Precious Things (17 page)

‘Zephyr,' Frank said in that rich, gravelly voice. It was pitched almost inaudibly low. A ragged breath escaped him, and I knew I had him then. Frank's touch trailed a path like molten lava down my arm. Sliding closer, his hand brushed the bias-cut satin of my jade silk dress, and I shuddered. Wending his way towards me through treacherous reefs, a slick eel. My breath caught in my throat. We were suspended there for a moment, treading water.

‘How long have you known?' he asked. There seemed no point in pretending.

‘From the first moment, I think.' Gazing back at him, my eyes issued a challenge.

‘Then you enjoy torturing me,' he said.

I couldn't help it, a laugh escaped me.

‘He's
your
friend,' I countered, vision swimming. I was quite drunk.
On some level I knew I could explain everything away in the morning, if I had to. No one could hold anything against me.

‘And
your
husband.'

I pushed Frank's hand away roughly then, although I wished he had clutched me to him. But he didn't.

That's how it started. Our game was underway.

‘It's too late,' I said, but my eyes said otherwise.

He smiled, measuring me.

I felt seized by the urge to rile him then, and changed tack. ‘You and Vera seem very cosy of late.' Treacherous jealousy, entering my voice.

Frank swatted my remark away, but then turned and gave me a cunning grin, ripping away my disguise. ‘It's never too late.'

Focusing on his thigh next to mine on the couch, I saw his muscles strain against the tailored twill of his evening trousers. He leaned forwards and intertwined his hands. For a moment, I felt bereft, wishing I was Vera. I forced my eyes not to roam any further north.

Just then, my sister shifted. Our conversation stopped. I wasn't even breathing.

A strange moan escaped Vera . . . maybe she'd sensed something in her dreams. She always was a perceptive soul. I rose from the sofa. It was unlike me to be so skittish, but Frank alone had the power to disarm me. The only other was the thought of losing Vera. I couldn't explain it. No one else was quite so precious to me. We were like two halves of the same whole. But Vera's weakness was trust. Gerrit was the same, too. It's why they loved me, and I knew it. Vera was falling for Frank, it was plain to see, and they should be together. How easy would that be? But I would come to pay for my inability to share.

I managed to prise myself away from Frank that night (much as I burned to do otherwise) and padded off to bed without so much as a by-your-leave. Lying awake, I tossed and turned and sweated beside Gerrit until dawn, my anguish wrought upon the twisted sheets of our marriage bed.

The tension only grew more tangible between Frank and me, and I can't say I didn't enjoy the drama, the exquisite agony of teasing him. I yearned to be by his side. Frank orchestrated moments alone between us, and I delighted in our game.

‘Come here, darling,' I told Gerrit, kissing my husband deeply on the mouth, aware Frank was watching. Frank would later grab me, roughly, and say, ‘You're incorrigible!' But he was incapable of staying away, finding me like a magnet each and every time.

‘I've never needed anyone like this before, Buzzie,' Frank whispered in stolen moments. ‘I'm mad for you. It's driving me half-crazy.'

I didn't dissuade him. I left him hanging, because I liked to see Frank twisting on a string. It was simply delicious. He hoped to wear me down, but what could we do – run away together? Unthinkable. I would never leave my sister. I might be her backbone, but she was my flesh and blood. Vera made me what I was, even if I never admitted it.

But seeing Vera grow more smitten with Frank by the day began to make me feel awful. It was like living in a gilded prison, only inches from the one I longed to reach out and grasp. I probably should have stopped it then; nipped that fragile flower in the bud. But I was so wicked . . . as Florrie must have seen.

Swaying with Frank on the dance floor one night, snake-hipped and coiled, I was ready to strike. Brushing ever-so-softly against him, I exhaled warm breath against his neck.

‘My God, you crave the attention,' he whispered. ‘And I can't help giving it to you.' Frank's hands visibly shook – I believe he wished to do me violence in that moment – but I grinned at him cruelly. Gerrit sailed past with Vera. Smiling, oblivious.

