Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Simon Beckett
Copyright
For Hilary
Some moments burn in the mind for ever.
The landing is dark. Light comes from a window at the far end, enough to run by. Breath comes hard. From the stairs sound heavy footfalls of pursuit. The landing ends in a last doorway. There is no more running, only the need to hide.
Inside the room it is even darker. It is like walking in ink. Blind, she feels her way through the half-familiar landmarks of beds and bookshelves. And then there is the wall. She presses against it, trying to stifle the breaths that tear at her throat. Her heart thuds. Blood from the wound is sticky, and at her touch there is a white leap of pain that lightens the darkness.
She hears the footsteps now, drawing closer. Along the corridor, doors are opened, one at a time, until there is only hers left. The smell of petrol is sweet and heavy in its threat. She hugs her stomach, feeling the small pulse of new life inside, curled and vulnerable. The footsteps stop. A whisper of the door opening. Her name.
‘Kate.’
The light is turned on.
Some moments burn in the mind for ever.
Where There’s Smoke was first published in 1997. The idea for it came after I read a news item about a surrogate mother who refused to hand over her baby to the couple who’d paid her to become pregnant. That started me wondering what might happen if a woman hired someone to be the father of her child. It seemed to me that under the right – or wrong – circumstances, there was potential for a dramatic story.
Where There’s Smoke was my third novel but the first I’d written that required extensive research. It also had a female central character, which was another first for me. But my aim was still to write a gripping thriller about a normal life descending into nightmare and chaos, and one that would hopefully appeal to men as much as women.
Although I carried out some editing for the new German edition in 2009, at the time I decided against changing it to a contemporary setting. For one thing, the law on donor anonymity had changed in the intervening years. And when Where There’s Smoke was first written, the internet, email and mobile phones were still new technology, while social media didn’t exist. Those elements would have a radical impact on the events in the story, and integrating them without drastically changing it would be no easy task.
So when my editor at Transworld, Simon Taylor, asked if I could update the novel, I was initially sceptical. Once I started working on it, however, I soon changed my mind. I realized this was an opportunity to not only bring one of my early novels up to date but to improve it and create a topical thriller as well.
I think it was worth the effort. I hope you feel the same.
Simon Beckett, July 2015
The warehouse had been burning all night. Smoke roiled into the sky, a darker cloud in an overcast morning. The bonfire smell of it thickened the air, giving the spring day a premature flavour of autumn.
The rush-hour faces outside King’s Cross were turned to the dark column as Kate came up the steps from the Underground. The smoke rose above the rooftops in front of her, then the buildings closed in and blocked it from view.
Kate barely noticed. A tension headache was creeping up her neck. She tried to ignore it, hoping it would go away, and then she turned a corner and found the fire dead ahead.
She halted, startled to find it so close, but carried on when she saw the street wasn’t cut off. The roar and crackle of the blaze grew as she approached. Set back from the road, the warehouse was surrounded by a confusion of uniforms and yellow helmets, white cars and red engines. Hoses snaked across the ground, flinging streamers of water into the smoke. The flames licked out in random snatches of colour, indifferent to them.
A hot breath of wind brushed her face, dusting it with ashes. She turned away, eyes stinging, and realized with surprise that she had slowed to a standstill. Irritated with herself for gawking, she walked on, skirting the small crowd that had gathered by the police cordon.
The warehouse was left behind. By the time she reached the Georgian terrace several streets away, Kate had forgotten it. Most of the buildings in the terrace were run down, some boarded up with skips outside. But one, cleanly painted, stood out like a raised hand in a classroom. Embossed in gold letters on its downstairs window were the words Powell PR & Marketing.
Kate went in. Three desks were fitted into the small office, angled to face each other. Standing behind one of them, a tall Afro-Caribbean man with a shaved head was pouring water into a coffee machine. He gave her a grin.
‘Morning, Kate.’
‘Hi, Clive.’
The machine hissed and gurgled. He tipped the last of the water into it and set down the jug. ‘Well. The big day.’
His voice had a faint Geordie lilt. Kate went to one of the two big filing cabinets and slid out a drawer. ‘Don’t remind me.’
‘Nervous?’
‘Let’s say I’ll be glad to find out one way or the other.’ The coffee machine had subsided to low hisses. Clive poured two cups and handed her one. He had worked for her almost since she had started the agency, over two years earlier, and if ever she made anyone a partner, it would be him.
‘Did you pass the fire on your way in?’
‘Mm.’ Kate was flicking through the folders inside the cabinet.
‘Been burning half the night, apparently. Bad about the kid, wasn’t it?’
She looked at him. ‘What kid?’
‘The baby. A group of squatters were living there. They all got out, except for the baby. It said on the news the mother got burned trying to go back for it. Two months old.’
Kate put down her coffee cup. She was aware of the stink of smoke still clinging to her and looked down to see tiny flecks of grey ash dotting her clothes. She remembered its feathery touch on her face, the tickle as she had breathed it in. She felt the sting of it again.
She closed the filing cabinet without taking anything out. ‘I’ll be upstairs.’
