It's Raining Men Read online

  ‘Oh, I bought you something,’ said Ludwig, suddenly remembering. He reached behind him into his coat pocket. ‘It’s to keep you company while I’m away.’

  He handed over a bag. Grinning, Clare peered inside.

  ‘Paul’s chocolate macaroons!’ she yelped with delight. He knew they were her favourites. ‘I promise not to eat them all at once.’

  Lud smiled. ‘If you want to eat them all at once, you go ahead and just do it.’

  ‘I’ll get fat and you’ll leave me.’

  ‘I would never leave you,’ said Lud, picking up the menu. ‘Not unless you wanted me to. Now, pick something to eat. I want to have enough time for dessert.’

  Lovely, kind Lud, thought Clare. Then his BlackBerry went off and she was forgotten as he was plunged, yet again, into his demanding world of high finance.

  Chapter 3

  May grated cheese on top of the bacon, which was on top of the barbecue sauce on top of the chicken breast. Hunter’s Chicken – Michael loved it and she so wanted to pamper him because he was very depressed at the moment.

  It was a recipe emailed over by her friend Clare. It was impossible to think of Clare without smiling: The Domestic Accountant. Clare was so clever with numbers but to look at her, one would never have put her in that profession. She was an earth goddess: petite with a large bust, a Cleopatra black bob and strangely coloured eyes that lit up when she started talking about Dyson’s latest innovation or her new vegetable steamer. She was so funny. May felt as if she had known her for much longer than the eighteen months they’d been friends. Same with Lara, whom she had met on the same day at a conference at work. Lara had messy short naturally golden hair, wore bright red lipstick and was ballsy with a presence far bigger than her height of five foot two. Really it should have been Lara who was five foot ten and May eight inches shorter. May hated being so tall and conspicuous. She would have been much more comfortable being small and easily hidden away.

  Michael was on his way to her from The Pines. She ached to throw her arms around him and let him rest his head on her shoulder. She would give him a long oily massage tonight and soothe away his worries, she decided as she lifted the tray into the oven and then started piping out some whirls of potatoes. Also a favourite.

  She wiped a tear from her eye before it rolled down her cheek. She wished she had someone to talk to about the situation, other than Michael of course. As nice as Lara and Clare were, she hadn’t quite told them the truth about her boyfriend of six months. Yes, they knew that she was seeing a man occasionally but she had intimated that it was only a casual affair and had underplayed her feelings for him. Her friends didn’t know that she was madly in love with him or that he stayed over much more often than she had said. Or that he was married. They surely wouldn’t have approved. They hadn’t talked at any length or depth about their lives but from the little that May did know, Lara’s ex-husband had been carrying on with his first wife behind her back and Clare’s sister’s first husband had been sleeping with every girl in Sheffield except the one he was married to. May didn’t approve of her behaviour herself, although it wasn’t exactly a straightforward case of wife versus scarlet woman.

  Michael arrived in record time. He strode in through the door and straight over to May, his arms open wide to enclose her. May was taller than him but had mastered ‘a bend’ when they hugged so that as they embraced his lips were on a level with her forehead, making her feel a little more girly and enfolded. She savoured his lovely manly smell and the warmth of his body and didn’t mind that his coat was sopping wet.

  ‘Hello, my love,’ he grinned. ‘God, am I happy to see you.’

  ‘Likewise,’ May said and smiled.

  ‘It feels like three weeks since I saw you, not three days.’ He traced the back of his finger down her left cheek, tenderly following the line of the scar that had faded to a dull silver over the years but, to May, was still as glaringly deep, garish and obvious as the day twenty-two years ago when the neighbour’s dog had clamped its teeth onto her cheek.

  ‘I know,’ said May. She wished she could see him every single night. She wished he would come from his stationery-salesman job straight to her house without having to do a detour to The Pines. But he could only do that when Susan had passed away – and May didn’t want to think about that, however much she wanted her lover to be hers and hers alone.

