The City Affair Page 2

  “I just think he’s a busybody,” Tish answered petulantly. “I mean he seems to be very interested in our family for some reason and he’s on every Church committee going. Last time I was home he was even editing the Parish magazine, which had always been David Hailsham’s speciality. It sounded to me like he’d staged a coup and pushed David out of a job. Is he still doing that as well?”

  “Yes, and he loves it. He goes around the village every month collecting all the stories, and he’s introduced a couple of new columns about bee keeping and bird watching which are hugely popular,” Pamela replied. “But he is a succour for punishment as far as taking on too much is concerned. If he’s not careful he will have another heart attack. I have warned him.”

  “I suppose I should be grateful for his car parking advice,” Tish said, backtracking a little as she watched vast quantities of snow falling from the heavens. “It’s not that I don’t love being here but I don’t want to get stranded in rural Kent for weeks either. I mean I absolutely want to be here for Christmas, but I need to get back to London if I have to.”

  “If they keep the roads gritted you’ll have a chance of getting away if you need to,” Pamela reassured her. “I’ve got enough food in for the month, so the worst-case scenario is the three of us will be forced to spend Christmas and New Year on our own with a fridge groaning with food for company.”

  “I thought you were having a post-Boxing Day drinks party again with lots of people,” Tish replied, looking disappointed at the prospect of it not happening. “I’ll be gutted if that gets cancelled. I really enjoyed it last year. It was one of the festive highlights.”

  “We were certainly planning on doing it again,” Pamela said smiling. “The invites went out weeks ago, and almost everyone said they would come. But I doubt we’ll get many if it continues snowing like this. It would be a shame because we were planning on doing a murder mystery evening again. Last year’s format went down so well, with everyone really getting into the spirit of things.”

  “Oh great mum,” Tish enthused. “It was fab. If my memory serves me correct, I solved the murder, mainly because David Hailsham’s acting was so appalling. You could tell a mile off he’d done it. I mean anyone would have thought he’d actually murdered someone given the guilty look he wore on his face all evening. He actually started to spook me by the end of it. I’m glad I didn’t have to go home with him that night.”

  “Oh Tish,” Pamela chortled. “He’s the least likely villain in the village. It’s only because David takes everything he does very seriously and is meticulous about the detail. I was too busy serving drinks and making sure I kept a steady supply of finger food coming out of the kitchen to notice. But you were clever in working it all out so quickly. I thought your father had managed to come up with an almost impossibly difficult plot.”

  “I have a theory about dad and his plots,” Tish replied. “They’re always about money and passion, which are the two biggest motivators for betrayal, revenge and disaster. It’s basically the storyline of Double Lives too – an eminent doctor meets a beautiful, slightly on-the-edge, classical violinist from Hong Kong who is married to someone else, and he pursues her ruthlessly. Without giving too much away, the outcome is not that pretty.”

  “Oh Tish, you’re hopeless at keeping secrets!” Pamela exclaimed. “You‘ve now told me what happens in the film and I thought you said you weren’t going to.”

  “Oops, yes,” Tish giggled as she walked over to the biscuit jar. “Pretend you didn’t hear that bit. Seriously though, about the party, I hope Dad hasn’t decided on the plot yet, we could have a lot of fun coming up with it together.”

  “You’re in luck there,” Pamela said opening the fridge door. “Your dad’s been so busy in the run up to Christmas he hasn‘t done anything about it yet. He’s been away in New York for the last few weeks. Coming up with the plot is one of the things I’ve got on our ‘To Do List’ for Boxing Day.”

  “I reckon we can come up with an even better one if we do it together,” Tish replied, fumbling around for her mobile phone.

  “What’s the matter?” Pamela asked, looking over at her daughter as Tish emerged from the inside of her handbag.

