The door opened and I squinted in the brilliance of the scene in front of me: heavy velvet curtains were held back by tassels each side of the front door, which struck me as both practical – to keep out draughts – and theatrical. A glittering chandelier hung above a black-and-white tiled entrance hall; beyond, I could sense, rather than see, a more dimly-lit expanse of house.
Muted chatter wafted toward us, over which the silhouette that had dramatically pulled open the double doors declaimed, “Welcome. See, I told Glen you’d be early. Always plans for the worst traffic, doesn’t he, that Vinnie of yours? He’s a good boy. Come on in before you get frozen. Does Vinnie need to use the facilities before he goes?”
As she stepped toward us, the illumination of the lamps either side of the front door allowed me to make out the features of the speaker: taller than me by a few inches – so probably around five seven – the woman ushering us into the comforting warmth from the bleakness of the doorstep was older than any of us, somewhere in her mid-sixties. She wore a plain, black, shift dress, which sagged a little across her flat chest, but strained at her broad hips; she smiled at John as though she were welcoming her son home from war.
As she stood back for us to enter, John said, “Thanks, Julie. Vinnie said he’d drop into the pub for the evening; I’ll text him when we’ve got some idea when this little shindig will be finishing.” He turned and waved at the car; I saw Vinnie wave back, smiling.
“All out by ten thirty, that’s what Mrs. T said she wants.” Julie nodded her head toward the body of the building. “Now come on, let me take them coats of yours.” It was wonderful to hear her South London accent.
I took off my coat and was delighted to see a magnificent Christmas tree in the corner of the entryway, tucked in beside the front door. It was tastefully decorated in red and gold, and the star on its top glinted, the only part of the tree to be lit.
John introduced us. “This is Julie. She and her husband Glen run the place – between them they can do just about everything that’s needed.”
Julie’s arms were full of coats, so I waggled my hand at her and flashed a smile; I’ve never quite got the hang of how to deal with folks offering service inside a person’s home, as opposed to in a public space – the idea of “staff” or “servants” or “help” is completely alien to me, and not something I think I’ll ever get used to. Not that I’m likely to have the chance.
“Come through, I’ll announce you. Miss Bella’s doing her thing with the drinks trolley, she’ll sort you out.” Julie smiled, then leaned toward me and stage-whispered, “Go on, ask her for something really complicated – she loves that, she does.” She winked, walked briskly into the salon – leaving us trailing behind her – and announced John, then bustled off through one of a number of doors set into the wall on our far left, all of which were decorated to blend in with the panelling of the wall itself, which instantly appealed to me, because I’ve always had a bit of a thing about hidden doors; I blame Nancy Drew.
To our right, a wide staircase swept up and around the double-height entry hall, leading to a wooden balustrade that ran the width of the house, while ahead of us, the main salon beckoned. John took the lead, clearing his throat as he strode out. Bud and I shuffled behind him, but I managed to spot an almost-familiar face over John’s shoulder.
Alex Asimov – Sasha – had changed since I’d last seen her; she was more rounded in every way…her body, and even her features, had a surprising softness about them, and it was obvious from the way her face had wrinkled that she was more used to smiling than looking miserable. Her once-reddish-blonde hair, which she’d invariably worn in a tight chignon during our office times, hung in waves over her shoulders; now a less lustrous shade, threaded with gray, it almost exactly matched the color of the velvet, medieval-inspired gown she wore. I felt a tad underdressed, but reasoned I couldn’t have foreseen every wardrobe requirement of our trip when I’d packed. I’d always imagined Sasha to be a good deal older than myself, but judged she was probably still only in her mid-fifties. Overall, I was amazed at how happy and glowing she looked. Maybe she’s had a personality transplant?
I knew I’d put on a good few pounds – well, maybe a few dozen pounds – since she’d last set eyes on me, and I’ve never colored my hair, so it’s not as brown as it once was, but I’d expected some glimmer of recognition when my ex-colleague saw me. However, there wasn’t anything in her eyes to suggest we’d even met. That said, she wasn’t looking at me at all – she was gazing at John, her eyes dewy. Odd.
