A Hidden Life (16 page)

‘Well, okay, maybe, but I don't see why I should feel sorry for you, you're not exactly poverty-stricken, are you?'

She couldn't really answer that. It was quite true, and every time she fretted at the unfairness of things she had to admit that she was very well off and that Constance's money was a treat and a bonus. She felt ashamed sometimes at not being more grateful for her good fortune.

‘Of course I'm not poverty-stricken,' she said now, ‘but I could help you. With the spa. I've got an awful lot of business experience, which is more than you have.' There was something about that sentence that sounded strange to her. It was like a lot of the things she'd said to Justin during their childhood when sibling rivalry was the order of the day.

‘That's true, I suppose,' he said. ‘But I'm pretty sure Eremount didn't get to be who they are by taking advice from small-business people like you, Nessa. No offence.'

‘Well, actually no, not no offence. I
am
offended. But I'm not going to fight with you, Justin. Why can't we reach some other kind of arrangement? Talk to Eremount and persuade them to let me buy some shares in the spa at a favourable rate, or something. That wouldn't be any skin off your nose, would it? You'd still have your precious millions.'

‘It's early days, Nessa. The probate on the will hasn't finally gone through. I'll think about it. I'll speak to my contacts at Eremount.'

‘Just one thing I forgot to ask.' Her hand was on the doorknob and she turned to look at Justin. ‘How much are they offering for Milthorpe House?'

‘Nearly three million.'

The mere idea of so much money made Nessa feel a little lightheaded. Fleetingly, she wondered if she ought to suggest to Justin that he gave Lou a few shares in the spa as well, but the moment passed and on her way downstairs to the street, every shred of an impulse to generosity had left her. This was nothing to do with Lou. Lou was, if you came right down to it, no real relation of hers or Justin's. They only knew her by accident, really, and though Nessa had nothing against her, she couldn't honestly say she felt a sisterly love for her. Constance had clearly, also, known something about Lou that others didn't, otherwise why on earth had she deliberately left her nothing at all? The copyright in those books was an insult. After all, Lou was the real grandchild. Justin and I, Nessa thought, weren't even distantly related to Constance. Which only went to show that, contrary to what the cleverclogs of the world thought, blood wasn't thicker than water at all. What mattered in the end was how much someone loved you. For whatever reason. And Constance hadn't loved Lou.

As she turned into the traffic on the main road, Nessa recalled a day when she was at Milthorpe House without Justin. Why was that? She couldn't remember the reason, but there she was. She must have been about eleven or twelve, sitting on the little stool by the window in Constance's bedroom. For as long as Nessa had known them, John Barrington and his wife had separate rooms. Grandad's bedroom was across the landing. It never occurred to her when she was a child that there was anything strange about this, but now, as an adult, she realized that the two people she called her grandparents can't have loved one another very much. Or, at least by the time she met them, they'd decided that sex was not an important part of their lives. I wonder why not, she thought now, waiting at a set of traffic lights. I'll never know, but Grandad was terminally quiet and sort of sulky and Constance loved a bit of fun. A party animal, caged in that huge house with a dull husband. Nessa felt a retrospective sympathy for her. There was always, also, an outside chance that they got their
kicks from visiting one another's rooms as though this were some kind of clandestine treat. Nessa could imagine such a scenario with the right person being a real turn-on – you got the sex without the snoring, so to speak – but somehow she didn't think that this was how her grandparents' marriage worked.

On this day, the one she was recalling, she was conscious for the very first time of being spoken to as though she were a grown-up. Constance was telling her things. Nessa felt privileged.

‘You're too young for all this,' Constance had said, but it hadn't stopped her. Nessa had no clue about why she was preoccupied just then with her mother-in-law, but she was. Granny Rosemary, as Matt used to call her, had been dead for some time, but Constance still seemed vaguely cross with her husband's mother.

