Chapter 9 Schadenfreude
SCHADENFREUDE
PRESENT DAY
Catherine’s polished brogues crunched into the gravel as she stepped out of her Boxster. Her eyes trailed up the limestone facade of the exclusive Cotswolds hotel. The wisteria creeping around the doors and windows was starting to bloom, emitting a heady floral scent in the early afternoon air.
Catherine took a deep breath as a sudden swell of anxiety gnawed at her resolve. Why on earth did I suggest this to Jeremy?
She smoothed her hands over her white blouse and tugged at the hem of her blazer.
She had nipped home after work to get changed, but any effort she’d made was entirely for herself.
She enjoyed cutting a smart figure and making a good impression.
None of this was for Francesca’s benefit.
Especially not the liberal spritz of Penhaligon’s Halfeti Leather, which Catherine reserved for special occasions.
Although seeing Francesca unravelled did feel like a special occasion.
The spiteful part of Catherine’s brain twisted her mouth into a half-smirk, which she eyed in the reflection of the hotel’s sliding doors before they swished open.
No, this isn’t about schadenfreude. Catherine was here to check in on Francesca’s wellbeing.
This was a favour to her business partner…
her oldest friend. And Catherine was a professional, if nothing else.
She wasn’t here to gloat at Francesca’s misfortune; she was here to…
Oh, to hell with it, I might gloat a bit. Penny will be proud.
For a moment, Catherine thought about texting her flamboyant friend with this latest development, but she’d already caught the eye of the bubbly blonde receptionist, who was smiling and beckoning her towards the desk.
“Hi, I’m here to see Francesca Dalton,” Catherine said in the sort of whisper reserved for libraries and funeral homes.
“Sure, let me see.” The receptionist tapped away at her keyboard and frowned. “Ah, Mrs Dalton has asked not to be disturbed.”
Catherine’s fixed smile didn’t falter. “Well, I’m her doctor, so…”
“Right, okay. I can pop a call through to her room, if that would be…”
Unblinking, Catherine nodded and looked on as the young woman cradled the phone receiver on her shoulder and dialled.
“Afternoon, Mrs Dalton. I’m ever so sorry to disturb you…
Yes, I realise that, but…
Okay, sure, but she says she’s your doctor…
Yes, she…
No, sorry, I didn’t catch the name…”
The receptionist glanced up at Catherine and then lowered her voice slightly. “Yes, white hair.”
“It’s platinum,” Catherine hissed.
“Okay, yes. I’ll send her right up.”
Catherine tugged her blazer again and puffed out a breath before tapping the door of room 201. She waited for a response, but none came. She rolled her eyes and knocked again. After a beat, she hunched in closer to the door, her mouth barely an inch away from the wood grain.
“Look, Francesca, I know you’re in there. You literally just spoke to the receptionist and told her to send me up, so… are you going to let me in or not?”
She waited for what felt like five minutes — long enough to check three times that she was standing at the right door. As she turned away, the door swung open, as if Francesca had been watching through the peephole all along.
A blast of stale air spilled out of the room.
Catherine hadn’t been entirely sure what to expect, but she almost gasped at the sight of Francesca.
Her normally perfectly styled hair hung lank, her skin looked pallid, and a stained white bathrobe hung limp around her shoulders, making her look smaller than she really was.
“Fine, come in if you have to.” Francesca’s voice croaked like she’d barely used it for days.
“Francesca, you look—”
“Terrible, I know.” Francesca gave her a vacant glare before turning away. “No need to rub it in. Is that why you came here? To gloat at the state of me?”
“No!” Catherine said a bit too quickly, and followed up with a softer, “Of course I’m not here for that. I wanted to see how you were doing. Jeremy has been worried sick about you… and I’ve been worried about you, too.”
Francesca shrugged and shuffled sloth-like back towards the four-poster bed, where, by the looks of it, she’d wallowed for the past few days.
Clothes lay strewn from the door to the bed, as if Francesca had shed a skin before slithering into it.
Dirty cups cluttered the bedside table, and empty food wrappers fanned around the indent Francesca had left in the sheets.
“Shall I make us a cup of tea?” Catherine asked, grasping at the default British response to any crisis.
“Good luck finding a clean cup.” Francesca slumped back onto the bed.
“You know they’ll come and clean the room if you let them.” Catherine looked around at the mess and shuddered. It looked like Francesca had polished off the contents of the minibar, but there wasn’t evidence of much else. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Why do you suddenly care?”
