Between Friends (8 page)

Chapter Twelve

They hadn’t made love, Marta realised, since Tom’s arrival. The presence of the man in the cottage was beginning to seem like a shadow – insubstantial, constantly moving and changing shape, barely there yet impossible to shake off.

She hadn’t thought it would be like this. She’d liked Tom. Not warmed to him exactly – he was too theatrical for her taste, she could not tell where genuineness ended and acting began –but she had enjoyed his company.

As the days went on, her feelings about him changed. Little things began to irritate her. Rising for work one morning, she found that the olive oil had been placed on the right of the hob. She moved it back to left, where it belonged. The tea caddy had been shifted and was hidden behind a jar of marmalade.

It was hardly his fault – why should he notice where she liked to keep things or, indeed, care? But then again, an inner voice nagged, someone who respected the space they were borrowing would notice.

She finished wiping down the worktop and glanced up at the dresser. The teapot was on the wrong shelf and the mugs were arranged badly – she liked the large ones on the hooks to the right. She moved them deftly to their proper places. The bread had been left out of the bread bin and had dried up. She hit the pedal of the trash with her foot and tossed the remainder of the loaf into it.

Was it just the odd misplaced kitchen utensil that was feeding her sense of unease? Things had changed since Tom had appeared back in their lives. Jane was unaccountably nervy – she’d started stuttering again, and Carrie had become elusive. Marta had the feeling that her friend was deliberately avoiding her.

The telephone rang shrilly, and she grabbed it quickly before it could disturb Jake

‘Marta?’

‘Hi Jane.’

‘Can you do lunch today?’

Marta reviewed her day quickly. Busy, but nothing, so far as she could remember, in the diary. ‘Think so.’

‘Clarinda’s? One o’clock?’

‘Okay. Something special?’

‘I need to t-talk. About Emily.’

‘Nothing wrong, is there?’

‘No. Yes. Just ... you know.’

‘Sure Jane. See you at one.’

When she left the cottage, it was peaceful. Early sunlight, gleaming on the roof, lent a golden glow to the slate and the whitewashed walls shone with hopeful brightness. Shadows from the apple tree played across the window where Jake lay sleeping. She clicked the gate shut, holding the top of it for a moment in her hand, feeling the smoothness of the glossy paint on her palm.

She was mistaken – there was nothing to make her apprehensive. Tom Vallely would leave them in a day or two, Jake’s efforts to find a job would be rewarded, she would resume her regular nights out with Carrie and Jane. Life would return to normal.

Clarinda’s Tearoom, half way down Canongate, was busy. Marta spied Jane sitting in a corner, valiantly defending an extra chair.

‘Hi!’ Jane waved as Marta threaded her way through the crowded space.

‘Hi. You’re looking great.’

A tight smile flashed across Jane’s face. ‘Really? I can’t think why.’

‘Intense’ was the best word to describe Jane Harvie. In all the years Marta had known her, there had been a fluttery anxiety about all she said and did. Will people like me? Can I get the grades I need? What if I don’t get in to college? She’d always been a worrier – and she’d always been over-protective of her children.

Squeezing in next to Jane, Marta was confident that whatever was wrong, it was almost certainly no cause for real alarm.

‘So,’ she said, conscious that she had a hundred and one things to do back at the office. ‘Tell me about Emily.’

She was right. It was a teenage thing and Jane was just a mother fretting. To Marta it was obvious – Emily was flapping her wings, itching to fly, and Jane was being over-protective, that was all.

‘She was so rude, Marta. I couldn’t believe it.’ Jane finished off another tale of some tantrum of Emily’s.

‘She’s frustrated. She doesn’t want to be a baby anymore.’

‘That’s no excuse for rudeness.’

‘No, but think back – don’t tell me you were never like that.’

But even as she said it, Marta realised Jane had almost certainly never been rude to her parents. She had gone through adolescence nervously, negotiating a careful path in the slipstream created by Marta and Carrie. Handling an adventurous teenager was always bound to be a challenge. Heaven help her when Ross’s testosterone booted up.

