Imogen

By C M Sheasby

Beautiful, troubled, and enigmatic Imogen carries a secret. Step into her deceptively mundane world and you will soon be caught up in the desire to get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding her life. A fascinating character-building novel that slowly unfolds as you sweep from the elegance of Edinburgh through to the south of France; revel in the hidden depths as Imogens desire to once again live life to the full can only be achieved by honestly confronting her past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477243329

C M Sheasby

Christine Sheasby, born in 1941 in Birmingham, was a gifted actress and writer. She was a member of the Zurich Comedy Club in Switzerland where she both acted and directed. After moving to Scotland in 1994, she continued her writing and had a number of poems published; sadly she died in Suffolk, England in 2012 before seeing any of her later works in print. The posthumous publication of this short story collection and other novels is due to the hard work and dedication of her children, determined to bring her tales to the enjoyment of a wider audience.

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Imogen

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C M Sheasby

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© 2012 by C M Sheasby. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/05/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4331-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4330-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4332-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number:

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty Two

Chapter Forty Three

Chapter Forty Four

Chapter Forty Five

Chapter Forty Six

Chapter Forty Seven

Chapter Forty Eight

Chapter Forty Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty One

Chapter Fifty Two

List of Characters

Imogen Lawless / Mars / Grant—former actress and wife, turned housekeeper

Rita Flynn—doctor

Henry Fraser—Rita’s partner

Charlie Flynn—brother to Rita, self-made businessman

Lily Flynn—Rita’s and Charlie’s mother

Claudia—Charlie’s fiancee, works with Charlie

Lucy and Camilla—Charlie’s daughters

Con—Imogen’s former lover

Wendy Flynn—Charlie’s former wife

Oliver and Carlene—Imogen’s son and daughter in law

Daisy—Imogen’s granddaughter

Julian—Imogen’s son, actor

Nola—Julian’s partner, actress

Orlando Lawless—Imogen’s brother, famous concert pianist

Ronnie and Jean McGregor—Imogen’s friends

Russell Mars—Imogen’s former husband

Randall Mars—Russell’s brother

Jack Keaton—Imogen’s former bodyguard

Magali Balsat Lawless—Imogen’s mother

Sir Leslie Lawless—Imogen’s father

James (Jamie) Vail-Hunter—Claudia’s friend

Elizabeth, Antoinette and Olive—The Weird Sisters from the first floor flat at Ross Crescent

Ferdy Hassocks—faithful retainer to Orlando

Hasso Westerwalder—conductor

Thierry Balsat—cousin to Imogen

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In loving memory of our mother, Christine—whose wisdom, kindness and unconditional love is sorely missed

Chapter One

In a series of tiny, almost imperceptible jerks, the blanket was drawn aside to reveal a wax-white face. The eyes were sealed shut but the mouth gaped, slack-jawed. Inexorably, the invisible hand continued to pull the grey blanket downwards but this time she was lucky and her own hoarse, grunting cries woke her before the really bad thing could appear.

For several minutes, Imogen lay rigid in the darkness, too frightened to put her hand out from under the duvet and switch on the light. Her eyes were stretched so wide they hurt because she knew if she allowed them to close, the images of the nightmare would be projected onto the screen of her eyelids like some mad silent movie. The room was not completely dark: bright electric moonlight from the streetlamps filtered through the curtains and gradually the shapes of familiar objects became recognisable. With this affirmation of the real, the present, the normal, her heart returned to its proper place in her chest, her breathing steadied and she felt able to turn on her bedside light and drive the last stubborn shadows away.

Slowly, stiffly, like an old woman, she got out of bed. She pushed her feet into her slippers and drew on her thick fleecy dressing-gown; although the flat was warm even in the middle of the night, she was ice-cold and shivering. While she waited for the kettle to boil, she went to the bathroom and washed her face, careful not to glance into the mirror: she felt awful enough without that depressing sight.

In the sitting room, she lit the gas fire, put a Bach violin concerto on the CD player and curled up on the sofa with a mug of tea. After half an hour or so, she would have relaxed sufficiently to be able to read until morning. The one thing she wouldn’t do was go back to bed—the mere thought of falling asleep and dreaming the dream again was enough to make sweat break out on her forehead and upper lip. The night was ruined. All she could do was to get through it as best she could. With luck, it might be a month before she had the next nightmare; without luck, she might have it every night for a week.

She wished she still smoked. ‘You’re never alone with a Strand’, the old commercial came to mind, re-awakening the never-quite extinguished psychological dependency. She felt like the last surviving life form on a dying planet with nothing but the black silence of eternity stretching ahead of her. A part of her mind knew perfectly well that these were simply night thoughts, a natural consequence of the hour and the dream, which would be dispelled by the coming of the dawn but another part of her, the terrified child within, still cried and cowered, bereft of the comfort of human contact.

Like someone in a shelter at the height of the Blitz, she forced herself to a cheerful acceptance of the circumstances. Unlike the civilians suffering through an air raid, she at least had a comfortable sofa to sit on in front of her fire and she possessed the added amenities of music and books and a whole collection of videos saved for just such an occasion. As the night wore on, her courage and a vestige of humour returned so that even though her eyes were gritty and her mouth sour, Imogen was able to greet the chill grey Scottish dawn with something like a smile.

* * *

Much later the same morning, sitting in Dr Flynn’s surgery, she expected some comment on her whey-faced appearance but none was forthcoming. Perhaps she looked better than she felt.

You’re not in bad nick for a woman of your age, remarked Rita, removing the stethoscope from her ears and the cuff from Imogen’s arm. No problems with the HRT, good joint mobility, heart and lungs sound. Your blood pressure’s up a wee bit though. What about the anxiety attacks? Are you still getting them?

Not really, fibbed Imogen, but perhaps I should have more of those pills, just in case. They really worked.