  “Oh it’s just Simon. I’ve only been here a few minutes, and I’ve already had loads of texts from him wanting to know I’ve got here safely,” Tish huffed. “This is getting way too obsessive for my liking, I mean I really like him but…”

  “Don’t be so silly Tish,” Pamela interrupted. “Simon’s your boyfriend, and I’m sure he was very worried about you driving in these weather conditions.”

  “I know, sorry.” Tish scowled as she scrolled through his messages. “But it’s just so irritating being checked up on every five minutes. I guess I shouldn’t be so ungrateful.”

  “No, you shouldn’t, most women complain they aren’t getting enough attention,” Pamela sighed. “And speaking of Simon, are you going to invite him down for the party? It would be great to see him again.”

  Tish looked across at her mother and screwed her nose up. “Um, that’s a multi-million dollar question. We’re not exactly an item at the moment but it’s still kind of happening, if that makes sense. I know how much you and Dad like him, but I’m not planning any trips up the aisle at the moment.”

  “Oh, I’m not asking about marriage plans,” Pamela replied hastily but unconvincingly. “I just want you to be happy, and he’s just such a nice man, who seems to adore you and treats you very well. He’s smart Tish, and he’ll go places, according to your father.”

  “That’s kind of the problem,” Tish said, distracted by the messages on her phone. “I totally know that he’s a really nice guy and beginning to make a bit of a name for himself career-wise, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that I want to spend the rest of my life with him. And I don’t want to just marry my father. I mean Simon is so like Dad, it’s untrue.”

  “There are certainly similarities, although I’m not sure they are that identical. But I guess I shouldn’t be interfering in your life,” Pamela said, looking disappointed as she started to peel a bag of sprouts. “I apologise if you feel I’m just being your mother but I don’t want you to lose him and regret it, that’s all. Finding the right man is not easy.”

  “Look, I know how you feel without you having to say anything, Mum,” Tish replied as she swallowed the last mouthful of tea. “In my dreams, I’d be dating Cameron not Simon. I need to be around people who do what I do. I mean I don’t want to marry a younger version of Dad – that would just be too weird.”

  “They say we end up marrying men who are similar to our fathers, so I’m not sure it’s that weird,” Pamela reasoned as she slipped on an apron. “We’d just hoped you’d invite him down to the party that’s all. He’s such great company and gets right into the swing of things.”

  “To be honest I haven’t even told Simon about the party yet and, given the weather, I don’t now see the point,” Tish declared. “Not mentioning it though is part of me not wanting him to think he’s ‘The One.’ I’ll speak to him tomorrow, and I might ask him what he’s up to if the snow clears, but I’m not making a big thing out of it.”

  “Ok, well I will leave it up to you,” replied Pamela trying to sound casual but sounding anything but. “Now let’s start thinking about food for tomorrow. It would be really great if you could help me prepare all these vegetables.”

  “Of course,” Tish said, still frowning at her phone. “Your wish is my command.”

  “If we get a move on, by the time your father finally joins us we’ll all be able to sit down together and have a good chat over a big bowl of chilli before midnight mass.” Pamela declared, waving her hands in the general direction of the vegetable box. “If you do the carrots that would be a great help, just peel and chop them in the usual way.”

  “Oh, do we have to go midnight mass this year?” Tish groaned over the top of the Christmas edition of Country Life, which she’d just picked up on the way over
to the carrots. “I think I’m getting a bit bored by the whole midnight mass thing so I might just stay at home. Can’t we just have a year off? It’s just too snowy and cold out there tonight.”

  “But we always go to church as a family every year,” Pamela said, sounding disappointed. “It’s what the Thorpe family does. If we wrap up warm it shouldn’t feel too freezing. The village always looks so picturesque and romantic on Christmas Eve, all lit up with candles. It’s one of the highlights of Christmas. You must come with us.”

  “Ok, I give in,” Tish sighed as she tossed the magazine to one side and waltzed over to the vegetable box to fish out a bunch of organic carrots. “But only because I know how much it means to you that we go there as a family, and not for any other reason. To be honest, I just want to curl up in front of the fire with a big mug of milky hot chocolate and watch telly.”