‘I've written poetry for you, Buzzie, but I dare not show you. You'll crucify me.' And: ‘Take this,' he said, passing me a loose emerald-cut diamond – massive, three carats at least, and of such high clarity it almost blinded me. ‘Proof of my intention.' Did he think I cared about marriage? It wasn't the institution I needed, just the security.

Vera didn't say so, but I could tell she was busy pining over Frank. Too distracted to notice what was happening right before her eyes. We'd never held secrets before, but now there were whole webs of untruths tangling the invisible bonds between us.

Frank continued to play the game because he was forced to. And I continued to choose Gerrit over him. But I took it one step too far that evening. I was so excited feeling Frank's gaze on me that I persuaded Gerrit into the deserted cloakroom and Frank saw us emerge, some twenty minutes later, looking tousled and spent.
That's
what made him propose to Vera. A master stroke, I have to admit.

We were at the Klang when Frank struck the blow, and I was wearing my nightingale. I knew I looked beautiful that night. Glittering. Triumphant. Gerrit had moaned it, mumbling into my neck, in the cloakroom.

Frank made sure I was watching, before falling to his knees in front of her. ‘Vera, will you marry me?' he asked, looking for all the world like a mad fool in love. There was just the suggestion of a furtive glance towards me.

I saw Vera's face go pale.

Frank looked up, his eyes dancing. He didn't realise, the idiot – there was no going back after this.

‘Yes!' cried Vera, her face transforming.

Frank looked surprised then; whether at his hastiness or Vera's quick response, I'll never know. He shouldn't have done it. Vera had always been our silent third. My pale companion, my shadow. Now she was going to take my man. Suddenly, I loathed her. Wasn't feeling quite so triumphant, then.

Gerrit was thrilled, of course. He ordered champagne for the entire bar. Vera looked so happy, she was positively glowing. That was my punishment. But I fixed a smile of congratulations in place, while my bloody red heart cleaved in two. He'd won.

Tipping my dark circleted head to Frank – my beloved, glistening nightingale – I mouthed the word. ‘
Touché.
' Thinking,
I'll get you.

Feigning illness, I left the Klang as soon as I could without raising Gerrit's suspicions. Vera cried for me. ‘Such bad luck!' she said, flagging down our driver. When she went back inside the club, I stood by the open car door for a moment to clear my head. Frank materialised, seemingly out of thin air, grabbing the crook of my elbow. Fury bloomed inside me. He could see the impact he'd made. ‘You fool,' I said, wrenching him loose.

‘Wait for me,' he said urgently. ‘I'm coming with you.' Rushing back inside, he was gone. I don't know how he made his excuses, but he must have told them it was an emergency; the workers were toiling all night through the fields. While Vera and Gerrit celebrated her engagement to Frank with the hundreds of others at the Klang Club, I finally succumbed. How they didn't suspect us immediately, I do not know.

In our villa, in the shadowy recesses of the wraparound porch, Frank's hot tongue ran ribbons of desire up and down my skin. I was feverish, burning. We tore away our clothes before finally pressing our bodies together. My nightingale stayed put, but otherwise I was naked as the day I was born, trying not to think of Vera's calm grey eyes, her sad face . . . Afterwards, we lay entwined, breathing fast. Then there came the distant sound of a fire engine, matching the alarm bells in my head. Frank ran into the smoking fields, snatching up his tie from the villa steps.

Minutes later, a taxi careened into the drive. As Gerrit laid a hand upon my sweating brow, he felt my fever. ‘You're burning up, my love,' he told me, gently lifting me in my hastily donned slip. Carrying me upstairs, his face was the picture of concern. Vera watched me from the door. Was it then that she suspected?

I told Vera that she could wear the circlet – my nightingale – to their wedding. She was striving for so much, it seemed fitting.

Yes, they went through with it. Because I told Frank he had to. I fooled myself into thinking that perhaps it could always be this way . . . a happy foursome, never to part. Where I could have my cake and eat it, too.

Vera was luminous on their wedding day, the most vivid I'd ever seen her. The crown fit her head perfectly. Shedding her tepid nature like the soft downy feathers of a bird, my twin was resplendent. She wore a fine lace gown, the colour of clotted cream, with modest full sleeves and white shoes.

