An Eligible Bachelor (31 page)

It was answered on the second ring.

‘Hello?’

She would have recognized her voice anywhere. The Home Counties drop-out accent; the wariness.

‘It’s –’

Who was it? Rowan? Richenda? What should she say?

‘It’s me,’ she said simply.

There was a pause, then a sigh.

‘Rowan…’

‘Yes. I got your letter.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Obviously’

‘Oh God.’ Sally sounded totally overwhelmed. ‘I’ve been waiting for this for so long, and now I don’t know what to say’

‘Nor do I.’

‘It’s just so weird…’

There was silence for a moment as both of them floundered for what to say next.

‘I… think we should meet.’ Richenda decided she had to be businesslike. She didn’t want to descend into an emotional free-for-all. And the situation was so sensitive; it needed to be dealt with face to face, not over the phone. Besides, now she’d heard Sally’s voice, she wanted to see her.

‘Sure. OK. Where? Whereabouts are you?’

‘I’m in Knightsbridge.’ Richenda realized how snotty she sounded. She hadn’t meant to. But what else could she say? Just off the Cromwell Road?

‘Right. Well, I’m in Uxbridge. Staying at a mate’s. So I’m not that far.’ There was a note of amusement in Sally’s voice. ‘Shall we meet somewhere in the middle?’

Geographically or socially? Richenda wondered.

‘Why don’t you come to me? I’ll make us something to eat.’

‘OK.’ Sally sounded slightly unsure. ‘When?’

Richenda thought for a moment. Time wasn’t really on her side.

‘As soon as you can, I suppose.’

‘I reckon it’ll take me about an hour.’

‘OK…’

She gave Sally instructions on how to get to her apartment, then put the phone down.

This was totally surreal. In less than an hour’s time she was going to come face to face with her mother again. She wondered if she’d done the right thing, having the reunion in her apartment, but she preferred to stay on home territory. She had security here – no one else could get in. And she knew there were no hidden cameras or microphones. Yet again she chastised herself for being overcautious, but then she could only trust herself to act in her own best interests.

She rushed to examine her appearance. She didn’t want to look too intimidating. She wasn’t going to play the big star. She changed out of her wool trousers and into a pair of jeans, adding a red polo-neck sweater, then tied her hair back in a low ponytail. She didn’t have time to rush out and buy food, so she inspected the contents of her freezer. There was a packet of tortellini and a tub of arrabiata sauce. And some mango sorbet. That would do as a makeshift supper for the two of them. Sally had never been big on food, as far as Richenda could remember. And they could always order a takeaway. She took a bottle of wine out of the wine rack and stuck it in the fridge, wondering if she should have a glass before Sally arrived – she was amazed at how nervous she felt.

She tried to analyse her feelings. What was she hoping for? A happy reunion with total forgiveness on both sides? All these years later the pain of her mother’s treatment of her had finally abated – when she thought about it
now, it was like watching the re-run of a film in her head: a hideous incident that had happened to someone else. Did she have the strength to confront everything she had so successfully buried? They would have to talk about it; they couldn’t pretend nothing had happened. Could they? Of course not, Richenda told herself. Besides, she wanted the chance to set the record straight, and convince Sally that she had never seduced Mick. Although somehow she thought her mother had known it all along. In which case she had to face the ugly truth – that Sally had chosen Mick over her own daughter. For a moment her stomach filled with the red-hot bile she had felt in those first few days after running away: a gnawing pain that seemed to eat away at her insides, fuelled by insecurity, panic, fear and the knowledge that she was very much alone… The pain had gone, eventually, once she had found a job, a purpose, an identity. But feeling it now, Richenda was reminded of the hell she had gone through. She told herself she was only human; coming face to face with her mother was bound to churn up bitterness and resentment. Did she have the strength to deal with it graciously, and remain in control of her emotions?

The buzzer went, and for a moment Richenda wished that she hadn’t been so hasty, that she had slept on the contents of Sally’s letter. She’d invited her into her home, back into her life, without really considering the possible consequences. It was too late now. Sally was standing on the steps downstairs, no doubt looking at the buzzer with the number five next to the bell. No name. When you were a TV star, you didn’t advertise your whereabouts.

Steeling herself, she lifted the entryphone.

‘Come on up,’ she said, and pressed the button that released the lock.

It took thirty seconds for Sally to come up the stairs, and they felt like the longest of Richenda’s life. Slowly she opened her front door, and the two of them looked into each other’s eyes for the first time in ten years, mother and daughter.

Superficially, Sally hadn’t changed at all. She had the same hair – long, shaggy and hennaed; the same clothes – leather jacket, short skirt, biker boots; the same makeup – black kohl, pale foundation, plum lipstick. She even smelt the same, of some earthy, exotic essential oil that came out of a tiny blue phial. But Richenda was shocked at how unkind the intervening years had been to her. Her mum had always been glamorous in a punky, rebellious way; her clothes slightly outrageous. Now she just looked horribly dated, as if she’d been stuck in a time warp. And faded. Her make-up made her look older: the foundation highlighted the wrinkles, the dark lipstick bled into the lines around her mouth.

For what seemed an eternity they surveyed each other warily. Then Richenda managed a smile.

‘Hello, Mum.’

Sally blinked, looking slightly shocked, as if this was the last thing she’d expected. Then her whole expression crumpled, and she put her hands up to her face.