Her office was on the first floor. Kate closed the door and batted the grey specks from her Chanel-style skirt and jacket. She knew she wouldn’t feel comfortable in the suit again until she’d had it cleaned. Hanging her jacket behind the door, she went to the room’s single window. Her reflection showed faintly in the glass as she looked out. Beyond it, the smoke was a spreading stain on the sky, against which her dark hair was invisible. Only her face was clear: a pale oval hanging in space.
She turned away and went to her desk. Downstairs, she could hear voices as the others arrived. The front office was too small for Clive and the two girls, but the only other spare room needed redecorating and a new ceiling before anyone could work in it. It wouldn’t be cheap. Kate sighed and switched on her computer. As she waited for it to start, she checked the company’s Facebook and Twitter pages to see how much activity there’d been overnight. The answer was depressingly little, although the blog review for the new restaurant they’d posted the day before had gained five more ‘likes’. Better than nothing, she supposed, as there was a tap on the door.
‘Come in.’
A girl entered, carrying a cellophane-wrapped bunch of red roses. Her plump face was openly curious as she handed them to Kate. ‘These have just been delivered.’
A small envelope was tucked into the stems. Kate opened it and slid out the plain white card. A short note was written on it in swooping, forward-slanting script. She read it, then replaced the card in the envelope. She handed the roses back to the girl. ‘Thanks, Caroline. Take these outside and give them to the first old lady you see, will you?’
The girl’s eyes widened. ‘What shall I say?’
‘Anything. Just say they’re with our compliments.’ Kate gave a tight smile. ‘And the nearer to ninety she is, the better.’
She stopped smiling as soon as the door closed. She took out the card and read it again. ‘Commiserations in advance. Love, Paul.’
Carefully, Kate tore it in half, then in half again before throwing it into her waste bin. Her entire body had tensed. She forced herself to relax.
She started going through the first of the day’s emails, but the sudden beep of her office phone stopped her. She picked it up.
‘Yes?’
It was Clive. ‘Paul Sutherland from CKB Marketing’s on the line.’ His tone was neutral. ‘Do you want me to tell him you’re busy?’
Kate hesitated. ‘No, it’s OK. I’ll take it.’
There was a series of clicks. She closed her eyes briefly.
A second later she heard the familiar voice.
‘Hello, Kate. Thought I’d ring and see if you’d got the flowers.’
‘Yes. A little bit premature, though, I think.’ She was pleased to hear her voice was steady.
‘Oh, come on. You don’t seriously think you’re still in with a chance, do you?’
‘Let’s just wait and see what happens, shall we?’
She heard him sigh. ‘Kate, Kate, Kate. You know what’s going to happen. You’ve done well to get this far, but don’t kid yourself.’
‘Is that all you wanted to say? Because if it is, I’ve got work to do.’
There was a chuckle. ‘Now don’t be like that. I’m just giving you some friendly advice, that’s all. For old times’ sake.’
Kate clenched her jaw.
‘Kate? You still there?’
‘You’ve not changed, Paul. You always were a prick.’ She regretted the words immediately. The amused laugh came down the line again, this time unmistakably pleased with itself.
‘And didn’t you just love it? But I can see I’m wasting my time trying to talk sense to you. Poor little Kate’s got to do things her way, even if it means getting her fingers burned. Just try not to be too disappointed.’
The line went dead. Her knuckles were white as she banged down the receiver.
The bastard.
Kate could feel herself shaking as all the old feelings welled up in her. She realized her hands were clenched into fists: opening them she took first one deep breath, then another, trying to focus on the calming exercises she’d learned. Gradually her breathing slowed and became more natural.
The shakes had gone, but her headache was back, fingering its way across her scalp. Kate wished she’d not tied her hair back so tightly that morning. She kneaded her temples gently. Is it worth it?
When the invitation to tender for the Kingsmere Trust account had landed on her desk six weeks earlier, she had gone into the pitch without any real expectation. The Trust specialized in low-profile investments to allow its funding of a select few ‘Worthy Causes’ (the words had been capitalized in their brief) it deemed suitable. She had been surprised that they had even heard of Powell PR, let alone were prepared to consider them for a long-term, expensive campaign.
Then, amazingly, she had been shortlisted. The shock of that still hadn’t worn off when she discovered who the other shortlisted agency was, and who she would be pitching against.
From then on, the pitch had ballooned until it filled her entire horizon. Clive joked that she might as well install a bed at the office, to save going home at all. You’re not happy unless you’re working, he’d said. She had smiled, but behind it had been a dark stirring of panic. Happy? That night at the gym she had trained until her muscles screamed, trying to burn off her restlessness like calories.
Now the waiting had concertinaed into the final hours. Redwood, the chairman of the board of trustees, had told her he would let her know the Trust’s decision before noon. Winning would mean financial security, perhaps eventually bigger premises. It would establish the agency’s reputation, opening the way to bigger and better accounts.
Kate didn’t let herself consider what losing would be like.
She found she was clicking her ballpoint pen aimlessly in and out. She stopped, put it down and determinedly started going through her emails. Soon she was engrossed in the work, though every few minutes her eyes would still stray to the clock on the wall.
The morning passed slowly. Each time a call came through she stiffened, expecting it to be from the Trust. None was. At five to twelve she gave up even the pretence of trying to work. She sat in the silence of her office, looking at the clock and waiting for the phone to ring. The second hand crept round the dial, bringing the noon deadline closer. She watched as it converged with the other two. The three formed a single, vertical finger, poised for a moment, and then the second hand ticked indifferently into its downward sweep.
