Intrusion: A Novel (15 page)

“Okay. I’m gone. I’ll be around late afternoon if you need anything. So—later, alligator. Bye, Sarah.”

A hug for Kat, and then she was at the door, waving good-bye.

Kat closed the front door and returned to the living room.

“Do people really still say that?” Sarah asked. “
Later, alligator
?”

“Brooke does. As a joke.”

“Ah. I see. So Scott actually has a key to her house?”

Kat frowned, puzzled.

“Her house? Oh no. He has a key to the back gate. The pool gate. He used to swim there early mornings. We all used the pool—” she said, faltering. “At one time.”

“How nice for you. She’s quite the live wire,” Sarah said.

“She’s lovely. I would have been lost without her.”

“Really? Well, I should move, too,” Sarah said, standing. “Get a few of those heads rolling.”

Kat reached for the coffee cups, noted the last lemon tart left on the plate, and longed to just pick it up and pop it into her mouth.

“Do you want that last tart?” she asked.

“Why not?” said Sarah, reaching for it at once and biting into it.

She glanced at Kat’s face and laughed.

“If you wanted it,” she said, “you should have taken it!”

As she walked Sarah to the door, Kat, still wondering about James, asked in a voice that she tried to keep casual, “You had a date, then, after the closing the other night? Someone to join you at the Ritz-Carlton?”

Sarah stopped and turned, amusement in her eyes.

“And you want to know who it was? Caitlin! A lady never tells. As of course you know,” she said.

“Okay. None of my business. Sorry.”

“But you’re guessing it’s the young stud James?”

Kat shook her head, cheeks pink.

“No. Well, maybe I just—” Kat stopped. “You’re having an affair with James?”

“An affair? Good heavens, no. An occasional dalliance, one might say.”

Sarah’s mouth curled and her eyes were full of mischief as she looked at Kat.

“I have rather high standards, of course. But I have to say that boy really does know what he’s doing. Woodruff, on the other hand, is like a first-time schoolboy
every
time. He simply does not have a clue. Or any control whatsoever.”

“Woodruff?” Kat said, astonished. “I thought you disliked Woodruff.”

“Well, of course I dislike him. What’s there to like? But he’s been useful, in his weird little way. But sexually, oh my goodness. His poor wife.”

“Sarah!” Kat said, pretending shock. “Stop it. These are Scott’s colleagues. I’ll never look at Woodruff in the same way again.”

“But I haven’t told you about Miyamoto yet!” Sarah said, eyes sparkling. She laughed. “Just teasing, Caitlin. All right, enough of this naughty talk. I need to get going.”

Kat opened the front door.

“Thanks for coming, Sarah. I know how busy you are.”

“Busy indeed,” Sarah said. “After this I have to get back to Malibu. I have your husband and team out there. Scott with Glenda, of course. Maybe James, too. We should get a lot done.”

She paused before she walked to the car.

“Take care, Kat. Call me. Let me know when you’ve convinced Scott about the adoption. When the papers are signed. I’ll stay on top of it for you.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Kat watched Sarah march to her car. The corporate outfit had transformed her—she even walked differently. She had always loved to dress up. Years ago, they would raid her Aunt Helen’s attic for cast-off clothes, giggling as they tried on furs and hats with feathers and rows of yellowing pearls. Always just the two of them. Sarah never wanted to show the other girls those gorgeous heirlooms, a fact that baffled Kat. Only one time did they wear the old clothes out in public. Kat could recall the occasion clearly. A birthday party for a girl Sarah despised.

Tracey Sullivan, deputy head girl, was another day girl but one with a very different background from Kat. Her father, a self-made man with a dozen car dealerships, was well known throughout the Midlands. It was rumored that he contributed large sums to the convent school. He appeared in his own commercials occasionally, red faced, yelling. Sarah called him the Shouty Man and called Tracey the Shouty Man’s Daughter.

“We should go to this party,” Sarah had said when Tracey’s birthday-party invitation appeared in her school locker. “Looks interesting.”

“You’re kidding,” Kat said. “You hate Tracey.”

“With good reason. I hear that she’s whispering stuff about my mother. Vicious bitch.”

