Sleeping With Ghosts. Lynne Pemberton
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dismissive tone. ‘We’ll be in town at lunchtime. I have some shopping to do, so perhaps you could amuse your father for the afternoon.’ Not waiting for Kathryn to respond she said, ‘And please, Kathryn, something simple – you know how he loathes fancy food. The last time you made that rich creamy sauce he felt most unwell for days.’
Kathryn was seething. On the occasion referred to, she had spent hours shopping and preparing a meal she knew her father had loved. He had even called her the following day to compliment her on the best dinner he’d had in years. So she had to bite back an acerbic retort. Past experience had taught her that agreeing with Emily, or simply saying nothing, was infinitely easier than any other course. But it was at such times that she wondered anew what her father saw in this sanctimonious and frivolous woman, who was neither intelligent nor amusing.
Tony Mitchell, her former husband, had suggested once – after Kathryn had been complaining hotly about her stepmother – ‘She’s a lot younger than your father, good for the old man’s ego and his libido. The quiet ones, still waters and all that; she’s probably dynamite between the sheets.’
Kathryn had grimaced. The thought of Emily in the throes of passionate lovemaking with her father was so repulsive, she’d had to push it firmly out of her mind.
Now she could not suppress her irritation for a moment longer. ‘OK, Em, I get the message; I won’t cook at all. I’ll book a restaurant, then we can all have exactly what we want.’
‘No need to get tetchy with me, Kathryn, and don’t call me Em, you know how I detest it; anyway, don’t you think it much better that I say, rather than you spending a ridiculous amount of—’
Kathryn interrupted. ‘I’ve got to go, I’ve got a breakfast meeting. Like you said, I’m a busy girl! I’ll see you both on Saturday, my place at noon.’ She put the telephone down, without saying goodbye, then sipped her coffee whilst imagining Emily making a point of seeking her father out, wherever he was, to inform him in her high-pitched, sing-song voice that his daughter had slammed the phone down on her, and that the older Kathryn got the ruder she became. Kathryn had long ceased to care what Emily thought of her, but she accepted with a sharp pang, that she did care very much about her father’s approval. Climbing the stairs to her bedroom, she could not help wondering how he would react to Ingrid’s revelations. As she showered and dressed she decided to tell him everything on Saturday afternoon.
Half an hour later she left the house. With her mind in a fog, she climbed into her car, throwing her coat on to the back seat. It was raining hard when she pulled into the multi-storey car park in Brewer Street. She donned her mackintosh, realizing at the same time that she’d forgotten her umbrella. With the collar of her coat up tight to her ears, and using the Daily Telegraph to cover her head, she ran across Golden Square into number forty-six.
Kathryn shared the lift with Roger Thompson, a junior accountant. They chatted about the weather, before alighting on the fourth floor and walking together through the double glass doors that led to Trident Productions. Kathryn smiled at Helen the receptionist who was busy making coffee.
The girl held up a cup. ‘Want one?’
‘No thanks, I’ve had four already this morning. I’m all caffeined out.’
Kathryn walked down a long corridor interspersed with doors. She stopped at the last door but one, experiencing the familiar quick thrill, as she read the brass nameplate. ‘Kathryn de Moubray, Producer.’ It was only four months since her promotion, and she was still waiting for the euphoria to wear off. ‘You’ve worked bloody hard for it,’ her boss Rod Franks had said at the time. Rod was not generous with his praise, and she knew he was right: she had worked hard, damned hard, but it still felt good to be rewarded. The achievement made all the long hours, and the self-sacrifice, worthwhile.
Kathryn crossed the room, her feet making little sound on the thick carpet. She had chosen the office interiors herself and wished, now, that she had gone for the more traditional oak desk and bookcase that she had liked originally, instead of being talked into the smoke-grey and chrome furniture Rod had favoured. ‘Too macho,’ someone had said, adding that it was a dyke’s office. She hung her coat up and, running her fingers through her recently bobbed hair, sat down behind her desk and began to write a list of things she had to do. At the top of the list she put, ‘Fax Steve Fisher in Washington. Ask him to research Von Trellenberg in archives.’ Then she followed it with, ‘Call Bob Conran re pilot for Girls in the Red.’ When her direct line rang, she continued writing as she picked up the phone.
It was Jack McGowan. ‘Good morning, Kathryn, how are you on this hideous Monday morning?’ Without waiting for her reply, he went on, ‘Don’t you think we should be somewhere, anywhere else, than London in this bloody rain? It’s been pissing down for weeks! How about we slip down to my house in the South of France, it’s wonderful in June, we can sip chilled rosé on the terrace, and watch the sun set …’
‘I’m in the middle of a big job; you know that, Jack. I can’t just schlepp off to the Med at the drop of a hat.’ The word ‘hat’ jolted her into saying, ‘Speaking of which, I’m afraid I can’t make the wedding on Saturday. I’m really sorry, but my father wants to see me.’
‘Well, tell him you’ve got a prior engagement.’ His tone implied there was nothing more to say.
Kathryn drummed her short fingernails on top of her desk. ‘I am sorry, Jack. But he’s leaving for a lecture tour of the States soon. He’s only going to be in London for one day. I have to see him, we’ve got a lot of things to sort out. I need to discuss my mother’s estate, and all that stuff, you understand don’t you?’
Jack did not. ‘Can’t you see him on Friday? I could send a car for you first thing Saturday morning. You could still make the wedding, it doesn’t start until midday. Call your father now, tell him it’s a case of life and death; he’s a doctor, he’ll appreciate that. Tell him you’ve got to work on an important project all weekend, tell him anything!’
‘I’ll tell him the truth, Jack,’ she interrupted tersely. ‘That’s not difficult for me,’ she added, intimating that deceit came easily to Jack McGowan.
‘Business is about avoiding the truth, playing the game, Kathryn. Come on, you know that as well as I do.’
She chose to ignore this remark. ‘I’m not sure if he can make it on Friday, but I suppose I could ask.’ Kathryn was merely placating him; she was secretly pleased to get out of what she suspected would be a posh but boring wedding.
Encouraged by her hesitation, Jack said, ‘Now when are you going to get another opportunity to wear that fabulous hat?’
She was smiling. ‘Ascot?’ she ventured. ‘Ladies’ Day, perhaps?’
His voice dropped an octave. ‘I would prefer you to wear it this weekend. First for the wedding, then later for me, with nothing else but high heels, and that special smile. You know the one you wear when I—’
She interrupted with, ‘Shame on you, Mr McGowan!’
‘I’ll be totally inconsolable if I have to spend the weekend alone,’ he told her.
Kathryn also lowered her voice. ‘Since when have you ever done that, Jack? Oh and by the way, I’d love to wear the hat and heels, specially for you. If not this weekend then some time in the near future.’
His loud expulsion of breath was followed by, ‘This weekend, Kathryn.’
‘I’ll let you know by Thursday when we’re going to the Buchanans for drinks. That will give you twenty-four hours to find a replacement.’
The humour had left his voice when he said, ‘There is none.’
Reluctant to confront his disappointment any longer, she made an excuse to terminate the conversation. ‘My other line’s ringing, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.’
She replaced the telephone thinking about Jack McGowan. He was