Unable and unwilling to stop herself, she unveiled the pictures just before the ending. And they were always the same. Concerned with rehearsals and plans for a tour of one-night stands that had come up, she had been too busy and preoccupied to give him her time. Home from school for the summer vacation, he had been in the way, it was as simple as that. But then she had discovered that a neighbour’s son was going off to summer camp up in the Catskills. ‘Darling, it’ll be perfect for you,’ she’d said. ‘You’ll drive up with Wayne and his dad, and then I’ll come and pick you up and bring you home when my tour is over.’

  But he had pleaded with her. ‘Oh, Mom, no – I don’t want to go.’

  ‘But darling, it’s only for three weeks, then we’ll have all the rest of the summer together. We’ll do something special.’

  ‘But you said I’d spend the summer here with you.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but that was before my tour came up, and you can’t come along on that, can you, now?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, be sensible. It would be impractical. And it wouldn’t be any fun for you anyway, would it? – schlepping around with Carrie and me, sleeping in hotel rooms night after night, eating all your meals in restaurants. You’ll be much better off at camp.’

  ‘I’d like all that, Mom,’ he’d said. ‘You know I would. And I don’t like going away on my own.’

  ‘You won’t be on your own. You’ll be with Wayne.’

  ‘Wayne gets on at me all the time.’

  ‘Oh, darling – please don’t make it difficult for me…’

  ‘Can’t I stay here?’ He was whining now. ‘Mrs Ruth will come over and look after me.’ Elda Ruth was the maid-cook-housekeeper, and one of the few constants in his young life. ‘She can sleep over. We’ll be okay, the two of us.’

  But no, Rosemary had said, it wouldn’t work: Elda had her own commitments. And so, in spite of his protests he had gone off that Sunday afternoon in July, riding with Wayne and Wayne’s father in the blue Chevy, and Rosemary had breathed a sigh of relief and got back to the business in hand.

  She had learned of the accident later that same afternoon, from the police officer who came to the house, when she was wondering why David hadn’t phoned to tell her of his arrival. On seeing the uniformed stranger’s set, pale expression she had known at once that something had happened. A moment later, when he took off his cap, she guessed the worst. Haltingly, he told her that there had been a five-vehicle pile-up on the freeway. Struck from behind by an out-of-control semi, the Chevy had exploded into a fireball. There were no survivors. The officer’s words had seemed to ring in the room, and she had cried out, striking him on the chest, ‘No! No! You can’t say that! You can’t!’ And even now, through the haze of time she could still see the fabric of the man’s uniform, see his face – stolid, inadequate to deal with her despair.

  Fortunately Carrie had been there.

  ……TWO

  Sitting before her dressing-table mirror, her hair wrapped in a towel, Rosemary gently smoothed moisturiser into her cheeks and around her mouth and eyes. Carrie stood nearby at the wardrobe, arranging Rosemary’s clothes. On the bureau a radio played soft, unidentifiable music, interrupted every few minutes by the self-consciously seductive tones of a disc jockey.

  ‘I hate Fridays,’ Rosemary said with a sigh. ‘It’s such a useless bloody day. Damn all ever happens.’

  Her accent was a strange mixture. Her East-End-of-London origins were still sometimes faintly noticeable, as were the traces of her West End success. But there on the top, covering the Cockney and cut-glass were shades of the American accent she had unwittingly adopted over the years.

  ‘Did you make my appointment with Carl for tomorrow?’ she asked. Carl was her hairdresser.

  Carrie nodded. ‘For three o’clock.’

  ‘Good.’ Rosemary looked at her nails. ‘And I need a manicure, too. Yes, and the next –’ She broke off suddenly, and as Carrie opened her mouth to speak she impatiently flapped a hand at her. ‘Listen!’

  From the radio came the familiar words of a song, sung by a voice, mellow, rich, and smooth as velvet.