“So why do you want to go?”

“It will be fun. We can dress up.”

“Not me. I wasn’t invited,” Kat said, blushing, feeling oddly ashamed.

“What? Why?”

“I’m a day girl, remember. Council-house kid.”

“That’s ridiculous. She’s a day girl herself.”

“From the other side of the tracks. You know what she’s like. She’s such a snob.”

“Come on. We’ll go. Your invite is probably late.”

An invitation turned up in Kat’s locker the next day.

“What did you say to her?” Kat asked Sarah.

“Moi?”
Sarah asked, eyes wide. “Nothing at all. Listen, let’s visit Aunt Helen, borrow a couple of her outfits. Tracey will look like the Sugar Plum Fairy—you just know she will.”

At Lansdowne, Aunt Helen waved them toward a huge closet.

“Help yourselves,” she said, yawning. “But do bring back whatever you borrow because I may have to sell it all eventually. And please don’t take the ermine stole. People tend to steal it and it’s no longer insured.”

Helen had an accent with the sharp edge of cut glass and dressed with the kind of shabby elegance Kat had only ever seen in movies: silver hair in a casual knot on her neck, a tweed skirt, a single strand of pearls. She had been engaged once, briefly, to an army officer from a family with a double-barreled surname and a history of military service. He had died, not in battle but in a boating accident in the South of France, a fact that Sarah found amusing and shared with Kat. Helen wore her ring still, a huge square-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds. At first, she terrified Kat. Later, Kat realized that Helen’s air of superiority was not intended to intimidate but was simply the easy, unassailable confidence of her class.

On that day, Kat and Sarah spent most of the afternoon trying on different dresses. Helen sat like royalty on a high-backed tapestry chair and passed judgment on each of the outfits.

“Too Hollywood,” she said when Sarah tried on a silky black gown with a low neckline. “One needs very large breasts for a dress like that, and shapely though you are, dear, you’re not quite shapely enough. And not black, Sarah, please. Black is too brittle for you. Isn’t this for an afternoon tea party? You need dresses to midcalf, what we used to call ballerina length. Think of something suitable for a summer wedding.

“No, no, no. You look vulgar, my dear,” Helen snapped when Kat twirled out wearing a scarlet dress with a full skirt and a top layer of spangled net. “With your classic features, you must remain simple and understated.”

Kat emerged finally wearing a beautifully cut silk dress by a French designer unknown to her but familiar to Sarah and Helen. It was a strange, silvery blue and felt soft against her skin.

“Perfect,” Sarah said.

“Yes, that will do. That will do nicely,” Helen said, squinting at her. “You look rather fetching, dear. That color suits your eyes very well. You do need heels, of course. Look at the back of the closet for some strappy ones. They should fit you. And you need pearls. Borrow the long strand.”

“I can’t wear your pearls,” Kat said. “What if—”

“Child, they’re fake. The real ones are in the bank vault with my other little baubles. Wear them. They’re a good copy.”

Sarah borrowed a short taffeta skirt, in a glorious purple, that was puffed out and shaped like a bell. She wore it with a strappy top of her own. It had a sequined Mickey Mouse appliquéd on it, the purple of his ears the same shade as the skirt.

“Amazing outfit,” Kat said. “Unique. They’ll all be gobsmacked.”

“That’s the plan.”

The following Friday afternoon they were taken by minibus from school to Tracey’s house, a fake Jacobean behemoth with cast-iron lions guarding the automatic gates. Sarah, delighted, laughed out loud.

“Look at the lions! Oh, this is even better than I imagined.”

“It all matches,” Kat said to Sarah when they were inside the house and she gazed around at the coordinating colors of the plush interior.

“Of course.
De rigueur
, Caitlin. Even the artwork. Now, what we shan’t do,” Sarah whispered, waving to the girls who called out to admire her outfit, “is fawn over Tracey. She was mean not to invite you right away.”

“I’m here now! And we have to say
Happy birthday
.”

“Really? Why? Oh, God help us, Shouty is here, too. I really do not want to listen to that man. Grab some food. There must be a quiet room somewhere. They won’t have a library, guaranteed. Perhaps there’s a garden room.”

