Friends & Rivals

  ‘Why don’t you lie down on the sofa and I’ll fetch you a pillow.’

  ‘I don’t want to lie down on the sofa!’ she said crossly. ‘What are you doing here, Ivan? You can’t just turn up willy-nilly whenever you feel like it and let yourself into my house. Are you drunk?’

  ‘No.’ He looked offended. ‘I don’t drink any more. I’ve given it up.’

  ‘Oh.’ This took Catriona by surprise. ‘Have you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ivan indignantly. ‘And you needn’t look so astonished. You’re not the only person with willpower you know.’

  ‘Fine. So why are you here then?’ She did her best to look stern and in control, not an easy look with a packet of frozen vegetables slowly thawing on top of one’s head.

  ‘I needed to see you,’ said Ivan. ‘I know I should have called first but I was scared you’d tell me to sod off.’

  ‘I probably would have.’

  ‘Exactly. Please go and lie down and let me bring you a cushion or something. I can see that lump from here.’ He grinned. ‘You look like Tom after Jerry’s just hit him over the head with an anvil.’

  Catriona hesitated, but eventually did as he asked. She was starting to feel dizzy anyway. Ivan ran upstairs and returned with a pillow and a blanket. Gently arranging the frozen bag behind her head, he tucked her in, returning moments later with a mug of hot, sweet tea.

  ‘It’s good after a shock,’ he said.

  ‘I haven’t had a shock,’ said Catriona. Although she had an unpleasant feeling she was about to. She wondered what could possibly be going to happen next; why after six weeks of silence he’d bothered to drive all the way down here. Perhaps Kendall was pregnant? With sextuplets? Who’d all be given names beginning with K and who were already represented by Max Clifford? At this point, nothing would surprise her. So, she wondered, why did she feel so nervous? ‘What’s this all about, Ivan?’

  He sighed, pacing round the room like a man awaiting judgement. Just being here, in this room, felt wildly nostalgic. In one corner, a seven-foot Christmas tree was hung with all the gaudy decorations from the old days. There was the papier-mâché angel that Rosie had brought home from school aged six, and the stuffed felt Father Christmas (affectionately known in the family as ‘death’s-head Santa’ because it looked like some hideously sinister voodoo object) that Hector had spent an entire term producing in his first year at St Edmond’s. On top of the tree was the same moth-eaten feather angel they’d used every year since they were married. Ivan could remember going to buy it at a long-since-closed department store on Fulham Broadway, how excited he and Cat had both been at the prospect of their first Christmas as man and wife, and how Cat had covered every inch of their grotty basement flat in holly and tinsel till it looked as though one of Santa’s elves had broken in and thrown up. What a long time ago it all seemed now.

  ‘It’s over with Kendall.’

  The words hung in the air between them. Ivan waited for Catriona to respond but she said nothing, lying stock-still, like a shell-shock victim waiting for the next bomb to go off.

  ‘There’s no drama. It was a mutual thing. We both agreed on it tonight.’

  ‘You were at a party.’ Catriona stared at his dinner jacket. It was a stupid thing to say, utterly pointless and irrelevant, but for some reason those were the words that came out of her mouth.

  ‘Yeah, an awards thing at The Apollo. Kendall was up for Best Female Vocalist. She won it by a mile.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Catriona said mindlessly.

  ‘She’s odds-on favourite for Christmas number one, too. Once that happens we can write our own cheque for her next record deal. I’ll easily clear enough to buy back The Rookery.’

  ‘Buy back The Rookery?’ Catriona frowned, as if trying to work out some particularly difficult crossword clue. But that was how it felt. What on earth was Ivan talking about? Christmas singles and awards and buying back their old house. None of it made a shred of sense. ‘Why would you want to do that? Is it even for sale?’

  ‘Everything’s for sale at the right price,’ said Ivan. For a moment, Catriona wondered whether he mentally included her in that sweeping statement.

  Sitting down on the edge of the sofa, Ivan took her hand. ‘Listen, Cat, I’ve been an idiot. I made a huge mistake. The biggest. But it’s not Kendall I love. It’s you.’

