False Pretences (14 page)

EIGHT

‘
S
o that's that,' said Bea, sweeping the cat Winston off the central work surface and dishing out toast and tea to her two assistants next morning. ‘Zander's job is safe, the baddies have been exposed, and I think we can trust Lord Murchison to mop up any other problems which may arise.' She listened to herself. Was she being too emphatic? It was all over, wasn't it?

Maggie had coloured her hair pink today, and she had outlined her eyes with thick black lines. Bare legs, criss-cross thongs on high-heeled sandals, and a psychedelic top. Colourful.

Maggie said, ‘You told him I wasn't interested?'

‘Zander? Yes, I told him.'

Oliver grabbed the last two pieces of toast and, with his other hand, pushed his empty mug towards Bea for a refill. ‘I like Zander.'

‘Yes,' said Bea, ‘but Maggie's not ready for a grown-up relationship.'

Oliver said, ‘Ouch!' giving Maggie a sideways glance. ‘That's a bit thick.'

Maggie filled her mouth with toast and shrugged. If Bea's words hurt her, she didn't show it.

Oliver finished off the last of the honey. ‘I'd like to have a go at the Dishonourable's computer. It would be interesting to see what I could find on it.'

Bea waved her hands in dismissal of the affair. ‘As far as we're concerned, the matter's finished. I suppose we could invoice Lord Murchison for finding the bank statements and unearthing the briefcase, but on the whole I think not. Zander will probably want to pay us something for saving his job. Keep it low, Oliver. I don't suppose he can afford that much.'

Maggie ignored this. ‘I may be late tonight. There's a problem at the flat I'm doing up that I want to check out, but the plumber can't get back there till after he's finished another job. So if someone else can get something in for supper? I propose that Oliver takes a turn at putting something on the table.'

Oliver raised his eyebrows and ignored the suggestion.

‘Point taken,' said Bea. ‘I'll do it. It's time I filled the freezer up again, too. I need to see my daughter-in-law sometime, otherwise it's business as usual.'

Oliver slid his dishes into the sink instead of the dishwasher. ‘Lady Honoria ought to go to prison for what she and her husband have done.'

‘Are alleged to have done,' said Bea. ‘There's no proof, and no point proceeding with it, now her husband's is dead. The Crown Prosecution Service wouldn't look at it.'

Maggie retrieved Oliver's dishes from the sink, rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher. ‘Will you never learn?'

Oliver shook his head, frowning to himself. He went off to start work as the cat Winston leaped back on to the table to see what he might be able to lick up. Maggie aimed a slap at him, then picked him up to give him a cuddle, which he endured knowing full well that she was the likeliest person to give him titbits.

In a voice muffled by fur, Maggie said, ‘The thing is, I didn't go off Zander because his looks took a bashing, though I expect that's what you think. No, it's not that. I mean, I do think he's all right in his way, and you can hardly see the scars nowadays. It isn't about looks. It's about him being a loser. I know all about being a loser. I'm a champion loser. I can't team up with another loser or I'll always be at the bottom of the heap.'

Bea blinked. So that was it? Tread with care. ‘I agree that you had a bad time. Both you and Oliver. Some people sit down under misfortune for ever, while others get up and get on with it. Some people need a helping hand to get going again. You gave Oliver a helping hand, didn't you? Even though you'd been through a bad time yourself, you picked him up, dusted him down and set him back on his feet. And look at him now. He's bobbed up again nicely, don't you think? You couldn't call him a loser now.'

Maggie put Winston down. He fluffed himself up and applied his tongue to the place where she'd huffed into his fur. ‘I suppose.'

‘Look at you now. Our clients say you're the best at project management. You have a flair for it, you work hard, stand no nonsense from your workmen, and in a short time you could launch out on your own, if you wished to do so.'

‘I wouldn't know how to cope on my own. You aren't going to throw me out, are you?'

Bea gave the girl a hug. ‘Of course not. But one day, perhaps, you'll want to fly the nest.'

‘When I'm fifty, say? Can you put up with me till I'm fifty?'