  When all the skies were grey,

  And all my songs were blue songs,

  You drove the clouds away,

  And smiled and sang me new songs…

  The women listened as though neither had ever heard the song or the singer before. Yet every phrase, every breath was known to them by heart. Hearing it now, after so long, Rosemary forgot for a moment the crow’s feet at her eyes and the greying roots of her hair, and saw herself young again, standing at the mike in front of the band, before a sea of adoring faces, the sound of applause ringing in her ears.

  The words of the song echoed softly in the room.

  And when other friends denied me,

  You were there, my friend, beside me.

  That was you. You were always there…

  The recording had been one of Rosemary’s biggest hits, made when she had been in her early twenties, and although the orchestral arrangement now sounded dated, the intervening span of time had imbued it with a distinct, special charm. They listened, catching every breath, every nuance of Rosemary’s soft, lilting tone, listened as she caressed the phrases of the middle eight, and the closing bars of the final chorus:

  …But of all the things you brought me,

  Above it all, you taught me how to care.

  For you were always, always, always there.

  As the soaring chords of the accompanying chorus and orchestra died away, the voice of the DJ brought the women abruptly back to the present.

  ‘“You Were Always There”, sung by Rosemary Paul,’ he said. And with a little sigh of admiration: ‘And beautifully done too. Rosemary was one of the most popular singers in her native England when that record was made. Which of course was before she came over to this side of the pond. Okay – her star has faded somewhat over the years, but we’ve just learned that a record company in Britain is issuing an album of some of her best stuff. Let’s hope it’ll be available soon.’ A pause and he added, ‘Of course, she was a little before my time, but with a voice like that she shouldn’t be forgotten.’ There came the blast from a trumpet as the next record began. The sound, though, was drowned by Rosemary’s angry voice.

  ‘Turn that fucking thing off!’ she yelled, then growled, ‘A little before his time? I wish he was here right now. I’d have his balls.’

  Carrie switched off the radio. As she turned back to Rosemary she was suddenly struck by how vulnerable she looked with her face devoid of make-up. And how different it was, she thought, from the impression that Rosemary had usually managed to give over the years – that of brittle career woman. Though how much of it was sham and how much the real thing was now academic. There had been many times when Rosemary’s tough exterior had proved to be her downfall; other times when it had been her salvation. Whatever it was, though, it was there, and one either coped with it or got out.

  Those who coped with Rosemary, Carrie knew, were generally those who saw another side to her. Carrie herself, of course, had seen it over the years, and at no time more clearly than when David had died. David’s death had left Rosemary completely shattered, and more and more, in attempts to block out her pain, she had turned to alcohol, until in the end there had come a complete breakdown, and she had been carried, hysterical and screaming obscenities, to Belle Vue mental hospital. Later, when Carrie had brought her back home, under the part-time care and supervision of a nurse, Rosemary had retreated from the world. Moving about the house like a zombie, she had appeared totally withdrawn, hardly speaking, and showing interest in nothing and no one.

  After a while Carrie had dismissed the nurse, taking complete charge herself, at the same time doing all she could to give the impression that all was operating as usual. In Rosemary’s name she wrote letters, and even signed cheques in a facsimile of Rosemary’s signature to pay the bills.

  Later, when Rosemary was stronger, the two women had taken a trip together. With no plans or itinerary to adhere to, they wandered from place to place, as the mood took them. There were days in the country, afternoons on sunlit beaches and quiet evenings with other friendly sojourners. And gradually some of the light had returned to Rosemary’s eyes and they had begun to shine again with something of their old spirit.

  The experience, though, had taken its toll, and Rosemary found that her voice had been affected. The hoarseness when she spoke did not go, and as the weeks passed it was feared that her voice might be permanently impaired. A specialist was consulted and, after a lengthy examination, he confronted her across his office desk. ‘The right vocal cord appears to be paralysed,’ he said. ‘It might be the result of a growth of some kind, or it may have arisen as the result of emotional stress. We shall need more tests.’

