A Summer of Secrets (16 page)

‘If you’re wondering why I’m here,’ Bernice announced, obviously sensing his change of mood, ‘I thought it was about time you took some responsibility for our daughter.’

Oh. So it’s “our daughter” now, is it? After all these years. She
definitely
wanted something. The manipulative cow.

‘I’ve seen how well you’re doing in the papers,’ Bernice continued, uncrossing her dimpled, orange legs. ‘Quite the perfect little family you look in those pictures …’

Rich glanced at Alison. Her expression could now be classed as thunderous.

‘… and I thought to myself, that’s just not fair. Our Candi has missed out on all of that.’

‘And whose fault’s that?’ Rich blurted out. ‘I didn’t even know she bloody existed until a few days ago.’

‘That’s because I thought you wouldn’t amount to much more than working on a market stall.’ Bernice sniffed imperiously, obviously attempting to adopt the moral high ground. ‘Had to look out for a better catch, didn’t I?’

Rich’s eyes contracted to slits.

‘God knows, I’ve done my best,’ she continued, pressing a nicotine-stained hand to her chest and casting a heavenward look. ‘But it’s been a struggle. Haven’t known where our next meal’s been coming from some days. But we’ve got through. Just.’

She broke off, and regarded her audience.

‘So why are you telling me this now?’ Rich demanded. ‘What do you want?’ As if he didn’t know.

Bernice affected a disingenuous smile. ‘Money, of course. You’ve obviously got pots of it, what with this place and a house in that posh village. Me and Candi, we’re going nowhere fast. So I think, Rich, it’s about time you paid your dues. I’ve done some calculations …’ – she bent down and scooped up a cheap-looking lilac handbag, fished around in it and pulled out a piece of lined A4 paper – ‘… which I think you’ll agree are more than fair. So if you could just –’

Alison strode over to their visitor and whipped the paper from her.

‘Thank you, Bernice. Now, both my husband and I have appointments this afternoon. So we would appreciate it if you could leave now.’

Bernice, evidently taken aback by this abrupt dismissal, opened and closed her mouth a few times before hauling herself out of her seat.

‘My number’s on there,’ she said, swaying slightly on her scuffed white stilettos. ‘Make sure you don’t leave it too long to get back to me. Don’t forget, I know where you are now.’

‘As if we are likely to forget,’ retorted Alison.

Bernice’s reply took the form of a withering look encompassing both Rich and Alison, before she tottered out of the room, nose in the air.

***

Joe felt like he was on a merry-go-round. Only there was nothing “merry” about it. His head was all over the place, deliberating what to do about Tenerife. He couldn’t deny he found the idea of a new life in the sun tempting. Very tempting. Or at least he had.

Until he’d spent the day with Charlie. And what a day it had been. So mind-blowingly amazing, he hadn’t been able to think of anything else since.

With the exception, of course, of Gina.

Being with her again had confirmed what he’d already known: that he’d never stopped loving her. And the fact she wasn’t in a relationship made his overriding dream, of the three of them being a family again, a distinct possibility.

He hadn’t broached the subject with her yet, of course. It was far too early in the reunion for any such in-depth conversations. But the way he’d caught her looking at him a couple of times, he dared to hope that she still harboured feelings for him; that the bond they’d once shared could somehow be reforged.

His mobile rang. Phil.

‘Just to let you know, mate, that you’ve got another couple of weeks to make up your mind about Tenerife. There’s been a problem with the plumbing at the bar so the refurb’s taking a bit longer than planned.’

Joe breathed a sigh of relief. ‘That’s great. Thanks for letting me know.’

He ended the call and was about to put down the phone when it beeped with a text.

From Gina.

The little fair which sporadically visited the area would be there on Sunday. Would he like to go with her and Charlie?

It required all of ten seconds before his reply winged its way back to her.

‘God, sorry we’re late,’ apologised Gina, bowling up with Charlie in a stripy blue pushchair. ‘I didn’t realise the time.’

Joe was so relieved to see them, he didn’t care about the time. During the twenty minutes he’d been waiting, all kinds of hideous thoughts had flashed through his mind, like maybe she’d had a change of heart; maybe she didn’t want him in Charlie’s life; maybe she’d decided she’d made a huge mistake arranging to see him again. And so the list trundled on. But here they were now: Charlie, in a peaked cap, looking utterly adorable as he munched on a banana. And Gina, in black pedal-pushers and a white vest top, looking a little … well … rough.