I don’t believe in prescribing for the symptom while the cause goes untreated. Rita’s brown eyes fixed her patient sternly. Now I know you don’t like hearing this but I’m going to say it anyway—you should seriously consider some form of counselling or therapy again. You keep on telling me you want to get your life back on track, yet you refuse to take this elementary first step.

I don’t need a shrink. I’m just a bit nervy. Things tend to get on top of me sometimes and I don’t always cope very well. It’s no big deal, for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing wrong with me that I can’t sort out for myself in time.

But why do you feel you have to do it all by yourself? No-one’s handing out brownie points for stiff upper-lips here. You’ll happily accept a mild tranquilliser to get you through a bad patch but you won’t see a therapist who could help you to achieve a permanent solution. I don’t understand your logic.

There isn’t any. She gave an apologetic smile. It’s just good old-fashioned cowardice. Don’t be cross with me. I know you’re right, but at the moment I can’t face baring my soul to anyone, however sympathetic they may be.

And in the meantime, you’ll carry on diving for cover behind this wall of evasions you’ve created to protect yourself. It’s simply not healthy and I’m speaking now as your friend as well as your physician. If there’s something troubling you, sooner or later you’re going to have to confront it.

Yes, I know, so I’ve been told a hundred times before. Look, as I said, it’s no big deal and I’ll get over it in time. Now, can we please drop the subject?

Certainly, said Rita, surprised and a little hurt by the unexpected flash of temper. I had no intention of interfering.

There was an awkward pause. She busied herself writing up her notes and when she looked up, all traces of affront had vanished from her round, pleasant face.

Are you still thinking about getting a job? She clicked the point back in on her pen.

I’m doing more than thinking; I’ve been looking in the paper and sending off letters of application.

Do you need the money?

A bit extra wouldn’t come amiss. Imogen knew her too well to be disconcerted by her bluntness.

I thought you had, as they say, private means.

Nothing as grand as that. My father wasn’t good with money. He loved spending it and he could never resist a hard luck story, but my mother was far more sensible and managed to squirrel a bit away into some sort of investment account. It now provides me with a small income, and I can get by on it if I’m careful. After I was widowed, my brother was wonderful. He bought my flat for me, I couldn’t have afforded it otherwise.

Very generous. I don’t think you’ve mentioned him to me before. Is he married?

Not at the moment. Poor thing, he seems to have a talent for marrying the wrong women. He’s just got expensively divorced from Harpy Number Three. Now he swears he’ll stay celibate till he dies, but I’ve heard that before.

What about children?

There aren’t any, I’m pleased to say. If there had been, he would have felt obliged to stick it out for their sake and that would have killed him. All his wives were really awful. I don’t know where he found them. I didn’t think women like that still existed. They were like something out of an Emil Zola novel.

Good heavens, said Rita, raising her eyebrows, whatever does that mean?

Well, you know, like Nana. Beautiful, of course, but greedy and very nasty. That’s why we call them Harpies. They married him for what they could get out of him. When he’d finally got rid of them with a fat divorce settlement, I imagine they cruised off looking for the next victim. They were raptors, pure and simple.

I should think he’s the pure and simple one, not to have seen straight through them.

Ah, but they weren’t your usual run of bimbo. They were extremely clever and not at all obvious. Each time, he honestly believed he’d met his soul mate and didn’t find out his mistake until after the honeymoon.

How horrid. Anyway, my dear, to get back to the job, I was going to say I might have something for you.

Have you really? Oh God, look at the time! Imogen stood up and began pulling on her jacket and gathering up her belongings, her face pink with embarrassment. Why on earth didn’t you stop me, Rita? I’m awfully sorry. Here I’ve been banging on and you’ve got a waiting-room full of patients to see.

That’s why it’s called a waiting-room. The punters wouldn’t think they’d come to a real doctor if they hadn’t had to wait. Anyway, most of them are for Henry, not me. What I had in mind isn’t very thrilling, I’m afraid. It’s my brother, he’s been through a messy divorce, too, and seems to be having trouble putting his life together again. He needs a housekeeper, cook, gardener and someone sensible to talk to now and then, in one handy package. My mother says he needs a nanny but that’s overstating the case. Would you be interested, do you think?

I’m not qualified, you know. A familiar note of panic came into Imogen’s voice. I didn’t have any training for anything except acting, and even that I learned mainly by osmosis.

Well, there you are, said Rita, briskly, just act being a housekeeper and you’ll do fine. Chas is a self-made man. He won’t demand to see diplomas and things. Don’t be so defeatist. Why on earth should you have any problems?

Let me think about it. Imogen began backing towards the door.

Think about what I said before as well. I’m always here for you if you feel you’d rather talk to me than to some stranger.

Thanks. I do appreciate your concern, really I do, but I’m just not ready yet.

Alright. Rita’s tone was equable as she pulled a folder towards her. I’ll be in touch to see what you’ve decided about the job.

After the door had closed, she waited a few minutes before pressing the buzzer to summon the next patient. Her interest in Imogen went beyond the professional; she liked her as a person and found her intriguing, not least because she knew so little about her. With most of her patients, she had quite an extensive knowledge of their backgrounds but of Imogen she knew only that she had been briefly on the stage in her youth and that her husband had died in an accident in circumstances which had caused her to suffer a nervous breakdown and spend time in a psychiatric clinic. Rita was skilled at drawing out confidences; her transparent kindness and genuine interest in her fellow human beings broke down the most stubborn barriers, but the wall around Imogen showed, as yet, no signs of crumbling.

Probably nothing to know when you come right down to it, she said to herself, stabbing at the buzzer. She’s not some violent criminal on the run, of that I’m quite certain.

