The Summer Seekers Page 10

  What I want, Martha thought, is something older and slower.

  But Kathleen shook her head. “One of the advantages of being challenged in the height department, is that we don’t need legroom. I want the Mustang.”

  Two days in Kathleen’s company had taught Martha that what Kathleen wanted Kathleen got.

  She thought back over the whirlwind of the past forty-eight hours.

  After they’d landed in Chicago, they’d checked in to a smart hotel, where Kathleen had reserved a suite with two bedrooms. Martha’s bathroom had been bigger than her bedroom back home.

  Kathleen had flung open the doors to the balcony and breathed deeply, as if she was inhaling oxygen for the first time in years. She’d stood there, gazing at the view of Chicago and then said yes, in a voice that suggested she was more than satisfied.

  The whole trip was getting a big yes from Martha too.

  Apart from the driving part, she was living the dream. Luxury! A room big enough to dance in without the risk of smacking your limbs on the walls. No family pointing out all her faults. Best of all, no chance of Steven turning up on the doorstep.

  The suite was incredible, but how on earth could Kathleen afford it? Had she robbed a bank in her youth? The wicked twinkle in her eye made Martha think that anything was possible.

  And what exactly were the rules of this trip? Was she supposed to stay out of the way or join Kathleen?

  This job hadn’t come with any instructions, apart from the fact that she was expected to drive. She was looking forward to spending a quiet evening with a large burger, and her tattered copy of The Grapes of Wrath to get herself in the mood, although she hoped there would be considerably less drama and hardship in her version of the journey across America.

  Overwhelmed by gratitude for her new life, Martha had joined Kathleen on the balcony.

  “Shall I order something to eat from room service, Kathleen? You’d probably like an early night.” Her grandmother had always had a nap in the afternoon. She knew Mrs. Hartley did too because she yelled at anyone who knocked on her door between three and four.

  Kathleen, however, was buzzing. “Early night? It’s five in the afternoon.”

  Her skin was pale and her eyes looked tired but they gleamed with an excitement that spiked Martha’s excitement too.

  It wasn’t her job to argue with her new employer. She was a driver and companion, not a minder. And if you didn’t know what you wanted by the time you were eighty, then what hope was there?

  Liza’s concerned frown slid into her mind. Martha had enough experience of disapproval to know that Kathleen’s daughter had disapproved of her. She was a little daunted by Liza, and not only because she envied anyone with well-behaved hair. Liza’s was as smooth and pale as buttermilk. And then there was her air of competence. Martha hadn’t needed to be told she was a teacher. She doubted there had ever been an issue Liza couldn’t solve, or a class she couldn’t control.

  But she wasn’t employed by the daughter, was she? She was employed by the mother.

  Still, there was no harm in checking. “It’s ten o’clock back home. No, wait—it’s a six-hour difference. So it’s eleven at home.” Her mother would be cleaning her teeth and yelling at her dad to check that he’d locked the doors. Martha was grateful she wasn’t there.

  “You’re on Chicago time now. We have a couple of hours to shower and freshen up, and then we’re going for dinner and cocktails.”

  “Cocktails?” Her grandmother had always drunk hot cocoa before bed. Martha had made it for her, using exactly the right amount of milk and sugar. Sometimes she’d eaten a nice digestive biscuit.

  Kathleen gazed out over the skyline. “Last time I was here, I drank cocktails. I want to do it again.”

  “You’ve been here before? When?”

  “I was thirty. It was my first trip to Chicago.”

  “I can’t wait to hear all your stories. You can tell me over drinks.” It sounded so adult and sophisticated. She, Martha, was going to drink cocktails and talk about exotic travel. Her conversation was normally restricted to the mundane, but tonight she was going to travel through Kathleen’s experiences. Or maybe she was being too presumptuous. “I don’t have to join you of course. If you’d rather be by yourself—”

  “Why would I want to be my myself? You’re part of this adventure.” Kathleen beamed. “You’re a jet-setter now, Martha.”

  Martha didn’t feel like a jet-setter and she was pretty sure she didn’t look like one either, but she was willing to do whatever it took to embrace that lifestyle.

  “What should I wear?”

  “Casual chic.”

  What exactly was that?

  In the end she wore the only dress she owned. She grabbed her denim jacket in case she was chilly and slid her feet into a pair of white running shoes.

  Kathleen was wearing her customary floaty layers in jewel colors, with a narrow gold watch on one wrist and multiple bangles on the other. With her cropped white hair and her effortless elegance, she looked impossibly glamorous.

  When you looked at her you saw bone structure and poise rather than age, Martha thought.

  “You look beautiful, Mrs. Harrison.”

  “Call me Kathleen.” Kathleen picked up her purse. “We’re heading up to the roof terrace, where we will drink Manhattans and eat lobster risotto.”

  Was that going to be delicious or disgusting? Martha pictured herself in the local pub at home on her return. I’ll have a Manhattan and lobster risotto. The response would probably be, What, love? accompanied by a blank look, a plate of fish fingers and half a pint of beer.

  The roof terrace turned out to have views over downtown Chicago, and the lake beyond that.