‘I look dreadful, I know,’ she said, running a hand over her messy ponytail. ‘I didn’t get in until four this morning and Charlie had me up again at seven.’

Joe cocked an eyebrow. ‘Four this morning? Where were you?’

‘Clubbing. With the girls from work. It was a brilliant night. Or at least the part I can remember was brilliant.’

She laughed.

Joe didn’t.

He was too shocked. The Gina he’d known had had no interest in alcohol and clubbing.

‘Please can you put my banana skin in the bin, Joe.’

Charlie’s instruction diverted Joe’s attention away from Gina.

‘Of course,’ he said, his spirits lifting again as he looked at his son. ‘And then, how about we go on some of these rides?’

Charlie’s huge, dark eyes grew wide. ‘Oo yes, please. Are you coming, too, Mum?’

Gina puffed out her cheeks, indicating that any such activity could have an unpleasant effect on her stomach.

‘Mummy’s not feeling too well today, sweetheart.’ Then, turning to Joe, ‘You don’t mind if I just watch, do you?’

Joe felt a stab of disappointment, but he quickly batted it away. ‘Of course not. Why don’t you sit on that bench? You can watch us from there.’

Gina smiled her thanks and began unfastening Charlie from the pushchair.

The banana skin duly disposed of, Joe took Charlie on the train, the teacups and the mini waltzer. Each time, they waved over to Gina, hoping for a wave back.

None came.

She was fast asleep.

Chapter Twelve

If anyone had asked Portia to describe the day from hell, it would have run something along the lines of today. Rudely awakened again by the terrifying sounds of imaginary bombs, this had formed only part of today’s nightmare. The second instalment occurred at the bank. The third bank she’d approached in a matter of days. And the third time in said amount of days she’d been unceremoniously rejected. All the hours sourcing tradesmen’s quotes; all the nights hunched over the laptop researching her business idea, estimating just how much revenue the manor could achieve as a wedding venue, had evidently been in vain. No one, it seemed, wanted to know. Not that Portia really blamed them. The amount of cash needed to renovate the house had staggered her, never mind anyone else. And although the wedding business could be lucrative, it was also seasonal. Add the astronomical costs of hosting these events to the equation and the picture looked increasingly grim.

‘Hmm, I’m afraid the ratio of income to outgoings is rather less than we would ideally like,’ today’s trout-faced manager huffed. ‘And you do realise there are already several well-established wedding venues in the area? The competition is extremely high and there are only so many people who tie the knot every year.’

Portia had done her best to argue her point: that Buttersley Manor would be a unique proposition; in a different league to its competitors; a cut above.

‘Which I assume means you intend charging more than your competitors,’ he’d sniffed. ‘A dangerous strategy, Miss Pinkington-Smythe, which could well limit your target market. And may I ask if you intend running the business yourself?’

‘I do,’ Portia replied, doing her utmost to sound positive, despite her rapidly dwindling optimism.

‘And your experience in this area is …?’ From over the top of his spectacles, the man cocked an enquiring eyebrow.

Portia’s stomach churned. ‘Well, um, none at the moment. But I’m a quick learner.’

Across the desk, the bank manager pursed his thin lips. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Pinkington-Smythe, but on this occasion I’m afraid we are unable to help you.’

Battling the urge to throw herself at his feet and beg him to give her a chance, Portia left the building, her head high. She may have been rejected, but at least she could maintain her dignity. As soon as she turned the corner, though, out of sight of the enemy, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, a tsunami of despair flooding her veins. Obviously, no financial institution was prepared to lend her the money, so where exactly did that leave her? What other options did she have? Surely there must be some way of raising the cash. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of one. Which left her feeling more dejected than she had in her entire life. Never before had she experienced such feelings of helplessness. She’d always been in control. Handled things with the utmost proficiency; carried the confidence and know-how to effectively manage situations. Now, she didn’t even know if she could manage the drive back to Buttersley.

