London, 5th January 1996
Joanna Haslam ran full pelt through Covent Garden, her breathing heavy and her lungs rattling with the effort. Dodging past tourists and groups of school children, she narrowly missed knocking over a busker, her rucksack flying to one side behind her. She emerged onto Bedford Street just as a limousine drew up outside the wrought-iron gates that led to St Paul’s Church. Photographers surrounded the car as a chauffeur stepped out to open the back door.
Damn! Damn!
With her last iota of strength, Joanna sprinted the final few yards to the gates then into the paved courtyard beyond, the clock on the red-brick face of the church confirming she was late. As she neared the entrance, she cast her gaze over the huddle of paparazzi and saw that Steve, her photographer, was in prime position, perched on the steps. She waved at him and he gave her a thumbs-up sign as she squeezed through the crush of photographers who were crowding round the celebrity who had emerged from the limousine. Once inside the church itself, she could see the pews were packed, lit by the soft glow from the chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. The organ was playing sombre music in the background.
After flashing her press card at the usher and digging for breath, she slipped into the back pew and sat down gratefully. Her shoulders rose and fell with each gasp as she fumbled in her rucksack for her notepad and pen.
Although the church was frosty cold, Joanna could feel beads of sweat on her forehead; the roll-neck of the black lambswool sweater she’d thrown on in her panic was now sticking uncomfortably to her skin. She took out a tissue and blew her streaming nose. Then, sweeping a hand through her tangled mass of long dark hair, she leant back against the pew and closed her eyes to catch her breath.
Just a few days into a new year that had begun with so much promise, Joanna felt as if she’d been not so much as chucked, but hurled off the top of the Empire State Building. At speed. Without warning.
Matthew . . . the love of her life – or rather, as of yesterday, the ex-love of her life – was the cause.
Joanna bit her bottom lip hard, willing herself not to start crying again, and craned her neck towards the pews at the front near the altar, noting with relief that the family members everyone was waiting for had not yet arrived. Glancing back through the main doors, she could see the paparazzi lighting up cigarettes and fiddling with their camera lenses outside. The mourners in front of her were beginning to shuffle on the uncomfortable wooden pews, whispering to their neighbours. She hastily scanned the crowd and picked out the most noteworthy celebrities to mention in her article, struggling to distinguish them from the backs of their heads, which were mostly grey or white. Scribbling the names down in her notepad, images of yesterday invaded her mind again . . .
Matthew had turned up unexpectedly on the doorstep of her Crouch End flat in the afternoon. After the heavy shared revelry of Christmas and New Year, the two of them had agreed to adjourn to their separate flats and have a quiet few days before work began again. Unfortunately, Joanna had spent that time nursing the nastiest cold she’d had in years. She’d opened the door to Matthew clutching her Winnie the Pooh hot-water bottle, clad in ancient thermal pyjamas and a pair of stripy bed socks.
She’d known immediately that there was something wrong as he’d hovered near the door, refusing to take his coat off, his eyes darting here and there, looking at anything but her . . .
He had then informed her that he had been ‘thinking’. That he couldn’t see their relationship going anywhere. And perhaps it was time to call it a day.
‘We’ve been together for six years now, since the end of uni,’ he’d said, fidgeting with the gloves she’d given him for Christmas. ‘I don’t know, I always thought that, with time, I’d want to marry you – you know, tie our lives together officially. But that moment hasn’t happened . . .’ He’d shrugged limply at her. ‘And if I don’t feel that way now, I can’t see that I ever will.’
Joanna’s hands had clenched around her hot-water bottle as she had regarded his guilty, guarded expression. Digging in her pyjama pocket, she’d found a damp tissue and blown her nose hard. Then she’d looked him straight in the eye.
‘Who is she?’
The blush had spread right across his face and neck. ‘I didn’t mean for it to happen,’ he’d mumbled, ‘but it has and I can’t go on pretending any longer.’
Joanna remembered the New Year’s Eve they’d shared four nights ago. And decided that he’d done a bloody good job of pretending.
She was called Samantha, apparently. Worked at the same advertising agency as he did. An account director, no less. It had begun the night Joanna had been doorstepping a Tory MP on a sleaze story and hadn’t made it in time to Matthew’s agency’s Christmas party. The word ‘cliché’ still whirled round her head. But then she checked herself; where did clichés originate, if not from the common denominators of human behaviour?
