Still, she told herself, perhaps it was time to move on? As hard as it had been, this trip to LA had taught Kendall a lot of things. It had taught her you could never go back. The days when Jack Messenger had been her world and Lex Abrahams her rock were gone now, gone for ever. So was her close relationship with her mother and siblings. Kendall had made her choices and carved out her own path. Her only option now was to walk it.
Pulling the blanket more tightly around her shoulders, she slipped in her earplugs and pulled on her eye mask. Eventually she fell into a fitful sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
St Peter’s Church in Upper Slaughter is widely considered one of the most beautiful in the Cotswolds. Built in the twelfth century of the same crumbling, lichened-grey stone that built the surrounding cottages and manor house, its small interior is packed with treasures from the past. Medieval tombs of knights and their ladies, brass memorials to local landowners or benefactors, some dating back to the 1300s yet all beautifully preserved. From the hand-carved, ivory lectern to the 700-year-old bell tower with its swinging ropes hanging down like rainbow-tipped bulrushes, everything about St Peter’s spoke of the care and love of countless generations of villagers.
Walking down the nave with her Nikon camera slung around her neck, Catriona Charles was bowled over by the beauty of the place, the palpable sense of peace that hung in the air like incense. Unfortunately she was also bowled over by a chronic hangover, the kind that made it difficult to move or even breathe without succumbing to hideous nausea.
Needless to say, as she knocked back an endless stream of gin and tonics last night, she’d completely forgotten about today’s assignment to photograph the church for the parish’s 900-year celebrations. When Reverend Timson had telephoned her at nine o’clock this morning to ask her to bring some extra lighting, Catriona answered the phone with a brusque, ‘Whoever you are, piss off’, then had to pretend it was a wrong number when the reverend called back later.
I must stop drinking, she thought glumly as she struggled to fix a temporary spotlight onto one of the stone saints above the side chapel. They didn’t call gin ‘mothers’ ruin’ for nothing. If she carried on at this rate, she’d ruin her business, such as it was. She’d already ruined her figure. This morning, staggering out of the shower, she’d counted four rolls of fat – four – on her belly, and been utterly horrified by the cellulite wasteland that was her arse. Her thighs looked like a pair of barrage balloons stuffed with lumpy porridge, and the hairy, formless calves underneath them weren’t much better. A few more months and she’d have ‘cankles’, a condition Catriona only knew about from reading Rosie’s old copies of Heat magazine, something else she needed to give up.
Her one consolation was that it was September at last, which meant a legitimate return to gardening cords and baggy, shapeless sweaters that hid a multitude of sins. Thank God the summer was finally over. What a nightmare it had been. As so often these days, it had been Hector who’d got the ball rolling with his arrest in Oxford back in June. Catriona’s hope that a night in the cells might provide the short, sharp shock her thirteen-year-old son so badly needed proved to be ill-founded. She’d turned up at the magistrates’ court to find a cheerily unrepentant Hector delighting in the flurry of media attention he’d caused by writing ‘IVAN CHARLES IS A SAD WANKER’ on the hallowed walls of Oxford’s most beautiful medieval library.
‘The Daily Mail said they’d pay me two hundred quid to talk about what a crap father Dad is,’ Hector told Catriona happily as they drove home after his ‘official warning’. ‘I’m going to ring up the Sun and see if they’ll give me more.’
‘You’re going to do no such thing,’ said Catriona furiously. ‘And any money you do have, saved or otherwise, I’m confiscating until I know you can be trusted with it.’
‘You can’t do that! That’s stealing,’ said Hector. ‘That’s against the law.’
‘Oh, an expert on the law, are we now? And what do you call vandalism and fighting with a police officer, may I ask? You’re the one who’s just been had up in court, Hector. Never mind Dad’s behaviour, what about yours? You’re turning into a yob.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s better than turning into a lush,’ Hector shot back. ‘You only want my money so you can spend it on booze.’
Catriona had kept her cool and driven home in silence, sending Hector up to his room and ignoring his bellows of protest as she seized his PlayStation, Nintendo DS and two packets of Benson & Hedges from his sock drawer. ‘You’ve made life miserable for everybody else,’ she said firmly. ‘Now you can bloody well see what it feels like.’