Kate felt the anticipation leak out of her. In its wake was a heavy residue of disappointment. The Kingsmere Trust were almost obsessively punctual. If she’d won the pitch, she would have heard by now. She didn’t move as the fact of failure sank in, no longer a possibility but a reality to be faced. Abruptly, she shook herself. So you didn’t get it. It’s only a pitch. There’ll be others.
She sat straighter in her chair, doggedly went back to her emails.
The phone beeped.
Kate started. It beeped again. She picked it up. ‘Yes?’
Caroline answered. ‘It’s Mr Redwood from the Kingsmere Trust.’
Even though she knew what he was going to say, Kate felt her heart bump. She cleared her throat. ‘Put him through.’
There seemed to be more clicks than usual as the transfer was made. The line hummed hollowly. ‘Miss Powell?’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Redwood.’ She allowed a faint emphasis to creep into the ‘afternoon’.
‘I apologize for the tardiness of the call. I realize you would have been expecting to hear sooner.’
The voice gave an accurate picture of the man. Scottish. Thin, dry and humourless. Clive had called him anal, and Kate hadn’t been able to argue.
‘Yes,’ she said simply.
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that.’ He didn’t sound it. ‘It’s our policy to inform the unsuccessful party first,’ he went on, ‘to put them out of their misery, as it were, and it took a little longer than we anticipated.’
It took a moment for the implication to register. Suddenly confused, Kate floundered. ‘I’m sorry … You’ve spoken to CKB?’
She heard Redwood give an exasperated sigh. ‘Perhaps I’d better start again. I’m pleased to tell you that your tender has been successful. The board of trustees has decided to invite your agency to handle our campaign.’
Kate felt an almost out-of-body detachment. Outside, a siren Dopplered in and out of existence.
‘Miss Powell? Is there a problem?’
‘No! No, I …’ She made an effort. ‘I’m delighted. Thank you.’
‘Again, I apologize for the delay.’ His voice became tinged with disapproval. ‘I’m afraid the other tender was reluctant to accept our decision. The individual we were dealing with became quite … insistent.’ Redwood brought himself up short. ‘Well. Congratulations, Miss Powell. We look forward to working with your agency.’
Kate said something, she wasn’t sure what. They agreed to meet later in the week. He rang off. She listened to the purr of the dialling tone before setting the receiver back in its cradle. From downstairs she could hear the rhythmic shuttling of a printer, the peal of someone’s laughter. She stared blankly out of the window. For a moment she thought the patch of darkness outside was a raincloud. Then she remembered.
After a while she got up to tell the others.
The bus stopped outside the shops near her flat in Fulham. As Kate stepped off, it occurred to her, belatedly, that she could probably afford to get a taxi from the tube station now. Old habits died hard. She went into the convenience store and bought a pint of milk and a packet of rice. After a moment of indecision she added a bottle of Rioja to the wire basket.
There was a chill in the air as Kate left the shop, a reminder that spring had yet to reach further than the calendar. A drizzle had started, and she began walking faster, hoping to get home before it grew heavy enough to merit an umbrella. She almost trod on the child’s mitten lying at the edge of a puddle. It formed a vivid splash of red against the dirty brown pavement and couldn’t have been there long because it still looked new and clean.
Kate picked it up, glancing up and down the street for the pram or buggy it must have dropped from. No one was in sight, so she cast around for a wall or window ledge to put it on. There was nowhere, except back on the muddy pavement. Reluctant simply to discard it, she looked at the forlorn little object in her hand. The mitten was no bigger than her palm, and suddenly the memory of the warehouse fire came back to her. Kate felt her throat constrict, and before she knew what she was doing she had tucked the mitten into her pocket and walked on.
The drizzle had stopped by the time she reached her flat. The wrought-iron gate in front of the Victorian terraced house was open, as it always was since the hinges had dropped and wedged it against the path. The tiny garden, no bigger than a large rug, had been flagged over by a previous occupant, but a gap had been left in the centre for a thorny huddle of rose bushes. They needed pruning, Kate noticed absently. She went into the small open porch and unlocked the front door.
Envelopes were splashed on the tiles in the cramped hallway. She bent and picked them up, shuffling through for those addressed to her. There were only two: one a bill, the other a bank statement. The rest was junk mail. She divided it up and put half on her ground-floor neighbour’s coconut-fibre welcome mat. As she straightened, the door opened and the old lady who lived there beamed out at her.
‘I thought I heard someone.’
Kate mustered a smile. ‘Hello, Miss Willoughby, how are you?’
Her heart sank as the woman emerged further, leaning heavily on her walking stick. The dark-green woollen dress was immaculately pressed, as usual, and the blue-grey wig sat incongruously on top of the wizened face, like a hat.
‘Very well, thank you.’ She looked down at the circulars on her mat. ‘Are they for me?’
Kate picked them up again and handed them to her, resigned to seeing the routine through. ‘Nothing exciting, I don’t think.’
