The Lucifer Network (23 page)

She knew that if she didn't talk to someone about the mess she'd got herself into she would probably explode.
It wasn't just the Simon Foster business. Her personal relationships had always been a mess. For the past year she'd been having an affair with a man much older than herself which was going nowhere. The man, who was married, was kind and generous and seemed happy for their arrangement to continue indefinitely, but she knew it couldn't. She didn't love him. Never had. The relationship had been fun, jet-setting, and trouble-free. It had taken her out of herself. But its very easiness was stopping her looking for the soul mate she'd always hoped to meet.

Her mother was too judgmental to talk to in situations like this. And anyway Julie hadn't told her about the affair. Most of her friends were too preoccupied with their own problems to be interested in hers, but there was one she could talk to – a girl she'd met at university – not through her studies, but through the shared misfortune of having unplanned children. They'd met at the ante-natal clinic, both grossly pregnant by men who'd abandoned them. Rosemary Smith had given birth on the same day as Julie and the traumas of single-motherhood had forged a bond between them which had lasted.

Soon after their confinements, their paths had separated, Julie returning home to her mum and Rosie getting lucky with a man. A westernised Iranian postgrad studying textile technology had fallen in love with her and her darkly beautiful child and insisted she should marry him. She'd abandoned her degree course and become a housewife. Her husband now traded in oriental carpets and they lived in some affluence in north London. Rosie was a kind and constant friend, but above all she was a listener.

Julie got up from the bench and walked back towards the bridge to look for a telephone box.

Rosemary's apartment in St John's Wood was paved in marble and dotted with gilded
objets
and classical bronze statuettes. Julie didn't know whether it was good taste or bad. All she was certain of was that Rosie's life was very different from her own.

‘How's Liam?' Rosemary asked within seconds of her welcoming embrace. ‘Gosh! New glasses?' she commented, not waiting for a reply.

‘He's fine and yes they are,' Julie answered. ‘Got to keep up with the fashion.'

She was led through into what her friend called the ‘family room', a spacious extension of the kitchen where the furnishings were more child-friendly. The two younger ones were there, being given their tea by a dumpy Filipina.

‘Andrew will be back in a minute,' Rosemary told her. ‘He'll be thrilled to see you, Julie. Absolutely thrilled. That's if the football practice hasn't
totally
worn him out. I think it's ridiculous making them do so many things when they're that young, but the head insists it does them no harm and the school's academic results are
fanta-astic.
' She whispered the last word as if afraid the whole world would discover how successful the place was at getting their pupils into the best public schools.

Andrew. Such an unsuitable name for a child with dark Arab looks. The father who'd vanished had been an overseas student from Kuwait.

‘Cup of tea? It's
so
good to see you again.'

‘That would be wonderful. And it's great to see you too.' Julie decided her friend had put on weight since they'd last met, but refrained from commenting on it.

Rosemary plugged in the kettle. She was dark haired and had a nose that most Englishmen would consider
indelicately large. She wore a voluminous purple patterned dress that was probably made of silk.

‘How sweet of you to ring,' she said, pouring water into a silver teapot. ‘Only the other day I saw a little boy in the supermarket who reminded me so much of your Liam. I've been wanting to get in touch for ages, but you're so high-powered and busy these days.'

Typical, thought Julie. Blaming
her
for her own failure to communicate. ‘Busy, yes. High-powered? Hardly.'

Rosemary gave a knowing smile as if ‘modesty' was Julie's middle name. ‘Well . . . I'm so glad you rang. How's things?'

Julie looked about her to see if there was a newspaper in evidence. ‘You don't take the
Chronicle,
do you?' It would be easier if Rosemary had seen the story already.

‘No. Mehdi reads the
FT.
I don't have time for papers. Get my news from the TV.' Suddenly her eyes lit up and she clamped a hand to her mouth. ‘Don't tell me! I've missed it. There was an announcement. You're getting married!'

Julie shook her head. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.'

