Intrusion: A Novel Page 5

  “They want someone perky,” the recruiter said. “With good communication skills.”

  “I am not perky,” Kat murmured. “I was never that.”

  Eventually, she stopped making the calls, and instead sat at the dining table reading the online ads, imagining the calls, the interviews, the responses. Occasionally, moments from the past few months would flash into her mind: the funeral, choosing the flowers, the awkward visits of Chris’s friends. These memories dropped softly, completely intact, into her mind. Sometimes, they were in strong, primary colors, occasionally in a kind of sepia, like old movies.

  One morning, she was transported right back to the room where they chose the coffin. The funeral director took them down in an elevator, an elevator with brass rails and frosted dark glass. It seemed to sink far down, underground, under the earth. When the doors opened, Kat and Scott stepped out into an enormous room. It was ballroom size and it was full of coffins: polished wood coffins of oak and mahogany, metal ones of silver and gold and brass, and tiny ones of white wood, some with satin or silk or ribbon, or elaborate decoration. The light was strange, silvery, ethereal. Scott took her hand and they walked fast through the aisles that separated the different types, the expensive ones first, the cheaper ones at the end of the ballroom. They whispered to each other, saying what about this one, this will be fine, or this, looking at the prices so quickly, barely able to look inside these caskets, one of which would cradle their son for eternity. They chose a light oak one, then walked, with knees that trembled, back to the elevator, and Kat pressed the elevator button so fast that the director had to squeeze in as the doors were closing. Scott recited the number of the casket they had chosen, and the price. He quoted it to the funeral director without moving his eyes from the elevator doors. It was surreal. They were actors in a movie. They were not real. Nothing was real.

  Immobilized at the dining table, the laptop open in front of her, Kat waited until these strange dreamlike sequences ended, then began again to scan the job listings.

  When Maggie called from England, Kat heard herself telling smooth lies and was surprised at how easily her sister believed her: Yes, she had interviews; there was some work out there. She wanted to be sure, though, wanted to find something that was just right. Maggie agreed.

  “Take your time, darling. Might take a little while. How’s Scott holding up?”

  “Oh, he’s doing better. He’s busy. Very busy.”

  In fact, Scott was so busy that he was often distracted and vague or irritable with the brittle edge of exhaustion.

  “New client, new challenges,” he explained to Kat, apologizing for a sudden snap of temper. “And Jesus, Sarah Harrison has a whole bunch of subsidiaries. Wish I’d known that going in. I’ve had to farm out some of the routine stuff on my old clients to other partners.”

  A series of client meetings meant that a couple of suits had to be taken to the cleaners and a new suit purchased. When Kat told him how smart he looked, he told her he felt like a salesman. That when he’d finally been able to revisit the Compton project, young Chiller had told him he should be pimping on the Westside. He was late getting home so frequently that Kat often ate her own dinner alone and left his meal to be reheated in the microwave.

  He asked about the job search, and as she did with Maggie, she tried to make it sound active and interesting. She created entire phone conversations with headhunters, pretended that she was setting up interviews. She did not describe the mornings when, once Scott had left for the office, she checked again that hidden bottle of sleeping pills, saved for the day it became too hard to navigate the simple pathways of a normal life. She did not describe the hours at the dining table and the strange dreamlike state that sometimes enveloped her: flashbacks, memories, long minutes lost.

  It was on one of these days, when Kat had the laptop open on the table in front of her, that the doorbell rang. She frowned, saw through the etched glass of the front door the shape of a woman. She opened the door reluctantly, ready with her excuses, expecting to see a concerned ex-colleague from Waters & Chappell.

  “Hello, Kat,” said Sarah.

  The sun shone onto Sarah’s face, and her dark hair hung loose and gleaming on her shoulders. She held peach roses, a bottle of wine, and a bag of what appeared to be food from a delicatessen. Kat could smell lemon chicken. A green Jaguar was parked at the curb.

  “Lunch,” said Sarah.

  It was a shock to see her there. She looked so polished, a creature from a smoother, shinier world.