As far as she could tell, Miss Willoughby never received any letters. But she always came out to check when Kate arrived home. Kate knew she was only using the post as an excuse and usually didn’t mind chatting to her for a few minutes. That evening, though, it was an unwelcome effort.
Miss Willoughby peered through her gold-rimmed spectacles at the flyers and special offers, and for a moment Kate thought she might escape easily. She started drifting towards her door, but then the old lady looked up again.
‘No, nothing there for me. Still, you never know, do you?’
Kate forced a smile of agreement as Miss Willoughby leaned both hands on her walking stick, a sure sign that she was settling herself for a lengthy conversation. But before she could say anything else, a grey shape emerged with a clatter through the cat-flap in the front door.
The tomcat miaowed and rubbed around Kate’s legs, then darted towards the old lady’s doorway.
‘No you don’t, Dougal,’ Kate said, grabbing it. The cat, a big tabby, squirmed to be put down. ‘I’d better take him in. If he gets in your flat we’ll never get him out,’ she said, seizing the opportunity.
Miss Willoughby’s smile never wavered. ‘Oh, that’s all right. But I won’t keep you. I expect you’ll both be hungry.’
With a final goodnight, she went back inside as Kate unlocked her own door. There was a cat-flap in that as well, but Dougal saw no reason to use it when Kate was there to let him in. She closed the door behind her before letting the cat jump down. His miaows receded as he ran up the carpeted stairs and towards the kitchen. Kate followed more slowly, feeling churlish now for dodging the old lady. Sighing, she took off her jacket, wrinkling her nose at the lingering smell of smoke. She put it on a coat-hanger, ready to take to the cleaners, and it was only when she saw the bulge in one pocket that she remembered the mitten.
The irrationality of the impulse that had made her keep it disturbed her. Decisively, she took it out and went to the bin in the kitchen. The lid sprang open when she stamped on the foot pedal, releasing a faint, sweet smell of rot. Kate looked at the hash of eggshells and vegetable peelings, holding the mitten poised above them. But she was no more able to throw it away now than before. She took her foot from the pedal, letting the lid slap down, and went back into her bedroom. Pulling open a drawer, she thrust the mitten far into the back under a pile of towels, then pushed the drawer firmly shut.
Kate went back into the hall, untying her hair with a sigh of relief. The light was flashing on the phone. She played the message, but whoever it had been had hung up without speaking.
Barefoot, she went into the lounge. Like the rest of the flat, its walls were plain white, partly because she preferred the simplicity of such a colour scheme and partly because the house faced away from the sun and was quite dark. Even now, when it was still light outside, the white walls did little to lift the gloomy twilight.
Kate switched on a table lamp. The furniture in the room was clean-lined and modern, except for an old pine seaman’s trunk that served as a coffee table. On the wall was an abstract oil she’d bought from an exhibition, the only splash of colour on the otherwise blank backdrop. The flat was much cosier in winter, when the long nights came and she could draw the curtains and fill the corners with artificial light. Now, though, dark as the flat was, there was something not quite right about having a lamp on when it was still daylight outside.
She turned it off again and switched on the TV instead. Idly, she flicked through the channels. There was nothing on that interested her, but it illuminated the room a little, and the sound of voices gave the flat a less empty feel.
There was a miaow as the cat wrapped himself around her legs, butting his head against her ankles.
‘You hungry, Dougal?’ She picked him up. He was big, even for a tom, with close-set eyes that gave him a perpetually surprised expression. He had come with the flat, an extra that hadn’t been mentioned by the estate agent when she’d bought it. The middle-aged couple who’d lived there before hadn’t bothered to take their pet with them when they left. Kate hadn’t wanted a cat, but Dougal had been either too stupid or too determined to accept that.
He wriggled free and jumped on to the floor, miaowing.
‘All right, I know it’s dinnertime.’ Kate went into the kitchen and took a tin of cat food from the wall cupboard. The cat jumped up on to the work surface and tried to eat the meat as she was forking it into the dish. She pushed him back down. ‘Just wait, gutbucket.’
Kate set the dish on the floor and watched as the cat began to gulp at the food. She considered getting something to eat herself. She opened the fridge, stared inside, then closed it again. False laughter came from the lounge. Kate went back in. A game show was on the TV, noisy and colourful. She switched it off. The laughter was abruptly severed as the screen went blank.
Silence crowded into the room. It seemed darker than ever, but she made no move to turn on the lamp. From the kitchen she heard the faint sound of the cat’s dish softly scraping on the kitchen floor.
What’s wrong with me?
Winning the Kingsmere Trust account was the biggest coup of her career. She should have been euphoric. Instead she felt nothing. There was no satisfaction, no sense of having achieved anything. Nothing, after all, had changed. She looked around the darkening lounge. Is this it? Is this all there’s going to be?
The sound of the cat-flap slapping shut came from the hallway. Dougal had eaten his fill and gone out again. She was alone. All at once the darkness, the quiet, was oppressive. She turned on the lamp and randomly started the Bose music system without caring what was selected.
The sound of Tom Jones belting out ‘It’s Not Unusual’ filled the room. Kate picked up her phone. She had made no arrangements to go out that evening, knowing that if she had lost the pitch she wouldn’t want to. Now, though, the thought of staying in alone appalled her. The phone rang only twice at the other end before a woman’s voice answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Lucy, it’s Kate.’
