TWO

When Philippa Scott emerged from the bathroom she was swaddled in Michael’s towelling dressing gown, her long, auburn hair swept back from her lightly-freckled face and turbaned in a bath towel. Tall and slim, she had a narrow face with high cheekbones and a slightly retroussé nose. Her eyebrows, plucked to the point of being non-existent, gave full emphasis to her large, turquoise eyes. Her skin was bright and clear and she was wearing no make-up. She exuded self-confidence. Although only twenty-four, she was one of the most gifted lawyers Michael had ever hired.

Philippa stopped in the lounge doorway and stared, tight-lipped, at Michael’s back. He sensed her presence but didn’t turn round. Without a word she swept on down the corridor and into the kitchen. Cutting two thin slices of brown bread, she popped them into the toaster before switching on the coffee machine.

Michael’s head was thumping as he followed her into the kitchen. ‘I’ve apologised, Pippa,’ he said. ‘What more can I do?’

‘You can leave her,’ she retorted petulantly. ‘That’s what more you can do.’

‘I’ve told you a dozen times, I will leave her.’

‘That is precisely the problem, Michael. You have told me a dozen times that you’ll leave Anne, but you never do a damned thing about it. There’s always some reason or other why you can’t break the news to her. Well I’m not prepared to go on like this any longer. I’ve had a year of lunchtime assignations at my flat and the occasional weekend here. That’s not enough. It has to be all or nothing.’

‘Okay, Pippa.’ Michael hesitated. ‘I was giving it a lot of thought yesterday. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to tell Anne tonight.’

Philippa’s mood changed instantly, her surly expression evaporating and her eyes positively sparkling as she clasped her fingers to her face. ‘That’s fantastic!’ Squealing with delight she ran across the kitchen and threw her arms around his neck, clashing their lips together and thrusting her tongue deep inside his mouth. Michael responded by intertwining their tongues and slipping his hand inside her dressing gown.

‘And you can cut that out for a start.’ She giggled as she twisted from his grasp and pushed him away. ‘I don’t know what your schedule’s like today, Mr Gibson,’ she said coyly, ‘but I’ve got a meeting with a very important client at ten o’clock and it’ll take me half an hour to dry my hair and get ready.’

Without warning she launched herself at him again, laughing hysterically as she grabbed him round the waist and waltzed him dizzily round the kitchen until they crashed into the table. She held on to him tightly to steady her spinning head as she ran her fingernails sensually up and down his spine. ‘But you can come round to my place this evening,’ she panted, gnawing hungrily at his ear lobe. ‘After you’ve had your chat with Anne.’

Michael held her close. ‘You can be a right little minx at times,’ he said with a wry smile, kissing her tenderly on the forehead before releasing her from his grip. Sitting down at the table, Philippa spread marmalade on her toast and poured out two mugs of coffee.

‘Talking of schedules, God only knows where I’m supposed to be this morning,’ Michael said. ‘I’d better call Sheila.’

Picking up the phone he dialled his office number. It was answered on the second ring; the smooth, cultured voice repeating the greeting he’d heard many times before.

‘Good morning. Gibson & Gibson – Mr Michael Gibson’s office – Sheila Thompson speaking. How can I help you?’

‘Sheila, it’s me. I’m running late. What’s the diary like?’

‘Let me see. You’ve got a meeting with Frank Whyte at nine to finalise the brief for the Madill case. The trial starts tomorrow and Mr Whyte’s defending for us. At ten-thirty Inspector Anderson is coming across to discuss the case with you. You’re playing squash with Tom Crosbie at eleven, then Madill and Frank Whyte have a meeting with you at half past twelve to finalise the defence.’

‘I won’t be able to get to the office before ten – and I haven’t had a chance to look at the Madill papers. I brought the file home with me on Friday but I haven’t even had time to open my briefcase.’ Michael winked at Philippa. ‘It’s been non-stop all weekend.’

Philippa spluttered over a mouthful of coffee. Michael shook his fist in mock annoyance as he put his hand over the mouthpiece to try to avoid Sheila hearing the female laughter.

‘Okay, Sheila. Tell Whyte to discuss the options for Madill’s defence with Peter Davies – he knows the score. Schedule both of them to see me at ten o’clock to brief me on their recommendations. Keep the meeting with Anderson at ten-thirty – I don’t want to ruffle his feathers. Cancel the squash – I couldn’t face it. Leave the meeting with Madill and Whyte at twelve-thirty.’

‘Very good, Mr Gibson.’

‘What do I have this afternoon?’

