People We Love Read online

  The dress changed how she felt inside, as vintage clothes so often did. Was it because something of the previous owner rubbed off along with the fibres of the fabric, or was that ridiculously fanciful? This dress was special. It seemed to be telling her, through subtle touches on her skin, that she was ready to drink again at the well of affection.

  I

  love it,’ she said, and smiled properly for the first time in a week.

  Chapter Eight

  Catalogue number 12: Gold heeled sandals worn with bridal lengha choli in traditional Indian wedding ceremony. Donated by Parveen Robertson, Glasgow. ‘ These shoes date from 1953, when my mother was married in Kolkata, India. They were worn under a bridal lengha choli – a short blouse and skirt, with a long saree-type scarf (the lengha). The lengha was deep red and heavily decorated with gold.’ …

  Ready for love? This came as something of a surprise to Lexie, but she knew that a dress like this couldn’t lie. She prepared for Cameron’s arrival in a state of high anticipation. Where would he take her? If it was to the smart new restaurant over the river, she’d know he saw the date as important. But he knew she liked Indian food, so maybe he’d pick one of the three Indian restaurants in town. Lexie’s tastes had changed and grown in the last four years. Had Cameron’s? She realised how little she knew about what he had become and the flutter in her gut intensified.

  She turned sideways and examined her profile in the mirror. The cut of the dress was neat, but it could have been made for her curves. It wasn’t revealing, but it was certainly alluring. Teamed with black-heeled t-bar patent shoes, it was the perfect outfit for a date – but if Cameron took her to an Indian restaurant she’d be ridiculously overdressed.

  Then the doorbell rang and it was too late to change her mind. She heard her mother answer it, and all at once she was a teenager again, all jitters and excitement. Silly. This was Cameron, for heaven’s sake, this wasn’t a date with some new man, whose voice and style and sense of humour were unfamiliar. She wouldn’t have to strain to find commonality, or wonder, through the chit chat, what it might be like to have sex with him. She took a last look in the mirror and eyes the colour of a thrush’s wings studied her face. She twisted her head away. Sometimes it was better not to look too closely.

  From the landing she could see the top of a straw hat. Her mother, in faded beige chinos and a crumpled tan tee shirt, had been gardening. From the little of her thin body that was visible, Lexie sensed that she was tense with disapproval, but straining to be polite. Martha found ways of conveying what she was feeling without expressing it in words. She listened to the conversation, phrases bandied back and forth laden with unspoken meaning.

  ‘Hello, Cameron. It’s been a while.’ (Where the hell have you been?)

  ‘Hi Martha. You’re looking well.’ (A lie, but a laudable one.)

  ‘Alexa said you were back.’ (But that’s all she said.)

  ‘I’ve missed Hailesbank.’ (Like a sore head?)

  At this, Martha abandoned subtlety and became more direct.

  ‘Really? You could have come back sooner. It’s been here all the time.’

  ‘Circumstances, I’m afraid. I’m back now, and I couldn’t wait to see Lexie.’

  Silence followed, which gave Lexie a fair idea of what her mother was thinking. Any minute now she’d say something irretrievable like, ‘Don’t you dare hurt her again’. She gave a light cough and started down the last flight of stairs to the hall.

  Two faces turned upwards in her direction. Her mother’s, tired and watchful, cheeks hollowed by grieving – and Cameron’s, Jamie’s best friend, her one-time lover, and quite possibly her future lover too.

  His familiar features broke into an admiring grin. ‘You look great.’

  Lexie’s lips began a soft curl upwards, before she heard him add, ‘But you’re not going to wear that, are you?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ On the last tread, she faltered.

  ‘Didn’t I say? Oops. We’re off to the pub at Port Seton. There’s a boules match on the beach, I thought you’d like it. And they do great smoked sausage and chips. You did say we could use your Dad’s car, didn’t you?’

  Lexie tried to hide her dismay. She disliked games, was not a fan of smoked sausage and had not offered transport.

  ‘Jeans would be best, sweetie. And trainers. I’ll wait.’

