A Walk in the Park (10 page)

And, all these years later, that feeling was still there.

A pair of swans had sailed out from under the bridge now, to investigate the remains of the bread. As Flynn watched them, a small dog on a leash brushed against the back of his trouser leg.

“Alfie, stop it. I'm so sorry… oh, Flynn, I didn't realize it was you! Hello!”

Her name was Nerys and she was a retired piano teacher who had been friendly with his parents before they had both died. Still elegant in her late seventies, she was walking her Jack Russell.

“Nerys, how nice to see you again. You're looking very well.” He greeted her with a kiss. She and his mother had shared a passion for music and had often attended the opera together.

“Well enough, I suppose, dear. Touch of arthritis, but I can't complain. Better than being dead, I suppose.” She gave him a bright smile tinged with sympathy. “I do miss your ma and pa. You must too.”

Flynn nodded; they had gone within weeks of each other, first his mother succumbing to cancer, then his father to a heart attack. It had happened four years ago now.

“It's a blessing they went as close together as they did. Like a pair of swans, they were.” Nerys matter-of-factly indicated the swans on the water. “Find the right partner and that's it for life. Romantic.” She paused and surveyed him with interest. “And how about you, dear? Settled down yet?”

“Not yet.” Flynn smiled briefly.

“Taking your time, eh? Nothing wrong with that, did the same myself. Don't worry, it'll happen.” Giving Alfie's leash a tug and preparing to move on, Nerys said cheerily, “When you meet the right one, you'll know.”

When she'd gone, Flynn stayed where he was for a while longer and watched the activity on the pond as the last of the sodden bread disappeared.

Like it or not, Lara appeared to be his swan. The question now was, would he turn out to be hers?

At the moment, there was no way of knowing.

One thing was decided, though. He would forgive her, but he wouldn't grovel.

From now on, everything that had gone before was water under the bridge.

When Harry switched on his computer on Wednesday morning his first thought was that the antivirus must have failed. His email in-box had been spammed, completely overrun with emails. The last time it had happened, offers of Viagra had poured in. This spamming virus, however, appeared to have attached itself to the order forms on the website account. Which might be less embarrassing than the Viagra episode but it was still a complete pain, because computers weren't his forte and now he was going to have to take it along to the expert at the repair shop to get it sorted out. Damn and blast.

He made himself a cup of tea then sat back down, gazing helplessly at the screen. Not all the emails were viruses. So long as he didn't click on any of the bad ones, would he be OK? Or was that the wrong thing to do? Would it cause the virus to spread like typhus? Maybe he shouldn't risk it.

Harry leaned back with a sigh and sipped his tea. It was half past eight; the local computer repair shop didn't open until nine. He heard the sound of a car pulling into the courtyard. Morag and Betty had arrived for work, but they'd be no help either.

Two minutes later, they appeared in the office. Morag, pink-cheeked in a floral dress and clutching a fluorescent yellow Post-it note, said, “That singer fellow who was here the other day. Did he have pointy gold teeth here and here?”

She was baring her gums, pointing to her yellowish incisors. Bemused, Harry said, “Yes, he did.”

“Was his name EnjaySeven?” Betty chimed in eagerly.

“Something like that. Sounds familiar. It was like half a post-code.” Harry nodded, still mystified. “Why?”

“Our Darren just called me! You're on his website!”

Darren was Morag's fifteen-year-old grandson. “Your Darren's got a website?” If he were technically minded, maybe he could get rid of this wretched virus.

“Not him, you twit! EnjaySeven! Here, our Darren's given me the site. You just have to type this in and it'll take you to the right bit.” Morag triumphantly slapped the yellow Post-it onto the desk.

“I can't, there's something wrong with the computer. Look at all the messages.” Harry pointed to the screen. “That means we've been infected with a virus.”

“They're orders,” said Betty. “It says so.”

“But it can't be actual orders,” Harry patiently explained. “There are too many of them.”

“Shift your backside, pet. Let me do it.” Betty took over the swivel chair and began tapping away at the keyboard like a pro. “See? They're orders. Told you!”

“But how…?” Harry rubbed the back of his head.

