Her son came in to stop further questioning. “That’s all Gaby knows. So we’re all up to date. And I think it’ll be a relief all round if we now moved on to talk about more pleasant things.”
Though frustrated in her further researches, Carole was impressed by how masterful Stephen could be. Masterful and protective. The look of gratitude that Gaby flashed at him augured well for their life together. He showed a sensitivity to his fiancée’s needs that Carole would never have suspected he had in his nature.
The thought inevitably reminded her of David’s presence. Here they were, a family group, mother and father, son, son’s fiancée – it should all have been so normal. Talk of weddings, talk of the future, and the unspoken thought of the family developing into another generation. Yet to Carole it all felt uncomfortably abnormal.
But the engaged couple, the people who mattered, did not seem aware of any unease. Having got the distasteful topic of the evening out of the way, they did as Stephen had suggested, and talked about more pleasant things. These mostly concerned their wedding plans, their invitation list, the friends Carole and David had yet to meet, the ‘characters’ from their separate work environments. Gaby’s theatrical connections promised a lively group of party-goers, and even Stephen’s professional colleagues sounded quite a jolly bunch. (Carole could not repress the mental ‘even’. Whatever it was that her son did, she somehow hadn’t expected his colleagues to be amongst the sparkiest of individuals. Prejudice again.)
Stephen and Gaby also talked further about their house purchase plans. They still seemed to want to move south. When Carole had first met them together, they had come down to the Hopwicke Country House Hotel to check out the local property scene, and their intentions had not changed. A large house near the South Coast remained their ambition. Feasibility of commuting might put them nearer Brighton than Fethering, but the likelihood remained that Carole would have them as relative neighbours. For her, the attractiveness of this situation was tempered by the knowledge that it would also bring David close to her on a regular basis.
She really did want to make the evening a success, and it was, but she still could not relax in her ex-husband’s presence. Maybe constant encounters would dilute her distaste for him, but she didn’t feeloptimistic. There was too much history, too many spoken – and, even worse, unspoken – resentments between them.
She could not understand why David himself was so relaxed. Surely he was feeling the same tension that she was? But if so, he was disguising the fact well. He seemed very at ease, drinking too much certainly, but exchanging badinage with the padrone, even telling bad jokes to Stephen and Gaby, entering into the spirit of the occasion in his habitually inept, hesitant way. Maybe, thought Carole coldly, David really believes that we have achieved that goal so desired by all divorced couples – ‘a civilized relationship’, in which they can meet up socially without rancour. Well, he might have attained that plateau; Carole couldn’t see herself making it until – various formulae of words involving ‘hell’ and ‘freezing over’ came to her mind.
At the end of the dinner there was an elaborate routine between David and the padrone (whom he insisted on calling padrone) about sambucas ‘on the house’. The narrow glasses with the colourless liqueur and coffee bean were brought forth and ceremoniously ignited, and there was much comment from David about the blue flame. He even, ill-advisedly, tried to express his gratitude to the padrone in Italian.
The winding-down of the evening was far too extended for Carole’s taste. Wasn’t he ever going to ask for the bill? She kept sneaking glances at her watch, assessing the tube journey between Swiss Cottage and Victoria, along with the limited timetable of trains to Fethering. It was a huge relief when Stephen suggested giving her a lift. He was going to take Gaby to her flat in Pimlico. Victoria was virtually on their way.
Finally, they were standing up. Carole submitted to a slobbery kiss from her ex-husband, and smiled noncommittally at his hope ‘that this will be the first of many such evenings’.
Once inside Stephen’s ultra-comfortable BMW, she had two predominant emotions. First, massive relief that the evening was over. And, second, deep guilt for the ungracious thoughts which had filled her mind throughout it.
Because of the vagaries of the SouthCentral timetable, to avoid Carole having a half-hour wait in the inhospitable wastes of Victoria Station, Stephen decided he would drop Gaby at her flat first, take his mother to catch her train and then return to Pimlico. There had been an unspoken sexual semaphore between the couple all evening, and as soon as they were alone together, Carole felt sure they’d be in bed. She found the thought rather heart-warming. She certainly felt no jealousy. An evening in the company of her ex-husband had proved a powerful anti-aphrodisiac. The thought that Carole Seddon might ever again entertain desire for another human being seemed unlikely. And yet her mind could not erase the unwelcome sexual frisson she had felt for David at the hotel in Harlow.
Never having been there, Carole was curious to seewhere her future daughter-in-law lived. She’d just missed a train and at that time of night there was only an hourly train service to Fethering, so there was going to be time for a ‘quick cup of coffee’. Carole also wondered whether she was about to meet Gaby’s flatmate, the actress Jenny.
It was a road of early nineteenth-century terraced houses, well-proportioned with tall windows. All were iced with white paint, and fronted by shining black railings. The parked cars bespoke affluence. “This is very nice,” Carole murmured.
“Yes. Lucky to get it. Belongs to one of our clients. He’s now making it big in Hollywood, but he’s kept this on, and Jenny and I are the lucky tenants.”
Stephen eased the BMW into a space. “The gods are with us tonight,” he said.
“Certainly are. Sometimes, you know, Carole, Steve has to park about half a mile away. Traffic here’s appalling. But tonight, voilà – we’re right outside.”
“Sure I’ve got time for that coffee?”
“Yes, course you have, Mum. Quick one. Don’t worry, I’ll see you’re in good time for the train to Fethering.”
The three of them mounted the three steps of the white portico, and it was Stephen who unlocked the tall black door. He moved proprietorially across the dimly lit hall to one of the two apartments and inserted another key into the lock.
He had hardly begun to turn it before the door burst open. A girl’s scream sounded from inside the flat, as a tall, thin man pushed forward, sending Stephen flying backwards across the hall. A tied scarf obscured the man’s face. He paused for a moment at the sight of the two women, then, before she had time to recoil, grabbed Gaby’s throat with his hand.
For a long, terrifying second, the man stared at Gaby. Then, he seemed to change his mind. As suddenly as he’d grabbed her, he released his hold, and rushed out of the front door, slamming it behind him.
In the doorway of the flat, a distraught girl approached, sobbing. If logic hadn’t done so already, her histrionics would immediately have identified her as the actress flatmate Jenny. “He said he’d come to see you, Gaby. He was expecting you to come back alone. He only decided to leave when he saw through the spy hole that you’d got other people with you.”
“Jenny, did he say who he was?”
“He said his name was Michael Brewer.”
Twenty-Nine
When he got inside the flat, Stephen became very masterful. He sat the two hysterical girls on the sofa, and dispatched Carole to the kitchen to make strong sweet tea while he called the police. In the emotion of the moment, she hardly noticed the smart minimalist decor of Gaby’s flat, which under different circumstances would have fascinated her.