‘I’m worried for her, Marta.’

‘I know.’ She reached for Jane’s hand and held it lightly between her own. ‘What can I do?’

Jane glanced sideways up at Marta and smiled her crooked smile. ‘It’s her birthday soon. Did you remember?’

‘Of course. I’m her godmother.’

‘I thought maybe you could take her out for a treat? Maybe have a little t-talk with her.’

‘I’d love to. If she’s not too self-conscious about going out with an old fogey like me.’

‘She thinks the world of you. She’s always going on about your glamorous lifestyle.’

Marta laughed. ‘Just because I’m in tourism and get to some rather nice places doesn’t make it glamorous. It’s a load of hard work.’

‘I know that, Marta, but she doesn’t. Will you call her?’

‘Sure.’ Marta glanced at her watch. ‘I must head back to work. Sorry, but it’s really busy. How much is my share?’

‘I’ll pay. Let me. P-please. You’re doing me a favour.’

At Emily’s request, they went shopping. Marta bought few clothes, but when she did, she chose timeless, high-quality garments. Emily, child of her time, craved the latest fashions, regarded everything as disposable and wasn’t prepared to spend more than the minimum. In fairness, Marta thought as she stood patiently among racks of garish, skimpy dresses while Emily trawled the rails, her goddaughter didn’t have much money to spend. That was why, after Emily had chosen what appeared to Marta to be not much more than a T-shirt that just covered her bum, she said, ‘I’ll give you some shoes to go with it. My birthday present.’

‘You are
sweet
.’ Emily hugged her impulsively.

‘Thanks. You make it easy. I could do with a coffee. Are you ready for a drink?’

‘There’s a place along here that does great smoothies. Can we go there?’

Over their drinks, Marta launched a sideways conversation.

‘So, apart from your cello, what do you like to do? You and your friends.’

‘Oh, you know, we like, hang out.’

‘Hang out? What does that mean?’

‘Just meet and talk. Have fun.’

‘With boys? Have you got a boyfriend, Em?’

Did she detect a blush? It was hot in the café. Emily’s hair fell across her face, hiding her expression. ‘No, not really. My friend Suzy’s, like, dating one of the guys from the school down the road but—’ Her voice tailed off.

‘Perhaps best to leave it till you find someone special.’

The hair was pushed aside and Emily looked up, her expression curious. ‘When did you start dating? You and Carrie and ... my mum?’

Marta smiled. ‘Everyone’s different, Emily. You might not think it now, because she’s never married, but Carrie had an eye for the boys when she was young. I was more cautious. I was in my last year at school before I had my first proper boyfriend. Your mum – well, that’s her story, isn’t it? Why don’t you ask her?’

The hair fell back again, shadowing Emily’s face.

‘Emily?’

‘She doesn’t understand.’ Emily’s voice was sulky.

‘About...?’

‘You know. Boys and stuff.’

‘I’m sure she does. She just cares about you.’

‘She just wants to stop me enjoying myself.’

‘All mothers want to protect their children.’

‘I’m
sixteen
next week.’

‘I know you feel grown up, Emily, but being sixteen is really just when life’s adventures start. Honestly.’ Emily was fidgeting. ‘Do you feel ready to date someone seriously?’

‘Maybe.’

The exuberance of earlier in the day had dissipated and huffiness had replaced it and Marta’s heart went out to the slight girl seated in front of her. She could see uncertainty, awkwardness, a child poised on the brink of adulthood but not yet equipped to handle it. She was so like Jane. This shyness was all Jane.

‘Suzy says—’

‘Em?’ Marta reached out and took hold of the slim hand. ‘Don’t do anything you’re not ready for. Don’t let Suzy, or anyone else, pressure you into doing something you don’t want to do. You’re in charge. Listen to your heart but act with your head. Okay?’

Silence. Then a small nod. ‘Cool.’

Marta felt satisfied. Emily might be moody, a little awkward, boomeranging between unwarranted confidence and self-doubt, but she was essentially a nice girl. Jane was clearly fussing unnecessarily.