* * *

The same evening, long after her supper was finished, Imogen remained in the kitchen, seated on the Victorian splat-backed chair which her younger son, Julian, had picked up in a garage sale and refurbished for her last birthday. In her mind’s eye she was seeing Rita Flynn: short, plump, unwisely bra-less in strange unfitted garments of home-spun wool and unbleached cotton; her feet comfortably rooted in their Earth shoes; her bright, intelligent eyes and the warm smile which gave her something better than mere beauty. At the same time, she was wondering whether she should take the housekeeping job Rita had mentioned, whether it was something she would be capable of doing. It was all very well for Rita to assume that she had the usual experience of any woman who had looked after a home and raised a family but during her marriage, she had had a large staff to run the beautiful Georgian house in the leafy depths of Surrey, as well as gardeners and grooms, chauffeurs and bodyguards. Russell, her husband, had wanted her to have a nanny for the boys but for once, she had opposed him successfully and looked after Oliver and Julian herself. Far from having the usual housekeeping experience, she had been over forty before she’d gone to a supermarket.

Still, she said, aloud, I’ve got nothing to lose by having a go.

Thus resolved, she stood up and began to tidy the kitchen, feeling, as always, a proud sense of ownership and a joy of possession she had never felt for the fine Surrey mansion. Her sons could not understand why she insisted on living so modestly and up in Edinburgh, too, miles away from either of them. Probably they thought she was getting cranky in her old age. She hardly knew why herself. She had just needed a completely different life from the one she had shared with Russell. Looking back, it was as if she had been locked in some luxurious padded cell, insulated from reality. Firmly, she pushed the memories away before they could surface fully. As she had told Rita, she knew perfectly well that she needed to bring them out and face them, that only then would she be free of the past but she was not ready yet. Sometimes she thought she never would be. As she walked into the bathroom to clean her teeth before going to bed, the doubts assailed her again.

Don’t be a wimp, she told her reflection, firmly. Why are you making such a production out of this? You’re not intending to perform open-heart surgery. You’re just going to be a glorified char to some chap going through a mid-life crisis. He’ll probably be so grateful that someone’s washing his gruesome socks for him that he won’t even notice if you make the odd blunder. And so what if he does? The worst that can happen is that he’ll fire you. You’ll only be back where you started.

‘I think you’re being rather childish about this, Imogen.‘

Russell’s smooth voice was suddenly loud in her head and she nearly screamed. She plugged in the electric toothbrush and scoured her teeth, hoping the buzzing would drown him out. Tears spurted from her eyes, splashing like raindrops into the sink.

Stop it! she shouted through a mouthful of foaming toothpaste. She spat violently and rinsed her mouth. Stop it at once!

It was not clear to her whether she was shouting at herself or at the echo of Russell’s voice. With shaking hands, she dabbed at her face with the towel before applying her night cream, massaging it carefully into her skin. The familiar ritual soothed her. Russell slid back into the grave where he belonged: she was in control again. Gripping the edge of the sink, she stared into the mirror. Her face, tense, worried, middle-aged, stared bleakly back at her.

Relax, breathe deeply, smile.

That’s what Poppa always said to himself before he went on stage.

Head up, best foot forward and then on you go. You can feel the energy sparking out of you, across the footlights and out into the dark of the house. Magic, my darling, pure magic. That’s what you are in that moment and that’s what you have to give to your audience. Nothing less will do.

Proudly, she lifted her head, pulled herself in and up from the centre as he had taught her. The light caught her hair and it gleamed like pewter. She smiled, a small, self-contained, feline smile. That bony, haughty face and tight mouth, it’s Lady Macbeth. I wonder if Rita’s Chas will fancy a char who looks like Lady Macbeth. She softened the smile, letting it touch her eyes: eyes as blue and deep as some mysterious uncharted ocean, as a women’s magazine had once enthusiastically described them a hundred years ago, much to her brother’s hysterical amusement. Her lashes drooped. Who am I now? Cleopatra? Her granny, more like. The nonsense had ironed the tension out of her face and she gave a quick, genuine grin at her reflection.

Go for it, she said. If Rita calls and says it’s on, you go for it.

Chapter Two

Charlie Flynn regarded the second crimson blob seeping through the shaving foam on his long jaw. It looked like a nasty skiing accident, he thought, well, two nasty skiing accidents, actually. Blood on the snow. His mother was Welsh, his father had been Liverpool Irish and he had lived most of his life in Scotland, which probably accounted for the strange flights of morbid Celtic fantasy that overtook him from time to time. The more robust side of his nature expressed itself in a brisk oath and a search for the styptic pencil.

The shallow cupboard behind the mirror offered Alka-Seltzer and Rennies—mute witnesses to his irregular and unhealthy eating and drinking habits—but little else. In the cupboard under the washbasin, he finally unearthed a bottle of TCP from among the legions of half-used after-shaves and dried-up deodorants. He rinsed off the bloody soap and, as he dabbed on the antiseptic with its associations of bee stings and grazed knees, he regarded the bathroom with distaste: his flannel was slimy, to match the soap; the towels, although straight from the airing cupboard, looked inexplicably dingy; the mirror was spattered and the bath had a ring around it.

Beyond the bathroom door, the whole of his ground and garden flat in an imposing Victorian townhouse in Edinburgh’s West End had this same grubby, dispirited air. Even the narrow slice of garden was rank and overgrown and the terrace smelt of cats’ pee; faster than he could clean it out, the area filled up with fag packets, newspapers, sweetie wrappers, Coke cans and other detritus. Whatever he did around the flat always seemed to produce a negative result as though he were living in an alien universe governed by physical laws totally different from those on Earth. When he watered the plants, they curled up in revulsion and died; when he did the laundry, everything emerged from the washing machine a uniform muddy pink though he could not recall having owned a red garment of any kind since primary school; when he cooked, milk boiled over, eggs were transformed into rubber bullets or stomach-turning gobs of snot; stew became glue and stuck firmly to the bottom of the pan and his one attempt to roast a chicken had yielded a damp, pallid cadaver because the automatic timer on the oven had refused to function.