‘I promise you, I’ve tried so hard to stop thinking about Sam,’ Matthew had continued. ‘I really did try all throughout Christmas. It was so great to be with your family up in Yorkshire. But then I met her again last week, just for a quick drink and . . .’
Joanna was out. Samantha was in. It was as simple as that.
She could only stare at him, her eyes burning with shock, anger and fear, as he’d continued.
‘At first I thought it was just an infatuation. But it’s obvious that if I feel like this about another woman now, I simply can’t commit to you. So, I’m only doing what’s right.’ He’d looked at her, almost beseeching her to thank him for being so noble.
‘What’s right . . .’ she’d repeated, her voice hollow. Then she’d burst into floods of coldy, fever-induced tears. From somewhere far away, she could hear his voice mumbling more excuses. Forcing open her swollen, tear-drenched eyes, she’d regarded him as he’d sunk down, small and ashamed, into her worn leather armchair.
‘Get out,’ she’d finally croaked. ‘You evil, low-down, lying, double-crossing bloody cheat! Get out! Just get out!’
In retrospect, what had really mortified Joanna was that he’d taken no further persuading. He’d stood up, muttering stuff about various possessions that he’d left at her flat, and getting together for a chat once the dust had settled, then he’d virtually charged for the front door.
Joanna had spent the rest of yesterday evening crying down the phone to her mother, her best friend Simon’s voicemail and into the increasingly soggy fur of her Winnie the Pooh hot-water bottle.
Eventually, thanks to copious amounts of Night Nurse and brandy, she’d passed out, only grateful that she had the next couple of days off work in lieu of overtime she’d put in on the news desk before Christmas.
Then her mobile had rung at nine this morning. Joanna had raised herself from her drug-induced slumber and reached for it, praying it might be a devastated, repentant Matthew, realising the enormity of what he’d just done.
‘It’s me,’ a harsh Glaswegian voice had barked.
Joanna had sworn silently at the ceiling. ‘’Lo, Alec,’ she’d snuffled. ‘What do you want? I’m off today.’
‘Sorry, but you’re not. Alice, Richie and Bill have all called in sick. You’ll have to take your days in lieu another time.’
‘They can join the club.’ Joanna had given a loud, exaggerated cough down the line. ‘Sorry, Alec, but I’m dying too.’
‘Look at it this way: work today, then when you’re fit you’ll be able to enjoy the time off owing to you.’
‘No, I really can’t. I’ve got a temperature. I can hardly stand.’
‘Then you’ll be fine. It’s a sitting-down job, at the Actors’ Church in Covent Garden. There’s a memorial service for Sir James Harrison at ten o’clock.’
‘You can’t do this to me, Alec, please. The last thing I need is to sit in a draughty church. I’ve already caught my death. You’ll end up at a memorial service for me.’
‘Sorry, Jo, no choice. I’ll pay for a cab there and back, though. You can go straight home afterwards and email me the piece. Try and talk to Zoe Harrison, will you? I’ve sent Steve to do shots. Should make the front page if she’s all dolled up. Right, speak later.’
‘Damn!’ Joanna had thrown her aching head back onto the pillow in despair. Then she’d rung a local taxi company, and staggered to her wardrobe to find a suitable black outfit.
Most of the time she loved her job, lived for it, as Matthew had often remarked, but this morning she seriously wondered why. After stints on a couple of regional papers, she’d been taken on as a junior reporter a year ago by the Morning Mail, based in London, and one of the top-selling national dailies in the country. However, her hard-won but lowly spot at the bottom of the pile meant she was hardly in a position to refuse. As Alec, the news-desk editor, never ceased to remind her, there were a thousand hungry young journalists right behind her. Her six weeks in the newsroom had been the hardest posting so far. The hours were unremitting and Alec – by turn a slave-driver and a true dedicated professional – expected nothing less than he was prepared to give himself.
‘Give me the lifestyle pages any day,’ she’d snuffled as she’d pulled on a not-terribly-clean black sweater, a thick pair of woolly tights and a black skirt in deference to the sombre occasion.