  “This is very cool.” Martha settled herself at the nearest available table but Kathleen gestured to the waiter.

  She said something that Martha couldn’t hear, and the next moment they were being ushered to a table by the balcony, with the best views of the skyline.

  Martha sneaked a look at the people around her, relieved to see a variety of clothing. Some were casual, some dressier in their approach, but they all had one thing in common—confidence. They all looked as if they belonged.

  Martha sat up a little straighter and tried to look as if this glamorous bar was her normal habitat even though she was sure she wasn’t fooling anyone. She probably stood out like a zebra on a sandy beach.

  And then the cocktails appeared, delivered with a flourish.

  “To adventure.” Kathleen raised her glass and Martha, half dizzy with jet lag, tiredness and an overdose of excitement, lifted hers too.

  “To adventure.” And a new life, far away from her old one.

  Martha, explorer and drinker of exotic cocktails.

  Take that, Slimy Steven.

  She took a mouthful of the cocktail and almost choked. Her alcohol intake was restricted by her lack of funds, and when she drank she usually drank the beer her dad kept in the fridge. She probably had the most unsophisticated palate on the planet.

  It took three sips for her to discover that the cocktail was the best thing she’d ever tasted and four to decide she’d be quite happy never to drink anything else. By the time she’d emptied her glass she realized that Kathleen was nothing like her own grandmother.

  There was a strange spinning feeling in her head. Jet lag? Cocktail? Having had no experience of either before this moment, it was impossible to tell.

  Kathleen ordered another and Martha was about to point out that drinking so much on an empty stomach might not be such a good idea when the lobster risotto arrived.

  Chicago was spread before them, glittering and bright.

  “What did you say that persuaded them to give us this view?”

  “I told them the truth.” Kathleen picked up her fork. “That I’m of somewhat advanced y
ears and one never knows if this could be my last supper.”

  Martha wasn’t used to people acknowledging their own mortality so openly. What should she say? Don’t be silly, you’re going to be fine. But what if she wasn’t fine? What if Kathleen died on this trip?

  She took another slug of her drink. She’d never seen a dead body.

  Was it selfish to hope that Kathleen at least didn’t die until the end of the trip? She didn’t want this adventure to end yet. Nor did she want to be blamed by scary Liza for leading her mother to her doom.

  Maybe it was in her interests to be at least a little protective.

  “Are you generally well? Anything I should know about?” She probably should have asked Kathleen to have a medical check, or produce a certificate of health, but given that Kathleen hadn’t asked her for proof of her driving experience that wouldn’t have been fair.

  “I’m eighty. You could say I’m like a classic car. I need maintenance. My engine stutters and I have scratches on my paintwork, but still I endure.” Kathleen raised her glass. “To living in the moment.”

  Martha raised her glass too. “Living in the moment.” Which was fine, as long as her moment didn’t include having to deal with Kathleen’s dead body. They were going to be driving through Death Valley, weren’t they? It didn’t sound auspicious. Maybe they should take a different route. Also the car analogy didn’t thrill her because she didn’t have a good track record with cars. She didn’t want to be responsible for putting another dent in Kathleen’s paintwork. “Shall I order you a juice? Water?”

  “I’ll have one more cocktail to celebrate our first night. You?”

  One more cocktail would ensure she woke with a headache, so Martha shook her head. She had a feeling she would have enough reasons for headaches on this trip without adding an excess of alcohol to the mix.

  “Sparkling water, please.”

  Kathleen beamed at the waiter and gestured to her glass. “That man is very dishy. You probably don’t even know what that word means, do you? Your generation would say cute, or so my granddaughters tell me.”

  “Cute works.”

  “Fifty years ago I would have invited him back to my room. He has wonderful eyes and a cheeky smile.” Kathleen looked at Martha thoughtfully. “Maybe you—”

  “No. Thank you. I’m not interested.” Adventure, yes. Road trip, yes. Cocktails, definitely. Men? No way. What did it say about her life that an eighty-year-old was trying to fix her up with someone?

  Kathleen leaned in. “You’re gay?”

  “No, not gay. A bit off relationships right now.” She thought about Steven and thinking about Steven made her wish she’d ordered another cocktail instead of water. “I should take a photo of you to send to Liza. I promised her I would. Should you put the drink down? Will she be concerned?”

  “She would probably be more concerned if I wasn’t drinking.” Kathleen posed against the skyline as Martha took photos on her phone.

  As she put her phone away she noticed that she had two missed calls from Steven. Some of the magic oozed out of the moment. Even this far from home, he could still ruin her evening.

  She was tempted to send a photo of herself sipping cocktails together with a message, Can’t talk now, I’m busy.

  Kathleen was watching her. “Everything all right?”

  “Fine.” She zipped up her bag and tried to forget about it. “Tell me more about you, Kathleen. Did you always travel a lot?”

  “Yes. And this place is as exciting as I remembered. Doesn’t it raise your pulse looking at it?”

  “Your pulse is raised?” Martha sat up straighter. “Any pains in your chest or anything?” She should have done a first aid course before coming on this trip.

  Kathleen seemed untroubled. “At my age there are always aches and pains. It’s best not to dwell on them.”