Spurred by her assessment, she said impulsively, ‘I meant to ask, is there anything you really want? I’m very happy to go and find another little present.’

She was thinking of an iTunes voucher, or a book, so Emily’s answer was unexpected.

‘I’d really, really love to get my hair dyed.’

‘Oh? Are you allowed? At school, I mean?’

‘Yeah, sure. Everyone does it.’

‘And what about your parents? What will they say? Maybe I’d better check with your mum.’

‘There’s no need. They’ll be cool.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Certain sure.’

‘Okay then,’ Marta agreed reluctantly. ‘So long as it’s something subtle.’

‘Ooh thanks, Marta.’

They tried three hairdressers, but it was a Saturday afternoon and they were all booked out.

‘Maybe we’d be best to make an appointment at your usual salon,’ Marta said.

‘But I’d really love to get it done today,’ said Emily.

They walked right along George Street without any luck.

‘There’s a place, there!’ Emily said, pointing down a side street.

‘We’ll make this the last one then, okay?’ Marta was having second thoughts about the whole idea – but when Emily repeated her plea for an appointment yet again, the receptionist smiled.

‘You’re in luck! We’ve just this minute had a cancellation.’

‘Great!’ Emily turned to Marta. ‘Why don’t you go and do some shopping of your own? There’s no point in hanging around here just, like, watching.’

‘Really? I’m not keen on just leaving you.’

‘It’ll take an hour and a half minimum,’ said the receptionist, scratching out a name in her appointments’ book. ‘She’ll be fine with us if you want to leave her. Most mums do.’

Marta weighed the options rapidly. Emily was going to be sixteen in a few days, she was certainly old enough to be left in a hairdresser’s – and it was ages since she’d had any free time in town to browse the shops.

‘Emily? Would that be all right with you? I’ll be back before you know it.’

‘Of course!’ Emily’s face was shining with excitement.

‘Good. See you soon then. Nothing too drastic. Promise?’

‘Promise.’

Marta was back in under the hour and a half. She looked round the salon, but couldn’t spot Emily anywhere. There was a middle-aged woman whose hair was completely hidden by dozens of folded tinfoil packets, and another whose gray locks had been crisply cut close to her scalp. In the far corner, a younger woman was getting a blow dry. Her hair was peroxide blonde. Six inches at the ends had been dyed a vivid purple.

The things, Marta thought, the young think are smart these days.

‘It’s great, isn’t it?’

Emily’s voice floated across the room. From somewhere near the corner.

What the...?

‘
Emily
?’ Marta gasped, the horror of the transformation sinking in. She strode across the salon. ‘You promised not to do anything drastic!’

Emily shrugged. ‘There was this girl just leaving and she’d gone for this kind of look. It was so cool. A proper statement. And Kylie said she could do mine like that, didn’t you, Kylie?’

The stylist avoided Marta’s horrified gaze. ‘It’ll wash out in a few weeks,’ she said, switching off the dryer and smoothing down the multi-coloured locks with a final flourish of the brush. ‘There, all finished now.’

She picked up a mirror and showed Emily the back of her head.

‘Wicked,’ Emily said.

What on earth, Marta thought, was she going to say to Jane?

Chapter Thirteen

With the Festival in full swing, Tartan Ribbon Tours was at its busiest. There were currently twenty-three groups in Scotland: six out on tour in the west, south, east, far north-west and the Islands, the rest in Edinburgh itself. Most were American, though there were a number from various parts of Europe and two from Japan. Some of the Edinburgh-based groups were self-supporting – they had tickets pre-booked for their events, they were staying on a half-board basis, they had been thoroughly briefed about places to see and visit. All Marta had to do was to sort out the occasional problem that landed on her desk or, to be more accurate, that fell to her if she happened to be the unlucky member of staff who picked up the telephone when a complaint came in.

A few days after her shopping trip with Emily, Marta’s generally sunny nature was pushed to its limits by a dozen minor but time-consuming and irritating mishaps: a whole bunch of lost theatre tickets; a visitor with a domestic problem back home who needed a flight change urgently; someone who had forgotten to bring vital medication and had no prescription; a lost wallet. So when the telephone rang in the late afternoon, she was more than reluctant to pick it up.

