Intrusion: A Novel (16 page)

“It’s been so fast,” Kat said. “It’s amazing.”

“It’s been like a goddamn whirlwind. My boss at Global is mad because this new group, well, they want me right away, and so I couldn’t give much notice and everybody hates me for leaving when we’re so busy. The job sounds awesome, though. It’s in Cannes! I’ll be able to go to the film festival! You’ll have to come visit. Imagine!”

Her eyes sparkled with excitement. Kat tried to smile.

“What kind of company is it? And how did they find you?”

“Beaugrand, multimedia company. One of their reps was at a filming I did for that start-up company in Studio City. Remember that? I think I told you about it. They’re into everything in the media world. I’ll be doing pretty much what I’m doing now, except I’ll get a much bigger salary. But who knows? Who knows what it could grow into?”

Her words tumbled out fast. Kat smiled at her friend’s excitement.

“It sounds fabulous. Your perfect job,” she said.

“Yep. But look, sweetie, what about you? Are you still looking for work? Or have you just abandoned it now?”

“I’m looking.”

Brooke regarded her calmly, not fooled.

“You turned down that newspaper job?”

“Yep. I was only offered it because Sarah put in a word for me.”

“Okay. But what about your old firm? You liked it there.”

“No. PR is out. It requires bounciness and smiling. I’m thinking of something quieter.”

“Like what? Library? Art gallery?”

“Maybe something like that.”

Brooke snapped a box into shape, began packing books into it.

“Scott must love having you home. Fifties housewife. Dinner on the table every night. All very pipe and slippers.”

“Not quite.”

Kat thought about it as she taped another box. She imagined a fifties marriage. Orderly. Correct. With precision timing. At dinnertime, the husband would arrive home to a table set, the meal freshly cooked. The wife sweetly groomed, brushed, and polished would greet him at the door with a kiss and a smile, her gleaming lipstick a fire-engine red. Her marriage wasn’t like that at all. She’d often eaten before Scott arrived home. Was sometimes already in her nightgown, ready for bed.

“Scott’s working such long hours,” she said now to Brooke. “I miss when we’d arrive home about the same time, cook together. I miss us shoulder to shoulder, chopping and talking. And Chris setting the table, wearing those damn earbuds so we’d have to yell at him or go over and yank them out of his ears to get his attention.”

“Didn’t know Scott could cook,” Brooke said.

“More of an assistant chef. Chopping and peeling. That kind of stuff.”

“Get him back in the kitchen. Use it or lose it,” Brooke said.

Kat smiled.

“Oh, I’ll really miss you,” she said.

“I’ll miss you, too, sweetie. But you can visit. Cannes! Think of that.”

Six days later, Kat and Scott watched from the window as a moving truck arrived to take Brooke’s furniture to storage. Brooke stood on the sidewalk, talking to a man in black denim and shades. The red Miata was at the curb. After a few minutes, Brooke handed the young man the keys and he climbed into the car.

“She’s sold the Miata, then,” Scott said.

“Looks like it. Oh, it’s—it’s like she’s liquidating everything. She’s just disappearing altogether.”

The car engine revved into life. The guy said something to Brooke and waved before driving off down the street. The sun, glinting on the red vehicle, blinded Kat temporarily, and then the car was gone, the sound of the engine fading. Brooke remained on the sidewalk, watching until the car disappeared, and then she straightened her shoulders and walked back into her empty house.

An hour later, she was standing in their hallway, hugging them both, as an airport-shuttle waited at the curb.

“Take care,” Brooke said. “Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other.”

“Please write,” Kat said. “Phone. Skype. Send e-mails. Anything. Please keep in touch.”

“I will. I promise.”

Kat had her gift ready. She had struggled to think of something for Brooke, something light and easy to carry, and had discovered, online, a silk-and-cashmere beret and scarf on sale in an exclusive Beverly Hills boutique. The parcel had been specially delivered, and the matching pair had arrived wrapped in delicate tissue and sealed with a tiny satin bow. Kat had lifted a corner of the tissue carefully to inspect the gift and immediately loved the vibrant, glowing colors, the soft feel of the luxury fabric. Brooke would wear both beret and scarf with the necessary panache, and the colors would bring out the pretty blue of her eyes.

When Brooke stepped back, Kat picked up the package from the hall table.

“For you,” she said. “Open it.”

Brooke groaned.

“Kat, you didn’t have to—”

“It’s a tiny thing. Have a look.”

Brooke placed the package on the table, untied the bow, opened the fragile paper slowly, and gasped when the glowing colors emerged.

“Oh, look. How beautiful! How absolutely beautiful. You shouldn’t—”

“Try the beret on.”