Sasha moved toward John, and he to her. They flung their arms around each other as she cried, “Oh Johnnie, my darling Johnnie, I’ve been such a fool. I love you so much. Of course I couldn’t possibly live without you. Can you ever forgive me?”
The kiss which followed gave Bud a chance to shuffle his feet and clear his throat, while I felt my mouth fall open.
What’s happening?
A couple of seconds later, a booming voice called, “Is that Cait Morgan, I spy? No, surely it can’t be.” I looked across the room and spotted an enlarged, ruddier version of the Piers Tavistock I remembered; he was lounging in a chair, waistcoat buttons straining, with a look of astonishment on his face. “Good God it is. As I live and breathe, Cait Morgan. Are you one of John’s ‘friends from Canada’? Is that where you disappeared to?”
I breathed deeply as I mentally edited several potential responses and was about to utter possibly the most wittily pithy riposte of my life, when I heard the distinct nasal tones that had irritated me all those years ago.
“Yes, that’s Cait Morgan alright.” I spun toward the sound – and there was Alex Asimov looking almost exactly as she had when I’d known her, though it seemed someone had kept whittling away at all her sharp features to bring them to even more prominence. Her gold-gray hair was pulled into a tight chignon above a severely cut gown of a similar color. I stared at her, then turned to look again at the woman who’d now been released by John.
Twins!
“Hello everyone,” said John a little too loudly, “my friends Bud Anderson and Cait Morgan. Cait, Bud – please allow me to introduce you to my beloved fiancée, Bella.”
The softer version of Sasha moved toward me, her arms stretched wide, coming in for a hug. The kisses on each of my cheeks were delicate and carried with them the strong fragrance of patchouli and sandalwood. As I looked into her warm, amber eyes, I judged Bella’s delight at seeing John to mean she’d changed her mind about calling off the wedding. I was relieved and pleased for John; they’d make a handsome couple, and possibly – hopefully – a happy one.
“Wonderful to meet you, Cait. I’ve heard so much about you, and Bud.” She turned her attention to my husband who almost managed to contain his discomfort at being kissed by a total stranger.
“You’re both welcome, of course, and I’m sure John won’t mind if I make the rest of the introductions…though it sounds as though my sister and brother-in-law both recognize you, Cait.” A frown creased Bella’s brow for a fleeting second. “Do they? How can that be?”
“Alex – sorry, Sasha – and I used to work at Alistair Townsend’s advertising and PR agency at the same time. Piers joined the company not long before I left to pursue my new career, which eventually took me to Canada.” I wanted to be the one to present my life path since I’d left the agency.
Bella’s eyes and mouth grew round. “How absolutely wonderful,” she said softly. She looked directly at her sister and beamed. “Isn’t that wonderful, Sasha – you already know Cait.”
“Oh yes, indeed I do,” replied Sasha.
I noted how different the siblings sounded; Bella’s tones lacked the sharpness of Sasha’s. Even as I was wondering if that was because everything Sasha said – she’s Sasha here, not Alex – usually dripped with disdain, I noticed Piers had struggled up from his seat, and was approaching Bud and me. Oh no, don’t let him want to do the cheek-kissing thing, please.
With an outstretched hand he made a beeline for Bud, who responded by extending his own.
Piers boomed, “So, are you two married, or just having a bit of a trial run? Making sure she’s up to snuff before you sign your life away, eh?” He leered at me and winked at Bud as he spoke; there was twice as much of Piers as when I’d fought off his advances, and all of it was as greasily unpleasant as the slimmer version had been. “Piers Tavistock. Welcome to our home. Did John say your name was Bud? That some sort of nickname?”
I didn’t dare look at Bud, and wondered how he’d respond; he’s good at weighing people up, and I’d given him a quick primer on Piers back at John’s place.
Bud was shaking Piers’ hand with much more vigor than was normal for him. “Cait and I have been married for almost two years. And I’m Börje Ulf Dyggve Anderson. Hence Bud. Pleased to meet you, Piers. Is that some sort of nickname?”
Piers’ brow furrowed. “What? Piers? No, that’s my…ah, yes, very amusing.” He fake-laughed, then added, “Can I offer you a drink, Bud? A cocktail, maybe – Bella’s an excellent mixologist. Or maybe you’d prefer a beer?”