‘Can you take it, Marta?’ The request came from her boss and so couldn’t be ignored.

Marta glanced her colleague Andy, whose desk faced hers. ‘Bad luck,’ he mouthed, then grinned and returned to his work.

Pulling a wry face, she lifted the receiver. ‘Good afternoon, Tartan Ribbon Tours, how may I help you?’

‘Ah, good day to you ma’am, I was wondering if you could put together a special vacation? I guess this might not be your kinda thing, but someone gave me your name. He said you guys were real good at making people feel special.’

The voice was Texan, rich and sonorous, drawling and slow.

Marta smiled. ‘That was generous,’ she said in her most helpful voice. ‘We’ll certainly do our best. How can we help?’

‘The name’s Drew McGraw. I’m an entrepreneur.’ He said it in the American way,
en-tra-pren-oor
. ‘I run a business helping scientists turn their research into dollars. Making ideas turn into reality.’

‘Sounds interesting.’ She was truly alert now, the phone tucked onto her shoulder, her pen poised above her notebook, her mind already clicking into gear.

‘Oh it is, believe me. Fact is – and please, ma’am, this is confidential—’

‘Of course.’

‘—I would like to open an office in Scotland, maybe Edinburgh, maybe Dundee. What I need is a vacation where I can come and do my own little bit of private research if you get my drift, then join up with some colleagues to do Scotland. See the scenery, bit of shooting and fishing, a little fine dining.’

‘That sounds fantastic. We can certainly help you with that.’

‘Yeah, a little fun, huh? But with a purpose,’ he chuckled.

Marta was getting a clear picture of the man. He was big, bear-like, but a softie. Nice, but when it came to business, uncompromising. A soft paw, but with strength enough to kill if he chose to. She was warming to Drew McGraw.

‘My guests may have partners too, so something to entertain the ladies while the guys are blasting dear little birdies out of the skies.’

Again he laughed comfortably, the sound making Marta smile too, despite the gruesome vision he had conjured up.

‘I need to persuade these guys to invest. Get my drift?’

‘I’m beginning to.’

‘So it will need to be real smart, money is not a concern, but service and comfort are. Are you up for that?’

‘Mr McGraw, the only thing I cannot guarantee for you in Scotland is the weather.’

‘I will make my own intercessions for that, ma’am. I was thinking early October? It’s not much notice. Party of eight. I will come a day or two in advance.’

‘No problem. It may be cold for fishing, though.’

She could almost see him shrug, visualised huge shoulders.

‘Sure. I guess they’ll know that. Think Tartan Ribbon Tours can come up with the goods?’

‘Sure I can. I mean, yes, certainly.’

They talked through details. Marta put down the phone and sat smiling.

Andy’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Not another complaint then?’

‘Not exactly, no. A new client, with a bit of luck.’

Marta had always been eager to help others. Carrie and Jane used to tease her about it.

‘Honest to God, Marta, do you
have
to fill your pockets full of rubbish?’ Carrie would protest if they went for a walk. Marta hated to see rubbish discarded carelessly in beautiful places. She picked up carrier bags and cans, sweet wrappers, bottles, paper, cardboard boxes and, once, even a broken picnic hamper that someone hadn’t bothered to take home to throw away.

‘I can’t bear to see it lying around – it spoils things for others.’

‘Let someone else do it,’ Carrie would say, impatiently.

Marta was always undeterred. ‘If everyone said that, it would still be here.’

Just after they left school, they all went on holiday together, Carrie thrilled to be driving her mother’s convertible. Somewhere along the road to Kyle of Lochalsh they came across a lamb, clearly distressed and looking for its mother. ‘Stop!’ Marta demanded. Carrie stopped.

‘We’ve got to help it.’

‘Wrong,’ Jane said, ‘We’ve got a ferry to catch.’

‘And it’s the last one to Skye tonight,’ Carrie pointed out.

‘But it’s lost. It’s got out of some field somewhere and it could be knocked down.’