‘I might be in my grave myself, by then.'

Maggie twitched a smile. ‘You're nice. I wish you'd been my mother, instead of . . . But we can't choose our parents, can we? I take your point about Oliver, but me? I'm still a mess inside.'

‘Give it time. Just don't call yourself a loser in my hearing again. Right?'

Maggie hitched her multicoloured top up over one shoulder and shrugged. But she looked a lot perkier as she went off to work.

Bea stared out into the garden. It was going to be another hot day, by the look of it. She enquired within, so to speak. How did she feel today? The answer was that although her grief for Hamilton had temporarily receded into its cave – sometimes she thought of it as a leopard, biding its time to pounce on her and drag her down – she didn't feel satisfied with herself. Oliver's words about crime and punishment had unsettled her. Perhaps he was right. Honoria should not have done what they believed she had done, and she should not have got away with it.

Bea seemed to remember her husband saying something about letting God do the judging. Sure. Of course. Fine. But human beings wanted justice to be seen to be done, and she felt very human that morning. And, yes, dissatisfied with the outcome of the case. Not that there ever really had been a case, of course.

Oh well. To work. She must ring Nicole, find out how she was doing in this heat. Probably not too well. Brace yourself, Bea, for a difficult visit.

Bea rang the bell at her son's flat and waited for Nicole to let her in. She'd phoned earlier and been told that if she wanted to come over she could, but not to expect anything by way of tea and sympathy since Max would be out and Nicole wasn't up to it.

She rang the bell again, and this time Nicole's voice, sounding blurred, enquired who was there. Had she forgotten that Bea was coming over?

Once Bea was let in, she understood the reason for the delay in Nicole's answering the entry phone. The curtains were still drawn though it was mid-afternoon, and there were dirty dishes and clothes everywhere.

‘I'm in bed.' A weak voice led Bea to the master bedroom, which smelt stale. Dirty mugs and half-eaten plates of food littered the floor, along with a trail of nightclothes which needed to be put in the washing machine.

Bea hadn't seen Nicole recently. The girl was by now some seven months pregnant and looked terrible. Gone was the ultra-smart trophy wife, all blonde hair, high heels, gold chains and bracelets. Here was a grey-faced, stringy-haired, drab-looking female with a bloated stomach. Ouch.

If this was what Max faced every day, then Bea wasn't surprised he'd allowed Nicole's beautiful harpy of a younger sister to be seen out with him. Nicole was nobody's idea of an asset at the moment.

Bea told herself not to gape at the change in her daughter-in-law, who was lying back in crumpled sheets, sweat beading her forehead, eyes closed.

‘Are you still feeling sick?'

No reply. Bea knew Nicole had gone on being sick till her fifth month, but hopefully she was past that stage now. In reply, Nicole lifted one hand from the bed and let it fall again. Tears stood out at the corners of her eyes.

Bea remembered her words to Zander about people allowing themselves to become victims. Here was a perfect example. Mind you, it never did any good telling people to pull themselves together, did it? Though those were exactly the words running through Bea's mind. For two pins, Bea would have turned on her heel and walked away.

She could imagine exactly what was going to happen next. Nicole would go on whining, Max would get even more fed up with her, Lettice would offer herself to him on a plate and wham, bam, ma'am, Max gets divorced, he and Lettice get married, Nicole becomes an unhappy single mother and the baby loses out. So, of course, would Max, because to Bea's mind Lettice only cared for herself. So in the end that marriage would break up, too.

Bea could see nothing but misery stretching ahead of them down the years.

She shook herself into action. ‘You poor thing. Let's see what we can do to make you feel better.'

The flat had two bedrooms, both en suite. Bea inspected the second bedroom and saw evidence that Max had been sleeping there. She threw back the curtains and opened the windows, scooped up all the bedding, plus Max's discarded shirts and underpants, and carried them through to the washing machine in the utility room. Iced lemon tea didn't take long to make as there were plenty of ice cubes – and not much else – in the fridge. She took that and a towel soaked in ice water through to Nicole, and she cajoled her into sipping water and washing her face and hands. Weakly, Nicole tried to smile.