He was far from being a stupid man and during the eighteen years of his marriage, had been a helpful, housetrained husband, so why should it now be apparently impossible for him to look after himself properly and keep the flat clean and habitable?

Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed here, he mused, wiping his face and leaving smears of blood on the towel, it’s turning into a miserable Gothic sort of place. It’s gone down the tubes because there’s nobody working on it full time. He stared at himself in the flecked mirror and the reflection that glowered back looked as though it should have had a number under it and a list of violent crimes appended. In his late forties, an inch or so over six feet, rangy, slightly round-shouldered, with thick black hair beginning to turn grey, he was distinctly attractive. He had brown eyes that crinkled when he laughed but drooped at the outer corners in repose. His nose was large and handsome; deep lines ran from the nostrils to the ends of his wide mouth and he had a typically Irish long upper lip; his smile revealed good teeth and his deep voice with its slight Scots accent was pleasant to hear.

He was not, however, listing all these advantages as he stared at himself and probably one of the most attractive things about him was that he was totally unaware of his looks. Had anyone asked him how he saw himself, he would have snorted with laughter and said he had a face like a bloodhound. His confrontation in the mirror meant that he was coming to a decision. It had been lurking at the back of his mind for a long while but until now, he had made only half-hearted attempts to do anything to bring it to fulfilment.

The weekend after next, his two daughters were coming to stay and since Claudia, his girlfriend, would also be present, they were likely to be more mutinous and hypercritical than usual. It was hardly surprising that Lucy and Camilla disliked Claudia; had he been in their shoes, he would have disliked her too but trying to be an especially attentive father and equally attentive lover had begun to wear him out. If he had to put Claudia off because the girls were due, she expected him to make it up to her during the week, wining, dining and dancing as expensively as possible. The money didn’t bother him, it was simply that he no longer had the stamina to play as hard as he had to work.

Since he was planning to marry Claudia, he reasoned that sooner or later, his daughters would have to agree at least to a ceasefire; he hoped these occasional encounters might help all three young women get to know each other better and even to like each other. So far, the wonder had not come to pass. The weekends remained uncomfortable, chilly affairs, enlivened, if that was the right word, by an occasional passage of arms. That the flat was equally chilly and uncomfortable did not help matters and neither Claudia nor Lucy nor Camilla deigned to lift a finger in any domestic capacity. For this reason, he often conceded defeat and took them away to a hotel somewhere: neutral ground provoked fewer arguments. Since there was a party on the Saturday in question that his daughters refused to miss, he would have to entertain them at home and before they came, he needed to take some action to try to minimise the usual disaster.

His face in the mirror had grown down-turned and ugly, like the classic mask of tragedy. He was remembering how he had felt when each of his girls had been born, recalling his sense of wonder, his unspoken vows to protect them from harm, to lay down his life for them if need be. At the time of the divorce, he had tried to communicate this to them, tried to reassure them that he was still there for them and always would be, that he loved them as much as ever.

If you love us so much, why don’t you get rid of that bitch and come back to Mummy? Camilla had retorted and had laughed in his face when he could not answer her, a bitter scornful laugh that still echoed in his frequent bad dreams.

He had not known what to reply because he could not, would not respond to that kind of blackmail even from his darling Camilla. Lucy had said nothing. She had looked shocked and scared but she had stood by her sister and stalked from the room in her wake, head held high; peace-loving by nature, from infancy she had been content to let Camilla speak for her.

How bloody unfair life was sometimes, he thought, how cruel the choices you were forced to make. What he did not tell his daughters was that, even had Claudia not existed, having finally broken out of the prison of a loveless marriage, he could never have returned to it.

Shit! he said, aloud, and strode out of the bathroom into the bedroom. He sat on the unmade bed and picked up the phone. It was early but he knew his mother would have been up since half-past six as usual. She answered on the second ring.

Hallo, Mam, that was quick. You must have been sitting by the phone.

Oh, hallo, love. No, I wasn’t sitting, I was dusting.

He loved to hear her voice, still sounding like a girl’s in spite of her age, and with its Welsh accent still strong after a life-time in Scotland. He imagined her, neat and spry in her flowered pinny, a yellow duster in her hand. For all that she was approaching eighty, Lily Flynn was almost as agile in mind and body as she had been in her youth, which was why Rita enjoyed sharing a home with her.

I’ve been thinking about that woman you told me about…

You mean Rita’s friend?

Although his sister worked long hours, she always seemed to have time for bridge, strenuous holidays and volunteer social work. Her particular interest was the rehabilitation of drug-addicted or alcoholic women and the general well-being of prostitutes. He loved her dearly but she had an uncomfortable knack of making him feel lazy and self-indulgent; after too many glasses of champagne one Christmas, Mam had confessed that Rita made her feel that way, too. He was now wishing he had never begun this conversation: Rita’s friends were apt to be peculiar, to say the least.

Er—

How was he going to wriggle out of it?

I don’t think she’s found anything else, Mam was saying, brightly.

No, I bet she hasn’t, he thought, she’s probably back on the game by now.

When can you be home, love?

What for?

So she can come round and discuss things, you big daftie. Her tone was sharp. You’ll be wanting her to start as soon as possible unless whatsername has had a change of heart.

If you mean Claudia, say so. Charlie could be sharp, too.

Of course I mean her. When’s she going to set to and do a hand’s turn round the place? After all, it’s going to be her home soon, if it isn’t already. I should’ve thought she’d take an interest in keeping it nice.

We’ve had all this out before, Mam, he explained, patiently, she’s extremely highly-qualified and I don’t intend that she should waste her talents washing my socks and scrubbing floors, either before or after marriage. Now, come on, what about this bird Rita’s lined up for me? What’s she like?

First off, boyo, she’s no bird.

Just joking.

Poor sort of joke, the sniff was audible, you know I don’t like that sort of talk even in fun.

Sorry, Mam.