They found a bench at the end of the garden, and eventually other girls drifted outside, drawn by Sarah, as always, and she talked and laughed, the focus of attention, as if it were her own party. Kat noticed Tracey gazing wistfully out the window at them, as if she longed to take Sarah’s place, there in the center of the group. Sarah turned and saw her, too.

“Like the family pet waiting for the rain to stop,” Sarah said, and the girls around her laughed. Kat, noting Tracey’s hurt face, felt a moment’s sympathy for the birthday girl. Something in her expression must have registered, because Sarah leaned forward and said in a harsh whisper, “Don’t you dare feel sorry for her, Caitlin. Don’t you dare. She’s a gossip and a liar. She deserves everything she gets.”

When it came time to leave, the convent girls were taken back to the school in a minibus arranged by Tracey’s father.

“Come back to school,” Sarah urged Kat. “I can sneak you into the dorm.”

“I can’t. My mum’s expecting me home.”

Kat, the only other day girl there, walked to the bus stop alone and took the bus home and had the odd experience of walking down her council-estate street wearing a designer dress and pearls.

The neighborhood had been quiet that night, the breeze carrying the scent of stale beer from the pub on the corner and disintegrating waste from the drains. A dog barked somewhere; she could hear a child’s faint cry. The road sliced across the estate, and Kat paused, looking around at the red brick, gray in the lamplight, the worn gardens, the crumpled and torn remains of tossed-away fast-food papers caught on the struggling shrubs. In each direction, the same rows of neglected houses were visible, bookended by the dark bulk of the apartments. Here she was, walking past rows of shabby houses, wearing a designer dress by someone French and famous she’d never heard of and would never remember again. For those few minutes, Kat felt that her future was full of possibility, of mystery.

“It was weird,” she told Maggie later. “Totally surreal.”

Shaking her head at these memories, Kat watched as Sarah’s Jaguar turned the corner at the end of the street, and then she closed the front door and headed back toward the kitchen. The house felt so empty again. How silent everything seemed.

She placed Brooke’s spa gift in the bathroom and then took the application package into the bedroom, hid it in her sweater drawer along with the glossy brochure. When she returned to the kitchen, she turned on the radio. A voice with a soft Scottish accent talked of lochs. Yes. That was better than silence. That would do.

SIXTEEN

M
aggie’s response to Kat’s adoption idea was stunned silence, confusion, and then outspoken opposition. She was not happy about her sister’s plans at all.

“That’s not a good idea right now, darling,” she said when Kat tentatively broached the subject. “You really do need more time.”

When Kat explained that, yes, she did mean adopting an infant, a newborn, that she did not mean taking on a temporary foster child, Maggie’s voice rose, her concern making her sharp. “No, Kat. You don’t want to get involved in adoption. No. Really. Not now. You’re not ready for something like that. You have to heal first.”

“This will help me heal.”

“That’s not true. Not at all. Ask any grief expert. Ask your grief counselor.”

But Kat had still not mentioned the subject to Martha Kim. Martha, she was certain, would not understand.

When the phone rang, only days after Sarah’s visit with the application, Kat stared at it, not wanting to pick it up. It was the time Maggie usually called. She had not spoken to her sister since that first awkward discussion about adoption, over a week ago now. She could not keep avoiding her. She dithered a few moments longer, unsure, and then lifted the receiver reluctantly.

“Hi, darling, just wondering about you,” Maggie said.

“I’m fine,” Kat said. “Just fine. How are you? How’s Adam?”

“He’s happy. He loves, loves Paris. And who can blame him? So what’s happening with you?”

“Not much.”

“What about work? You’re still looking?”

“In a way. I’m fine, Maggie. Honestly.”

“I thought you would have found something by now. I hope you’ve put that adoption idea right out of your head, darling. You’d be better off getting a decent job. Occupy your mind. You’re so smart, Kat. And hardworking. You’re wasted sitting at home.”

“I’ll get a job eventually.”

“Good. So how’s Scott?”

“He’s fine. Working hard.”

“How’s he coping with the evil Cherrington?”

