Читать книгу The House on Willow Street - Cathy Kelly - Страница 9

Suki Richardson stood in the wings at Kirkenfeld Academy and wondered why she’d agreed to trek all this way into the middle of nowhere in a howling gale.

As in so many of the colleges where she was asked to speak, the radiators were ancient and stone cold. Suki knew from years of delivering speeches in draughty halls that an extra layer made all the difference, so tonight, under her purple suit, she wore a black thermal vest.

‘Where does your idea for a lecture begin?’ an earnest young girl had asked earlier, probably hoping to steal a march on the second-year students by putting a direct question to Suki, author of the feminist tract on their Women’s Studies course. ‘Is it an idea previously addressed in your books, or something new?’

Suki had smiled at her, toying with the idea of telling the truth: It begins with the phone call telling me the fee for showing up. That and the latest bill.’

‘It’s an idea I’d like to explore further,’ she’d told the student in a husky voice thickened by years of smoking. She couldn’t tell the truth: that her days of making money from TV and book sales were over; that since Jethro she’d been broke; that the bank kept sending hostile letters to the house.

Life had come full circle: she was poor. Same as she’d been all those years ago, growing up in the de Paor mausoleum in Avalon, always the kid in the shabby clothes with the jam sandwiches for school lunch.

Suki shivered. She hated being poor.

The woman at the lectern coughed into the microphone and began:

‘Our next speaker needs no introduction …’

Under her carefully applied layers of Clinique, Suki allowed herself a small smile. Why did people kick off with that – and then, inevitably, follow it with an introduction?

Nevertheless, she enjoyed listening to the introductions. Hearing her accomplishments listed out loud made her seem less of a failure. The litany of things she’d achieved made it sound as though she’d done something with her life.

‘… at twenty-four, she married Kyle Richardson IV, future United States ambassador to Italy …’

Poor old Kyle; he’d had no idea what he was letting himself in for. His father had, she recalled. Kyle Richardson III had soon realized that Kyle IV had bitten off more than he could chew, but by then the engagement was in the Washington papers and they’d been to dinner in Katharine Graham’s house, so it was a done deal. The Richardsons were fierce Republicans, flinty political warriors and very rich. There had been many women sniffing round Kyle IV, or Junior, as his father liked to call him. Junior would inherit a whole pile of money, the company – highest-grossing combat arms manufacturer in the US, what else? – and possibly his father’s senate seat. It was the way things were done.

‘… the enfant terrible of politics published her debut polemic, Women and Their Wars when she was twenty-nine …’

The reviews had been fabulous. Being beautiful helped. As her publisher at the time, Eric Gold, had pointed out: ‘Beautiful women who write feminist tracts get way more publicity than plain ones. People assume that unattractive women turn feminist because they’re bitter about their lack of femininity. They’re intrigued when someone as gorgeous as you speaks out for the sisterhood.’

Nobody could accuse Suki Richardson, with her full cherry-red lips, blonde hair and a figure straight out of the upper rack of the magazine store of being bitter about her femininity.

‘… she was one of the most respected feminists of her generation …’

What did that mean – was and of her generation? That lumped her in with a whole load of greying, hairy-armpitted members of the sisterhood who’d written one book before sloping off into obscurity.

She’d expected more, given that Women and Their Wars was on the Women’s Studies foundation course here at Kirkenfeld College.

Realizing that the head of the faculty was looking at her, Suki forced herself to smile again. That damned book had been published years ago; she had written three more since then, yet Women and Their Wars was all anyone ever talked about. That and her marriage to Kyle Richardson, her years with Jethro, and the fact that she was beautiful.

How ironic that, for all her feminist credentials, she seemed doomed to be defined by the very things she railed against: her men and her looks.

Of course it didn’t help that the next two books she’d written had bombed spectacularly. She’d done a coast-to-coast tour for her last book and still nobody had bought it, despite her enduring countless visits to radio stations where she was questioned endlessly about the Richardsons and what they were really like.