‘Oh, Kate, hi! Hang on.’ There was a hollow clunk as the handset went down. Kate heard Lucy raising her voice in the background. There was a childish objection that she overruled, then she was back. ‘Sorry about that. Slight disagreement over which programme we want to watch.’
‘Who won?’
‘I did. I told her she could either watch EastEnders with me or go to bed. So she’s suddenly an EastEnders fan. Anyway, how did it go?’
‘We got it.’
‘Oh, Kate, that’s fantastic! You must be over the moon!’
‘Well, I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet.’
‘It will! So you’re off out celebrating tonight, then?’
Kate transferred the phone to her other ear so she could hear better over the music. ‘Er, no. Look, I wondered if you fancied going out somewhere? My treat, so long as Jack doesn’t mind babysitting.’
‘Tonight? Oh, Kate, I can’t! Jack’s not going to be in till later.’
Kate kept the disappointment from her voice. ‘It doesn’t matter. It was pretty short notice.’
‘I know, but we’ve not been out together for ages! Tell you what, why don’t you come over? Bring a bottle of wine, and with a bit of luck we can be pissed by the time Jack gets home.’
Kate felt her spirits lift. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. So long as you don’t mind playing aunty again if the kids aren’t in bed.’
Kate smiled at the thought of Lucy’s children. ‘I’d love to.’ She told Lucy she’d be over in an hour and hung up, her melancholy gone. She was busy again, with somewhere to go and something to do. She would laugh and play with Emily and Angus, get a little drunk with Lucy, and kick herself out of any self-indulgent blues. She did a hip-twitching dance as Tom went into overdrive.
She phoned for a cab, then poured herself a glass of wine from the fridge. ‘Cheers,’ she toasted herself. She took the glass into the bathroom and put it on the edge of the bath while she undressed. She studied herself briefly in the mirror as she waited for the water to run hot, wishing as usual that she was tall and elegant instead of small and trim. But, on a high now, she didn’t let it worry her.
She showered quickly, humming as the stinging water sluiced away the day’s events. She had dried herself and was just beginning to dress when the doorbell rang. The cab was early. Damn. Kate hesitated, debating whether to throw on more clothes before going to answer it. A second, longer ring decided her. Pulling on a towelling robe, she ran downstairs.
The blurred silhouette of a man was visible through the coloured diamonds of the stained-glass panel. Kate unlocked the door and opened it a crack.
‘Sorry, you’re too—’ she began, and stopped.
Paul was standing in the porch. He grinned at her. ‘Too what?’
The sight of him froze her. She tried to kick-start herself over the shock.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to offer my congratulations.’
He lifted up the bottle of champagne he was gripping by the neck. Kate could smell the beer on his breath, sour and mingled with a waft of cigarette. There was something about his smile that she didn’t like. She kept hold of the door, barring him.
‘I’m going out.’
His grin broadened as he slid his gaze down her body. She resisted the impulse to clutch the robe tighter. ‘The taxi’ll be here any minute. I’ve got to finish getting dressed.’
He moved his eyes from her breasts. ‘Don’t mind me. Won’t be anything I’ve not seen before, will it?’
He stepped forward as she began to protest, and she instinctively moved away from him. That was all the space he needed to wedge his shoulders in the doorway, levering the door open against her pressure. He forced her back another pace, and then he was inside.
‘Paul!’ she began, but he brushed past her.
‘Come on, Kate, I thought you were in a hurry?’
He went heavily up the stairs, bumping off the wall as he stumbled against it. Kate stood in the small hallway as his footsteps clumped into the lounge. Don’t go up, leave him, don’t go up! a small voice shrilled. But she didn’t know what else she could do. Closing the front door, but not the one to her flat at the bottom of the stairs, she ran after him.
Paul was sprawled on the sofa, arms spread across its back. His face was flushed. He hadn’t changed much since the last time she had seen him. His dark-blond hair was a little longer, and she noticed the slight tightness of shirt against gut. But the condescending arrogance with which he greeted the world was still the same.
He smirked at her. ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’
‘How did you find out where I live?’
‘If you wanted to keep it a secret, you should go ex-directory. And I’d change the message on your answerphone, if I were you. You sound really bored on it.’
Kate stood by the doorway. ‘I want you to leave.’
‘Aren’t you even going to offer me a drink?’ He waggled the champagne. ‘No?’ He let the bottle drop on to the sofa. ‘So much for congratulations.’
‘Why’ve you come, Paul?’
A look of uncertainty touched his face, as though he didn’t know himself. Then it was gone. ‘To see you. What’s the matter – too good to talk to me now?’
‘There’s nothing to say. And I’ve told you, I’m going out.’
‘Where?’
‘To Lucy’s.’ The reflex to tell him came before she could stop it. She hated herself for the automatic surrender.
The unpleasant smile was back on Paul’s mouth. ‘So you’re still seeing that cow?’
‘She isn’t a cow, and who I see isn’t any of your business anyway.’
His smile died. ‘I’d forgotten how fucking smug you are.’
Kate didn’t say anything.
‘Oh, spare me the injured look!’ Paul regarded her sourly. ‘Christ, you haven’t changed, have you? St Kate, still acting as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.’
