Hot Ice (2 page)

‘Why am I so damned secretive,’ Chris asks herself feverishly. ‘I should have told Ben that Sienna is my friend, so why didn’t I? Perhaps because I couldn’t bear to explain why I ducked her wedding reception.’ She feels so ashamed.

The truth is, the invitation to the wedding had arrived months earlier, but Chris had written back to say that she would be overseas. Lately, a dawning realisation that she lives life by proxy is filling her with fury. Prolonging her friendship with Sienna would provide yet another entry to a world that isn’t, and never can be, hers. Most of her work is with the spectacular celebrity classes: film stars, pop stars and their wives, dancers, fashion gurus and an occasional football star. As a successful media and entertainment solicitor she knows their lives in vivid and intimate detail. She attends their parties, visits their luxurious homes, their yachts,
their shooting lodges, grabs them between film takes to sign the necessary contracts, listens to their problems, thrills to their scandals, but she returns to spend her evenings at home with Mother. So where is
her
life?

While the City of London’s frenetic beat vibrates like a distant thunderstorm, Chris remains a prisoner of
her
conscience. The realisation that she’s fallen into the Cinderella syndrome is persuading Chris to get a life…any life…just as long as it’s her life. The problem is, she works all hours and she can’t see a way to change her lifestyle.

Her only feeble gesture was to refuse Sienna’s wedding invitation. Big deal! Sienna was once her dearest friend, until she went on to Oxford and Chris to London University. Requests to join Sienna in the holidays to tour the Himalayas, scuba dive around the Great Barrier Reef, ski in Peru and many other marvellous pursuits were turned down for purely practical reasons: she couldn’t afford the time or the cash. But now Chris lies in bed in hospital, regretting these missed opportunities and wondering if she will ever see her friend again. If only she’d run faster. She should have been there for her, as she had always been at school, although it hadn’t been easy in the beginning, she remembers. 

Boarding school isn’t the great leveller it’s made out to be. So what if they all wore the same uniforms, ate the same food and had the same limits on pocket money and sweets. They had eyes and ears, they visited each other on holidays and gossip spreads quickly. Everyone knew that four of their fellow pupils lived in castles, six were to inherit titles, one was a German count. They even had a princess.

Sienna Sheik arrived alone in a taxi, like a nobody. She was a shy, awkward girl of fourteen, who had flown to Heathrow from God-
knows-where
and taken a train to Bournemouth station and a taxi for the rest of the way. Her school clothes were sent over from the school’s outfitters, arriving just before she did. Sienna was short on pocket money, short on confidence and knew only basic English. Their school had a high academic standard, twenty-five percent of the pupils were scholarship prodigies and they all assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that she was one of them. Three days after her arrival, she ran away.

The following morning Chris was called to the headmaster’s office. ‘Sienna Sheik walked into a baker’s shop and stole some bread,’ he began fiercely. ‘It seems she has hardly eaten since she’s been here. I have persuaded the police and the baker to drop charges. None of you students thought to show her where the dining room is and no one accompanied her at any mealtimes.’ His
voice was becoming more ominous. ‘You female students are quite inhuman…worse than the boys.’

‘Well, who thought up that rule?’ Chris retorted angrily. No one was allowed into the dining room singly. Students had to arrive in couples or groups, nothing less was permitted.

‘You’re forgetting who I am,’ he said icily.

Chris kept her mouth closed and after a while he simmered down.

‘It’s because you are outspoken, and more than capable of looking after yourself that I’m making you responsible for Sienna. From now on, you and she will share a dormitory. Encourage her to speak English, show her the ropes, and look after her.’

‘Why me? This has nothing to do with me,’ she argued fiercely. ‘How could I know she wasn’t getting her meals?’

‘I’m hoping that some of your…let’s call it persistence…will rub off on Sienna. Make sure that she is not victimised because she’s Muslim and dark-skinned, but don’t be too obvious about it. Make sure she eats. That’s an order.’

‘This is so unfair. Why should I be her keeper?’

‘You’re a natural born fighter, Christine, and you’re endowed with a remarkable intellect, but let’s see how you succeed with a task for which you have no innate talent at all. It’s something you’ll have to learn the hard way. Something new for you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m talking about caring.’

His critical analysis hit home and hurt. So he thought she wasn’t a caring person. ‘We’ll see about that,’ she muttered sullenly as she went in search of Sienna.

She found her room-mate behind the pavilion. The boys had cornered a mole, one of many that ruined their soccer field, and they were trying to pulverise it with cricket balls. Sienna had other ideas and stood guard over it, screaming defiance as her legs took the hits.

