Death Actually Page 4

  Lucy shrank back into her seat as the crowd banged on her window trying to get her to look up. Terrified, she hunched forward, head down. Mark was less concerned. Unflappable – a useful trait in a cardiac surgeon – he knew that as soon they realised the occupants of the car were nobodies, they would lose interest. Which was indeed what happened. One minute the car was surrounded by a baying mob; the next the gates were open and they were free to drive to the front door in peace.

  “How was the snow today, Sir?” asked a staff member as Mark and Lucy stood warming themselves by the stone fireplace dominating the entrance hall.

  “Brilliant,” said Mark, still flushed with adrenalin. “We spent the morning skiing the back basins at Coronet. Superb. Have you had a chance to go up yet?”

  “I went up Saturday, Mr Holmes. Best snow we’ve had in years, and more on the way I hear. Can I get you something from the bar?”

  “I think I’d rather go straight to the room, Mark, if you don’t mind,” said Lucy.

  “Could you send some champagne to the room and we’ll have it there?”

  “It’s already done, Sir,” came the reply.

  The rooms, which were really small cottages, were set discreetly and separately in the grounds and were connected to the Lodge by sheltered walkways. A central stone fireplace between a living area and the bedroom provided both heat and ambience in the generous space. The doors leading to a private terrace overlooking the lake were made entirely of glass and the view was breathtaking. Comfortable armchairs and a sofa were ranged in front of the fire, and on a sideboard, the champagne sat waiting in its ice bucket flanked by two flutes on one side and an antipasto platter on the other.

  Lucy plumped down in the chair by the fire and played her fingers on the armrest. She looked out and across the lake to where straggling beams of winter sun lit up rocky spurs on the peaks, throwing others into shadow as night closed in.

  “Who do you think the photographers are for?” she asked, accepting a glass of cold champagne from Mark. He sat in the chair opposite, the sofa stretching between them.

  “No idea,” he said. “And I don’t really care. Whoever it is will want their privacy as much we want ours.” He raised his glass and their eyes met. “Salut. To another absolutely wonderful day with the woman I love.”

  They sat watching the firelight, content to drink the wine and say nothing.

  The silence was broken by a discreet buzz indicating a call to the room. Mark reached back and picked up the receiver. A woman’s voice invaded his peace – loud, relentless and dominating.

  “Mark. I’ve been trying all day to get you on your mobile, but you never answer. What’s the point of having a phone if you don’t answer it?” She paused then hurried on. “Thank goodness your PA knew where you were staying. I need to know when you’re going to be home. We’ve been invited to the Adamsons’ next Saturday and they need numbers for the caterers. Tell me you’ll be home in time because I’m tired of going to everything alone. No one believes that someone could be so dedicated.”

  Mark looked at Lucy and made a face.

  His wife laughed before launching into the next subject. “How is the conference? Presented yet? I have no sympathy for you having to stay at The Lodge, somewhere you know I haven’t been and where I really want to stay. Sophie tells me it’s wonderful.”

  Mark held the phone away from his ear and grimaced again at Lucy, who shrugged silently in reply.

  “Yes, dear,” she went on. “The children are fine and looking forward to seeing you, but they may not recognise you. They keep asking me what their father looks like. They’re both out; Mathew’s at tennis and Hilary’s gone shopping. I’ll give them your love and explain that Daddy does have to go to conferences. Let me know about the dinner? Soon? Love you, sweetie.” And with that the phone went dead.

  Tears welled in her eyes as Lucy got up. Mark reached for her hand and pulled her into his lap. He cradled her in his arms, her head on his shoulder, and gently stroked her hair. They sat like this in the firelight waiting for peace to return, trying not to think about real life going on without them far away in Auckland.

  “We have so little time,” said Lucy.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” said Mark. “Soon we’ll have the rest of our lives to be together. This time I promise. I will leave.”

  Mark’s mouth found hers and he kissed her gently, encouragingly. Lucy hesitated but only for a moment.