‘She didn't have much money, really. There was the law firm, which her husband set up – my father-in-law, you know – but that was it. Whereas I, well, I was sweeping suitors off the doormat, my father used to say. Milthorpe House and Daddy's money – let's just say it was a big step up for your grandfather when he married me. And the firm acquired a kind of glamour by association with our family, you know. People like lawyers to be well connected. Rosemary knew she was lucky. She couldn't have imagined in her wildest dreams that someone like me would come along and marry John. I fell in love with him, you see. That was my mistake. You shouldn't marry someone you're in love with, Nessa. It clouds the judgement. You can't make proper decisions when you're besotted. And I
was
besotted, believe me. At least for a while. Well, he was so handsome. He's lost his looks rather in later life, hasn't he? Some people do, though not me, I'm happy to say.'

How beautifully, totally, completely self-absorbed and conceited Constance had been! Nessa smiled. Such self-love was admirable, in her opinion. She, too, believed firmly that she was always right, and her faith in her own wisdom was so overwhelming that she mostly carried everyone else along with her and they did what she said without questioning her judgement. That was certainly why Matt and Constance got on so well … he just followed instructions. Perhaps he'd even married Ellie because his mother told him to. How pathetic was that!

Nessa went back to thinking about that day in Constance's room. That was when she learned a little about John Barrington.

‘My mother-in-law,' Constance said, ‘wasn't even John's real mother. She adopted him after the war, you know. They came back here from that ghastly prison camp or whatever it was and she put him into boarding school and brainwashed him into forgetting his real mother. She was quite capable of brainwashing, believe me. A very determined woman. She became obsessed with things, you know. She used to set her mind on something and then there was no budging her. She told me once – I remember the very afternoon – that when she realized she couldn't have a child of her own, she'd thought her life was over. Then she said, “Until John came along. That was fortunate for me.” And his real mother was supposed to be her best friend! Imagine! John's mother was French, you know. Rosemary told me that. John's never spoken about her. Never once. Or not to me. It doesn't worry me, but it's rather peculiar, if you ask me. Well, he's an unusual man. I think,' (she'd leaned towards Nessa at this point, shaking a finger quite near her face) ‘I think a great deal of him went into those silly books of his. Much good did they do him! There's only a sort of shell of him left, you know, even though it's years since he wrote anything. The books used him up, in a way. He doesn't really speak to me any longer. Not about anything sensible. He doesn't know how to gossip. I can't bear that. I do miss your mother, you know. She's a wonderful gossip. I wish she lived in this country. I expect you do, too, poor little thing. Never mind, I'm a kind of mother to you, aren't I? To you and Justin.'

I knew even then, Nessa thought, that Constance wanted me to say something along the lines of
yes, you're just as good as our real mother and much better than Phyl
and I didn't. In those days, I was more conscious of having to be good and what I was supposed to say and do and I knew Matt would be upset if I slagged off his new wife. I wanted an easy life.

Was she going to be in time to pick Tamsin up? She'd left it a bit late, but she probably would make it. If not, she could ring one of the other mothers and leave Tamsin with them till she got there. Her mind went back to Milthorpe House. What would she feel if it became a spa? Could she pretend that she was attached to it as a
childhood home? Not really. She'd loved Constance. She liked going there, but if Constance wasn't around, would she really prefer to live there than in her own home? The answer to that was probably no. Now that she'd had time to adjust to Justin's news, she found herself rather more annoyed than she was at first. Okay, there was no real reason why her brother should share his wealth, but there was so much of it that surely he ought to have given some thought to his sister? No, of course he wouldn't. Why on earth should he? There was nothing in her financial position which might have persuaded him she needed help. And I wouldn't give him any money if our situations were reversed, she admitted to herself. Briefly, she thought of Lou – living on a pittance, apparently. Would Justin think of offering her any shares? Doubtful, as she didn't have anything to spare to buy into this kind of financial lottery. Besides, Justin and Lou never saw one another. She'd practically disappeared out of his life when Justin had moved out of Matt and Phyl's house.

