Christmas at Claridge's (15 page)

Simon gazed at her steadily. ‘You know, if everything else is as strong as this, you might just have something here. You could do it.’

‘Well, especially now that there are some complete hides, we could. It’s been really hard working with such small, irregular pieces. We’re only going to earn so much selling
purses, hats and wrist-warmers. Some big statement pieces could really stamp an overall personality on the collection, plus a lot more profit margin.’

‘Listen to you with your business jargon. You’re a revelation,’ Simon smiled, handing the bag back to her, his fingers brushing hers as she took it.

‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ Clem said, clocking a look she knew all too well in Simon’s eyes. ‘It is, after all, because of me that we’re all in this
mess.’

She went to move past him back into the sitting room, but in one swift move, he caught her by the elbow, his lips finding hers with an ease that had been practised in his dreams. He tasted of
toothpaste and wine, and his stubble grated against her skin.

‘Simon,’ she protested, struggling to get out of his grip whilst trying to bring a light-hearted laugh to her throat. ‘Bugger off.’

But his hands were on her, gripping and squeezing her, ramming her to him as his mouth covered hers.

‘Simon!’ she managed. ‘Please stop.’

‘Come on, Clem,’ he said urgently, holding her hard by the arms. ‘Why not? You know how crazy I am about you.’

‘Because I don’t think of you like that,’ she said, trying to lean back.

‘But you’re a party girl. You’ve slept with guys just because they bought you a drink.’

With a burst of anger, she pulled away and slapped him hard around the face. The sound of it resounded between them, like a vibration pushing them apart.

‘Oh my God!’ she whispered, her hands rushing up to her cheeks. ‘Simon, I’m so sorry.’

He stepped away from her, his head lowered, his hand to his cheek. He shook his head, his face scarlet, and a long silence stretched between them in which Clem didn’t dare move or
speak.

Eventually, he looked up at her. ‘I’m sorry, Clem. I should never have . . . tried,’ he began. ‘I don’t know why I thought you’d go for it . . .’ He
sniffed. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.’

He turned and walked quickly out of the room, picking up his jacket from the sofa, then he walked to the door.

Clem stayed by the doorway of the bedroom, desperate for him to go, but not as an enemy. ‘Simon, we are still friends, aren’t we?’

Her words stopped him, but he didn’t turn back. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Clem.’

He closed the door softly and Clem ebbed against the doorframe, feeling relief, humiliation and shame flood through her. A party girl. An easy lay. A sure thing – predictable and
disposable. Why wouldn’t he think that?

She sank into a ball on the floor and began to cry.

Clem blinked sleepily as she stepped out of the front door and into the first March day where the sun actually had any heat in it. She tipped the brim of her fedora down a bit
to hide her red, swollen eyes, and undid the single button of her leopard-print pony-skin blazer. It was only nine o’clock, but the road was already in full swing with stallholders setting
up.

‘Hey, Clem, looking foxy today!’ Jimmy the fishmonger called out to her as he hoisted up a crate of crayfish sitting on crushed ice.

‘Back at you,’ she drawled, even though he was wearing white overalls, a hair net, blue plastic bootees and smelled of kippers.

Striding off the pavement, she walked down the centre of the road at a fast march. Their father had asked to meet her for breakfast and she was already late.

‘Morning!’ Katy called out as she approached the stall.

‘Hi! Can’t stop, I’m late!’ Clem waved as she stalked past.

‘Drinks later? We’re meeting up at the Duke.’

‘Sounds good,’ Clem replied. ‘You haven’t seen my dad have you?’

‘Yeah, ‘bout five minutes ago. He went that way,’ she said, pointing with a sheepskin-muffled hand that looked rosy with warmth.

‘Thanks,’ Clem replied, walking a bit faster.

She strode down the road with the practised eye of a local, knowing exactly where the potholes were and dodging the bikes that came round corners too fast. Ahead on the right, she could already
see the distinctive dark pink and brown awnings of the Hummingbird Bakery, rolled out to save the rainbow-iced confections in the windows from the glare of the early spring sun. But it wasn’t
there that she was headed for today – she had to embargo herself from ever going there before 11 a.m., else she’d have Red Velvet cake for breakfast – instead, she was stopping
just shy on the opposite side of the road at Gail’s, the large, bright delicafé where all the yummy mummies congregated after the school run, sitting out at the tables in the sun.