After the wedding, Frank and I tried keeping our hands off each other, we really did. But our fates were intertwined. It was carnal, chemical, inescapable.

‘I'm pregnant, Buzzie,' Vera told me, all aglow a few months later.

It was then that I decided: I couldn't take it any more. After everything, that was the final straw. But I bit back my truthful response. ‘I am, too.' Envy poisoned all my insides, curdling the amniotic fluid. I was almost certain the baby was not Gerrit's.

When I went to see Frank, I found him striding through the sheds, inspecting the latest crop. Hard times were upon us; even we had noticed the scarcity of silk stockings and heard the stories about Wall Street. But the demand for rubber remained high, and our plants were top tier. The rest of the world felt so far away. We were never short of nice things.

I put my hand on Frank's shoulder, surprising him. When he saw it was me he pulled away, distracted.

‘I can't do this any more,' I told him. ‘I want you, not Gerrit. I can't share you any more.'

‘What?' he replied, frowning. He turned back to inspect the deep green sheen of the rubber leaves in his hand. They were dotted with black spots. I'd never seen anything like it.

‘Ruined!' Frank said, dropping the leaves in disgust, before finally looking back at me, anger twisting his features. I'd never seen him so immune to my charms before. Usually we would have been up against the wall by then, with his huge hands beneath my dress.

‘Vera's pregnant,' I said, wanting his full attention. ‘Didn't you know?' His eyes widened. Up until then, I'd enjoyed teasing him, keeping him dangling. But even he could tell this was serious. That I could not tolerate Vera bearing his child.

‘She can't be,' Frank said, all strength falling away from him.

‘But she is,' I gritted my teeth.

‘So you will leave Gerrit?' I could tell he was battling with himself then, his guilt towards Vera playing on his mind, even as he drew me close. Finally, I was ready to stop playing our sick, torturous game. It was
my
half-heart that had been sacrificed, not his. The least he could do was succumb!

‘Yes,' I moaned, and Frank's kisses rained down upon me like blows. ‘Yes.'

My dress was rucked up around my waist, and his trousers were already unbelted and down to his knees, when a shadow fell across the door. Vera.

Frank and I stopped. Our chests heaved with desire and fright. All three of us remained still, frozen in that awful tableau.

I saw the pain flash in Frank's eyes. So he loved her, too. The bastard, how could he?

A sob escaped Vera.

I flushed red, but was defiant. That would show her to steal Frank from me!

As if in a dream, Vera turned around slowly. Then ran off into the field. Swallowed up by the dark green leaves reflecting the light of the sun, she was gone. The trees snapped back in her wake, as if she'd never passed. When we were children, Vera and I used to play hide-and-seek. But where Vera could look for hours, patiently waiting to find me in a secret place, I never could. I would call and call, desperate to see her again. And she would come out of hiding and say, ‘I'm here, silly,' as I sighed with relief. Not this time.

Gathering ourselves, Frank and I searched the plantation. But while we were calling her name among the trees, she beat us to the punch. She was gone before Gerrit returned home. He called her a thief, but Frank and I knew: I stole her hopes, so she stole from me. Cleaning us out of the hidden stash in the company's safe, she also took my jewels; anything she could carry, including the loose diamond Frank gave me, his promise for our future. I'd sewn it into
the lining of my nightingale, hadn't I? Just in case. And she took that as well.

I didn't think she was capable of leaving me. I'm still not sure I would have been able to leave her. Because she was my true beloved, I realised too late. Without her I was reduced.

For years afterwards, I imagined Vera watching us through binoculars, seeing us through the open door of the shed, and it brought the shame searing to my cheeks . . . If only I'd felt it then.

Vera never made it back to Hanoi. Mother sent me a letter; she wasn't on the boat. I don't know what happened, or where she went. Whether she's dead or alive. Although I wonder, surely I would have felt something if she was dead? I don't know. I suppose she must be out there, having her own adventures without me. But wearing my nightingale, spurring her on.