  ‘Me?’ Unthinking, Cat burst into laughter. ‘Oh, no, no, no. Noooooo.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ivan, deadly serious. ‘I love you, Cat. I always have. And I want you back. I want our old life back – you, me, the kids, our house. I’ve missed you so much.’

  Leaning down, he kissed her, so suddenly that Cat didn’t have a chance to jerk her head away. It was a bizarre sensation, feeling his lips on hers: strange and yet at the same time totally familiar, like slipping on a comfortable old sweater that you unexpectedly find stuffed down the back of the wardrobe after five years.

  ‘I love you.’ He was whispering in her ear, his hands slowly sliding down her body, caressing the fabric of her new Diane von Furstenberg dress, an early Christmas present from the ever-faithful Ned Williams. It was only then that Catriona belatedly came to her senses.

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’ she asked, pushing him firmly away. ‘You have a row with Kendall, so you think you can drive up here to see me and just, what? Pick up where we left off?’

  ‘No.’ Ivan sat up, running a hand through his hair. ‘Of course not. I mean, not right away …’

  ‘Not right away?’ echoed Catriona.

  ‘Look, it was more than just a tiff with Kendall. Much more. We’re finished, OK, we’ve been finished for ages.’

  ‘So you thought you’d buy back our old house and move us in and we’d all start playing happy families again?’ Cat asked incredulously.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Ivan. ‘It’s better than playing broken families, isn’t it? Admit it. There’s a part of you that still loves me. I know there is.’

  There were tears in his eyes. She knew she shouldn’t, but Cat found herself feeling immensely sorry for him. In one way, of course, he was right. There was a part of her that still loved him. That would always love him. He was her first love, her husband and the father of her children. Nothing could change that. But the naiveté of thinking one could just go back, after everything that had happened. Rewind the clock … it was heartbreaking. Almost endearing, in a way.

  ‘Look. You can stay here tonight,’ she said kindly. Then, seeing Ivan’s countenance brighten, clarified quickly ‘in the spare room.’

  Ivan nodded. ‘Of course. Thanks.’

  ‘We’ll talk more in the morning, if you want to. It sounds as if we’ve both had more than enough drama for one night.’

  Ivan hesitated. He desperately wanted to talk more now, to batter Catriona into submission the way that he used to, the way that he knew he still could if given half a chance. She did still love him, whatever she said. He’d felt it in the days leading up to his wedding, and in countless little affectionate exchanges since. But it wouldn’t do to scare her off too soon. Naturally she wanted him to prove himself, to show that he was serious this time; that it really was over with Kendall.

  ‘You’re right, as usual,’ he said, standing up and yawning. ‘We should talk tomorrow. Here.’ He held out his hand. ‘Let me help you upstairs.’

  Ten minutes later, alone in her own bed but twitchingly aware of Ivan’s presence down the hall, Catriona tried to untangle her raging emotions. There were so many. Nostalgia. Anxiety. Fear. Anger. Although it shamed her to admit it, there was part of her that felt flattered by Ivan’s overtures. Another, more worrying part, did wonder what it might be like to be part of a family again, living at The Rookery, reconnecting with all their old friends as a couple, as if the past few dreadful years had been nothing more than a bad dream. Was she pleased that he and Kendall had broken up? There was a time when she would have been. Now she felt little more than a weary numbness. And something else: pity. Perhaps com
passion might be a kinder word. She cared about Ivan, about his feelings, despite it all. If tonight’s awkward encounter turned out to be the first step in a more genuine and long-lasting friendship between them, surely that must be a good thing?

  Down the hall, Ivan was having thoughts of a more practical nature.

  He wouldn’t announce his and Kendall’s separation publicly till after Christmas. She – they – needed that number one if she was going to sign the fat new deal that would set his finances back in order, and enable him to buy back The Rookery. Cat couldn’t see it now, because it felt like a pipe dream. But once he took her hand and led her back into that beautiful house, the once happy home that they had built together; and once he showed her how happy he was going to make her again, he felt sure Catriona would want a reconciliation as much as he did.