Brooke lifted the beret, placed it on her head immediately, and turned to study herself in the hall mirror. She adjusted the angle of the beret until she had it just right, picked up the matching scarf, arranged it around her neck, and then turned to show them, her smile huge.

“I love this gift!”

“Made in France! You look fabulous,” Kat said. “And it will be cold there, remember. For the next couple of months at least.”

“Looks good,” Scott said. “Very Parisian.”

Brooke removed the beret and scarf, placed them back in the tissue, and wrapped the package again carefully. Tears were now visible on her face.

“I don’t know what to say,” she said, her voice breaking. She hugged Kat again and then Scott. “Thank you. I’ll wear them all the time. And I’ll think of you.”

They walked with her to the shuttle. A few neighbors had gathered: Barbara Round, the old lady from across the street who rarely left her house, had managed to reach her gate and stood there, watching and waving. A young woman, with a toddler in a stroller, stood next to her. The Johnson family, including twin boys, called out to Brooke and shouted good wishes.

“This neighborhood will never be the same again,” Scott said as the shuttle pulled away.

“I’ll really miss her,” Kat said. “I wish she’d stayed through Christmas. I just like the idea of her being there, across the street.”

“We’ll get through Christmas,” Scott said. “We’ll ignore it.”

SEVENTEEN

I
n the middle of the afternoon on the day after Christmas, Kat walked into Scott’s den shivering violently, tears on her face. Scott, making notes on a yellow pad, looked up, registered her tears, and stood immediately. He sighed, came to her, and held her tight against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Kat said. “I was okay yesterday, but today I can’t seem to stop crying. No matter what I do.”

His arms tightened around her.

“Why don’t we just snuggle under a blanket and watch TV,” he said.

“It will still be Christmas programming. All merry and stuff.”

“Okay. A movie, then. And some brandy.”

Kat dragged the comforter from the bedroom and draped it onto the sofa while Scott found brandy and two glasses. Then, he flicked through the DVDs.

“What would you like?” Scott asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. A classic, maybe. Something strange. Set in a foreign land. Different. You know.”

“
Casablanca
?”

“Hmm. Possible.”

“
Lawrence of Arabia
?
Out of Africa
?”

“No. Well, maybe. No.” Kat looked at him. “
A River Runs Through It
.”

“Foreign? Classic? Different?”

“I know. I know. It’s just that I love the part where the father and son recite Wordsworth together.”

“It will make you cry.”

“I
am
crying.”

He nodded.

“Okay.
River
it is.”

When the movie started, Kat sipped the brandy. It burned her throat; she could feel its warmth all the way down to her stomach. She settled back against Scott’s shoulder. She wondered what Chris’s friends were doing, whether Ben and Matt were thinking of their old buddy. In previous years, they spent this day, the day after Christmas, all together, sharing new video games, holed up in Chris’s bedroom, playing music, laughing. The day must feel different for them, too. And for Vanessa. And the pretty girl, Chloe? She would be sad today.

Brooke would be in Florida with her parents, ready for her journey to France, bubbling with excitement and anticipation, most likely, longing to begin her new life.

When the movie finished, Kat dabbed at her tears with the corner of the comforter before she took Scott’s hand.

“We could watch our old home movies, too,” Scott said, kissing the top of her head.

Kat thought about it for a moment.

“Could you bear it?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

“So dim the house lights,” said Scott. “We will now begin our movie marathon.”

Kat watched the flickering images, pain squeezing her chest. Chris, in one of the home movies, was a sturdy seven-year-old, running after Ben, both of them mugging for the camera. Kat stood in the background, her hair long, tied back in a ponytail. She was laughing at their antics and looked young and carefree.

“I can’t believe we were ever that young,” she said to Scott. “Or that happy.”

“It’s pretty hard to remember how it felt.”

“You want to watch
The NeverEnding Story
? We didn’t watch it together on his birthday.”

“Of course.”

He was about to press the button on the remote when the doorbell rang. He raised an eyebrow. Kat looked at her watch. It was eight thirty at night, too late for parcel deliveries or FedEx.

“Better check it,” Scott said, sighing.

Kat knew, the moment she heard the cultured English voice, the soft gurgling laugh, who was at the door. Sarah stood in the doorway, her hand on the doorknob, looking as if she were ready to leave immediately.

“So, name the poet,” she began, looking at Kat. “Something about coming in from the night with flowers in her hands.”

“Pound,” said Kat. Name the Poet was an old game they used to play.

“Correct,” Sarah said. “I’m just dropping these off, and then I will fly away and leave you alone.”

