Heaven's On Hold Read online

  ‘Oh … she’d had a passage of arms with Louise.’

  ‘With Louise?’ He was incredulous. ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘Apparently.’ Annet sat on one chair and swung her feet up on to another. ‘ But remember this is mother’s side we’re getting.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I was wrong about her not hearing what Coral said.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I take it she’s not happy?’

  Annet covered her eyes with her hands, then dragged them down her face in a gesture of despair. ‘What she can’t face is the truth, and everyone else knowing it. That Lou and Coral are a couple.’

  ‘She seems to accept it,’ he said doubtfully.

  Annet shook her head. ‘ Only because she pretends they’re friends, that Lou’s just slumming till something more suitable in trousers – comes along. But if they have a baby, there’s no escape. People will talk. She’ll have to think of them touching each other – imagine!’

  David, who had shamefacedly entertained such thoughts himself from time to time, couldn’t find it in his heart to condemn Marina too harshly on this score.

  ‘To think positively,’ he said, ‘once there’s another baby in the frame – another grandchild – she can’t fail to be happy.’

  ‘But that’s a long way off, if it happens at all. The thought of the grief she’s going to hand out between now and then turns my stomach.’

  ‘You mustn’t let it,’ he said. ‘Bottom line is, it’s not our problem.’

  At this, the look she gave him said it all.

  When they went up to bed, there was one of those little scenes so trite, so straight-off-the-telly that David almost felt his lines had been written for him. His pen had leaked a small black splodge on to the lining of his suit jacket. Annet said she’d take it to the cleaners, and began to remove things wholesale from the pockets.

  ‘So who’s the lady?’ she asked.

  He saw with dismay that she was holding Gina King’s letter. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Who’s the lady writing to you?’

  ‘Oh – Gina King.’ He managed an insouciant tone, though he felt anything but carefree. ‘That girl I had to sack?’

  ‘Oh her—’ To his astonishment Annet took the letter from its envelope. ‘What’s she on about?’

  ‘A reference.’

  ‘She’s got to be joking. I do hope you didn’t give her one?’

  ‘I regret to say I haven’t even replied.’

  ‘Regret nothing. God, this is so creepy …’ She read with one hand to her cheek, a finger in the corner of her mouth. ‘Who does she think she is?’

  David got into bed. His head was starting to ache. ‘ I don’t know, using a bit of initiative, I suppose. Can’t blame her for trying.’

  ‘I can.’ Annet tore the letter in half and dropped it in the wastepaper basket. ‘I do.’

  He flinched, swiped by an emotion he couldn’t place. ‘That was a bit sweeping.’

  ‘Well – silly cow. OK, sorry, here you are.’ She retrieved the torn letter and tossed it on to the bed, casually dismissive rather than angry. ‘I mean, which brain cell was she using when she sent that?’

  He decided that to discuss the matter further was to court more of this nameless discomfort. Fortunately, Freya began at last to cry and he was content to let his wife fetch her.

  The letter was back in his briefcase the following day, but he didn’t refer to it. Instead, he looked up Jean Samms and rang her from the office at lunchtime. Accustomed to wait for an obligatory few rings he was surprised when she answered at once.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Jean Samms?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘This is David Keating. The man who so stupidly caused you to fall off your bike?’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Her tone was polite, but guarded. She might have been talking to a cold-sell conservatory salesman.

  ‘I just wondered how you were.’

  ‘Fine thank you.’

  ‘No ill effects?’

  ‘No, none.’

  David realised with embarrassment that he had been expecting warmth, pleasure. Certainly not this distant civility.

  ‘Right … Well I won’t waste any more of your time. I just wanted to check that, you know, that all was well.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She replied formulaically, as though he’d asked a question. He wanted to prod her into a more animated response.

  ‘I really do apologise for what happened.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘It wasn’t like me. I’m a quite maddeningly careful driver as a rule.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘But of course you’ve only got my word for that.’

  ‘I believe you.’ For the first time there was a note in her voice of something other than mere politeness, the hint of a laugh. He pressed his advantage.