Her father, she could see, had bagged a small, round table on the pavement, and she smiled to see him sitting there, looking so incongruous in his mustard cords and loden cashmere sweater,
staring into space, a copy of
National Geographic
magazine unopened before him.

‘Hey, Daddyo!’ She called her usual greeting as she approached the table.

He looked up at her distractedly, and the expression in his eyes stunned her to a complete stop. It was gone in the blink of an eye, his familiar twinkle coming back at the sight of her, but
Clem felt like she’d been tasered.

‘Daddy, what is it?’ she asked, dismayed, sinking into the chair he’d left ready for her, her hands immediately clasping his.

‘What?’

‘You looked so . . . so
sad.’

‘Me?’ He made the suggestion sound ridiculous. He was, after all, the man who ate Icelandic goose eggs for breakfast and had just holidayed in the Caribbean. ‘I was just
daydreaming. Can’t an old man stare wistfully into space any more?’

Clem shrugged. Was it wistfulness she’d seen?

‘Tea?’

‘I’ll get it,’ she said.

‘I insist,’ he said, rising from the table. ‘Will you have anything with it? See if we can’t feed you up a bit.’

She shrugged again. ‘I’m not that hungry. But I’ll share something of yours if you like.’

He shook his head, tutting. ‘Just like your mother,’ he mumbled, disappearing into the bakery. He came back out several minutes later with a pot of Earl Grey and a flapjack. Clem
broke a third off the end of the flapjack and nibbled on it, watching her father pour the milk.

‘So, what’s up?’ she asked, although she already had an inkling why he’d asked to see her. ‘Is it Tom?’

Edmund Alderton replaced the teapot with care and inhaled deeply. His usually jocular features – so full of colour and animation – seemed bloodless and limp today and he seemed older
than she thought him.

‘Tom, yes. How is he? I was hoping he’d be here, too, today.’

Clem shrugged. ‘Frantic at work.’ Clem was amazed how busy he could be doing nothing.

Edmund tutted. ‘Always working, that boy. He never calls any more, and he’s cancelled our weekly lunch for the last four weeks on the trot. Whenever we call him, he always seems to
be either working late or rushing out of the office. He says he’ll call back but he never does.’

Clem bit her lip. So it wasn’t just her feeling abandoned then? Clover was tightening her grip, pulling Tom away from all of them, not just her.

‘Well, I’ve not seen much of him myself, if that’s any consolation. He stays at Clover’s practically every night now, and if he’s in the office he’s always on
the phone, or else he’s off-site at the factory or trying to schmooze potential clients.’

‘Hmm, has any new business come in?’

Clem shook her head. ‘No. It’s really quiet. We’ve had a few speculative calls and some follow-up meetings, but nothing seems to be coming of them. I’ve tried telling him
I think we should diversify into other business models but . . . well, he doesn’t really take me seriously.’

Edmund patted her hand. ‘Don’t take it to heart. It’s his baby. He’s always been dogged like that. He’ll listen only to the voice in his head when all’s said
and done.’

Clem sighed, pleased at least that her father’s words confirmed her own instincts to keep her plans a closely guarded secret. She couldn’t risk widening the circle of confidence any
further.

‘It’s a shame he’s away so much,’ Clem said, stirring a sugar into her tea. ‘I’ve got a new cleaner coming in twice a week. She’s lovely, and the
flat’s never looked so good, but Tom’s hardly around to notice.’

Edmund gave a rumbling sound of disapproval. She knew her father had never taken to Clover either. ‘Is he getting ready to propose, do you think?’

Clem sighed heavily. ‘Who knows? It’s hardly the time if the business is really on the skids.’ She didn’t dare mention that it was a lot more likely if Tom went ahead
with the idea of selling the flat and moving in with Clover anyway – and she didn’t see how he wouldn’t, with things so bad at work. He’d done as he promised and given her
some time; everything had gone quiet on that front since Clem had thrown out Clover and the estate agent in front of Mercy, but it wouldn’t last for ever. Spring was here and the road was
beginning to burst into colour once more. If he was going to sell, it would be soon.

