Winter Solstice (16 page)

“My little lonely nest,” she told her friends, sounding both wistful and plucky, and everyone said she was marvelous, but in truth she was as content as she had ever been, with her bridge, and her little drinkie parties, and the unfailing panacea of shopping and returning home with designer bags and boxes stuffed with tissue paper and goodies. With friends, she began to take holidays abroad, cushioned in Club Class to Paris, or Mediterranean cruises in immaculately run liners, where there was every opportunity to dazzle in a newly acquired wardrobe of clothes. On one of these cruises she met Johnnie Struthers, a retired Group Captain and a widower. He clearly fancied Dodie, and from time to time, when he was in London, telephoned and took her out to dinner.

She was happy. And then, seven years after Dodie’s own divorce, Nicola Wesley discovered that the mild-mannered Miles was having it off with another woman, and grabbed this opportunity to flounce out of a marriage that had become both predictable and boring. She flounced, of course, to her mother, and her mother’s spacious and pretty apartment. All of which might have been quite fun and companionable, had not Nicola brought with her seven-year-old Lucy, and Dodie knew that her halcyon days were over.

The coffee-pot was empty, the dregs of her cup grown cold. Carrie got to her feet, threw the uneaten toast into the trash-bin, rinsed out the pot, put the cup and saucer into the dishwasher. She went upstairs, took a shower, washed her short hair, and dressed. Lately she had not bothered too much about how she looked, simply slopped around in old jeans and with no make-up on her face, but this morning she knew that the time had come to take a bit of trouble, if only for Dutch courage.

So, slim camel-coloured trousers, a cashmere polo-neck sweater, polished boots. Gold earrings, gold chains around her neck. She sprayed scent, checked her leather shoulder bag, took her coat from the wardrobe, went downstairs.

The front-door keys lay in a brass bowl on the chest in the hall, alongside a blue bowl of white hyacinths. Over this chest was a long mirror, and as she pulled on her coat and did up the buttons, her reflection gazed back at her. She paused, regarding herself. Saw a tall, slender, darkhaired girl… or perhaps, more accurately, a tall, slender, darkhaired woman. After all, soon she would be thirty. Chestnut-brown hair shone with cleanliness, a lock like a bird’s wing swept across her forehead. Her eyes, accentuated by shadow and mascara, were large and dark as coffee, and her face still tanned from the reflected sunlight of the snow-fields. She looked all right. Confident. Not a person to be pitied.

She did up the buttons of the coat, a dark-grey loden piped with forest green, that had been bought, a year ago, in Vienna. And Andreas had been with her, and helped to choose the coat, and then insisted on paying for it.

You will wear it forever, he told her, and you will always look a million dollars.

It had been a day of bitter cold and thin snow, and after they had bought the coat, they had walked through the streets, arm in arm, to Sacher’s and there lunched in some style, and … Don’t think about it.

Dodie had been waiting for her. She was there almost at once, dealing with the double lock, and flinging the door open.

“Carrie!”

She looked much as she always had-no older, no thinner, no fatter. Small and trim, with dark, neatly dressed hair flashed with a streak of white which was entirely natural, and so enviable. She wore a little cardigan suit, the skirt fashionably short, and court shoes decorated with square gold buckles. A still-pretty woman, with apparently everything going for her. Only her mouth gave her away, moulded by the years into an expression of constant discontent. Carrie had always been told that the eyes are the mirror of the soul, but had long ago decided that a person’s mouth is the true giveaway of character.

She stepped through the door, and Dodie closed it carefully. There were to be no outflung arms then, no hugs, no exclamations of motherly delight.

“Hello, Ma. How are you?” she asked, shedding her coat.

“You’re looking marvelous.”

“Thank you, dear. You’re looking well, too. So brown. As though you’d just returned from a holiday in the sun. Put your coat on the chair. Do you want coffee or anything?”

“No, I’ve just finished breakfast.” Now they kissed, formally, touching cheeks. Dodie’s cheek was soft and fragrant.

“I didn’t get up till nine.”

“Lovely to have a lie-in. Come along….”

She turned and led the way into her sitting-room. The clouds on this wintry day all at once parted, and for an instant the room was filled with dazzling winter sunshine. It was a pleasant room, with large windows facing south onto a balcony, and beyond, the view of the river. Alongside it, divided by a double door which always stood open, was Dodie’s dining-room. Carrie saw the mahogany table, the pretty sideboard, all part of her childhood, and come from the family house in Campden Hill. There were a great many flowers about the place and the air was heavy with the heady scent of white lilies.