‘Yum,’ Carrie said, heartlessly.

‘Mint sauce,’ Jane grinned. It was the wrong response. Marta, fired with righteous indignation, dug her heels in, spent the next half hour wandering along the road in both directions until she found a loudly baa-ing sheep, reunited mother and lamb, before finally climbing back into the car.

They missed the ferry and had to spend a night in a cramped and none too clean bed and breakfast on the wrong side of the water, much to the disgust of Carrie and Jane. It was an incident they liked to remind her about whenever she tried to do a good turn.

‘Baa,’ Carrie would say. Jane rendered it as ‘Me-eh.’ Either way, it was a coded message designed to deter her.

Now, however, ignoring the animal noises in her head, Marta felt justified in launching into good-deed mode, because something was telling her loud and clear that getting Tom Vallely out of the house was not only necessary but urgent.

‘Ann Playfair, hello.’

The voice was deep, for a woman, and had a husky, nicotine edge. Years ago, at school, Marta had been in awe of Miss Playfair, the English teacher with a background in theatre and a voice that could carry the length of Princes Street. By the sixth year, however, she, Carrie and Jane had been accepted into the teacher’s inner circle – not favourites (‘I don’t do favourites’) – but an exclusive group who gave their spare time to help her run the drama group. When she’d left the school for a career in scriptwriting, they’d kept in touch.

‘Hello Miss Playfair, it’s Marta Davidson.’ She still found it hard to use Miss Playfair’s first name.

‘Marta! How lovely to hear from you. Are you in Glasgow?’

‘No, sorry. Not today.’

‘I thought maybe you were up for a drink.’

God, a glass of wine would slip down well right now. ‘I would be, but sorry, I’m still chained to my desk here in the east.’

‘Pity. What can I do for you then, Marta?’

‘Are you still one of the scriptwriters on
Emergency Admissions
by any chance?’

‘I do write the odd episode for them. Why?’

Marta explained about Tom. ‘He’s pretty well known. Fantastic looking. Wanting something a bit more regular and better paid than the theatre work he’s been doing recently and when I mentioned—’

‘Yes, yes. I know. Say the word “scriptwriter” and suddenly a key new role could appear.’

Marta laughed, embarrassed. ‘Something like that. Sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s human nature. Well, the nature of all actors, at any rate. Tom Vallely – remind me. What’s he been in?’

Marta ran through some of Tom’s credits.

‘Got him now. Well, as it happens, I do know they’re about to audition for a new role and your Tom sounds like he could be in the zone. Get his agent to call the producer, the timing might be lucky.’

‘Brilliant. Tom will be ecstatic.’

‘It’s just an audition, Marta.’

‘Of course. Even so. Thanks so much.’

‘Let’s have that drink sometime, eh?’

‘Soon. I’d love to.’

‘Life treating you well?’

Marta thought about Jake, his redundancy, her continual failure to conceive, the tensions that were beginning to run noticeably between them.

‘Yes, fine,’ she said. ‘Everything’s fine.’

As she walked up the hill to the cottage, Marta found herself humming. The conversation with Drew McGraw had lifted her spirits after a difficult day, she had managed to establish a pleasant relationship with Emily Harvie and she had taken a positive first step in helping Tom achieve his ambition. Plus, the sun was still shining. What was not to be happy about?

She found that out as soon as she opened the front door. A thump. A curse. An ill-tempered Jake.

He was on the floor, peering under the sofa.

‘Hi.’ She addressed his backside. ‘Lost something?’

‘Yeah.’ Jake abandoned his search, wriggled round and jumped to his feet. ‘My Coldplay CD. Seen it?’

‘Haven’t played it in ages. Isn’t it on the rack?’

‘Nope.’

‘Sure?’ She started to cross the room.

‘Course I’m sure,’ he said irritably, ‘I’ve looked through everything.’

‘Well, could you have put it somewhere else? The bedroom?’

‘I’ve looked everywhere. It’s gone.’

‘I’m sure it’ll turn up Jake.’

