Читать книгу Dirty Game - Jessie Keane - Страница 16

Ruthie sent Dave, her minder, to fetch Kath, her cousin, down to the big Surrey house on Miss Arnott’s day off. It was just a month since the wedding and she should have been on cloud nine but she was bitter to the bone, knowing how completely she had been betrayed. She was miserable and she was bored too, to tell the truth.

Max had said to her, redecorate, do whatever you like, but she hadn’t the heart.

He’d had clothes sent down from posh West End boutiques for her to try, saying that he liked this one, and that one, but never the one that Ruthie liked herself in best, so that one was always sent back.

Max didn’t come home very often. Most nights he slept at Queenie’s old place in the East End, or was out working or having a meet with the boys upstairs at Queenie’s, so he phoned her and told her he’d be back tomorrow, or the day after. Sometimes a whole week went by without her seeing him. Down here there was only Miss Arnott the prune-faced housekeeper and Dave who was on the door. Her minder, she supposed. Built like a tank, he was. He never said a word.

Kath’s reaction to Ruthie’s new home did cheer her up a bit, briefly. Kath came in the front door and stopped dead in the centre of the huge hall with her mouth hanging open in amazement.

‘Bloody hell, Ruthie,’ she gasped, then laughed. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. Only in pictures. Those stately homes, you know? It’s a fucking stately home.’

Ruthie looked around her and knew that what Kath said was true. The place was beautiful. She took Kath’s coat and led her all over it, enjoying playing lady of the manor for a brief time while Kath marvelled over the lovely furnishings, the thick velvet drapes, the expensive flock wallpaper, the carpet which was so deep you sank into it, the huge soft beds.

‘Jesus wept!’ Kath was bouncing up and down on one of the beds, laughing like a delighted child. ‘How many bedrooms did you say, Ruthie?’

‘Seven,’ said Ruthie.

The feelings of emptiness, of coldness, washed over her again.

And nothing happening in any of them, she thought.

‘Come on, let’s go downstairs and have a drink,’ she said.

Kath watched her cousin covertly as they tramped down the huge staircase and went into the drawing room.

A fucking drawing room! thought Kath. There was a roaring log fire, big couches on either side of it. A massive gilt mirror above the mantel. Drapes and carpets and … God, it was a fabulous place. Kath was pea-green with envy.

At least, she was until she looked at Ruthie’s face.

Because this wasn’t the Ruthie she knew of old.

This was a pale, drawn stranger.

Kath thought that Ruthie didn’t look well. She had dark shadows under her eyes, and she’d lost weight. She was wearing an olive-green dress and jacket with a lovely silky sheen to it. Her hair was pulled back into one of those classic French chignon things. She was nicely made-up. Ruthie looked elegant, and skinny, and … well, rich. Which of course she was. But she didn’t look well. She didn’t even look happy. There was a sort of bleakness about her and once she’d been so warm, so full of laughter.

‘It’s so lovely to see you, Kath,’ said Ruthie as they stood warming themselves before the fire.

Kath saw that there were tears in her eyes.

‘Ruthie, Ruthie.’ Kath rushed forward and hugged her. Ruthie felt frail, as if she might snap in two if you hugged her too hard. Christ, she even smelled different now. Kath inhaled a sweet expensive perfume when she pulled Ruthie into her arms. Whatever scent she was wearing, it wasn’t cheap and cheerful four seven fucking eleven. It was exotic. It matched her look.

Ruthie pulled herself free, wiping away a tear.

Kath saw that her nails were bitten down to the quick.

‘Come on, let’s have a drink,’ said Ruthie.

She went straight to the drinks cabinet and poured out what looked like a large sherry for them both. She brought the brimming glasses over and plonked herself down on the couch, kicking off her high-heeled shoes and tucking her birdlike legs up under her.

Kath had expected a cup of tea, not bloody sherry in the middle of the day. Still, she took a sip just to be sociable. She didn’t like alcohol much and she was appalled to see that Ruthie knocked half of hers back straight away.

‘So,’ Kath said briskly, ‘what’s it like, being Mrs Max Carter?’

Ruthie pulled a face. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, and dipped into the sherry again.

‘He’s ever so good-looking,’ said Kath. ‘You always sort of fancied him, didn’t you? When we were thirteen or fourteen you used to stop over with me at night. Remember? We used to lie in the dark and talk about Max Carter and Jonjo and the rest of the boys, and wonder what it would be like to be married. To be in charge of our own household.’

Ruthie nodded, her heart like lead in her chest. She wasn’t in charge of this household. It was in charge of her. Or Miss Arnott was. She thought back to those carefree teenage years, of all the dreams they’d had, her and Kath; how exciting and full of promise the future had seemed.

‘Yeah, I remember.’ She emptied her glass and went to fill it again.

‘We used to wonder what it would be like to actually do it,’ laughed Kath, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

Ruthie seemed preoccupied. She was sitting down again, taking quick sips of the sherry. Fuck, she’s really putting it away, thought Kath.

‘It’s not so great,’ said Ruthie.

‘What?’ Kath spluttered. ‘With Max Carter? You kidding?’