‘Oh, no.
I'm
sorry. Always saying the wrong thing . . .' One of the little girls came over to complain about her sister. Rosemary picked the child up and cuddled her. ‘What about your Austrian millionaire?'

‘Sort of still happening,' Julie told her. ‘But I'm not sure I want it to. Could we . . .?'

The doorbell rang before she could suggest they went somewhere more private to talk.

‘That'll be Andrew.' Rosemary put her daughter down and headed for the hall. ‘We have a rota for the school run. My day off, but it's still bedlam at this time of day.' Just before the door she stopped and turned. ‘Once I've got him settled, you and I will go into the drawing room
and put a “do not disturb” sign on the door.' She winked conspiratorially.

Julie crouched down to talk to the two girls. They were nice children, relaxed and open with adults. ‘Have you been to my house before?' one of them asked.

‘Yes, but the last time I came you'd gone to bed already.'

When Andrew was wheeled in he solemnly shook hands with Julie, his dark eyes anything but thrilled to see her. He was dog-tired, his mind full of the day just passed. Dressed in the smart, private school blazer and grey shorts which set him apart from her own son, a smudge of earth on his forehead showed he was a boy like any other. The Filipina took charge of him.

Rosemary touched Julie on the arm and beckoned.

The large living room had a huge Persian rug on the floor and a window bay that had been extended and glazed like a conservatory. Yuccas and flowering plants decorated it. They sat on softly upholstered cane chairs and put their teacups on a small glass table.

‘So why
did
you ask if I read the
Chronicle
?' Rosemary asked, burning with curiosity. Julie bent down and extracted the cutting from her handbag.

‘Because of this.'

Rosemary took it from her. As she read it, her jaw dropped. ‘Oh Julie, how awful for you! And God . . . your father! I had no idea. I'm so sorry.' She leaned forward and put her hand on Julie's knee. ‘It must have been a dreadful shock.'

‘It was. But what d'you think?'

Rosemary frowned. ‘About . . .?'

‘The article. Was I mad to get involved in defending him? You know what a crook he was.'

‘Yes but he was your dad. You loved him.'

Julie had always envied Rosemary's uncomplicated
perspective on relationships, but on this occasion it wasn't enough. ‘You're not answering my question, Rosie.'

‘Aren't I? I can't really say any more than that.'

‘Why not? You must have a view.'

‘Don't be silly!' she scolded. ‘I don't
have
views. Except on things to do with children. But I can see that
you
think you were mad to get involved. It's written all over your face.'

‘Well . . . half of me does.'

‘And the other half . . .'

‘Suspects that MI6
did
kill my father.'

Rosemary let a nervous hand flutter up to her mouth. This was territory well beyond anywhere she wanted to go. ‘Well if you really think that, why
not
tell the papers about it?'

‘Because of the man involved,' Julie breathed, looking down at her hands.

Rosemary's brown eyes widened. She looked at the picture more closely. ‘This man . . .?'

‘Yes. He's probably going to lose his job because of me.'

‘But if he . . .' The hand floated up to the mouth again. ‘If he killed your father . . .'

‘That's just the problem, Rosie. I mean, I'm sure he works for them, but I don't really think he could have done it. Not him personally. He's too nice.'

‘Too nice,' Rosemary whispered, her eyes widening further. ‘Julie! You're not saying what I think you're saying?'

‘I don't know
what
I'm saying, Rosie. Except that I'm in a dreadful mess over it.' She felt tearful all of a sudden and turned her face to the window.

Rosemary leaned forward again and squeezed her friend's hand. At times she'd envied Julie her degree,
her career and her exotic parentage, but just now she was extremely glad to be a mere wife and mother.

‘Have you talked to Max about it?'

‘God no,' Julie spluttered. ‘With Max I talk about European politics – which I know nothing about – fashion, food and the best ski resorts. Occasionally we discuss virology, since that's the subject that brought us together, but most of the time our chat is simply a polite prelude to the real reason for his wanting to see me.'

Rosemary tittered, glad to be back on ground she understood. ‘But you sound so bitter,' she frowned. ‘Last time we spoke you were perfectly happy with the relationship.'

