Chapter 16
16
ROBYN
The next day I spent my lunch break with the Pink Ladies. I’d persuaded Maggie, the formidable cook, to prepare and have ready in the drama studio a picnic lunch the girls could tuck into after being put through their paces. A sort of carrot on a stick to keep them going when they were ‘absolutely starving, miss’.
‘Only ’cos it’s you, Robyn,’ Maggie, who regularly donned her Lycra and joined in with my after-school Zumba class, had said tartly. ‘Pushing me over my budget, you know, doing this sort of thing. The PE staff’ll all be after the same for footie practice, if they get wind of it. And, mind, I want the best seats in the house.’ Maggie’s usually strident voice had turned dreamy. ‘God, I loved John Travolta when I was younger.’
The girls were shaping up nicely. Isla Boothroyd was absolutely superb as Betty Rizzo, the tough, sarcastic and outspoken leader of the Pink Ladies. Great casting, I smiled to myself, shouting praise in the girl’s direction.
‘Got to go, miss,’ Isla shouted back at me, reaching for her bag before stuffing a tuna sandwich into her mouth and a Scotch egg into her one free hand. ‘Got my mock physics exam in fifteen minutes. Miss Hussain’ll have a fit if I’m late.’
‘Still determined to be a vet, Isla?’ I called to the girl’s retreating back.
Isla turned, flushed with the success of a good rehearsal. ‘Yep. Or on the stage in London like you were,’ she managed to get out through a mouth full of sandwich. ‘Haven’t quite decided yet.’
‘You go for it, Isla,’ I called. ‘You’re quite capable of doing either. You follow your dreams…’ But Isla had gone, banging the door of the drama studio behind her.
I then spent the next half an hour with Frenchy, Marty and Jan, the other main female character leads who made up the Pink Ladies, putting them through their paces. They might lack the natural talent of both Sorrel, and Isla Boothroyd, but they were shaping up nicely and once they’d done what I wanted, I let them have free rein on Maggie’s picnic lunch. Glancing at my phone, I realised that, with ten minutes to go before drama with 8TR, I’d better avail myself of a somewhat flabby-looking Scotch egg if I was to survive the afternoon sessions.
‘Any left for me?’ Sorrel had let herself into the drama studio, apparently changed and ready for some action.
‘Help yourself.’ I indicated the remains of the picnic. ‘You feeling better? I can’t believe you got an Uber home yesterday and the day before. Why didn’t you just go and sit it out in the sick bay?’ When Sorrel didn’t reply, her mouth too full of the remaining piece of quiche, I laughed. ‘You’re obviously feeling better today.’
Sorrel nodded. ‘Right,’ she said, once the Pink Ladies had left for their afternoon classes, ‘have you got five minutes to help me with that tour jeté you’re so good at?’
‘You sure?’ I frowned. ‘If you were actually sick yesterday, I don’t think flying through the air is the best thing to be doing. Why didn’t you just stay at home for a couple of days until you felt better?’
‘Need to revise for my maths mock exam. Mrs Gledhill’s giving a few of us some extra tuition on quadratic equations… they’re still beyond me.’ Sorrel looked at her watch and then at the studio wall clock. ‘Come on, Robyn, I’ve only got ten minutes.’
Goodness, Sorrel was so accomplished: an absolute natural; a latent talent that would, I was sure, take her to huge success in the West End. The world was her oyster and, for a fleeting moment, I felt nothing but a bolt of pure envy. At almost sixteen, Sorrel had all her musical career in front of her while here was I, pushing thirty and stuck in this backwater.
Oh, but I had Fabian and the excitement of the new cottage in the village. Suddenly much happier, and mentally kicking myself for feeling jealous of my little sister, I launched myself forwards, shadowing Sorrel’s movements across the wooden floor until we were both dancing in perfect harmony.
‘Oofff! Hell!’ I exhaled, coming to a standstill while watching Sorrel’s final steps of the dance I’d choreographed for her audition. ‘We’ve just got time to go through your main Sandy pieces; my class will be in soon.’ Then, seeing Sorrel’s pale face, despite the exertions she’d just put herself through, I frowned. ‘You OK, Sorrel?’
‘You see,’ Sorrel said, tutting and holding onto the barre. ‘I feel woozy again. Robyn, what’s the matter with me? I’ve got what Mum’s got, haven’t I? I’m the one that’s inherited it.’