At least people still wanted to hear what she had to say, particularly when she got on to her pet subject about women and children: ‘What is this rubbish about biological clocks? Younger women should have children, not older ones. If there’s one thing I hate it’s hearing about some movie star who reaches fifty, then realizes she hasn’t had kids yet and plays IVF roulette until she gets one. Kids need young mothers who can roll on the floor with them and play. Not older ones …’

But it seemed as if Suki Richardson’s diatribes had lost their appeal. Once upon a time, audiences used to tune in hoping that she would tear into some television host who dared question her or fellow panellists who didn’t share her views. Producers used to think she was TV dynamite. But not these days. She’d become invisible since the years with Jethro. Add to that the fact that her books were out of print, apart from Women and Their Wars, which was only available in selected college bookstores, and it all added up to one equation: penury.

It cost a lot to live the way she’d got used to living before she’d left Jethro: she had acquired a taste for designer clothes and the best restaurants. And Dr Frederik cost a bloody fortune; invisible, top-of-the-range cosmetic surgery did not come cheap. Not that a tweak and a mini droplet of Botox here and there didn’t fit in with feminism, but her public might think otherwise. God forbid that Suki Richardson should be outed as having resorted to Sculptra to keep her face looking young. Not after she’d publicly declared that ‘women should stop trying to stop the years! Wrinkles are the proof that we have lived!’

Unfortunately she had acquired a little too much proof of having lived. At forty-eight, she seemed to have more than her fair share of lines. Who knew that smoking created all those lines around the mouth?

And she’d probably have a whole new set of frown lines after the phone call from Eric Gold.

Eric had always been straight with her. She wished they were still friends, because he was one of the few people she could rely on to tell her the truth, even when it hurt.

‘I got a letter requesting an interview from this guy who’s writing a book about the Richardsons.’

‘Ye-s,’ said Suki.

She’d been enjoying a nice afternoon relaxing in her cosy house in Falmouth, lying on the couch watching TV.

‘He’s particularly interested in you. Says you’re mysterious. His words, not mine.’

Suki had stood up to get the phone: now, she groped for a chair to sit on.

‘You still there?’

‘I’m still here, Eric.’

‘Yeah, well, I told him he’d have to get clearance from you first if he wanted me to talk to you. After all, I was your publisher, the book’s still in print so we do business together.’

Once, Eric might have said I’m your friend, but not any more. Not that it mattered right now; there was no time to think about old friendships destroyed with someone out there talking about putting her in a biography.

Or autobiography, perhaps?

‘Is he writing it with Kyle?’ she asked hopefully.

That would be fine. Tricky, but fine. Kyle wouldn’t want to rock any boats, so he’d stick to the official story of their divorce: We were just two very different people who got married too young. We have the greatest affection for each other even after all these years.

There were plenty of nice photos of their marriage to illustrate a coffee-table book. They’d made a photogenic couple. Suki had moved her wardrobe up a notch, trying to fit in with the waspy Richardson clan – in vain, as it happened. Nobody could have impressed Junior’s mother, Antoinette the Ice Queen.

‘No.’ Eric’s mellow voice interrupted her fantasy. ‘It’s a Redmond Suarez book.’

Suki nearly dropped the phone but she managed to steady herself. Suarez was the sort of unofficial biographer to make a subject’s blood run cold. His work was always unauthorized – nobody would authorize the things he wrote. He invariably managed to dig out everything, every little secret a person had hoped would remain hidden. If he was trawling through the Richardson family, then they would all be shaking in their shoes. And so was she.

‘Oh God,’ she said.

‘Oy vey,’ agreed Eric. ‘Not good news for anyone involved, I take it.’

‘Well, you know …’ she said helplessly.

‘Yeah, I know. He says he’s researching now and will be writing next year with a view to publication in the fall.’

‘Nearly a year of research,’ breathed Suki.

Imagine what he could find out in a year! Suki hated research. That was one of the obstacles getting in the way of the new book. That and the fact that everything was riding on it.

