Victoria was annoyed about having a tight schedule on the day she and Nattie were having lunch. Her Women in Health board meetings often overran, but as Chair of the Trustees she could hurry it up that morning. She couldn’t be late for her afternoon meeting, though, which was important and likely to be fraught. Victoria was a non-executive director of a drugs company, Haverstock, which she considered impressive, ethical and responsible and she approved of how it was run, but the Post was sniffing about, making mischief, something everyone could do without. Being married to the editor of a national newspaper was no breeze; their jobs were often clashing – all the more so during her time in government – and William seemed to take positive delight in provoking his wife.
Nearly midnight. She and William were still up, enjoying their big, comfortable, book-laden sitting room. They often let time slide. The room had wonderful symmetry, fine cornices, full-length sash windows with creaky shutters and heavy cream curtains on fat rosewood poles. They never drew the curtains, preferred the look of the shutters. The room was mainly William’s doing. The soft glow from the table lamps was soothing and he’d made reading a positive joy with two huge swooping chrome arcs that had cost a bomb. They harmonised well with their mix of modern and antique tables, the Chesterfield sofa and old armchairs.
He’d found the house, an unmodernised wreck on a main road in Kennington, when he’d been newly divorced and far from flush, but it was Georgian, set well back from the road with windows that could be double-glazed. Victoria had been Home Secretary back then, battling with suicide-bomber terrorist attacks and only too glad to hand over the house-hunting. She’d fallen for the house just as William had and it was only a stone’s throw from Parliament too, just over Lambeth Bridge.
It was time for bed, but she wanted to talk. ‘It’s my lunch with Nattie tomorrow,’ she said, partly to herself. ‘Probably silly of me to be worried, but she did seem rather nervy on Sunday.’
No response, but Victoria knew William would have taken it in – in some compartment of his brain at least. He was sprawled on the sofa, peering at smudgy newsprint through his stern new tortoiseshell-framed glasses.
‘I’m taking her to the Savoy Grill,’ she carried on. ‘It’s close to where I’ll be and she only has to walk over Waterloo Bridge.’
‘She was a bit restless,’ William agreed, ‘acting a bit artificially. I suppose it could be something to do with Hugo, though I doubt he’s playing around. I asked if anything was up, but she fobbed me off. It’s so unlike her, keeping something close; if it weren’t so fanciful I’d have said it could be connected with Ahmed. It must be tough for her, living with the unsolved mystery. My advice, for what it’s worth, is talk about him at lunch. Don’t start saying how hard it is on Hugo, that’s not the point. Tell her that you do understand – though I don’t believe you do really, do you?’ William eyed her, taking off his glasses and reaching for their case.
‘Not entirely, not seven years on. She and Hugo seem such a good match, easy in each other’s company, and he does love her so. It was the happiest day for me when they got married.’ Silly thing to say, it would only irritate William. He’d been very unconfident that it would work out. Nattie wasn’t enough in love with Hugo, he said.
For a hardened newspaperman William had a sentimental side. He’d been swept up by Nattie’s love and loyalty for Ahmed, trusting of his reporter himself, hurtfully so, as far as Victoria was concerned, considering all the pressures and responsibilities of her job. William and Nattie had been proved right, of course, Ahmed had been on the level; he’d saved theirs and the lives of many others.
‘She was particularly tense with Hugo,’ Victoria said, ‘which seemed odd. I will bring up Ahmed if you’re convinced it’s a good idea. But why should she be pining for him more than usual? It has to be something else.’
‘I suppose her feelings for Ahmed just get the better of her at times, and it makes her feel extra guilty about Hugo. You should try harder to understand. Think of us, the risks you took. There was Nattie, my children, our two marriages, you even risked losing your brand-new government job! I like to kid myself that you once had those same powerful feelings as Nattie.’
‘And I still do, you crusty old curmudgeon. But it’s no comparison. True, you and I took the risks, but our situations and the state of our marriages, particularly mine to Barney, were very different. You’re always unreasonably unfair to him, don’t be unfair to Hugo too! Come on, this is getting us nowhere and that was a big fat yawn – time for bed.’
William was more often right than not, but Victoria wasn’t at all sure about raising the subject of Ahmed at lunch. And should she really try harder to understand? She’d genuinely believed her only daughter had a better chance of a safe, practical, lasting marriage with Hugo than a leap into the dark with Ahmed. Was it so terrible to have felt so happy and secretly relieved on the day? She prayed that the marriage wasn’t beginning to fall apart; nothing could be worse.
William put his arm round her as they rose and she leaned up to kiss his cheek. He was dark-haired, greying now, and had a strong beard; his cheek was rough and bristly at that late hour. She could tell the time by his stubble.
