This was her one chance, decided Sally. This was an opportunity to atone, and to start again. She didn’t have Mick filling her head with cynical nonsense, exerting undue influence over her. Now she was free of him, it occurred to her that was what he’d done for years: controlled her every move, her every thought. But now she was in charge of her own destiny. She could do what the hell she liked. Sally felt flooded with excitement as she looked to the future.
There was a big fluffy towelling robe on the back of
the door. Sally stepped out of the bath on to the mat, and slipped it on, then wrapped her wet hair in a towel. She looked in the mirror: a weary, malnourished, haunted face looked back at her. She was going to look dreadful in the photographs next to her radiant daughter. The optimism of a moment ago suddenly drained away. Who was she trying to kid? Richenda wasn’t going to be interested in rekindling their relationship. She’d salvage what she could from the story to save her career, then send her packing. Which, after all, was no more than she deserved…
Richenda’s head was spinning. Wearily, she wondered if she should capitulate and call in a publicist, someone who could engineer this unfortunate turn of events to her best advantage and cash in on it at the same time. But she decided not to: she really didn’t want to make more of this than was necessary. A heart-warming tale of a mother and daughter’s reunion and a few pictures, that was all they needed. If you got greedy and made a big deal, it encouraged the press to dig deeper for dirt. This was about damage limitation. She realized she needed a plan of action before Sally came out of the bathroom. She had to be in control. She fished about in her bag for a notebook and pen, and made a list of people to call.
Cindy Marks. There was a pleasing symmetry to her giving Cindy the story, when it had been the spread in last Saturday’s
Post
that had essentially reunited her with her mother. And she thought she could trust Cindy, as much as you could trust any journalist. Plus they could tie it in with the
Post
awards this Wednesday, if they got
their act together. If she got her mother together, more like. She had to do something drastic about Sally’s appearance. She looked dreadful: twenty years out of date yet at the same time in clothes that were far too young for her, as if she was clinging on to some vestige of lost youth. Richenda didn’t want to be cruel, but being photographed next to that wasn’t going to do her image any good. She added the names of her hairdresser and her make-up artist to the list, and the owner of the little boutique where she bought a lot of her clothes. Then she flipped through the address book on her phone until she got to Cindy’s mobile number.
‘Cindy Marks.’
‘Cindy? It’s Richenda.’
‘Richenda! I hope you’ve got a serious dress for Wednesday. Not that I’m giving anything away, of course.’
Richenda’s heart began to beat faster. The stakes were creeping higher. If Cindy was hinting that she might have won an award, the spotlight really was going to be on her.
‘Listen, I’ve got a story for you. I want you to promise me if I give it to you, you’ll handle it sensitively. And I want copy approval.’
‘Darling, you haven’t broken up with that gorgeous man. Not already?’
Shit, thought Richenda. She hadn’t even begun to decide how to break the news to Guy. Where was she going to fit that into the scheme of things? Later. First things first. She laughed smoothly.
‘Of course not. We’re still going strong. I’ll still be wearing my ring in the photos.’
‘Thank goodness for that. I’m relying on your wedding
pictures for a Christmas special. So what’s the story?’
‘It’s about my mother.’
‘She’s in Australia, isn’t she?’
‘Um – no. She’s here, in my apartment. And she’s never been to Australia. I haven’t seen her for nearly ten years.’
‘Ah,’ said Cindy. ‘Have you been telling me porkies?’
‘I think they call it lying by omission,’ admitted Richenda. ‘Give or take the odd white lie. But I’m ready to set the record straight.’
‘Bloody hell,’ laughed Cindy. ‘Call me naive, but I genuinely thought you had no skeletons in the cupboard. And me a muckraking journalist.’
‘That just goes to show you what a good actress I am,’ said Richenda lightly. ‘Come to my apartment at nine tomorrow. I’ll give you all the gory details.’
She hung up, feeling rather drained. She’d committed herself now. There was no way out; if she reneged on the deal, she risked losing Cindy’s loyalty, which at the moment was the most valuable commodity she had.
Behind her, Sally appeared in the doorway, dwarfed in a huge white robe. Richenda was surprised. With her hair wet, face devoid of make-up, she didn’t look old, but incredibly young, her eyes wide with awe and uncertainty.