‘It’s like being poked with a stick, if you want the truth,’ said Ruthie, and emptied her glass again. She stared moodily into the fire. Max and her hadn’t done ‘it’ since the night of the wedding.

‘Right,’ said Kath, her smile fading. She could see there was something horribly wrong here. ‘Has your mum been down yet?’

Ruthie shrugged. ‘A couple of times.’

‘She must be made up.’

‘She is.’ Ruthie thought about her mother, poncing around down here like she owned the place. Visiting her daughter, Mrs Max Carter. She enjoyed chucking her weight about with snooty Miss Arnott, lapped up being chauffeur-driven by Dave.

Silence fell.

‘What about Annie?’ asked Kath a bit desperately, then wondered if she wouldn’t have been better to keep her fat mouth shut on that subject.

She knew there’d been some sort of a falling-out with Ruthie and Connie and Annie, but even Kath’s mum Maureen didn’t know what had gone on. Connie wouldn’t tell her. All they knew was that Annie had moved out. No one was saying where to.

‘I haven’t seen Annie,’ said Ruthie, frowning.

She couldn’t even bear to think about the sister who’d betrayed her. She could hardly bear to think about Max, her husband. Yet already she’d been obliged to lie for him. The police had called one evening asking desultory questions about the death of gang leader Tory Delaney, but she’d been adamant that on that night, the night before their wedding, Max had been with her.

Wasn’t that a bit unusual? asked the police. Wasn’t that considered unlucky?

That was the groom seeing the bride on the morning of the wedding, Ruthie had told them, with Max’s arm around her shoulders, the happy couple, so much in love they couldn’t even wait for the wedding night.

What a laugh.

What a lie.

But everyone on the Carter patch would swear it to be true.

‘Come on, let’s get something to eat,’ she said, and managed to get through another hour of forced chatter until Kath said she really had to be going.

‘Not already?’ Ruthie was suddenly anxious for her to stay.

‘I’m dating Jimmy Bond,’ said Kath proudly. ‘He’s taking me to the Shalimar tonight.’

‘He’s one of Max’s boys, isn’t he?’

‘Yeah, and he’s gorgeous.’ Kath looked at her cousin awkwardly. ‘Sorry and all that, Ruthie. I’ll come down again.’

But as they hugged goodbye, Ruthie knew that Kath felt awkward here, out of place, and that she wouldn’t come back anytime soon.

So here she was, alone again with the big empty house. The ticking of the clock was the only sound in the whole place. The awful soul-churning anger and the God-awful loneliness gripped her by the throat again, nearly choking her. She swigged back another drink and then took the glasses into the kitchen and washed them. Didn’t want Miss Arnott thinking she was hitting the bottle during the day and having the nosy old biddy pass on the glad news to Max, now did she?

As she stood at the sink, her eyes were caught by the keys hanging beside the back door. She’d looked at them many times – keys to unknown doors, unlocking secrets. She was fascinated by them. She knew what some of them were for, but there were a couple she didn’t. Emboldened by the drink, she grabbed the whole bunch and went out of the back door and across the courtyard to the annexe. It was locked, as usual. She tried a couple of the keys and one fitted. She pushed the door open, glancing behind her to check that she was unobserved.

Of course she was.

She felt a little woozy, sherry on an empty stomach was never a good idea. She knew she should cut back, but at the moment the booze was all she had. But did she really want to end up like her mother? Just look at Mum, the poor raddled old cow, that’s what the drink did to you. See and learn, see and learn, Ruthie.

Giggling to herself, she stepped into the hall. It was so small, compared with the big house. And cosy. A real little home, with nice floral carpets on the floor and up the stairs. She wandered into the silent place, feeling like an intruder. She opened a door and found a proper lounge, nothing like that big barn of a room in the main house, where she had to sit on her own day after day, night after night. This lounge had a fireplace and a sofa and lots of ornaments, pictures of Max and Eddie and Jonjo as babes in arms, kids at the seaside, teenagers wearing boxing gloves, hard-eyed men lounging against big black cars. Over the fireplace was a larger portrait. Ruthie froze.

It was Queenie Carter. Queenie with her imperious expression, her hard little mouth, her sharp blue eyes, her white hair billowing out around her face like a cloud. Queenie seemed to stare back at her and ask what the fuck Ruthie was doing, wandering around inside her home without permission. Ruthie left, closing the door firmly behind her. Her heart was racing and she felt light-headed, almost sick. She knew she shouldn’t be in here, Max had said she could go anywhere but not into the annexe, and now she could see why.

This was not an annexe. This was a shrine to Queenie Carter.

‘What’s going on?’ said a voice behind her.

She turned. Max was there, he’d found her. But no, it was okay. She blinked and clutched a hand to her hammering chest. It was only the gardener. She’d forgotten this was his day to come and do the lawns, trim the shrubs.

‘Oh, it’s you, Mrs Carter,’ said the gardener. ‘I wondered what was going on. Sorry to make you jump like that. I haven’t seen anyone in the annexe since Mrs Carter died. Mr Carter’s mother, I mean.’

‘I know who you mean,’ said Ruthie, shoving past him and relocking the door. Suddenly she felt stone-cold sober. ‘She died, I didn’t. I’m still alive.’

But as she walked back to the main house, she wondered if that was really true.