“You big numpty! I can't believe you've never heard of EnjaySeven,” Morag chided. “I can't believe I was working away in the back room and you didn't even think to tell me he was here. EnjaySeven's right up there with Eminem and Kanye and Jay-Z. He's
massive
.”

For heaven's sake, would you listen to them? He was thirty-eight.

Betty and Morag were in their sixties. They'd be break dancing next. Or whatever kind of fancy dancing it was called nowadays. On the few occasions he'd seen it on TV it had looked a lot like dislocating your hips.

And now Betty had brought the website up onto the screen, and it was an impressively glitzy and professional affair with flashing bits and music playing and… oh good grief, a still from the video taken right here in this very office…

“There you are! That's
you
,” said Morag. Just in case he hadn't recognized himself.

Betty pressed play and the scene sprang to life, causing Harry's neck to prickle with embarrassment. He'd always hated seeing and hearing himself on friends' videos.

In dumbstruck silence they watched the clip, reliving the episode where Vampire Teeth—OK, EnjaySeven—demanded to buy all the shirts and Harry refused to sell them. The recording had been edited; the next moment he was saying they didn't take American Express, then that he wouldn't be listening to EnjaySeven's music. After that, the filming resumed inside the Maybach, with EnjaySeven mimicking Harry's reluctance, his reserve, and his English-butler accent. Finally, it cut to EnjaySeven in his hotel room, wearing a smart suit, super-shiny shoes, and one of the cream shirts.

“So here I am,” he drawled, “all ready to go out on the town tonight, and I gotta tell you, guys, this is my all-time favorite make of shirt. The Effing Ducks, this is them.” He leaned toward the camera and tapped the logo with a manicured fingernail. His tone conspiratorial, he said, “It's supposed to be the Flying Ducks but we've renamed it now. So you go to the link on our website and head on over to
their
website, where an
orffully
nice
gentleman
will take your order. So that's it, y'all get yourself a cool shirt like mine, yeah? You won't regret it. The Effing Ducks. Quack quack!”

The clip ended, fading to black.

“Ah, isn't that lovely?” Morag clapped her hands.

“And doesn't it suit him?” said Betty happily. “Mind you, he's got the body for it. Nice pecs. You can tell he works out.”

Harry stared at the pair of them in outrage. “Excuse me, are you both out of your minds? Has it not occurred to you that there is something…
wrong
with this situation?”

Mystified, they gazed up at him. “What's wrong, pet? It's brilliant!”

“How can it be brilliant when he's saying… what he said?” Bad language wasn't something that tripped naturally off Harry's tongue; he'd just never been the type to use it. “The Effing Ducks.” He found himself stumbling over the words. “That's just completely offensive.”

“Oh, you're such an old fuddy-duddy, pet. Young people say it all the time these days. Anyway,” Morag's tone was soothing, “Eff stands for Flying, so that's all right.”

“It is not all right! It's outrageous. What if our customers got to hear about this?”

Wordlessly Betty clicked off the garish site and returned to the emails. She began scrolling down the list of new orders. And down. And dooooooooown. At last, one hundred and seventy-six emails later, she came to the end and said, “Well, these customers don't seem too bothered.”

“I don't care. That man's bringing our name into disrepute. We have a reputation to maintain and I won't let him sully it.”

“But he's not sullying it, pet, not really. He's saying it's his all-time favorite shirt! All these years,” said Morag, “we've never had a celebrity wear one of our shirts, and now we've got EnjaySeven! This is like a dream come true…”

“It really isn't.” Harry shook his head. “I don't mind people making fun of me, but I won't have them making fun of our good name. Right, leave this to me, I'll sort it out. You two can go and make a start on these shirts.”

Within ten minutes he had fired off an email to the contact address on the website. In a calm but firm manner, he made his feelings clear. Finally, having expressed his hope that the situation could be resolved in an amicable manner, he signed off with “Yours most sincerely, Harry Wells,” and pressed send.

By this time, yet more orders had come pouring into his in-box. Which was pleasing in one way, of course it was, but the standard of the grammar in some of the accompanying messages was frankly appalling:

“Yeh man, giv uz a gray 1 in meedum but y no pinck or beter cullrs eh?!!!”