She wore a long velvet cloak with a wide hood. To Kat, she looked like Little Red Riding Hood, dressed all in black. It was evening wear of some kind, suitable for the opera or the theater. Her eyes were made up with a green shadow that sparkled in the soft hall light. She held a basket in her hands, full of a mixed bouquet of flowers—gardenias, white roses, baby’s breath—and also a bottle of wine and some chocolates. She posed, Kat thought, like someone out of a child’s book of fairy tales.

Kat, conscious of her own sweatshirt, tearstained face, and neglected hair, of the crumpled comforter on the sofa, the littered glasses, and brandy bottle, noted that Scott, too, looked uncomfortably aware of his old jeans and sweater. He ran a hand through his uncombed hair, pushing it back from his forehead.

“You’re working today?” he asked Sarah. “It’s a holiday.”

“I don’t do holidays,” Sarah said. “And I believe you need these for tomorrow.”

Sarah removed a folder from the basket and handed it to Scott.

“The contracts. James said you wanted to look them over.”

“Yes. You’ve checked them?”

“James showed me a first draft. I assume you or Miyamoto will fine-tune?”

“I will. Of course.”

Sarah turned to Kat.

“And the rest of this basket is for you, Caitlin. You will see, on the bottom layer, a dozen melt-in-the-mouth lemon tarts.”

“Thank you,” Kat said, taking the basket. “Will you stay for one? Or a glass of wine?”

Sarah thought for a moment.

“Just one. And the tiniest glass of wine. Then, I must rush. I have to be somewhere for drinks, then I’m driving on to Ojai.”

“So how’s it going? The renovation?” Scott asked.

Sarah perched on the edge of the armchair, polished off one lemon tart in two fast bites, then took the wine Scott handed to her and sipped it as she described the problems with her new orangery.

“Not as quickly as I’d hoped. I knew the exact color I wanted on the walls. I showed it to them on the color chart, the exact shade. Did they do it? No. They did not. The color was close, but it was wrong. So they must do it again.” She sighed. “It’s impossible. I should be there, of course, when they begin every morning. To check.”

“How does it look, though? Generally?” Kat asked.

“At the moment, it’s a mess. But it will be beautiful. You must come see it. You can stride from one end to the other reading from ‘The Waste Land.’ Just as you used to do at Lansdowne.”

“She did what?” Scott asked, grinning.

“Oh, please,” Kat said, blushing. “I did that once. We had poetry readings there sometimes. The old orangery had this wonderful echoing sound. Perfect acoustics. So we would read poetry in it. Just for fun.”

“This was to entertain your classmates?” Scott asked.

“Our classmates?” said Sarah. “All those gray girls? No. This was just for us. We took turns. Aunt Helen came in occasionally, to listen. Sometimes, we would dress up, to perform for her. Wear her hats and her fur stole.”

“Wish I’d seen that,” Scott said.

“Be grateful you didn’t,” said Kat.

Sarah looked at her watch.

“I should think about moving along,” she said.

Sarah stood, watched Scott as he placed the contracts on the dining table, and began to leaf through them.

“You’ve signed everywhere?” he asked.

“I think so. I hope so.”

As he studied the documents, Sarah handed her empty wineglass to Kat.

“I’ll call you in the new year, Kat,” she said in a soft, conspiratorial whisper. “I have some news.” Then she added, with a small smile, “Good news.”

Sarah turned, moved toward Scott to check the documents with him. Kat, puzzled, took the rest of the pastries and Sarah’s empty glass into the kitchen.
Good news?
She must mean about the adoption. Sarah had clearly not given up on it. When Kat came back from the kitchen, Scott and Sarah were still at the dining table, talking quietly.

“It’s contained in the final clause,” Scott said.

“Is that enough?” Sarah asked.

“Oh yes. It’s absolutely watertight.”

Kat, as she watched them, was swamped by a feeling, not unfamiliar, of being
outside
—here in her own untidy living room, among the empty DVD cases, the used glasses, the rumpled comforter that a few minutes before she and her husband had been sharing. Scott, despite the casual clothes and unruly hair, was now very much the lawyer as he talked business with a woman who spoke the same language.

“Looks good. We’re right on track,” Scott said finally, closing the folder. “But I need to check something with James before I sign off. Can you hang on just a few minutes longer?”

“Of course,” Sarah said.

Scott disappeared into his den to make the phone call. Kat, awkward, moved back into the room.

“Another glass of wine, Sarah? Coffee?”

“I’m fine. Sit down. Talk to me.”

Kat pushed the comforter to the side and sat on the sofa. Sarah, sitting down beside her, looked levelly at her.

“It’s hard, isn’t it? This time of year. I hate Christmas.”

Kat nodded.

“This one is hard. I loved Christmas before.”

“I’ve always hated it.”

“Even as a child?”

“Even more so as a child. My mother was always so unstable at any kind of festive season. More unstable than usual.”