‘I was,' Julie confirmed. ‘It gave a bit of glamour to my life. It was a break from Liam and from routine, a chance to travel a little. And Max always paid for everything – air fares, a separate hotel room – for the sake of
my
reputation he said, although of course it was for
his.
Meals. Concerts. Ski passes . . .'

‘A true sugar daddy.'

‘Yes.' Julie allowed herself a little smile. ‘But actually he's not bad in bed either.' The two women giggled.

‘So, you got yourself a
sexy
fifty-year-old millionaire!'

‘Sexy . . .' Julie pondered the word. ‘That might be over-egging it. He's a good physical fit, but . . . well, he doesn't have much imagination.'

‘Oh dear. A
stolid
fifty-year-old. Winds up the cuckoo clock, then lights out. Tell me, does he keep his socks on in bed?'

They giggled again sillily. Julie was terribly glad she'd come. Laughter had been in short supply in the past few days.

‘Oh Rosie, I don't know what I'm doing.' She was in need of explaining things to herself as much as to her friend. ‘It was the sort of relationship I thought I
could do with. Pleasure without involvement. I mean, whenever I
do
get involved with someone it goes horribly wrong.'

Rosemary's eyes harboured thoughts which she wasn't revealing.

‘What?' Julie demanded.

‘Oh . . . no. It's none of my business . . .'

‘I'm making it your business. What did you want to say?'

Rosemary's mouth puckered as if she were sucking a lemon. ‘It's just that I've always felt the reason your relationships go wrong is that you try too hard and give in too much. Tell me to shut up.'

‘No. Go on.'

‘You see, you're such a lovely person, with a wonderful personality, yet when you fall for a man you suppress it all. You become a mouse. His plaything. It's almost as if you're frightened of letting yourself be yourself in case you put him off.'

Julie stared at her hands. Her mother had said the same. She knew it to be true but could do nothing about it. Whenever she fell in love with a man, she was ready to be his slave.

Beyond the kitchen door a child began wailing, then they heard the raised voice of the Filipina trying to calm things. Instinctively Rosemary stood up, but checked herself and sat down again, realising that the ‘child' in front of her was in greater need of help than her daughter.

‘You should try to be yourself more,' Rosemary added, always reluctant to give advice.

‘I've tried. But it's how I am, Rosie. It's the way I'm made.'

Rosemary took a deep breath, about to say it was because Julie had spent her entire life trying to win
her father's approval, but she reached for the silver teapot instead.

‘More?'

‘Please.'

Rosemary spilled a little on the tray and dabbed it up with a linen napkin.

‘But returning to the subject of Max,' she continued. ‘The relationship's begun to lose its charm, is that what you're saying?'

Julie nodded, her misery written on her face.

‘So, have you decided to stop seeing him?'

Julie sighed. ‘I think I should. He's asked me to go to Vienna this weekend. The ticket's booked. I just have to pick it up. But I'm not sure about
anything
at the moment.'

‘No. Because you're in a bit of a state, poor love.' She picked up the newspaper cutting and re-read it.

‘God!' Julie hissed. ‘Why can't I ever get things right?'

‘Oh you do, dearest Julie. Lots of things.'

‘As long as it's not to do with men. I always fall for the wrong ones.'

Rosemary looked up and cocked her head on one side. ‘Did I just miss something there, darling?'

Julie reddened slightly. ‘I just keep thinking about him, that's all.'

Rosemary waved the press cutting at her. ‘You don't mean this one? You're not seriously telling me you've
fallen
for the man you've exposed to the papers?'

Julie pressed her lips together and shrugged.

‘Oh
dear.
'

‘Yes. Oh dear, Rosie. I can't seem to get him out of my head. It's those pheromones or whatever they're called.'

Rosemary gawped at her, lost for words.

‘Sometimes I think I'm a sackful of chemicals rather
than a human being. Hit me with the right whiff and I turn from a decisive, professional female into a broody duck.'