By supper time a grudging ceasefire had been reached between them, and Hector agreed to join his mother and sister for shepherd’s pie and summer pudding. Unfortunately Ivan picked this exact moment to call and ‘see how things were going’. Grabbing the phone, Hector had literally screamed at his father never, ever to contact him again and poor Rosie had fled the kitchen in tears.
Undeterred, Ivan had called back repeatedly over the next few days, offering whatever support he could to Hector and, when Hector wouldn’t speak to him, to Cat. Clearly he felt helpless, being so far away, and stung by his son’s rejection. Catriona almost felt sorry for him. It was the first time since the divorce that she’d seen Ivan make any real effort to try and put things right with Hector, and she’d allowed herself to hope that perhaps a breakthrough might ultimately be possible. But then bloody Kendall Bryce went and got herself pictured romping with an old flame in LA, and Ivan scuttled back to her like a spider to its hole, dropping the kids yet again like two hot potatoes. They were back to square one.
From that point on, the summer went from bad to worse. Ivan and Kendall, reunited and very publicly back in love, were never out of the papers. Being force-fed a diet of Kendall’s perfect, pert, twenty-five-year-old body, draped over Ivan in a series of barely-there bikinis, didn’t do wonders for Catriona’s self-esteem. In August, Rosie had joined the two of them in St Tropez and Cat had to endure coverage of Kendall in the same minuscule bikinis, bonding with her daughter. Even that might have been bearable, had Hector gone too and given her a few weeks’ precious peace, but of course he’d stayed at home in Burford, polishing up his bid for a place in the 2012 Olympic sulking squad. Was it really any wonder that Catriona had turned to drink?
‘Ah, there you are, my dear, marvellous, marvellous.’ Reverend Timson, a nervous mouse of a man with a bald pate so shiny you could see your face in it and delicate, veiny hands that jumped around like a puppet’s whenever he spoke, scurried up to Catriona. ‘How are things coming along? Are you almost finished with the pictures?’
‘Er … not quite,’ said Catriona, who had yet to take a single shot. Everything took longer through her hangover fog, and she had to sit down every few minutes and put her head between her knees so as not to be sick.
‘Righto,’ said the reverend, apparently not hearing her negative response. ‘Marvellous. Because I was going to ask you if you’d pop over to the almshouses with me afterwards and take some portrait shots of the ladies who do the flowers? They’re terribly kind, our flower ladies, and I know they’d want to be a part of St Nicholas’s nine hundredth, you know. Nine hundredth! Goodness gracious. It’s a long time, isn’t it, eh? A long time.’
Not as long a time as this job is going to take me if you don’t bugger off and let me get on with it, thought Catriona unchar-itably. Reverend Timson’s ceaseless chatter was like having a tiny woodpecker lodged inside her skull. She would cheerfully have sold her soul for two Alka-Seltzers and a soft bed.
‘I’ll probably need another hour in the church at least,’ she mumbled apologetically. ‘The exterior shots shouldn’t take as long. But it’s worth getting it … right.’ At the last word, she covered her mouth with her hand. The nausea had come out of nowhere, but she was suddenly very afraid she might throw up all over the tomb of the Delaney family.
‘Are you quite all right, my dear?’ asked the v
icar. ‘You don’t look terribly well.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Catriona, darting for the door. ‘I just need to get a … tripod … from the car.’
Two hours later, Catriona drove home feeling lower than she had in weeks. Being sick in the bushes beside her car was beyond shaming. She was sure the flower ladies must have smelled it on her breath, or picked up what a state she was in from her matted, sweaty hair and generally dishevelled appearance. How could she come to such a beautiful, sacred place on such a glorious day and stagger around like a drunken teenager?
Back home, she was relieved to find that both the children were out. Running upstairs to the bathroom, she was sick again. Then she stripped off her clothes and plunged under a cold shower, gasping for breath as the icy jets stung her skin back to life. She cleaned her teeth twice, put on a clean T-shirt and baggy sweatpants, and finally downed the Alka-Seltzer she’d been dreaming of all day before collapsing on the bed. Grabbing last month’s Red magazine, she turned to the advertisement in the back she’d noticed a few weeks ago and, with a shaking hand, dialled the number.
