Three’s a Crowd (27 page)

Rachel nodded. ‘Anyway, I better get going.'

‘If you wait ten minutes till I rinse off the car, I can run you home.'

She waved him off. ‘No, I'm fine, it's five minutes on the bus.'

‘Are you doing anything later?'

‘Huh?' she blinked.

‘You want to go see a movie or something?'

‘No!' she blurted, a little too adamantly, she could tell by the look on his face. ‘It's just, I really can't. I've got . . . a thing.' She glanced at her watch without seeing the time. ‘Oh, and I'm really going to have to rush, get home, get ready, you know . . .'

He nodded. ‘You're a regular social butterfly.'

‘That's me,' she said, walking away backwards. ‘I'll let you know about next week, as soon as I sort it out.'

‘I'd appreciate it.'

‘See ya,' she said, raising her hand in a wave before turning to hurry up the street. She didn't look back at him again. She couldn't. He'd seemed a little . . . well, forlorn, for want of a better word. Some friend she was. He was going to be alone for the weekend, as was she, and she couldn't even bring herself to go to a movie with him.

Yep, she was the one who'd insisted that they act like nothing had happened.

It was a lot easier to make resolutions like that when he was wearing a shirt.

Catherine turned into the driveway, anticipating that delightful sense of relief she almost always felt arriving home. She'd had very strong ideas about what she wanted for this house and had worked closely with her architect; she got the impression he felt a little too closely at times. But Catherine was a self-avowed control freak, and she wasn't about to apologise for it. She had lived in a number of period homes to date, and while she loved their grace and proportions, she was over it. She craved clean lines, smooth finishes, hallowed spaces; she wanted it to be an almost Zen-like experience walking through her front door, like living in a work of art.

‘Fuck!' She gritted her teeth. Martin had parked his BMW in the driveway, far enough back so that he blocked the entrance to both garages. He was probably going out again, but the moron could not think to park out on the street so that he didn't block her. No, that would involve using his head. Well, she would stop here, and he could waste his own time moving her car out to shift his.

She'd had a rotten day and she was in a foul mood. She could feel the niggling beginnings of a headache, and that pissed her off even more because she needed a drink, and if a headache was really coming on, a drink would only make it worse. But she was going to have a drink regardless.

She let herself in through the front door, slamming it behind her and dumping her briefcase on the hall table. She strode down the hall, shedding her jacket and tossing it over the back of the sofa as she passed through the living room and out into the kitchen, her heels clattering on the travertine the whole way.

‘Hello darling,' Martin greeted her, poised over the chopping board.

‘Your car's blocking the garage,' she snapped, heading for the fridge.

‘Oh, yes, I'm expecting a call from the video shop. I booked that new film I was telling you about –'

‘Fine,' she cut him off, grabbing a bottle of wine. ‘You can put my car away when you're done.'

‘Of course,' he replied calmly. ‘How was your day?' he ventured.

‘Dreadful. And I don't want to go over it.' She turned her back on him to get a glass from the cupboard.

‘Okay, well, I bought a lovely piece of salmon this afternoon. I actually popped down to the fish market after work. And I'm going to bake it, with . . .'

And on he droned. Catherine tuned out, as she usually did when Martin started talking food. Why he persisted she had no idea, she had never shown any interest in cooking, and less in eating. It was okay when they were entertaining, but when it was just them, she couldn't give a flying fuck. She poured herself a large glass of wine and replaced the bottle in the fridge, picking up the glass as she turned around to face Martin. He was still rabbiting on.

‘I'm going to sit outside for a while,' she said, cutting him off again.

‘Oh . . .' He looked a little taken aback. Then he sighed. ‘Right then, I'll just get on with it, I suppose.'

Catherine turned for the doors out to the terrace.

‘Oh, I nearly forgot,' said Martin, stopping her. ‘Alice wanted to talk to you about something when you got home. She's up in her room, she's waiting for you.'

‘Well, Madam can come and find me if it's so important,' she said, stepping outside. Although it had been a hot day, it was pleasantly cool out here under the shade of the flourishing grapevine. The jasmine had finished flowering for the season, but the air had the sweet scent of freshly mown grass. The gardener must have been today.

Catherine took a long drink before setting her glass down on the wrought-iron table and taking a seat on one of the matching chairs she had imported from France. She had wanted to recreate a Mediterranean loggia out here, despite the architect arguing that it was not in keeping with the modernist lines of the house. He had designed a Japanese-style garden on the original plans, but Catherine had rejected it out of hand. She knew what she wanted, and she always got her own way. She needed greenery, lots of it, and while she liked order, a raked pebble garden was a little too anal, even for her.

She breathed deeply, closing her eyes. She ought to know by now to schedule meetings with the spiteful Mrs Alannah Cresswell earlier in the day so she had time to recover. Catherine generally enjoyed her work. Securing generous settlements for women tossed onto the seconds pile was immensely satisfying, even where there had been little hardship involved. It was Catherine's belief that men should be made to pay a fair price for ‘moving on', usually into the arms of a younger woman. If they broke any other kind of contract, restitution would be expected and duly forfeited; it should be no different in a marriage contract. Of course she got the greatest satisfaction the more heartless the moving on, and the younger and blonder the replacement. But every now and then, a certain kind of woman turned up – more often than not the blonde replacement – who was nothing but a gold-digging opportunist. She would generally latch on to a wealthy man, take delight in watching his marriage fall apart in her wake, and then proceed to revel in the lifestyle he provided, contributing nothing, but then considering herself due for a share of his wealth when she inevitably became bored with her middle-aged husband with a paunch and thinning hair. Catherine was not in the position to judge, she had an obligation to her firm to get the best possible settlement for the client they were representing, regardless of the circumstances. But she hated it. She felt it undermined the rest of her work, and Alannah Cresswell was just the type of money-grubbing, pretentious little upstart who made her blood boil.

