Jo kisses me on the cheek. ‘Okay?’
I nod bravely.
‘Caron told me about Dominic.’
‘Another one bites the dust.’ I force a laugh. ‘I’m beginning to think that I wear the wrong brand of deodorant.’
‘So,’ Caron says expectantly. ‘Have you heard from the three missing reprobates yet?’
I shake my head. ‘No. Not a thing.’
My friend’s face falls. ‘Bastards,’ she says vehemently, before turning her attention to the food. ‘For our delectation, I got tuna wraps, three sorts of salad, smelly cheese and . . .’ she holds up her pièce de résistance like a trophy, ‘coffee cake. Lots of it. Particularly good in times of crisis. Have you got any chocolate ice-cream?’
‘Is that a stupid question?’
‘Fabulous.’ Caron claps her hands together, then scrunches up all the paper wrappers and throws them in the wastepaper bin. ‘Where do you suppose they are?’
‘Who knows,’ I say. ‘Aren’t men always a law unto themselves? No doubt they’ll turn up again one day as if nothing’s happened.’
‘Plates?’ Caron demands.
‘Plates.’ I pull them out of the cupboard and put them down on the work surface.
My friend dishes out with a professional hand. ‘I liked Grant.’ Caron arranges the lettuce with the eye of an artist. ‘Really liked him. I had high hopes for him.’ We all pick up our plates and go back through to the lounge, plonking ourselves down at the table by the window. ‘I’m fed up of dating lame men. I should have realised that he’d be flawed because he’s a friend of Leo’s.’ She lays a hand on my arm. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken,’ I say.
‘It’s not difficult to find men. I could pick up a different guy every night of the week.’ Jo is never one to mince words. ‘But all they want to do is come home with you for casual sex. No one is interested in a serious relationship. How do you find a good man without wasting too much time on the losers?’
‘I’ve never been very good at that scene.’ I’ve always been too uptight about my own body to consider sharing it with a stranger, and the thought of going through all that again fills me with dread.
‘That’s all there seems to be. Women grow out of it, but these days men don’t seem to. They’re all babymen now,’ Jo says. ‘Thirty-year-old toddlers. Grown men who behave like petulant infants and who have the same sense of responsibility. They’re an embarrassment to their own gender.’
‘Do you think it’s our fault?’ I say. ‘Whenever Leo attempted to do anything remotely manly I always used to make fun of him. I guess it’s no wonder he stopped trying. Perhaps they’ve no idea what their role is supposed to be any more.’
‘I wonder if men judge us as harshly.’ Caron pours out wine for us all. ‘Let’s face it, we want nothing less than perfection now in a partner. No baldies, no one with a beer belly rather than a six-pack, nothing less than a six-figure salary and definitely no kids from previous wives in tow. We want them to look all sporty and athletic, but not to spend hours away from us playing sports. We want them to have great careers without spending too much time at the office.’
‘Whatever happened to unconditional love?’ Jo wants to know.
‘It sucks,’ Caron says. ‘Particularly if you’re the one dishing it out.’ She slugs back her wine. ‘We are the generation of women who want it all.’
I sigh. ‘And end up with nothing.’
‘Bugger,’ Jo says miserably. ‘Now we’re going to have to get seriously drunk.’
We raise our glasses and clink them together.
‘We have become our own cliché,’ Caron declares.
When Leo comes back – if he comes back – I’m going to win him again. I’m going to be soft and floaty and feminine. I’m going to bake him homemade cakes and start doing roast dinners. I’m going to turn the clock back thirty years and love him like my mother loves my father. I’m going to love him unconditionally. And there’s no way that anyone – no matter how cute – will stand in my way. I smile sadly. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
Chapter Eighty
So, that was the end of the Great Stonehenge Escapade. Grant, Lard and Leo were bundled into the back of one of the police cars and were driven to the nearest nick.