‘Can you inherit a condition? Isn’t it just money or a house from a rich uncle?’ I tried to make light of Sorrel’s worries, which, I could see, were threatening to overwhelm her. I walked over to her. She was breathing heavily, beads of sweat on her pale face. ‘You’re far too young, Sorrel. Mum was in her thirties when she was diagnosed. You’re just doing too much: your mocks, this audition in London, the lead part in Grease , trying to sort Joel…’
‘He’s been bailed,’ Sorrel said, some colour returning to her pretty face.
‘Well, that’s good, then, isn’t it…?’ I turned as my first class of the afternoon started gathering at the door, noses and big bags pressed against the glass to see what was going on with their teacher and her sister.
Sorrel shook her head. ‘Bailed to the local authority.’
‘What does that mean? Oy…’ I turned crossly to the kids now pushing at the slightly open door ‘…you lot know the rules. One line. Outside. And I’ll be with you.’ I turned back to Sorrel. ‘What does bail mean?’
‘He says he’s being taken to Castleford.’
‘Castleford?’ I stared.
‘Out of the area. It’s not safe for him here. He’s got to stay with his mum’s sister. It was what his solicitor and the YJS officer came up with. The alternative, which Joel said the CPS were pushing for, was Wetherby and youth detention.’
‘OK,’ I soothed. ‘Get him away from what he’s got himself involved in round here.’
‘What about his mocks? He’s clever. You know that…’ Sorrel trailed off as a collective 8TR finally fell through the door.
‘I’ll have a word with Mr Donoghue. Are you OK now?’ Sorrel’s colour was back and she was breathing normally once more. ‘You’ve just overdone it.’
‘You know as well as I do, Robyn, I’m going to have to do a lot more than the ten minutes I’ve just done when I’m in London. It’s no good. I’m not up to it.’
Upset at knowing Sorrel spoke the truth, I rounded irritably on the Year 8 kids who were now swinging bags at each other.
‘What do you lot think you’re doing?’ I glared, torn between sorting out the class and listening to what Sorrel was telling me.
‘Just establishing the rivalry between the Montagues and the Capulets, miss,’ Tyler Jacobs shouted back. ‘You know, like you said last lesson.’
‘Right, OK, then.’ Slightly mollified, I turned back to Sorrel. ‘Well, at least they’ve remembered.’
Sorrel tutted but smiled.
‘Look, meet me after rehearsal this afternoon. I’ve got the T Birds until five fifteen. Come and see the cottage we’re going to rent.’
‘Is Fabian going to be there?’
‘Yes. He’s got the key. He’s been here, there and everywhere yesterday and all day today doing a ton of stuff. I’m going to meet him there about 6p.m. when he’s back.’ I thrust a paper plate of remaining picnic items towards Sorrel, covering them with a white paper napkin. ‘Make sure you’re eating enough and spend the time in the library revising, Sorrel. I’ll come and get you when I’ve finished and drive us down there.’
‘Jobsworth Ken will throw me out. He’ll want to lock up.’
‘I’ll have a word. Right, you look much better,’ I soothed. ‘Off you go. And don’t worry. Panic and worry are making you ill – I think you’ve been having slight panic attacks. There’s nothing physically wrong with you!’
I turned to the class. ‘OK, you Montagues and Capulets – “Draw if you be men. Remember thy swashing blow.” ’
* * *
‘Oh, it’s lovely.’ Sorrel, for once, was speechless. ‘Really lovely. How on earth have you managed to rent this place? Mum and I always thought it was the most beautiful cottage in the village. Right next to the duck pond and the cricket pitch. Isn’t it called the Dower House or something like that?’
Fabian’s Porsche was already parked up outside the cottage, the light from the one central naked bulb inside projecting ghostly rays onto the frosty garden path as Sorrel and I walked towards the front door.
‘We’ll need some lamps,’ I said, feeling excited at the prospect of furnishing the place. ‘Lots of lovely lamps.’
‘Oh, wow, it’s so much bigger than it looks from the outside.’ Sorrel stood in the hallway staring.
‘The new owner has recently put on an extension.’ Fabian was animated, smiling in anticipation, and drawing not just me, but Sorrel as well, into a bear hug of a welcome.
‘Er, ger off,’ Sorrel gasped. ‘I can’t breathe.’ But nonetheless she stayed in Fabian’s embrace. ‘If the owner’s done the place up, why isn’t he living here?’ Sorrel asked, gazing round at the beautiful newly renovated open-plan kitchen whose bank of glass windows and doors led out to the patio and onto a lawn, illuminated with strategically placed garden lights.
‘Unexpectedly sent abroad.’ Fabian smiled. ‘How lucky are we?’