She picked up her glass and took another long drink as Alice burst through the door.

‘You could've told me you were home already!' she accused.

‘So I could be the recipient of such a charming welcome?' Catherine returned archly.

‘Sorry Mum, hi Mum,' Alice groaned in a monotone as she sauntered over and dragged a chair out from the table, scraping it across the flagstone paving. She slumped down into it, facing her mother.

‘Sit up straight, please Alice.'

Alice sighed dramatically, squaring her shoulders into the back of the seat. ‘I have something important to ask you and you have to promise you'll give me a fair hearing.'

‘When do I not give you a fair hearing?'

Alice almost rolled her eyes. ‘Okay, here it is. Travesty is playing at the stadium and I know you don't like big outdoor concerts, and you think I'm too young, but the last time I asked was a full year ago, and I am seventeen now, after all. Anyway, tickets were like, impossible to get, but now, it's so totally amazing, because Lottie –'

‘Who?'

‘Lottie . . . Charlotte Campbell, you know her, Mum. You were like, totally impressed when you found out who her dad was.'

‘Mm . . .' Catherine recalled now. Her father was Douglas Campbell, the CEO of a major investment bank, one that had survived the crash with both its stocks and its reputation intact. Catherine had been taken aback when he'd shown up one Saturday afternoon to pick up Charlotte – a rather nondescript little thing, it had to be said – dressed in grubby clothes as though he'd been working in the garden. Catherine had paused to wonder just who they were letting into the school these days, but she had impeccable manners so she invited him in and even offered him a drink while Charlotte got her things together. Out of politeness, and not a little curiosity, she had asked him what he did for a living. ‘Yes, I know who Charlotte is.'

‘Well, her dad's got some kind of VIP passes, she can take three friends, and it's in a roped-off area, totally safe, and Lottie's mum's going to take us and everything, and you so have to let me go or I'm seriously going to die.'

‘You're not going to die, Alice.'

‘Oh, come on, Mum, give me a little poetic licence.'

Catherine was vaguely amused, she just wished these things weren't the be-all and end-all to Alice. At her age, Catherine was pregnant; concerts and the like faded into insignificance. She understood from then what was really important – working hard, getting ahead, not letting anyone get the better of you – and she believed it had stood her in good stead. Not that she'd want Alice to get pregnant to learn those important life lessons, heaven forbid, but she wouldn't mind if her perspective was a little broader than the latest teenage fad.

She had to admit though, she was not against the idea of Alice cultivating this friendship with Douglas Campbell's daughter.

‘When is this gala event?' she asked.

‘Saturday night,' Alice said hopefully.

‘This Saturday?' said Catherine. ‘Well, I'm sorry, darling, but this Saturday is impossible. The Macklins are coming for dinner.'

‘So?' Alice said, a look of crazed disbelief on her face. ‘Did you even listen to a word I just said, Mum? This is Travesty, and I have been, like, their biggest fan
forever
! These are VIP tickets, this is totally a once-in-a-lifetime thing! Don't you get it?'

Catherine shook her head with a knowing smile. ‘Alice, you're seventeen. Let's hope there are far bigger things to look forward to in your lifetime. And of course I “get” that you're disappointed, but I'm afraid there's nothing we can do. This was organised more than a week ago.'

‘But it doesn't matter if I'm not here.'

‘Of course it matters. I expressly included the girls in the invitation so you could all catch up before school goes back.'

‘Can't we just make it another night then?'

‘No, Alice! That is the height of bad manners, shunting people around because you get a better offer. How would you like to be treated that way?'

‘I wouldn't care if someone had a good reason,' she insisted. ‘I bet if you rang Tom and got him to check with Soph, she would totally be on my side.'

‘Well I'm not going to ring Tom, obviously. Of course they'd agree with whatever you said, you'd be putting them in an untenable position.'

Alice went to protest further but Catherine spoke over her.

‘Look, you will have many more opportunities to go to many more concerts. As much as you think this is the end of the world, it's far from it, and sometimes in life we have to choose to do what is right over doing whatever we feel like. At your age I was already pregnant with you, and my adolescence came to an abrupt end, but I made the most of it –'

‘Why do you always have to bring that up!' Alice cried. ‘Just because you went and got yourself pregnant –'

‘I didn't “get myself” pregnant, young lady,' Catherine
interrupted firmly, raising her voice with control. ‘It takes two, it's just that all too often one party gets left with the consequences.'

‘What does this even have to do with anything?' Alice demanded. ‘It's so unfair, having me is your excuse for everything.'

‘Alice –'

‘I wish you never
had
had me, you should have got rid of me while you had the chance!'

‘Now you're being ridiculous.'

Alice got to her feet. ‘It would be better not to have been born than to have you as a mother!' She went to stomp off, but Catherine rose from her chair and caught her by her arm, gripping it tightly.

‘You ungrateful little brat,' she seethed, her face close to her daughter's. ‘When I witness this kind of behaviour from you I have to wonder why I did bother keeping you. You can forget about concerts, parties or anything else for the foreseeable future.'

‘You can't do that!'