Apparently their downfall was that they’d startled some Druids who were performing ancient rituals at dawn. Grant, Lard and Leo had dropped out of the sky about three feet in front of them, scaring them all to death. You would have thought Druids were made of sterner stuff. But no. They’d rushed off, gowns hitched up around their knees and had raised the alarm. Flying in the face of convention in this country, the police arrived pretty soon afterwards. If it had taken them the normal three days to turn up to an ‘incident’, then the three of them could have had it away on their toes and no one would have been any the wiser.
Except, of course, Grant, Lard and Leo were all captured in full glory on the gift shop’s closed-circuit television system during their breaking and entering phase. And, of course, they’d left Ethel in the car park for all to see. Not marvellous at covering their tracks then. Somehow Leo didn’t think they were cut out to be career burglars.
Now they were all in individual interview rooms, being ‘interviewed’. There was no good cop, bad cop thing going on; the officers were just all pretty grumpy with them. This was mainly because Leo and his compatriots had decided that they would stick to the truth. And in this case, the truth was decidedly stranger than any fiction.
Leo’s policeman, as he’d fondly come to think of him, was red and sweating in the face. He folded his arms. ‘Run this past me one more time.’
‘We were trying to get a sick fairy home.’
‘To the . . .’ the officer consulted his notes ‘. . . Land of Light.’ This was said with a degree of cynicism often found in members of the constabulary.
‘Yes.’ The policemen were struggling with this because although Leo, Grant and Lard had forced their way into the gift shop, they hadn’t actually stolen anything. Quite frankly, there wasn’t anything worth stealing – unless your heart’s desire was a Welcome to Stonehenge tea towel.
‘Have you recently taken any illegal substances?’
Leo sighed. ‘Not unless you count lavender poteen.’
‘Don’t get funny with me, sonny,’ the policeman warned.
Leo felt as if he had the worst possible case of jet lag. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep for a fortnight.
‘The Druids said that you fell out of the sky.’
‘Then perhaps you should ask them if they’ve been taking illegal substances too.’
‘You’re in very serious trouble, you know.’ The policeman was looking exceptionally cross now.
‘I’ll pay for any damage we’ve caused,’ Leo said. ‘I’m very sorry about it, but it was an emergency.’
‘What I want to know is, what were you doing there in the first place?’
‘Trying to get a sick fairy home,’ Leo and the policeman said in unison.
After three hours of interrogation and several cups of tea, the policemen decided that they had no option but to let them go. But not before exploring the possibility of getting them sectioned under the Mental Health Act for insanity and being a danger to the public at large. When they realised that wouldn’t stick, they charged them all with criminal damage and let them go.
Such was the British justice system that when their case eventually came to court – shortly before they were old and grey and this was all a distant memory that they’d laugh about from time to time – they’d probably get a few hours of community service and a fine, which, of course, they could all pay with ease because they were relatively rich. And they’d all have a criminal record to add to their CVs, which far from hindering their career prospects as Leo had first feared, the City being what it was, it would quite probably enhance them. In the meantime, Leo would send a large cheque to the powers-that-be at Stonehenge, so that they could repair th
e damage to their tacky gift shop. In all honesty, the three lads would probably have done them a favour if they’d smashed the lot up. Who in their right mind would want to take home a Stonehenge fridge magnet as a souvenir, or a lifelike plastic replica of the magnificent stones? Although there were some rather nice Stonehenge shot glasses that Leo wouldn’t have minded . . .
Then, he guessed, life would go on and the authorities would remain blissfully unaware of a fantastic opportunity to discover just how powerful the ancient monument in their keeping really was.
Grant, Lard and Leo met up by the front desk. They all looked as dishevelled as each other and just as exhausted. The police were already losing interest in them; it must have been time for their lunch-break. In step, the three miscreants plodded out into the car park.
‘Did they rough you up?’ Leo asked his partners in crime.
‘You watch too many cop shows, Leo,’ Grant told him with a world-weary huff.
