‘My wrist isn’t broken; I can still move it. I’ll get it taken care of after I’ve seen Rhona home,’ Jean says. And though it’s not a lie, her conscience prickles. But there’s another more pressing matter: Peter needs to know. ‘Hugo, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you the importance of keeping all this confidential. Not just for Rhona, but for the firm and your future with us.’
‘You don’t have to threaten me, Ms Howard. I know I’ve been a prat to Rhona – I was jealous that you chose her for Leonides. But…’ Hugo shakes his head, as if attempting to dislodge the memory. ‘I won’t say anything about it. Unless she wants me to testify, of course.’
Jean blinks, taken aback. Even knowing the likely repercussions for himself, for DDH, he would risk it all to do right by Rhona. His rival. Which is more than Jean ever did for her dearest friend. The realisation is a hefty blow to the gut, sure as if Hugo had tackled her too.
‘Anyway, I’ll get the tube to Rosalind’s – she’s overdue some brotherly love.’ He gives a tight smile and turns to go, carried on a tide of pedestrians.
‘Wait!’
He turns. And though the animal part of Jean’s brain is screaming that they shouldn’t linger, she cannot leave without making this final point: ‘You’re a good man, Hugo. Thank you.’
Chapter Eighteen
With Rhona safe, damage limitation becomes Jean’s primary concern. While Bogdan drives them to the junior associate’s flat, she speaks to Henry for the first time in fifteen years and gets him to send Rhona’s cousin home from Lawson and Pierce. Meanwhile Helen books both Bairds on the first flight to Edinburgh. The sooner they’re in Scotland, the better. Isla’s waiting when Bogdan pulls up, her face white with worry – to her Jean dispenses clear instructions for getting photographic evidence, to Rhona a final hug and a promise that her place with DDH remains secure. Over Jean’s dead body will Rhona’s career become a casualty of Leonides.
Bogdan wants to take her straight to hospital, and Jean is sharper than she intends, turning Peter’s address into a command. But without Rhona to comfort, without the rush of adrenaline, there’s nothing to distract Jean from the ache pulsing through her wrist with every heartbeat; every jolt of the car. And still Peter doesn’t answer his fucking phone. Jean’s own gives a low battery warning as they curve round the driveway, but her fury could charge it ten times over. She bids Bogdan a curt goodnight, planning to double his annual bonus by way of apology, and rings the doorbell.
Peter’s wife opens the door. Caroline’s smile caves in as she registers Jean grim-faced on her doorstep. And Jean doesn’t take it personally: her being there is a terrible omen. And after decades of work coming first, Caroline Dennings has been enjoying the return of her husband – theatre dates, trips to the Bahamas, Peter home in time for dinner. The house is fragrant with onion and garlic, and the sound of laughter spills from the house, though Caroline doesn’t step aside to allow Jean entry to the porch – not right away. Even though time has proven that Jean has never had the slightest design on Peter, an edge of competition sharpens Caroline’s approach to her. Real Wife vs. Work Wife.
‘I take it you’re here for Peter?’ The subtext in her words could not be clearer: here to take him away from his wife, his friends, this charmed circle of domesticity.
‘Yes.’ There’s no point beating around the bush. ‘I’m sorry to intrude, Caroline, but it’s a crisis.’
Something of the evening’s strain must show on her face, or perhaps it’s the wrist bent stiffly against her chest, because Caroline’s expression softens. She steps back. ‘Come in. There’s fresh coffee, or gin if you’d prefer something stronger.’
‘Is that Jonty?’ Peter’s voice echoes as Jean enters the hallway. ‘What time do you call this, you old – Jean. What’s wrong?’
He looks so utterly at ease with the world, loose-limbs and flushed cheeks from the quality vintage no doubt being served with dinner.
‘What’swrong?’ Jean marches across the hallway, jabbing an accusatory finger into his chest. ‘What’swrong? You would know the answer to that question if you’d answered your phone, Peter. Why the hell didn’t you pick up?’
Peter’s brows draw together. ‘Sorry, I turned my mobile off. But did you try the landline?’
‘Of course I tried the fucking landline. I’m not an idiot or Gen Z; I know what a housephone is, Peter. Doyou?’
Caroline bristles, back straight. The laughter has died away in the lounge, replaced by a hushed silence. ‘He deserves a life, Jean. We both do.’
She sees it; the moment understanding dawns in Peter’s eyes, Caroline’s culpability becoming clear. But it does nothing to mitigate the fury coursing through her veins. She rounds on Caroline. ‘You unplugged the phone. Didn’t you?’
Caroline folds her arms. Hatred twists her face into a sneer. ‘And what if I did? I’m sick of the firm coming first. Before our marriage, before our children. You were always married to the job, so it might have escaped your notice, Jean. But some of us actually enjoy having our husbands around.’
The words are a slap across the cheek. Jean’s still reeling when Peter steps between them, more swiftly than the United Nations ever intervened. ‘Darling, please could you excuse us? Our guests are waiting, and I need to speak with Jean.’
‘I’ve spent the last thirty-nine years excusing you.’ Caroline slams the door behind her, leaving them alone in the hallway.
Peter sighs, running a hand through greying hair. Between the clash with Caroline and the knowledge of impending disaster, he’s lost that air of easy contentment. ‘How bad is it?’
‘Black Wednesday meets the Hindenburg. On a par with the Will situation.’
Peter’s eyebrows twitch before he can school his face, and Jean understands the shock – she can count on one hand the number of times they’ve spoken about ‘the Will situation’, and it was never she who chose to resurrect that particular ghost.
‘Let’s go through to the den.’ Peter leads the way, past the kitchen and downstairs bathroom, flipping on the lamps to bathe the room in warm light. It’s less opulent than the lounge, but far more comfortable. Peter takes his usual armchair, and Jean the squashy sofa opposite. ‘Tell me everything,’ he says. ‘From the very start.’
And so Jean does, from Hugo arriving in her office alone from the Hephaestia meeting to reassuring Rhona on the drive home. She does her best to keep it factual, falling into the same dispassionate tone with which she’d itemise a list of evidence early in her career. But no amount of blinking can keep her eyes from spilling over as she recounts the night’s horrors. Peter gets up to bring her a box of tissues. And though the urgency of the situation hovers over them like a cloud, he makes no attempt to rush her, simply squeezing Jean’s shoulder until she’s ready to keep going.
The second Jean mentions her wrist, swollen and impossibly tender, he races off to fetch an ice pack and a first-aid kit. Jean dry swallows four ibuprofen, gagging on the sugary taste. And only her most dire warnings about what Leonides will do if he finds them unprepared keeps Peter from calling an ambulance then and there. Peter settles only when Jean asks him to take photos, her uninjured wrist held up for contrast.
He disappears again before they delve into damage-limitation strategy, bidding goodnight to his guests and – Jean suspects – disclosing pertinent details to his wife. Sure enough, Peter returns with a laden tray recognisable as Caroline’s handiwork: diagonal cut sandwiches made with the evening’s gammon joint, spread with homemade chutney. A fresh pot of coffee. A plate of lemon biscuits.