  When the required tests revealed no malign condition she was given exercises to perform night and morning. And gradually, over the weeks, her voice became stronger, and Carrie began to hear once more the familiar tones ringing through the house. Often strident, laced with impatience and invective, they brought relief and pleasure to her ears.

  But Rosemary’s singing voice did not come back as it had once been. The soft, mellow tones that she had once produced with ease now seemed beyond her. One evening with Carrie beside her, she sat at the piano and tentatively went over one of her old songs. It was not a success. Her voice cracked and broke on notes that she had once reached with no difficulty. Eventually, stopping in the middle of a phrase, she lowered the piano lid and sat staring ahead.

  ‘It’s been a long time, Rosie,’ Carrie said. ‘You can’t expect miracles.’

  Rosemary made no reply, but from that day her records were consigned to the basement. On one occasion, much later, Carrie suggested that they fetch them up and play them. Rosemary’s reaction was so furious that Carrie knew she must not bring up the subject again.

  …..THREE

  The house was a large, wood-frame affair situated on the northern edge of Nyack, in Rockland County, upstate New York. Perched on the western bank of the Hudson, it was reached from the road by a long, curving drive that wound through a couple of acres of grounds, a small part of which was formally kept with lawns, while the rest had been left more or less to itself. The land was separated from that of its neighbours by patches of woodland, which had once thickly forested the river’s banks. Now thin and straggling, the trees still served their present purpose – that of preserving, to a degree, the house’s seclusion.

  For Carrie, it was the only home she had known since leaving Fort Worth all those years ago. She treasured her time there, and did all she could to help with the smooth running of the place.

  Today, Wednesday, was one of the days she set aside for household chores. There had been a time, years ago, when most of the housework had been done by Elda, but that had been when Carrie had other things to do, helping with Rosemary’s career and caring for David. When David had died and Rosemary’s career had faltered, she had been needed in a different way. Then, later, when things were on a more even keel again, she had asked Rosemary what the point of paying Elda to come in to keep house was when she, Carrie, was there, and no less capable. So Elda had been let go, and Carrie had taken over her duties. And so it had remained.

  Now, after having spent several hours vacuuming and dusting, she had put aside her house-cleaning tools and come out to get some air. She found only a limited comfort, however. The day that had begun so fine had now, by four o’clock, become unbearably humid. She sat for a while with her book in the clammy heat, and then went back into the house and put on her bathing-suit and bathrobe. In the kitchen she poured herself a Coke. She heard no sound as she moved towards the rear door. Rosemary must still be lying down in her room, as she sometimes did on these warm afternoons.

  Reaching the pool, Carrie put aside her robe and stepped down into the cool water. A few leaves floated here and there on its surface. It needed a clean, and she made a mental note to mention it to Joe, the young gardener who came to work on the property for one morning each week.

  Lunging forward she slowly swam a couple of lengths of the pool, then, returning to the steps, climbed out again. After drying herself off she donned her robe and seated herself on one of the garden chairs. Sheltered from the sun by the leaves of the elms, she sipped her Coke and opened her book again.

  It was no good. Her Danielle Steele novel, so promising, could not win against the discomfort of the sweltering heat, and eventually she put it aside, gathered up her things and moved back to the house.

  Entering the interior out of the sunlight, she came to a halt, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. And it was then, to her great surprise, that she heard Rosemary’s voice, in song, coming from the music room. Knowing that Rosemary would not welcome any listener, she turned to creep away in silence. However, moving too quickly in the dimness she stumbled against the hall table, knocking over a large brass pot. It fell to the floor with a crash. At once the singing stopped. Then from behind the closed door came Rosemary’s voice:

  ‘Carrie?’

  Carrie hesitated before she answered. ‘Yes…?’

  After a moment the door opened and Rosemary stood there. ‘What were you doing out here?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Carrie picked up the pot and replaced it on the table. ‘I just came in from the garden. I couldn’t see in the dark.’

