‘It’s not Tony Blair is it?’ piped up Tom suddenly. ‘He’s got a gaff around there.’

Stella shot him a look and the impish grin fell from his face.

‘He’s called Graham,’ said Christopher, staring at the rain on the dark window. ‘Apparently they’ve been carrying on together for the best part of a year. She says she was going to end it with him when we got pregnant, but it turns out she
loves
him,’ he said, spitting out the words.

‘And are you sure it’s your baby?’

Stella regretted saying it as soon as the words came out of her mouth but Christopher looked too defeated to be angry.

‘She says it is, although that might be just so she can get the farmhouse. But even so, I want to believe it’s our child.’

He fell silent. Stella looked to Tom for support, then turned back when she heard the sound of gentle sobbing.

‘I’m going to have to get rid of the farmhouse, you know,’ said Christopher through the tears, covering his mouth with one gnarled hand. ‘I’m going to lose Trencarrow on top of everything else.’

Stella moved over to him, feeling a fierce wave of anger towards Chessie, and sat on the arm of his chair putting an arm across his shoulder. It was funny how concentrating on her father’s problems was making her forget her own.

‘I devoted myself to that woman,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘I didn’t go to Saul’s funeral because she was getting breast implants, did you know that? I missed my best friend’s funeral just to be with her.’

Stella felt a sudden impulse to laugh at the image of Chessie thrusting her silicone breasts in front of Christopher and banning him from going to Chilcot. But she was quite sure her father wouldn’t see the funny side of anything at that moment.

‘Surely you don’t have to sell the farm,’ said Tom, frowning. ‘After all,
she
left
you.’

‘I’m not sure that’s how the lawyers will see it,’ sighed Christopher. ‘We’ve been married eight years and she’s carrying our child. She’ll want something, probably everything. But the truth is I’ve got nothing to give her. Nothing except the house.’

Stella didn’t need to see his bank statements to know he was telling the truth. The expensive refurbishment of Trencarrow, the swish Bayswater apartment and Chessie had the best car and clothes and an expensive London social life. She really had bled him dry.

‘What about selling some of your work?’

‘I haven’t worked in years,’ he said quietly. Stella noticed he was now directing his conversation at Tom, as if it was easier to talk to a relative stranger.

‘Well, can’t we sell some of your old stuff?’

‘Have a look around,’ he replied sweeping an arm around the room. ‘There’s not much left. I must have sold about fifty pieces over the last ten years. High-maintenance wives can be expensive you know,’ he said with a small smile.

It was something that had been nagging at Stella since they had arrived: how few of Christopher’s sculptures were dotted round the house. In many ways her father had been a victim of his own success. Twenty, thirty years earlier, his Mayfair art dealer Bartholomew Davies would sell his sculptures as fast as Christopher could produce work, but now the famous bronze curves had gone and so too had the income.

‘I’m an old fool, Thomas,’ said Christopher. ‘A fool for love. I’ve lost count of the pieces I gave away – seduction tools as it were,’ he smiled. ‘And the rest have gone on divorce settlements and holidays. The only thing still left is Byzance.’

Stella’s heart fluttered. Byzance was her favourite piece. A six-foot bronze in the shape of a sail that took pride of place in the
garden behind the house, sheltered from the sea and the rain. There was no way she was going to let him sell that.

‘Tell me, Thomas, do you like art?’ asked Christopher. Tom walked over to two brightly-coloured paintings by the door. They were vaguely nautical. Tom thought he could make out a boat and a lighthouse.

‘These are great,’ he said.

Christopher nodded.

‘A great friend of mine and Saul’s did those, Ben Palmer. You won’t have heard of him. Poor sod didn’t have two brass farthings to rub together, couldn’t even afford materials. He used to hang around the Porthmeor Studios, using paint left over from other artists’ sessions. That painting on the left is done on a piece of chipboard that was put over a broken window.’

‘What are the Porthmeor Studios?’ asked Tom, genuinely interested. This was a part of his Uncle Saul’s life that he’d never heard about.