  ‘How is she?’ asked May, pulling off Michael’s damp coat and hanging it over the door near the radiator to dry off.

  ‘Same old, same old.’ He sighed. ‘Have you any wine, my love?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ May scurried over to the rack and pulled out a bottle of Shiraz, uncorking it as she crossed the kitchen to the cupboard where the glasses were stored. She poured out only one glass, for Michael. She thought that if she had any wine this evening, the floodgates might open in her eyes. She felt exhausted – physically and emotionally. She should have ordered a takeaway instead of attempting all this home-cooking after work.

  ‘It’s so bloody sad,’ said Michael, taking a long gulp and savouring the spicy hit on the back of his throat. ‘She’s just a shell of her former self. There’s nothing left of Susan any more. And yet, physically, she keeps going. She seems to get stronger in body as she gets weaker in her head. There’s the cruel irony of it all.’

  As May put her arms around him, she was weighed down with guilt that she could be feeling so sorry for herself when Michael was worn into the ground with the torture of having a wife struck down with dementia in her thirties. Michael carried a pre-wedding photograph of them in his wallet. His hair was thicker and longer then, without any grey streaks. He liked to keep it very short now. And he was plumper in the face, his cheeks round and pink as he smiled into the lens. Snuggled up under his arm Susan was pretty, with cropped red hair that suited her heart-shaped face, and a turned-up pixie nose. In that photo they had everything to look forward to; there was not a hint of what was to hit them.

  ‘Take a seat,’ said May, and after he did so she started to knead her thumbs into his shoulders. She heard him sigh and she smiled. Tonight was all about him. She would pull out all the stops to make sure that her house was a little taste of heaven for him after the hell of seeing his poor, deteriorating wife at The Pines.

  Chapter 4

  As Gladys Coffey showed the slim, dark-haired woman into the lounge, her calm and friendly smile belied all the activity going on in her brain. Gladys might have had the title ‘Housekeeper’ but she was so much more than that: protector, guard dog and, if it came to it, bouncer. Her brain was fast-screening the woman in the plain black suit for any signs of artifice, any hidden agenda. She could usually sniff out an interloper at one hundred paces, but, for once, her radar was circling smoothly without encountering the slightest blip.

  ‘Please sit down, Mrs Hawk,’ said Gladys. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Thank you, but don’t go to any trouble on my account. I’m fine.’

  Joan Hawk smiled and Gladys saw how generous and full her lips were. Coupled with those nice dark-brown eyes and sharp cheekbones, they meant Mrs Hawk would be a very attractive woman if she applied some make-up and unloosened her long hair from that tight, frumpy ponytail. Luckily Mrs Hawk seemed as far removed from her predatory namesake as could possibly be, if this introduction to her was any guide. She was as dull as a beige bungalow. Absolutely perfect. Lord Edwin Carlton was a very rich old man and was getting more doddery by the day. And he was lonely. Gladys didn’t want him falling prey to a flattering line of banter and a pretty face.

  ‘Lord Carlton will be with you shortly,’ said Gladys as she left the room. She could tell him to go in now that Mrs Hawk had passed the first stage of the interview – i.e. she had got past Gladys.

  As the door closed behind the housekeeper, Joan Hawk looked around her at the opulent lounge with its plush sofas and huge picture windows framing a view of the sea in the distance. It was beautiful here; she had a good feeling ab
out the place. It was what just she, a poor impoverished young widow, needed: solitude, space and in such a splendid setting. She looked up at the portraits on the wall. Mostly they were of old men in powdered wigs, their faces preserved in oil. But taking centre stage, above the great fireplace, was a stunning depiction of a woman in a navy-blue dress. A woman with long dark hair, brown eyes and full red lips. A woman with shapely legs, full breasts and a tiny nipped-in waist. She was the woman Joan could so easily be with a little powder and paint and the right clothes.

