Between Friends (2 page)

Chapter Two

In her stylishly minimalist flat in the Quartermile, Carrie Edwards opened her sports bag and threw her kit into the washing machine. Her face was still scarlet after forty minutes on the treadmill and a further twenty on the rowing machine, but she felt virtuous. Carrie never did anything by halves. Work hard, play hard was her motto.

A flick of the dial and the load started to turn. Another click on her docked iPod and music filled the large open-plan living space, filtering through the eight cream micro-speakers placed discreetly near ceiling height and pointing at a space right in the centre of the room. Sometimes Carrie just threw herself on the thick pile rug right at the heart of the sound, lay back, closed her eyes and let it all wash over her. Tonight there was no time for such luxury. She had precisely fifteen minutes to change and get out. Thank goodness she’d showered at the gym because the traffic on the way home had been knuckle-chewingly slow.

Why had she agreed to Marta’s invitation? It had already been a long day because she was intent on proving herself at her law firm, and with a partnership review coming up in the next month or two, that meant getting in before the boss and leaving after him. But Marta had been insistent. Anyway, who was the ‘mystery guest’ she’d said would be there?

She stepped into a Ted Baker silk shift in bright colours, teamed with Marc Jacobs satin peep toes. Keep it simple. This was supper with Marta, not dinner at the Balmoral.

Carrie pulled a sheaf of papers out of her briefcase, shuffled through them to check that everything was in order for the morning, and fired up her personal laptop. She clicked on to her favourite site and watched the icon – a red satin sheet, silky and sensual – float and settle into place. Just seeing the fabric swirling made her shiver with pleasurable anticipation. Another click of the mouse and the sheet was drawn back, allowing her to log in.

Bed Buddies welcomes D.A. Delight

This was Carrie’s secret indulgence – a site for commitment-free sex. Many subscribers were married and looking for excitement, others were lonely or sexually unfulfilled within marriage or without. Whatever ... Carrie took the view that it wasn’t up to her to judge them. She was single and owed no-one anything, and she chose her companions with care.

She clicked into her space and scrolled down the messages. Seven today, the usual suspects.

And so it went on. Seven messages, all from buddies she knew and trusted. High Five was a father of two from Livingston. His wife had lost her libido after the birth of their second child and he was desperate, poor guy – but loyal to his wife. The Big Man was a director of a FTSE 100 business, always under pressure, often away from his family, very much in need of trustworthy company.

Carrie never discussed Bed Buddies with anyone, not even with Jane and Marta –
particularly
not with Jane and Marta. What would earnest Jane with her serious man and her precious kids say if she knew Carrie’s secret? Would she be shocked? Judgmental? Condemnatory? Marta might be more understanding, but under the happy-go-lucky exterior she suspected that Marta was rather proper and Carrie wasn’t prepared to risk a confidence.

She clicked on the message from Jury Service, an eminent judge. The first time Carrie met him, he’d been very nervous at the risk he was taking. Bed Buddies relied heavily on trust and it worked because that was the basis of membership for all parties. Jury Service was a kind and honest man, but a widower and lonely. He was undemanding, uncomplicated, and surprisingly good company.

Click. The message was sent. Something to look forward to. She sent brief responses to the others, putting them on hold. It was nice to be popular. Bed Buddies had been the safe, reliable basis of her sex life for some years now and it suited her fine – no names, safety in anonymity. A long time ago, Carrie had taken the decision that relationships, with all their complications and heartaches, were not for her. But she enjoyed sex, and by using the bed-buddies.net site she could get it whenever she wanted it, in the certain knowledge that the other members were as concerned to keep their business as private as she was.

Log off.

Follow the red sheet as it floats into the darkness.

Watch the site close down.

Time to go.

Chapter Three

At Jane Harvie’s small semi near Blackford Hill, her husband Neal was producing order out of the trail of chaos that always followed their family while, in the kitchen, Jane concentrated on getting a meal together and directing from the sidelines.

‘Come on, Ian,’ she urged her youngest, ‘you know you have to wash up the pans you use when you’re baking. Here, get these rinsed.’

She scoured out the last remains of his baking experiment and consigned them to the bin, then stacked the bowls and whisks, spoons and muffin tins next to the sink. Ian was still only eight and she didn’t know yet how he would develop or where his true passions might lie. One day he wanted to be a pastry chef, the next a marine scientist. She still felt the need to protect him, although if she was honest with herself, Ian was like his father in his general cheerfulness and sailed through life with an ease she envied.

Her middle child, Ross – thirteen and already inhabiting his teenage years as though he owned them – said, ‘Can I nick one?’, reaching to the plate where Ian had stacked his raspberry and fudge muffins.

‘No! They’re for Granny,’ Ian yelped crossly, up to his elbows in suds.

‘So? There’s plenty.’