  ‘It’s true. It’s my wife who’s the speed merchant.’

  ‘Oh dear!’

  ‘And she runs a faster car. But she has a completely clean licence – there’s no justice.’

  ‘There isn’t, is there? I confess I did have a stiff knee for a couple of days, but that was all.’

  ‘You’re made of stern stuff then, it was a nasty fall.’

  ‘I’ve had worse.’

  He was hugely, irrationally pleased to have cracked her reserve. ‘Whereabouts are you, by the way? Did you have far to go when I so rudely interrupted you?’

  ‘Oh no, not far – only round the corner, Rustat Road.’

  ‘Good, because I felt bad driving off and leaving you to it.’

  She didn’t respond to this: she probably considered she’d said too much, been forward, perhaps even laid herself open to some nameless danger. He felt compelled to confide in her, in order to explain himself and allay her fears.

  ‘In my defence,’ he said, ‘I was suffering from sleep deprivation. I’ve become a father for the first time at a somewhat advanced age.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you. Yes, she’s enchanting, but I don’t think I bounce as a younger man would.’

  Her small laugh acknowledged the truth of this. ‘ Nor me.’

  ‘Well,’ he added, ‘I won’t take up any more of your time. I’m so glad you’re all right, it makes my conscience a bit easier. Take care.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  As soon as he’d hung up he scribbled ‘Rustat Road’ on the nearest piece of paper.

  That afternoon, a little self-consciously, Annet took a fretful Freya for a walk in the buggy. The weekday village was still strange to her and she suspected that those by whom she was observed might be taking a certain evil pleasure from seeing that opinionated woman from Gardener’s Lane pushing the baby out with bags under her eyes.

  To make matters worse, term had just begun, and she had inadvertently chosen the end of the school day when parents, grandparents and the odd paid help converged on the gates of the local C of E primary to collect their charges. So she found herself part of a general procession of scarily-youthful women in jeans and trainers, many of them with a toddler by the hand and a baby in a pushchair. One or two, she noticed with awe, were pregnant as well. She could only conclude that such courage and resilience were functions of embarking on a family in one’s twenties. She had always regarded herself as tough in mind and body, but theirs was real stamina.

  She felt out of her element, but took only small comfort from the presence of another outsider: a man she dimly recognised sat at the wheel of a yellow Mazda sports, one finger tapping to a dim, thunderous backbeat. She remembered, now, the meeting about parking rights, arriving late from London, heavily pregnant but booted and spurred, not giving a damn, cutting the crap, making heads turn … At the end he’d shaken her hand, asked her if she hired out by the hour … Talk about before and after.

  To her dismay, as she tried to slip by with her head down, the beat was snuffed out
, and he lowered the window.

  ‘Hello there. Put the fear of God into any parish councillors recently?’

  She gave a lemony smile. ‘ No.’

  ‘You’ve been a bit tied up since the last time, I see.’ To her embarrassment, he got out of the car with the air of one ready to talk. Smiling indulgently, he indicated the buggy. ‘Boy or girl?’

  ‘This is Freya.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Two and a half weeks.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Harry Bailey by the way. I know who you are.’

  He was a square-shouldered man no taller than her, possibly a little younger but dressed too young, receding hair cut Bruce Willis short to show he didn’t give a stuff. Something in his manner, allied to the statement-making hair, the white collarless shirt and leather waistcoat, not to mention the yellow sports car made Annet’s heart sink.

  ‘The complainer from hell?’ she suggested, proffering and retrieving her hand in a swift, seamless movement.

  He gave a grunting laugh. ‘You were taking no prisoners. It was a pleasure to watch you work. Mind out, they’re coming.’ As he said this he laid one hand on her arm and the other on the buggy handle and to her annoyance moved her and it firmly to one side as a crocodile of small children were ushered through the playground gate towards the amenity bus.

  ‘The barmy army,’ he commented. ‘Thank God they have mothers to love them.’

  ‘But I’m not one,’ she said, ‘not one of theirs. So if you’ll excuse me I’ll press on and get out of the way.’