“Where is everybody?” she asked.

“I told you. Lucy’s in her room, and-”

“Is she not very social?”

“Not noticeably so. She’s quite happy there. She’s got her desk and her computer and a little television.”

In the white marble fireplace, there flickered a small mock-coal electric fire. Dodie settled herself beside this, in her own chair. She had been reading the newspaper when Carrie rang the bell, and now reached for it, with a delicate pink-nailed hand, folded it, and set it on the coffee-table.

Another cloud rolled in and the sunshine was gone.

“It was good of you to come so promptly. I wanted to tell you about everything, this ridiculous drama that’s suddenly blown up.”

“Nicola?”

“She’ll be back soon.”

Carrie lowered herself into the chair on the other side of the white sheepskin hearth rug “Where’s she gone?”

“Travel agent.”

“Is she planning a trip?”

“I think she’s gone mad. I said that, didn’t I, over the telephone. She’s met this man. He’s an American. She met him at some party a few weeks ago, and they’ve been seeing each other ever since.”

Carrie thought it sounded quite hopeful, and not at all as though her elder sister had gone mad.

“What sort of American?” she asked cautiously.

“Oh, quite presentable. A business man. Railways, or steel or something. He’s based in Cleveland, Ohio, wherever that is. He’s called Randall Fischer. And now he’s gone back to America, and he’s invited Nicola to go and spend Christmas with him.”

“In Cleveland, Ohio?”

“No, he’s got a place in Florida. Apparently he always spends Christmas there.”

It all sounded so reasonable that Carrie could not imagine what the drama was about.

“Is he married?”

“He says he’s divorced.”

“In that case he probably is. Have you met him?”

“Of course I have. Once or twice she’s brought him here for a drink, and one night he took us both out to dinner. To Claridge’s. He was staying there.”

“In that case, he must be loaded.” Carrie frowned.

“Don’t you like him, Ma?”

“Oh, he’s all right, I suppose. About fifty. Not particularly attractive.”

“Does Nicola think he’s attractive?”

“I suppose she does.”

“So what is so dire?”

“I think she’s being foolhardy. She really knows nothing about the man.”

“Ma, she’s thirty-five. Surely by now she can look after herself, make her own mistakes if she wants to.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point? Enlighten me.”

“Don’t you see, Carrie? It’s Lucy.”

“You mean Lucy is not included in the invitation?”

“She most certainly has been included, but she refuses to go. She says she doesn’t want to go to Florida, she won’t know anybody, there won’t be anything for her to do, and Randall doesn’t really want her anyway. He’s only asked her because he feels he has to.”

Carrie was sympathetic.

“I see her point. What age is she? Fourteen. She’d probably feel like a fish out of water, and I’ll admit it’s a bit embarrassing watching your own mother in the throes of a love affair.”

A faint flush was creeping up Dodie’s neck, a sure sign that she was becoming rattled. She disliked any form of disagreement, and hated being put in a position where she had to argue her point.

“It’s such a wonderful opportunity for Lucy. To travel. See another bit of the world.”

“Not if she doesn’t want to.”

“But what will she do?”

Now, thought Carrie, we‘re getting to the nub of the matter.

“For Christmas, you mean? Stay with you, I suppose. After all, this seems to be her home for the time being. It’s been her home since her parents divorced. Where else would she go?”

Dodie did not at once reply. Instead, restless, she got to her feet and walked away from Carrie and stood at the window, gazing down at the river. Carrie waited. Then her mother turned.

“I can’t deal with her on my own. I have a life to lead. I have plans made, invitations…. I may go down to Bournemouth and stay there with the Freemans. They go every year to the Palace Hotel. They’ve invited me to join them.” Her tone of voice made it perfectly clear that Lucy was not included in this giddy scheme.

“I’m not as young as I was, Carrie. My child-caring days are over. And I’m not going to change my plans for a stubborn little girl.”

No, Carrie thought, I don’t suppose for a moment you’d even contemplate such a thing.

After a bit, she said, “What about her father? Miles. Can’t she go and spend Christmas with him and his new wife? Or does she never see him now?”

“Oh, yes, she sees him.” Dodie came back to her chair and sat again, perched forward, tense.

