And that’s ridiculous, she thought. Because Saul Kingsland is the one who’s been fooled. I’ve done it. I’ve succeeded. I’ve won.
She laughed out loud, and the sound echoed eerily in the quiet flat.
She walked into her bedroom, shedding her few clothes as she went, and straight into the bathroom which separated her room from Lucy’s, stepping into the shower, and turning the warm spray full on. She stood motionless, letting the water pour over her, soaking her hair, and running in rivulets down her skin.
Washing Saul Kingsland away.
But only for the time being, she reminded herself with a sharp stab of excitement as she reluctantly turned off the water, and stepped back on to the thick mat, reaching for a towel.
On Monday, she would make that call, and after that—she drew a breath. After that, whatever would be, would be.
As she turned, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and almost recoiled. It was like seeing a stranger, or her own bad angel, eyes glittering with malevolence, bright, febrile colour along her cheekbones, the soft mouth starkly compressed.
Revenge might be sweet, but, dear heaven, what would it cost her in human terms?
The image in the mirror blurred suddenly and, bending her head, Carly began to weep—for the girl she’d been, and for the woman she’d become.
The sun was pouring into the bedroom the next morning, as she packed a weekend bag with her usual economy. The dress she had bought specially to wear for the party was already waiting in its protective cover, and she grimaced slightly as she lifted it down and carried it out to her car.
A greater contrast to the dress she’d worn the previous night could not be imagined, she thought wryly. But then, she hardly looked the same girl at all. She was simply and casually dressed in tailored cream linen trousers with a matching jacket over a short-sleeved khaki T-shirt. Her hair was gathered into a single plait, and allowed to hang over one shoulder, and her face was innocent of all cosmetics but a touch of moisturiser.
As she loaded the car, she couldn’t resist a furtive look round. In spite of his assurances, Saul Kingsland might be there watching her, perhaps from one of the row of parked cars across the street.
Oh, stop it, she adjured herself impatiently. That’s the way to paranoia.
Traffic was heavy, and getting out of London required all her concentration. She couldn’t relax until trees and fields began to replace suburban sprawl. She lowered the window a little, to enjoy the sunlit breeze, and put a cassette of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons into the tape machine, then sat back to savour the remainder of her journey.
An hour later, she turned the car into the gravelled sweep of the drive and saw the familiar red-brick Georgian bulk of the house awaiting her. She drove round to the rear, and parked in the former stables, slotting her Polo in between her father’s Bentley and the sedate estate car her mother preferred.
She sat for a moment, staring in front of her, then, with a smothered sigh, collected her things, and walked down the covered way to the side entrance.
There was a lot of activity already, she saw. A large marquee had been erected on the lawn, and folding tables and chairs were being carried into it. As she watched, a florist’s van drew up in front of the house, and two women dressed in pink overalls got out. Presently, no doubt, the caterers’ vehicles would also be arriving.
Mother will be in her element, Carly thought, her mouth twisting. She’ll be able to use it as a trial run for Susan’s actual wedding. And I’m about as necessary in all this as an extra thumb.
She caught a movement in the large conservatory which flanked the lawn and, smiling a little, trod quietly across the gravel and stood in the doorway watching the tall, grey-haired man who was deftly repotting some plants.
‘Hello, Father.’
He turned with an obvious start, and peered at her. ‘Why, Caroline,’ he said, ‘so you’ve come. Your mother wasn’t sure … Well, this is splendid—splendid.’ He paused, then added another vague, ‘Splendid.’
Carly bit her lip. ‘I did say I was coming,’ she said, quietly. ‘If I’m not expected—if my room’s being used, I can always try the pub.’
‘Certainly not. I’m sure your room’s ready and waiting for you, my dear, although, of course, your mother always handles those arrangements. She’s in the drawing-room, having coffee with your Aunt Grace. I said I’d join them once I’d finished this and washed my hands, but now …’ His voice tailed off expectantly.
‘But now that I’ve arrived, it will let you off the hook,’ Carly supplied drily.
‘Well, all this talk about engagements and weddings,’ he said. ‘Not my sort of thing at all, you know. They’ll start on christenings next, I dare say,’ he added with disfavour.
‘I can imagine.’ Carly slanted a smile at him. ‘Stay with your beloved plants, Dad. I’ll try and ensure you’re not missed.’
As she entered the hall, she could hear Aunt Grace’s authoritative tones issuing from the drawing-room. She pulled a small face. Her mother’s older sister held strong views on everything, from the government in power down to the deplorable attitude of today’s shop assistants. Since her only daughter’s marriage and departure for New Zealand a few years previously, she had lived in Bournemouth, which she rarely left. Carly couldn’t help wishing that she had not decided to make an exception to this excellent rule for Susan’s engagement party.
She resolutely pinned on a smile as she went into the drawing-room. ‘Hello, Mummy, Aunt Grace. How are you both?’
There was an immediate surprised silence. Carly was aware of both pairs of eyes riveted on her, taking in every detail of her appearance. She put down her case, and draped her dress-carrier over the back of a chair.
‘Is that coffee? I’d love some.’
‘Of course, dear.’ Mrs Foxcroft filled the third cup waiting on the tray and proffered it to her younger daughter. ‘Did you have a good drive down?’
‘Marvellous, thank you.’ Carly bent and kissed her mother’s cheek, and, more fleetingly, her aunt’s. ‘You’re both looking very well.’
Her mother smiled awkwardly. ‘And so are you, darling. Positively—radiant. Isn’t she, Grace?’
‘Hm,’ said Mrs Brotherton. ‘Try as I may, Veronica, I still cannot accustom myself … However,’ she turned to Carly, ‘I saw a photograph of you in a magazine at my hairdressers’ last month, Caroline. You were wearing an extraordinary garment in white taffeta, and seemed to be standing in an area of slum clearance.’
‘Oh, the Fabioni. I remember it well.’ Carly laughed. ‘It was incredibly cold that day—the middle of winter, in fact—and we were down by the river. Did you manage to count my goose-pimples?’
‘I find it very odd,’ said Aunt Grace majestically, ‘that a reputable journal should find it necessary to photograph an evening dress outdoors in broad daylight, and inclement weather.’
‘It’s because of publishing schedules,’ Carly told her. ‘Fur coats in August, and bikinis in December. The bane of a model’s life.’ She looked at her mother. ‘Where’s Susan? Resting for the big occasion?’
‘She’s gone with Anthony to look at the house his father is giving them as a wedding present. Apparently it needs a great deal doing to it, and work will have to start almost at once if it’s to be ready for them to move into after the wedding.’
‘Have they set a date yet?’ Carly asked casually. ‘I’ll need to know fairly well in advance.’
‘I believe they’re thinking of