  Joan had seen the advertisement for a clerical assistant in The Countess and couldn’t get on the Internet fast enough to look up more details. She could hardly believe her luck: Carlton Hall was huge and inhabited by one solitary old man with no heir. Joan could smell the rich pickings from a mile away. Not only would there be treasures around the house to palm but the possibility of becoming Lady Carlton was in the bag if she played her cards right – and play them right she would because lonely, rich, older men were her speciality.

  Joan did her homework thoroughly. There were hardly any details about the immediate area but the nearest towns, Wellem and Whitby, had lots of information about them. Joan decided that she would say she came from Wellem, presuming, quite rightly, that it might be advantageous to say she was a fairly local girl. These old village types were more likely to trust someone who came from the area.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the door swinging open and in walked a slight, wiry man. Joan knew he was seventy but he looked much older, his back stooping with age, his ghost-white hair as thin as gossamer at the sides but much thicker on top, thanks to an obvious toupee. He was dressed immaculately in a brown suit, with a folded blue handkerchief in his top pocket and a matching cravat at his neck. Lord Edwin Carlton himself.

  ‘Good morning, good morning,’ he said with a surprisingly strong voice for someone who looked as if a breath of wind might be able to lift him off his feet. ‘Delighted to meet you, Mrs Hawk.’ He extended a small, soft hand.

  ‘Joan, please,’ she said, standing to shake it. Her firm grip echoed his.

  ‘Well, delighted to meet you, Joan,’ he said, and as he sat down he trilled a little laugh that told Joan Hawk he instantly felt at ease in her company. ‘Do sit down. Would you like some tea or coffee?’

  Joan saw his pupils dilate ever so slightly as his eyes rested fully on her. She was very good at spotting such things.

  ‘Your housekeeper very kindly asked me but I didn’t want to put her to any trouble.’ She gave a regretful little shrug which sent a clear message that she did want some refreshments really.

  Edwin rose dutifully from the ornate French sofa and skipped almost skittishly across the room and out of the door, returning a couple of minutes later.

  ‘Gladys is on the case. We shall have tea,’ he announced. ‘Now where were we?’

  Joan saw him glance quickly at the portrait above the fireplace. She knew he was thinking that there was much more than a passing similarity between them.

  ‘My last secretary, alas, left things in rather a mess,’ said Edwin, sitting down again. He sighed heavily. ‘Then again, she was seventy-nine and very forgetful.’

  Joan nodded sympathetically, hoping that the smirk of early victory which was threatening to lift up the corners of her mouth didn’t show. Did anyone say ‘secretary’ any more? She would have been forgiven for thinking she had just zipped back in time to the fifties.

  ‘I’m an expert at organization,’ said Joan, imbuing her voice with an equal balance of softness and self-confidence. ‘As you have no doubt ascertained from my C V, I come highly recommended.’

  ‘None better, none better.’ Edwin nodded. ‘This is the first time I’ve actually advertised for anyone. I’ve always used local ladies as secretaries before but . . .’

  The door opened and in came the burly figure of Gladys pushing a tea trolley with a very old and delicate china tea service on it. She must have either had it all ready or zoomed around like a Tasmanian devil getting it together, thought Joan. She saw Edwin’s face light up at the sight of the tiered plates of cakes. This man has a sweet tooth, she immediately deduced. He was almost clapping his hands together at the sight of the Victoria sponge. All the better for a heart attack.

  As Gladys poured the tea, Joan could tell that her ear was cocked towards the conversation.

  ‘So you were saying you’ve always used local ladies before,’ said Joan. Edwin opened his mouth to speak, but Gladys butted in.

  ‘There’s no one suitable in the village,’ she said.

  ‘At least no one under seventy,’ added Edwin. ‘I was born not far from here,’ said Joan. ‘At the other side of Wellem.’

  Edwin smiled broadly. ‘Were you really?’ he said, as pleased as if she had just told him she was from Camelot and had a huge lottery-winner’s cheque for him. He turned to Gladys for approval. ‘Isn’t that encouraging, Gladys? A local girl.’