  Martha had a few pains of her own, mostly around her heart. Her feelings and her confidence were bruised and battered. She was all for trying not to dwell on it.

  “Did you come here as a tourist?” She realized that the only thing she knew about her employer was that she lived in a nice house in the middle of nowhere, seemed to have enough money to pay for expensive hotels and was determined to live out the rest of her years in a manner unbecoming for her age.

  “I was working.” Kathleen put her fork down. “I presented a travel show. Decades before you were born, of course. I traveled the world. I was a household name for a while.”

  “What was the show called?”

  “The Summer Seekers. You’re far too young to remember it, but your mother might.”

  Martha had no intention of communicating with her mother. She was enjoying the break, and she had no doubt that the feeling was mutual. “You were a journalist?”

  “I started working at a television company when I finished college. I did a number of jobs, but then it turned out I was rather good at presenting. I worked on a few different shows, including one for children. And then came The Summer Seekers. Have you ever done a job in your life that felt absolutely right?”

  “No.” Martha saw no reason not to be honest. “I suppose you could say I’m still—finding my way. Trial and error, you know?” There had been more errors than she cared to remember.

  “Well, The Summer Seekers was right for me. Right from the beginning, I loved it. What I tried to do in my reports was to give people a taste of the place. I wanted people to make up their minds if they wanted to visit, and armchair travelers—and there were plenty of those—to feel as if they’d visited even though they hadn’t left the comfort of their own homes. Once we arrived in a place it was up to me to decide what to highlight. I’d look at the culture, the food, but I’d always cover a few places that were off the beaten track. If I was lucky I’d find a local willing to join me for a day and take me to all their favorite haunts. That insider perspective gave viewers a feel for the real place.”

  Martha was fascinated. “Are any of your old shows on the internet?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t use the internet. I do have them on DVD, but they’re at home.”

  “If you don’t use the internet, how did you book the flight tickets, the hotels and the car?”

  Kathleen paused. “If I tell you, you need to promise not to tell Liza. She would disapprove.”

  It seemed funny to Martha that Kathleen was keeping secrets from her own daughter. Maybe she wasn’t the only one who found Liza a little scary.

  “I promise.”

  “My neighbor did it for me.”

  Martha ate her risotto slowly, savoring each mouthful. “Why is that a problem?”

  “Because he is considered to be a little on the disreputable side.”

  “Disreputable. I love the way you talk.” Martha grinned. “What does he do?”

  “He enjoys life,” Kathleen said calmly, “a trait that tends to induce a state of envy in those observing his more extreme antics. Envy masquerading as disapproval. He’s a rock star. Highly successful, so I’m told by people who know more about these things than I do. Successful enough to have bought all the land around me and several fast cars. His house is spectacular. Glorious sea views.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Finn Cool.”

  Martha dropped her fork. “You’re kidding. The Finn Cool? I love his music. I mean, he’s quite old obviously—” Too late she realized that Finn must be half Kathleen’s age. “But I still think he’s great. He booked your tickets?”

  “Not personally. He consulted me on my preferences and contacted his manager who arranged everything. He was most accommodating, and I was grateful because I couldn’t bring myself to ask Liza to do it. It doesn’t look good to say I want adventure, and then to be afraid of the internet.”

  Martha thought it was adorable. “How did you meet Finn Cool? I thought most celebrities w
ere pathologically private.”

  “It was rather amusing.” Kathleen picked up her glass and the bangles on her wrist jangled. “The entrance to his house is difficult to locate. I assume that’s why he chose the property. I’m forever having people knocking on my door asking where he lives.”

  “That must be annoying.”

  “Not at all. It’s entertaining. I once sent a grubby-looking news hack with a camera across two fields in the wrong direction.” Kathleen leaned forward. “I never trust a man flaunting a large camera lens, do you? One wonders what they’re trying to prove.”

  Martha choked on her drink. “I don’t know anyone who owns a camera. Everyone uses their phones.”

  “Well, he was one of those men one dislikes on sight, so I sent him on his way. But he somehow missed the notice about there being a bull in the field and had to be rescued by the farmer.”

  It was the funniest story she’d heard in a while. “Did Finn Cool know?”

  “Not at first. But then I rerouted a car full of young hopeful women to the next village, believing I was helping. Turned out they were guests who had been invited to one of his outrageous parties.”

  “How did you find out?”

  They called him for directions, and no doubt mentioned the unhelpful old lady who lived down the road. The next day he appeared at my door with a large bunch of flowers and a bottle of excellent gin to thank me for being the dragon at his gates. We drank some of the gin together in the garden and when I told him about the photographer he roared with laughter. After that we agreed that anyone who was a welcome and expected visitor would be issued with a code word that would be changed monthly. That way if someone knocked on my door and didn’t use the right word, I would send them on a long and interesting diversion.”

  Martha decided she loved Kathleen. “What’s this month’s code word?”

  “I’m sworn to secrecy. But he and I have an understanding. He’s not at all the way people say he is, although it’s true he does have the most enviable parties. There was one occasion when a few of his guests went for a midnight wander and ended up in my garden. Delightful women, although very economical with their clothing.”