‘How long’s Sir Kenneth staying, Marta?’ The question seemed at a tangent. ‘Because I’ve really had enough.’

‘Has something happened?’

‘Maybe. I dunno. I want him out, anyway. He’s outstayed his welcome.’

Marta sighed. ‘I’m working on it, Jake. Okay? Aren’t you on duty tonight?’

‘I’m on my way.’

Jake’s tense shoulders revealed his mood. Marta opened her arms because she couldn’t bear to let him go in a cloud of irritability. ‘Hugs?’

He held her close, but carefully, as though she were made of glass. The hug felt uncomfortable and left her feeling edgy and unsatisfied.

‘Kiss me when you get in? Even if I’m asleep?’

‘Sure.’ He strode into the hall and opened the front door. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, swivelling back towards her, ‘Jane called. She sounded furious.’

‘Furious? Did she say why?’ The hair. It must be the hair.

‘I don’t know,’ Jake said shortly. ‘Why don’t you call back? Find out yourself.’

Marta had phoned Jane as soon as she’d put Emily on the bus home, but there’d been no-one in. She’d left a message – nothing specific, she wanted to tell Jane about what had happened directly. But Jane hadn’t telephoned back.

She picked up the phone and dialled. ‘Hi, Jane?’

‘I t-trusted you Marta.’ Jane’s voice was full of rage, barely suppressed. ‘When I saw Emily I was so furious I couldn’t bring myself to even speak to you. I trusted you to look after my daughter and you let me down. How
could
you?’

‘Listen, Jane,’ Marta said smoothly, ‘I’m really sorry the way it turned out. Emily promised she’d just get a few highlights. I never expected her to go for anything like that. But it’s not the end of the world. The stylist said it’d wash out soon.’

‘Wash out?
Wash out
? It’s bleached, Marta. It’s p-permanent. What were you
thinking
?’

‘She’d given me her promise. I just went and did a bit of shopping and when I came back—’

‘You left her alone? To get her hair dyed?’

‘I just... I didn’t expect—’

‘Didn’t I tell you she was being bolshie? Wasn’t that what it was all supposed to be about? You were meant to find reassure me, not... She came home with a dress that makes her look like a tart and her hair platinum and p-purple.
Honestly
, Marta! You have no right to make that kind of decision about my daughter!’

‘It was just a little treat. She loved the day.’ Marta, feeling her failure deeply, grew defensive in the face of Jane’s assault.

‘I bet she did. We can stop her wearing the dress, but her
hair
, Marta! It looks hideous! And the school’s already torn us off a strip.’

‘Really? She told me the school would be fine with dyed hair. I asked her expressly. She told me there was no problem either with the school or with you and Neal.’

‘Are you saying my daughter lied to you?’

Marta felt caught. Whatever she said now was bound to be wrong. ‘I don’t believe I misunderstood her,’ she started, carefully.

Jane exploded. ‘How
dare
you let this happen? As if you know what’s best for my daughter? You’ve never even had a baby. What do you know about b-bringing up a child? And while we’re talking—’ her stutter was becoming ever more pronounced, ‘—what were you thinking of, Marta? Bringing T-Tom Vallely back into my life? He’s an evil man.
Evil
. I hate him. And I can’t forgive you—’

Marta’s eyes became blurred with tears.

What do you know about bringing up a child?

A constriction in her throat threatened her breathing. She dropped the telephone back onto its cradle, cutting Jane off in full flow.

What do you know about bringing up a child?

The words burrowed into her skin. She hugged her stomach and doubled over, feeling the cruelty of Jane’s jibe like the punch of a fist into the emptiness of her womb. How could her
best friend
deploy the weapon that she knew would hurt her most?

‘Hi! Hello, darling.’

Marta shot upright as Tom dropped his sweater on the back of a chair, his smile warm and easy.

‘Everything all right? Seen my hat, by the way? I must have left it somewhere.’

‘Hat?’ She was still stupid with shock.

‘My brown fedora. You haven’t seen it anywhere?’

She shook her head. ‘No, sorry.’

‘Damn. I’ve had it for ages. I really liked it. Fancy a drink?’