Harry winced. Oh dear, oh dear, what were the young people of the world coming to? At this rate “textspeak” was set to signal the downfall of civilization. Still, at least this one hadn't mentioned the Effing Ducks, like the sender of the next order.

And the next. Who spelled it Efinn.

Another called it FN Ducks.

After thirty minutes he printed off the list of orders and realized they were going to have to get a couple of extra workers in. The recession had taken its toll on the company, as it had with so many, and sales had halved over the last decade. They still had two machines standing idle; now they could be brought back into service. He'd ask Betty if her sister would like to join them for—

Bbbrrring
bbbrrring
. The phone burst into life on the desk and Harry reached for it.

“Good morning, Flying Ducks, how may I help you?”

“Yo, Harry, how ya doin', man? EnjaySevaaaan!”

It wasn't the kind of voice you could easily forget. Harry said sternly, “Oh hello. I'm well, thank you. But not
too
happy. In fact I've just sent you an email voicing my concerns.”

“I know you did, man. That's why I'm calling you. The girl who passed it on to me thinks you're kinda cute, by the way.”

“Well, thank you, that's flattering to hear, but we really have to do something about this Effing Ducks business.” There, he'd said it.

“
We?
” EnjaySeven sounded amused.

“
You
,” Harry said firmly.

“It's just a bit of fun, man.”

“Maybe it is to you. But to me it's besmirching the good name of our company.”

“Besmirching, that's a helluva word. You know what? I think I like it.”

“I just feel it's disrespectful,” Harry reiterated.

“Oh man, I ain't dissin' you, I thought you'd be pleased. It's free publicity, yeah? I tell my fans something's good, they buy it. Big companies pay a fortune to be endorsed by me.”

“I'm sure they do. And I
am
grateful…”

“You had any orders since we put the video up on the site?”

“Yes, we have. Quite a few,” Harry admitted.

“How many?”

“Orders for two hundred and eighty-six shirts.”

“See? And it only went up a few hours ago. Brace yourselves, there'll be more.”

“I won't be filling any orders until you remove the offensive comments from the site,” said Harry.

“Man, are you serious?”

“Completely.”

“You'll lose out on a ton of money.”

“I know that. But I'd still have my dignity.”

“Oh my. Oh my, oh my.” Enjay was chuckling now. “You know who you sound like, Harry? You sound like my mom.”

“I'll take that as a compliment. Although I don't suppose I sound
exactly
like her.”

“You're right. You're more English.”

“And I'm a man.”

More laughter. “OK, Harry. I'll get my people on to it.”

“What does that mean?”

“We'll bleep out the offending words. I'll post another clip telling people it's Flying Ducks only and if they call it anything else you'll sue their sorry asses.”

Honestly, these Americans and their addiction to legal action. Harry said, “I couldn't afford to do that.”

“I know. We just say it, that's all. It'll be cool.”

“OK.”

“Happy now?”

“I think so, yes.”

“You've got everything you could possibly want out of this and you only
think
so? Harry, you crack me up. You're a funny guy.”

Did he mean funny ha-ha or funny peculiar? Harry thought he could hazard a guess. Luckily it didn't bother him. He said, “I wouldn't say I'd got
everything
I could want.”

“Oh really? An endorsement by a global superstar not good enough for you? What's better than that, man?”

“Well, no offense,” said Harry, “but personally I'd have preferred it to be Prince Charles.”

“Morning,” said Flynn when Lara opened the door.

“Hi.” She may as well get it over and done with. “Sorry about yesterday. You had every right to be angry.”

His expression softened. “I know. But so did you. I'm sorry too.”

Wow, she hadn't expected
that
.

“Look at us.” Lara smiled slightly. “Behaving like mature adults. Who'd have thought it?”

“Best way. For Gigi's sake. Maybe we needed to get it out of our systems. Anyway, now that's done, we can start again.”

Her skin prickled in alarm; what did that mean? If he knew how she felt about him he could start toying with her emotions, messing her around like Joel had messed Evie around for years.

“Start again as Gigi's parents. Being civil to each other. That's all.”

“Exactly what I meant,” Flynn countered. “So, am I staying out here on the doorstep, or were you thinking of letting me in?”