‘Let's have you in the shower, and then you can move into the spare bedroom, all nice and fresh.'

Nicole protested, but Bea took no notice. ‘Wash your hair while you're at it, and find yourself something clean to wear.' Before Nicole had dried herself, Bea had made up the spare room bed with fresh linen.

‘But this is where Max sleeps.'

‘We'll have him back where he belongs in a trice. Now get some more of that iced tea down you, and think about what you could fancy to eat while I strip the other bed and clean up a bit.'

There were some benefits to running a domestic agency, and one of them was knowing how to create order out of disorder and dirt. Didn't Nicole have a cleaner nowadays? She'd been proud of herself and her flat in the old days.

‘Toast?' Bea offered it, and Nicole took it. There was even a shade of returning pride in her appearance as she ran a brush through her hair as it dried.

‘I've been so miserable.'

‘You should have called me.'

‘I know you've never liked me.'

Bea summoned up her most robust tones. ‘Of course I like you. You're the smartest, prettiest wife in the whole of London, and Max adores you.'

‘Not at the moment, he doesn't.'

Had Nicole heard the rumours about her younger sister? ‘Some men are at their worst in the sickroom.'

‘I really have been sick, haven't I? He thought I was putting it on, he didn't understand what it's like to feel sick all the time. No man could. And I couldn't eat anything. I know I look a wreck.'

‘You'll pick up quickly now you've stopped being sick. After a couple of visits to the beauty salon and the purchase of some glamorous outfits, he won't recognize you. You are such an example to us all, managing to look stylish when you're pregnant.'

‘Me? Go to a beauty salon? Looking like this?'

‘Of course not. Do you think you could look out something suitable for you to wear when we go shopping? If you could do that, I'll get busy on the phone, booking you appointments, hairdressers, masseuse, manicurist, you name it.'

‘I don't think I've anything that will fit,' said Nicole, languidly making her way to the master bedroom and throwing open fitted wardrobe doors. ‘I was so small at first, and then I ballooned out. And Max will throw a fit if I say I want to buy some more clothes.'

‘You've got such beautiful shoulders. Have you something with a low neckline?'

‘This . . .? Or perhaps this?' Black or black. Smart, of course, but not suitable for a woman with greenish shadows under her eyes. She was so washed out at the moment that she looked like a ghost.

The house phone rang, and Nicole swooped on it. ‘Oh, Max, I can't talk now. Your mother's here and wants to take me shopping. She thinks I should buy things to show off my beautiful shoulders. What do you think? I mean, I know we've spent far too much this year already, but I really do have nothing to wear . . . Yes, I'm feeling a whole lot better, really. I mean, but a whole lot better.' Almost, she giggled.

Bea rolled her eyes, gathered up another load of washing for the utility room, and returned with a tray for the dirty dishes. She transferred the first load of washing to the drier. Put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Nicole chattered on and on. Once Max was off the phone, she rang one of her friends, to tell her that Max had told her to go out and buy a complete new wardrobe because she'd outgrown all her old clothes. The suggestion that she should buy new clothes had acted on her like a tonic.

Bea sent up an arrow prayer.
Lord, I think I know how to save this marriage, but it involves Piers and I'm not sure that he's going to agree. He's so busy, and he doesn't paint society beauties – if that's what you'd call Nicole – and altogether I'm at my wits' end, so . . . please?

She made some more toast, poached an egg and took it in to Nicole, who was still on the phone but had managed to crawl into some jeans and a white top which didn't look too bad. In fact, the girl was gradually transforming herself from grim-looking waif back to an approximation of the stylish woman that she had once been.

Dear Lord, please make it all right. And while you're about it, you know how fidgety I feel about that other case. I know I have to leave it to you to judge, but . . . it bugs me, as much as it bugs Oliver, that Honoria has got away with it. All right, I know. None of my business. I do worry about things which are none of my business, don't I? It's just that I feel, I don't know, as if I've missed a trick. Oh, I give up. Forget it.
I
intend to.