To be fair to Piers, he’d been sharp enough to guess Bud was a man who’d more happily nurse a beer than something requiring a recipe – or maybe he was relying upon his preconceptions about Canadians, which was probably more likely. However, the way he’d spoken made it sound as though the idea of someone requesting a beer under his roof would be quite a novelty.
“I’ll take a Negroni, if I may,” replied Bud smoothly.
“I’ll have the same, thanks,” I said, by way of something to cover my shock.
“Oh, Negronis, delish,” enthused Bella. “Long, or short?” She looked at Bud, who looked at me. I saw panic in his eyes.
“We’d better pace ourselves,” I said brightly, “so make them long, then we can sip. You never know when the jet lag’s going to kick in.” I laughed. Possibly too loudly.
Sasha’s whine set my teeth on edge. “That doesn’t sound like the Cait I used to know. You’d knock back three or four at lunchtime, then a lot more in the pub after work, wouldn’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “You were always a G & T girl, as I recall.”
I’d been apprehensive when I’d realized I was going to have to spend the evening with Alex/Sasha, but had told myself it would be for just a few hours, and it was for John, after all. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been prepared for the effect that seeing – and hearing – the woman would have upon my psyche: the past twenty-five years hadn’t been a ball, but I’d certainly learned how to stand on my own two feet, even if that had required some painful lessons. However, with those disdainful, accusing amber eyes gleaming in the light from the roaring fire, I felt as though I was that twenty-five-year-old once more, the one who’d discovered she had to turn her back on her dream of becoming an account director at a top London advertising agency because the life she thought she’d wanted had been revealed to her as nothing more than a sham…an illusion. I’d left London disappointed by the entire world of marketing communications, and myself. Now here I was, slithering down a time-traveling wormhole to a psychological funk I hadn’t re-visited in half a lifetime, and I didn’t like it.
I took a step toward Bud, and he instinctively reached for my hand.
I’m not that Cait any longer. Bud and I have talked about that Cait at length, and I neither can, nor want to, deny the fact she existed; she’s the reason I’m the Cait I am now.
I made a decision: I would thrust and parry with Sasha, but as politely as I could, since she was the sister of John’s future wife. I would leave in a few hours and never have to see her again. You can do this, Cait.
I made sure my voice sounded steady when I replied, “Ah yes, the days when I’d walk into the Coach and Horses on Greek Street and Norman – who, for your information, Bud, was renowned as being the rudest landlord in London – would call out, ‘Here’s Miss Wales. Gin and slim coming up!’ Bless him, he might have been horrible to some, but he was always a complete and utter gent to me.” I remembered the time he’d barred Alex/Sasha because she’d tried too hard to get his attention at the bar. I wondered if she would, too. I hoped she did.
“A disgusting man, and a dirty little place. I’ve no idea why everyone idolized him,” she sniped.
“Oh, come on, Alex – sorry, Sasha – he was quite the institution; there aren’t many landlords who get their autobiography published and have a successful West End play written about their pub. But there, once he barred you, you were spared having to enter the place at all, weren’t you?” As the words left my lips, I felt a pang of guilt. Or was it pleasure?
“Norman Balon barred you from the Coach and Horses, Sasha?” Piers spluttered. “That’s quite a badge of honor. I’m surprised you’ve never mentioned it.”
“Really? Not worth it.” The woman I’d always felt uncomfortable sharing air with all those years ago pushed back her shoulders and lifted her chin. “A grubby man, running a grubby pub, with grubby patrons. It was no great loss, believe me.”
Bud’s grip on my fingers loosened slightly – he could tell I was going to be just fine, and I knew it too. I’m wearing armour I’ve crafted through years of adversity, and no barbs about my past can pierce it.
The jangling of the front doorbell seemed to mark the end of the first round of our match, and I felt, rather than heard, John heave a sigh of relief.
“I hope that’s Charles,” said Bella as she handed a large, cut-crystal glass to Bud; its weight seemed to surprise him. She passed me my drink, which I took with a smile and a nod, then she moved toward the hall. “Yes, it is Charles, how wonderful.” It seemed Bella found many things to be full of wonder.