‘Hello? Is that the women’s alcohol helpline?’
‘Mum? What are you doing?’
Catriona dropped the phone like a lump of hot coal. Rosie, looking flushed and happy in grass-stained jodhpurs and a Ned Williams UK Tour T-shirt, stood hovering in the doorway.
‘I thought you had a job today?’
‘I did,’ said Catriona, feeling faint with relief that Rosie hadn’t heard who she was calling. ‘I just got back. How was school?’
‘Fine. Oh, the school secretary from Burford High rang again. Hector didn’t show up to class today. Surprise, surprise.’
Catriona sighed. ‘OK.’ Closing her eyes, she lay back on the pillow. She truly didn’t have the energy for another battle with Hector today. Perhaps it was time to give up on school, stop his allowance money and make him get a Saturday job?
‘You look tired, Mum,’ said Rosie, drawing the bedroom curtains. ‘Have a rest. I’ll come and wake you up at suppertime. I’m sure Hector’ll be back by then.’
Ivan sat in the editing booth, headphones over his ears, nodding encouragement at Kendall. Not that she needed it. Standing barefoot in the studio, looking tiny in her favourite Hudson jeans and a plain white T-shirt, with her hair pulled back off her face in a messy bun, she was belting out the title track of her soon-to-be-released album Flame as if she were singing live at the O2. Even after all this time, it astonished Ivan to hear that deep, powerful voice surging out of Kendall’s doll-like frame. If this album bombed, it wouldn’t be for lack of vocal talent.
But it wouldn’t bomb. With the dark days of the summer and last year’s lacklustre sales behind them, Ivan had moved mountains to prove to Kendall that she was his priority, and to Polydor that if they wanted to see a return on their forty-million-dollar investment, they needed to start thinking strategically about promotion. With all twelve of the album tracks now laid down, and four singles chosen, the only production work left to do was the remixes. Ivan had come up with the inspired idea of a duet with Ava Bentley.
‘It’s perfect,’ he told Kendall. ‘You have the brand and the international profile. She’s fresh, with a big likeability factor. Plus Talent Quest has over twelve million viewers. If even a fraction of those buy the duet single, it’ll have a major knock-on effect for your overall album sales. And the press’ll be insane.’
Slightly to his surprise, given Kendall’s furious jealousy and resentment about Ava all year, she hadn’t needed much persuasion. ‘It’s a good idea,’ she told him. ‘Just as long as you don’t turn into Ava’s babysitter when we come to promote it. You’re my manager, not hers.’
To his even greater surprise, when Ivan sneaked a terrified Ava into the Soho Recording Studios after Talent Quest rehearsals wrapped – contestants were strictly forbidden to make any recordings or enter into any commercial deals until the show was over – Kendall actually seemed to like her, wrapping an arm around the teenager’s quaking shoulders as she led her to the mic, patiently waiting for Ava to get her confidence back after each fluffed cue or missed note.
‘She’s sweet,’ Kendall told Ivan during a snack break, once Ava had disappeared to the loo. ‘I think she’s kinda star-struck.’
‘Why wouldn’t she be?’ said Ivan, slipping a hand beneath Kendall’s T-shirt and up her bare back. ‘You’re already a legend. When this album drops you’re gonna be even bigger. Right now, Ava’s just a kid from Yorkshire.’
While Kendall finished her vocals on the other side of the glass, Ava came and sat with Ivan in the mixing booth. ‘I took another packet of crisps from the kitchen,’ she said shyly. ‘I hope that’s all right.’ In a floor-length white cotton skirt from Matalan and a flowery, long-sleeved Miss Selfridge blouse, she looked far younger than her seventeen years, and as timid as a little vole.
‘Of course it’s all right,’ said Ivan. ‘You must be starving.’
He’d whisked her away from the ITV studios so fast there’d been no time for lunch. It was a bold move, bringing Ava here to record with Kendall, but if anyone had seen them, Ivan figured he could easily cover his tracks. He’d brought Ava along as a friend, to watch Kendall at work. It wasn’t as if a deal had been signed for these duets, or any money had changed hands. No one need know that the two girls had actually sung together.