  “Sarah! So sorry. I’m just on my way out,” Kat lied. “I have a job interview.”

  “Oh, what a bore. You can surely reschedule it,” Sarah said, stepping into the house. Her voice sounded warm and light. A young voice. She followed Kat into the kitchen, holding her packages.

  “Pretty home,” Sarah said, looking beyond the dining area to the living room, with its long leather sofas and view of the garden.

  “Thank you,” Kat said, aware at once of the stained blue smock she was wearing and the untidy state of her hair.

  She found a vase for the roses and turned to find Sarah watching her.

  “I was just going to change,” Kat said, pulling at the smock. “For the interview.”

  “You have time for a quick bite, surely?” Sarah asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Sarah, unpacking the food regardless, continued to look over at her and smiled.

  “Come on, Kat. Greek salad and stuffed mushrooms? And can’t you smell this absolutely fabulous chicken? Lemon, lime, and herbs. Reschedule your appointment. Tell them you’ll come tomorrow.”

  “I’ll tell them later this afternoon,” Kat said, snapping the laptop shut. “Excuse me a minute.”

  In the bathroom, Kat rinsed her face, changed into a cotton shirt, and ran a comb through her hair. When she returned, Sarah had laid out the food on the dining table, found napkins, silverware, and wineglasses. It looked almost festive. She had pushed the legal pad aside. Kat wondered if she had looked at those scrawled notes: admin assistant, secretary, receptionist.

  Sarah, studying the Rothko print on the wall, turned to her.

  “You didn’t grow out of him, then?”

  At Kat’s puzzled frown she added, “You had a different Rothko in Birmingham. The one with fuzzy green and violet and that orangey-red. In the flat.”

  “Oh, you’re right. I did. Why should I grow out of him?”

  “He’s so popular now. His prints are everywhere.”

  “And why should that diminish his work?” Kat asked.

  Sarah laughed, as if pleased with this response, and waved toward the table.

  “Please. Try this wonderful food. And I found this bread on the counter—it looks delicious. You’re making your own?”

  “No. Brooke bakes it for Scott. We shouldn’t eat it. He loves it.”

  “Brooke?”

  “My neighbor. Friend.”

  “Nice to have a homely baking type for a neighbor.”

  “She’s not exactly homely. Blonde divorcée. Outrageous flirt. Big heart.”

  “And she makes this specially for Scott?” Sarah asked in a teasing tone.

  “Yes,” Kat said. “She does.”

  When they were seated, Sarah did not begin to eat immediately but indicated the notepad she had pushed to one side and said, “You need a job you’ll like, Kat. In something you’re good at.”

  “I know. Something will turn up.”

  “Will you let me help? I know people everywhere. Newspapers, radio, television.”

  “That’s not necessary,” said Kat. “But thank you anyway.”

  Sarah reached for the wine and poured it into their glasses.

  “You prefer to stay in public relations? Or would you rather go back to journalism?”

  “Not sure right now.”

  “Remember when you were fourteen and you wanted to be a war correspondent?” Sarah asked.

  “At that age—well.”r />
  “You wanted to be a war correspondent and you wanted a house that was not a council house and lots of children.”

  Kat looked at her, surprised. How clearly she remembered.

  “Yes,” she said. “I did.”

  Kat could still visualize that fantasy home. It looked like one drawn with precise concentration by a child: a square frontage, symmetrical windows, and a central, brightly painted door. Behind the house she imagined a wild garden and three, sometimes four, laughing children, a leaping dog, an apple tree.

  The career dream changed slightly over the years: war correspondent, feature writer, columnist. The house and family dream never did.

  “That was then,” she said. “I don’t know what I want to do right now. I’m still in a bit of a fog.”

  “Well, of course you are,” Sarah said. “Now, try this. It actually melts in the mouth.”

  Kat spooned some of the chicken onto her plate and helped herself to salad and a rice dish that contained chopped celery and raisins and was flavored with a soft, scented herb. Sarah heaped food onto her plate, making little murmuring sounds of pleasure. Kat was reminded of how Sarah loved to eat, how jealous the other schoolgirls had been that she stayed so slim. She was slender still. Kat tasted the chicken.

