The Liverpool Trilogy (36 page)

‘Shut up and be grateful,’ said Mags with mock severity. ‘I’m taking ten years off you.’

‘Oh, she is,’ Moira agreed. ‘When you see it, you’ll drop dead ten years before your time.’ She turned her attention to the beautician. ‘What style do you call that?’ she asked.

‘My own. It’s called Cause Célèbre, though I can’t say it properly. Every applicant for the Styles job had to invent a hairdo. It was a bit scary, because I was in Paris, and they were all jabbering away, but there were a few other English stylists there and they helped me out a bit with the language. I won. I got the cordon rouge et blanc – striped like an old-time barber’s pole – a trip down the Seine with Monsieur Charles, lovely dinner on the boat with champagne and all that, and a visit to somewhere called Versales.’

‘Versailles?’ suggested Lucy.

‘That’s the chap. Dead boring, just a load of old furniture and beds. But best of all, I won a week observing at Tête à Tête. And now, I get Styles.’

‘What’s it like?’ Lucy asked.

Mags, who certainly proved herself to have an eye for detail, launched into her current favourite subject. She described marble columns, sweeping staircases, minstrels’ gallery, swimming pool, rooms for treatments, grounds into which Monsieur intended to extend. ‘It’s massive,’ she concluded.

‘And Mrs Styles?’ Lucy asked.

‘Lovely woman. Mind, she sounds a tough cookie when it comes down to business. The firm paid top whack, and I believe she got a house in France as part of the deal. And yes, Lucy. Before you ask, I think he’s still with her. Blackpool, I believe.’

Lucy said nothing. Tomorrow, she and Glenys Barlow were to meet Trish Styles in a coffee shop. Tomorrow, the woman of Alan’s choice would learn the truth, since Lucy’s conscience refused to allow her to let sleeping dogs lie.

‘You’re done, missus.’

‘Am I bald?’

‘Not quite.’

Lucy stood at the mirror and gasped. ‘I love it,’ she cried after close scrutiny. ‘I look – oh, I don’t know how I look, but the hair’s brilliant. You are one talented woman.’

Moira chuckled. ‘Dr David Vincent’s going to get arrested as a paedophile. Isn’t it a bit like the urchin cut, Mags?’

The beautician agreed. ‘But you need a lot of hair to get the height at the crown and the depth at the back. Now, Lucy.’

‘What?’

‘To keep it like that, go to Herbert every three weeks – four at the outside. He’s the only man with staff who’ll be able to keep up with it. Then watch out all over Liverpool, because Cause Célèbre will be popping up just about everywhere.’ She sighed. ‘I’m famous, Moira.’

‘Oooh! Give us your autograph.’

‘I’ll do better than that. See the black bag over there? It’s full of products, and they all come with instructions. Use them regularly, and you’ll both slow down the ageing process.’ She began to tackle Moira’s hair. ‘Bloody hell. I thought Lucy’s was thick, but you could weave a hearthrug out of this lot. What have you been using? Fertilizer?’

‘Yup. I stand in a bucket of horse poo every night.’

While Moira’s hair was work in progress, Lucy went to make tea and put together a few tasty morsels. Mags was a decent woman who seemed to have escaped unscathed after contact with Alan. Would Trish Styles be as lucky? Or would Alan learn her signature and start emptying her bank accounts? The woman had just lost her husband, for goodness’ sake. Yet the other part of Lucy continued to raise its ugly head. She could simply turn away, walk away and stay away. But she wouldn’t. She knew full well that she was unable to leave the recently widowed Trish to the untender mercies of Alan Henshaw.

The back door opened. ‘Louisa?’

Ah, here came the beloved. ‘Hello, sweetheart. I thought you were off to buy clothes.’

He stood and stared. ‘You look terrific.’

‘Ah, the hair.’ She’d forgotten it. ‘Mags is still here. She’s cutting Moira’s hair now. Then she’ll do our makeup.’

‘You don’t need it.’

‘And you’re very sweet.’ All his reticence was leaving him. The fear of getting involved and losing loved ones was drifting away into the past, and Lucy was delighted with him. But there was always something happening. Tomorrow loomed. There was going to be trouble in Moira’s life, too, because some bit of stuff had fallen off Richard’s plate, and it was rotting all over Mersey View.

‘Why do I need clothes? I found loads when the house was being cleaned.’