  Chapter 3 - The End

  Christmas Day started at the kitchen table in the same way as all the others Tish could remember.

  Pamela did her usual festive breakfast which consisted of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon late morning – all washed down with a pricy bottle of champagne.

  Afterwards they took showers, got dressed and went for a walk around the village, taking small but thoughtful gifts to their elderly neighbours, most of whom they’d known for years.

  After returning home, they sat down together as per usual to eat a late lunch of goose, buttered carrots, sprouts and roast potatoes, and finished it all off with a homemade Christmas pudding soaked in brandy served with cream.

  Over coffee and petits fours in the sitting room, they listened to the Queen’s speech whilst occasionally glancing out through the French windows at the magnificently lit Roman bust that stood sentinel in the extensive pristine landscaped gardens outside.

  The only deviation to the usual order of the day was that within minutes of the Queen finishing her address to the nation, Tish’s father went into the kitchen and, most unusually for him, brought back a full bottle of single malt scotch and a cut glass crystal tumbler.

  “Ok, this waiter is now officially off duty,” he said to Tish, as he slumped down on his favourite comfy leather sofa, with Tish sitting opposite in a large winged tartan chair that matched the pyjamas she was busily unwrapping – courtesy of her next door neighbour Frances.

  This was the bit of Christmas Tish usually liked the most. The quiet time, when the three of them sat together cosily in front of the wood-burning stove and the huge twinkling Christmas tree relaxing quietly as the night sky darkened outside.

  Her father poured himself what would have easily constituted a quadruple measure in The Old Boar pub down the road and Tish furrowed her brow as he took a large gulp and winced as the alcohol hit the back of his throat.

  “Dad,” Tish whispered. “Is everything alright? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink whisky before – well not like that anyway. The only time we ever get that bottle out is when someone comes round from the church, as they all seem to say yes to a drink.”

  Richard momentarily smiled, ignoring his daughter’s first question. “You’re right. I’ve sometimes wondered whether sober types can really fit in at the church at all. It can often seem like a glorified wine club. There’s always a good excuse for everyone to have a glass of red at the end of the service. A strange paradox if ever there was one.”

  “Hang on Dad, that’s not really what I’m bothered about. I’m more worried about you and that whisky bottle than the drinking habits of those who frequent the local church,” Tish continued, her voice sounding increasingly anxious.

  “I’m fine, darling really I am,” Richard muttered before closing his eyes.

  “Well you seem different,” Tish countered defiantly sitting up in her chair. “I hope you’re not overdoing things at work. Mum said you‘ve been in New York a lot recently. Are you jet-lagged or something?”

  Richard turned his head towards his daughter and paused, before replying in a tired worn-down voice. “Don’t go on at me darling please, I need a bit of peace. I’m fine. I’ve just got a lot on at the moment, and your mother’s right. I’ve been travelling far too much over these last few months. It’s all just caught up with me a bit more than usual, that’s all. I suppose I’m not getting any younger. ”

  “Well you’re not exactly a stranger to work,” Tish replied. “I thought you looked really grey when I first saw you on Christmas Eve, but I didn’t want to spoil things by saying anything in front of Mum.”

  Richard sighed heavily as he replenished his glass. “Look, Tish. Sometimes it gets kind of lonely when you feel you’re the only soldier marching in time. And, if you must know, that’s really how it feels for me right now.”

  “What on earth do you mean?” Tish asked, a little worried by his strange turn of phrase.

  “I’ve been warning everyone for months that the markets are due a massive correction,” Richard replied. “But it hasn’t actually happened yet and I’m getting loads of flack for not having equity exposure in my funds. I’ve pulled everything out and put it into government bonds and cash, and some people are saying I’ve finally lost my golden touch. And that’s tough.”