  He had forgotten her likes and dislikes. The easy intimacy had been lost across the years. Well, they’d have to reconstruct it. Lexie sensed her mother’s displeasure and mustered enthusiasm to counteract it. Tonight she’d go along with his plans.

  ‘It’s all right about the car, isn’t it?’ She appealed to Martha, willing her not to fuss.

  ‘Well, your father’s not using it,’ Martha said. Her voice was neutral, but Lexie heard the false notes and cringed. Martha would come round, once she saw that Cameron made her happy – because he’d always made her happy, hadn’t he, right up till when he left? Give it time.

  She turned and ran back upstairs to her room. Jeans didn’t feature in her wardrobe. She’d once had the opportunity to buy a pair of Gloria Vanderbilts at a specialist vintage fashion auction in London. It was Patrick who’d spotted the event, a huge affair being mounted in aid of a children’s charity, and suggested they go. ‘My treat,’ he’d insisted when she’d balked at the cost of flying to London just for the auction. The day would live for ever in her mind. She remembered every whirlwind moment, from the pre-dawn start for the airport to the bitter disappointment of being unsuccessful in her bid for the lot she’d set her heart on – early Manolo Blahniks, a sublimely made pair of stilettos in scarlet leather, entwined with wild flowers fashioned from feathers, sequins, ribbons, silk brocade and bits of lace. The bidding had soared immediately, way out of her budget range, and she’d had to duck out.

  ‘It’s not the end of the world,’ Patrick had teased, seeing her face.

  ‘No,’ she’d agreed gamely, but the disappointment had been bitter.

  ‘What about the jeans?’

  ‘One thing I hate.’

  She’d come away with only a jacket, not Chanel but just as smart. It was still one of her favourites.

  So now: what to wear to fit in with Cameron’s plans? She settled on cream linen slacks and a pair of flat pumps, teamed with a Liberty floral print top and cream 1950s bolero. It was a warm evening.

  In the middle of the afternoon, the telephone rang at Capital Art. Victoria answered it in her best plummy voice.

  ‘Good afternoon, Capital Art, how may I—?’

  She hadn’t even finished when a crisp voice broke in, ‘Put me on to Patrick, will you?’

  Victoria was startled, but remembered her training.

  ‘I’ll just check if he’s in. Who may I say is calling?’

  ‘Tell him it’s the Queen. Tell him anything you want, just put me through.’

  She was not accustomed to such directness, but she soldiered on.

  ‘I’ll see if he’s available. One minute please.’

  She put the call on hold before she was interrupted again.

  ‘Patrick? There’s a woman on the line asking to speak to you. She wouldn’t give her name, said I should tell you it’s the Queen. I wasn’t sure what to—’

  ‘Sharp voice, slight foreign accent?’

  Victoria was surprised.

  ‘Yes, that about describes her, I guess.’

  Patrick was in the office to the side of the gallery, but Victoria could hear the groan from the reception desk.

  ‘Would you like me to tell her you’re out?’ she asked helpfully.

  ‘It’s a kind thought, but no, you’d better put her through. It’s my sister, Cora.’

  In the office next door, Patrick picked up the phone. Cora was, in fact, his step-sister. At thirty-three, she was younger than he was by a decade, the progeny of his mother and her second husband, Theo Spyridis, and she had inherited the best of her father and the worst. The best was his tawny-skinned go
od looks, the worst his utter fecklessness. She was bright and had spurts of ambition, but also had a tendency to abandon paid work in favour of life in Greece as soon as her bank balance grew – only to realise, when bills mounted unsustainably, that she had to find another job back in Britain. Sometimes she turned to Theo for help in this, sometimes to their mother, Orla. If she got no joy with either, she called Patrick.

  There was no preamble. ‘I need a job, Pats.’

  He hated the abbreviation. ‘Have you tried the Job Centre?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not prepared to do any old thing.’

  In the past, Cora had been a gofer for a film director and a receptionist at a television studio. She had cooked haute-cuisine meals at an exclusive ski chalet at Zermatt and for a boardroom in the City, run a high-profile account in a public relations agency in London, and organised two Balls and a countrywide treasure hunt for an impecunious conservation society. What she had never done was scrub floors, wait at tables or work in a call centre.