‘David.’ Lucy sighed. ‘Costume drama is out, dearest. You need decent, casual clothing. Not shabby junk for odd job work, and not a consultant’s pinstripe with tie and white shirt. Moira will sort you out tomorrow while Glenys and I are in the lions’ den. You need a couple of jumpers, long-sleeved tops, T-shirts and trousers – two or three pairs. And no baggy Y-fronts. Don’t ask why,’ she said when he opened his mouth to speak. ‘It’s a joke. One of Moira’s.’

David continued to look at her. Looking at her was one of his greatest pleasures, but he was having a bit of hormonal trouble, the sort of difficulty he had not endured since his teenage years. Louisa Buckley was driving him mad. She was always busy, was usually surrounded by people, and he was getting just a little tired of waiting. ‘I cannot continue like this,’ he said bluntly.

‘Neither can I. But please, don’t expect too much of me. I may not be any good at it. I’m a bit afraid of doing it badly.’

He raised his hands and shrugged. ‘That makes two of us, then. I’m not exactly versed in the art, am I? So. Tomorrow we go to Alderley Edge, and I buy clothes under the instruction of Moira while you try to warn Trish whatever-her-name-is that your husband’s a bad bugger.’

Lucy sighed. ‘Yes, that’s about the size of it.’

‘I could make a vulgar remark at this point, Louisa.’

‘Too late – I already heard it. Moira and I spent yesterday expressing our basest thoughts. She’s one terrible woman. Come here, lover.’

The way he held her was different, as the fear had gone. His hands roamed, and the kisses were hungry. Lucy was no longer walking on eggshells, because this lovely man had finally put away thoughts of loss.

‘I’m the love of your second life. It will be soon, I promise. And it doesn’t have to be at Tallows, or at your house, or in Liverpool. It’ll happen wherever it happens.’

‘Louisa?’

‘Yes?’

‘How did we spend that night together without making love?’

‘I shall never know the answer to that. Probably because my boys were in the house, and possibly because we weren’t quite ready.’ She returned to the task of making tea. His eyes were boring into her back. Whatever, wherever, it had to be soon. And why should anyone else matter? Why should she continue prim and proper because her sons and her daughter were in the house? ‘Stay with me tomorrow night,’ she suggested.

‘But aren’t Lizzie and Simon there?’

‘Yes. As are Mike and Paul. In a couple of weeks, there will be bed-and-breakfasters, but so what? We’re beyond the age of consent, we’re free people – well, I suppose I am technically married, but to hell with it. Hal put a bolt on my bedroom door, so while people can get from the hall into the kitchen, and from there into the body of my flat, they can’t enter our room.’

Our room. He liked the sound of that. ‘Carol and Dee?’ he asked.

‘Are adults. They are also employees, and they’ve been running a book.’

‘A book on us?’

She laughed at him. ‘They’re now taking bets on the month of our marriage. I got Moira to put fifty quid of my money on December. That should pay for a short honeymoon, then we can have a proper one next summer.’

His grin widened. ‘Is this you managing me again?’

‘Of course.’ She picked up her tray. ‘I make all the minor decisions, but I’ll leave the more important ones to you. Like opening this door for me now so that I can carry the food through.’

He opened the door. She was a minx, and she would continue in the same vein. His Louisa was adorable. But he was determined to smack that bottom, because she deserved chastisement.

Sometimes, Alan felt as if he’d never had the surgery, because the pain in his heart had returned. He was unable to treat it, since his drug of choice was no longer available to him. The resulting introspection was not pleasant, as he was becoming only too well aware of his sins, and depression began to hang over him like a black, rain-bearing cloud. The pain in his heart was not physical; it was the weight of past misdemeanours for which he could never atone and, on top of all that, he seemed to be experiencing genuine affection for Trish.

Did he love her because she was the right woman for him? Or did he love her for volunteering to get him out of severe financial trouble? Tomorrow, the money would begin its travels. Tomorrow, Trish would meet Glenys, who had disguised her name. He dared not ask whether the transfer of funds was going to be swift and electronic, or slowed to a near-stop by the advent of the weekend. Nor did he dare to beg Trish not to go tomorrow, as she would want to know why, and he couldn’t tell her. Had he been able or willing to drink, none of this would have bothered him. The small, niggling details of life had never been obscured by alcohol, but the bigger picture had been for ever rosy or forgettable.