  “This is good,” she said.

  “I hoped you would like it.”

  Sarah paused, studied Kat’s face.

  “Maggie’s still angry, then,” she said.

  “Why should Maggie be angry?”

  “About Sven.”

  “A long time ago. I don’t expect she ever thinks about it,” Kat said.

  “And you? Do you think about it?”

  “Twenty years ago, Sarah. Water under the bridge.”

  “Did you get back together eventually?”

  The question shocked Kat. She looked hard at Sarah, frowning.

  “What?”

  “I thought you might get back together.”

  “You . . . you know about the accident?”

  “I heard he’d tumbled down some stairs. I left the city, remember. I went straight to Sussex and then on to Antibes.”

  Kat knew that Sarah had left the apartment they shared and moved to France to stay with an aunt. She believed that Sarah never contacted Sven again. She had simply taken him and then discarded him. She had not returned to Birmingham. It was rumored, some months later, that she was studying in Montpellier. But Kat had always assumed that someone told Sarah how badly Sven was injured that day.

  “He fractured his skull,” Kat said. “He’d been drinking.”

  Sarah placed her knife and fork down slowly and stared at Kat. Her face had paled.

  “I thought it was just a minor thing. It was serious?” she asked.

  “Yes. Very. A fractured skull and damage to the spinal cord. He was unconscious when I saw him. His parents came from Denmark and eventually moved him back there.”

  “Didn’t Paul keep in touch with him?” Sarah asked. “And find out how he was?”

  “He tried,” Kat said. “But no. No, he couldn’t.”

  Sarah seemed at a loss.

  “I didn’t know the details,” she whispered eventually. “Nobody would talk to me. No wonder you both hate me.”

  Kat gave her a sharp look.

  “I don’t hate anyone. Nor does Maggie,” Kat said.

  Some of the old pain for Sven bubbled back to the surface. And some of the old anger, too. Had it not been for Sarah . . . well, who knew? A tragedy could occur without anyone being at fault. Kat knew that better than anyone. But Sven’s accident had caused speculation. He did not usually drink, but he had been very drunk that day. His alcohol level, when tested at the hospital, was phenomenally high. The doctors were surprised that he had managed to get himself home, though nobody knew how.

  “What can I say?” Sarah began. “I had no idea he would—”

  Kat shook her head.

  “Stop it,” said Kat. “Please. I don’t want to talk about this, Sarah. Not now.”

  Sarah, nodding, looked relieved.

  “You ever go back to St. Theresa’s?” she asked.

  “No. Never.”

  “I set up a scholarship fund, you know,” Sarah said. “For girls who want to go to university to study business, or economics. A different option. Balance out all those ridiculous funds for teachers and nuns.”

  “That must have been a first for them,” Kat said. “A scholarship for business majors.”

  “Yes, it was. I tried to set up a fund for working-class girls to attend the school, but Sister Judy claims that things are rather different now. There’s still the academic scholarship test, of course. The one you passed.”

  Kat remembered the three-hour test, the interview in front of a committee of middle-class governors. She could still visualize the chairwoman: a terrifying woman with shaded equine teeth.

  “And do you get many applicants for your college fund?”

  “Oh yes. I get to choose the winning ones each year. It’s fun. Like playing God. They give me a short list and I pick the winners. I choose the ones with a bit of a spark in their school histories. None of those Legion of Mary virgins. Though Sister Judy may have sussed me. Wouldn’t surprise me if she didn’t throw in a bit of smoking behind the gym just to get me to choose her favorite.”

  “It’s good that you’re doing this, Sarah. Really.”

  “Fun to see the old names come up. The daughters of our old friends and enemies. Oh, remember Bunty Kelly? Face like a glazed ham?”

  Kat did. Head girl for one term, and a bully.

  “Yes. You had a fight with her over something.”

  “Monstrous girl accused me of stealing her St. Bernadette medal. Remember that?”