‘Stop it!’ Chris yelled. ‘Look what you’ve done. She’s badly bruised. The Head’s on his way. You guys better piss off.’ The mole took the opportunity to escape under the pavilion and the boys moved off in a fury.

‘Thank you,’ Sienna said, without turning away.

‘Listen, Sienna. I’m taking extra gym lessons. Would you like to come along? We could go to dinner afterwards. Evidently we’re going to share a dorm’ so we might as well get to know each other.’

Sienna looked doubtful, but she came along…just to watch.

She was fourteen years old and she’d never been to school. Instead she’d had tutors. Consequently she’d never played any ball games, never been on long hikes, never swum, rowed, sailed, skated, skied, played truant, got up to mischief, kissed a boy or danced. It was like freeing a captive bird
long confined. Sienna had to be coaxed out, little by little, but for all she could teach her, Sienna taught Chris much more. But finally she failed to rescue her friend, and the hurt caused by that failure is ongoing. Each time

Chris falls asleep, the scene is replayed in her dreams: Sienna fighting madly, as she’d taught her, kicking out at the thugs, yelling for help, but help comes too late. So where have they taken her? Will she be found? Chris can’t bear to think of how her friend must be suffering. Are they treating her well, or is she buried alive in a hole in the ground, terrified and waiting to die?

After a week spent moping in hospital and worrying about Sienna, Chris is delighted to be discharged. There’s a great world out there waiting to be lived, she tells herself, but she soon finds that nothing has changed. On her very first evening, Chris sprawls on the rug in the living-room trying to read while Mum watches her favourite soap opera without asking Chris if she’d like to watch another channel. Chris swallows her irritation. Once she adored her mother and the intensity of her feelings dominated her young life. Later came the painful realisation that Mum isn’t perfect, not by any means, so her feelings are a mixture of love and irritation. She admires Mum’s stoic attitude to every setback and her careless acceptance of life’s gifts which she squanders without regret, not the least their limited cash. Mother lives life with a light touch. She often says: ‘Why should I worry? I’m always lucky. Something will turn up.’

And something always does because Chris is out there in the marketplace fighting to win: for Mum, for her clients, their daily bread, the interest on half a dozen credit cards and her mortgage payments.

Two years ago, compassion was added to her mixed feelings for her mother when she came home late and found her in tears. She quickly calculated. Mum would be fifty-eight in a week’s time.

‘Why Mum! Whatever is it?’

‘It’s nothing…loneliness perhaps.’ Hugging her secret sadness, Mum gathered her book and fled to her bedroom.

Nowadays Chris returns home early, work permitting, with her briefcase full of discs…home being her modest, semi-detached house in Finchley. This is exactly why her clients’ compulsory social events are becoming the highlights of her days.

Twenty-nine is a trying age for a girl. Thirty lurks in the wings like an aging prompter whispering phrases that no one wants to hear, like:
‘It’s long past midnight, Cinderella. Perhaps you missed your cue.
’

‘Shut up! I have a great career, that’s enough.’

Chris cuts short her allowed recovery time and goes back to work.

Every measuring instrument screams danger: ozone, pollen, moisture levels, and just plain heat are all over the top as London sweats under the Azores High, an uninvited guest which has moved
in and won’t leave. In the courtroom, they are mopping their foreheads and flapping notebooks in front of their faces. Occasional thunder and lightning interrupt the dry voice of the opposition barrister as he cross-questions Chris’ client. Is it malice, or the storm’s sulphurous ozone release that hammers at her temples. There stands her client, wiggling like a snake on a stick, spitting venom in all directions and lying through her teeth. Her fourth ex-husband to be, eyes narrowed with fury, is jotting denials in quick stabbing movements, while his barrister, cunning and patient, spins his web of words. It’s only a matter of time before her client blunders into it, despite her warnings.

‘Shit!’ Chris mutters. ‘I’m getting out of this business.’ Suddenly she’s had enough.

Her barrister hears and glares at Chris. Fortunately the judge is suffering, too. The trial is adjourned.

The storm has moved east, Chris notices when she hurries outside. The sky is an ominous yellowish-grey, but strips of pale turquoise lie along the western horizon. Caught in the sun’s rays, the buildings lining the Thames appear gilt-edged, while the still water shines like molten brass. The tube is half empty and she’s home by five p.m.

‘Hello Mum, I’m back,’ she calls, dropping her briefcase on the hall table.

Mum emerges from the top of the stairs. Unbelievably she’s fumbling with blouse buttons,
her hair and her skirt, and wearing a coy expression.

‘Chris, darling, you’re early.’ Her tone implies that Chris is at fault here.

‘The case was adjourned and I have a headache, so I came home.’