How the hell does she do it, he marvelled, how does she manage to reduce a successful adult male to a naughty schoolboy with a couple of well-chosen phrases?

I only met her once, at some do or other of Rita’s, and I thought she seemed very nice. Had a few ups and downs, of course, but Rita says she’s coping pretty well.

Oh Christ, what kinds of ups and downs, dare I ask? Heroin? Hooking? Shop-lifting?

Is she—well, you know—reliable?

Good heavens, Charlie, of course she is. Rita wouldn’t have suggested her if she hadn’t been trustworthy.

Like hell she wouldn’t! I know my sister and her socially disadvantaged lame ducks.

Charlie? You still there, lovey?

Yes, sorry, I was just checking my agenda, he lied, I could get home early this afternoon, say about half three. Can you get hold of this—er—lady and ask her to come round then? If she can’t manage it, give me a call. I’ll be in the store till one or thereabouts.

Rightio. His mother was smiling broadly. He could hear it in her voice. I’m really glad you’ve decided to get someone in at last. I’ve been that worried about you, love. You’re starting to look quite seedy.

Gee, thanks!

It’s only because I love you, you know that. I don’t like to see you going downhill for the want of a bit of TLC.

I know, Mam. He was both amused and touched. I’m fine, honestly. It’s just that these days, what with all the rushing about that I do between the office and the stores and various building sites, I can’t find the time to bother much about the flat so it’s got into a mess. I should have sorted out a housekeeper long ago, but you know how it is: I never seem to get round to things like that.

You ought to find somewhere smaller and more convenient.

No. He was firm: they had been down this road many times since the divorce. You know it was always my dream to live in one of these houses and I don’t intend to give it up.

His mother sniffed again. What about your young lady? What does she think about living there?

We haven’t discussed it, he said, shortly, which was another lie. They discussed it endlessly and fruitlessly and the discussions usually developed into arguments. Claudia wanted them to live together but he did not want to move into her flat or risk upsetting the girls by her moving into his before they were married. The Crescent is quite des.res., he continued, so I shouldn’t think she’ll have any objections.

Important to her, is it, that kind of thing?

Stop it, Mam. Stop taking cheap shots at Claudia. I’m going to marry her and the sooner everyone gets used to the idea, the better.

Look, love, she spoke gently, I know how miserable you were with Wendy. It’s not that I don’t think you should get married again, I’d like to see you settled, you deserve some happiness. It’s just—well—I think you ought to be careful not to rush into anything. You might end up making the same mistake again.

I know you mean to be kind but please, just lay off me. I’m old enough to make my own decisions and if I screw up, then I’ll take my lumps. I’m nearly fifty, you know, you don’t have to protect me from the big bad boys in the playground anymore.

Have you stopped wanting to protect Camilla and Lucy from getting hurt?

No, of course not.

There you are, then. Let me know how you get on with your new housekeeper. ‘Bye.

She was gone, having had, as usual, the last word. Charlie put the receiver down and finished dressing. There are altogether too many bloody women in my life, he thought, sourly, and they’re all pulling and pushing at me, trying to make me do things I don’t want to do. Still, there’s one consolation, if this housekeeper they’ve landed me with starts nagging as well, I can at least give her the sack!

He was on the bus, heading for the store in the Gyle when he realised he had only shaved half his face.

Chapter Three

Several times during the course of the morning, Charlie had been tempted to call his mother and tell her to forget the whole thing: he would go to an agency and let them find him someone but it was a particularly busy day at the DIY superstore and he never found a spare minute. He had promised to lunch with Claudia who worked with his partner, Ian, in the office in George Street and he had a tremendous rush to get back into the city in time.

You’re late. I’ve been waiting ages, she greeted him in the reception area of Unicorn Enterprises and thrust him into his office away from the keen eyes of Mrs Brodie at the desk.

Hallo to you, too, my darling, he said, sarcastically. He had been feeling defensive the whole morning.

And what’s wrong with your face? I think you’re just trying to annoy me, Charlie. If you didn’t want to have lunch with me, you only had to pick up the phone.

He looked at her, struck afresh by her amazing prettiness: her slenderness, her gleaming cropped blonde hair and greenish eyes. Today she was wearing a black and white checked suit with a fitted jacket and short tight skirt, opaque black tights on her long legs and black flat-heeled shoes. Her face was immaculately made-up, her gold jewellery discreet and her perfume heady. She was also extremely angry.

I forgot to shave the other side, he explained. I’ll borrow Ian’s shaver and smarten myself up for you. It won’t take a minute.

He walked into the washroom he shared with his partner and plugged in the razor. Claudia followed him and stood in the doorway, watching.

How can you possibly forget to shave half your face?

I had other things on my mind. He finished, blew the stubble out of the electric razor, unplugged it and replaced it in the cabinet. "There, that didn’t take long, did it? Where do you want to eat?

I’ve booked us in at Leandro’s.

Where’s that?

God, I wish you’d start living on the same planet as the rest of us. Leandro’s is the place to eat at lunchtime. It’s new, it only opened a month ago and it’s always booked solid. I was jolly lucky to get in at all today, I can tell you.

What’s the food like? he asked, warily. He preferred a pint of bitter and a cheese and pickle sandwich in his favourite pub in William Street but Claudia refused to go there, complaining that it was full of yobs.

How should I know? she said, even more exasperated. It’s Italian, I should think, with a name like that. What’s it matter anyway? I’m only going to have a salad and a glass of Perrier and that’s all you should have as well. You’re getting soft round the middle.

I’m entitled to get soft at my age. Everybody gets soft in time, it’s only natural. You’ll be the same when you pass forty, mark my words.

God forbid. It’s disgusting to let yourself go just because you’re middle-aged. Now do come on, for heaven’s sake, we’re going to be late. Why on earth didn’t you bring the car? I can’t understand why you have a car at all if you never drive it. What good is it, sitting in the garage?

