A Summer Fling (49 page)

‘It doesn’t matter. I didn’t come to see where you live.’

It was a functional basic space but it was immaculately clean. There was a double bed standing along the left wall, and a table, chair and old sofa tarted up with a red throw under a sloping Velux window. To the right, an old walnut wardrobe, bashed pine drawers, a shoe rack with male and female shoes on it, and a run of three kitchen cupboards, two drawers and a small, shiny steel sink. There was a thick Chinese rug over a gaudy patterned carpet and the smell of Citrus Shake ’n Vac in the air. Two cups and a plate of chocolate Hob Nobs sat waiting at the side of a kettle. The door was still open and Bev was looking out of it.

‘Is she here? Will she be coming up in a bit?’ Bev said. Her accent was pure Geordie now. Another degree of separation between the sisters, if there could be another one.

‘She isn’t, no,’ said Elizabeth. ‘So you can close the door.’

‘Why isn’t she coming? She said she would.’

‘Talk to me first. Shut the door.’

Bev shut it and then went over to switch the kettle on.

‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Elizabeth just as Bev was about to ask her the ‘tea or coffee’ question. Bev spooned some coffee into a cup and Elizabeth watched her, trying to associate this stranger in front of her with the sister she had grieved so long and hard for, and failing.

‘It’s strange to see you, Elizabeth. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?’ said Bev awkwardly. She was shivering as if she was cold and pulled her cardigan tighter and defensively around her. ‘How did Lorraine find you? Is she well?’

‘She’s well,’ was all Elizabeth could manage to respond. She had planned for days what she was going to say to Bev, but the script had been torn up and left back there by the Angel of the North. Elizabeth could no longer predict how she would react in front of ‘Marilyn’.

Calmly, Bev tipped some sugar into her cup from a bag and stirred it daintily with her little finger sticking out, an action at odds with the clumsy-looking bulk of her. It was obviously for something to do because she didn’t drink from the cup afterwards, just continued to stir.

‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ she said quietly.

‘Me neither,’ said Elizabeth, in a much colder voice.

‘I really need to talk to my daughter though,’ said Bev. ‘I need to see her.’

‘Talk to me instead. She doesn’t want to see you, Bev.’

‘She wrote and—’

‘I wrote the letter – with her permission, of course. I wasn’t sure you’d agree to see me.’

‘Oh.’

‘She told me everything and I can’t say that I blame her for not wanting to come.’

Bev placed her spoon into the sink. ‘I’d hoped she would see me, just one time. I know she wouldn’t want to see me any more than once. I don’t blame her for that. I wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything I’ve done to her.’

‘You could say that by letter and spare her the face-to-face ordeal,’ replied Elizabeth.

‘I was doing it for her. I thought she might . . . might want . . .’ Bev stumbled. She took a big breath. ‘I thought she might want to pay me back.’

‘What – you wanted her to come here and slap you?’

Bev shrugged. ‘Or shout or scream at me. Whatever she needed to do.’

‘She’s not a vengeful person. She’s a wonderful, kind-hearted girl.’

‘I made so many mistakes with her.’

Marriage and motherhood had softened Elizabeth but at that moment she felt once again like the feral teenager she used to be. ‘Mistakes? That’s putting it finely, isn’t it? How could you? How could you let all those things happen? To your own child?’

‘Do you know what happened to
me
as a child? No, you don’t!’ Bev returned, the hint of a sob present in her voice. ‘You haven’t a clue what I went through.’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Elizabeth, matching her for volume. ‘I know what you went through because Dad started on me when you’d gone!’

Bev’s mouth opened into a long O. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said at last. ‘I didn’t know.’

Elizabeth laughed without the slightest bit of humour. ‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you? Because you left me to it. Didn’t it cross your mind he would try and do to me what he’d done to you? You could have told someone about him when you left, just in case, but you didn’t.’

Elizabeth thought back to the pale-faced, big, moody sister whom she used to tease, not knowing that their father was abusing her. For years, she had punished herself for not realizing, for being too young to help until John Silkstone had come into her life and loved her and forced her to face the fact that she was worthy of being loved.