But as desperate as she was to return to the gatehouse cottage, dive under the duvet and block out the world for as long as possible, the drive back to Buttersley would not be occurring for quite some time. Arriving back at the car park, Portia discovered her Audi had a flat tyre. Oh God. Why today of all days? Not so long ago, she would merely have rectified the problem herself. She was perfectly capable of changing a tyre. Had done so several times before. But today, she had neither the mental nor physical energy. Instead, she tugged her mobile from her handbag and called the breakdown service.

‘One of our mechanics will be with you within the hour, Miss Pinkington-Smythe. That’s Care-for-Cars’ solemn promise,’ a chirpy female voice informed her. ‘Don’t you worry now.’

Portia wasn’t worried. She’d long since passed the point of worry, drifted over anxiety, struggled through despair and currently languished in the land of the mentally drained. She briefly considered going for a coffee but decided against it. Even a fortifying dose of caffeine wasn’t enough to tempt her into the hustle and bustle of a café. Her nerves couldn’t stand it. Besides, by the growing number of grey clouds gathering in the sky, it looked like it could well pour down any minute. No, she would wait in the car instead, and listen to the soothing tones of Bach.

The car door locked, her favourite composer’s mesmerising combination of notes drifting over her, Portia closed her eyes and attempted to banish all negative thoughts from her head by employing her yoga instructor’s script:

‘Relax the muscles of your face. Relax your cheeks, your temples …’

‘As you inhale, silently say “Let”. As you exhale, silently say “Go”…’

‘Let your body sink deeper and deeper into the relaxation until –’

At a rap on the window, Portia almost leapt out of her skin. She whipped her head round to find Jed Carr beaming in at her.

Oh, God. Could this day really get any worse?

Realising he was unlikely to go away without some form of verbal exchange, she lowered the window, immediately wishing she hadn’t as the scent of his aftershave flooded the car.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

Exhausted. Fed up. Having the day from hell and back, Portia wanted to reply. But the last person she’d admit any of that to was Jed Carr.

‘Never better, thanks,’ she replied coolly instead.

He nodded, smiling at her in a way she really wished he wouldn’t as it caused a strange sequence of contortions in her stomach.

‘I see you’ve got a flat.’

Portia lifted her eyebrows. ‘Have I really? How very observant of you.’

Jed chuckled. ‘I can change it for you, if you like.’

Irritation swept away all remnants of fluttering. If he thought for one minute that he could soften her up by acting like some kind of knight in shining armour, then he had another thing coming.

‘There’s no need,’ she replied without a hint of gratitude. ‘The breakdown service is on its way.’

Jed shook his head. ‘Well, I don’t know where they’re coming from, but if they’re on the A61 they might be a while. I’ve just heard on the radio that there’s been a huge pile-up.’

Portia was just about to tell him about Care-for-Cars’ solemn, one-hour promise when her mobile rang. Glad of the distraction, she whipped it up and answered the call.

‘I’m terribly sorry, Miss Pinkington-Smythe,’ the chipper female Care-for-Cars’ representative informed her. ‘But there’s been an accident on the A61. I’m afraid our mechanic is stuck in traffic. He will, however, be with you as soon as he can. That is Care-for-Cars’ solemn promise.’

‘Er, right. Thank you for letting me know,’ Portia muttered, suspecting that if Jed Carr’s head hadn’t been jutting through her car window, she might have dissolved into a flood of tears. She batted them back, consoling herself with the thought that, with one flick of a button, she could well strangle the man.

‘Bet that was the breakdown service telling you the mechanic’s stuck on the A61,’ he chuckled.

Portia looked longingly at the button that would raise the window. Would it strangle him? Or simply slice off his head? Either result would suffice.

‘So what are you going to do?’ he pressed.

Portia didn’t have a clue what to do. She could be sitting here for hours. There was no point taking a taxi home as she’d only have to come back again. And the thought of mingling with the crowds in a café or pub still jangled her nerves. But before she had a chance to reply, Jed’s head disappeared from the window to be replaced by a cream cotton jacket.

‘Hang on to this for me, will you? Only bought it last week and it cost a fortune. Don’t want to get any oil on it. Now, if you open the boot, I’ll check the spare’s okay.’

Feeling like a passive observer in her own drama, Portia automatically pressed the button that opened the car boot. Then she accepted the jacket from Jed and placed it on the passenger seat, her hand lingering on it for a second too long.