  Chapter Six

  “It’s colder today than yesterday, if that’s possible,” huffed Maggie, walking on the spot as she waited for Elka to get organised and out of the car. “I think we’ll be OK on this road.”

  They walked in silence for ten minutes, then Maggie couldn’t bear it any longer. “For chrissakes, Elka, stop and tell me what they said in Dunedin.”

  “It’s not good, but it’s not hopeless,” said Elka, slowing her pace but not stopping.

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “It means they can operate. A few days in hospital and then home. Of course, doctors always hedge their bets. They told me they couldn’t be certain about anything till they’d had a good look inside. Made me feel like a car.”

  “I suppose that’s good. When do you go?”

  “End of next week.”

  “Perfect, a couple of days in Dunedin is just what I need. I’ll drive.”

  Elka put her hand on Maggie’s arm and they stopped in the lee of a small hill. “I’ll understand if you can’t come. Really. It’s silly I know, but I’m more afraid than I thought I’d be. I’m homesick too, for Germany of all places, which is even sillier considering there’s no one left there.”

  “Which is why I’m coming with you. I can feed you sauerkraut and sausage after the operation, just like they would in Germany, to make you feel at home while you recover.”

  Elka grimaced. “I can do without the German cuisine – why do you think I left? But, thank you, I don’t want to do this alone. I don’t think I could.” She stopped and bent over to pull her sock out of the bottom of her shoe. “Come on,” she said, straightening up again. “This couldn’t have come at a worse time – Betty dying and her funeral to come, plus it’s peak season and the film crew needs feeding on top of everything else. Not at the restaurant, either, but forty kilometres up the road at Glenorchy. I’ve been thinking, maybe Kate could help?”

  “Of course she will,” said Maggie. “I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have anything else to do, and it’ll be good for her to get out of her bedroom and back into the swing of things.”

  “We should ask her first. She may have other plans. Who knows, she may have work up north or in Australia. After the rave reviews she was getting before she left London, maybe she has a job already organised. Word has got out about her and chefs are a gossipy bunch – especially the good ones.”

  The sun was high enough in the sky now to clear the line of hills in front of them. Suddenly blinded by its glare they had to stop, just as an Audi roared around the bend. It swerved and missed hitting them only because the two women jumped for their lives into a shallow ditch full of freezing slime-filled water.

  “Are you OK?” asked Maggie. “Tell me you’re OK.” Her teeth were chattering with the cold.

  “I’m fine,” laughed Elka. “Wet but fine. You?”

  “Yeah, I’m OK. Not that the bloody driver seems to care. He could have killed us. He didn’t even stop to make sure we’re OK. Typical–”

  “Don’t say it, Maggie,” warned Elka.

  “What? Don’t say what?” said Maggie, scrambling up the side of the ditch.

  “Don’t say ‘Typical man!’ Because he isn’t. There is no such thing as the typical man you blame for everything that happens to you. Some men are good and some are bad. You got hooked up with the bad, but that was a long time ago. Get over it. Betty and I have been trying to tell you this for years. The driver probably didn’t see us in the glare, or maybe he was driving fast for a reason. But one thin
g I do know, whatever else this was, it wasn’t personal. It was just an accident.”

  Elka got out of the ditch and carried on walking, her shoes squelching a trail of water down the road.

  Maggie stood stock still on the grass verge, absolutely stunned. “Don’t hold back will you? Tell me what you really think,” she yelled. “OK, have it your way,” she muttered, running to catch up. “But only because you’re having surgery.”

  Elka made a face.

  “I bet he did see us, and didn’t stop because he was afraid,” said Maggie. “Hardly the caring sort.”

  “Caring sort? That’s exactly what he is, Maggie. I thought you knew. That was the new doctor – Ben Goodman – the one who has been so kind to Betty.”

  Maggie kept walking, hoping Elka would stop chortling beside her. She pulled her beanie tight over her ears and walked faster. Who knew Elka could laugh for so long?