  ‘Haven’t any of your contacts got anything for you?’

  ‘Times are hard, darling, in case you hadn’t noticed. How’s your business going, by the way? Haven’t you snagged a rich heiress yet?’

  ‘I could ask the same of you,’ Patrick said briskly. He adored his little sister, more than he would ever admit, but she had caught him at a bad time. He was about to fob her off when an idea occurred to him. He had been looking at premises on the High Street in Hailesbank – not for another art gallery, but with the thought that he might open a shop for upmarket handcrafted objects. Top end art was a niche market and a craft shop offered the advantage of turnover. Cash flow is king. Besides, Patrick admired well-made artefacts and Hailesbank was the perfect testing ground for such a venture.

  ‘There might be something—’ he began.

  She was onto it at once. ‘You’re a darling. I’ll come up tomorrow on the nine forty-five from Heathrow. You can tell me about it then.’ And she rang off.

  Patrick was left staring at the phone and wondering whether he should have kept his mouth shut. Still, Cora was more than capable of doing the job, if she liked the idea, and he only wanted someone temporary to get the place up and running.

  He replaced the phone, glanced at his watch, and realised it was getting late. He picked up his jacket, checked his appearance in the mirror in his office, and headed for the door.

  ‘I’m going out,’ he called to Victoria. ‘You’re okay to lock up, aren’t you?’

  Victoria braced her shoulders and straightened her back. It was a new responsibility and showed Patrick’s faith in her. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  She watched as he ran down the stone steps to the pavement with natural grace, his jacket hooked over his left shoulder with one finger, his mobile clamped to the ear on the other side. Was he going to meet Cora? She wasn’t entirely convinced that Cora was his sister. Many women traipsed adoringly after Patrick and she was sure he used a number of euphemisms to describe their status in his life. She wouldn’t care how he described her, so long as it wasn’t ‘good girl’.

  Patrick wasn’t going to meet Cora. He was taking Diana Golspie to the opening of an exhibition of Etruscan art at the National Museum in Chambers Street. It had been in his diary for weeks. Such receptions were a great place to meet and network, and Diana was the perfect companion: glamorous, knowledgeable and a relaxed conversationalist.

  He tried to forget the discussion with Cora as he pushed the buzzer on the door to Diana’s flat. The last time he’d been here, he’d treated her appallingly and the memory of it still made him feel guilty. He should not take out his feelings about Lexie on Diana. Even though he made up for it by treating her to an expensive meal, he resolved to make amends all over again by being extra nice to her this evening.

  ‘You’re looking sumptuous.’

  He didn’t have to lie. Diana was a handsome woman; tall, with endless legs and a glorious mane of auburn hair. She was confident and assertive, and she adored being pampered. In short, she was about as different from Lexie Gordon as any woman could be.

  ‘Thank you, darling.’ A cloud of Givenchy smothered him as she leaned in for a kiss. ‘Time for a drinkie?’

  ‘I could murder a beer.’

  ‘I hope you’ve not made any appointments for afterwards. I’ve booked a table at that little place in Gullane.’

  ‘Gullane?’

  ‘Well-known golfer’s paradise?’

  Gullane was down the coast, well on the way to Hailesbank. ‘How will you—’

  Diana continued as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘Sir James and Lady Catriona are joining us.’

  He had to hand it to her. She was an arch manipulator. Diana knew perfectly well that Patrick never invited women to The Gables, but she also knew he had been courting this wealthy couple for some time with a view to investing in the global expansion of Capital Art, without success. Securing their company at dinner was a coup, but the price – he saw it coming – would be a night in his bed. She had manoeuvred him into a very tight corner.

  Diana flicked open a bottle of lager and handed it to him.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling, I’ve put a couple of little things in a bag. You can bring me back in the morning.’

  Her fine-featured face was serene – she knew better than to show triumph. Patrick had to admire her balls. In many ways, Diana Golspie was the perfect match for him. He gave in graciously.

  ‘You,’ he pulled her close and kissed her with zest, ‘are quite some woman.’