A tall, skinny man in his late-thirties, with tousled, long, dark hair, and a slightly straggly beard and mustache, entered the room, dragging Julie by the waist. “Look at this one,” he said, holding her chin in his hand, “she gets younger every time I see her. But that hair? I keep telling you, Julie, you must come to the salon for me to work my magic on it. We cannot have people coming to the house and imagining I’m responsible for that, can we? It’ll do wonders for your sex life, too. A new hairdo? Glen won’t be able to keep his hands off you.” He kissed her cheek. “I know I wouldn’t.”
I watched Julie as she smiled, and seemed to melt a little in Charles’s arms, then she gently removed herself from his embrace. The primness of her dress jarred against his flamboyant, figure-hugging rock-star-chic outfit, which was a cacophony of various shades of purple. I also couldn’t help but wonder what the state of his own hair signalled to his clients. Wash and go is “in” this year?
Julie giggled like a smitten schoolgirl. “Charles, you’ll be the death of me, you will. I’m old enough to be your mother.”
Charles Asimov mugged a cute pout. “I refuse to believe that, as you well know, Julie, darling. But if you want to treat me like a child then you go ahead. I mean it, now – all I need is a phone call, and you’ll be in one of my chairs with these very hands cutting and styling your hair – yes, me, myself. And you know I don’t do much but oversee, direct, and primp these days. Go on –” he bent down to stage whisper into Julie’s ear – “call me. You know you want to.”
Julie flushed, and said quietly, “I’ll just put this overcoat away. And…um…Mrs. T? Sir Simon’s car is outside – his driver said he’s just finishing a phone call, then he’ll be in. Vinnie must have caught a quiet spot in the traffic tonight, because he might have brought Mr. John early, but now everyone else is going to be late. Half an inch of snow and London grinds to a halt. Do you want me to push dinner back by fifteen minutes?” Julie looked toward Sasha as she spoke.
Sasha nodded. “Yes. There’s something I want to say to everyone at the table, before we start to eat, too. So make it twenty, for food service.”
No please or thank you. Typical of Sasha, I thought. “So, this is your brother, Charles, the famous coiffeur,” was what I said to Bella.
Bella didn’t have time to respond, before Charles lurched forward and grabbed my wrist, then my arm. He bent his head to kiss my hand, which should have been a gallant gesture, but I felt uncomfortable as he touched me.
He said, “And who do we have here?” Until that moment I’d never considered a voice to be capable of slithering, but Charles’s did.
“This is Professor Cait Morgan,” said Bud, offering his hand to Charles. “I’m Bud Anderson. Her husband. We’re friends of John’s. Visiting from Canada. Pleased to meet you.”
Charles Asimov’s head popped up and his eyes scanned Bud from head to foot. He stood upright, nodded at me, and shook Bud’s hand. “Likewise, Bud, likewise,” he said quietly.
“The usual, darling?” Bella called to her brother as she waggled a bottle of vodka at him.
“Extra, extra large, please, darling.” Addressing the room Charles added, “Been a sod of a day at the salon. One of my best cutters is pregnant, if you please, which means she’ll have to be replaced, and I don’t know what on earth is going on with the girl you’ve sent to do my PR, Sasha. Does she have a brain, or just good hair? I can make anyone’s hair look fabulous, what I need is someone who can string two thoughts together and come up with the odd bright idea. Where on earth did you find her?”
“I’ll have a word, Charles, but give her a chance. She’s only been with you a fortnight. I was in school with her mother and promised her I’d get Lolli some experience. Let her at least get her feet under the table.” Sasha sounded bored. “But let’s not talk shop tonight. Tonight’s about Father, as you know.”
Bella handed a drink to her brother as Bud and I gravitated toward the hearth.
“To the old bastard!” Charles raised his glass toward the massive portrait hanging above the carved marble mantlepiece, then he surprised me by adding, “The most cold-hearted man I ever knew.”