‘I can’t turn the clock back and there’s too much I can’t make up for, but I wish more than anything I could. I used to take a lot of drink and drugs,’ said Bev, not meeting her sister’s eyes, ‘and I’m not trying to use that as an excuse.’

‘It isn’t an excuse,’ Elizabeth butted in.

‘No, it isn’t. Everything was my fault. I’m clean now. I got myself sorted when I came out of prison. It’s taken me a few years, mind. I’m leaving here next week. I’ve got a little council flat.’

‘That’s good,’ said Elizabeth quietly, because she couldn’t think of what else to say.

‘I should never have been a mother, I know. I should have had her adopted. I can’t ever make up for what . . . what I let happen to her. And the other one. The drugs killed her. I couldn’t stop taking them. I’ve had to face that I killed my own child, did Lorraine tell you?’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Elizabeth.

Bev sank onto the sofa and twiddled nervously with her necklace. ‘I’ve been so scared of meeting Lorraine again. I . . . I felt I had to though. But I didn’t know how to say it.’

‘I’ll tell her that you’re sorry,’ said Elizabeth. She wanted to hate this pathetic woman but she couldn’t quite manage to. Pity, revulsion, anger whirled inside her – but not hate.

‘It’s not just that.’ Bev coughed away the rasp in her voice. ‘There’s more.’

‘What?’ asked Elizabeth, as Bev’s face dropped into her hands and she sighed ‘Oh God,’ over and over.

‘It’s . . . I’m not one hundred per cent sure . . .’

Elizabeth had presumed Bev only wanted to apologize. What else could there be? ‘Not sure about what?’

‘Do you remember the Siddalls at school? I think they had a girl in every year. Charlene Siddall was in my class. She had a twin brother who went to the all boys’ school: Michael.’

‘I remember them,’ replied Elizabeth, not sure at all where this was going, but yes, she knew of the Siddalls: a rough, large family. The name still cropped up a few times in the
Barnsley Chronicle
, connected usually with drugs and fights and shoplifting.

‘I had sex with Michael Siddall,’ Bev went on.

Elizabeth was confused now. ‘What’s this got to do with Ra . . . Lorraine?’

Bev took in a long fortifying breath, but the cruel secret she had kept for over twenty-eight years came out with a whisper.

‘He could be Lorraine’s dad. I don’t know for sure, but I think he may be.’

‘What?’

‘When she was a baby, she had the look of him. Tell her I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

Bev began to cry softly into her hands as Elizabeth tried to process that information: that Raychel might not be a child of an illicit union, that she might be able to have children of her own after all.

‘Jesus Christ. Why didn’t you tell her that before?’ Elizabeth couldn’t get to grips with this at all. Why would Bev have kept something like that to herself? Why would she have told her daughter that she was born out of an incestuous relationship when the likelihood was that she hadn’t been?

‘I was a very different person then. I was hurt and I wanted to hurt back.’

Then Elizabeth knew. Bev had wanted to hate and punish her daughter for what she herself had gone through. It was so twisted it made her feel physically sick.

Bev continued to twiddle with her necklace and when Elizabeth noticed it was a crucifix, she nearly lost it totally. She covered the distance between them in two strides and, lifting Bev by the edges of her tatty cardigan, she crashed her back into the wall.

‘You told a little bairn that her father was her granddad when you didn’t know for sure? What kind of an animal are you?’

Bev shrieked but she didn’t try to defend herself. ‘I know, I know, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I did that. I’m sorry I left you too. I’m sorry I ran off and didn’t tell anyone for you.’ She was flinching, waiting for the slap that didn’t come. But Elizabeth released her grip. There was nothing to be had from more violence. She had seen enough of that. Bev remained curled against the wall.

‘I’ll tell her what you’ve said,’ said Elizabeth, calming herself. She wanted to go home now and work out how she was going to put this all to Raychel. There was just one more thing she had to do: the reason why Elizabeth had come to face her sister. She reached inside her bag and pulled out a cheque which she forced into Bev’s hand.