  At a small pub in the seaside community of Port Seton, Lexie was staring at a piece of smoked sausage. It lay, glossy and brown, across a mountain of chips in a wicker basket lined with greaseproof paper. She could see beads of fat glistening on the paper and felt nauseated.

  ‘Might I have fish instead?’

  Cameron laughed. ‘Sausage, sweets, that’s the speciality in this pub.’

  ‘It’s a fishing port. They land fish here. Surely someone can find a piece of fish somewhere.’

  On the next table, a man overheard.

  ‘The fish is fresh from the sea, right enough. Give the lady a break, man!’

  Cameron beamed. ‘No worries,’ he said without rancour. He reached across to Alexa’s basket and lifted her sausage.

  ‘Jimmy! Bring the lady a single fish, will you? Ta. Okay, sweets?’

  He stuffed the end of the sausage into his mouth and munched on it appreciatively.

  The fish, when it came, was meltingly moist and Lexie was appeased. Outside, when they’d finished eating, Cameron pulled her close and kissed her ear.

  ‘Sorry, love. I forget not everyone shares my taste. Okay?’

  He was strong and muscular and her body responded to the feel of him just as it used to.

  ‘Perfect,’ she whispered, closing her eyes so that the salty smell of him took over her senses.

  ‘So let’s wow them at the boules, eh?’

  On the beach, Lexie removed her shoes and felt the sand squidge between her toes. A bubble of seawater appeared as her toes disappeared in the warm damp. They were going to play on the firm surface left by the outgoing tide. Beside her, the low sun streaked the water with a flash of orange and gold. She watched it dreamily. Sunsets were notoriously difficult to capture in paint without appearing unreal and Lexie itched to take on the challenge.

  ‘Over here, love. Best of three ends. Let’s go!’

  Cameron was like an excited puppy, eager to play, and she couldn’t help smiling. This was what she needed – this injection of energy into the monotonous drudgery she had allowed her life to become. It was good for her.

  ‘Ready!’ she called, smiling and paddling towards him. A wave washed over her feet, altering the pattern of the ripples left by the receding tide yet again. It felt like a new start.

  ‘Happy?’

  Cameron glanced across at her as he steered Tom’s Volvo down the dual carriageway back towards Hailesbank.


  Lexie yawned and stretched. ‘Blissfully relaxed.’

  ‘Told you you’d enjoy it.’

  ‘I hate to admit it, but you were right.’

  ‘That last ball you threw was pure genius,’ he chuckled, putting on his indicator to signal the turn onto the slip road. ‘Landing right on the jack like that. Squashed it right into the sand. Never knew you were so talented at boules.’

  ‘Nor me.’

  He was laughing and looking across at her when there was a bang and the car juddered. Cameron slammed on the brakes and Lexie was thrown forward towards the windscreen.

  ‘I’m going to die,’ she thought. ‘Just like Jamie.’

  She heard a scream and realised the sound was coming out of her own mouth. The seatbelt bit into her shoulder and its hard edges dug into the flesh all the way down her torso before she was thrown back. Her head hit the padded cushion of the headrest with a soft thump. Cameron shouted, ‘Shit,’ the car slewed round and skidded to a halt halfway across the grass verge, the engine cut out and there was silence.

  It was eleven o’clock at night, and the sky was a velvety Prussian blue, but this was Scotland and it was May, so it wasn’t quite dark. Lexie opened her eyes cautiously. She could see nothing but sky, and trees lit by a gibbous moon.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I hit a deer. It just ran out in front of me.’ His face was chalky white in the moonlight. ‘There was nothing I could do.’

  Her heart began to slow as the terror receded. ‘I didn’t even see it.’

  Cameron slumped across the wheel.

  ‘Fucking hell. What’s your dad going to say?’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault. He’ll just be thankful we’re all right.’

  Headlights swept across the car as a vehicle turned down the slip road. Immediately, Lexie grew anxious.

  ‘Are we clear of the road?’

  ‘I think so. I’d better see what the damage is.’

  Cameron got out as the other car pulled in behind them. Lexie opened her door in time to hear a voice say, ‘Everything all right? What’s happened?’