‘You said you might have some clothes…’ Sally looked awkward and embarrassed, and Richenda suddenly realized how uncomfortable she must feel. And how brave she must have been to come here.
She got up off the sofa.
‘Of course. Jeans and a sweater OK?’
Sally nodded hesitandy. ‘Um – I didn’t bring anything with me at all. I came out in such a rush…’
She couldn’t quite bring herself to ask for underwear. Luckily Richenda took the hint.
‘That’s OK. I’ve got stacks of everything.’
As she rummaged through her wardrobe, she thought how weird this was. Here she was lending clothes to the mother she hadn’t seen for ten years, whose parting words had been a spiteful tirade of abuse. She pulled open the door of the walk-in wardrobe that was custom-fitted with shelves, shoe racks, rails and drawers, where everything was neatly hung or stacked the moment it came back from the laundry service. She took a white T-shirt off one pile, a pair of Earl jeans off another, and slid a black velour hoodie off a hanger. She stood for a moment with the clothes in her arms, steeling herself. They had a long evening ahead of them, and a lot of painful ground to cover. Was she ready for it? She’d imagined this eventuality so many times, usually in the early hours of the morning when she woke and couldn’t sleep, yet was too tired to stop the unwelcome images creeping into her mind. She might have walked out on her mother, cut herself off from her past, totally reinvented herself and become, to all intents and purposes, an entirely new person. But the bond was still there. Even now, despite everything, she yearned for Sally’s reassurance, to be told that she was loved, unconditionally and for ever. Would that happen?
Again, Richenda felt the hot lump rise in her throat. She smoothed her hand over her throat to swallow it down. Cool. Calm. Serene. She repeated the words to herself over and over until she felt composed, fixed her brightest smile on to her face and went out to her waiting mother.
*
An hour later, they sat one either side of the marble-topped breakfast bar, each with a steaming bowl of tortellini and a glass full to the brim with white wine. For the first few minutes, as they ate their meal, they kept the conversation light and trivial, skirting round the deeper issues that would inevitably be touched upon. But for the moment they needed to eat.
‘So what have you been doing?’
‘Working in a pub,’ admitted Sally. ‘Just behind the bar. But it’s all right.’ She made a face. ‘I’ve screwed that up, though. I should be there now. But I can’t go back, because I don’t want Mick to find me…’
‘What’s he been doing?’
‘Still dealing. Smalltime. Not that I see much of that – he drinks most of it.’ She took a swig of wine. ‘Not that it matters now. With any luck I won’t see him ever again.’
Richenda picked up her glass and took a sip to give her courage.
‘You know I didn’t…’ she faltered. ‘I didn’t…’
She couldn’t bring herself to say it. Vocalizing what had happened would make it real. Even now she could feel his heaving, sweaty body on her, smell his sour odour, taste his rank breath. She’d never spoken of it to another human being, because that way she could pretend it had never happened. But didn’t that mean Mick had won? By burying the memory, she had allowed him to get away with it. She had to speak the truth.
She looked Sally in the eye.
‘Mick raped me,’ she said, unable to believe, now she had made the decision, how easy those three little words
were to say. Three little words that would hopefully change her life.
Sally put her fork down. She looked at her half-eaten tortellini as two big fat tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I think I always knew. I just never wanted to admit it. It was too horrible to believe. It was much easier to tell myself it was you…’
Richenda slid off her stool and ran round to Sally’s side. She put her arms round her neck.
‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t our fault. It was Mick’s. He had total control over us both. But it’s OK. We’re going to show the bastard…’
On Monday morning, Henty had to force herself to address her household chores before disappearing into her boxroom. Travis had seen to the breakfast things and was going to drive into Eldenbury to the feed merchant’s to get some supplements for the horses that he thought would enhance their performance. He was also going to call in at the supermarket to pick up a few things, like coffee, milk and jam. He was a godsend, thought Henty. If it wasn’t for him she’d be tied up with household dross all morning, quite unable to hit the keyboard. Looking forward to the prospect of unleashing the torrent of words that was waiting to escape via her fingers, she hurried through the few things she had left to do. It was incredible, she thought, how much better she felt now she had a purpose.