‘When Dad died, I sold his house. I put the money in an account for you in case I ever found you. I never touched a penny of it. It’s yours by right.’

Bev looked at her cheque blankly. Then, slowly, her hand extended towards Elizabeth. ‘It’s Bev Collier’s money,’ she said. ‘There’s no Bev Collier here.’

‘It doesn’t say “Bev Collier”. I left the payee line blank. I didn’t know what name to write,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Whatever name you write, it’s still Bev Collier’s money and there is no such person any more.’

‘It’s yours anyway.’

Bev’s hand was still stretched out. ‘I don’t want it.’

‘You have read that cheque correctly, haven’t you? There’s over forty thousand pounds in that account and it’s all yours.’

‘I can read. But I don’t want it. Take it back.’

‘You’re turning it down?’ asked Elizabeth disbelievingly. ‘No one turns that sort of money down.’

‘You obviously did. You would have used it otherwise,’ said Bev.

‘I’ll leave it with you,’ said Elizabeth, moving towards the door. She had done what she came for. But the sound of tearing paper halted her step.

‘It isn’t mine,’ said Bev, still holding the cheque, which was now in eight pieces. ‘I don’t want that sort of money. I live simply and without any complications. It’s taken me a long time to get to this stage.’

Elizabeth still didn’t look convinced.

‘Please, Elizabeth,’ implored Bev. ‘It would change things for me and I don’t want that. I can’t cope with it. Give it to Lorraine. Just don’t tell her it came from
him
. Tell her something else, something nice,’ Bev went on. ‘Don’t tell her I gave it to her. That would tie us together and we don’t belong together. She needs to be free of me. Please. That’s why I wanted to see her today. One last time.’

Elizabeth saw then that Bev meant every word.

‘I’ll do as you ask.’ Elizabeth opened the door to go. She had to get out of this room.

‘Elizabeth.’ Bev’s voice came small and cracked. It was the long-ago voice Elizabeth remembered of her sister. It dragged her back to the past, to being two girls doing a jigsaw together. Before. Tears stabbed behind Elizabeth’s eyes.

‘Just tell me, she is happy, isn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ nodded Elizabeth. ‘She’s happy.’

‘I’m glad. Goodbye, Elizabeth.’

‘Goodbye, B— Marilyn. Good luck.’

‘You too.’

Elizabeth closed the door behind her, walked down a flight of stairs, stood on the landing and wept the last tears she would ever shed for her sister. Then she dried her eyes and composed herself before going on, so John wouldn’t see she’d been crying. She strode into the street towards the car. Never did fresh air feel so good in her lungs.

Vladimir Darq was a man who considered himself blessed. He was born in Tiresti, a small village at the foot of the Transylvanian Mountains by the side of the beautiful Mure
River, to kind and loving parents. But something had always set the Darq family apart from the rest of the village. Stories circulated that they were descended from an ancient bloodline of night-dwelling creatures to be revered, feared and, above all, respected. Indeed, the sensitivity to bright sunlight that had plagued generations of the male line of Darq men, and their elongated canine teeth that grew naturally added credence to the stories. Nevertheless, the community was warm and protective over its mysterious family and Vladimir Senior wanted more than a lifetime in the mines for the son who had an amazing artistic talent and who loved to stitch with his seamstress mother. Alas, his parents had not lived to see their son catapulted to the A-list of the fashion world by both his amazing accomplishments and his mysterious vampiric allure.

The people in the Yorkshire village where he now lived were kind, accepting, straight-talking – the English version of the Romanian villagers he had grown up with. They were even becoming proud of him, the more they knew of him and his accomplishments. He had houses in Italy, Paris and London too. But Darq House was truly his home.

Vladimir was the dark darling of designers. The paparazzi adored him, reporters courted him, models tried to bed him and the young Vladimir had woken up many a morning with a beautiful woman stretched at the side of him. To the outside world, Vladimir Darq had everything. Almost. For in his heart he was still a simple boy from Romania, craving the love and family warmth sadly lacking from his dynamic career.