Chapter 1
THE PRESENT DAY
‘Hurry up, Max. We’ll be late. We’re supposed to meet Terry and Jo in Ploussard at eight.’
‘Right.’ Maxine gazed into the mirror. The blue jumpsuit looked fine. Her hair swung above her shoulders, a white layered cut that looked almost blonde.
Her eyes held the usual distracted sheen as Russell’s voice came again from the other room. ‘And don’t forget to bring the card and present. I have to say…’ Russell was rummaging around in the living room for something ‘…Jo looks good for sixty.’
‘Mmm.’ Maxine was sixty-one. Russell was sixty-four. She was doing her usual trick of half listening to him, half lost in her own thoughts.
‘I think that shorter haircut looks cute on an older woman. It’s sophisticated,’ Russell said. ‘Can you hurry up, please, Max? It can’t take all this time to get ready.’
Maxine was still thinking about Andy, the love of her life. He’d died on this day, 23 April. She was thinking about the look of peace on his face. How beautiful he had been.
Maxine was blessed with the ability to see beauty in things. Nature – definitely, even rainfall. It had rained the day of Andy’s funeral, huge grey pearl drops of it falling onto the ground they had laid him in. It had been heartbreakingly beautiful.
In truth, she’d never really recovered emotionally.
It hadn’t been possible to love again. She’d tried, several times.
There had been Simon, the wonderfully kind man she’d been married to for five years in her thirties.
She’d wanted children. None had come. Then she and Simon had drifted apart, and he’d found someone who could truly love him.
There had been other attempts, all doomed to fail.
For a while, she’d concentrated on her career. As Director of Communications of The Hopeful Group, she’d spent all her energy on philanthropy and commercial activity, in her own words, ‘to support people affected by ill health, social isolation, low income or unemployment’.
It gave her security, a good income, a beautiful flat in Battersea. She couldn’t move away. Andy was buried in Battersea Rise.
‘Max. We’ll be late.’
‘Mmm.’ She was still stuck in the past.
Yes, she’d had relationships, a few brief liaisons she’d hoped would mean something. She’d tried to see something beautiful in each soul she’d met and had hoped her initial feelings would blossom into something meaningful. They hadn’t.
She’d bumped into Russell Barton for the second time at a conference. He was handsome, impeccably dressed. Influential. Independent. There was that same practised way of speaking slowly, as if compelling others to hang onto every word.
He had remembered her. He’d wined and dined her the next night. By the following month they had become lovers. Then one night, he’d stayed over at her flat, and the next day he’d moved his things in. It had never been suggested that he’d stay for good.
That was two years ago.
‘Max – what the hell?’ Russell rushed into the bedroom, his face flushed. He was getting impatient. ‘Are we going, or are you going to sit in front of the mirror all night?’
Maxine stood up slowly. ‘Sorry, Russ – I was just thinking – it’s 23 April today. It’s—’
‘Jo’s birthday, I know, and we’ve got a table booked at Ploussard. We’ll be late.’ He glanced at her briefly. ‘What are you wearing?’
‘Oh, this?’ Maxine noticed the silk jumpsuit. ‘It’s new.’
‘Jo gets her stuff from Louis Vuitton. That suits you though – you can wear anything.’ Russell’s eyes went to his Rolex Daytona. ‘Well, let’s get going. Have you got the present?’
Maxine reached for a gift bag on her dressing table. Designer brands didn’t really interest her. ‘I bought her a set of Chanel shower gels from Harrods.’
‘You’ve known Jo for twenty years and you bought her toiletries?’
‘She’ll love them.’
‘It’ll have to do. Come on.’ Russell glanced at his watch again. ‘We’re going to be late. Come on, Max – I don’t know why we always have to be the last there.’
‘We’ll make a grand entrance.’ Maxine smiled, full of positivity.
‘I’d rather be on time,’ Russell replied.
She felt sorry for him: he was such a panicker. He was already on his way to the front door. Hesitating, looking round, Maxine checked there were lights on in the bedroom; she activated the home security system, locked the door behind her and followed Russell out into the street.
Maxine was still thinking of Andy as she sat at the linen-covered table at Ploussard, a crisp napkin on her knee.
Everyone else was tucking into dry-aged duck confit, turnip and barbecue cherry, drinking 2012 Vin de Paille.
She leaned her chin on her hand; yes, Andy’s death had been heartbreaking; she had held his hand as he’d slipped away.
She’d felt attached to him ever since. That night the sunset had been golden, as if he were making the sky beautiful for her.
‘What do you think, Max?’
Maxine looked up at Joanna Clayton in her orange and cream maxi dress; she was a vivacious woman with a cloud of short dark hair.
‘Think?’ Maxine frowned.
‘The food.’
Maxine had hardly touched her dish of green beans, peach and fromage blanc. ‘Nice.’
‘It’s overpriced and pretentious.’ Terry, Jo’s husband, looked uncomfortable in his stiff expensive suit. His grin was charming, bashful, and his eyes twinkled behind gold-framed glasses. ‘But we still come here all the time.’
‘It’s the best restaurant in London,’ Jo argued. ‘You get what you pay for, Terry. It’s classy.’
‘I agree.’ Russell gave his most impressive smile. ‘The biodynamic wines are second to none.’
‘Absolutely.’ Jo smiled back.
‘I prefer a good curry.’ Terry winked at Maxine. Behind his intelligence and wit she saw a sadness like her own that had become a permanent fixture.
‘I’m more of a tarka dal and rice girl too,’ Maxine agreed.
‘Oh, I don’t like too much spice.’ Jo changed the subject. ‘Thanks for the toiletries, by the way, Max. Chanel’s always a safe bet.’
‘I’d have bought jewellery,’ Russell said.
