Cleopatra. Donald Hargreves is going as my asp. Donny’s a terrible lush but a terrific dancer. And then on to the Kit-Cat Club, I suppose. Don’t allow the Holy to force-feed you like a goose, darling.
Masses of love from your own,
D xxx
Cate walked up the steps of 1a Upper Wimpole Street, to the first floor, where Rachel’s flat was situated above a dentist’s office. It was a sprawling collection of rooms, spread over two floors, every surface crowded with books, paintings, objects gleaned from various commissions. Last decorated in 1984, it was frozen in an age that had been the highlight of hers and Paul’s marriage. Bright red walls adorned the dining room, sunshine yellow in the kitchen. A mossy-green carpet buckled, faded and shapeless, throughout. Once they had entertained frequently, generously — open-house luncheons and parties that went on into the early hours of the morning. The dining table seated twelve with ease and there were extra chairs everywhere, lining the walls of the living room, tucked into corners, ready to accommodate the overflow. Nothing had been altered since Paul’s death. But it had been a long time since anyone had crashed in the upstairs guest rooms or sat down to enjoy one of Rachel’s famous roast beef suppers.
Cate put her bag down in the hallway.
It was waiting for her in the centre of the dining-room table; the thick white envelope. Rachel came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was making chicken soup in celebration of Cate’s return; the air was filled with the savoury aroma of fresh stock. ‘Hello!’ she smiled, giving Cate a hug. ‘How was it? I hope Jack wasn’t too difficult.’
‘No. He was fine.’
‘Good.’
Cate looked past her, into the dining room.
Rachel turned, following her eyeline. ‘Oh … yes,’ she said significantly.
Cate walked over and picked it up.
Her name was written across the front, ‘Cate Albion’. But it was not in his handwriting. She was surprised by how both relieved and disappointed she felt — how much she’d longed to see something of him and yet dreaded it at the same time.
Rachel sat down. ‘Do you want to tell me who it’s from?’
Cate shook her head.
‘Do you want me to sit with you while you read it?’
‘No.’
‘You know you don’t have to open it.’
Cate said nothing.
Frowning, Rachel ran her hand over the tablecloth in front of her, smoothing out the wrinkles. She was unused to playing the maternal role and was unsure how to proceed. ‘I only want to help you, darling.’
‘Yes. Yes, I know.’
‘But you’re still not going to tell me anything,’ she deduced.
‘Not yet. That is —’ Cate looked at her, her eyes anxious —‘if you don’t mind.’
Sighing, Rachel got up. ‘Fine. So, do you want rice in your soup or noodles?’
‘Noodles, please.’
‘OK.’ Resigned, she headed back to the kitchen, closing the dining-room door behind her.
Cate sank into a chair, turning the envelope over and over. If she opened it, she couldn’t quite be sure of what would happen next. It had happened before; she’d watched her good intentions and firm resolves melt away with a few simple words. And yet there was an excitement — a tangible energy. He wanted her. Why else would he contact her at all? Her ego swelled, inflating like an empty balloon. She was desirable, alluring and, as long as the envelope remained unopened, in complete control.
The fire alarm blared. Rachel rushed into the dining room. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Sorry!’ Cate was wildly fanning the air around an old marble ashtray, the envelope crumpling and curling, consumed by flames. ‘Sorry! So sorry! I was just… you know … getting rid of this.’
Rachel flung open the windows and began flapping her apron. ‘You know, you could just throw it away.’
‘Yes, but… but I don’t trust myself!’
Rachel grabbed a plant mister from the mantelpiece, spraying until the flame fizzled out.
Masses of love from your own,
D xxx
Cate walked up the steps of 1a Upper Wimpole Street, to the first floor, where Rachel’s flat was situated above a dentist’s office. It was a sprawling collection of rooms, spread over two floors, every surface crowded with books, paintings, objects gleaned from various commissions. Last decorated in 1984, it was frozen in an age that had been the highlight of hers and Paul’s marriage. Bright red walls adorned the dining room, sunshine yellow in the kitchen. A mossy-green carpet buckled, faded and shapeless, throughout. Once they had entertained frequently, generously — open-house luncheons and parties that went on into the early hours of the morning. The dining table seated twelve with ease and there were extra chairs everywhere, lining the walls of the living room, tucked into corners, ready to accommodate the overflow. Nothing had been altered since Paul’s death. But it had been a long time since anyone had crashed in the upstairs guest rooms or sat down to enjoy one of Rachel’s famous roast beef suppers.
Cate put her bag down in the hallway.
It was waiting for her in the centre of the dining-room table; the thick white envelope. Rachel came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was making chicken soup in celebration of Cate’s return; the air was filled with the savoury aroma of fresh stock. ‘Hello!’ she smiled, giving Cate a hug. ‘How was it? I hope Jack wasn’t too difficult.’
‘No. He was fine.’
‘Good.’
Cate looked past her, into the dining room.
Rachel turned, following her eyeline. ‘Oh … yes,’ she said significantly.
Cate walked over and picked it up.
Her name was written across the front, ‘Cate Albion’. But it was not in his handwriting. She was surprised by how both relieved and disappointed she felt — how much she’d longed to see something of him and yet dreaded it at the same time.
Rachel sat down. ‘Do you want to tell me who it’s from?’
Cate shook her head.
‘Do you want me to sit with you while you read it?’
‘No.’
‘You know you don’t have to open it.’
Cate said nothing.
Frowning, Rachel ran her hand over the tablecloth in front of her, smoothing out the wrinkles. She was unused to playing the maternal role and was unsure how to proceed. ‘I only want to help you, darling.’
‘Yes. Yes, I know.’
‘But you’re still not going to tell me anything,’ she deduced.
‘Not yet. That is —’ Cate looked at her, her eyes anxious —‘if you don’t mind.’
Sighing, Rachel got up. ‘Fine. So, do you want rice in your soup or noodles?’
‘Noodles, please.’
‘OK.’ Resigned, she headed back to the kitchen, closing the dining-room door behind her.
Cate sank into a chair, turning the envelope over and over. If she opened it, she couldn’t quite be sure of what would happen next. It had happened before; she’d watched her good intentions and firm resolves melt away with a few simple words. And yet there was an excitement — a tangible energy. He wanted her. Why else would he contact her at all? Her ego swelled, inflating like an empty balloon. She was desirable, alluring and, as long as the envelope remained unopened, in complete control.
The fire alarm blared. Rachel rushed into the dining room. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Sorry!’ Cate was wildly fanning the air around an old marble ashtray, the envelope crumpling and curling, consumed by flames. ‘Sorry! So sorry! I was just… you know … getting rid of this.’
Rachel flung open the windows and began flapping her apron. ‘You know, you could just throw it away.’
‘Yes, but… but I don’t trust myself!’
Rachel grabbed a plant mister from the mantelpiece, spraying until the flame fizzled out.
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