‘This is the second Monday of the month, so normally you would be going up to Crighton Hall. But with the weather being like this…?’

Michael paused to consider. ‘If it’s at all possible, I’ll go. Leave it like that for now. I’ll see what the weather’s like in the afternoon. What else is there?’

‘You’ve got two meetings later on. At four o’clock you’re reviewing the promotion plan with Peter Davies and at six you’ve got a session with Ellen McMillan to discuss who should handle the Convery case.’

‘I don’t want to go back to the office this afternoon. Could those meetings be rescheduled?’

‘I suppose so.’ Sheila sounded dubious. ‘But you have already deferred Mr Davies three times. The promotion plan should’ve been finalised last month.’

‘You’re right.’ Michael sighed audibly. ‘I can’t put him off again. He was spitting blood the last time. Tell you what. Leave the slot with Davies at four but re-schedule the six o’clock meeting to later in the week. Anne’ll be home around six-thirty this evening and I need to be here when she arrives.’

‘Yes, Mr Gibson.’

‘My father always said Sheila was worth her weight in gold,’ Michael said as he replaced the receiver. ‘Efficiency personified. No fuss, no hassle.’ He picked up the coffee pot and waved it in Philippa’s direction. ‘Fancy another cup?’

Philippa shook her head as she finished off her toast. ‘No, thanks. I really must get ready.’

‘I’ll grab a quick shower and we can leave together.’

As Philippa walked from the kitchen, Brutus padded in languidly. Fixing his stare on Michael, he jumped up onto the table and started miaowing noisily. Michael lifted him off and put him back down on the floor. ‘Bloody nuisance,’ he muttered. ‘First you land me in the shit – then you expect me to feed you.’

Opening the cupboard beneath the sink, he took a tin of cat food from the shelf and tugged open the ring-pull, forking the contents into a bowl. Brutus’s tail stiffened as he followed Michael down the hall towards one of the guest bedrooms. Michael placed the bowl on the floor, between the sleeping basket and the litter tray, and Brutus greedily devoured the contents, purring contentedly.

Michael adjusted the temperature of the shower until it was as hot as his skin could bear. He closed his eyes and, as the water poured down his body, he tried to rehearse how he would break the news to Anne. He was dreading the confrontation. He’d been close to broaching the subject several times during the past couple of months but had always ducked the issue. Tonight, he knew he’d have to go through with it.

His thoughts drifted back to their university days, when he and Anne had met and fallen in love. It seemed such a distant memory. The early years of their marriage had been blissful with hardly a cross word – until they started bickering over how to deal with Paul’s behavioural problems. Things had never been the same after that.

His relationship with Pippa was totally different. This wasn’t just a casual fling. Every day for the past year he’d become more and more besotted with her. She was like a drug to him. He needed to be with her all the time. He realised he’d have to leave Anne in order to keep her, but he knew Anne wasn’t going to accept that without a fight.

When he’d finished showering, Michael stropped his razor before shaving. He found the ritual therapeutic. He’d used the same ivory-handled, cut-throat blade since he’d first started shaving. Several times he’d tried to switch to an electric razor because wet shaving was so time-consuming, but no matter which one he tried it brought his skin out in a rash.

Lathering his face, he peered short-sightedly at his reflection in the steamed-up bathroom mirror. The dark-grey bags under his eyes and the heavy jowls were now permanent features – as were the puffy, bloodshot eyes – ever since the headaches had started. He knew he should have been to see a doctor months ago, but his fear of the diagnosis outweighed the pain of the headaches.

Michael shaved quickly, his practised hand running the blade over his skin without once nicking the flesh. When he’d finished, he splashed his face with cold water and then with the Azzaro after-shave Philippa had given him for Christmas, catching his breath and wincing from the astringent sting. Having squeezed toothpaste onto his electric toothbrush, he brushed vigorously before rinsing out his mouth. Yawning and stretching, he wandered back to the bedroom.

The motif of the sparsely furnished room was Charles Rennie Mackintosh, designed around the wide double bed and the reproduction bedside tables. The decor was black-and-white throughout, apart from the dressing table, also a reproduction in the Rennie Mackintosh style, carved from mahogany and inlaid with satinwood. The walls were lined with white fabric, a suitably neutral backcloth for the two Rennie Mackintosh watercolours that hung on the wall facing the bed.

Michael went through his customary routine of covering up the evidence of Philippa’s visit; smoothing the sheet at Anne’s side of the bed and plumping up her pillow, then emptying the contents of the waste bin in the bathroom into a plastic carrier bag.