Just like Frank, and Gerrit, and even my own son – who was born cold and still – Vera has flown away.

When I think about what I've lost, I don't know . . .

Sometimes I can barely breathe.

Maggie awoke abruptly to the sound of a loud crash and clatter. It was pitch black. Sitting bolt upright in bed, heart racing, she glanced over at the glowing red numbers on the bedside clock. 3.15 am. As the fog cleared in her brain, she felt a chill trickle down her spine. She'd been dreaming about Michael. He was showing her something inside a box. ‘It's perfection,' he said, motioning for her to take a look. Maggie was just about to find out what he meant, when the sound of the hallstand rocking on its feet and tipping over brought her sharply back into consciousness.

‘Tim, Tim, wake up!' Maggie whispered urgently, shaking him awake.

‘Wha . . .?' he groaned, voice muffled by the duvet.

‘Someone's breaking in – downstairs.'

That worked. Tim jumped out of bed and grabbed his tennis racquet from behind the door. He was on the landing within moments. Maggie threw on a gown to cover her thin nightdress and followed behind.

They padded down the stairs, Maggie clutching at Tim's shoulder. Pearl was still asleep – at least, Maggie hoped she was. Surely they'd know if someone had managed to wake her? Pearl would be screaming the house down by now . . .
Unless she's been kidnapped – dear God, not my baby!
Maggie put out a hand to steady herself against Tim's comforting sturdiness.

Halfway down the stairs, the light flicked on, dazzling them. Tim lowered the racquet, scowling at the sight of two people in the hallway.

‘Bloody hell, Stella,' he growled. ‘What the hell are you playing at?'

Maggie blinked with disbelief over Tim's shoulder. Stella and . . .
Kate
? Maggie's heart twisted in recognition, even though she hadn't seen her old childhood friend in . . . what, how long had it been – ten years? No, it was closer to twice that amount of time. Disoriented, Maggie wondered for a moment if she was still dreaming. ‘Kate . . . My God, is that really you? How . . . why . . . what are you doing here?'

The woman in the hallway looked as astonished as Maggie felt. ‘Does this one belong to you, then, Maggie?' Kate asked incredulously. She was propping up a limp-looking Stella, the teenager's head lolling lazily on Kate's shoulder, eyes half-closed.

Sporting the same gamine crop she'd worn in her teens, Kate looked barely a day older than she'd been the last time Maggie had seen her. Kate's hair had a twice-monthly salon visit look to it now, and her clothes were clearly expensive – a silk jacket over a Breton-style top, boyish designer cargoes and a pair of strappy tan leather heels – but it was still the same old Kate, however polished and smart she now appeared. Maggie had heard Kate was a lawyer involved in criminal cases involving juvenile defendants, and did regular work with the London Police Department.

‘Who? What?' Tim sounded as confused as Maggie felt, swinging from Kate to Maggie and back again.

‘Tim, this is my old friend Kate,' Maggie said, still in a daze, self-consciously pulling the silk cord of her dressing gown tighter around her waist. ‘Remember? I've told you all about her. But, Kate, what – what are you doing with Stella?'

‘Never met her before tonight,' Kate shrugged. ‘But she was getting into some trouble at the club. She'd had too much to drink and was flirting too much. She looked way too young to be getting up to such shenanigans, so I thought I'd best get her out of there and take her home before things got out of control. Call me a Good Samaritan.' Kate flashed them a rueful grin.

‘Ha, Dad,' Stella roused herself from Kate's shoulder, smiling dopily. ‘You should have seen your face coming down the stairs. You almost pissed yourself.'

Maggie belatedly realised that one, Stella was very drunk, and two, she was wearing the coronet –
her
coronet – as a neckpiece over her grey jersey dress, which was very tight and very short. She must have stolen it when Maggie had had that meeting with Michael. That's why she hadn't been able to find it when she'd returned home. Maggie had assumed Pearl had taken it, and torn her room apart looking for it, without success. Now she knew why and anger flared in her belly.

‘Stella,' Tim shook his head in frustration. ‘You bloody idiot.'