Kat, curious, leaned forward.

“She had problems, didn’t she? I remember Helen . . .”

“Oh, you have no idea. I never knew what she would do. Whether she would be locked in her room, sobbing, or whether she would be racing around, dressed in weird clothes, talking, laughing, drinking. That’s why I never took anyone home. Except you. I couldn’t risk everyone laughing at me.”

“They wouldn’t have laughed.”

“Of course they would.”

Sarah regarded Kat steadily for a moment or two.

“You asked me about my parents once. Remember? And I got cross?”

“Yes. All I know is that they were both gorgeous,” Kat said. “I remember the photograph on the piano at Lansdowne.”

The picture showed a lovely young woman in a white dress of some filmy organza material; she had flowers in her hair. The woman was a true beauty, very much like Sarah. In the photograph, her young husband stood beside her, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He was laughing.

“Your mother was beautiful. You look like her.”

“Apparently,” said Sarah. “And they left me. Well, my father left first. One day, he just picked up his briefcase and was gone. I was riding. I came back to the stables and he was getting into his car, his new Jaguar. He had his briefcase and he waved to me. Didn’t come to me, hug me, do any of the things one might imagine a father would do if he were leaving for good. He waved. That’s all. I never saw him again. I was eleven years old. He moved to France. His new woman was French. When he died, I saw it in the newspaper.”

“I’m sorry,” Kat said.

“And my mother,” continued Sarah with contempt. “My mother officially died when I was thirteen, but she was gone that same day, the day he left. She was never really alive anymore, not for me. Not that she was ever really there. Not in any sane way. Of course, in the end she did it properly. She overdosed on Seconal and slashed her wrists. Leaving her thirteen-year-old daughter to find her.”

Kat blinked.

“You? My God, Sarah.”

“Yes. It wasn’t pretty.”

Sarah shuddered at the memory. Kat, recalling Sarah’s blood phobia, wondered if her mother’s suicide had triggered it. So traumatic an experience must have left a scar.

“What a terrible thing for a child to witness.”

“I got over it.”

Sarah looked up then as Scott came back into the room, carrying the file.

“All in place,” he said. “Thank you for bringing these.”

“My pleasure,” Sarah said, standing. She placed a hand on his arm, looked up at him, and smiled. The traumatized child had vanished, the sparkling charmer returned. “It’s always my pleasure.”

Kat felt a tiny warning twinge and got to her feet. Scott had stepped away; she could not see his expression. She guessed he was uncomfortable at this attempt to flirt with him, if that’s what it was.

“And thank you for the goodies,” Kat said.

“Oh, you’re welcome. I know how hard it is,” Sarah said.

Then, like a black moth, Sarah floated forward, kissed Kat’s cheek, and, after a moment’s hesitation, kissed Scott, too, before she disappeared into the night with a wave. It was so theatrical that Scott, after closing the door, turned to Kat, smiling and shaking his head.

“She’s really pretty dramatic,” he said.

“Maybe just a wee bit over the top?”

“God, yes. Just a little bit. So what’s this all about?” he asked, his voice teasing. “You reading Eliot aloud?”

“Oh, don’t. Please. Sarah performed and I listened. I was the audience. The orangery audience.”

“That Sussex house must have been impressive.”

“Lansdowne? It was a beautiful house once upon a time. When I visited, it was just big, crumbling, and freezing. Lovely in the summer but icy cold in the winter. And pretty much falling down. That’s one of the reasons why she never invited any of the other girls to stay.”

“Just you?”

“Just me. Council-house kid. Lower standards and easily impressed. She knew I wouldn’t judge. Though she never invited anyone to her parents’ house, either. Mostly because of her mother. Her mother got very depressed and would lock herself in her room and refuse to come out.”

“You should feel privileged, then. Sarah ever stay with you?”

“In our tiny house? No way. There was no room. Maggie was at home. We only had two bedrooms, remember. My mum and dad had one. Maggie and I shared the other. Sarah came for tea a few times. But—I didn’t invite her often. I was embarrassed about the estate.”

The council estate, four short streets of terraced houses in a compact grid, housed mostly retirees and small families. It had fewer problems than the larger Midlands estates that were plagued by gang wars, drug dealing, random violence, and all the other inevitable consequences of poverty and neglect. Even so, Kat hurried Sarah past the graffiti fences, talked fast as they walked to the bus stop, hoping her curious friend wouldn’t notice the neighbor’s old car up on blocks, the small unsupervised child, barely dressed, swinging on a gate, the toothless woman sitting on a doorstep, drinking cider from a plastic bottle. Sarah looked around, eyes bright, as if she were visiting a new planet, and paused at intervals to stare openly.