  “And do you feel you’ve got it wrong?” Tish asked her eyes widening as he spoke. “Is that what’s eating away at you?”

  “No, what’s eating away at me is that I know I’m right,” Richard said emphatically. “But it feels like the whole world is against me. It’s just frustrating that’s all, because I’m not going to be proved right until the correction happens, and God alone knows when that will be.”

  “Well you’ve certainly got the track record for calling it correctly in the past,” Tish said protectively before picking up a second mince pie, slightly reassured by her father’s response.

  “Sure,” Richard replied, closing his eyes once again. “But there’s no way of knowing how long this is all going to drag on for. I could be dead before this bull market comes crashing down. But I don’t want to bore you or myself with market chat at Christmas. I have to live and breathe this stuff every waking second of the year. I just want to forget about what is going on outside the front door, for the next forty-eight hours.”

  Chapter 4 - The Hospital

  Being in crisis at Christmas was as alien to Tish and Pamela as the sombreness of the hospital surroundings.

  For every single year Tish could remember, even if the festive season had not delivered any massive spiritual highs, it had certainly been fun.

  And the tradition of Christmas was always epitomised by the huge Norwegian fir tree decorated “Al La Thorpe,” laden with glass baubles with mountains of expensive presents all extravagantly wrapped in glimmering paper, ribbons and bows underneath it.

  But on the night of Christmas Day 2007 their world, and the Christmases they had got used to enjoying, irreversibly changed.

  As they sat next to an over-used water dispenser in the family room next to the intensive care unit, Tish held onto her mother unable to comprehend the events of the past two hours. Dry mouthed and dazed, they both waited in silence for a consultant to give them some news.

  This was not how a Thorpe Christmas should end, Tish thought ruefully, pinching herself to remember the sequence of events that had brought them to the intensive care unit in Pembury, just outside Tunbridge Wells.

  The drama had started shortly after Richard Thorpe had drunk two large glasses of whisky and Tish had demolished her third mince pie in the comfort of the winged tartan chair. Her phone had rung and Tish had left the sitting room to take a call from Simon, satisfied to some extent that her father just wanted some space and time to relax.

  Whilst she’d been gone, Richard had braved the heavy snowfall and disappeared to the garden studio, telling Pamela he had to make a crucial business call and needed to finish off a couple of emails that just couldn’t wait until morning. Kissing his wife on the way out, he’d assured her he would only be a matter of minutes.

  On finishing her phone
call to Simon, Tish had returned to the sitting room and, finding her father gone, had intuitively walked over to the window and looked out into the garden.

  Her eyes first registered the imposing Roman bust, which over the course of the evening had been crowned with a fresh fall of snow.

  Puzzled by her father’s absence, and the lack of a light from his office in the garden, Tish had glanced across the lawn and was soon gasping in horror at the sight of his body lying prostrate on the ground next to the weeping willow, a few metres in front of the house.

  She remembered thinking that he must have been there for a good few minutes as his body was cased in a light covering of snow.

  Momentarily paralysed to the spot where she was standing, Tish had screamed out to her mother who was still tidying the kitchen and together they’d run outside, turning the body over to check if life still ran through Richard’s veins.

  There’d been no immediate signs of breathing. Instructing her daughter to stay put and not to panic, Pamela had rushed back up into the house to dial for an ambulance.

  And here they now were at the hospital in a sterile room waiting for news.

  A middle-aged female consultant with her hair fastened tightly in a bun opened the door and ushered them into a small adjacent room with low tables, comfortable chairs and boxes of tissues.

  Wearing a serious well-trained face, the woman with no name began to speak to them in a composed and utterly unemotional way.

  “I’m so very sorry Mrs Thorpe,” she said gravely, addressing only Pamela. “But there was nothing the doctors could do for your husband. He suffered a massive coronary before he got to the hospital. I really do wish I could give you some better news, especially on today of all days. This sort of thing is difficult, but at Christmas it is always even more traumatic. I am so very sorry.”