Ross ignored his small brother and helped himself anyway.

‘
Mum!
Tell him,’ Ian cried, furious.

Exerting control over Ross was getting ever more difficult. Jane thought,
I have to learn to grow with him, he’s no longer my baby
. Already he was edging away from her. He was embarrassed if she tried to cuddle him even at home and a hug in public was certainly taboo. She remembered with wistfulness the baby he’d once been – the clarity of his skin and the way his hair had curled in a long, soft strand down the nape of his neck, blond and downy. It was scraped to the skull now, and no longer blond but mousey and brown. He would probably darken further, like her and Neal.

Emily, a week or two short of sixteen and all legs and arms, walked into the kitchen and yanked open the fridge. She had just finished her cello practice, something she never needed to be nagged about. Soon she’d be taking her Grade Eight examination, which Jane was confident she would pass with distinction. Pride bubbled in her head when she thought about Emily’s musicality, but why, why, why the cello? The old question brought with it the familiar counterweight of sheer, desperate panic – controllable now, but still there, even after all these years.

Emily’s voice brought her back.

‘There’s no lemon yoggie, Mum.’

‘You don’t need yogurt now, Emily. Gran’ll be here in a minute and supper’s almost ready.’

Emily was scowling. When she’d started the cello, she’d been such a sweet, docile child.

‘I’ve bagged the strawberry,’ said Ian from the sink. He had learned toughness in the hard school of sibling rivalry.

‘I’m having the strawberry,’ Emily said, extracting it. ‘You can have the toffee.’

‘I hate toffee.’

‘Me too. That’s why I’m having the strawberry.’

‘Mum – tell her she can’t.’

‘Can.’

‘Can’t.’

Jane sighed. ‘Do stop bickering. Emily, put that back in the fridge. Now.’

Neal came in from the hall, sized up the situation, took the yogurt from his daughter and returned it to the fridge, the muffin from Ross and replaced it on the plate, and a saucepan from where Ian was waving the dripping pan uncertainly in the air because the draining rack was full.

‘I’ll dry this one. Emily, get the table set please. Ross, you can get out pasta bowls. No, no arguing.’ He held up a hand in warning. ‘Jane, your mother’s just arrived, we should get going.’

Jane looked around at the untidy kitchen and her bickering children. The prospect of escape was enticing.

‘Hi Mum. Will you be all right?’

‘Fine. You just go and enjoy yourselves.’

One day she would have to take care of her mother, and when she did, Jane hoped she would do it with the same unshakeable willingness her mother showed when taking care of the grandchildren.

‘We won’t be late. Thanks for this, Mum. You’re a star. Supper’s all ready and Ian has baked a treat for afters. Ross has eaten half his share already.’

‘
Mum—
’

Neal pulled the front door behind them, smiling.

‘Rare to be out like this mid-week.’

‘Yes. Quite fun.’

Looking back later, it seemed an odd thing to say – and, as it turned out, horribly wrong.

Chapter Four

Each of the friends was rooted in her own neighbourhood. Jane was surrounded by other mothers and other young families – a desirable and indispensable support system. Carrie was city girl personified, modern and stylish, at the centre of the action. From her apartment, the city-centre stores were a mere ten-minute stroll, the taxi ride home from the clubs at night was speedy and affordable. Marta loved the freshness of the Portobello air, the quirkiness of the architecture, the feeling of escape from the confines of the city.

One particular benefit Marta enjoyed was easy parking. The city’s swingeing parking restrictions hadn’t yet extended to the street outside the Davidsons’ cottage near the sea, so Carrie – who had to pay extravagantly for a parking space underneath her apartment block – was able to pull up her Mercedes convertible almost right outside. Jane and Neal, arriving at almost the same moment from the other direction in their battered estate car, were less fortunate and had to drive further down the street.

‘Hi!’

‘Hi Carrie, you look fab, as ever.’

Jane wasn’t really envious of Carrie’s extravagant wardrobe, but she did occasionally look at her own High Street store clothes a little critically after an evening with Caroline Edwards.

‘You’re looking great too.’ Carrie patted Jane’s red shrug. ‘Love the colour. Suits you.’

‘Thanks.’ They swung through Marta’s gate and threaded their way along the path, through the rose bushes and clumps of lavender, still fragrant after a long day of sunshine. ‘Did Marta tell you who her mystery guest is?’

‘Wouldn’t be drawn on the matter. You?’

‘Not a chance.’

‘Hope she’s not trying to set me up again.’ Carrie lifted the heavy iron knocker and allowed it to drop back against its plate with a loud thud. She grinned at Jane. ‘One of these days, honest to God, I’ll clock her.’

‘Clock who?’ Jake had opened the door and was smiling at them, his face friendly. He held out his hand and drew Carrie close to kiss her cheek. ‘Who’s inspiring these violent thoughts?’