She bit her lip anxiously at the thought of moving and resolved to get Stella round tonight, no matter what; they
had
to get the collection finished. Simon’s gift, last night, of
the rose-pink suede and shagreens was a blessing from heaven, but it was going to mean a lot more work, and it was already getting harder to separate Stella from Oscar in the evenings. If that
flash sale didn’t happen in the next few weeks it was going to be too late.

‘It’s not just Tom we’re worried about,’ Edmund said, staring at her with concerned eyes. Her face was puffy from another night spent in tears. ‘You seem to have
become even more distant recently.’

‘Me?’ Clem asked innocently.

‘We live two streets away and yet it may as well be the other end of the country for the amount of times we see you.’

‘We’re doing this, aren’t we?’ She gestured around them.

‘You never pop in. And you seem to be going out of your way to avoid your mother. She’s very deeply hurt by it, Clemmie.’

‘We clash, that’s all. It’s just easier . . . not to.’ Clem looked away, watching as two skinny teenagers, who probably should have been at school, lit up behind a bin.
‘Besides, it’s not me she’s interested in. Tom’s always been her favourite.’

‘That is categorically not true,’ Edmund said sternly. ‘She loves you very much. You must know that?’

Clem looked at him side on, before looking away again. She didn’t reply. Last night’s tears weren’t quite spent and she felt dangerously emotional.

‘I know you’re very different creatures and that your mother can be . . . particular, at times, but I wish you’d try to get on a bit better,’ her father said, gently
stroking her fingers whilst she watched the truanting teenagers. ‘Bear in mind that we’re none of us getting any younger, Clemmie. Your mother and I aren’t going to be around for
ever. We want to see you both happy and settled.’ His voice had a tremor to it that made her look back at him.

‘I am happy and settled.’

‘You know what we mean.’

Yes, she did know what they meant: married with kids. Clem stared into her tea just as a solitary tear dropped into it with a splash. She categorically did not want to have this
conversation.

‘I like my life the way it is, Dad,’ she mumbled. Is this what today was about? Not Tom at all? She had been ambushed into a discussion about the ruins that passed as her life? Why
did everyone think you had to be married with kids to be happy?

‘I wish I could believe that, darling. But if I’m honest, when I look at you, I see a lost little girl who somewhere along the line took a wrong turn. You put on a very good show,
but you don’t fool me, Clemmie. I’m your father.’

Clem drew her hands in sharply. ‘You’re wrong. There’s nothing I would change about my life. Nothing,’ she said with a defiance that was the only barrier keeping all the
other tears in check.

Her father stared at her for a long moment, before bowing his head and nodding. ‘Well, your mother and I miss you, that’s all, and we’d both dearly like to be more a part of
your lives.’

It was all Clem could do not to laugh at the statement. Her mother, wanting to be more involved with her life? As if.

She rose to go. ‘I have to get to the office, Dad.’

He looked hurt. ‘Because it’s so busy there?’

‘Because I’m paid to be there, whether it’s busy or not. Tom needs me.’

Edmund nodded reluctantly. ‘Just think about what I’ve said. Your mother’s the only one you’ve got, and you’re losing time with each other by pursuing this silent
war. She loves you very much.’

Clem kissed him quickly on the cheek and left without saying another word. She couldn’t. Her poor father didn’t know that his words were false, that they’d already been found
to be untrue. He was merely doing his wife’s bidding, saying the words that would choke her if she tried. But it was too late for olive branches now. Clem wouldn’t tolerate it. What her
mother had done, Clem could neither forgive, nor forget.

Everyone was busy trying to look busy when she walked into the office six minutes later. Pixie was collapsing cardboard boxes in the store cupboard, Simon was feeding paper
documents into the shredder and Tom was on the phone.

Clem dumped her battered vintage satchel disconsolately on the desk and slumped in her chair. Her father’s words – kind, loving, concerned – had rung in her ears like insults
all the way back up the road, and she felt nervy and unsure of herself.

She noticed a Post-it on her desk, written in Simon’s distinctive too-neat hand: ‘Delivery 5 p.m. today.’ She looked up at him – well, at his back. He was standing with
his back to her, manually forcing sheets of paper through the cutting teeth every five seconds. He had to have seen her, he’d been standing side on to her when she’d walked in.

‘Thanks for this, Si,’ she said quietly. He was only 10 feet away from her, but he acted as though he hadn’t heard, widening his stance and pushing fatter wodges of paper
through the machine, the revs filling up his silence.