‘You’re going to need some furniture.’ Sorrel pulled a face.
‘Go upstairs.’ Fabian smiled, his excitement palpable.
Sorrel and I galloped upstairs, both determined to arrive first, laughing as we opened the door onto the spacious main bedroom and en suite.
‘They’ve left their bed.’ Sorrel frowned.
‘No, they haven’t.’ Fabian was behind us. ‘I spent all morning looking for one almost exactly like the one in my apartment in London that Robyn loved so much.’
‘Do I really need to know about Robyn’s preferences in the bed department?’ Sorrel pulled a face and I suddenly saw my little sister was feeling left out. A virtually absent father, and a mother who’d suffered badly from post-natal depression and seizures as Sorrel had grown up, hadn’t left her with a great sense of familial security.
I squeezed her hand, wanting to include her in my and Fabian’s excitement. ‘And it was delivered? This afternoon? Even Amazon can’t do that.’
‘Told him it was essential it was in place for this evening. Gave him a backhander.’
‘Money talks, doesn’t it?’ I tutted. ‘Mind you, I’m glad it does. And you’ve got duvets and pillows and everything.’
‘Of course. I brought up a whole load of my stuff when I moved to Harrogate to live with Jemima. These, Robyn, are the actual London bedsheets…’
‘All right, all right.’ Sorrel pulled a face as only a fifteen-nearly-sixteen-year-old could pull. ‘Get a room, the pair of you!’
‘Hey.’ Fabian smiled, taking Sorrel’s arm and heading for the second bedroom. ‘This can be your room. Whenever you deign to grace us with your presence from London.’
‘Really?’ Sorrel’s eyes lit up and then her face closed down once more. ‘ If I get there. If I’m not already dying from some terrible condition.’
‘Bloody hell, Sorrel, you’re more of a hypochondriac than Boris.’ Fabian folded his arms.
‘Boris?’
‘My dog. He’ll be moving in as well.’
‘And he’s a bit of a hypo?’
‘Always checking himself over for ticks, kennel cough, distemper and hair loss and other worrying signs he might peg out at any moment.’
‘Now you’re laughing at me.’
Fabian patted Sorrel’s arm. ‘I’m really not. I was the same when I was your age. Convinced I had bone cancer in my leg, MS, bird flu, kidney failure… The list is endless.’
I stared. I’d never known this about Fabian, although his giving up the case of the Soho Slasher after the trolling he’d suffered at the hands of mainly women’s groups was surely indicative of a sensitive nature?
‘And,’ Fabian went on, glancing back at Sorrel as we returned downstairs, ‘most of it a reaction to stress and worry: I hated being away at boarding school. You’ve a lot going on in your life at the moment. Right, I’m starving – I’ve a picnic here.’
‘We’ve had one picnic already, today,’ I said, immediately wishing I hadn’t.
‘Oh?’ Fabian looked crestfallen.
‘But nothing like this one.’ Sorrel was already at the huge kitchen island, rifling through boxes and bags. ‘Oh, yum.’
‘Nothing much wrong with you.’ Fabian smiled as we all tucked into the Waitrose goodies he’d bought from the Harrogate store. A beautifully soft sourdough with the crispest of crusts was, in turn, slathered with butter, hummus and whipped Feta with beets. Tiny sweet tomatoes, black olives and coleslaw accompanied the feast together with a small glass of pink fizz to toast the new cottage.
‘Woah, that was heaven,’ Sorrel said, lying back on the new cream carpet. ‘This carpet isn’t going to last long with a dog,’ she added. ‘I’m surprised the landlord’s allowing a dog here. Didn’t the estate agent say anything?’
‘He never asked.’ Fabian gave a little laugh. ‘And I certainly didn’t offer any information regarding the third tenant. As I always advise my clients: do not offer any information other than that asked for.’
‘Which reminds me, have you thought any more about it, Fabian?’ Sorrel sat up.
‘About having Boris here?’
‘No.’ Sorrel was suddenly serious. ‘About representing Joel in court. His case is actually being sent to Leeds Crown Court.’
‘Serious, then, if that’s what’s happening, Sorrel.’ Fabian sat up himself, his long jeaned legs out in front of him at right angles.
‘So, will you?’
‘Sorrel…’ I interrupted, putting a hand on Sorrel’s arm.
‘Look, find out what’s happening,’ Fabian said. ‘Who Joel is being represented by. I’d need to speak to his mother and to Joel, but primarily to his solicitor.’