  Joan saw Gladys’s eyebrows lift. She only ‘hmm’ed’ but Joan could tell she was impressed. The old bag was clearly softening. It was another good call; they did prefer local folk working for them. She had been right. Gladys might have been an expert at reading people but Joan was a grand master.

  ‘Milk, sugar?’ asked Gladys.

  ‘Milk and one sugar, please,’ Joan answered. Women like Gladys trusted women who had sugar. They weren’t as self-obsessed, preoccupied by their weight. For the same reason, Joan leaned over and took a Victoria sponge slice. Women trusted women who ate cake. Especially women who complimented the women who had made the cake.

  ‘Oh, this is so light,’ flattered Joan. ‘Is the baker local?’

  ‘I made it myself, actually,’ said Gladys. Joan could see she was trying not to beam.

  ‘Oh.’ Joan showed the right amount of surprise. The sort of delighted shock that was tempered with admiration without sliding into sycophancy. ‘It’s lovely.’ And there was no better way to say that it was lovely than to wolf it down and reach for another slice. ‘I love home-baked stuff. It goes straight to my hips but I can’t resist it.’

  She saw Mrs Coffey smile a smile that reached up to her eyes and totally engulfed them. The woman was defrosted and it had taken only two little pieces of sponge and a cube of sugar to do it. There was no need for any more to be eaten now. Joan hated anything that could affect her perfect figure.

  ‘So,’ said Edwin, the word heralding that the interview was to be resumed and Mrs Coffey could go. He waited until she had. ‘There’s a cottage in the grounds that comes with the job. Gladys has had it cleaned and repainted. It’s small but comfortable.’

  I’ve got the job, said Joan to herself, but she contained her delight and nodded at his words as if hooked on every one of them.

  ‘To recap, then,’ continued Edwin. ‘You’re a local girl with a flair for organization. And my housekeeper likes you.’

  ‘Well,’ began Joan, making a girlishly extravagant gesture of wiping crumbs from her face with delicate dabbings of fingertips, ‘I like to think I’m as organized as anyone can be and if your housekeeper likes me then that’s great because I hate not getting on with anyone I work with.’

  Lord Edwin Carlton held his hand out. ‘Then that’s good enough for me. Welcome to Carlton Hall, Mrs Hawk. You’re hired.’

  Everyone wants happiness,

  no one wants pain,

  but you can’t make a rainbow

  without a little rain.

  ANON

  August

  Chapter 5

  Lara tried to chop the red pepper like Delia Smith – the knife tip never leaving the board and the heel doing the cutting, in an action apparently reminiscent of rowing a boat – but Keely’s laser gaze was putting her off any rhythm and the knife was going all over the place.

  Really, she didn’t know why she was bothering to make her speciality pasta dish. Keely and Garth would both sit at the table, poking at it with their forks as if it were a dead animal, and then, when it
had gone completely cold, push their plates into the middle of the table and announce that they didn’t like it and were off to see what else was available.

  Lara prided herself on being quite a good cook – not as good as the domestic goddess that was her friend Clare, of course, but then Clare could have given Nigella a run for her money. She was always sending Lara recipes on email which she had tried and tested. Even so, in the three months that she had been living with James and his children, nothing she had put in front of his eleven-year–old son, Garth, the Olympic nose-picking champion, and his fourteen-going-on-forty-five-year-old daughter, Keely, had hit the button. Home-made fish and chips, pasta, rice, chicken, steak, lamb, fajitas – you name it, she’d tried it all. And yet everything had been greeted with pairs of curled-up Elvis lips.

  ‘What’s that supposed to be?’ said Keely at last, upping her silent staring treatment to something more active. She stood leaning against the worktop, arms folded, her whole body oozing teenage attitude.

  ‘Beef pasta,’ Lara answered, forcing a jolly Doris Day smile.

  ‘What sort of pasta?’

  ‘Cavatappi. The curly stuff.’

  ‘So it’s spag bol with curly pasta instead of the long thin variety?’