Caught in the Act

Dedicated with lots of love and thanks to
my editor, Susan Opie at Harper Collins,
my agent, Maggie Phillips at Ed Victor,
but most of all to my family and friends
and the large wrinkly blonde mongrel
who thinks he's still small enough to
get under my desk.

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

About the Author

Other Books By

Copyright

About the Publisher

Carol Hastings lost her virginity on 7 July to Macbeth, Lord of Glamis, Thane of Cawdor and King thereafter. The photographic evidence was there in the downstairs toilet, alongside her wedding certificate and a bad photocopy of her decree absolute; the original being far too valuable to put on public display.

Even now, after all these years, Carol woke up some dark nights in a cold sweat, dreaming that she was still married and in a flurry of panic would run downstairs to check. Not that Carol had married Macbeth, it was just that sometimes it felt like it.

The photograph of Carol and Macbeth seemed as if had been taken a very long time ago. It was like looking at another life, someone
else's life, maybe a good friend's daughter who had grown up and moved away.

It was years since Carol had re ally studied the picture, rather than just passed over it in a photographic stock-take of what was hanging on the walls. It was an arty black-and-white eight-by-ten; not that it showed the actual deflowering, obviously, but a kind of giddy post-coital group hug on the last day of the Belvedere High School drama tour.

They had just finished the final matinée performance; Carol peered at Macbeth and smiled. Gareth Howard, for ever eighteen, with broad shoulders, big blue eyes and dark floppy hair, all dressed up in his tinfoil crown and cloak. He stood behind Carol, one large hand resting on her shoulder in a very patriarchal gesture for someone whose voice had barely broken, apparently the master of all he surveyed.

Her smile broadened into a grin; it wasn't that many years ago since her stomach fluttered whenever she thought about him. Skulking behind the fly-blown glass, Gareth still looked smug and self-satisfied.

Carol sighed and straightened up. Her trip down memory lane, taken while sitting on the
downstairs toilet, had been prompted by a Sunday morning email:

Hi Carol, how are you? I saw that you'd got your profile posted on Oldschooltie.com and wonder if you remembered me? Once upon a time a long time ago in a land far far away I used to be Diana Brown. And if you have forgotten then all those things they said about the chemicals in the drinking water at school were most probably true. I still think about the good old days from time to time, especially now that my own kids are at high school…although I don't think in terms of old…obviously. Here's my mobile number: Use it some time!

Diana Brown—the girl who had taken on Carol's wart and triumphed.

In the photograph, Diana was hunched over a cauldron along with her fellow witches, Netty Davies and Jan Smith. While Carol, a.k.a. Lady Macbeth, was centre stage, wearing way too much eyeliner and a big grin totally at odds with the whole crazed suicidal psycho-bitch from hell that had been popular with their director that year. Carol was dressed in a purple
wool caftan and old velvet door-curtain ensemble, cunningly crafted with silver braid, half a packet of fruit gums and a bottle of Copydex into the robes of a queen. She smiled; like she knew what a man-hating power-crazed psychopath-bitch from hell was back in those days.

Carol re ally had set her heart on being one of the hags, working on the premise that a bad hair day and acne could be a real advantage on Shakespeare's blasted heath. She'd even tried the wart on to get a feel for the part of Witch One at the lunchtime read-through. But Miss Haze and Mr Bearman—who organised the group tour—briskly agreed she was more than capable of doing Lady Macbeth justice and that false modesty was an unattractive trait.

There was a subtext, barely concealed: if Carol didn't take the part then Fiona Templeton, whose father was chairman of the school governors and whose mother helped out with needlework, would get it, and everyone knew what that meant. Fiona had snatched the part of Juliet from a very evenly matched field the previous summer.

It had been hell. The pressure, the strain, the responsibility, what with Fiona's nerves and her
hayfever and her eczema and allergies and her delicate constitution, she had needed a little liedown before, after and sometimes during every performance. Fiona's mother had had to come on tour with them, obviously, to keep an eye on their fragile starlet, cramping everyone's style. Mrs Templeton prowled the wings like some terrible floral wraith, clutching a damp hanky, various inhalers and smelling salts, whispering words of encouragement, making sure that everyone knew what a brave little kitten Fiona truly was, even as she was elbowing her way to the front for another curtain call.