  Chapter Seven

  All Lizzie could see from her flat was the back of a hill. But even if she’d been able to see the mountains, it wouldn’t have made one whit of difference to how she was feeling. She was hungry, her morning delivery was late, and she wasn’t just unhappy – she was furious.

  Yesterday hadn’t helped. The home help was a temp and didn’t know her likes and dislikes. It was irritating that instructions hadn’t been written down and handed out in advance to new people. A simple enough procedure, she’d have thought. After all, they had been coming to her flat every day for ten years. How hard could it be to communicate?

  She’d yelled at the girl when she’d made the heinous mistake of opening the windows to let in fresh air. That was just the beginning. It was as if this girl had never cleaned the home of an invalid before. The last straw was when she’d tried to put the last pizza box in the rubbish when there were still two perfectly good pieces inside it. The yelling that had accompanied the girl’s tearful exit down the stairs could be heard out on the street.

  At least, that’s what the district nurse had said as she tsk tsked her way into the room.

  Supercilious bitch. What does she know about pain? About losing everything in life that meant anything?

  Neither of them had spoken as the nurse washed her where she sat and helped her into clean clothes.

  When her hair was combed and the dressing on her leg changed, the nurse finally spoke. “She was only trying to help. You know the woman who used to come quit. Said she couldn’t cope any more. There are only so many home helps in Queenstown and you’ve driven most of them away. If you don’t start being nicer to people, there will be no one who will look after you.”

  “I. Don’t. Care,” said Lizzie.

  “I. Don’t. Believe. You,” replied the nurse.

  “You. Should,” said Lizzie.

  “Now you’re being childish. Let’s talk about you testing your blood sugars again. Then you’d know when to eat and more importantly, when not to eat. You have to lose weight, Lizzie, or one day I’m going to come up the stairs and find you dead.”

  “I don’t care and I’m not doing it. How many times do I have to say it? You have informed me and I do not give my consent. Simple.”

  The nurse started to talk, but when Lizzie put her fingers in her ears, poked out her tongue and started humming tunelessly, she gave up. Packing up her equipment she shook her head and left. Lizzie had felt bad, but only until the bumper bucket of KFC arrived.

  Because of her weight, Lizzie could only sleep sitting up. Lying down would have crushed her huge abdomen up against her lungs and slowly suffocated her. She spent her days and nights exactly where she was now, on the sofa, in front of the TV screen, her remote controls and laptop within reach.

  The new doctor, Ben Goodman, had recommended a machine to support her breathing, but like anything that might help her, she wouldn’t have a bar of it. Instead she slept badly, waking up often to get her breath and to move to a more comfortable position. Pain woke her every morning. She managed to use the commode, but this was an effort and made the pain in her leg unbearable. Memories of the accident came flooding back with the pain, and for twenty minutes until the medication kicked in, she was held captive by them, replaying in her mind every minute in terrifying detail. It was the worst part of her day. Later, the only thing to look forward to was the arrival of hot food.

  This morning when the food didn’t arrive, anger added to pain. Her throbbing left leg turned red then purple; sweat poured off it but it felt like a block of ice. She was furious not just with the incompetence of the delivery service, but with everything and everyone in her life. If it hadn’t been for the accident and the incompetent surgeons who hadn’t fixed her leg properly in the first place, she’d still be New Zealand’s golden girl. The injustice of having everything she’d worked so hard for taken away in a moment of carelessness had never left her. If only the driver had paid attention and hadn’t been going so fast. If only they’d got her to a proper hospital where the staff spoke English and there were specialist surgeons. If only the wound hadn’t become infected. None of this was her fault, and yet she was the one paying for it. She’d lost the gold medal. She’d lost Oliver. Everything! And the fucking food was still not here.