  We were meant to be together, he thought happily, drifting off beneath Cat’s freshly laundered, lavender-scented sheets. He was home again at last.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Jack Messenger wandered through the second floor at Fortnum & Mason’s, admiring the decorations. This year his favourite London department store had gone for a ‘Victorian Christmas’ theme, complete with miniature trees in the windows hung with clove-stuck oranges and a wonderfully intricate hand-painted mural of skaters on the frozen Thames. When Sonya was alive she used to love coming to London or New York for pre-Christmas shopping. LA was beautiful, but there was something about palm trees and sunshine that never felt quite right during the holidays, however brightly dressed and be-ribboned they may be. Walking among the papier-mâché robins, complete with real feathers, and the delicately carved and painted wooden reindeer, Jack missed her. He always missed her, although it was no longer with the furious, raging pain of his early years as a widower. It was more of a dull ache, a flicker of sadness, like a passing storm cloud, but tinged lately with the silver lining of nostalgia. Fortnum’s held many happy memories.

  Idly he picked up one of the robins and a stack of pretty Medici cards. It was rare for him to have an afternoon off, and he intended to make the most of it, stocking up on British goodies to take back with him to LA. Lisa Marie had gone back last night. She’d told him before the London trip, in the kindest possible way, that she’d started seeing somebody else, and she’d gone back home to be with him.

  ‘I adore you, Jack, you know that. And I really hope you still wanna work with me. But I’m thirty-eight and I want to have kids. We always knew it couldn’t last for ever.’

  If only more women were like Lisa Marie. So straightforward and uncomplicated and civilized. He assured her that her job at JSM would be there for as long as she wanted it, as would his friendship. Slightly to his surprise, they’d spent a couple of nights together since they got to London, a sort of farewell to their affair that Jack had thoroughly enjoyed. Nevertheless, he was relieved when she flew back to join her new beau for the holidays, and felt a renewed sense of freedom this afternoon as he strolled the brightly lit streets alone.

  ‘Jack.’

  He spun around. Looking tinier than usual in a pair of tight black corduroy pants and a jade-green polo-neck sweater that clung to her matchstick-like arms, Kendall Bryce smiled up at him. It was the smile, more than the coincidence of running into her, that threw him. He found himself blushing and stammering like a schoolboy.

  ‘K … Kendall. Wow. This is a surprise. Small world.’

  ‘Actually the world’s pretty big. If you’d stuck to your side of it I doubt we’d have run into each other. But … here we are.’ Her smile broke into a grin. He was relieved to see she was joking. I guess she can afford to be magnanimous, now that Ava’s crashing and burning in the press here and she’s a shoo-in for number one. ‘How are you?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘I’m OK, I guess.’ He contemplated making a snide remark about the way she and Ivan had bad-mouthed Ava, but nobody liked a sore loser. If Kendall was prepared to bury the hatchet, with Ava’s competing single being officially released tomorrow, the least he could do was return the favour. ‘I’m surprised you aren’t out on the PR treadmill, this close to the big day.’

  ‘You too,’ said Kendall. ‘I heard Ava on Capital Radio in the cab on my way over here. Didn’t she want her hand held?’

  ‘Lex is with her,’ said Jack. Was it his imagination, or did Kendall’s face just fall? ‘Look, if you’re really not busy, d’you want to go and grab a coffee?’

  Kendall cocked her head to one side suspiciously. Last time she’d seen Jack he hadn’t exactly been in a coffee-buying mood. At least not towards her. ‘Really?’

  ‘Only if you want to.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ she said quickly. ‘We’d better go somewhere private, though. If anyone got a picture of the two of us talking, it’d seriously set the cat amongst the pigeons.’

  ‘You’re the Londoner,’ said Jack, putting back the Christmas cards. ‘Any suggestions?’

  Ten minutes later, they were sitting at the back of a nondescript Italian café a stone’s throw from The Berkeley.

  ‘They do an amazing coffee cake here,’ said Kendall, sitting down at a table in the back facing away from other cust-omers. ‘And mince pies, but with Amaretto butter instead of brandy.’

  ‘You like those things?’ Jack made a face as if she’d just suggested he order a dog-shit sandwich.

  Kendall laughed. ‘I do actually. They’re an acquired taste.’

  She ordered one, along with a pot of delicious freshly ground Italian coffee for two. Watching her bite into the warm pastry, Jack said, ‘From the look of you that’s more calories than you’ve eaten in the last month. You’re skin and bone.’