‘Damn and blast Constance!' she muttered to herself, as a sudden wave of anger overcame her. And shame that she was being a bit unfair. Just plain envious. After all, she'd been well provided for, but the idea of Justin in possession of three million pounds – it was too much. A spa in Milthorpe House. How would Matt and Phyl react if they knew? Mostly they'd be pissed off that none of the money, not one penny as far as they could see, would be ending up in the bank account of the number one daughter, Lou.

Harry would be arriving in ten minutes or so, and Lou was as ready as she was ever going to be, as well as completely exhausted. It had been over a year since she'd spent more than ten minutes deciding what to wear. Since Poppy's birth, all she strove for every day was something clean. It didn't even have to be properly ironed. Everything would get Poppyfied: spittled on, food-spattered, sometimes even vomited over. She hadn't even had to think about her clothes for Constance's funeral, because there wasn't a choice to be made. She had one decent suit and she'd worn it, thanking her lucky stars that it was black. She'd also put on make-up that day, but since then she'd lived in jeans and a selection of T-shirts and sweatshirts.

This date with Harry was a bit of a problem. If she dressed up too much, she'd be signalling that this was ‘a date'. So, easy on the lip-gloss, no red nails suddenly after weeks and weeks of colourless varnish, and probably no dresses of a ‘take me out to a smart bar' variety. As she didn't own such a garment anyway, it was lucky that she didn't want to wear it. By the time every single item in her wardrobe was lying across her bed, she was out of breath and time was short. In the end, she opted for a dark red skirt with a swirly hem, a nice leather belt and a blouse that didn't have that much going for it apart from the fact that it was new and clean. If you were being kind, you could call it classic. Otherwise, boring just about summed it up. Shoes were okay. She'd bought a pair of fabulous black suede boots in a sale last Christmas and they were still the smartest thing in her wardrobe. Or were the heels too high? For a panicked second, she wondered whether she should change into flats, but then there wasn't time and in the end she was glad of the way the boots made her look – far more in control than she felt.

The front-door buzzer sounded at precisely seven-thirty.

‘Hello, Harry!' she said, as she opened the door. He stood on the landing, dressed in the same kind of clothes he always wore.

‘Hello, Lou. You look nice,' he said. ‘I've never seen you in a skirt.' Then he frowned. ‘I'm sorry – is that too personal? I'm never sure if it's okay to say someone looks good.'

‘It's fine. Thanks … I like getting compliments.'

‘It's a shame I'm not going to meet Poppy.'

Lou felt awkward. ‘I know, she's staying with my mum. I left her there for a bit to give me a chance …' She stopped suddenly, aware that she'd nearly told him about the screenplay she was writing. She took a deep breath. ‘Well, a chance to get myself together. You know …' Her voice faded. Was this going to be hard work? She went on, ‘Actually, I think my mum is the one who wants it more than anyone. She adores Poppy.'

Harry perched on the sofa and waited for her to get her jacket and pick up her handbag. How, Lou wondered, did you do this? Everything she thought of saying sounded too hearty and jolly. In the end, she just went to the door, hanging on to the strap of her handbag for
dear life, and looking at Harry for some kind of lead. He jumped up.

‘Sorry … you're ready. Let's go, I'm starving.'

‘Me too.'

They stepped out and Lou locked the flat door behind her.

‘It's not far,' Harry said as they walked down the road. ‘D'you like Indian?'

‘Love it. It's my favourite.'

‘You okay with the Tube?'

Lou laughed. She couldn't help it. ‘Sorry … only no one's ever asked me that before. Yes, the Tube's fine.'

‘I do have a car,' Harry said. ‘It's just not very reliable. Feeling its age. And it's pointless driving in London. I just keep it for going away at weekends.'

‘Where d'you go?' Lou regretted the question as soon as it was out of her mouth. Would he think she was being too nosy?

‘All over. I like Cornwall, and I've got friends who live in the Lake District near Kendal … Norfolk's nice too. My parents live there.'

They sat next to one another on the Tube, and talked about nothing very much. The train was quite crowded and noisy with tourists speaking in several languages, so Lou was able to gaze at Harry's reflection in the window and think all over again how nice-looking he was, even if no one could call him properly handsome. She was beginning to enjoy herself.