‘Oh, the studios are a piece of Cornish history,’ he replied. ‘Everyone worked out of there at some point. Sandra Blow, Patrick Heron, even Francis Bacon for a few months.’ Christopher shrugged. ‘Sadly Benjamin didn’t quite take off in the way they did. I’d sell those pictures if I thought they’d raise anything. But I’m quite happy to look at them every day though.’

Stella felt tears welling up. She had grown up listening to her father’s stories of the St Ives art movement and she knew how much her father treasured Ben’s paintings. It broke her heart to see that he was prepared to get rid of them so readily.

‘It’s late,’ said Christopher grabbing onto the arms of the chair to pull himself up. ‘Do you mind if I turn in?’

‘It’s not that late,’ replied Stella, wanting to stay up and talk despite feeling emotionally exhausted herself.

‘It is for me, darling,’ he said, rising with difficulty, gently squeezing her arm.

‘Don’t blame Chessie,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s a young woman like you. What does she want with an old man who goes to bed at seven o’clock?’

Tom and Stella watched him leave the room.

‘Can you believe he’s making excuses for her?’ asked Stella when he had gone.

Tom shrugged. ‘When a relationship ends, sometimes it’s easier to believe it was your fault.’

Stella suddenly thought of Johnny and her heart felt raw. The tears began to come again. She leant into Tom and he put a fraternal arm round her shoulders.

‘It will get better you know,’ he said, giving her a gentle squeeze.

She nodded her head sadly. ‘I had a narrow escape with Johnny, I’m sure of it. Yes, it hurts like hell, but I’m sure it’s more painful after marriage and kids.’

She stood up and started pacing around the room to stop herself dwelling on her own problems.

‘Tom, I can’t let him sell Trencarrow.’

‘Maybe those paintings
are
worth something,’ said Tom, pointing to the Ben Palmer oils.

‘It’s worth asking your mother,’ said Stella.

Tom had walked over to the big bay window and was staring out into the darkness, wondering vaguely how much Trencarrow was worth and how much Chessie would get her claws on.

‘What’s that big building out by the cliffs?’

‘The barn? It’s dad’s studio.’

‘Can I have a look?’

‘There’s not a lot to see. As he told you, he’s given up. There’s probably just a load of rusty chisels and dust in there now. I’m sure he’ll walk you down after breakfast tomorrow.’

‘Come on,’ he said with a grin. ‘It looks spooky … It’s a fine old night to be scared.’ He made a weak attempt at a werewolf’s howl and started pulling on his coat. Stella started laughing.

‘Tom, it’s pitch black out there! And it’s pissing down.’

‘You must have a torch, come on! It won’t seem quite as romantic in the morning.’

‘Romantic?’ said Stella, feeling a little awkward.

‘Not like that,’ he grinned.

‘If I fall flat on my face in the mud you’re paying for the dry cleaning.’

‘You’ll be lucky, love. I’m a penniless fool,’ he said spreading his hands to the sky.

She laughed but she was already reaching for her coat. She found a torch by the door and then reached into a ceramic jug to pull out a set of keys.

‘Creature of habit. Still keeps them in there after all these years.’ The back door creaked as it opened and a gust of chilly air rushed into the house. As Stella pulled up the collar on her coat, she could
hear the low swoosh of the sea unseen below. Outside, the sky was mottled in a thousand shades of black and as she felt Tom’s protective hand on the small of her back, she suddenly felt excited by this little adventure, even when the reassuring amber spilling from Trencarrow’s windows grew faint and the barn loomed ominously in front of them. Stella handed Tom the key and whispered, ‘You go first.’

‘Wimp,’ he hissed, fumbling the key in the lock and opening the heavy wooden door. He flashed the torch up the wall, flicked a switch and flooded the barn with light. Stella gasped. She had been expecting to see an empty, desolate space, forgotten and forlorn, but the barn was full of sculptures, some small and exquisite, some five feet high. Although some looked rough and unfinished, many were polished and complete. Stella felt the familiar rush of excitement when she saw good art –
no, great art,
she thought. Right in the centre of the room was a large stone sculpture, obviously recently worked on. There were some tools on a table next to it: chisels, hammers and a smaller clay model of the larger work. It was amazing.

‘Shit
…’

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Tom, walking slowly around the room, gazing at the sculptures. Stella walked over to the large stone and ran her hand across its surface.