“Right. Sorry.” Lara opened the door wide; today he was taking Gigi into work with him to show her how the business was run. “You're early. She's still in the shower. I thought you were picking her up at nine.”

Flynn shrugged. “The roads were clearer than usual. OK if I have a coffee?”

“Can you make it yourself? I'm busy.” She was painting the dining room now, apricot yellow and white to make the most of the sunlight pouring in through the south-facing windows.

Flynn made coffee and brought one through to her.

“Thanks.” Lara breathed in his aftershave as he passed her the cup. She was getting to know it now.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“I expect you're going to anyway.” If he was about to give her more hassle she wouldn't put up with it.

“Relax, it's not about Gigi. Well,” Flynn amended, “it's something she mentioned. About this house. I assumed your father left it to you in his will. But Gigi told me yesterday it wasn't his to leave.” He was looking puzzled. “She said this place belonged to your mother. Is that true?”

Lara had been about to reload the paintbrush. Instead she put it down.

“Yes.”

“Did you know that before?”

She shook her head. “No, no idea. Aunt Nettie didn't know either.”

“So, how did it happen? Where did the money come from?”

“Not the foggiest.” She leaned against the windowsill; having known her father all those years ago, Flynn was one of the very few people as curious about this as she was.

He frowned. “Haven't you wondered about it?”

For heaven's sake. Lara stared at him in disbelief. “Of course I've wondered! I've spent
hours
wondering about it, but there's no way of finding out! If my mum didn't tell Nettie, who else is there? I've asked the lawyer, but he only handled my father's will. It was over thirty years ago. We know there was no mortgage. I've racked my brains but there's nothing else to go on. I mean, it's not as if she had any rich relatives who could leave her a fortune. And Nettie would have known if she'd won the lottery. All I can think is that my father supplied the money and put the house into my mum's name for… I don't know, tax purposes or something.”

“He was a cashier in a bank.” Flynn looked dubious. “Where would he have suddenly got that amount of money from?”

Mystified, Lara shrugged. “You're asking me questions I don't have the answers to. I have
no
idea. Unless he embezzled it from work and couldn't buy the house in his name because it would mean them possibly finding out.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And would you be interested in contacting the bank and asking them to investigate that?”

“No I wouldn't.” Was he serious?

“Because if it turned out to be true, they might want their house back?”

“Exactly,” said Lara. Was it wrong to be admitting this? Oh well.

Flynn smiled briefly and drank some coffee. “For what it's worth, I don't think that's how it happened.”

“Oh?” They both heard the clunk upstairs of the shower being turned off. Despite their recent falling out, Lara was touched by the thought he was putting into this.

“If it was your father's money, he'd have made sure it went back to him. Sorry, but we both know what he was like. He wouldn't have allowed your mum to leave the house to you. This was something he had no control over. And my God, I bet he hated that.”

He was right. Her father had been the ultimate controlling character.

“Makes sense.” Lara nodded. “But it doesn't tell us where the money came from.”

“No friends you could contact?”

“There were only a couple. And I don't know their names. It was all so long ago.” She'd been thirteen when her mum had died; it was only during the intervening years that she'd guessed the pattern of her parents' marriage. In retrospect it seemed obvious that her father had discouraged friendship with others. All part of the control. “There was a blonde woman… I remember me and Mum meeting up with her in the park a few times when I was nine or ten. And another friend whose house we used to go to. Her name was Janey or Julie, something like that, and she used to give me Oreos.”

“Do you remember where she lived?”

“No. But I think she moved away anyway, she was going to live abroad somewhere sunny. I never saw her again after the funeral.”

Flynn frowned. “And you don't have any old address books or diaries?”

“Oh, that's an idea!” Did he think she was completely brainless? Lara said brightly, “You mean the address books and diaries that I've got upstairs, with all the names and addresses of people I've been longing to contact for decades? How silly of me not to think of looking inside them…”

He raised his hands. “Fine, sorry, just trying to help.”

Bugger, did that mean she had to apologize as well? Again? Too exasperated to want to, Lara made do with a me-too gesture with her free hand. “I don't have anything. Nothing at all. I asked the lawyer to ask Janice to leave any of my mum's personal effects with him. She told him there weren't any.”