Kat took a breath. She had told Maggie nothing about Sarah’s involvement in the adoption process, nor that she had met Sarah a number of times since Palm Springs. Her sister would not approve. Maggie would, in fact, be very annoyed indeed.

“Oh, Scott can handle her, I think,” Kat said lightly.

“Handle her? She hasn’t tried to screw him yet, then?” Maggie asked.

“For heaven’s sake. This is Scott!”

“He’s a man, isn’t he? Well, I suppose if Paul resisted her legendary charms—though Christ knows what they are—then maybe Scott can, too. Maybe she’s set her sights on somebody higher up the food chain there. That Japanese guy?”

“Don’t be daft. She’s not screwing Miyamoto. Though I did hear gossip that she was having a fling with James,” Kat said, and then wished she hadn’t spoken. Her sister’s loud yell of amusement echoed through the phone.

“You are kidding me! That gorgeous young guy? I would have thought he had more sense. She’s what—ten years older than him? More?”

“Just a rumor. Probably not true.”

“Oh, I bet it is. Blimey. The black widow never changes. No danger of her marrying him, though. He’s not rich enough. Paul was telling me about her husband’s empire. It’s absolutely vast!”

“I know. Scott’s handling some of the legal stuff. She inherited it all.”

“She probably bumped him off to get her hands on it.”

“Maggie! He had cancer. You know that.”

“I bet she nudged him on his way.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Kat said, recalling, even as she spoke, the flicker of anger on Sarah’s face when the morphine was mentioned. “It must have been hard for her.”

“With that kind of money? Nothing’s hard. Well, let me know what happens next with James. Somebody should warn him. Okay, darling, I better go. You’re taking care of yourself?”

“I am. Honestly.”

“Right, well, what are you doing for Christmas? We wondered if you and Scott wanted to come here.”

“Christmas?” Kat said. She had not given it a thought, had not been aware of any Christmas activities at all, though she had not been to a mall or shopping area for some time, or any place where Christmas lights might be in evidence.

“It’s less than three weeks away, Kat,” Maggie said.

“God. I, well, we hadn’t thought.”

She sighed. What was the point of Christmas without a child?

“I think we’ll just rest. Burrow,” she said.

“Yes, I thought you might do that. Probably the best thing for you this year. Maybe next year?”

“Maybe,” said Kat, wondering why Maggie thought that next year would possibly be any different. Chris would not be with them for next Christmas, either.

Maggie chattered a little while longer, then hung up with admonishments that Kat take care of herself, eat properly, get enough sleep. Kat replaced the receiver, stood with her hand still on it.

Christmas. God.

Brooke’s signature rat-a-tat on the front door came late in the afternoon. Her smile was wide, her face alight.

“I only have a minute,” she said. “I have to get on a call. But I wanted to tell you.”

“Come in. Tell me what?”

“My news,” she said. “I got a job offer. Overseas!”

“Good grief. Where?”

“France!”

“How? When? Come inside—I’ll make coffee.”

“No time now. I really have to take this call. But I’ll check in later.”

“When do you go?”

“It will be soon. Very soon. I don’t have all the details yet. Just the salary. And wow—well, it’s much bigger. It makes me nervous. Just wanted to tell you.”

She bit her lip, then moved to hug Kat.

“God, I’ll miss you,” Kat said.

“You can visit. France! Imagine it.”

“Brooke’s been offered a job in France,” Kat told Scott later.

“In France? Wow. What kind of job?”

“Not entirely sure. She didn’t seem too clear. It’s a big raise.”

“Good for her. You’ll miss her, though.”

“I will. She’s just so—easy.”

Scott grinned.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve heard that,” he said.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. She’s a nice gal. But damn. What about my date loaf? You think maybe if she gave you the recipe . . . ?”

Kat smiled, shaking her head, as Scott turned and headed toward his den.

“And Maggie invited us to England for Christmas,” Kat said. He stopped, whipped around fast at this; she saw the alarm on his face.

“And you said?”

“I said no, thank you. We’re just going to be quiet.”

“Right,” he said, clearly relieved. “I hadn’t thought about it. Not at all. Have you?”