‘I’ll get my assistant to scan the letter and email it to you,’ Eric said. ‘I won’t be cooperating, but you can bet your bottom dollar that other people will, Suki.’

‘I’m sure,’ she said dully. ‘Thanks for the call. How is … ?’ Too late, she realized she’d forgotten the name of his wife.

‘Keren,’ he said drily. ‘She’s great. Ciao.’

Suki winced as she placed the receiver on the cradle. Eric was one of those she’d burned during the Jethro years. It had all seemed so much fun at the time: living the high life on the touring scene, never returning phone calls, being too stoned to care about old friends. In turn, the old friends had moved on with their lives.

It was only after Suki had hung up that she realized he hadn’t asked her how she was or if she was happy. At least she’d made the effort, even if she couldn’t remember his damned wife’s name.

Her sister, Tess could stay friends forever. Tess had maintained contact with her old classmates from school, she’d go to dinner with them and have civilized conversations about life. Suki wouldn’t recognize any of her old classmates in a police line-up. It was crash and burn with old acquaintances where she was concerned. Always had been.

Suddenly, she became aware of the sound of clapping. Her introduction was over. It was time to stand up and do her thing, become the Suki who fought the feminist fight, not the Suki who was scared to the pit of her stomach.

Suki opted out of dinner with the faculty when someone suggested a vegan restaurant in town that served organic, low-alcohol wine. Give her strength! Screw vegans and all who sailed in them. She wanted pasta with a cream sauce or steak Diane, thank you very much.

Plus, she’d bet her fee that they’d order one glass of crappy organic wine each. Nobody drank any more. Two drinks and they were offering rehab advice, and she’d had enough of that to last her a lifetime.

Back in the horrible little hotel room the faculty had booked for her she took off her ball-busting purple trouser suit with satin lapels and hung it in the wardrobe. Her speech outfit scared the hell out of men; maybe because purple was such a sexual colour.

‘I hate that goddamn purple pant suit,’ Mick had said as she was leaving the house earlier that day to catch the train to Kirkenfeld.

He was leaning against the doorjamb of their bedroom, still in the T-shirt he’d worn in bed. He’d done what he did most days and just pulled his jeans and boots on. Even so shabbily dressed, he was incredibly attractive: part-Irish, part-Italian, part something else, with intense blue eyes and jet black hair. His band hadn’t landed a gig in over a month, so he spent a lot of time sitting on the porch, smoking weed and messing around on her laptop.

‘New song ideas, honey,’ he said when she tried to ask what he was doing.

She didn’t believe him.

They were so broke, yet she couldn’t ask him to get a regular job. It wouldn’t be fair. He wasn’t that sort of person.

‘Music is a calling, babe,’ he’d say. ‘I don’t turn up at nine like regular guys. I need the muse.’

No, it was no good depending on Mick, Suki thought as she changed into her brown sweatpants. She was going to have to sort out their lack of money by herself.

First, however, she needed a drink. She closed the wardrobe and went to check out the mini bar. It was entirely empty.

Please phone if you’d like the mini bar filled, said a plaintive little note on the top shelf. Damn straight she wanted it filled up. A stiff drink might help her unwind.

She ordered a double vodka tonic from room service. She’d have dinner downstairs with wine, and then, hopefully, she’d sleep. Provided she could get that damned Suarez book out of her mind.

Suddenly, even a boring night with the vegans sounded better than another evening of worrying herself sick.

Throwing open her suitcase – Suki never unpacked; what was the point for one night? – she began rifling through her stuff in search of the loose gold cashmere knit sweater she’d planned to wear tomorrow on the way home. That and her brown sweatpants would see her all right in this dump.

A petite young waitress delivered her drink.

‘Thanks,’ Suki said at the door, and scrawled her name and a big tip in the gratuity space, before taking her vodka and tonic off the girl’s tray. She always tipped well, no matter how broke she was. She’d done enough waitressing to appreciate the need. The faculty could afford a tip on her non-organic drink.