Ah, but I know it’s there, you see, he said, leading her out of the office. As my mother says, it’s like wearing silk underwear.

She gave him a blank look but consented to his slipping his arm around her waist. He tried to kiss her in the lift but she pushed him away. Lately she seemed to find any displays of affection that occurred outside the bedroom embarrassing and unnecessary. A kiss had become the prelude to sex and sex now took place as a kind of reward for good behaviour, or so it appeared to him. It had not always been this way. At the beginning of their affair, she had seduced him several times a day in some unlikely places; he had been overwhelmed by her hunger for him but since the divorce, she had grown cooler. She wanted to be taken out all the time and if he suggested a night at home, watching television or listening to music, she got sulky. He had tried to talk to her about this sudden change but, like his ex-wife, she had resented his prying, as she called it. She wanted them to get married, that was the long and short of it and Charlie could not have said why he was still holding back from the final step, except that he needed a breathing space between relationships. He would have liked to suggest that they took a short break from each other to let the wounds heal, but he was afraid he might lose her if he did.

Leandro’s was much as he had expected: chic decor, execrable food, expensive drinks, loud music and an even louder clientele of Edinburgh’s gilded youth who had come to see and be seen. But Claudia loved it. She apparently knew everyone and was constantly leaping up to exchange air-kisses with a stream of smart young women and trim-waisted young men, all so alike they could have been clones.

Charlie sat with what he hoped was a friendly smile pasted on his face and dutifully drank overpriced fizzy water and pushed limp greenery under nasty dressing round his plate. At two-thirty, he stood up with relief.

I’ve got to go, he shouted, I’m interviewing this afternoon. Shall I call you a taxi?

No, thanks, darling. Her smile was radiant, her good humour restored. Jamie will give me a lift. Call me, OK?

Of course.

Dropping a chaste kiss on her flushed cheek, he shouldered his way out. The fresh air cleared his head, made him feel more able to face what lay in store. Why hadn’t he told her whom he was interviewing? What the hell, it’s going to be a disaster anyway, I’ll tell her tonight. We can have a laugh about it.

He strode out, enjoying the brisk wind in his face. Walking always restored his good humour. I should do it more often, take up jogging or something. Claudia’s right, I shouldn’t let myself go. I can’t afford to get smug, she’s nearly twenty years younger than me, beautiful, clever, she certainly doesn’t have to tie herself down to someone like me. Incidentally, who the hell is this Jamie? With an effort, he shoved the thought out of his mind. Come on, he told himself, crossly, you don’t do jealousy, remember?

The Castle’s imposing granite mass hard-edged against a delicate pastel sky diverted him as he came into Princes Street and the young piper playing outside one of the stores earned himself a warm smile and a pound coin. Charlie loved Edinburgh and could not imagine living anywhere else which was another reason for holding back with his marriage proposal: Claudia was burning to go to London. Inside his head, an uncomfortable little voice, that sounded rather like Mam’s, started asking whether Claudia actually loved him or whether it was his financial assets which attracted her. She was always urging him not to be stuffy, to open his eyes to new possibilities, which generally meant acquiring a time-share in Klosters or a new car or a Gucci briefcase or similar trophies that he didn’t want, could see no use for and had no intention of buying.

By the time he turned into Ross Crescent, his musings had destroyed the last vestiges of cheerfulness and he had become dour and resentful again. Unlocking the dark-green front door, he stamped across the hall without even noticing the checkerboard floor, the graceful curve of the staircase and the pale flood of afternoon sunshine from the skylight high above. He let himself into his flat, pulled off the shabby Burberry that had belonged to his father and flung it at the row of hooks on the wall. It collapsed to the floor like a wounded pterodactyl and he swore at it.

In the bare but beautiful drawing room, he picked up the newspapers lying all over the dusty floor. The wooden shutters were still closed from last night and he folded them back to let in the sunlight and the view of the beeches in the gardens opposite. Moving on into the dining room, he was greeted by dirty dishes from yesterday’s supper and a couple of empty beer bottles.

Yuck! he said, aloud. How bloody sordid and disgusting can you get?

His rhetorical question was answered when he carried the dishes through into the kitchen. For several days, he had forgotten to run the dishwasher and it was full of congealed and smelly plates, bowls with traces of muesli hardened to concrete and cups with solidified coffee grounds at the bottom. With a groan, he piled the supper things in the already over-flowing sink, breaking a glass in the process. He pushed up the window to let in some fresh air and ran downstairs to make the bed and pick up the towels curled damply on the bathroom floor. While he was pouring lavatory cleaner into the bowl, the front door buzzer sounded.

He was about to press the release button but changed his mind and instead raced back upstairs.

Head ‘em off at the pass, Tonto! he panted, as he hurried across the hall to the main door of the house, rehearsing kind but firm rejections as he went.

So mentally prepared was he for some henna-haired, spotty-faced, grunge-clad scarecrow that when he opened the door, he completely ignored the middle-aged lady standing there and peered round her for the reformed drug addict he was expecting.

Confronted by this large, wild-eyed, heavily breathing man, Imogen drew back in alarm. She thought, wrongly as it happened, that she detected a faint hint of wine on his breath and sought for some unprovocative excuse to beat a dignified retreat.

Where is she? demanded the dangerous-looking fellow, glaring down at her.

I beg your pardon?

Wasn’t there a young woman here?

She stared at the mad creature. There’s nobody here but you and me.

What do you want? Who’ve you come to see?

Nobody. she said, and turned to leave. I’m so sorry to have bothered you. I must have come to the wrong house.

No, wait. He grabbed her arm. Did my sister send you, by any chance?

Um—

Rita, he said, giving her arm an impatient little shake. Dr Flynn.

Well, yes, sort of, via your mother.

He released her and flopped against the door jamb, wiping his brow in an exaggerated gesture of relief. Light began to dawn in her confused brain.