  ‘You were snooping.’

  ‘No, Rosie.’ Carrie shook her head. ‘Of course I wasn’t. I told you – I couldn’t see, coming out of the sun. I’m sorry I disturbed you.’

  ‘What do you mean – disturbed?’

  ‘Well – your singing.’

  At Carrie’s words, anger sprang into Rosemary’s eyes.

  ‘You were snooping!’ In sudden fury, Rosemary lashed out, her hand a fist, striking Carrie on the shoulder. There was little pain from the blow, but the shock was enough to cause Carrie to drop the glass, the tumbler shattering on the tiled floor. She stared at Rosemary for a moment, then, covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears.

  Still crying, she crouched and began to gather up the fragments. At once Rosemary’s hand was on her arm.

  ‘Leave it. I’ll do it.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Carrie blinked, her vision distorted by her tears.

  ‘Leave it, this instant.’ Rosemary’s touch, gentle but firm, urged Carrie to her feet. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Oh, Carrie, forgive me.’

  ‘I wasn’t snooping, Rosie,’ Carrie said, sniffing. ‘Truly I wasn’t.’

  ‘No, I know you weren’t.’ Rosemary’s expression showed her remorse. ‘It’s just me. I’m so sorry. I just couldn’t bear the thought that anyone had heard me – trying to sing. That’s why I waited till you were out of the house. I wanted – wanted to see if I could still do it.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, now I know I can’t.’

  ‘Oh, no, don’t say that.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’ Pulling Carrie closer, Rosemary kissed her cheek and gently laid her hand on the spot where she had struck her. ‘God, I’m so sorry. I’m just so damned edgy these days. I don’t know – getting that letter and then hearing my song on the radio…’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing.’ She noticed that there was blood on Carrie’s finger. ‘You’ve cut yourself,’ she said.

  Carrie sniffed. ‘It’s just a scratch.’

  ‘Come on.’

  An arm around Carrie’s shoulders, Rosemary led her to the bathroom where she opened the medicine chest and got out peroxide and cotton wool. When she had cleaned the small cut she covered it with a plaster. ‘There.’ With a little laugh she lifted Carrie’s hand to her mouth. ‘Kiss it better,’ she said. ‘All right now?’

  Carrie smiled. ‘All right now.’

  ‘You forgive me?’

  ‘Oh, Rosie, of course. You were upset.’

  When they had cleaned up the remains of the broken glass, Rosemary led the way into the music room.

  The room had rarely been used in recent years. Sometimes, when Rosemary was out of the house, Carrie would venture in and sit at the piano and accompany herself as she sang a few songs. But those times were rare.

  Today the piano stood with its lid up and the long-unplayed keys shining in the light from the window.

  ‘You know?’ Rosemary said, ‘I had a really crazy idea… Hearing my song on the radio and everything, I thought, well, what with my album coming out in England, maybe…’ She let her words trail off.

  ‘Go on,’ Carrie said.

  ‘Well.’ Rosemary shrugged. ‘I thought about what you said – that it could be the start of something…’

  ‘Yes…?’

  ‘And I got this crazy idea into my head that – that maybe I could go back.’

  ‘To England?’

  ‘Yes. I thought maybe I could go back and…’ She hesitated. ‘I mean, this would be the time to do it. Now, when the CD is going into the stores and being played on the radio.’ She bent to the piano and struck a note with her forefinger. Straightening again, she shook her head and said, ‘I even found myself starting to make plans. Would you believe it? Even thinking about what I’d wear. Isn’t that ridiculous? The only thing I was forgetting was that I don’t have a voice any more.’

  She gazed off for a moment, then turning to Carrie, she said, ‘Wait here,’ and went from the room. A few minutes later she was back, carrying over her arm a cream lace dress.

  ‘Here.’ She held it out to Carrie.

  ‘Huh?’