May

Christmas Eve. Two weeks after David’s death

Christmas lights line the King’s Road, casting a gentle hue over the early afternoon sky as May walks along, enjoying the sound of her heels against the pavement. She breathes in deeply, watching the steam rise up in front of her mouth as she exhales. She prefers to walk, even in deepest winter, enjoying the smells of open fires and mulled wine drifting out from the pubs which have been transformed beyond recognition over the years. She doesn’t mind the cold, wrapping her pashmina around her neck as she admires the dressed trees framed in the windows, like scenes from a doll’s house, on her favourite square.

People in Chelsea still make an effort, even if it’s all a bit more gaudy now than it once was. May feels like one of the last few around here old enough to remember when the right address in this enclave signified a certain social standing. Nowadays some of the best properties are occupied by Chinese and Russians, of course. Not that she objects to Russian money. She smiles to herself, picturing Irena at their dinner at J Sheekey the previous week. Yes, after a few bumps, things are starting to shape up nicely.

It’s been a funny old year, and the children will be descending soon with the grandchildren and there is still so much to sort out. Jeff won’t be much help, she can be sure of that, and with the new business deals she has been overseeing, she has been distracted. But now is the time for family. May has always prided herself on her ability to compartmentalise, not least when it comes to work and family life. This is, she thinks, partly why she has been so successful. Knowing when to pull back and when to press ahead is a life skill, as far as she is concerned, but it is also inherent. Some people understand when to move forwards, and others simply don’t.

A young couple push open the door to Peter Jones without holding it open and May curses them under her breath as she steps into the department store, removing her gloves. With Clive and David gone, she, Irena Vasiliev and Francisco Nguema – and Jeff, of course – are free to proceed without limitation. She stops briefly when she thinks of David, pausing at the foot of the escalator. Dear David. He was her godson and she loved him, but by God the man was a liability. And the Greek girlfriend – well, she had really done them a favour, leading David to the police like that. It solved a lot of problems, in the end. Jorgos had been ready to offer a swift alternative, as always, but it hadn’t sat right with May. Not at first. Whatever happened with David, she wanted to believe she could save him. Besides, having Maria around complicated matters – if it was just David, no one would have been looking for him, given that he was already officially dead. But Maria – who knew who might start asking questions at some stage, if she suddenly disappeared? Though she had pushed her luck. Surely she must have known she would be watched like a hawk – what was she thinking, sneaking around in the dead of night like some low-rent Miss Marple, imagining she wasn’t being listened to, kept an eye on? She thought she was clever. And yet people are surprising, aren’t they? You can never really be sure.

May carries on up the escalator and finds herself thinking of David again. The truth is, she always knew he was wrong for this – always. He was too emotional, too damaged. And she blames herself in part for that, which is why she had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, over the years. She regrets what happened to Artemis; perhaps she had been hasty in that, but the woman was a liability. And it wasn’t her decision alone. Nguema was to blame there, too. Either way, she felt bad about it – sufficiently so that she had tried to get David involved in the business, to understand the possibilities for new investment. But he was always resistant, just like his father. Bloody pig-headed. And to be taken in not once but twice? Anna, she could sort of understand – but the second woman? To fall for Maria’s little act … Well, the boy was a bloody fool, to boot.

May wanted so badly to believe that he would have kept his mouth shut, but she had to be honest with herself, Irena made her realise that. Irena certainly wasn’t taking no for an answer, and sometimes one has to do what is necessary. Sometimes these things are out of our control.

May moves between the perfumes, picking up various bottles. Picking one up, she gets a hint of amber and she flinches, not long enough that the girl at the perfume counter will notice.

Her mind brushes over David, one final time. No, it wasn’t what she’d wanted, but it was what had to be.

It is a charade, the performance with the perfume, and she and the perfume girl both know it. May will sniff and muse, and imagine for a moment that she might take something else, something different to the scent she has been wearing for so many years. But she will leave with the same bottle she always has. And she likes this about herself: she knows who she is. It is a quality she admired in Clive, too.

Dear Clive. It was a sorry, sorry situation, the whole bloody thing. But at least he wasn’t around to learn that his only son has committed suicide in prison. No, the cancer had been aggressive enough to put him out of his misery quickly. There would have been nothing more undignified for a man like Clive than to have gone down slowly. And putting aside her personal sadness for the loss of one of her oldest friends, May has to look to the future. None of them are getting any younger and she is not ready to give up the ghost just yet, thank you very much. It is simply a fact: without Clive, they are freer. For all his wisdom, he just never had the imagination, or the stomach, to try new things. It was May who was constantly having to push to get the business – Christ, without her, they would have gone under years ago. And to think that originally it was Clive and Jeff who had joined forces with Nguema, her friend! Though it had made sense; when the babies were young May was happy enough looking after them, until they started school and her feet started to itch. So many young women these days try to do everything at once, and where does it get them? No, one has to pace oneself. One can have it all, just not all at once – one has to bide one’s time.

Of course, she had known everything about the business, she had been there from the start, sitting in on dinner meetings while she fed the boys, bringing the men Scotch whilst drinking in every detail of every deal. And so, slowly, and then with gusto, she had started to chip in. She had always been the one with the brains – and the beauty, as she and Jeff liked to joke. Once May came into the business, the whole thing had taken off. And she was always off the books. What would be the point of making herself visible? There were so many things one could get done from behind the scenes. That’s the problem with people these days; everyone is always so keen to be seen.

Not that May is one to live in the past. You can’t stay in the past; you have to embrace the future if you are to keep up with changing times. Apart from with perfume.

‘I’ll take this one.’ May winks at the counter girl who smiles before turning her back and preparing the wrapping. May has barely taken out her purse when her phone rings.

Her expression drops the moment she sees James McCann’s name flash on the screen. That bloody lawyer. What the hell is the point of them investing thousands of pounds on encrypted software if he’s going to call her on her personal bloody mobile?

May presses answer and takes the outstretched bag from the shop assistant before speaking into the microphone.

‘Hello.’

‘We need to meet.’

McCann is waiting for her as she makes her way across Hyde Park, towards the horror of the final days of the Winter Wonderland.

‘You look well,’ McCann says in his usual sycophantic manner.

‘James,’ she says, moving alongside him towards the gates of the theme park, where the background noise of the crowds and the godforsaken jingles will provide a useful muffler for the conversation they are about to have. May would like to believe they are safe here, but given all that has happened it would be ludicrous to believe she is safe talking anywhere, or to anyone. No, no one is to be trusted, besides Jeff, who frankly doesn’t have the wits to pull off that sort of betrayal. And the children. She can trust them implicitly on the basis that she has never told them.

May sighs, taking a sip of the coffee McCann passes her.

‘So?’ she says.

‘David’s friend,’ McCann replies, lifting the cup in front of his mouth to obscure the movement of his lips for any potential observers. ‘It’s done.’

May exhales, nodding thoughtfully. ‘I see.’

McCann sighs. ‘Did we do the right thing? Those girls have already been through so much …’

‘The girls will be fine. I’ll see to that. They might not be flesh and blood but they don’t deserve all this.’ May looks back at him. ‘Come on, don’t be glum. It’s Christmas. Besides, what choice did we have?’