Chapter 2
2
The aroma of barbequed sausages drifted across the elegant dressing room. Cate hastily closed the sash window. Down on the patio, Phil was supervising next-door’s teenage daughters who, bribed by the promise of mini hotdogs and a boost to their pocket money, were acting as waitresses that evening. From two floors up, she could see the tiny bald patch in his reddish-brown hair had now spread to the size of a fifty pence piece.
She opened the doors of her treble wardrobe. The neat rows of jackets and dresses lined up on padded hangers never failed to please her. She bit her lip, considering. Something with sleeves, the evening was too warm to cover her upper arms with one of the rainbow of cashmere pieces stacked up in the cedar-lined cubby holes. She practised Pilates regularly, but even so…
Quickly, she selected a deceptively simple shirt dress and retrieved a pair of duck-egg blue sandals from the rotating shoe cupboard. Phil’s inlaid, hand-turned barrel design had been an instant hit, it had even featured on the front page of World of Interiors.
She ran a brush over her white-blonde hair. There had been no time to squeeze in another salon visit; they were leaving tomorrow and she hadn’t begun packing. She’d told Phil she was too busy with the preparations for their annual summer party. But come the morning, she’d have no such excuse. She’d have to psyche herself up for the trip. Luxe Life Swap would be the perfect showcase for Phil’s business. She couldn’t let him down.
She breathed deeply the way she’d learnt on her spa retreat, inhaling the scent of freesias on the dressing table. She would cope with this trip to Italy. She was no longer the insecure teenager who’d gone on that school trip, hiding a smattering of normal teen acne – that felt like the end of the world – under a too-long fringe.
She fastened her emerald bracelet, a Christmas present from Phil. How lucky she was. She mustn’t forget that. Why was she harking back to a school trip most of her classmates would barely remember? Cate wasn’t proud of the way she’d behaved in Venice but that trip had changed everything. It had made her determined to leave her old life behind as soon as she could. She glanced in the mirror at her expensively made-up face. Cathy Laidlaw was gone. Cate Beresford had taken her place. Those girls from St Margaret’s wouldn’t recognise her now. Except for Natalie Spencer. Nat had known her better than anyone.
* * *
Tyres crunched on the gravel. A slam of a car door. Phil’s best friend Evan and his wife Lucy had arrived.
‘Hello, Cate, you look beautiful. And Phil, good to see you, old man!’ Evan pumped Phil’s hand up and down with unnecessary vigour. He held out a bottle. ‘This do?’
‘Puligny-Montrachet, very nice,’ Phil said. It would have cost more than his old dad had earnt in a week.
‘Phil!’ Lucy planted a kiss on both his cheeks. She stepped back, a smile playing on her lips as though she was inspecting him. ‘Looking good!’
‘You, too.’ He flicked his eyes away from the pale cleavage splendidly displayed by the low neckline of her emerald-green, floral dress; the floaty sleeves so long, they grazed her knuckles. Over his shoulder, Cate was disappearing through the glass doors clutching a fashionably unstructured wildflower bouquet.
‘I would have sent the flowers ahead if I wasn’t so disorganised.’ Lucy gave a tinkling laugh.
‘Good drive down, Evan?’
Evan ran his hand through his floppy, blond hair. ‘Yah. Prunella didn’t conk out.’ He named all his cars after ex-girlfriends.
‘Drink?’ Phil asked. One of next-door’s girls – he never could remember which was which – was approaching with a tray of champagne flutes.
‘Thought you’d never ask… Bollinger, I presume! Bolly-jolly good.’
Phil felt a hand on his arm. Cate had reappeared minus the flowers, the scent of her freshly washed hair inches from his nose blending with the Chanel perfume she loved to wear. She gave him a smile. It was all he needed. What was wrong with him this evening? Evan was his friend. The person to whom he owed everything: his multimillion-pound, handmade furniture company, this dreamy old vicarage outside Sevenoaks, the Bentley in his double garage. Even Cate, he sometimes thought. Cate loved him, she’d grown up with nothing like he had but when he saw the smile on her face as she toyed with her emerald bracelet, he couldn’t help asking himself if she’d find him equally attractive if she was crunching over discarded drug paraphernalia in the stairwell of the council estate he’d once called home.