He sat forward suddenly. ‘Come on, don’t pretend you’re not enjoying this! You did it! You beat me! You can crow about it, I don’t mind.’
‘I just want you to go.’
‘What, just like that?’ He looked at her with mock surprise. ‘This is your big chance! You finally gave that bastard Paul Sutherland his comeuppance! Don’t you want to rub my face in it?’
Kate felt the old guilt working. Beating him hadn’t given her the lift she’d expected, but she couldn’t deny it had been an incentive. The strength of her desire to apologize, to say he was right, maddened her. ‘What makes you think you’re important enough for me to be bothered?’
He grinned, pleased to have provoked her. ‘Because I know you. I know what you’re like. Christ, I should do, I lived with you long enough.’ The thin veneer over his anger was beginning to crack. ‘God, look at you. Miss Superior. You think you’re better than me now?’
‘I prefer not to think about you at all.’
‘No?’ He snorted. ‘You always were an ungrateful bitch. Just remember who gave you your first fucking break.’
The retort came before she could stop it. ‘That wasn’t all you gave me, was it?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Kate looked away. ‘Look, Paul, this is pointless. I’m sorry you’re disappointed, but—’
‘Disappointed? Why the fuck should I be disappointed? Just because some back-stabbing bitch screws me out of an account I worked my balls off for?’
‘I didn’t screw you out of anything.’
‘No? Who did you screw, then? The whole board, or just Redwood?’
She held open the door. ‘I want you to go.’
He laughed, but there was no humour in it. ‘Come on, Kate, you can tell me. Did he touch your spot like I used to?’
‘Get out! Now!’
He was up off the sofa before she could move. He grabbed her around the throat with one hand. The other pressed against her chin, forcing her head back.
‘Don’t fucking tell me what to do!’
Kate felt his spittle fleck her face. His breath was thick with alcohol. She tried to prise his hands from her, but he was too strong. His face worked.
‘Think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you?’
He jammed her back against the door. The handle dug painfully into her spine. Then she saw the expression in his eyes alter, and suddenly she knew what was going to happen. As though the thought had prompted the action, he dropped one hand and wrenched aside the bathrobe, ignoring her struggles as he grabbed her breast. He dug his fingers into her.
‘Paul – no!’
The hand on her throat choked her, stopping her from screaming. His leg went between hers, forcing them apart, pinning her. There was no space to kick or knee him. She tore at his wrist. Tiny points of light began to spark her vision. She felt his hand at her waist, yanking at the belt that still held the robe closed. No! God, no!
Abruptly, she stopped struggling. Feeling the lack of resistance, Paul looked up. She forced herself to smile at him over his hand.
‘Bedroom …’ she croaked.
For a moment he didn’t move, and she thought he was too far gone to listen. Then a grin touched his mouth. He stepped back, and as the pressure on her throat relaxed and his leg slid from between hers, she shot her knee up at his groin and pushed out as hard as she could.
It was too soon. Her knee skidded off his thigh, and even as he reeled away, he was already grabbing for her again. She lunged through the doorway, feeling him close behind her as she stumbled down the hall. He caught hold of her bathrobe as she reached the top of the stairs, dragging her back in an unequal tug of war. She could see the door standing open at the bottom, and in desperation spun round and wrenched the robe from his fingers.
She pitched back against the wall as it ripped free, her teeth snapping together painfully. Paul toppled the opposite way, into the open stairwell. He caromed off the banister and tumbled untidily to the bottom, crashing into the door and knocking it back against the wall before sprawling on to the tiled floor of the entrance hall.
Breathless, Kate ran down after him. His eyes were screwed shut, mouth frozen in a pained ‘O’ as she stepped over his legs and opened the front door. Dazed, he didn’t resist as she tucked her hands under his arms and began dragging him backwards. He was heavy, but there wasn’t far to go. It was only when his hips bumped down off the porch that he seemed to realize what was happening.
‘Whoa—’ he said, stiffening, and Kate let him drop.
His head cracked on to the concrete path, but even as the ‘Ow!’ was forced from him she was already running back inside. She banged the front door shut and leaned against it, panting. Her back and shoulders ached from the effort.
For a few seconds there was silence outside, then she heard him grunt and curse as he scraped to his feet.
‘Fuck!’ Another groan. ‘Bitch!’
She heard him take a step towards the porch. ‘If you’re still there when I get upstairs, I’m calling the police!’ she shouted. Pulling her bathrobe tight around her she hurried upstairs into the lounge.
Keeping to the side of the window, she edged forward until she could look down on to the path. Paul was standing by the gate, rubbing the back of his head and glaring into the porch. He glanced up at the window. Kate jerked back, but he gave no sign of having seen her. Finally, with a last black look, he turned and walked away.
Kate watched until she could no longer see him in the dusk. Then she sagged. Her legs felt weak, and it was all she could do to make it to a chair before they gave way. She shook as she wrapped the bathrobe tight across her chest and hugged herself.
The sudden trilling of the phone made her jump. God! Now what? There was no caller ID and she almost didn’t pick up, fearful it might be Paul. But that was stupid; she wasn’t going to let herself hide from him.
She snatched up the phone. ‘Hello?’