The cab had arrived ten minutes late, then had got stuck in a monumental traffic jam on Charing Cross Road. ‘Sorry, love, nothing doing,’ the driver had said. Joanna had looked at her watch, chucked a ten-pound note at him and jumped out of the cab. As she’d hared through the streets towards Covent Garden, her chest labouring and her nose streaming, she’d wondered whether life could get any worse.
Joanna was snapped out of her reverie as the congregation suddenly ceased their chatter. She opened her eyes and turned round as Sir James Harrison’s family members began to file into the church.
Leading the party was Charles Harrison, Sir James’s only child, now well into his sixties. He lived in Los Angeles, and was an acclaimed director of big-budget action films filled with special effects. She vaguely remembered that he had won an Oscar some time ago, but his films weren’t the kind she usually went to see.
By Charles Harrison’s side was Zoe Harrison, his daughter. As Alec had hoped, Zoe looked stunning in a fitted black suit with a short skirt that showed off her long legs, and her hair was pulled back in a sleek chignon that set off her classic English-rose beauty to perfection. She was an actress, whose film career was on the rise, and Matthew had been mad about her. He always said Zoe reminded him of Grace Kelly – his dream woman, apparently – leading Joanna to wonder why Matthew was going out with a dark-eyed, gangly brunette such as herself. She swallowed a lump in her throat, betting her Winnie the Pooh hot-water bottle that this ‘Samantha’ was a petite blonde.
Holding Zoe Harrison’s hand was a young boy of around nine or ten, looking uncomfortable in a black suit and tie: Zoe’s son, Jamie Harrison, named after his great-grandfather. Zoe had given birth to Jamie when she was only nineteen and still refused to name the father. Sir James had loyally defended his granddaughter and her decisions to both have the baby and to remain silent about Jamie’s paternity.
Joanna thought how alike Jamie and his mother were: the same fine features, a milk and rose complexion, and huge blue eyes. Zoe Harrison kept him away from the cameras as much as possible – if Steve had got a shot of mother and son together, it would probably make the front page tomorrow morning.
Behind them came Marcus Harrison, Zoe’s brother. Joanna watched him as he drew level with her pew. Even with her thoughts still on Matthew, she had to admit Marcus Harrison was a serious ‘hottie’, as her fellow reporter Alice would say. Joanna recognised him from the gossip columns – most recently squiring a blonde British socialite with a triple-barrelled surname. As dark as his sister was fair, but sharing the same blue eyes, Marcus carried himself with louche confidence. His hair almost touched his shoulders and, wearing a crumpled black jacket and a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, he oozed charisma. Joanna dragged her gaze away from him. Next time, she thought firmly, I’m going for a middle-aged man who likes bird watching and stamp collecting. She struggled to recall what Marcus Harrison did for a living – a fledgling film producer, she thought. Well, he certainly looked the part.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.’ The vicar spoke from the pulpit, a large picture of Sir James Harrison in front of him, surrounded by wreaths of white roses. ‘Sir James’s family welcomes you all here and thanks you for coming to pay tribute to a friend, a colleague, a father, grandfather and great-grandfather, and perhaps the finest actor of this century. For those of us who had the good fortune to know him well, it will not come as a surprise that Sir James was adamant that this was not to be a sombre occasion, but a celebration. Both his family and I have honoured his wishes. Therefore, we start with Sir James’s favourite hymn, “I Vow to Thee My Country”. Please stand.’
Joanna pushed her aching legs into action, glad that the organ began playing just as her chest heaved and she coughed loudly. Reaching for the order-of-service sheet on the ledge in front of her, a tiny, spidery hand, the translucent skin revealing blue veins beneath it, got there before her.
For the first time, Joanna looked to her left and studied the owner of the hand. Bent double with age, the woman only came up to her ribs. Resting on the ledge to support herself, the hand in which she held the service sheet shook violently. It was the only part of her body that was visible. The rest of her was shrouded in a black coat that touched her ankles, with a black net veil shielding her face.
Unable to read the sheet due to the continued shaking of the hand that held it, Joanna bent down to speak to the woman. ‘May I share with you?’
The hand offered her the sheet. Joanna took it and placed it low so the old lady could see it too. She croaked her way through the hymn, and as it ended, the woman struggled to sit down. Joanna silently offered her arm, but the help was ignored.