‘You’re both okay though?’ Leo’s friends nodded at him. ‘Apart from a slight tug from the long arm of the law,’ he told them, ‘I think we could class that as a successful mission.’
Grant put his hand on Leo’s shoulder. ‘At least Isobel is safe now.’
Suddenly it was all too much. Leo sagged to his knees on the dirty grit of the car park and, for the first time in his life, cried openly and loudly while Grant and Lard held him. And Leo started to realise just how awful he really felt.
Chapter Eighty-One
My father and I have bought a fold-down single bed from eBay – a revelation of virtual shopping for my mystified parent, whose retail outlet of choice is either Harvey Nicks or Harrods. My brother-in-law, Awful Austin, collected it in his Transit van and delivered it to the house yesterday. Between us we wrestled the bed into the downstairs study for my mother. It’s still only a relatively short time after her stroke, but Catherine is making marvellous progress. Her balance still isn’t great, however, and we know that when she’s allowed to come home, the stairs might well be a problem for her to manoeuvre.
My father has cleared his study, packing away files and case studies with an air of finality. It’s the first time in my life that I have ever seen his desk completely free of paperwork. Having made the decision to take early retirement, it’s obvious to all that he now can’t wait to leave. He’s hired a cleaner too – a good one, it seems, as the place shines like a new pin.
My father sits down on the single bed which seems to take up much of the study.
‘I’m sure we could have squeezed a double in here,’ he says, rather optimistically.
‘Nonsense,’ I tell him. ‘You and Mummy would have had to climb over each other to get out. The idea is to make it easier for her.’
‘I know.’ My father’s voice wavers. ‘But we’ve spent so few nights apart during our marriage. It seems wrong to be sleeping in separate beds under the same roof.’
Sitting down next to him, I give him a hug. ‘I didn’t know you were such a soppy old thing.’ And it’s true, my mother’s illness has brought out a caring side to my father that I’ve rarely seen and it makes me realise that I don’t really know my parents as people. My relationship with them has been entirely based on how they’ve interacted with me. But then how many people are best friends with their parents?
My father smiles self-consciously. I never knew that the love between them was so tender and it makes me feel proud to be their daughter.
‘This won’t be for long.’ I cast a glance at the temporary bed. ‘You know what Mummy’s like. She’ll be defying medical science by running marathons next year.’
‘I do so hope that you’re right, darling.’ My father rubs the bridge of his nose. He’s barely slept since my mother has been in hospital and he hasn’t shaved as meticulously as he normally does – rushing home to perform small domestic tasks as quickly as possible, anxious not to be away from his wife’s bedside for too long – white bristles push through his pink skin and he’s nicked himself too many times. ‘I do miss her,’ he says, eyes brimming with tears.
I’ve never seen my father cry and that seems strange after thirty years in his company. I guess that he’s from the generation of men who perceive crying as a weakness. But he cries now, dabbing awkwardly at his tears with a cotton lawn handkerchief. ‘I have spent the latter part of my life trying to make already beautiful women even more perfect. And I wonder what the point of it all was. Your mother is very proud of her looks; she was always asking me to do little nips and tucks, but I never would. I never thought she needed them. Now I look at her, with her face all slack down one side, dribble coming from her mouth and her clumsy movements, and do you know, Emma . . .’ He takes my hand. ‘Catherine has never looked more beautiful to me.’
I feel the tears come to my eyes too.
‘Find someone to love like that, darling,’ he says with a sniff. ‘Even if it is that damn Leo.’
Chapter Eighty-Two
Leo called Emma as soon as he got home. Butterflies circled in his stomach and his mouth was dry. But on her home number, the wretched answerphone clicked in and Leo couldn’t bring himself to leave a message as he didn’t know what to say. He tried her mobile.
‘Hello.’
‘Emma. It’s Leo.’
The phone went dead. He pressed redial and tried again. ‘Emma?’