There was no contest. ‘OK, I'll do it,' said Carol weakly, falling on the sword on behalf of the rest of the troupe, while shuffling the pages of photocopied script back into a heap.

There had been a muted cheer from the less regal of
hoi polloi
at the back of the hall, which just about drowned out Fiona's frantic disappointed wheezing and sobbing.

Some are born great, some have greatness thrust upon them. Miss Haze wrapped the rubber wart in a hankie and handed Carol a plastic dagger.

The reviews had been kind; Carol had still got them in a drawer somewhere. ‘Carol
Hastings as Macbeth's ill-fated queen reached fearlessly for the dramatic high notes'—the
Herald
. ‘With a maturity far beyond her years Carol Hastings' Lady Macbeth made a gallant effort to sustain the darker phrases of the Scottish play without lapsing into untrammelled melodrama.' Praise indeed from a man who, when not the drama critic, covered cattle auctions and the stock car racing.

Nostalgia is not what it used to be. Carol hung the photo back on the wall and got to her feet.

It did seem impossible, though, that she had lost touch with Diana. God, they used to be joined at the hip. Last time they'd spoken, Diana had just finished college and was off doing VSO in Africa or—something. Carol felt a horrible twinge of guilt. Where had the time gone?

‘Mum, are you OK in there?'

The toilet door was ajar; Carol had been sitting fully clothed on the lavatory in the middle of the day staring blankly at a wall for the best part of fifteen minutes. She could see it might make Jake think maybe something wasn't quite right.

‘I'm fine, honey. I was just thinking.'

‘Right,' he said. He didn't sound wholly convinced. ‘Raf said do you want him to open the wine?' Carol could hear the anxiety in her son's voice. After all, she was heading for forty. Anything might have happened. ‘And he said are you going to do the salad, and will you marry him?'

Carol turned slowly; there was re ally no point having those great big blue-green eyes-like-a-cat-on-a-moonlit-night unless you knew how to use them. ‘He knows the answer to all of those questions.'

Jake, coming up for fourteen and just beginning to get a grip on the complicated wiring of adulthood, nodded. ‘Yes, yes, and no, not over the flayed bodies of myself, my infant children and the family pets?'

Carol nodded proudly. ‘Well done.'

‘In which case, Raf said, would you consider giving in gracefully and living in sin instead?'

Carol turned the stare up to stun. ‘When it comes to sin, Jake, I can think of so many better ways to do it than washing underpants and picking up other people's dirty socks.'

‘And if you do want to do that kind of thing, you've always got me and Ollie, haven't you?'

She nodded. ‘Exactly.'

‘Do you want him to start cooking?'

‘Did he happen to mention what time he was going home?'

Rafael O'Connell leaned in around the door to the utility room and handed her a glass of wine. It was German, ice cool and far too sweet to be considered grown up. He was goodlooking in a lived-in way, forty-two, and wearing a wipe-down apron with a black bra, stockings and suspenders printed on the front of it, which the boys had given him for his last birthday. He was Irish, ice cool and far too sweet to be considered grown up.

‘I was hoping you'd ask me to stay the night,' he said, attempting to sound hurt and much put upon while pushing a mop of dark brown wavy hair back off his forehead.

Carol smiled, resisting the effects that his brogue had on her even after three years. ‘It's Sunday, Raf. You know the rules; on Sundays you go home.'

‘I could make an exception.'

‘Well, I can't. You're a weekend thing. You should know that by now. Friday to Sunday and then—' still smiling, she made a dismissive sweeping gesture with her hand—‘home.'

‘You'll miss me when I'm gone,' he grumbled,
backing off into the kitchen, mugging deep and bitter rejection.

Jake looked at Carol and shook his head. ‘You're re ally cruel to him. What sort of example are you setting? I'm at a very impressionable age.'

‘So's Raf. He knows I don't mean it. And besides, he is the kind of man who enjoys a challenge.'

Jake pulled a face. He had started dating and Carol suspected he was using her and Raf as an instructional video.

‘You should go and talk to him about it,' Carol said, waving the wineglass in the general direction of the kitchen.

‘I already have. He said he'd give me twenty quid if I could get you to let him stay tonight.'

Carol sighed. ‘That is not what real grownups are supposed to do, Jake—it's probably illegal, and definitely immoral. Pass me that big blue glass bowl, will you?'