Were you expecting one of Rita’s fallen women? she asked, smiling.

He nodded. I was.

I’m sorry to disappoint you. Didn’t she tell you about me?

Nobody told me anything.

Imogen’s smile broadened. I expect she and your mother cooked this up between them, knowing how we’d probably react.

Typical, he said, half-amused, half-annoyed with himself for having been such an idiot.

It was quite funny really, a good ice-breaker. They meant well.

Oh, I know. They always mean well. It’s just that sometimes I get pissed-off at them thinking they can run my life better than I can.

She smiled and said nothing.

Well, doesn’t it irritate you, having people interfering and managing?

No, not really, she said. I suppose I’m used to it. I seem to have been managed by someone or other all my life.

Isn’t it time you made a stand?

Probably, but not in this particular instance. Because of the job, you see.

Oh, hell, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… Listen to me, I’m as bad as Rita, telling you what to do. He clutched at his hair in comic remorse.

It’s alright. She cleared her throat, nervously. What do you think, Mr Flynn? Do you want to interview me or shall we forget the whole thing?

I’ve really got off on the wrong foot here, haven’t I? Look, Mrs—er—, could we start again?

Are you going to shut the front door?

No, I don’t think we need to rewind quite that far. Smiling, he put out his hand. Good afternoon, I’m Charles Flynn. Please come in.

Thank you. I’m Imogen, Imogen—Grant.

Still holding her hand, he drew her across the threshold and kicked the door shut.

You know, Mrs Grant, he looked suddenly embarrassed, I don’t know what Rita and Mam told you but this job is only a small step-up from charing. If you think the place is too big or too grotty, perhaps we could get someone in—for the ‘rough’, as they used to call it.

Mr Flynn, she said, amazed at her own boldness, I was brought up to be a trouper. I can handle the rough as well as the smooth. Perhaps you could show me round?

As they walked into the huge drawing room, she exclaimed with pleasure, her eyes darting appreciatively from the wide bay windows to the black slate fireplace and up to the elegant mouldings of the high ceiling.

Apologising for the bareness and general scruffiness, Charlie explained, We hadn’t been in here very long before we divorced and we hadn’t got round to buying much in the way of furniture, this stuff dates back to our first house. Wendy, my wife, took most of the nicer things with her. Realising this sounded a touch resentful, he added, Not that I minded, of course.

I expect you’re waiting until you remarry. Your fiancée will want to have a say in what you buy.

That she will.

He was remembering that Claudia’s taste ran to ferociously stylish avant-garde Italian furniture.

If you wanted to make things more comfortable in the interim, you could get a couple of nice big sofas and some lamps. By the way, I think your pictures are lovely, they suit the room so well.

They were mainly Scottish landscapes and pleasant nineteenth century portraits of sober substantial burghers and their wives; a delicate and accomplished watercolour of Ross Crescent in its Victorian heyday pleased her most particularly.

Thank you. I picked them up in auctions over the years. Rita gave me the watercolour for my last birthday. It was painted by a lady who’d lived in the Crescent when she was a girl. She was the grandmother of a patient.

Indicating the old Steinway in the corner, she asked: Do you play?

Yes, a bit. Not brilliantly, mind. My wife could never understand why I bought such an expensive instrument when I’m only a fifth-rate pianist. It cost a great deal more than I could afford at the time and I couldn’t explain why I felt I had to have it. The tone is sublime, even my playing sounds good.

He pulled out the stool and sat down. With an appealing air of reverence, he lifted the lid and played a few bars of a Mozart rondo. As he said, not brilliantly but certainly quite creditably. His touch was sure and sensitive for such a big, shambling man.

My younger daughter Lucy showed a lot of promise a few years ago, he said, resting his hands lovingly on the keys for a minute, now she says it’s naff.

Imogen heard the disappointment in his voice but was unsure what reply she should make. As if regretting the remark, he got up briskly and closed the Steinway.

Now, he said, leading her across the hall into the dining room, these things you were talking about, do you think we could get them in before next Friday night?

If you had a car, we could pick up some lamps right now but furniture always takes weeks to be delivered. Why?

The girls and Claudia, my—girlfriend, are coming the weekend after next. He paused. Up to now, these visits have been pretty gruesome. I know I can’t force them to be friends but I thought maybe, if this place looked more cheery, the general atmosphere might lighten up. What do you think?

I’m sure it would make a world of difference.

The genuine kindness in her voice made him turn and look at her. Like most men, Charlie did not usually take serious notice of middle-aged ladies, tending to dismiss them as nice old biddies and completely forgetting that he was middle-aged himself. Now he took a long look at this one and liked what he saw. Fine eyes, elegant bones and a well-shaped mouth. He liked her voice, too. Low, warm, expressive, easy on the ear.

What about it? he asked, on impulse. Will you take the job? Can you start right away?

For a moment, she was too surprised to answer. She had not expected him to come to the point so quickly and without asking any questions about her previous experience or wanting to see references. Realising that she was gaping foolishly at him, she closed her mouth.

Charlie continued to look down at her, his brown eyes friendly.

You’d like to think about it, of course. Sorry, I didn’t mean to rush you into anything. You haven’t even seen the whole flat yet.

No, she said, hastily, I mean yes. I mean, I don’t need to think about it. I’d like to work for you. That is, if you’re quite sure I’m what you need.

I’m quite sure. Shall we carry on with the guided tour of the ruins.

Do you think I could just check on what you’ve got in the way of mops and buckets and what not, first? If we’re going shopping, we can get whatever’s needed. She pulled a small notebook and pencil from her bag and asked, diffidently: By the way, what about the cooking next weekend, Mr Flynn? Would it help if I came in to cook for you, or will one of your young ladies do it?

Fat chance, he said. Are you serious? Would you really come?

As long as you don’t expect any miracles. My cooking’s only average.