She felt incredibly close to him, warmed by the memories and the love they’d found. His making comparisons, though, and reminding her of the depth of Nattie and Ahmed’s love, was unsettling. She kept her sighs to herself and reached to smooth William’s hand. He gave her a kiss.
‘You smell of print ink,’ she said, ‘but the scent in this room is gorgeous. It’s your roses, isn’t it, you man of hidden talents.’ Growing the lovely fragrant, blowsy old shrub varieties was one of William’s many passions. The back garden was a bower, a triumph, though how he found the time . . . She was no gardener; politics had taken up every spare minute, in Parliament till all hours.
‘I thought those wonderfully scented shrub roses only flowered once,’ she said. ‘Aren’t they all over by now?’
‘It’s jasmine you’re smelling, and even that should be over but it’s still doing its thing; it’s in the vase with some late climbers. I’d stick to cooking and your questionable business interests if I were you!’
Victoria was first at the restaurant and watching Nattie weave her way over to the table, she felt moved to tears. She wanted to hug the breath out of her daughter, smother her in a storm of maternal love. She’d always felt overprotective; Nattie’s beautiful open face made her too vulnerable, defenceless as a sleeping child. Men had taken advantage in the past. Not Hugo, though. With his patience and steadfastness, he was a truly decent young man.
Nattie was making slow progress, held up by a chic woman with steel-grey hair swept up in ivory combs. She was talking to Nattie, using her hands expressively, but detaining her for too long. There were a few other women dotted about, but the Grill with its sleek black furniture and glass, watermark-effect crimson walls, was a largely male domain. Bullish-looking businessmen in broad-shouldered, hand-tailored suits were leaning forward over the tables, busily pursuing and probably clinching their various deals. They looked up as Nattie went by, easily distracted, though she appeared oblivious to the interested stares.
Nattie came up, smiling. ‘Hi, Mum, sorry. I tried to hurry up that woman who called me over. She’s a literary agent, very excited about a new author – she wouldn’t stop! It’s great this, way above my pay grade.’ She glanced around as she pulled out a chair. Her smile was as sweet as birdsong and she’d never looked more glowing. Sexy too, in a discreet navy button-through dress with short sleeves. Victoria eyed the dip of cleavage as Nattie leaned over with a kiss, feeling, as always, ever so slightly envious.
She reached out and touched Nattie’s arm. ‘It’s lovely to have you all to myself for once. It gets harder, but we must try to do it when we can.’
‘Sure thing, Mum. Best sometime when I’m looking after Tubsy and I need to fill his day. It will have to be a pizza place, though. He does love munching his way through bits of pizza with his splendid new teeth.’
An elderly waiter came to take their order. They chose a hake dish and agreed to have just one course. The waiter hesitated before going, then addressed Victoria: ‘I was sad when you left Parliament,’ he said. ‘You were a great Home Secretary. When I think of this lot . . .’
Victoria thanked him and said ‘this lot’ were doing a good job in tough times.
Nattie was grinning. ‘Still got your fans, eh, Mum? I remember William once said there was always a right time to go, but then when you did, he tried to stop you.’
‘Much better to go before you’re pushed. How’s work, darling? I loved the September issue. You had a really good spread.’
‘It’s a frantic time with the Christmas book pages. I suppose it’s as well, though, that we work quite far in advance and I’m not doing all the extra along with Christmas shopping.’
‘So what should I be reading? The last book you recommended was a triumph. I couldn’t imagine a novel tackling dementia being such a good witty read. I’ve seen rave reviews for a book called Help Me to Flee – by Sadia Umar, I think. Have you read it?’
‘Yes, I’ve done an interview with the author. The book is piercing, very poignant, but extremely depressing in its way. I’m not sure if it’s quite your thing.’
‘I don’t see why not. It’s basically about a forced marriage, isn’t it? Why are you blushing, Nattie? Because of the connection with Pakistan?’
‘Possibly – I don’t know, Mum. I wish I didn’t blush so easily. It’s so mean! Let me tell you about the children, how well Lily’s doing at school. Her reading’s way ahead, so her teacher told Jasmine yesterday. Hugo thinks she gets it from you.’
Nattie was looking like a hedgehog in the middle of a motorway, prickly and bristling, and at the mercy of fate. She seemed to be on her guard, anxious not to discuss Sadia Umar’s novel. Since it was fairly obvious why, Victoria decided to go with William’s advice.
‘That Pakistani author, she’s not related to Ahmed, is she? From your reaction I wondered if she could be connected in some way.’
‘I’m sure she’s not related,’ Nattie said, fingering her bread roll. ‘She certainly didn’t say anything when we had lunch. Don’t get at me like this, Mum. I blushed, that’s all – we can talk about the book as much as you like.’
‘I just wondered. You seem on edge and I can’t help worrying. You must still really want to know what happened, I’m sure.’