It was only when she went downstairs with the laundry basket that it all went wrong. She was doing a jeans wash, and going through everyone’s pockets, which she now did religiously, having laundered several irreplaceable and apparently vitally important bits of paper over the years – though to her mind it was other people’s responsibility to check their own pockets before they put their clothes in the dirty-washing basket. She was rummaging through Charles’s Levis when her hand came across something soft, bunched up in his left-hand pocket. Expecting a
handkerchief, she drew out a little scrap of black ribboned silk. She held it aloft, frowning. It took her some moments to realize that what she was holding was a pair of knickers, and immediately she dropped them on to the floor with a little squeal of revulsion.
There was only one person these could belong to. Only one person who would sport such a minimal, impractical and screamingly expensive item on her nether regions. How the hell had they found their way into Charles’s pocket? Panic made her phone the only person who would provide the cool, calm voice of reason that she needed.
‘Honor!’ she gasped. ‘I need you to tell me I’m not going mad.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Come for coffee and I’ll show you,’ said Henty dramatically.
Honor needed no second telling. Five minutes later she was pulling up to the front of Fulford Farm, to be greeted by a wild-eyed Henty, who dragged her into the scullery to inspect the evidence still lying in a scrumpled heap in the middle of the flagstone floor.
‘Are you sure they’re knickers?’ queried Honor, not convinced.
‘Yes!’ said Henty. ‘You tie the ribbony bits up at the side.’ She pointed distastefully at the tiny triangle in the centre. ‘I presume that’s the gusset.’
‘And they were in Charles’s pocket?’
Henty burst into tears.
‘They’re bloody Fleur’s, I know they are,’ she wailed. ‘We went out for supper on Saturday and the Gibsons were there. I’m sure Charles and Fleur set it up. It wasn’t
just a coincidence. And you should have seen them slavering over each other all evening. Honestly, it was disgusting. She practically ate him alive!’
She knew she was exaggerating, and overreacting, but she had to get how she felt off her chest.
‘Calm down,’ said Honor. ‘It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.’
‘What – the fact he’s got her pants in his pocket?’
‘Why don’t you ask him what he was doing with them?’
‘I don’t think I want to know the answer.’ Henty was gloomy. ‘Anyway, he’ll only deny it.’
‘How can he?’
‘You know Charles. He can talk his way out of anything. He’ll just say he hasn’t a clue how they got there. And then I’ll end up looking stupid. Suspicious and parochial.’
The two of them stared down at the incriminating garment.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ grinned Honor.
Ten minutes later, mollified by the wicked simplicity of Honor’s plan, Henty made a big pot of coffee and got out a packet of chocolate digestives.
‘I suppose it’s his mid-life crisis thing,’ she announced, dunking her biscuit in her coffee just long enough for it to become slightly soggy. ‘I know he’s panicking because his hair’s starting to recede and he’s put on a bit of weight. And he’d deny it till he’s blue in the face, but I know he feels a prat about losing his licence. So I suppose having Fleur thrusting her tits in his face makes him feel better about himself. It’s a bit of an ego boost.’
‘I’m quite sure if she did anything about it he’d run a mile,’ Honor reassured her.
‘I know, but it’s still humiliating, watching him drool over her.’ Henty wasn’t entirely convinced. ‘How would he like it if I came on to Travis over the breakfast table?’
‘It’s no wonder Charles is behaving badly. He’s obviously threatened.’
‘He’s got no need to worry. I wouldn’t humiliate myself by throwing myself at Travis. He’d run a mile.’
‘He might not, you know’ Honor hated the way Henty always put herself down. She obviously had no idea how attractive she was; she exuded warmth, voluptuousness and mischief, a pretty irresistible combination where most men were concerned. Far more attractive, in fact, than Fleur’s rather contrived and clichéd attributes. But it would take more time than Honor had got to convince Henty of that.
‘Anyway, enough about me. I’ve hardly seen you at all since you started at the big house,’ Henty complained. ‘How’s it going?’
‘It’s been fantastic. The first weekend was a huge success,’ said Honor. ‘At least I think so. I’m due for lunch with Madeleine for a debrief.’