Jake did as he was asked.

She pulled a large bag of mixed salad out of the bottom of the fridge. It was a bit of a devil's deal re ally. Long summer Sundays, Mr O'Connell and the boys knocked themselves out building the world's most bizarre kebabs,
stuffing chicken breasts with God alone knows what, and baking bananas and apple slices in tinfoil with brown sugar and brandy while she opened a big tub of potato salad, threw a bag of mixed baby leaves into a bowl and chucked half a bottle of shop-bought dressing over it.

Setting the bowl down for a moment, Carol stepped back into the loo and brought the photo of the drama group out into the sunlight. A younger, altogether-less-cynical Carol stared back up at her, all open-faced enthusiasm and too much makeup. What would she have done if she'd known all the things that were coming her way? Even though she was smiling, Carol felt her eyes prickling with tears. The time had gone so quickly. It didn't seem fair.

She picked up the phone and tapped in Diana's mobile number. Half a dozen rings later a bright breezy voice said, ‘Hello?'

‘Hi, is that Diana Brown?'

There was a split-second pause and then a raucous laugh. ‘Carol? Is that you?'

‘Certainly is. It was great to get your email. I was just looking at a photo of us when we did
Macbeth
and thought that if someone doesn't ring soon we'll all be dead.'

Diana groaned. ‘The way I feel today that would be a blessing. It's so nice to hear your voice. I'm re ally glad you rang. I daren't think about how long it's been since we last spoke. Was it at someone's wedding?' Diana sounded genuinely pleased. ‘You sound re ally grown up.'

Carol laughed. ‘You too, but don't be fooled—it's a very thin disguise.'

Through the kitchen window she watched Raf laying out various offerings to the fire gods while the boys unfolded the garden chairs and opened up the parasol.

‘I thought I'd give you a quick ring to make contact, re ally. How are you?' asked Carol, a little self-consciously; what did they talk about now? How long
was
it since they had spoken?

‘I'm fine, happy, busy. We're living in the Midlands—I don't know if you knew but I married a vicar.'

Carol felt her heart sinking. It was worse than she thought. ‘re ally?' she said. ‘You married him? God, bloody hell—oh damn, bugger—I'm so sorry. Er…'

At which point Diana giggled furiously. Carol would have recognised the sound anywhere and felt the tension in her stomach ease.

‘It's not that bad, re ally,' Diana replied. ‘As
long as you don't mind working Christmas and Easter and every weekend. How have you been, anyway? I've often thought about you.'

‘How long have you got?' Carol said wryly.

‘Well, unfortunately at the moment about two minutes—which is a real shame because I'd re ally like the chance to catch up. I'm helping out at the parish luncheon club today and we're in the eye of the storm between the roast beef and apple crumble. Would you mind if I rang you back later?'

‘Not at all; I'm in all day.'

‘It's so good to hear you. One thing, just quickly—my son is coming down your way to scout camp at half term and, well, maybe we could get together?'

Carol smiled. ‘Sure. I was just thinking how awful it was that we'd lost touch. So yes, of course. Do you know when it is?'

Out in the garden the first of the kebabs committed ritual suicide, dropping through the grill in a wild flurry of wood ash and much swearing.

‘Hang on, I've got to go. The dessert stampede just started,' said Diana. ‘I'll ring you back.'

‘I'll look forward to it.'

Diana rang around nine, when Raf had left and the day was slowing down. Carol took the phone and a glass of wine out into the garden.

‘I can't imagine you married to a vicar, Di. Are you happy?'

‘What on earth is that supposed to mean?' Diana said, sounding deeply amused. ‘Of course I'm not happy. I've been married donkeys years—I've forgotten what happy means.'

‘You don't seem the type, or at least you didn't used to be. What happened? Wouldn't you be better off with a nice chartered accountant, or a plumber? What about the sex, drugs and rock and roll?'

There was a moment's pause and then Diana said, ‘Hedley and I try not to let them interfere with evensong.'

‘Oh, clever,' laughed Carol. ‘I always thought you'd end up with Chris Morrison.'

She heard Diana catch her breath. ‘My goodness. You know I'd forgotten all about Chris. Chris Morrison? I wonder what he's doing now. How on earth could I forget Chris?'