He took a perfectly chargrilled pepper, halloumi and red onion skewer from one of the girls.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. A couple from his golf club had arrived. He busied himself with introductions and drinks. The conversation would turn soon enough to the topic he dreaded.
‘So, you’re off to Venice with Luxe Life Swap ! You must be so excited,’ one of the wives gushed. ‘We’re going to be glued to the show.’
Phil cast his eye around for Cate, but she was pointing out their new summer house to two women from her book group.
‘Yes,’ Phil said. ‘It’s a business thing really, good for brand awareness. Far more subtle than social media. You know I’ve always avoided getting into that.’
‘But staying in an Italian count’s palazzo is a teeny, tiny bit of a holiday,’ Lucy butted in. ‘Of course, Phil’s been to Venice before, haven’t you? Phil and my husband Evan went there on a school trip. They’ve been inseparable ever since. Isn’t that right, darling?’
Only Phil caught Evan’s momentary hesitation before he replied, ‘Yes, inseparable. Now, how’s the handicap, old boy? I hear you’ve been playing off eight.’
* * *
Cate plunged two glasses into the sink. The aroma of pine-scented bubbles mingled with charcoal smoke wafting in through the bi-fold doors. The girls next door had been primed to keep on top of the dirty glasses but Cate just wanted a moment alone to wipe off the fixed smile on her face when anyone mentioned Venice.
Lucy’s heels clicked across the poured concrete floor. Trust her to interrupt.
‘Cate! You shouldn’t be washing up!’
‘I know.’ Cate shrugged.
‘Put that down. You should be out circulating, enjoying yourself. You’re the hostess.’
‘And you’re a guest.’
Lucy nudged Cate aside and plunged her hands into the sink. Despite pushing up her sleeves, her ludicrously long cuffs still trailed in the suds.
‘Are you worried about Phil? He’s not himself, is he?’ Lucy kept her face turned towards the Moroccan-tiled splashback.
‘Phil?’ He had been quieter these last few weeks, distracted, accusing Cate of imagining things when she asked what the matter was. But she wasn’t going to share that with Evan’s wife. ‘He’s fine, probably just worried he’s got to go a whole fortnight without popping into his workshop or the new showroom. You know how hands-on he is.’
‘One has to let go, like sending the children off to school.’ Lucy swished the glasses under a running tap and upended them on the draining board.
Cate remembered how it felt driving first Oli, then Max, to Phil and Evan’s old school. They still seemed like babies, but she was amazed how they’d thrived at Hillingdon, returning each holiday with a confident swagger Phil had never possessed.
She handed Lucy a linen towel to dry her hands. ‘It’s strange to think the count and his wife are going to be living in our house whilst we’re in theirs. A fifteenth-century palazzo – it seems so unreal. I wish the TV people had sent through some pictures.’
‘They’ll want to capture your faces when you see the place for the first time. But it’s not the house that’s bothering you, is it?’
‘I’m fine.’ Cate smoothed her hair behind her ears. ‘Let’s go back outside. I might need to rescue Phil from that new golf-club buddy; he can be a bit of a bore.’
‘Wait.’ Lucy laid her hand on Cate’s, her damp sleeve brushing against Cate’s arm. ‘I don’t want to pry but…’ She turned her head pointedly in the direction of the expanse of lawn, mowed into neat stripes.
Cate followed her gaze. Phil stood by the tennis court talking to their new next-door neighbour, leaning in close, his mouth almost touching her ear. He threw back his head and laughed; she tossed her wavy, black hair.
Lucy dropped her voice. ‘If you need to talk, we could go out for a coffee. I’ve been through it myself… more than once. Evan’s always been a hard dog to keep on the porch, as they say in the States.’
Cate stared at her. ‘What are you saying? You think Phil and that woman…? No, that can’t be right! Kiran’s just a friendly neighbour. We’ve had her and her husband round for dinner a couple of times; they seem very happy together.’
‘But where’s the husband now?’
‘Away, working. His water-filter company has contracts all over the world.’