‘Oh, Dad, lighten up,' said Stella, unwinding herself from Kate. ‘I'm perfectly okay, see?' She waved her arm, staggering as her heel caught on the hall rug. ‘Oops,' she said, giggling. Then, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, she folded onto the floor, all stork-like arms and legs. ‘Legless . . . I'm legless . . . geddit?' she asked, laughing helplessly.

‘So she
is
yours, Maggie?' asked Kate, smiling down at Stella. ‘I've been trying to do the math . . . You must have been young when you had her.'

‘No, no,' said Maggie quickly. ‘She's Tim's daughter. My stepdaughter . . .' As soon as the words were out of Maggie's mouth, she realised how they sounded. Tim furrowed his brow.

Stella's head snapped up. She gave Maggie a slit-eyed stare, having obvious trouble focusing. Bleary confusion passed over her face as she looked between the two older women.

‘Stepdaughter,' she said thickly. ‘Izzat all I am . . .'

‘I think she needs her bed,' said Kate, jerking her thumb at Stella. ‘Do you need a hand getting her into it? Where is it – upstairs?'

‘I still don't understand how you happened to . . .' Maggie trailed off.

‘Oh, I get involved in this sort of thing more than you'd think . . . Believe me, it's not that unusual in my line of work.'

Maggie felt a stab of embarrassment at her own, rather frivolous job . . . What a solid person Kate had turned out to be.

Stella looked up forlornly at Tim. ‘Dad, I don't feel so good . . .' she whispered, and her hands went to her mouth.

‘Get up,' said Tim, hauling her unceremoniously to her feet. ‘I think you need the bathroom, right now. Come on. I'd say it's good to meet you, Kate, but another time I think. I should get this one upstairs. Come on, you reprobate,' he said gruffly to Stella. ‘You're going to feel like shit tomorrow.' He put his arm around Stella's waist and dragged her up the stairs, Stella stumbling over her feet. He gave Maggie a look over Stella's head, his mouth set in a grim line.

Maggie felt a pang of dismay. After the last incident with Stella, Tim had been such a mess, blaming himself for everything. Maybe he was becoming used to Stella acting out. Or maybe he was hardening his heart against her. It was awful to see him so disappointed.

Maggie turned to Kate. ‘I still can't believe it's actually you,' she said, suddenly aware of how awkward she felt. Her hands were shaking slightly and she thrust them into the pockets of her dressing gown.

Kate stared back at Maggie, an unreadable expression on her face. Maggie searched desperately for something to say – anything – to fill the yawning silence between them. How to bridge the gap of so many years between friends? Or ex-friends, more like.

‘Kate, I'm sorry . . .' she started to say, but Kate held up a hand.

‘You don't need to say anything.' She shook her head. ‘It's fine, Maggie.'

They stood in tense silence a moment longer, before Kate sighed and looked at her watch.

Maggie felt a stab of panic at the thought of her old friend leaving.

‘Look, I don't suppose you fancy a tea? I'll call you a cab – it's the least I can do,' she asked, desperately hoping Kate would say yes.

‘Well . . . OK,' said Kate reluctantly, looking over her shoulder at the front door.

‘C'mon,' said Maggie quickly. ‘The kitchen's down here.'

As she led the way downstairs, Maggie felt the tremor in her hands worsen, and a sickening flutter start up in her chest.

‘So Stella's gay now?' Maggie asked, filling the teapot with boiling water. She wondered how Tim would react.

‘Maybe,' said Kate, shrugging, ‘but maybe not. She could be experimenting.'

It seems unlikely if she's frequenting gay bars and flirting with other girls though, doesn't it?
Maggie thought.
But what would I know?
She collected cups and milk and took them over to the table where Kate was sitting, fiddling with a silver teaspoon.

‘Experimenting, really? But weren't you fairly sure by her age?' Maggie asked, hoping not to offend her.

‘I was, yeah, but I'm not Stella, am I?' Kate said dryly. ‘She's probably pushing all sorts of boundaries. Fun for you both.'

‘Oh, yeah, Stella's fun all right,' said Maggie with a short laugh. ‘I thought she was starting to settle down, but then this . . .'