He often wondered about Anne. Did she ever have affairs? If so, she’d never given herself away. To the best of his knowledge, she’d never brought a man back to their house when they’d lived in Bearsden, nor to Dalgleish Tower. But did she really go to Aberdeen every month? And if so, did she always stay overnight at her parents’ cottage? Perhaps she had a secret assignation on the way there or on the way back? When she went on tour with her amateur dramatic society, was she never involved in anything more exhilarating than theatre production, make-up and costume design? And her bridge congresses – did people really take the ferry across to Rothesay and spend the weekend in a hotel – just to play bridge?

Crossing to the wardrobe, Michael selected one of six identical white shirts hanging on the rail. He rejected his blue cashmere suit as the waistband was getting uncomfortably tight. He had always prided himself in keeping fit – jogging regularly and playing squash several times a week. However, during the past six months, since the headaches had started, he’d taken little exercise and had put on almost a stone in weight, most of it around the midriff. Having decided on the more generous-fitting, grey pin-stripe, he selected a matching silk tie and a pair of highly-polished black shoes.

When he’d dressed, he returned to the bathroom and combed his hair carefully in front of the mirror. Although he’d never considered tinting his hair, his vanity was such that he still tried to hide the grey flecks.

Picking up the empty champagne flutes from the bedside tables, he carried them through to the kitchen and tipped the dregs down the sink. He washed and dried the glasses, along with Philippa’s coffee mug and plate and put them away in the cupboard, then put his own coffee mug into the dishwasher. He dropped the champagne bottle, along with the empty red-wine bottle, into his carrier bag and left it by the front door to take down to the dustbin on his way out.

Slumping down at the kitchen table, he switched on Radio Scotland to catch the news headlines while waiting for Philippa to emerge.

Just after nine-thirty they descended together in the lift, Philippa impeccably dressed in a white silk blouse, a tight black mini-skirt and matching jacket, her auburn locks cascading down her back almost to her waist. She was carrying her overnight bag and her briefcase.

When the lift doors slid open in the underground garage, Michael dropped the carrier bag into the nearest dustbin, then stopped in his tracks. His Mercedes was missing and in its place stood a Ford transit van, painted in psychedelic colours, with the motif Citizens Band daubed in bright blue letters across the side.

‘I’ll throttle him!’

‘What happened?’

‘Paul came round here yesterday afternoon while you were out shopping and cadged fifty quid because he was broke.’

‘You’ve given him a job, for goodness sake. And, I suppose, a half-decent salary. Why does he need to cadge off you?’

‘I don’t know. He seems to be broke most of the time.’ Michael shook his head. ‘God knows what he does with his money. Then he asked to borrow my car for the evening to impress his new girlfriend. Apparently his Citizens Band van isn’t the thing to be seen in on a first date.’

Philippa burst out laughing. ‘I can see his point. I don’t think I’d fancy going out with someone in that heap.’

‘I told him he could have the Merc on condition he brought it back before eight o’clock this morning. That’s the last bloody time I’ll ever let him borrow my car.’

‘Don’t be such an old fuddy-duddy. He probably had more important things on his mind last night than bringing your car back. Remember what it was like when you were young?’ Philippa smirked. ‘Jump in. I’ll give you a lift to the office.’

Michael shook his head. ‘It’s too risky. Someone might see us together.’

‘Hardly any great risk,’ Philippa pouted, ‘considering that you’re going to tell Anne tonight that you’re leaving her.’

Michael ignored her comment. ‘I can take Anne’s car.’ He nodded towards the black Volvo in the adjacent parking bay. ‘She went up to Aberdeen by train on Friday. She didn’t want to risk driving because the weather was so lousy. I’ll have to nip back upstairs to get the spare key.’

‘Have it your own way.’ Philippa flung her bag and her briefcase onto the passenger seat of her red Peugeot 207 GTi. Wiggling her hips provocatively, she slid her tight skirt up her thighs before clambering in behind the wheel. She lowered her driver’s window as she fired the engine. ‘I may bump into you at the office this morning, Mr Gibson. If not, I’ll be waiting for you at my place tonight with the champagne on ice. We’ll have a special celebration.’ She winked. ‘Just the two of us – after you’ve had your chat with Anne.’

Michael forced a smile as he pressed the button on his remote control to operate the garage doors. Blowing an extravagant kiss from her fingertips, Philippa dropped the car into gear and accelerated violently up the ramp. Michael blew back a kiss and waved, watching her car until the garage doors shuddered down and clanged shut.