A recorded voice intoned that her taxi was waiting outside. Kate rang off and rested her head against the wall. She almost called the taxi company to cancel: the urge to lock herself inside and crawl into bed was overwhelming.
But she wasn’t going to do that either. Taking a deep breath, she hurried off to get dressed.
The little girl was losing the fight to stay awake. Her eyelids drooped, flicked open, then drooped again. This time they stayed shut. Kate waited until she was sure Emily was asleep before softly closing the book and standing up. Disturbed by the slight shift of the mattress, the little girl turned on her side and burrowed under the duvet until only a tuft of pale hair was visible.
Kate quietly slid the book on to the shelf. In the other bed Emily’s brother, younger by almost two years, lay on his back, sturdy arms and legs thrown out with eighteen-month-old abandon. Angus had kicked off the quilt. Kate pulled it over him again. She turned down the dimmer switch on the wall until the light from the Mickey Mouse lamp faded to a dull glow.
The sound of the two children’s breathing was a soft sibilance in the half-light. Kate had been absurdly flattered when they had both wanted her to take them to bed, Angus first, then his sister half an hour later. A wave of affection constricted her throat as she looked at the two of them sleeping. Gently, she closed the bedroom door and made her way downstairs.
The house was a decaying detached villa in Finchley, with high moulded ceilings, a mahogany-banistered staircase and a small walled garden that Lucy called ‘the jungle’. The ceilings were flaking and the banister cracked, but it was better than the cramped and cold apartment where Lucy and Jack had lived before. The house had been left to them several years earlier by an aunt, and they still didn’t seem to have unpacked properly. Toys, papers and clothes were scattered on chairs, on the floor and over the backs of radiators. It was the sort of house Kate wished she’d been brought up in. She stepped over a red tricycle lying on its side at the bottom of the stairs and squeezed round a pile of boxes stacked untidily against the wall. Jack ran his small publishing and print business from the converted garage, and the overspill from it cluttered the entire house.
Lucy was putting more wood into the log-burning stove as Kate went into the lounge. Shutting the stove door, she wiped her hands on a rag. Her eyes were a vivid, almost violet blue as she looked up at Kate.
‘She get off OK?’
‘Out like a light.’
‘You should come more often. They’re always on their best behaviour when you’re here.’
Kate smiled and sat on the floor. The logs had smothered the fire, but flames were already flickering yellow behind the glass panel. The lounge was big and draughty, and Lucy and Jack kept a fire going on all but the hottest nights. Kate curled her legs under her and leaned back against the settee. In front of her, the coffee table was littered with the wreckage of a Chinese takeaway, fried rice and noodles congealing in foil containers. A half-empty bottle of wine stood among them.
Lucy pushed a blonde curl out of her eyes and sat down on the floor near Kate. She picked out a cold prawn. ‘I knew I should have cleared this lot away,’ she said, chewing. ‘I’ll have put on half a stone by tomorrow.’
‘You could always come to the gym with me.’
‘No, thanks. If God had meant women to be slim he wouldn’t have invented chocolate.’ She popped another prawn into her mouth. ‘Anyway, look what happened the last time I went to a gym. I met Jack.’
Kate poured them both more wine, then settled back against the old leather settee. She felt drowsy and comfortable. She had known Lucy for seven years, but it seemed much longer. Lucy had been a receptionist at the agency where Kate had been given her first PR job, and where Paul Sutherland had been marketing director. Her pneumatic figure and tendency towards tight clothes had turned men’s heads, but two children and a sweet tooth had changed all that. If she minded the trade, though, she didn’t show it. Sometimes Kate envied her. Often, in fact.
Lucy sucked her fingers. ‘So you’re adamant you’re not going to the police about Paul?’
‘I don’t think there’s much point. It’d only be his word against mine.’ Kate reached for her wine glass. ‘Besides, nothing really happened in the end.’
‘It would have if you hadn’t stopped him. And how do you know he won’t try it again?’
‘I’ll be more careful. I don’t think he will, though. He was just drunk and worked up about losing the pitch. I can’t see even Paul being stupid enough to make a big thing of it.’
Lucy gave a laugh. ‘I can.’
Kate accepted this without comment. Lucy had tried to warn her off Paul Sutherland from the start. She hadn’t listened.
‘So what happens now you’ve won the account?’ Lucy asked. ‘Are you going to back off and take things a little easier?’
‘I wish. Now’s when the hard work really starts.’
Lucy selected another prawn. ‘So delegate. You’re always saying how good Clive is.’
‘He is, but I can’t dump everything on him.’
‘So you’ll try and do it all yourself, until you have a—’ Lucy broke off. ‘Well, until you drop,’ she finished.
The first flames licked over the wood as the fire began to burn in earnest. Kate watched them. ‘I enjoy working,’ she said.
‘That doesn’t mean you can’t have a social life as well.’
‘I’ve got one.’
Lucy snorted. ‘Going to the gym’s hardly what I’d call being a party animal.’
Kate rubbed her neck. Probing tendrils of another headache announced their presence. ‘Don’t go on about it.’
‘I’m sorry, Kate, but I can’t just sit back and watch you work yourself into a frazzle.’ The firelight gave Lucy’s blonde hair a reddish tint. ‘I know running a business isn’t easy. God knows Jack puts enough hours into it. But you need some sort of existence outside work.’