Catherine puckered her lips. “I don’t, if I’m honest.”
Francesca let out a laugh that sounded like a balloon popping. “I appreciate the honesty.”
“But I’m here. And I feel a certain — duty of care, should I say?”
“You know you’re not actually my doctor, Trusty?”
“Well, neither is Jeremy, but you still get him to prescribe you sleeping pills, so…”
Francesca opened her mouth, but instead of protesting, she licked her top lip. “Alright, I’ll eat. What’s on the menu?”
Something flickered in her dark eyes that made Catherine look away.
“Well, why don’t you get yourself cleaned up, and—”
“I’m in no fit state to go out!” She threw her arms back and dramatically clutched at the pillows.
Catherine held up her hands. “I wasn’t going to suggest that… I just thought it might make you feel better, and while you’re at it, I’ll order some food and tidy up a little in here.”
“Oh, I do like it when you take charge,” Francesca growled and sat forward. Her gown fell open ever-so-slightly, revealing that she was wearing nothing underneath.
“I’m not playing games, Francesca. I can just leave, you know?”
“You’re no fun anymore,” Francesca pouted.
“Fine, alright. I’ll go take a bath.” She stretched up from the bed, like Sleeping Beauty stirring from slumber.
Then she made a show of letting the robe drop from her shoulders and dip down her back as she flounced into the bathroom and shut the door behind her.
Although she seemed brighter than when Catherine had first walked in, Catherine knew better than to trust Francesca’s mood; it’d be like trusting an angry ocean not to drown you in a storm — everything could change in an instant.
Over the sound of running water, Francesca called out, “Do you want me to sing whilst I’m in here, so you know I haven’t topped myself?”
“No. If you do that, I might top myself.”
Francesca responded with a hearty laugh, and Catherine hated that the sound still caused a swell of affection inside her.
She opened the window to let in some fresh air and busied herself folding Francesca’s discarded clothes, gathering the wrappers and tissues into the bin before collecting up the dirty cups and glasses and popping them outside the door for housekeeping to ferry away.
Finally, she straightened the bedsheets, smoothing out Francesca’s indent, like she’d once done with her life.
Christ, why am I dredging that up now? It’s been decades.
Catherine swept a satisfied glance around the tidied room before calling through the bathroom door, “Are you alright in there?”
No answer came, so she tapped loudly on the door. “Francesca?”
There was another long pause before a loud splash of water, followed by a dramatic gasp.
“Is everything okay in there?”
“Come in and see for yourself, if you like.”
“No, I’m quite alright, thank you.”
Catherine reclined in the small lounge area and returned to frowning at an unfinished Sudoku puzzle on her phone.
At the sound of the bathtub draining, she called an order through to room service — a chicken club sandwich, a side of house fries and a large pot of tea.
She’d have a cup, make sure Francesca ate something and then excuse herself. No reason to prolong whatever this was.
Steamy, fragrant air gushed from the bathroom, and Francesca came out dressed in a clean white robe. Catherine struggled to tear her eyes from the alluring stretch of Francesca’s swan-like neck, exposed as she towel-dried her wet hair.
She swallowed and forced her eyes back to her phone. “Feel better?”
“Mmm, yes. As much as it pains me to say it, you were right.”
“I’ve ordered some room service. It’ll be here soon.”
“Good, I’m starving. You were right about that, too.”
Catherine bit back a grin, which faded as Francesca threw her wet towel on the bed. She reclined at the opposite end of the sofa, her arms spread wide and draped over the edges.
Catherine tried her best not to psychoanalyse the woman in front of her, but it was hard not to — Francesca was a fascinating subject, after all.
Catherine had wondered if that was what had kept Jeremy so rapt all these years.
The irony hadn’t escaped her that they, two qualified medical psychotherapists, had once both fallen for someone they should have actually been studying.
Francesca’s lips twisted into a grin. “You’re looking at me and frowning. What?”
“Sorry, I was thinking about… Jeremy.”
Francesca rolled her eyes. “Of course you were.”
“Well, one of us should.”
“What are you implying? I love my husband dearly.”
“Let’s be real, Francesca; you love his wallet.”
“It’s his finest feature.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re uptight.”
Catherine sniffed, ending their ridiculous rally.
Francesca smirked as if she’d won. Over thirty years had passed, and she still knew how to get a rise out of Catherine. Why am I here? Catherine uncrossed her legs and clapped her hands to her thighs. “Right, well, your food will be here soon, so…”