‘She’s amazing, isn’t she?’ said Ava, gazing at Kendall through the glass.
‘She is,’ said Ivan, truthfully. Since Kendall’s return from LA in a blaze of publicity, things had been going better between them. Sexually the relationship had been great before, but Kendall’s ‘dalliance’ with Lex had reawakened Ivan’s jealousy, and now their love life was more explosive than ever. Between recording sessions, Ivan had taken her away on the mini-break she’d been angling for for months, stocking up on an array of lavishly inventive sex toys in Soho the day before. For forty-eight hours, he and Kendall had remained locked in their suite at the Hampshire Four Seasons while Ivan filmed them indulging in every sexual fantasy either of them could imagine. When they’d finally staggered down to breakfast on day three, dishevelled and flushed and still reeking of sex, families seated nearby glared disapprovingly and ushered their children to the other side of the restaurant.
Things were better on the home front too. Kendall, less tense now that Ivan had wangled a decent publicity and promotion spend out of Polydor for her new album, agreed to go down to St Tropez with Rosie for a few days in the summer. She combined the trip with work, promoting her album Flame on NRJ, the local radio station and recording an interview for Canal Plus. But she also made a real effort to connect with Rosie, taking her on endless shopping and beach trips, forcing Ivan to let her try the jet skis, much to Ivan’s paternal panic and Rosie’s teenage delight. For the first time, Ivan began to imagine the possibility of a proper future with Kendall. Perhaps somewhere between all the tours and promotion and parties and TV shows, they could forge a real life together?
There were still plenty of obstacles to such a scenario, not least of them Hector, whose fury after Ivan and Kendall got back together in June seemed to have grown exponentially. It had reached the point where he refused to speak to his sister for more than a month, just because Rosie had committed the crime of going on holiday with her father. As good as things were with Kendall, Ivan still felt immense guilt about the divorce. When he thought about Hector as a little boy, how sweet and loving he’d been, Ivan’s adoring shadow, it brought tears to his eyes. If Ivan ever married Kendall, that little boy would be lost to him for ever.
A car arrived to pick up Ava and take her back to the hotel where she and the other Talent Quest contestants were staying. Kendall finished the last tweaks to her vocals and slipped off her headphones, smiling at Ivan for approval.
‘Brilliant,’ he mouthed through the glass then, looking at his watch, added, ‘drink?’
They had dinner with Polydor’s CEO tonight at Zuma. If he w
ere lucky, and Kendall’s good mood held, Ivan just about had time to loosen her up with a couple of vodkas then take her back home for some sex beforehand. The thought of Kendall’s beautiful, full round breasts filling his hands, and her back arching with pleasure as he fucked her from behind, pushed all other thoughts out of Ivan’s mind. It was time to go.
Rosie woke her mother at seven o’clock for supper. Hector still wasn’t home.
‘He probably went over to Harry’s to play Warcraft,’ said Rosie, scooping deliciously stodgy pasta in cheese sauce onto Catriona’s plate. ‘Maybe he ate there.’
‘Maybe,’ said Catriona. She’d reached the point in her hangover where she felt ravenously hungry, and gratefully wolfed down two helpings of Rosie’s pasta before she thought much more about it. It was only as she cleared away and began loading the dishwasher that she thought perhaps she ought to call Harry’s mother over in Little Barrington.
‘Hector? No, he hasn’t been here. Harry did mention he wasn’t at school, though.’
At this point it surprised Catriona that Hector’s friends still felt his truancy worth mentioning. It would be bigger news if Hector had been at school. Still, it was unlike him not to come home in the afternoons, led by his stomach if nothing else, and a desire to spend as much time as possible locked in his room, glued to Facebook. If he did have plans, he always called.
She tried his mobile, but it was switched off. This in itself wasn’t unusual. He was always forgetting to charge the thing and running out of batteries. Even so, Catriona felt uneasy. She called more of his friends, working her way down the school contact list, her anxiety growing with each conversation. No, they hadn’t seen Hector. No, he hadn’t mentioned any particular plans tonight. Eventually it emerged that none of the Burford High kids had even seen him at the bus stop that morning, or smoking outside the gates before school. It was as if he’d walked out of the house that morning and vanished.