A middle-aged man appears in the doorway behind her mother. He smoothes back his longish, grey hair and makes an obvious effort to stand tall and straighten his shoulders. After a few moments of dazed incredulity the scene begins to make sense and it’s all Chris can do not to laugh. She doesn’t much like the look of him, but he’s not
her
boyfriend. He’s Mum’s. No one speaks as she looks questioningly from one to the other.

‘Well, hello Chris,’ comes a deep, Shropshire rumble at last. ‘I’ve been longing to meet you. I’m Bertram Loveday. I expect your mother has told you about me.’

Clearly he doesn’t know Mum very well.

‘Major Bertram Loveday,’ Mum adds.

‘But you must call me Bert. Everyone else does,’ he says too heartily. He smiles, but his eyes look apprehensive. Chris wonders why.

‘Not quite everyone,’ her mother interrupts him.

No, Mum wouldn’t call him Bert, would she.

‘We’re going to get married…’ Mum says happily and Chris smiles, too. She longs for her mother to be happy, but she can’t help worrying about Bert’s nervousness. 

‘Eventually,’ Bert corrects her. ‘But in the meantime…’

In the meantime, Chris learns a few days later, Bert is moving in.

For Mum’s sake, Chris does her best to cope, but as the days pass, the reason for Bert’s uneasiness becomes apparent: she is keeping both him and Mum. Mum has no income of her own, so five years back she bought a house large enough for both of them, but the high mortgage takes much of her income.

Chris moves her desk and laptop from the living room to her bedroom. She reminds herself that she’s glad for Mum several times a day. Her mother has been so lonely. So why does part of her feel lost, like a buoy that has broken loose from its mooring. She’s accustomed to resenting her ties to her mother. Unexpectedly she’s free, but it’s hard to get to grips with all this freedom.

‘I need to get a life,’ she tells herself sternly each time she feels like exploding. ‘Get a life, Chris! Get a life!’

The following morning Chris calls Ben Searle.

‘Good morning, Mr Searle. Chris Winters here. Mother has found a boyfriend and he’s moved in.’

‘Mazaltov! And thank you for sharing that with me.’ She can hear laughter in his voice.

‘You don’t understand. I’m free, Mr Searle.’

‘Ben.’

‘Ben. Are you still looking…?’

‘Yes. And I’m glad. Hang on a second.’ A minute later she is still holding on. A female voice comes on the line.

‘I’m Jean Morton, Mr Searle’s secretary. Please hold, Miss Winters. Is that convenient, or should we call you back? Ben’s gone to make you an appointment with our managing partner.’

‘I’ll wait.’ Cold trepidation creeps from her feet upwards as she hangs on. The seconds loiter while she imagines this coveted job vanishing like a shooting star.

‘Hi Chris. You still there? Rowan’s attending a three-day conference shortly. He’d like to see you before he goes. Can you make ten-thirty tomorrow morning?’

Only by shuffling around a whole lot of appointments.

‘Sure. See you then.’

Rowan Metcalf, managing partner of Financial Investigations, has a voice befitting his position; it is deep and authoritative, but the rest of him lets him down. He’s short, slight and rather insipid with his ash-blond hair and pale grey eyes. Chris can’t help resenting his boring hour-long interrogation, which has turned into a personal eulogy.

‘By now you must have grasped that each of us takes full responsibility for whatever we’re working on,’ Rowan Metcalf is saying, looking pompous.
‘I’m only interested in results. If you need to spend three months in Kathmandu, that’s your affair. Charge all living costs to your company credit card when you’re out of the country on a job. The point is, you have to win. If you fail, you’re out.’

This is something Ben hasn’t mentioned. Rowan is frowning at her. She has the feeling that he’s trying to scare her off.

He tries again. ‘Obviously we don’t have a hundred per cent success rating. What I’m trying to say is that each case is strictly confidential so you have to work alone. You have to be creative when you’re planning your strategy.’

What exactly is she taking on here? ‘I thought I was going to be Ben’s PA.’

‘Initially, yes. Ben has to choose between his family and his job. He’s undecided, but we all know which choice he will make.’

A pang of disappointment leaves Chris feeling unsettled.

‘We’ve been pretty well briefed by Ben and various headhunters and we’ve checked around. You have a reputation in the city for intelligence and integrity. You win more cases than you lose. If you have any more questions, keep them for Ben. He’ll show you the ropes. Later you’ll be on your own. Are you with us?’ Metcalf asks.

‘Yes.’ They shake hands and Rowan relaxes and seems almost human.

Ben arrives to introduce Chris to everyone. ‘They all like you,’ he says.

Chris interrupts his congratulatory flow. ‘Ben, thank you. I’m thrilled to get the job.’