Looking up I recognized that the sharpness of Sasha’s jaw and nose were a mirror of her father’s – who’d been as lean as she – whereas Bella’s extra pounds helped her look a great deal less cadaverous, and disdainful. The late Oleg Asimov sneered over us, though I was a little puzzled about why he was dressed so strangely in the portrait.
My face must have given away my confusion, because John said, “Bella’s father is represented as King Lear, on the heath.”
The ragged cloak and storm-tossed skies should have given it away, but it hadn’t occurred to me that anyone would ever want to be shown as such a dreadfully tragic character, unless they’d acted the role at some point; I wondered if amateur dramatics had been a part of the man’s life, given that John had mentioned he’d been a great fan of Shakespeare’s works.
To avoid the glowering portrait, I tried to focus on the rest of the room’s décor, which was tastefully lavish, and the work of a designer with a good eye. Subtly painted paneling, good oak doors and trim – with two sets of paneled double doors in the wall opposite the fireplace. Dotted around the walls were depictions of many pivotal scenes from Shakespeare’s plays; I assumed they’d been chosen, and hung, by Bella’s father. The only decorative objects connected with Christmas in any way were the tree beside the door, and a few sprigs of holly placed on the mantlepiece. I was glad about that, because the room had a stately energy, which didn’t need any sort of additional adornment.
My eyes were drawn to the hypnotic portrait once again. “What on earth possessed you to ask for a Negroni?” I hissed at Bud, trying to distract myself from the late Oleg Asimov’s wild and piercing gaze. “Not really your thing, is it?”
Bud sipped. “No, it’s not. It’s disgusting. But I’ve seen you have them a few times and they look good, and sound fancy. And I remembered the name. How can you drink this? It’s so bitter.”
“And sweet, and complex,” I added. “Give it some time. It’s an acquired taste.”
“Like Charles’s PR girl, I guess,” quipped Bud. Oh good, you’re sounding a little more like yourself, Husband.
We shared a private smile, then our attention was taken by Julie’s call of “Miss Sampson,” and the arrival of a whirlwind wrapped in a sheath of bronze. “Darlings – how wonderful to see you all again. It’s been an age.”
Sasha replied drily, “We saw you at the funeral, Felicity. That wasn’t so very long ago.”
So, this was the famous Felicity Sampson, in the flesh…of which there was quite a lot on display. The party-girls’ party-girl of the It-set decades ago looked good for her age, which I judged to be around the mid-fifties, making her a contemporary of Bella and Sasha. Well, most of her was about that age, though I suspected some body parts were a good bit younger; heavy make-up and overprocessed hair topped a wraith-like figure, and while her jewelry suggested she had shares in a gold mine, her heels told me she’d probably done irreparable damage to her back over the years.
Lots of air-kissing and mock-hugging ensued, and finally Bud and I were introduced, just as a short, bald man announced as “Sir Simon” entered and began his own round of hugging.
Felicity floated off when Bella hoisted a bottle of champagne into the air, and John introduced us to the latest arrival, Sir Simon Pendlebury, about whom I’d read an article just a week or so earlier.
When we were finally alone again for a moment I hissed to Bud, “Pendlebury’s is a chain of upmarket department stores…last bastion of those for whom shopping is a thing to be savored. There are a lot fewer stores than there used to be, but he seems to be diversifying quite successfully.”
Bud’s eyebrows rose. “John’s fiancée is tied up with some real high-flyers. Pots of money in this room tonight, I’m guessing.”
“Pendlebury owns one of the world’s largest super-yachts – known for it, in fact. An honest-to-goodness billionaire. In pounds, not Canadian dollars.” I winked.
Bud’s brown furrowed. “Doesn’t seem the yacht type. Not very outdoorsy-looking, is he?”
“I mean big motor yacht, as in a small cruise ship, not a yacht with sails; swimming pools, helipad…that sort of thing.”
“Why on earth would you need a helipad on a yacht?”
“Why not? Easy way to get ashore without getting your feet wet.”