  Where the bloody hell was that new man? Maggie’s son. He’d looked like a smart guy. Why wasn’t he here? She’d finished the last of her emergency stash early that morning to help get back to sleep, and now all she could do was wait. Lizzie felt alone, hungry, and her pain was intensifying with each unfed second. The deliveries had been set up precisely so that something like this didn’t happen again. What was it with businesses in this town, that something so simple could be fucked up so badly? Like everything else in this tin pot bloody country they couldn’t even do what they were paid to do.

  She punched the numbers on her phone and for the zillionth time heard the nauseatingly patronising automatic voice asking her to leave a message. She obliged, taking some comfort from imagining the look on the face of whoever listened to what she had to say. But she was still hungry and still alone. She hated bloody phones, anyway. Maybe there was a fault and people couldn’t hear her. Hurling it as hard as she could, the phone shattered on the wall just above the TV.

  Next she went online and left a foul message on the delivery company’s website, haughtily stating that in future she would be taking her custom elsewhere and suggesting everyone else should do so too. An empty threat, because there was no other service in this one horse town she could afford and from which, incidentally, she hadn’t already been banned.

  Nothing.

  Silence.

  In the kitchen a clock dared to tick more loudly than before.

  Tears rolled down Lizzie’s face. Tears of frustration, anger, despair and pain, with lashings of deep loneliness thrown in for good measure, pouring down her plump red cheeks as she sat alone in her poky little flat. She sobbed for all she had been and all she might have been, but mainly she sobbed because she was hungry.

  Chapter Eight

  “Where’s Mum?” asked Nick.

  “Stables,” said Kate, not looking up from the sofa where she was watching the news, still in her pyjamas and dressing gown. “Not much happens here, does it? I mean here, in New Zealand. This is more gossip than news. Where this car accident was and which type of cow was hit and how the snow is making it difficult to drive to Dunedin. Hardly life and death, is it?”

  “I guess it was for the cow,” replied Nick.

  “You know what I mean. I’d forgotten how small we are. How far away New Zealand is from the rest of the world.” Kate took a sip of water from the glass on the table in front of her. “It’s hard to take this stuff seriously.” She paused. “And the accent. I’d forgotten we have an accent. After London – it’s the people on TV who are worst. That Jonathon guy is a hoot. Kaaaaa-kee-taaaayyyy, indeed.”

  Nick knew her well enough to know that if he said anything he’d be stuck defending his position for another hour if not two.

  “Kate,” he said, bendi
ng over her. “Are you going to sit there pleading the longest case of jetlag in the history of modern flight, or are you going to get up and help out? Mum and I have worked all day today, all day yesterday and all day the day before that, while you, dear sister, have done nothing but sleep. We’ve been looking forward to eating London haute cuisine cooked by world-renowned chef Kate Potter, and so far, nada. Not even a curry!”

  Before he’d finished speaking Kate was off, bolting for the door, thundering up the stairs, dressing gown flying behind her like Batman’s cape. Nick heard the bathroom door slam shut. He waited but the door stayed closed. No sound, nothing.

  Sisters! He decided to try his luck with his mother. “It’s only me, “ he called, poking his head into the workroom.

  “I’m getting Betty ready, so stay there. What do you want?”

  “Nothing.”

  “OK. Keep me company while I do this then I’ll make us something. I’m surprised you never eat while you’re at work.”

  Nick sat down at Maggie’s desk and started fiddling on her laptop. “I know how they cook it.”

  “And don’t play with that. I’m working on something and don’t want to lose it.”

  Nick ignored her and opened the Patience app.

  It was late in the afternoon and Betty, dead for thirty hours, was already a hollowed-out semblance of the live woman. What little flesh the cancer had left on her bones was cold and doughy. Maggie had to be careful not to break any bones while she washed her. Softly, she cleaned around the orifices before plugging them to prevent seepage.

  She filled a basin with water. Nick had seen his mother wash clients’ hair many times, and often remarked on how carefully she did it. A bald corpse is not the look we’re after, she’d explained. Families prefer hair.