‘Our first reading today is Sir James’s favourite sonnet: Dunbar’s “Sweet Rose of Virtue”, read by Sir Laurence Sullivan, a close friend.’
The congregation sat patiently as the old actor made his way to the front of the church. Then the famous, rich voice, that had once held thousands spellbound in theatres across the globe, filled the church.
‘“Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness, delightful lily . . .”’
Joanna was distracted by a creak behind her and saw the doors at the back of the church open, letting in a blast of freezing air. An usher pushed a wheelchair through them and placed it at the end of the pew opposite Joanna’s. As the usher walked away, she became aware of a rattling noise that made her own chest problems seem inconsequential. The old lady next to her was having what sounded like an asthma attack. She was staring past Joanna, her gaze through her veil apparently locked on the figure in the wheelchair.
‘Are you okay?’ Joanna whispered rhetorically, as the woman put her hand to her chest, her focus still not leaving the wheelchair as the vicar announced the next hymn and the congregation stood again. Suddenly, the old lady grasped at Joanna’s arm and indicated the door behind them.
Helping the woman to her feet, then holding her upright by her waist, Joanna virtually carried her to the end of the pew. The old lady pressed into Joanna’s coat like a child wanting protection as they came adjacent to the man in the wheelchair. A pair of icy steel-grey eyes looked up and swept over them both. Joanna shuddered involuntarily, broke her gaze away from his and helped the old lady the few paces to the entrance, where an usher stood to one side.
‘This woman . . . I . . . she needs . . .’
‘Air!’ the old lady cried between gasps.
The usher helped Joanna lead the woman into the grey January day and down the steps to one of the benches that flanked the courtyard. Before Joanna could ask for further assistance, the usher had ducked back into the church and closed the doors once again. The old lady slumped against her, her breathing ragged.
‘Should I call an ambulance? You really don’t sound very well.’
‘No!’ the old lady gasped, the strength of her voice at odds with the frailty of her body. ‘Call a taxi. Take me home. Please.’
‘I really think you should—’
The bony fingers locked around Joanna’s wrist. ‘Please! A taxi!’
‘All right, you wait there.’
Joanna ran out of the gates into Bedford Street and hailed a passing black cab. The driver gallantly got out and walked back with Joanna to help the old lady to his vehicle.
‘She okay? The old duck’s breathing sounds a bit off,’ he said to Joanna, as the two of them settled the woman on the back seat. ‘Does she need to go to hospital?’
‘She says she wants to go home.’ Joanna leant into the cab. ‘Where is home by the way?’ she asked the woman.
‘I . . .’ The effort of getting into the cab had obviously exhausted her. She sat there, panting.
The cabbie shook his head. ‘Sorry, love. ’Fraid I can’t take her anywhere in that state, not by herself, like. Don’t want a death in the back of my cab. Far too messy. Could take her if you come too, of course. Then it’s your responsibility rather than mine.’
‘I don’t know her . . . I mean, I’m working . . . I should be in that church now . . .’
‘Sorry, love,’ he said to the old lady. ‘You’ll have to get out.’
The old lady lifted her veil and Joanna saw her terrified milky-blue eyes. ‘Please,’ she mouthed.
‘Okay, okay.’ Joanna sighed with resignation and climbed into the back of the cab. ‘Where to?’ she asked gently.
‘. . . Mary . . . Mary . . .’
‘No. Where to?’ Joanna tried again.
‘Mary . . . le . . .’
‘Do you mean Marylebone, love?’ the cabbie asked from the front seat.
The woman nodded with visible relief.
‘Right you are.’
The old lady stared anxiously out of the window as the cab sped away. Eventually, her breathing began to ease and she rested her head against the black leather seat and closed her eyes.
Joanna sighed. This day was getting better and better. Alec would crucify her if he thought she’d snuck off early. The story of a little old lady being taken ill would not wash with him. Little old ladies were only of interest to Alec if they’d been beaten up by some skinhead after their pension money and left for dead.
‘We’re nearly in Marylebone now. Could you try and find out where we’re going?’ called the cabbie from the front of the taxi.