Strangely, after a brief period of impatience, he had grown used to Trish, to dancing, to crown green bowling, donkeys and bingo. She was a good cook, a gentle soul, and she twittered on happily all day like a budgie in a cage. There was comfort in her endless chatter, encouragement in her sunny optimism, security in the certainty that in Blackpool, at least, the days had a pattern.

But they weren’t in Blackpool any more. No longer impressed by the sheer size of Styles, he heard the electronic gates closing behind him and felt that he was imprisoned. Trish was no longer his jailer. This was confinement of his own making. He could blame no one for his situation, because he was its sole architect. There was only one option open to him, but the thought of laying bare his soul, and seeing the disappointment in Trish’s face, horrified him. He was a coward. On top of everything else, he was a yellow-belly.

‘You get to the doctor in the morning. He was pleased with you last time, but I think you’re getting a bit of post-operative depression. I found it on the inter-web. It says you’re always excited when the surgery’s over with, but that a descent into negativism is not uncommon. You’ve descended.’

He had. She was right enough, but this had nothing to do with his open-heart procedure. He was going to be alone, homeless and, as there was nowhere else to go, dependent on Lucy. And on the prison service . . . ‘I’m not a good man,’ he announced quietly.

Trish stood at the kitchen island, rolling pin held aloft. ‘There’s none of us perfect.’

‘I’ve been dishonest in my time.’

She placed her weapon on the work surface. ‘Alan, do you think my Howie got as far as he did by telling all the truth all the time? I mean, he never stole directly, but he didn’t drop his prices when he bought in bulk. To win, he had to be wise, and to be wise, he was forced to be cunning.’

Alan dropped on to the kitchen sofa. ‘I feel better in Blackpool, love.’

‘Aye, well, I dare say we both do. I just have to see this lawyer woman tomorrow, then we’ll go back. Glad you’re settled there, because this place is all but sold. The main thing is to stop you going to jail. You owe money to the biggest building society in the country.’

This was torture. Trish had been nurse, cook, friend and supporter since the day he had escaped from Easterly Grange – she had even organized his exit from the place. After so many weeks in his own room, he had become slightly stir-crazy, and had not appreciated her attempts to help him on the road to recovery. She had fussed and mothered like a clucky hen until he had been tempted to throw food at her, but . . . but she was a good woman, and she meant to save him from real prison, from a long sentence for fraud. Would Glenys prevent Trish from carrying out her promise? ‘I wronged my family,’ he said hesitantly. ‘My wife I treated with contempt. I have two sons I don’t know, and a daughter I loved until she outgrew me. They’ll be getting on with life, glad to be rid of me, all of them.’

‘Alan?’ She stood still, hands covered in flour, pastry spread before her waiting to line a dish. ‘Alan?’

He smiled at her. She was what his father might have termed a grand lass, since she was loyal and faithful. ‘You’ve been a treasure,’ he told her. ‘I’m going for a bit of a walk. They told me to get plenty of gentle exercise.’ He left her standing there, hands floury, pastry still waiting to line the same dish.

Alan had developed a strangely comforting relationship with Damien, the llama from hell. Damien no longer spat at him, which was just as well, since llama spit was more than spit – it was stomach contents. He hand-fed the animal with kitchen scraps before stroking the woolly neck. ‘I’d be better off dead. They’d all do very well without me.’

Damien continued to chew in that strange, side-to-side way, grinding the food for minutes before attempting to swallow.

‘I’ve got the rope, and I’ve found a strong enough tree. You see, Damien, I could be locked up by this time tomorrow. They’ll tell her everything I’ve done, and Trish will leave me to it. Hiding away won’t be easy, because I’ve nowhere to go.’ He swallowed. ‘Except to Lucy. And the Halifax will soon find her. I’m finished, lad.’ Could he use that rope? Could he hell.

He walked back to the house. Trish was twittering, but he explained that he was tired and going up to bed. She berated him for not eating, but he simply switched off and didn’t hear any more. There was nothing he could do, because his number was finally up. No matter what Trish said now, she probably wouldn’t speak to him at all tomorrow.

His dreams were populated by loud men, slamming doors and the quiet voice of Lucy. ‘Guilty,’ she whispered again and again.

‘Wake up!’ Trish was shaking him. ‘You must be having some terrible dreams, Alan.’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘It’ll be this post-operative depression again,’ she said. ‘Stop worrying. Tomorrow, you won’t be a bankrupt any more, and we’ll find a business to buy into. It’s nearly over now, love.’

She was right, of course. It was all over bar the shouting.