  She matched the action to the word. ‘ Take it easy,’ advised Harry Bailey, stepping aside, raising his hands as if she were travelling at speed. ‘See you around.’

  Not if I see you first, she thought. From a distance of about a hundred yards she glanced over her shoulder and saw him still standing there, talking to a couple of laughing young women, his hand resting on the bowl-cut blond head of a small boy. She pictured him saying ‘Hello girls,’ and shuddered. The workplace, in which for this purpose Annet included a wide spectrum of wine bars, tapas joints, theme pubs and internet cafes, boasted any number of Harry Baileys – a particular type of well-heeled, moderately successful, hard-to-place man, probably pretending to be more classless than he was and with dependants, if there were any, safely distanced by divorce. The type who could initiate affairs for fun, and surf unscathed over the fallout … The type, in short, capable of having a field day with the young mothers of Newton Bury.

  She increased her pace to the junction at the end of the road. Here, the choice was between an uphill route in the direction of the ridgeway, or a gentle downhill one which led to the village high street. To put as much distance as possible between herself and the school-gate crowd she turned up the hill and was at once reminded of how unfit she’d become. The safe exercise routine undertaken on the bed and the bedroom floor had done nothing to prepare her for this unforgiving gradient and the weight of the buggy. Her weakness annoyed her and she forced herself to push harder, though her arm and leg muscles screamed for mercy.

  ‘Care for a lift to the top?’ The yellow Mazda hovered next to her, with Bailey leaning on the open window.

  ‘It’s OK thanks …’ She fought for breath. The blond boy was in the passenger seat, tinkering with a plastic space-lord.

  ‘I won’t tell anyone.’

  His accurate assessment of her pride incensed her. ‘I’m fine thank you.’

  Disarmingly, he added: ‘ You’re a damn sight fitter than me then,’ before accelerating away up the hill.

  Half a mile up the ridgeway she was sweating and her chest was heaving, but she kept going at a steady pace until everything calmed down. She told herself she was going to have to locate some sort of local sports club with a gym and a pool before she went back to work, or there were going to be comments. Piers mocked her for being an exercise junkie, but he’d mock her even more for turning into a slug.

  She’d anticipated the lane that wound back down to the village being an opportunity to freewheel, but the effort of acting as a Drake on the buggy was almost as great as that of pushing it, and it was a relief to get back on the level. Outside the post office stores she met Karen, with her two-year-old grandson Damian in the kind of mobile micro-environment which made Freya’s buggy look like a shoebox.

  ‘Fancy meeting you here!’ cried Karen. ‘I’m doing my Nana bit like a good’un.’

  ‘So I see.’ Annet gazed on Damian. He looked enormous, terrifyingly male and mature, far too big even for the state-of-the-art chariot in which he rode. She would not have been surprised to see whiskers on his upper lip.

  ‘He’s lovely,’ she said, adding tentatively: ‘Is he big for his age?’

  ‘Big?’ Karen rolled her eyes in a gimme-a-break way. ‘You should see his father. Not that this one’s ever likely to.’

  ‘He was tall?’

  ‘Brick shithouse, and thick with it,’ replied Karen cheerfully. ‘Worst day’s work Jules ever did.’

  ‘How is Julie?’ asked Annet. She had never met Karen’s daughter but the hearsay had been sufficiently detailed for her to feel she knew her.

  ‘Not too clever,’ said Karen, ‘which is why I’ve got the old boy for the afternoon.’

  ‘Nothing serious I hope …?’

  ‘No, no, girls’ stuff. Here—’ Karen unzipped a funsize chocolate snack with practised dexterity and handed it to Damian – ‘there. Peace perfect peace.’ She shot Annet a conspiratorial glance. ‘Saw you talking to Harry Bailey.’

  This, thought Annet, was the price you paid for village life.

  ‘Yes, I can’t say I’d have recognised him, but he reminded me that we met at an acrimonious public meeting a few months ago.’

  ‘He’s lovely, isn’t he.’ This surprising remark was presented as a matter of indisputable fact. So much so that Annet only just in time prevented herself from agreeing with it.