  It was the sort of thing he used to say to her in the old days, like a nagging father always worrying about her health. Back then it used to bug her, being treated like a child. Now it felt nice, having someone care enough to notice.

  ‘I eat,’ she assured him through a mouthful of crumbs. As if to prove a point, she scooped up a spoonful of Amaretto butter from the whipped heap on the side of the plate and devoured it greedily. ‘This is not starvation. It’s stress.’

  It was a surprisingly honest comment, under the circumstances. Jack responded in kind.

  ‘I don’t think you have too much to worry about. You’re number one right now. Great song, by the way.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kendall. ‘Sweet Dreamer’, her Christmas offering, was a soulful, nostalgic melody with lyrics about separated lovers who rediscover each other at Christmas. It wasn’t exactly risky, but it was a strong commercial track with just the right degree of festive schmaltz to hook those elusive seasonal record buyers.

  ‘All you have to do is hang in there for another week,’ said Jack. ‘If the bookies know what they’re talking about, you have this thing in the bag.’

  ‘A week’s a long time in pop,’ said Kendall philosophically. ‘And they haven’t heard Ava’s single yet. Plus, this is Britain. They love an underdog here. Right now Ava’s the underdog.’

  ‘Thanks to your husband,’ said Jack. He hadn’t intended to say it. The words just slipped out. But to his surprise, Kendall didn’t seem angry at the mention of Ivan, just sad. She pushed away the last bite of her mince pie and stared down at the table, fighting back tears.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ asked Jack.

  She looked up at him and shook her head. Without thinking, Jack reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Kendall?’

  It was the hand-squeeze that did it. Out of nowhere, the floodgates opened, and Kendall found herself pouring her heart out to Jack. She told him everything. How things had started to go wrong with Ivan very quickly after they married. How he’d started to drink, and only stopped after that awful night at The 100 Club when she’d fallen and badly cut her face. How since then they’d tried to go on, but after last week’s awards ceremony they’d both realized that whatever love there might once have been between them had gone.

  ‘There’s no bitterness. No anger.’ She d
abbed at her eyes with a butter-smeared paper napkin. ‘In fact, weirdly, since we decided to split, things have been better than ever between us. I thought it might be difficult, putting on a front until after Christmas. But you wouldn’t believe how thoughtful and considerate he’s being.’

  ‘After physically assaulting you?’ seethed Jack. ‘Sure I would. He’s probably terrified you’ll report him to the police. Or, worse from his point of view, the tabloids. Why the hell didn’t you?’

  Kendall looked him straight in the eye. ‘Same reason we aren’t divorcing tomorrow. Because we needed a united front to see off the threat from Ava.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jack awkwardly.

  ‘Also, it was an accident. He didn’t actually mean for me to fall. You must promise you won’t say anything. Not about that, or us splitting up, or any of it. I told you as a friend.’

  ‘I know,’ said Jack hesitantly. ‘And I appreciate it. But—’

  ‘No buts,’ said Kendall, slightly hysterically. ‘You have to promise. It’s not as if you’re blameless in all this, Jack. You bringing Ava back here was what tipped Ivan over the edge with his drinking in the first place.’

  Jack’s eyes widened. ‘You’re saying it’s my fault the bastard hit you?’

  ‘No,’ Kendall sighed. ‘Of course not. And he didn’t hit me. He pushed me.’ She was already starting to regret telling him. But it was hard not to open up to Jack, especially when he was being so kind to her again after so long. ‘You’re focusing too much on one incident. The point isn’t what happened at the club that night, it’s that we never really loved each other in the first place.’

  Now this really was an admission. In Jack’s humble opinion it called for something stronger than coffee. He ordered a bottle of Sangiovese, then another. Afternoon turned into night. Coffee and cakes were replaced by insalata mista and cioppino with crusty bread and olives while Kendall talked him through the last five years as they’d looked from her perspective.

  ‘I was in love with you, you know,’ she announced, somewhere between her third and fourth glass of red and with the warm soup and bread sitting heavy in her stomach. ‘I can tell you that now ’cause it’s not true any more. But at the time I was – and I felt – rejected. You saw me as a child.’