“They destroyed everything?”

Lara shrugged, determined not to get emotional at the thought of all traces of her mother's existence being erased like writing on a whiteboard.

“That's what she said.”

“But there must be ways of—”

“Ready!” Gigi burst into the room in a lime-green top and pink and green polka-dotted skirt. “Am I smart enough?”

Lara saw the look of pride on Flynn's face as he surveyed his daughter. “I don't know.” He paused. “What's seven times eight?”

“Ha ha, very good. If we're going to be meeting customers I want to look nice.”

He gave an approving nod. “You're fine. And speedy. Which is always good.”

“I'm really fast at getting ready to go out. One of my many talents.” Gigi eyed Flynn's car keys and said hopefully, “Want me to drive?”

“Nope.”

“She's a good driver.” Lara leaped to her daughter's defense.

Flynn smiled. “I'm sure she is. But I need to sort out the insurance first.”

“Come on then, what are we waiting for?” When he hesitated, Gigi hustled him out of the dining room. “Let's get out of here, shall we? I want to learn about wine!”

***

By six o'clock, the dining room was finished. Happy with the result, Lara had showered the paint spatters out of her hair and was now busy in the kitchen being a domestic goddess.

Well, kind of. Stabbing a fork through the cellophane covering the pack of mushroom risotto—rat-tat-tat-tat-TATT—she stuck it in the microwave. In three minutes, when it was ready, she'd add a splash of heavy cream, a scattering of black pepper, and masses of grated parmesan. That was goddessy enough, surely?

Although a real goddess would probably be drinking chilled white wine with it, not Fanta.

Gigi and Flynn returned fifteen minutes later. Sitting outside in the back garden, Lara heard the car draw up outside. Doors banged, then came the sound of voices. Was Flynn dropping Gigi and heading off somewhere else, or was he coming in? The former, she hoped. This morning's conversation had left her unsettled and on edge, reminding her of all that was missing from her life.

“Mum? There you are!” Gigi paused in the doorway before coming to join her, and Lara felt the tension dissipate, her muscles relax. Good, no Flynn. She could do without seeing him tonight.

“Hi, sweetie, how'd it go? Was it fun?”

“No, it was
not
. It was boring and tedious and duller than you could ever imagine.” Gigi flopped down onto the grass next to her, in the manner of a teenager about to expire of boredom. “It was the opposite of fun.”

“Oh.” Lara put down her can of Fanta. Not that it was the end of the world, but Flynn would be disappointed; he'd been looking forward to teaching Gigi about the business he loved. “I didn't think it'd be dull. Weren't you meeting lots of people?”

“No! None!”

“Why not?”

“Because we were just stuck in the stupid office trawling through hundreds of dusty old invoices. Not hundreds,” Gigi corrected herself. “Thousands. In fact, probably millions. Honestly, Mum, you have no idea.”

The back door swung open once more and Flynn appeared in the garden. Lara's stomach did a quick up-and-down shimmy at the sight of him in his white shirt and well-cut black suit trousers. On the one hand, he had a body to die for. On the other, he was getting on her nerves all over again.

“What have you been making Gigi do?” She shielded her eyes against the sun, all the better to scowl at him accusingly. “I thought you were going to show her how the company was run. She's not your slave, you know.”

The expression on Flynn's face was inscrutable. “I do know.”

“Mu-um, stop it. I was
joking
.” Gigi jack-knifed into a sitting position and rolled her eyes like an embarrassed parent.

Teenagers, honestly. “Thanks for telling me. How was I meant to know it was a joke? So you weren't stuck in an office trawling through
millions
of boring old invoices.” This was to let Flynn know she'd snapped for a reason.

“Oh yes, we were.” Her smile impish, Gigi said, “Millions.”

There was some kind of in-joke going on here. Presumably there was also a point to it. Lara looked over at Flynn. “So what's this about?”

He pulled out a chair, sat down opposite her and leaned forward, resting his tanned forearms on the table. “OK, let me just say I don't have a definitive answer. Yet. But with a bit of luck we'll get there.”

Something about the way he was saying it caused Lara's blood to race that bit faster around her body. “Get where?”