“No. I know I don’t want to cook,” Kat said. “I couldn’t bear the smell of turkey through the house. It would be too hard.”

“You want to go out for dinner?”

“No. All the restaurants will be decorated.”

Scott nodded, understanding immediately.

“How about if I cook?” he asked. “Something different. Something we’ve never had before?”

Kat looked at him and slowly shook her head.

“No. That will make it seem special in some way. It will be false. Harder.”

She thought for a moment.

“It’s on a Sunday. Let’s just do a normal Sunday. You catch up with paperwork in the den. I’ll read the papers or a book or something. Let’s just forget about Christmas this year. Toss it aside.”

“You don’t want a gift?”

“Nope.”

“Well. Okay. No gifts. Just a normal day, baby?”

“Yep. Just a normal day. I’ll get a bunch of books from the library.”

When Kat visited the library, a week later, she stayed longer than she had planned, and it was already dark as she drove up the hill. Homes that had looked quite ordinary on her drive down were now miniature Disneylands of lights. A Santa Claus, impossibly red and silver, climbed a roof; reindeers pulsated in yards. Lights twinkled everywhere, and Christmas scenes were elaborately portrayed in back gardens. Last year, she would have continued driving for a while, enjoying the displays, noting which houses she should bring Chris back to see, which ones she must mention to Scott. This year the lights looked garish and hurt her eyes.

“Ignore them, ignore them,” she murmured to herself. “Toss Christmas aside.”

At the top of the hill, she turned onto her own street and saw, with a jarring shock, the “For Sale” sign on Brooke’s house. The sign must have gone up while she was at the library. So soon. It was all happening so fast. Brooke’s car was in the driveway, so Kat tapped on the back door and Brooke appeared, hair tied on top of her head, plastic wrap in her hands.

“A sign up already?” Kat said. “When are you going?”

“Like this minute,” Brooke said. “Here, come in and help a bit. I can hold down the boxes while you tape.”

“You’re actually selling?” Kat said, following her friend into the house. “Couldn’t you just keep the house? Rent it out? Have somewhere to come back to?”

“I wish, but no. I need the money. It’s expensive over there and I’ll need to rent, and really, this house is too big for one person. It’s a family house. Don’t worry, sweetie. When I come back, I’ll buy a nice little condo right up the street.”

“
If
you come back,” Kat said.

“If I don’t, you’ll just have to come visit me,” Brooke said, handing Kat a large roll of packing tape. Kat noticed, then, the deep male voice audible in the background.

“What’s that?”

“Language tape,” said Brooke. “Shush. Listen.”

“I don’t understand,” the recorded male voice intoned solemnly.

“Je ne comprends pas,”
said Brooke.

“Please speak slowly.”

“
Parlez lentement,
dumbass,” Brooke said, switching off the machine and lifting both hands, palms upward, in the universal gesture of despair. “I’ll never sound right. And I hate that man’s goddamn voice. He sounds as if he’s
sneering
.”

“Why isn’t he speaking French?”

“Different tape. It’s in little steps. He speaks French, I answer in English. He speaks in English, and I answer in French, then we both talk in French. After a hundred years, I’ll be able to say
I do not understand.
And still sound like a freaking idiot.”

“You sound pretty good to me,” Kat said.

“Do I? Honestly? I never paid attention in French. Truth be told, I skipped a lot of classes final year. Cheerleading practice and too much time behind the bleachers with Steve Partridge. Oh, I was crazy about that guy. Dumb as a post, but his shoulders—I can see them now. Anyway, the French suffered. I bet you’re fluent, though, sweet pea. I bet you’ve got a lovely little accent.”

“Are you kidding? We were taught to speak French while remaining at all times recognizably English. I’m certain it was deliberate. I never open my mouth in France. Scott is better.”

“I just don’t have enough time to learn,” Brooke said, sighing. “And that patronizing public radio person on the tapes is not helping.”

“Your colleagues will speak English, I’m sure,” Kat said.

“God, I hope so!”

As Brooke held down boxes, Kat taped them and learned that Brooke’s job would begin in the new year, that she would spend Christmas with her folks in Florida and then fly straight to Nice. She was putting everything in storage for now.