‘Mum, do you have to go on? You know I hate being made to talk about Ahmed. It hurts more than anything.’
‘Everything’s okay with Hugo? All good with you both?’
‘Of course, why ever not?’ Nattie snapped, flushing again and sounding defensive. ‘He’s got a few work problems; he looks likely to lose an account, SleepSweet, the bed people, and he’s as fed up as ever with that nightmare woman at Palmers, Christine, the Head of Communications. I do worry about him; he’s surprisingly lacking in confidence for someone in that job. Sorry if I wasn’t at my best on Sunday.’
Victoria had always thought Hugo was in the wrong job. He was nobody’s fool, but not a natural for the communications world, too charmingly reticent. It was hard to know where he’d flourish best. Nattie had spoken warmly of him, though. Wouldn’t she have sounded more spiky if they were falling out? Interviewing a Pakistani author had probably put Ahmed in the front of her mind, but it was a tenuous link to have caused such edginess.
Victoria sighed inwardly and tried to move things on. ‘We had supper with Uncle Robert, Katie and the boys last night,’ she said. ‘Joe’s following in your footsteps and off to Durham next week and he was lording it over his brothers. Pity you don’t see a bit more of your cousins, darling, they’re good fun.’
‘Mum, they’re ten years younger! Tell me about Granny and Grandpa, how are they? I’d love to see them and take the children, if it weren’t so busy between now and Christmas.’
‘They’re actually coming to London this weekend, staying with Uncle Robert. I heard last night. They want to see Joe before he goes. I know they’d love to see you all. Saturday would be best. They’ll want to leave straight after Sunday lunch to be back before it’s completely dark.’
Nattie stared, looking intensely frustrated. ‘That’s such sod’s law!’ she exclaimed. ‘We’re at Hugo’s parents this weekend. He’s taken Friday afternoon off and keeps saying how much they’re looking forward to it. But I’d really hate not to see Granny and Grandpa the one time they’re here.’ She hesitated and seemed to be giving it a lot of thought. She adored her grandparents; she’d often stayed with them when Victoria had been up against it, and was especially close to her grandfather, John. He’d been someone she could turn to, through her difficult teens, her parents’ divorce, and he’d taken to Ahmed wholeheartedly. For that reason if no other he could do no wrong in Nattie’s eyes.
‘I could come back Sunday morning,’ she said, ‘and see them then. I’ll talk to Hugo about it. I’m sure his parents wouldn’t mind, as long as he and the children stay on for lunch.’
‘Let’s try for that. Look, I’ll have to go in a minute. I’ve got a board meeting with Haverstock, which is bound to be fraught. It’s all the fault of your stepfather too, and the wretched Post. They’re trying to lay something on a drugs company whose record I know to be as unsullied as snowdrops. I sometimes think William starts poking around simply to wind me up.’
‘Mum! You can’t seriously think that.’
‘Whose side are you on?’ Victoria laughed, catching a waiter’s eye. Then she stared at her daughter, her heart reaching out. ‘I’m sure nothing’s wrong, love, but don’t ever feel you can’t turn to me, even with the smallest niggles. It can sometimes help. We’ve always been able to talk. Don’t let’s lose that.’
Nattie gave one of her glorious smiles. ‘You’ve got to go. I have too. Thanks for saying what you did, it means a lot.’
William called. Newspapers being what they were he seldom got away much before ten, but he and Victoria spoke often during the evening. ‘How was it at lunch?’ he asked. ‘Did Nattie open up? Are you any the wiser?’
‘No,’ Victoria replied. ‘And feeling no less concerned. Something’s definitely up, but whatever it is she couldn’t have been less keen to tell me. What was slightly odd was that she seemed on a high; maybe there’d been some turn of events she wasn’t expecting, something she’d wanted to happen. Who knows? And despite all the edginess she was looking terrific, that way she has of looking lit from within.’
‘It could be to do with Ahmed, but I’d be surprised if he’s back in the country,’ William said. ‘I’m sure we’d have had a sniff of it at the paper; my guys are pretty much on the ball. By the way, I guess I have to eat humble pie over Haverstock. They’re not so easy to pin down. I still don’t approve of these dubious drugs companies one little bit; “ethical” in their book always seems a very elastic word.’
Victoria snorted. ‘But it isn’t an elastic word in my book. Remember that cartoon of me you once printed in the Post, “The Schoolgirl Who Always Did Her Homework”? I think you can trust me to know the good guys from the bad.’
She ended the call smiling, enjoying having won that small battle. William had only momentarily taken her mind off Nattie, though. Instinct told her that her daughter had something going on in her life that was difficult to resolve. As well as the aura of tension about her, she seemed high on adrenalin, which gave conflicting signals. One thing Nattie couldn’t have made clearer, though, was that whatever the problem, it wasn’t one she was prepared to share with her mother.