Mistakes We Make (16 page)

Perhaps the rain would hold off long enough for her to get to the office, she thought, more in hope than expectation. It was little more than a damp mist at the moment.

She turned up the collar of her scarlet jacket, put her head down, and started marching towards Princes Street. The walk would take twelve minutes; surely it would hold off that long?

Six minutes later, she passed a deli. Already, a small queue of early-morning commuters had formed. Caitlyn knew that she should line her stomach with a roll or a banana, or at the very least a latte, but she couldn’t face the thought of food. Maybe by lunchtime she’d be hungry. Right now, her stomach was churning.

The rain started in earnest just as she neared the corner of Hanover Street and Queen Street. Caitlyn started to run. Blair King’s door was less than a minute away. If she could just get there before she was soaked ...

At the top of the steps, two cast iron braziers flanked the entrance. When the office had last been refurbished, the gas had been lit and an impressive jet of flickering flame had made the approach to the building spectacular. Guests arriving for the party to mark the opening some years ago had stopped to admire the spectacle, but Caitlyn doubted very much if they’d been lit again since then. Conspicuous consumption of gas was hardly a great message. This morning, only the rain framed the entrance as she scuttled inside.

‘Can I help you?’

The girl on reception was new since Caitlyn had last worked here, and was clearly trying to mask a look of disdain as she surveyed Caitlyn’s bedraggled figure. Caitlyn could hardly blame her. The rain had flattened her hair and was running down the back of her neck. The sudden downpour had drenched the front of her blouse so that the thin cotton had become almost transparent and her bra was showing through.

She pulled the edges of her jacket together, ran a hand through her hair and said, as bravely as she could, ‘I’m Caitlyn Murray. I’m starting work today.’

Behind her, a voice said incredulously, ‘Caitlyn Murray?’

She swung round to see a face that was indelibly imprinted on her memory and realised with a sinking feeling that she’d already run into the one person she’d hoped she could avoid.

‘Morning.’

It emerged as a croak, but Malkie’s words spun back into her mind.
You didn’t do anything wrong. You don’t know that he did.
She plucked courage from somewhere down near her rain-sodden shoes, cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Morning, Mr Keir.’

Logan Keir’s hair had been longer when she’d last seen him. Now it was short and slick with rain. The wet look suited him. He had chiselled cheekbones and generously curved lips, framed by short, carefully trimmed stubble. But it was his eyes Caitlyn remembered most – the way they stared at you, defying challenge, and the pretty, dark lashes which softened the aggression. It was an unsettling combination.

Logan said, ‘Have you come in for an appointment?’

‘Not an appointment, no. I’m starting back today.’

Was that a flicker of alarm in his eyes? If it was, he recovered quickly.

‘Welcome back.’

She watched as he turned and headed for the lift. Behind her, the receptionist said, ‘Mr Blair is ready to see you. His office is in the basement. You can take the lift, or the stairs are over there.’

Caitlyn glanced across to the lift, where Logan was still waiting. She turned in the other direction and headed for the stairs. One encounter was enough – the idea of being trapped in a lift with the man was unbearable.

‘Maybe we can catch a coffee later,’ the receptionist called as she moved away. Recognition by a partner and a meeting with the boss’s son had obviously given her street cred.

She smiled. ‘That would be nice,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

At the bottom of the stairs she nipped in to the ladies’ cloakroom. Two minutes wouldn’t make a difference and she could dry her hair off a bit under the hand drier. She took off her jacket and yanked her blouse over her head. The hand drier roared into action and she watched as the damp patches receded. Thank goodness it was an efficient drier.

Dry enough. She pulled the blouse back on and doubled over so that she could stick her head under the warm blast of air.

‘What
are
you doing?’

Caitlyn shot up, hit her head on the drier and spun round, wincing.

‘I was just trying to – oh, it’s you.’

In front of her was Agnes Buchanan, Blair King’s chief cashier, a woman so unassuming and helpful that you couldn’t help but like her. On Caitlyn’s very first day at Blair King, Agnes had taken her aside and said, ‘It can be a bit strange at first, a new place, but if there’s anything you need, or are worried about, don’t hesitate to ask me.’