‘Nineteen Marylebone High Street.’ The clipped voice rang out crisp and clear. Joanna turned to look at the old woman in surprise.
‘Feeling better?’
‘Yes, thank you. Sorry to put you to so much trouble. You should get out here. I’ll be fine.’ She indicated that they had stopped at a traffic light.
‘No. I’ll see you home. I’ve come this far.’
The old lady shook her head as firmly as she could. ‘Please, for your own sake, I—’
‘We’re nearly there now. I’ll help you inside your house and then go back.’
The old lady sighed, sank further down into her coat and said no more until the taxi came to a halt.
‘Here we are, love.’ The cabbie opened the door, relief that the woman was still alive clear on his face.
‘Take this.’ The woman held out a fifty-pound note.
‘Haven’t got change for that, I’m afraid,’ he said as he helped the old woman down onto the pavement and supported her until Joanna stood beside her.
‘Here. I’ve got it.’ Joanna handed the driver a twenty-pound note. ‘Wait for me here, please. Back in a tick.’ The old lady had already slipped from her grasp and was walking unsteadily towards a door next to a newsagent’s.
Joanna followed her. ‘Shall I do that?’ she asked as the arthritic fingers struggled to put the key in the lock.
‘Thank you.’
Joanna turned the key, opened the door, and the old lady almost threw herself through it.
‘Come in, come in, quickly!’
‘I . . .’
Having delivered the old lady safely to her door, Joanna needed to get back to the church. ‘Okay.’ Joanna reluctantly stepped inside. Immediately the woman banged the front door shut behind her.
‘Follow me.’ She was heading for a door on the left-hand side of a narrow hallway. Another key was fumbled for, then finally fitted into the lock. Joanna followed her into darkness.
‘Lights are just behind you on the right.’
Joanna felt for the switch, flicked it and saw that she was standing in a small, dank-smelling lobby. There were three doors in front of her and a flight of stairs to her right.
The old lady opened one of the doors and switched on another light. Standing just behind her, Joanna could see that the room was full of tea chests stacked one on top of the other. In the centre of the room was a single bed with a rusty iron bedstead. Against one wall, wedged in between the tea chests, was an old armchair. The smell of urine was distinct and Joanna felt her stomach lurch.
The old lady headed for the chair and sank onto it with a sigh of relief. She indicated an upturned tea chest by the bed. ‘Tablets, my tablets. Could you pass them, please?’
‘Of course.’ Joanna gingerly picked her way through the tea chests and retrieved the pills from the dusty surface, noticing the directions for use were written in French.
‘Thank you. Two, please. And the water.’
Joanna gave her the glass of water that stood next to the pills, then opened the screw-top of the bottle and emptied out two tablets into a shaking hand and watched the old lady put them in her mouth. And wondered if she was now okay to leave. She shuddered, the fetid smell and dismal atmosphere of the room closing in on her. ‘Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?’
‘Quite sure, thank you. I know what’s wrong with me, my dear.’ A small, twisted smile appeared on her lips.
‘Well then. I’m afraid I’d better be going back to the service. I have to file my piece for my newspaper.’
‘You’re a journalist?’ The old lady’s accent, now that she had recovered her voice, was refined and definitely English.
‘Yes. On the Morning Mail. I’m very junior at the moment.’
‘What is your name, dear?’
‘Joanna Haslam.’ She indicated the boxes. ‘Are you moving?’
‘I suppose you could put it like that, yes.’ She stared off into space, her blue eyes glazed. ‘I won’t be here for much longer. Maybe it’s right that it ends like this . . .’
‘What do you mean? Please, if you’re ill, let me take you to a hospital.’
‘No, no. It’s too late for all that. You go now, my dear, back to your life. Goodbye.’ The old lady closed her eyes. Joanna continued to watch her, until a few seconds later, she heard soft snores emanating from the woman’s mouth.
Feeling horribly guilty, but unable to stand the atmosphere of the room any longer, Joanna quietly let herself out and ran back to the taxi.
The memorial service was over by the time she arrived back in Covent Garden. The Harrison family limousine had left and there were only a few members of the congregation still milling around outside. Feeling really wretched now, Joanna just managed to take a couple of quotes from them before hailing another cab, giving up the entire morning as a bad job.