Without warning, Kate’s vision blurred. The fire dissolved into sparkling prisms. She turned away, blinking her eyes clear.
‘Kate? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. I’m all right.’
Lucy tore off a piece of kitchen roll and handed it to her. ‘No, you’re not. You’ve been in an odd mood all night.’ She waited until Kate had mopped her eyes. ‘Is it what happened with Paul?’
‘No, I’m just being a silly cow, that’s all.’
Lucy looked at her.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong,’ Kate blurted. ‘I should be ecstatic, but I just feel … I don’t know how I feel.’
She stared at the stove, watching the flames curl over the logs. A thin trail of smoke streamed up from one. Kate looked away, unconsciously brushing at her sleeve.
‘You need a holiday,’ Lucy said, taking a drink of wine.
‘I don’t have time.’
‘Then make time. I know starting your own agency was the best thing you could have done after the mess with Paul, I’m not disputing that. But it’s not healthy to carry on burying yourself in it. If you were enjoying yourself I wouldn’t mind, but you’re obviously not.’
‘I’m just feeling a bit low, that’s all.’
‘Oh, come on, Kate, that’s bollocks and you know it.’ Lucy sighed and set down her glass on the coffee table. ‘Look, I don’t want to go on about it, but you can’t let one bad experience sour you for life. It’s time you put it behind you.’
‘I have put it behind me.’
‘No, you haven’t. Before you started seeing Paul you used to go out all the time, but since then you’ve just cut yourself off from everybody.’
Kate shrugged. ‘People lose touch.’
‘Only if you let them. How many people did you bother to tell when you moved into your flat? I bet most of them don’t even know where you live any more.’ Lucy waited for her to deny it. Kate didn’t. ‘And you haven’t so much as been out for a drink with another man since you split up with Paul, and that’s been more than three years now.’
‘I haven’t met anyone I want to go out with.’
‘You haven’t tried. I’ve seen you when we’re out together. You’ve got this aura around you that says, “Don’t touch.”’
‘What do you want me to do? Fall flat on my back for every man I meet?’
‘No, but you don’t have to turn into a nun, either. Come on, be honest. Can you seriously tell me you don’t miss sex?’
Kate avoided looking at her. ‘I don’t think about it much.’
‘That’s not a straight answer.’
‘All right, then, no, I don’t particularly miss it. OK?’
‘Then there’s something wrong with you.’ Lucy began to take a drink, then lowered her glass as another argument occurred to her. ‘I know some women are perfectly happy putting their career before everything, but I just don’t think you’re one of them. And, let’s face it, you’re not getting any younger.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Well, you’re not. You’re thirty-four next year. You might like to think you’re Superwoman, but your biological clock’s running the same as everyone else’s. Don’t you think it’s about time you started thinking about having a family, and—’
‘Oh, come on!’ Kate’s wine sloshed as she banged down the glass.
‘Hear me out—’
‘I don’t have to, I know what you’re going to say! I should get married, settle down, cook tea! Sorry, but I don’t think so. You might be happy being a housewife, but it’s not what I want!’
She was surprised herself by the heat in her voice. Lucy looked at her for a moment, then wrapped her arms around her legs and gazed at the fire. ‘Perhaps not. But I’m not the one who’s been in tears, am I?’
The flames popped and crackled in the silence.
‘Sorry,’ Kate said. ‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘It’s all right.’ Lucy turned to her again. ‘I meant what I said. And you can scream and shout all you like about not wanting a relationship, and not wanting to settle down. But I’ve seen how you are with Angus and Emily, so don’t try to tell me you don’t want children, because I won’t believe you.’
Kate tried to produce a denial, but none came. Lucy nodded, as if this confirmed her point, but before she could say anything else they heard the front door being unlocked.
‘Sounds like the meeting finished early,’ Lucy said, cocking her head. She leaned forward quickly and put her hand on Kate’s knee. ‘All I’m saying is, ask yourself what you really want. And then do something about it.’
She fixed Kate with a firm look, then sat back as footsteps approached down the hallway. Kate reached for another piece of kitchen roll.
‘Are my eyes red?’
Lucy stretched, twisting her hands from side to side above her head. ‘No, and it wouldn’t matter if they were,’ she said, through a yawn. ‘When Jack’s had a couple of pints he wouldn’t notice if you were starkers.’
The lounge door opened and a heavily built man bustled in. His wiry black hair was thicker on his forearms than it was on his head. He bent and kissed Lucy.
‘All right, luv? Hi, Kate.’
Kate smiled at him. He examined the cold contents of the foil containers, absently rubbing his slight paunch, then sank down into the high-winged leather armchair behind Lucy. Lucy leaned back against his legs.
‘Good meeting?’
‘Not bad. Gavin’s got a new collection of poetry he’s thinking of putting out, and Sally’s got an idea for a new distribution system …’
Kate stopped listening. Although being with Jack and Lucy was like putting on a comfortable pair of slippers, she knew she would leave soon. The thought of going back to the barrenness of her empty flat depressed her, but sometimes she couldn’t help feeling like an outsider, a spare setting at an already complete table.