She hadn’t, of course. Despite the offer of help, Agnes seemed to Caitlyn to be more like a partner than office staff. She knew everything and everybody, and her long years at the firm gave her unrivalled status. And for all she’d been friendly, she was a private person. She ate neat sandwiches out of Tupperware and favoured a specific combination each day of the week. Mondays were cold beef and Tuesdays cheese and pickle. Fridays, Caitlyn seemed to remember, were vegetarian, but the other combinations escaped her.

‘She lives alone,’ Deirdre had told her. ‘I think she’s quite set in her ways.’

Agnes also liked art. The only time she ever became really animated was when describing some exhibition she’d been to at the weekend. Her hobby – if you could call it a hobby, thought Caitlyn – was travelling around the country just to catch a glimpse of a Dürer or a Titian. Holidays were spent tramping round the big galleries in London, or Paris, or Madrid.

She gathered her thoughts rapidly.

‘I’m due in to see Mr Blair, but I got caught in the rain.’ Thank heavens she’d at least got her blouse back on. ‘I just wanted to give my hair a quick dry, look a bit more presentable. Have you seen any good exhibitions recently?’

‘Oh, you remembered!’ Agnes exclaimed with a smile that transformed her pinched little face into something almost attractive. ‘How kind. I’m just back from a couple of weeks in Prague, as it happens. The Art Nouveau is quite outstanding. The Secessionists were—’ She broke off. ‘Anyway, I don’t suppose you’re interested. Are you – I don’t mean to pry, of course, but may I ask if you are seeing Mr Blair about a private matter, or—?’

‘He’s asked me to come back to cover for someone,’ Caitlyn said, thinking it odd that the omniscient Agnes didn’t already know this.

‘Oh! Oh I see.’ A small frown had appeared below her neat fringe, then it disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. ‘Of course, he must have fixed it while I was away. I’m just back this morning. I haven’t even started up my computer yet.’

Caitlyn dragged her brush quickly through her hair and examined her reflection. Hardly perfect, but it would do for now.

‘I’d love to hear about your holiday,’ she lied, leaning nearer the mirror to apply some pale lip gloss.

She was rewarded with another smile. ‘At lunchtime then? If you’re sure.’

‘Sure I’m sure. See you later.’

You never knew, Caitlyn thought, when unselfishness might pay off. There might come a time when she needed an ally.

––––––––

A
dam was with Sunita at her favourite Indian restaurant in Leith when his aunt called him. Sunita had been planning an evening out for ages, and the moment his phone rang, a small frown appeared on her smooth forehead. He glanced at the caller ID, then eyed the lamb nawabi that had just been placed in front of him with regret.

‘Sorry,’ he said, not waiting for the inevitable protests. ‘I have to take this. I’ll be back in a minute.’

He strode past the large glass window, beyond the kitchens where earlier they’d stood to watch the chefs preparing the naan breads in the tandoori oven and smoking salmon on the sigri, knowing, before he pressed the green button, that it must be bad news.

‘Adam?’

‘Hello, Jean.’

‘Geordie passed away today at quarter past three,’ she said without preamble. ‘I wanted you to know.’

Adam had reached the door of the restaurant. He said, ‘I’m so sorry,’ as he emerged into the cool of the evening and the subtle aroma of spices was exchanged for a blast of briny sea air. ‘How are
you?
’

‘Fine at the moment.’

He leant against the wall, and pictured his aunt standing in the farmhouse kitchen in her flat brogue shoes, tweed skirt and pearls. She’d have her small chin tilted upwards, postponing the inevitable lacerations of grief with a whirlwind of activity. His throat constricted.

‘Was he – I mean, was it bad? You should have let me know. Maybe I could have come to be with you.’

‘It was quick at the end, Adam. He was doped up with morphine, of course, and he was here, thank God. He’d always been very clear that he wanted to die at home, and I’m so glad we managed that.’

Adam wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. When had he last cried? Aged six, perhaps? He pressed his left hand against the wall behind him and felt the cold roughness against his skin. Somehow, it steadied him.

‘Does Dad know?’

‘I’ve just come off the phone to him.’

There was a cotton handkerchief in his pocket. Fumbling for it, he held the phone away from his face so that his aunt wouldn’t hear him blowing his nose.

‘How did he take it?’ he asked cautiously, stuffing the crumpled square back into his pocket.