“Every now and then, she spends a Sunday with them, but without noticeable enthusiasm.”

“They don’t have children, do they?”

“No. And I doubt if they ever will. She’s a career woman.” Dodie spoke the words with a curl of her lip.

“Babies won’t ever interfere with her life.”

“So they wouldn’t have Lucy for Christmas?”

“As a matter of fact, in desperation, I telephoned Miles and put the idea to him. I had to do it, because Nicola refuses to speak to him or even say his name. But Miles and his wife are going to Saint Moritz to ski for Christmas, with a grownup party. Lucy’s never skied and she’s hopeless with people she doesn’t know. Miles said it was out of the question, and she’d just spoil it for everybody.”

Carrie began to feel desperately sorry for the child, slung in limbo between two feuding and unsympathetic parents. She said, trying not to sound too cool, “In that case, you seem to have come to a deadlock.”

“Nicola is absolutely determined to go to Florida. She can be very selfish, you know. And after all I’ve done for her….”

“Perhaps she just wants to grab the chance of a bit of fun.”

“A bit of fun.” Bitterly, Dodie repeated the words, making them sound almost indecent. Carrie watched her. All at once, it seemed, Dodie did not want to meet her daughter’s eyes. She glanced down, fiddled with the cuff of her little jacket, adjusted a gold button. She said, “That’s what I meant when I spoke to you on the telephone. About your abrupt return from Austria coming at a fortuitous time.”

“You mean me. I take Lucy off your hands.”

Dodie looked up.

“Have you plans laid?”

“Ma, I’m only just back from Austria. I haven’t had time to lay a plan. I haven’t even got a house, and won’t get Ranfurly Road back until the end of February. I’m living out of a suitcase. I’m really not in a position to have someone to stay.”

“I didn’t mean that. I thought maybe … your father…”

“Jeffrey?”

“You call him Jeffrey now?”

“I’ve called him Jeffrey ever since the divorce. He’s my father, I know, but he’s also Serena’s husband, and my friend.”

As she spoke their names, Dodie flinched delicately, but Carrie, knowing that she was being cruel, ignored this.

“And I don’t think that’s a viable idea, either.”

“But he’s Lucy’s grandfather. Surely …”

“Look, Ma. I’ve already spoken to Jeffrey. I called him the day after I got back. We had a long conversation. We talked about Christmas then, but he’s got Serena’s brother and his wife and baby coming down to spend the holidays with them. Emblo is going to be bursting full, not an inch for two more people.”

“You could suggest…”

“No. It’s not fair to Serena. She can’t have us, and she’ll be riddled with guilt because she can’t have us. I’m not going to ask.”

“Oh.” Dodie let out a sigh and sat back in her chair, as though at the end of her tether, and looking like a balloon that has had all the air let out of it, shrunken and suddenly older.

“I really can’t go on like this much longer. It’s too unsettling. No cooperation from anybody, least of all my own family.”

“But, Ma …”

She did not finish. There came the sound of a key in the lock of the front door, and then the door opening and shutting again.

“Nicola’s back,” Dodie said unnecessarily, and she pulled herself together and put a hand to her hair, and was sitting, brightly expectant, when Nicola came into the room. Carrie got up and turned to face her sister.

She said, “Hi.”

“Carrie!” Nicola’s jaw dropped in astonishment.

“What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were in Austria.”

“I was,” Carrie told her, “but I’m back now.”

The sisters eyed each other. They had never been close, never been friends, never shared secrets. And it occurred to Carrie that Nicola, as she matured, was growing to look even more like their mother. The same height, the same neat figure, thick dark hair. The same small, mean-tempered mouth. Put side by side, and they could easily have been mistaken for a pair of cross little twins.

Whenever she thought of Nicola, Carrie always had a mental picture of her wearing some little outfit. Skirts and sweaters co-ordinating.

Shoes matching handbags, a silken scarf toning exactly with her lipstick. A bit like one of those cardboard cut-out dolls they used to dress in paper outfits with folding tabs to fix them in place. A paper sun-dress for the beach, a furry-collared coat for a winter walk, a crinoline and poke-bonnet for the fancy-dress party. Now, Nicola did not let her down, for there was the immaculately tailored trouser suit, beneath a car coat of faux leopard. Her sack bag was of chocolate-brown suede and the suede was exactly the same shade as her high-heeled boots.