‘If it gives you any peace of mind, I'd say she's probably not gay. She seemed to be flirting with the barman as much as with some of the women there. And her antics aren't that unusual. Lots of straight girls like to pretend.'

‘God,' said Maggie with a grimace, sitting down. ‘I have no idea what's happening with that girl.'

‘She'll be okay. I mean, you and I raised a bit of hell in our day, didn't we? And we turned out all right.'

Maggie risked a glance at Kate as she was pouring the tea, but her friend's face was still frustratingly unreadable.

The two women fell silent again. Maggie blew at her tea to cool it down.

‘You still do that?' Kate asked, her coolness falling away for a moment.

‘What? Oh, yes, I suppose so.' Maggie put the cup down with a clatter. ‘Oh, Kate – how long has it been?'

Kate scrutinised her. ‘I was just trying to work it out. Seventeen years, I think. Since you . . . disappeared.'

‘That's not quite what happened,' Maggie said, pushing down the wave of guilt. She felt for the gold locket hanging around her neck and touched it, feeling its cold hard lines under the thin fabric of her nightgown.
I'm the reason this is so uncomfortable. It was me who let our friendship fall by the wayside and ignored all her letters . . .
She'd never found a friend quite as special as Kate since. ‘I think we just went in separate directions, didn't we?'

Kate made a small dismissive sound. ‘I don't think so.' She looked angry now, unable to contain herself. Maggie could see her wrestling with it, before bursting out, ‘It was because I was gay, wasn't it?'

‘No,' Maggie exclaimed in sudden horror. ‘Kate, no. Is that what you think? Honestly?' The expression on Kate's face told Maggie that this was precisely what she thought. ‘Mum said something about Dad . . .' said Kate, and then suddenly changed direction. ‘But it doesn't matter what you thought of me,' she said crossly, her words tumbling out quickly now, ‘I just can't believe you did that to Mum. She was so devastated, Maggie. You didn't stick around for
her.
And after everything she did for you.'

Maggie was taken aback by the anger in Kate's voice – she knew she deserved it. Her entire body filled with shame . . . horrible feelings she'd so carefully compartmentalised. The sickening sense of it washed over her.

‘It wasn't anything to do with your . . . sexuality,' Maggie said with difficulty, the words feeling like dry stones in her mouth. ‘It was just that . . . I had to get out. After all that stuff with Mum and Dad . . . I just wanted a fresh start at college. A new beginning.'

‘You didn't even bother coming home for Dad's funeral!'

‘I . . . Honestly, Kate . . . I didn't find out until weeks later.' Maggie remembered the day at college when she'd heard about Don's heart attack. Her mother had sounded as though she almost relished delivering the terrible news – she'd always been jealous of Maggie's
relationship with Jean. Maggie felt desperate for Kate to understand. ‘You know how much I cared for your family . . .'

‘Really?' asked Kate. ‘But I left you messages – loads of them. I even wrote letters when you didn't return my calls.'

‘I know,' said Maggie, squirming in her seat. ‘I didn't read them. And I deleted your messages straight away . . .' She trailed off.

‘Why, for God's sake?' asked Kate, incredulous now. ‘Did you need to get away from me that badly – was I
that
awful?' She shook her head, half-standing, with a look of disgust twisting her pretty features.

Maggie put out a hand to stop her, but Kate shook it off.

‘No, of course not!' Maggie said, standing up herself, her voice catching. ‘I was so messed up back then, Kate. It had nothing to do with you. But I wouldn't have missed your dad's funeral if I'd known. I would have come to be with all of you, I promise.'

‘Sure,' said Kate, the sarcasm plain in her voice as she looked away. But Maggie could see the confusion in her eyes – Kate wanted to believe her. She really did think Maggie had avoided her because she was gay! And that she'd deliberately missed Don's funeral . . . Maggie would never have done that. Never – not if she'd known.

Stung, Maggie pulled back. She knew Kate was completely justified in her reaction. She followed her friend's gaze through the kitchen windows, but it was pitch black outside. All she could see was their reflection, framing them in the dark glass.