‘Your wife,’ Carrie said unrepentantly. ‘I don’t trust her.’

Jake laughed. ‘What’s she done now?’

Jane said, ‘She’s being mysterious.’

‘Hi Jane, hi Neal, come in all of you.’

Jake ushered them through the hallway into the snug living room, which Marta had filled with flowers. The scent of lilies was cloying, but they looked magnificent on the small chest in front of the window. On the mantelpiece was a small vase of lavender, clearly picked from the garden. A bowl of roses, packed thick and short into a crystal bowl sat in the centre of the coffee table. Flowers everywhere. So pretty, so Marta.

‘Oh dear. Maybe I should have brought wine,’ Jane handed a bunch of chrysanthemums over to Jake doubtfully.

‘They’re lovely.’ Marta, still wearing an apron, appeared in the doorway. ‘Thanks, Jane, they’ll be great in the dining room.’

‘I brought wine. And chocolate.’ Carrie handed her bag over. ‘I was just saying, Marta, that one of these days I’ll cheerfully strangle you.’

‘Thanks,’ Marta took her gifts, ‘but why the death threat?’

‘You know damn well. Mysteries. Secrets. Mid-week dinner invitations at short notice. I’m deeply suspicious.’

‘Me too,’ Jane sank down onto the cream sofa, straightened her skirt and crossed her neat ankles. ‘Do tell us, Marta.’

‘You’re so right not to trust my wife,’ Jake said with a trace of the wry humour Jane remembered from before he’d lost his job. ‘What will you drink? Jane? Carrie? Neal? Glass of wine?’

Jane said, ‘Perfect. White please, if that’s okay.’

‘White’s fine by me,’ Neal agreed.

‘Could I have red please, Jake?’ Carrie said.

Jane looked round the room. She hadn’t been to the house in an age. The cottage had real character, not like her 1960’s house, cheap when it was built and even less desirable now. Hard as she tried, her own living room looked dull at best, a shambles at worst. What with the toys, clothes, dog hair, books and games, forever being discarded at random, simply keeping the place tidy was a constant struggle. Marta’s living room, though, could be out of the pages of a magazine.

She heard a rattle, then a slight creak, then felt the faintest of draughts. Someone had opened the front door.

There was no time to wonder, no time to consider why someone might be letting themselves in rather than ringing the bell. No time to think that her life might be about to change dramatically. Yet a few seconds later, Jane knew with a horrible dark certainty that nothing would ever be quite the same again – not her marriage, not her friendships, nothing. She’d thought she had her life under control. Now she realised just how wrong she’d been.

Her nightmare had returned in the flesh. He was standing with the heavy jambs of the doorway framing his body. Even with the light from the hallway behind him, there was something about the set of his bones, the tilt of his hips, the angle of his arms, the fineness of his fingers that brought everything flooding back. He loomed there, tall but slender, a brown fedora covering his hair, a sweater slung casually round his shoulders, his body so long untouched and yet so instantly, so terribly recognised.

Tom.

Vallely.

Oh.

My.

God.

Carrie, flying high in blue skies, knew at once that she had entered a cloud of ash that would bring her down. The slow, spiralling descent had already begun.

Light streamed in from the hallway so that the man’s features were shaded, his eyes almost invisible in the shadow under the broad brim of the hat. She hadn’t seen him for seventeen years, but she would know him anywhere.

Her hand clenched in an involuntary movement round the stem of her wine glass.

‘
Shit!
’

The glass splintered, splashing red wine across the pristine cream carpet and down her dress. There was a different red there too – blood.

The wine looked more dramatic, she thought dispassionately, staring wide-eyed at the carpet.

‘You’ve cut yourself!’

Pain bit in.

‘Hell, Marta, I’m so sorry. Oh God, look at the mess.’

‘Don’t worry about that, give me your hand.’

‘You all right, Carrie?’

‘I’ll get a cloth.’

‘Come on through to the kitchen, Carrie. Let’s get that wine off your dress.’

‘I had to pick red, didn’t I?’

She laughed, tried to keep her voice light, couldn’t quite keep out the tremor.

It was crazy. One minute all was tranquility and politeness and small talk, the next, pandemonium. And through it all, Carrie realised, Tom Vallely had simply stood and watched, a twist of amusement playing round that beautiful mouth.

He took his hat off as she passed.

‘Hello Carrie,’ he said, his voice low, the deep, entrancing timbre unchanged across the years.

She glimpsed his eyes for a second, registered once more their astonishing pale grey and their cool, critical way of assessing the scene. She was so close she could smell him. She had to shut her eyes as the crisp scent of him lit a flame inside her that she had thought long dead. The brush of his fingers on her arm sent a thrill through her core.

He’s here.

And so is Jane
.