  “I remember the day in the showers when she accused you of taking it,” Kat said.

  “Well, I fixed her,” Sarah said with grim pleasure. “Recently.”

  “Fixed her? Just because of a false accusation?”

  Sarah looked up. Her eyes were dancing.

  “False? Who said anything about false?”

  “So you did steal the medal?”

  “Of course I did. She left it there in her locker, right on top of a prayer book, and the locker door wide-open. So prissy. Fake faith. So, yes. I took it. Just to annoy her. But the fact is, she never saw me take it. No one did. There was no one in the gym at the time. So she made that accusation in public, with all my friends listening, when she had no evidence at all!”

  “So—what did you do to her?”

  “Her daughter applied for a scholarship. Perfect candidate. Bunty had been grooming her for years, apparently. I turned her down.”

  “You turned her down?” Kat asked. “Because of Bunty? But why should the daughter suffer?”

  “It’s the parents who suffer,” Sarah said. “When they don’t get the funds. Let Big Bully Bunty pay for the girl. Anyway, it entertains me a bit. I’m involved in a Catholic adoption charity, too. That’s rather fun.”

  Sarah, noting Kat’s startled expression, laughed.

  “Now, that did surprise you, didn’t it? As an alternative to a termination. Well, you know why. You were there. Remember?”

  Kat, after a small tremble of shock, gulped at her wine. She recalled the tall Georgian building on a Brighton terrace, the ground-floor clinic, and Aunt Helen’s annoyance. Sarah did not want to go through with the termination but had given in finally, demanding that Kat come, too, for support. Nobody else knew about it. Sarah and Kat were both fifteen years old. Kat had waited in a wide corridor, watched as a tall male doctor came for Sarah, placed a hand on the small of her back, and guided her forward as if leading her onto the dance floor. He took her along the corridor and through double doors into the clinic. Helen followed behind, her hands clenched into fists. An interminable time later, Sarah emerged through the double doors with Helen’s arm tight around her shoulders. Both looked pale and shaken; neither of them spoke. That night, at Lansdowne, Sarah had been
shivering badly, unable to get warm, and Helen gave her a whisky toddy, made with hot water and honey. Kat offered her the duvet from her own bed, piling it on top of the extra blankets that Mrs. Evans, the housekeeper, had produced earlier.

  In the middle of the night, Kat woke to hear Sarah whimpering. The sheet and duvet were dark with blood; she had bled right through the bulky sanitary pad.

  “I need more pads,” she whispered to Kat, her face ghostly white in the dim bedroom light. “I daren’t move.”

  “I’ll get Helen,” Kat had said, terror causing her voice to shake.

  Throughout their school years, and even during college, Sarah rarely spoke of that day, or the surgery that was necessary afterward, and never to anyone but Kat. She referred to the experience always as that clinic visit. Kat had never heard her use the word termination before.

  Now, Sarah waited.

  “You do remember?”

  “Of course I remember,” Kat said.

  “Well, the reason I got involved with the adoption charity is not only because of that clinic visit. No, it’s so that those nice Catholic girls who make one silly mistake don’t ruin their lives by being saddled with a baby. And go on to have a dozen more, just like their mothers. And so many couples want babies desperately and can’t have their own. So—perfect. A solution! You’re amazed, aren’t you, that I should become a charity matron?”

  “Surprised. Yes.”

  “I have a number of them. Sam had his own favorites. Alcohol abuse, drugs, those kinds of things.”

  She studied Kat’s face and smiled.

  “There are good solid tax reasons for this, Kat. Ask your husband. I see his firm is involved in pro bono work. Some gangland project. A lad called Chiller! Well, that could be fun for everyone.”

  Sarah reached for the wine bottle to pour more wine. Kat held her hand over her glass, suddenly tired. Since Chris’s death, she had avoided social lunches and casual conversation. Sarah’s energy and intensity, once invigorating, now felt exhausting.

  “Sorry,” Kat said. “But I have to get ready for the interview. I rescheduled my appointment for four o’clock.”