Bud’s face told me he thought this made little sense to him, just as another person joined what was now feeling like a throng. This person’s arrival differed from everyone else’s insofar as she entered without announcement, or the apparent need to be hugged or kissed by everyone. Instead, she made her way to stand behind the chair Piers had been using upon our arrival, where she all-but disappeared into the shadows, largely due to her mud-colored trouser-suit, and hair. Sasha handed her a glass of what looked like water, they exchanged a few words – which I read as being less than friendly – then she abandoned her. I found this very odd, and mentioned it to Bud, who looked bemused.
“To be honest, Wife, this is all odd to me; everyone’s…oh, I don’t know…it’s as though they’re acting parts, declaiming to each other, all for show. It all feels so…unreal.” He sighed. “But, hey, I’ve decided to take everything in my stride tonight, until the jet lag kicks in, at which point you and John will have to pick me up and carry me out. I feel as though I’m starting to fade already…not sure how I’ll make it through dinner.” He almost spilled what was left of his Negroni when he was startled by the furious beating of a gong in the entryway.
“Please be ready to take your seats for dinner in fifteen minutes,” called a disembodied male voice over the suddenly quietening chatter.
I was surprised by what happened next: as though it were some Pavlovian response, everyone, except Bud and myself, found somewhere to deposit their glass, and they all moved to leave.
Sasha left first, through a set of French doors at the rear of the salon, which I could see led to a covered terrace and the garden beyond; she was followed by the quiet woman in the mud-colored suit.
Bella followed Piers to the stairs who said, “I’ll use my own.”
Bella replied, “I’ll use the yellow.”
“I’ve a call to make,” announced Sir Simon; he slid open one of the sets of oak doors which revealed the dining room.
“I’ll beat you to the pink,” called Felicity playfully toward Charles as she moved swiftly toward the entryway.
“Bags I the blue,” called Charles as he followed her.
Bud and I looked at John and shrugged.
“Time to prepare your bladders for a rich meal and a fair old quantity of fluids.” He grinned. “Facilities all over the house – take your pick.”
“We’ll follow you,” said Bud, quite sensibly.
“You mean we’re not allowed to leave the table once we sit down?” I asked – equally sensibly, I thought.
John chuckled. “Of course you may. It’s just that the early announcement, then everyone taking care of what they need to before dinner, is a bit of a family thing here. Sasha’s probably gone for a smoke with Renata – who’s her PA at the agency – and everyone else is, well, yes, preparing for the evening. But, you know, if now’s not a good moment for you, Cait…”
“I’m fine, thanks, I’ll just wait here, and take my chances later,” I replied.
“Right-o,” replied John. “Come with me, Bud, there are a couple of WCs off the entryway. I’ll lead.”
With Bud and John gone, I was alone in the salon and couldn’t help but notice how cavernous the place looked now that it was no longer filled with people. We’d be ten for dinner, and ten people can make a large room look merely adequate.
I took my chance to examine the prints and paintings which adorned the walls – some of which were very fine indeed, and indicated a preference on the part of their selector for the Great Bard’s tragedies, as opposed to his comedies. I admitted to myself as I wandered around that I’d never found any of Shakespeare’s comedies to be especially amusing; I find them sharp, sometimes bitter, and even cruel, but rarely with laugh-out-loud moments…except when played by actors whose skills allow the raw, crowd-pleasing one-liners to zing. I checked my watch; surely everyone would be back soon.
I was taking what I hoped would be a final look at the late Oleg’s portrait above the mantle when I heard the jangling of the front doorbell, then banging. I wandered toward the door, but wasn’t sure what to do – it certainly wasn’t my place to open it to whomever was bashing at it.
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” shouted Julie as she crossed the entry hall.
When she pulled open the front door, Vinnie all-but fell inside.
“Don’t go out there, Julie.” He tried to push the woman bodily into the hall even as she was peering around him.
“What is it?” There was a jagged edge to Julie’s voice.
I felt the tingle on my arms before I saw anything other than the changes in Julie’s body language. She wasn’t as tall as Vinnie, and she certainly wasn’t as well-built, but she managed to push him aside and get past him, nonetheless.
Then the screaming started.
I dashed toward the front door, where Vinnie was trying to pull Julie back inside the house. Beyond them I saw a ragdoll body, lying crumpled on the driveway, and a crimson stain creeping across the freshly-fallen snow.