About as good as my piano playing?

I think you’re rather better than average. What don’t you like to eat?

I eat anything, he said, virtuously. Mam brought us up not to be fussy. She used to say if you stamped on my foot, the top of my head would fly up, like a pedal bin.

Did she? I used to say that, too, about my sons.

Claudia always seems to be on a diet and so do the girls. Cam doesn’t need it nor does Lucy really but she’s at the puppy-fat stage and feels self-conscious about it, especially as her mother and sister are both slim.

Well, I’ll try and suit all tastes.

She completed her inspection of the cupboard and scribbled several items on her list. As she followed him downstairs, she said, How many meals will you be wanting me to cook?

He considered. Only dinner on Friday night, actually. We’ll go shopping on Saturday and pick up something while we’re in town. The girls are partying so Claudia and I will probably go out for dinner; she doesn’t much like staying in at the weekend. On Sunday we’ll drive out into the country or to the coast for lunch before I bring Cam and Lucy back home. Back to their mother, I mean.

They went down the curving stone steps to the basement and inspected the bathroom, his bedroom, the girls’ room, the spare room, the store room and the utility room. In the guest bedroom, he cleared his throat and looked awkward.

Um—, he began, er—could you make up the bed in here as well? The girls are taking the divorce very hard, so until Claudia and I are married, we don’t—er—well, she sleeps in here when they’re staying.

It must be difficult but I’m sure things will improve as your daughters get older. Once they’re leading their own lives, they won’t bother about what you’re doing. Have you ever thought of getting duvets, Mr Flynn?

For a wild moment, he thought she was advocating duvets as a way of solving his relationship problems. She saw the bewilderment on his face and smiled.

They make bed-making easier, she explained, and pretty duvet covers will help to brighten up the bedrooms. We could get some new towels as well, if you like.

I place myself completely in your hands. I seem to have run out of ideas for my own home although I can find plenty for other people which is just as well since it’s how I make my living. Shall we go shopping now? I hope you don’t mind a little walk, the car’s in the mews round the corner.

As they walked, they discussed her wages which she found princely and Charlie, muttering vaguely about pension schemes and insurance, said everything would be done through his company’s personnel department. He went on to suggest that she should simply take over the running and organisation of the flat as she saw fit.

If either of us don’t like something, we can always talk it over. I’m really not fussy. I work long hours and all I want is to come home to a bit of comfort at the end of the day.

Apropos comfort, if you don’t mind my saying so, perhaps you should turn the central heating up a notch or two, the flat feels slightly damp to me.

Right. What a sensible woman you are, Mrs Grant.

Have you got any logs or those smokeless briquette things? I’ll make a fire when your visitors come. A real fire seems so much warmer than gas or electric. Though it’s just psychological, I suppose.

That would be great! Look, I’ll open a household account for you and you can pay for everything by cheque. It’ll save you having to ask me for money all the time. You’ll probably find you need to buy more kitchen equipment, I never got around to replacing what Wendy took with her. Are you interested in gardens, by any chance?

Oh, yes, I love gardening. If you don’t mind, though, I’d like to get the flat sorted out first. After your special weekend, I’ll get properly started on the cleaning. There’s a nice woman who lives next door to me, Jean McGregor. Her husband’s out of work and she’s always glad of extra money. Would you be prepared to pay her to help me? She’s a good worker and together we could do a really thorough job. I know I said I could handle the rough, but it occurs to me that it would go quicker and inconvenience you less in the long run if I had some help at the beginning.

Absolutely. You’re the boss.

They turned into the mews and Charlie unlocked his garage to reveal a dark-green Range Rover. Feel free to use this whenever you want, he said, opening the door for her.

I don’t—I can’t drive, she said, climbing into the high seat, there was no reason for me ever to learn and now I live in the city, there’s plenty of buses.

No worries, he said, wondering why she suddenly seemed so ill at ease. Brought back sad memories, perhaps, he thought, reversing into the mews and getting out to close the garage doors. Before he drove on, he turned to her and smiled.

Look, I’m not much of a one for formalities. Can we drop the Mr and Mrs? I’m Charlie or Chas.

She was finding him easy to be with and realised it had been a long time since she had had social contact with anyone who did not belong to her immediate family or small circle of old friends.

And I’m Imogen.

As she smiled back at him, he noticed what pretty teeth she had, white and regular but with the tiniest hint of a gap between the top incisors.

Nice name, he said, putting the car into gear. Unusual.

I quite like it, too, though it was an embarrassment when I was at school. I got teased a lot.

Orlando had not suffered in the same way because he had routinely beaten up those foolish enough to make fun of his name.

Ses mains! Maman would moan dramatically when he came home with his knuckles bruised and bleeding. Look at his poor precious hands! You must do something, Leslie!

Her father’s advice had been pragmatic.

If you get tired of punching noses, tell people your name’s Bill.

Remembering, she smiled again.

Charlie glanced at her before giving his attention to the traffic.

You’d never believe what a literally bloody start this day had, he remarked, yet it’s turning out distinctly hopeful since you came on the scene. And to think I nearly scared you off! You’re not a Scot, are you? What made you choose to live in Edinburgh?

Because it’s a long way from where I lived before.

Her voice sounded bleak and her face had a shuttered, defensive look and he reminded himself to steer clear of questions about her past. She seems to be just what I need, he thought, I don’t want to lose her through stupid tactlessness. No more prying, I’m getting as bad as Rita. However, when they had parked the car at the supermarket, he decided to chance one more question as they were walking to the lift.

You seem to know pretty well what it’s like, I assume you’re divorced, too?

No, oh no. Her lips whitened alarmingly and he took her arm, afraid she might faint. I’m widowed. My—he—my husband was killed—in an accident. She drew air into her lungs with an effort. It was—rather—unpleasant. I’d really rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.

Hey, it’s alright. He gave her a little hug. "I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I didn’t