‘Well, when the cat’s away…’ Lucy let the rest of her sentence hang. ‘Come on, let’s get another glass of fizz.’
Cate followed her out onto the terrace, feeling, she imagined, like someone being led through the wreckage of a gas explosion.
‘Pineapple, strawberry and mango kebab?’ One of next-door’s girls was holding out a tray.
‘Uh, yes… thanks.’ Cate stood holding the stick of chargrilled fruit. Phil wasn’t having an affair. She’d know; she was sure she would. But something was off. Six weeks ago, he’d been thrilled they’d been selected for Luxe Life Swap. They’d had great fun with Lucy and Evan trying to guess where the show would send them – for some reason, they’d all thought of Lisbon. But since the information on their trip to Venice had arrived, her husband had become uncharacteristically snappy. This evening, amongst their closest friends, she could tell by the set of his shoulders, his forced bonhomie, that something wasn’t quite right. But an affair? What nonsense. Phil wasn’t the type.
Cate usually loved their summer parties, the perfect opportunity for their adult friends to get together during those few weeks of peace before the chaos of the school holidays began but thanks to Lucy’s insinuations, she couldn’t relax.
Finally, the last drink was downed, the last four-by-four reversed off the drive.
She climbed the stairs to the bedroom. Ted was lying on the rug. She’d long given up on confining him to his dog bed in the kitchen. He cocked a quizzical ear.
‘I’ll miss you, lovely boy,’ Cate said. ‘But you’ll be fine whilst we’re away; the Venetians are animal lovers. They’ve promised to walk you twice a day; I made sure of that. You’ll be on TV. How do you fancy that?’
‘I don’t suppose he’s too bothered.’ Phil’s voice came from the doorway. ‘But he’ll be a star, our Ted. Who could resist that soppy old face?’ He crouched down to pat him.
‘I wish I’d got my packing done.’ Cate glanced towards her empty suitcase.
‘We’re not leaving until lunchtime. We’ll set the alarm for seven. You’ll have plenty of time to pack and then I’ll run you down to The Evergreens.’
‘I’ve still got to—’ Cate began.
‘He’s your dad, Cate. I wish I’d spent more time with mine.’
‘I know you do.’ Cate slipped her arms around her husband’s waist, tilted her head against his shoulder, felt his head rest against hers. She breathed in the familiar scent of his newly washed shirt, the Aqua di Parma cologne he’d worn on their wedding day that she’d bought him every Christmas since.
‘I love you,’ Phil murmured. He said it so rarely, it meant the world to her when he did.
‘I love you too.’ Cate turned her neck, looking into his sincere, grey-blue eyes. Lucy was so, so wrong. Whatever had been distracting Phil these last few weeks, it definitely wasn’t a secret lover.
‘I can come to The Evergreens, if you like. I could have a cup of tea with the carers; you know I can’t resist their ginger biscuits.’
‘It’s okay, there’s no need. I know you want to drop into the new showroom. Just pick me up after an hour. I can manage that.’
‘Okay, darling. You get off to bed now. I’ve just got to catch up on a bit of work in the study.’
Cate hovered in the bedroom door, watching him walk downstairs. The Evergreens wasn’t a bad place. Everything about it, from the perfectly pruned roses at the entrance to the old, music-hall tunes piped through the corridors, was chosen with care. And the scent of lilies in the entrance hall – despite their unfortunate funeral-parlour connotations – was far superior to the aroma of oxtail soup and disinfectant that hung around some of the places Cate had considered for her dad and swiftly dismissed.
Dad’s illness had come as such a shock. He’d progressing rapidly from seemingly unremarkable forgetfulness and harmless eccentricities to wandering out of the house in the small hours and shouting at his reflection in the window of the launderette. Cate hadn’t realised it was possible to develop dementia in your late fifties. She didn’t know if she’d ever get used to visiting a father who sometimes struggled to recognise her, his eyes flickering through a card deck full of fuzzy memories, trying to place the woman sitting by his side. Cate visited him twice a week, made sure he had the best quality of life she could afford. She felt compassion for him; no one deserved to end up like Dad. But she could never forgive him for what he’d done.