Sorrel stood, scrabbling in her bag for her phone, scrolling through until she got what she wanted. ‘OK… it’s a firm called Braithwaite Anderson… and… hang on… the solicitor is… someone called… hang on… I’ve got it… Alex Brookfield…’
‘Alex Brookfield?’ Fabian spoke the name calmly but I thought I saw a flicker of something – of recognition? – on his beautiful face. Since leaving London, he’d taken to sporting a dark beard and, gazing over at him now, wearing the navy cashmere sweater I loved, I didn’t think I’d ever seen him looking more utterly gorgeous.
‘D’you know the firm?’ I asked when, slightly pink at Fabian catching me staring at him, longing for his touch, I looked away and began clearing the remains of the picnic.
‘A bit. Leave it with me, Sorrel.’
‘Fabian, don’t get her hopes up.’ I frowned across at him.
‘Just leave it with me,’ he insisted. ‘Right, changing the subject, there’s something for you in the fridge, Robyn.’
‘The fridge? Is there one?’ I looked round. ‘Is it switched on and working?’
‘Yes, on both scores.’ Fabian gave me what could only be described as a particularly lascivious grin and I knew instantly what was in there. I only had to think about ice cream and my knickers were on fire. It had really been quite difficult at times, when the ice-cream van had been parked outside St Mede’s during the still warm days of the previous September and October, when I’d first fled London.
I looked at Fabian and we continued to share the secret. Until Sorrel tutted. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, give me a quick lift home, Robyn, or I’ll get Mum to pick me up. I’ll leave you to your ice-cream kisses.’ She turned to Fabian. ‘I know all about how you seduced Robyn with ice cream on the riverbank on your first date.’
‘How d’you know that?’ Fabian and I spoke in unison, laughing.
‘Jess told me.’
‘Typical. Don’t tell my big sister anything if you want it kept quiet. Mum said she was going out when I rang her to say you were coming down here with me,’ I went on, standing and clearing away food, paper plates and the bamboo cutlery and napkins that had accompanied the feast. ‘But you don’t need to go, Sorrel.’
‘Oh, I think I do.’ She sniffed and then sighed. ‘Anyway, maths mock tomorrow.’ She turned. ‘Keep yourself and that pud on ice, Fabian. She’ll only be twenty minutes.’
* * *
All the way from the centre of Beddingfield out to the rural open countryside where Mum and Jess’s row of ten cottages were snuggled together down a lane in the lea of a particularly pretty wood, Sorrel talked constantly about Joel and how wonderful it would be if, with all his expertise, Fabian could be, was prepared to be, his defence barrister.
‘Don’t get your hopes up, Sorrel,’ I warned once more. And then, when no reply seemed imminent, I turned from the wheel. ‘You OK?’
‘Stop the car, Robyn.’ Sorrel was already scrabbling with her seat belt. ‘I feel sick.’
‘Again?’
I pulled up at the side of a quiet country lane, five minutes from home, where a white-faced Sorrel dry-heaved for several minutes.
‘Water.’ I was by her side, offering the bottle I always carried with me.
‘You see, Robyn, there is something wrong with me.’ Sorrel turned her beautiful brown almond eyes towards me, her face pitiful.
‘Maybe something going round? Maybe you ate too much back there? We’re nearly home. Can you make it back?’
Sorrel nodded, wiping her mouth on her navy coat sleeve before levering herself back into the passenger seat and closing her eyes. I put the car into gear again and set off home.
Once the kitchen door was unlocked and lights and gas fires switched on, I went to fill the kettle for a hot-water bottle for Sorrel. ‘Bed.’
‘Got maths to do.’
‘No, come on, bed. It’s only a mock, not the actual GCSE.’
‘I’m OK now…’ She broke off as Jess came in through the door.
‘I thought I heard the car. You’ll never guess – Mum’s really going for it. She’s taken herself off to some new choir she’s joined.’ She paused when she saw Sorrel’s still pale face. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘She’s thrown up again.’
‘You’re not throwing up on purpose?’ Jess asked, her arms folded.
‘On purpose?’ Sorrel glared. ‘D’you not know how horrible it is to vomit? Especially at the side of the road? Are you trying to make out I’m bulimic?’
‘Sorry! To be fair, I can’t remember the last time I threw up.’ Jess paused to think. ‘Must have been when I was first pregnant with Lola. D’you remember, Robyn? I couldn’t keep anything down and…’ She trailed off and stared at Sorrel.
‘Oh, so now you’re accusing me of being pregnant , are you?’ Sorrel stared furiously at Jess. ‘For heaven’s sake! What’s the matter with you?’