‘He didn’t say much, but there was a hell of a lot in his silence, I thought.’

She was perceptive. A couple of months ago Adam would never have believed that his father would display any kind of emotion over his brother’s death, but after their visit to the farm, he’d noticed subtle changes in him, an almost indefinable softening round the edges of his behaviour. There’d been a new willingness to leave the office early, for example, as though the proximity of death brought home to him the preciousness of life and the importance of family.

He said, ‘Can I do anything? Can I help with the arrangements?’

‘Thank you, Adam, but you’re busy enough with work. Your mother’s going to help.’

‘Really?’ He hadn’t known that his mother had even been in touch with Jean recently.

‘Don’t be so surprised. Your mother has been visiting us for a couple of years.’

‘
Mum
has?’

‘We bumped into each other in Jenners in Edinburgh one day and decided that even if our menfolk weren’t talking, that was no reason why we shouldn’t be friends.’

‘You’re quite right. How sensible,’ Adam said, wondering why his mother had never mentioned it. ‘You won’t know when the funeral is yet, I suppose?’

‘One of us will let you know as soon as we can. I just wanted to tell you about Geordie myself.’

‘Thank you, I appreciate that. I’ll come out and see you sometime in the next couple of days. I’m sure there must be something I can do.’

Adam ended the call and stood for a moment in the soft evening light, filled with memories. His uncle as a younger man, fit and strong, taking the cows in for milking. Geordie hauling his large frame up onto the tractor to start work in some distant field. The tractor had seemed so huge – or perhaps Adam had just been small. He smiled, remembering. How he’d wanted to drive the thing! ‘One day. When you’re old enough,’ Geordie had promised.

But he never had driven it. By the time he’d been old enough, there’d been the great falling out.

‘Everything all right?’ Sunita asked, looking up from her mobile.

‘Sorry to be so long.’ He took hold of her shoulders as he passed behind her chair and dropped a light kiss on the top of her head. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid. My uncle has died.’

‘The one with the farm?’

‘That’s right.’

A waiter arrived and uncovered a plate.

‘They asked if they could keep your food warm,’ Sunita said.

‘Thank you.’ He flashed a smile at the waiter and tucked into the remnants of his supper. News of the death hadn’t diminished his appetite.

‘When’s the funeral?’

‘Next week sometime, I imagine.’

‘If I can, I’ll come with you.’

Adam looked up. ‘Oh. That’s kind of you, Sunita, but there’s no need. Really. It will be quite a small affair, just family.’

‘That’s why I’d like to support you.’

Adam yanked the pillow out from under his head and tossed it onto the floor. He lay straight and stiff with his head on the mattress and his eyes wide open, staring upwards in the dim light filtering in from the street. Above him, the ceiling had developed a fine crack. It had appeared after the wall had been demolished downstairs to form the open-plan kitchen diner. ‘It’s perfectly safe,’ the structural engineer had informed them. ‘There’s been a little settlement, that’s all. The RSJ beam is more than adequate support.’ But Molly had worried.

Adam’s gaze tracked the line of the crack, from near the corner almost to the centre of the room. He should get the ceiling replastered, but what was the point? Amid the pressures of daily life, it came low on his list of priorities – and anyway, he was going to have to sell the place now.

This house was full of memories of Molly. Maybe that’s why he’d clung on here when common sense told him he should have sold up. This place had been so much their joint dream that he couldn’t bear to let it go.

He rolled onto his stomach and closed his eyes, willing sleep to come, but his mind was still churning.

He’d set the divorce in action tomorrow. And he’d get someone round to do a valuation on the house.

The thought of Molly moving to London tore at his heart.

I don’t want her to go.

There. He’d acknowledged it. And he’d figured something else out as well. He didn’t want Sunita to come to a family funeral because Sunita wasn’t Molly.

But he couldn’t have Molly either.

Basically, he was a mess.

Fight for her, Adam. She’s worth it,
his aunt had urged.

But it was too late.

He woke the next morning full of resolve. He had to do three things: set the divorce in motion, put the house on the market, and break off his relationship with Sunita Ghosh. The first two were not tasks he wished to do, but they were straightforward. The third was something he really wanted to achieve, but would be thorny.