She hung up again. So he tried again and again and again, and every time he said, ‘Hello,’ Emma hung up. Though he didn’t actually know what he would have said if she had been willing to engage in conversation, come to think of it. Leo, having raided his stock of mobiles, put his phone back into his pocket and slumped onto the sofa.
The flat seemed weird. Empty. Having Isobel there had definitely left some sort of imprint on it. Everything had stopped looking so perky and had gone back to being normal furniture and fittings. Even the cushions seemed to have lost their oomph. He suspected that his mirrors wouldn’t talk to him any more. Maybe he’d up sticks and move. This place was starting to hold too many memories.
Grant came out of the kitchen bearing two mugs of tea. ‘Mate,’ he said, ‘you look wrecked.’
‘I’ve been calling Emma,’ Leo told him, ‘but she keeps hanging up on me.’ All he wanted to do was lie in a nice, long, hot bath and make the world go away, but this was important. Emma’s message had sounded urgent. He’d only been gone overnight, so hopefully he’d still be back in the nick of time to help out.
‘Why don’t you hit the sack for a while,’ his friend suggested. ‘After all that you’ve been through, you could do with a rest.’
Leo couldn’t argue with that. ‘I could try phoning her again.’ He ferreted for his phone.
‘You don’t look in any fit state to speak to her now.’
‘But she said she needed me.’
‘It seems that perhaps our dear Emma has already changed her mind about needing you,’ Grant pointed out. ‘You’d be no use to her in this state, anyway.’
‘I should go down to the gallery. See if she’s there.’
‘Hitting the sack would be your best idea. You look like you haven’t slept for a week.’
‘I need to see Emma,’ Leo insisted.
‘You’re hardly in a condition to present a rational argument,’ Grant said. ‘If you want her back, Leo, crashing in there looking like one of our homeless friends isn’t the best recipe for success. Let me go down there on my way into the office and see how the land lies. If she’s hanging up on you then she must have her reasons. I’ve got to talk to Caron too. I’m due to take her out for a wild night on the town. I’d hate to think that she’d been calling me while we were away for the night.’
Leo yawned, his eyelids grew heavy and his eyes rolled as sleep washed over him. He laid his head down on one of his subdued cushions. ‘I don’t want her to think that I don’t care,’ he mumbled. Because he did care, and Emma had to know that as soon as possible.
Chapter Eighty-Three
At Art For Art’s
Sake I’ve just taken delivery of the work for our latest exhibition. I’m busy unpacking cases and cases of delicate pottery painted with cartoon figures in strange sexual positions and scenes of mass torture in lurid colours. Truly the produce of a warped mind and I wonder which of our fabulously wealthy clients will be snapping these up. The ones with a total taste by-pass, I conclude. It’s making my eyes ache to look at them. Just the sort of thing I can imagine my parents having in their lounge. If they suddenly went insane, that is.
The majority of the wire-mesh torso sculptures have found new homes and have been shipped out by my ever-efficient friend, Caron, over the course of the last week. The rest are being packed and sent back to the artist, along with a cheque for his share of the loot. I think back to Rodin’s statue of The Kiss in the Tate Gallery. My mother’s right – that is art. Real proper art, with real proper people in it. Perhaps I should consider looking for a new job. Maybe I should consider a new life. Pack it all in and go to work in a scuba-diving centre in the Cayman Islands. I’m just arranging the new gallery layout and my new lifestyle when the door opens.
Grant stands there, looking sheepish.
I put down the pot I’m holding in case I’m tempted to throw it. A ten thousand pound temper tantrum is way beyond my meagre means – even to make a point. Then I’d be heading for the Cayman Islands out of necessity. Instead, for safety’s sake, I place my hands on my hips out of harm’s way. ‘Look who’s back from the dead,’ I say sarcastically.
‘Long time, no see.’ He gives me a small, uncertain wave and inches his way further into the gallery.
‘I take it that if you’ve turned up again – like the proverbial bad penny – then it means that Leo is back in circulation too.’