‘Who doesn’t love jewellery?’ Jo’s fingers flew to the single diamond she wore around her neck. ‘Terry’s hopeless at working out what I like.’
Terry’s gaze was steady, his spectacles glinting in the light. ‘It doesn’t mean I don’t care.’
‘Oh, I know that, darling.’ Jo gave a light laugh. ‘So – Max – what on earth will you do with yourself once you’ve retired?’
‘One day to go. The Hopeful Group can manage without me. They’ve got a lovely new woman, Mercedes. She’s perfect.’ Maxine was thinking about retirement already. ‘I’ll keep myself busy. I thought about looking into helping refugees.’
‘You can spend more time at the flat. It could do with a facelift and you have a great touch,’ Russell suggested.
‘Retirement though. It’s a huge step,’ Jo said.
‘I ought to retire soon.’ Terry reached for his wine glass. ‘I’ve still got a few PhD students, but I’m trying to wind things up since Jo retired. We should spend more time together.’
‘Oh, Max won’t slow down,’ Russell said. Maxine wondered if he was pleased by the idea of her retirement. They’d never discussed it.
‘We could take a holiday,’ she said. ‘It might be good for us.’
‘I have so much to keep me busy,’ Russell replied, although Maxine had no idea what he did with himself all day. He didn’t work. He simply owned property.
‘Let’s have a dessert,’ Jo said, changing the subject. ‘After all, it’s my birthday. I think I’ll have the strawberry and burnt honey choux bun. What about you, Max?’
‘Just coffee,’ Maxine said, stretching her arms. ‘It’s been a lovely evening – but it’s past ten. I need coffee to wake me up.’
Russell loosened his tie and threw it on the sofa where it coiled like a snake. He was coiled like a snake too. ‘Why did you have to say that thing about needing coffee?’
‘What thing?’ Maxine slipped off her shoes. It was eleven-thirty and she had no idea why he was grumpy.
‘“What thing?”’ Russell mimicked her voice. He made it sound nasal and whining. ‘“It’s past ten. I need coffee to wake me up.”’ He twisted his mouth and raised his arms in mimicry.
Maxine was puzzled. ‘I just said—’
‘You may as well have said you were bored witless. Jo looked really upset.’
‘I don’t think so, Russ. She went on to have dessert and coffee and we all chatted and chatted.’
‘You mean you and Terry chatted. Jo and I couldn’t get a word in.’
‘We were all talking.’
‘You and Terry are just like kids. Talking about the old chocolate bars you loved. Caramac and Walnut Whips and—’
‘And Munchies,’ Maxine said. She was held by a sad moment, remembering a time when she and Andy had shared a packet of Munchies, sitting on a park bench. Battersea. Simple pleasures. Beautiful memories. June 1989. ‘I think they still make them.’
‘That’s the problem with you and Terry. You’re so stubbornly working class. Imagine saying you’d prefer a curry to the food at Ploussard. It doesn’t matter where you go, you have to bring things down to your level.’
Maxine ignored the comment. She was proud of her Manchester roots, her parents, the way she’d worked so hard to achieve what she had. Instead, she said, ‘Russ, didn’t you enjoy tonight?’
‘I did, but—’
‘But what? Is there a problem?’
‘You seem completely oblivious of my feelings, Max.’
‘Your feelings?’ Maxine didn’t understand. ‘I’m worried about you. About us. You’re grouchy. Would a holiday help? Or do you think perhaps we need to sit down and talk about what we really want?’
‘Are you trying to break up with me?’ Russell pushed a hand through his pale hair. He looked suddenly horrified.
‘The thing is, you don’t seem happy. We’ve had this conversation before.’
‘I’m not happy, because whenever we go out, you make me feel marginalised.’
‘I do what?’
‘Max.’ Russell looked up. Tears gleamed in his eyes. ‘Are you and Terry having an affair?’
Maxine couldn’t help it. She laughed. She saw the pain in Russell’s expression and she was suddenly serious. ‘No, of course we’re not. You really don’t believe that he and I…’ She sat down next to Russell and took his hand. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘I don’t make you happy any more.’ Russell sulked.
‘We have things to sort out,’ Maxine said fairly. ‘We’ve been arguing a lot – maybe we’ve just hit a difficult patch.’
Russell brought her hand to his lips. ‘You won’t leave me? Say you won’t.’
Maxine was perplexed. Russell often began an argument and ended it by wanting her to tell him she loved him. She felt tired.
‘It’s late. Let’s sleep. Tomorrow’s my last day at work. And at the weekend I want to go for a walk in the park.’
‘The park again. I hate it there. You always think of him when we’re in the park.’
‘Think of who?’ Maxine knew before Russell replied.
‘Andy. The love of your life. I can never compare, can I?’
Maxine pulled her hand away. ‘Let’s not do this.’
‘That’s the problem. He’s always there, between us.’
‘Russ—’
‘He’s the reason I’m insecure. Because you can’t ever really love me.’
‘Please, not tonight.’
‘Why not tonight?’ Russell folded his arms obstinately. ‘It’s because I’m right, isn’t it?’
‘No – sorry – it’s because, well, Andy died on 23 April.’ Maxine took a deep breath to steady herself. ‘Russ, I’m really too tired to argue.’
‘All right.’ Russell looked resigned. ‘Promise you haven’t gone off me?’
‘Please, don’t worry.’ She kissed his forehead lightly and turned towards the bedroom. As she pushed open the door, she heard Andy’s voice in her memory say, ‘You’ll meet someone else.’
The bedroom door closed with a clunk behind her. He’d been so wrong. The plain truth was that in all the years since Andy’s death, she’d never found anyone she’d loved as much as she’d loved him.