She added half the tonic and had it finished in five minutes. As the large dose of Stolichnaya, her favourite, hit her she finally began to feel buoyed up. The speech had gone well, they’d liked her. She still had it – why didn’t anyone realize that any more?

As she walked in to the sedate restaurant in the hotel, heads turned. They always did. Suki had been ultra blonde since she started using her pocket money to buy hair dye to lighten her natural fair colour. Now, at forty-eight her hair was a shoulder-length, swirling collage of honey golds. Her skin, too, was gold from the remnants of a summer tan and daily walks along the beach. The cheekbones and full lips that had been a siren-call to Avalon’s men all those years ago were holding up well. If anyone looked closely, they’d see the slight hooding of her eyes, but she didn’t want anyone to look closely. Her gold sweater hung sexily from one smooth, tanned shoulder. Suki’s clothes always appeared to be holding on to her body for a fragment of time, as if they might come off at any moment.

‘You’re sex incarnate, honey,’ Jethro had said in surprise the first night he met her, in the green room of the television chat show where they were both appearing.

‘You too,’ thought Suki, but she hadn’t said it. After all, she’d been invited on the show so she could skewer his rock band’s treatment of women in their videos.

And after she’d finished ripping him apart on screen, unable to stop herself staring at him hungrily all the while, he’d pulled her into his dressing room. It had been the best sex of Suki’s life, the best. Afterwards, there were always drugs, but that first time, it had been her and Jethro, pure and clean.

Mick was hideously jealous of her two years with Jethro, even though it had been over four years since she’d seen him.

The jealousy was understandable, Suki knew. Michelangelo O’Neill played in a small-town rock band who’d never made it, while Jethro was TradeWind, one of the most famous bands of the seventies and eighties. TradeWind performed in stadiums and Madison Square Gardens, and MTV had practically played them on a loop during their big years.

Mick and the Survivors had lost their residency in the Clambake Bar because the recession was biting, no matter what the folks in Washington said.

The effects of the vodka were telling her she needed another drink and something carb-laden for dinner.

‘Table for one,’ she said to the girl behind the desk, ignoring the man on duty. For all her outward sexuality, Suki Richardson had spent a lot of her life being wary of men.

At her table, she put on her glasses, took out a novel, a notepad and her pen – men were less likely to bother women when they had a pen and notebook – and set about trying to think her way out of trouble.

Through pasta starter, a steak so bloody that a good vet could have brought it back to life, and the hideous yet delicious concoction that was chocolate and banana caramel pie, she did her best to plan an escape clause.

She could throw herself on the mercy of Suarez: Don’t write about me, I was so young, I didn’t know what I was doing. I can tell you everything else about the Richardsons …

No, unlikely to work. She’d read his Jackie Kennedy book, his Nancy Reagan book and the Bush series. He’d have too many insiders telling him everything there was to know about Suki Power. And if she spilled on the Richardsons, they’d find out and her name would be mud.

Meet him and tell him the truth … ? Well, some of it. God forbid that she should tell the whole truth. Only Tess knew …

Tess. In that instant, Suki realized that all the damage limitation in the world wouldn’t fix it if Suarez got to Tess.

Not that her sister would say anything. Loyal to the end, that was Tess. No, Tess wouldn’t talk. But she was an innocent. If someone like Suarez turned up in Avalon, he’d ferret out the truth all right.

Suki’s lovely dinner began to churn inside her. There was nothing for it: she’d have to go home. Back to Avalon.

Not yet, though.

She didn’t have the money, and Mick was so down about the band having nowhere to play that she couldn’t go off and leave him, much as she wanted to escape sometimes. His sadness sapped her energy, made the house feel full of misery and apathy.

No, she’d phone Tess and talk to her. Tess would understand. They might be like chalk and cheese, but they were on the same wavelength.

She’d talk to her sister, figure out what this damn Suarez guy knew, and then take it from there. She couldn’t cope with her life going into freefall again. She simply couldn’t.