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘You know who he is, do you?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘He works for Chris Harper. The singer?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Annet shook her head emphatically. It was a lie and a mean-spirited one, but she didn’t wish to be impressed by Bailey’s provenance.

  ‘Yes you do.’ Karen warbled: ‘ ‘‘Thought it was over, thought that I’d won, but now that I see you I’m back to square one …” You know.’

  ‘It rings some sort of bell,’ Annet conceded grudgingly.

  ‘It should do, he sung at the Prince’s bash,’ said Karen for all the world as though she’d been there. ‘He and Lindl whatsit bought that stately home place up the road.’

  ‘Lindl …?’

  ‘That Swiss model – famous bottom – You know,’ said Karen for the second time.

  ‘No,’ said Annet. But a sneaking pride persuaded her to add: ‘By stately home you mean Stoneyhaye, do you?’

  ‘Socking great place. We took this one to the horse show when the other people were there.’

  ‘Yes, I’m with you, My husband dealt with the sale.’

  ‘Did he? You never said. Did he meet Chris Harper?’

  ‘Of course. We’re like that with the rock aristocracy, Karen.’

  ‘Jesus, I don’t know …!’ Karen was happily despairing. ‘Anyway the point is, Harry Bailey’s Chris Harper’s main man.’

  ‘Really.’

  Karen shook her head slowly. ‘Not impressed, are you?’

  ‘Not by Mr Bailey, no.’

  ‘He’s lovely, though, the way he looks after that kid.’

  Annet’s curiosity was momentarily piqued. ‘That boy he was meeting from school – he’s not his?’

  ‘No way, Jay belongs to Lindl.’

  ‘And – forgive me if I’m being slow – Chris Harper?’

  ‘No!’ Karen gurned in horror at this suggestion.

  ‘So – again, forgive me—?’

  ‘Who knows? Don’t suppose she does. Too many contenders for the tit
le, poor little sod.’

  ‘I see. So among other duties Mr Bailey does the school run.’

  ‘Right. And he does all sorts for the school, my friend’s three are round there and she says he’s an absolute diamond.’

  ‘Presumably,’ said Annet drily, ‘he’s the power behind the cheque book which doesn’t hurt either.’

  ‘Too bloody right.’ Karen was nothing if not pragmatic. ‘ Go on, see if you can get us an invitation to the stately home.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Annet. ‘We don’t know them socially.’

  ‘Oo-ooh!’ jeered Karen. ‘Bet you wish you did!’

  Just the same, there seemed to have been enough of a coincidence to warrant mentioning it to David over supper.

  ‘Tell you who I bumped into this afternoon when we were out for a walk.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me and Freya, darl, who do you think. Someone called Bailey who works for that pop star, the one who bought Stoneyhaye.’

  ‘Oh yes? What does he do?’

  ‘He probably has some kind of smart title but from what Karen tells me he’s a well-paid gofer. He was collecting the woman’s child from school.’

  ‘Lindl Clerc.’

  ‘Probably. Some model or other. The child isn’t Harper’s.’

  David appeared to think, briefly but carefully, before commenting: ‘Harper left his extremely gracious and beautiful wife for her, so she must have something.’

  ‘I’m sure she does, and we can guess what it is,’ said Annet acidly. ‘Anyway, Karen and the school mums think Bailey’s sent by God, but I formed the opinion he was a fairly standard prat.’

  This made David laugh, as she’d hoped it would. ‘Poor Bailey … poor bugger.’

  ‘Karen thought we should cultivate him – get ourselves asked up to the Big House for a cup of soup.’

  ‘Why not?’ mused David to get a rise out of her. ‘I saw quite a bit of Harper at the time and he didn’t strike me as a bad sort of chap. I imagine they can afford a decent cook.’

  Annet laid a threatening hand on his neck. ‘You’re joking, I hope.’

  When they went to bed, David returned from an abortive attempt to calm Freya, who was working herself into a frenzy in the other room, and discovered Annet standing in front of the wardrobe mirror in her underwear, with an expression of cold concentration that repelled advances. He caught the angry eye of her reflection.