‘Oh God,’ she choked. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry’

Instinctively, Richenda put an arm round her and drew her inside, shutting the door on the outside world. Sally collapsed against her, and Richenda held her, uttering soothing noises, feeling her mother’s fragile frame shaking
with sobs. After a few moments Sally pulled away, half laughing with embarrassment through her tears, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

‘I was going to be so cool,’ she laughed shakily. ‘Look at you,’ she went on in wonderment. ‘You’re so beautiful. Oh God, I’m going to cry again…’

‘It’s OK,’ Richenda assured her. ‘It’s allowed.’

‘You’re not,’ said Sally.

‘I know,’ said Richenda. ‘But I might any moment.’

It was true: she did have an enormous lump in her throat. But Richenda was used to staying cool. Her acting training had enabled her to mask her feelings as well as put them on. There wasn’t a person in the world who could tell what she was thinking or feeling. She was serene, implacable. A blank canvas.

Masterfully, she swallowed the lump and cleared her throat so her voice would be steady.

‘Come on in. Come and sit down.’

Sally followed her out of the entrance hall and into the open-plan living area. Her eyes widened at the sight. It was pretty impressive: a huge, open space, with gleaming wooden floors, white walls, recessed lighting, a sleek, state of the art kitchen and a few carefully chosen pieces of Italian furniture. It was truly fit for a star.

‘Wow. Is this all yours?’

‘Yes. I hate it, really, but I needed a London base. So this is ideal. As well as being an investment.’

‘Shit. It’s amazing.’ Sally ran her hand along the back of the white leather sofa. ‘Convenient for Harrods,’ she added drily.

‘I never go there,’ grinned Richenda. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?’

‘Actually, I could do with a drink,’ admitted Sally. ‘Have you got any in, or shall I nip to the offie?’

‘I’ve got wine. But it’s probably not cold enough yet.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘I’ll stick a couple of ice cubes in it.’ Richenda walked over to the kitchen area, pulled the bottle out of the fridge and plucked two glasses off a shelf, then filled them with ice from the dispenser on the front of her fridge-freezer. Sally hovered awkwardly, looking round the kitchen in awe, stroking the black marble work surfaces.

‘I’ve left him, you know,’ she announced defiantly. ‘It took me ten bloody years, but I finally did it.’

Richenda pulled the cork and poured the wine.

‘Good.’

‘I just wish I’d had the nerve to do it ten years ago. But I was scared. When you’re mad about someone, you can put up with a lot.’

‘I’m sure you can.’ Richenda passed her mother a glass. Sally took it and gulped gratefully. Richenda saw her hands were shaking. She wondered if it was just nerves, or if her mother had a drink problem. Sally saw her looking and smiled.

‘It’s all right. It’s not DTs. I’m just a bit of a nervous wreck. I didn’t know what to expect. I thought you might have a go at me. And I wouldn’t blame you if you had.’

Richenda shrugged.

‘What would be the point? It was ten years ago. I’ve moved on.’

‘Yes,’ said Sally. ‘You really have. I wish I could say the same.’

Her face was bleak; her voice bereft of hope. Richenda panicked; she wasn’t quite ready for soul-baring. She decided to move on to a safer subject.

‘So where are you living?’

‘I slept on my friend’s floor last night, but I can’t really go back. They haven’t got room for me. And I haven’t got any of my stuff. I’m not bloody going back for it either. I don’t want to see that bastard again.’ She smiled grimly to emphasize her point. ‘So I suppose I’m officially homeless.’

‘Oh.’ Richenda was shocked that Sally was so matter of fact. She’d forgotten all about her mother’s world, how she’d always lived on the edge, with no security, and how it never seemed to phase her. Even now. She opened her mouth to say that she could stay with her, then stopped herself. She needed to be cautious. They’d got a lot to talk over, and she didn’t want Sally getting too comfortable until she was certain of her motives. Her mother was quite capable of using her, she was sure. The people she mixed with had always thought the world owed them a living; they were takers, not givers, and their attitude was bound to have rubbed off.

‘So,’ she said briskly. ‘Tell me about Mick. Who’s he sold his story to?’

Sally looked stricken.

‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. But he reckoned he was going to make a few quid out of it. He wanted me to tell my side of the story – how I was betrayed by my own daughter.’

Sally looked down at the floor, unable to meet Richenda’s gaze, ashamed of the memory. Then she looked up.

‘I’m ready to tell them the truth,’ she announced. ‘That it was me who betrayed you. That I was stupid and gullible and selfish. That I sacrificed my own daughter for a total…’ She groped around for a suitable word. ‘I don’t even know what to call him. Scumbag. Arsehole.’

‘Let’s not even think about him,’ suggested Richenda. ‘Let’s see how we can turn this round. The one thing we don’t want to do is give him an opportunity to capitalize on the situation. If we move quickly, we can come out of this smelling of roses.’

She was surprised at her own efficiency, how she was able to take control so swiftly. But time was of the essence: although she’d had the press on her side up until now, she knew how quickly they could turn the tables if there was a juicy bit of scandal in the offing. No one was safe if there was an opportunity to boost the circulation figures.

‘I think what we need to do is come clean,’ she said quietly. ‘If we go to the press with our story first, then whatever Mick’s got up his sleeve won’t have the impact.’

‘How do we do that?’

‘I’ve got someone I can call straight away. We can have a meeting first thing tomorrow. Which gives us this evening to work out exactly what we want to say. We’ve got to make our story watertight; make sure Mick can’t get his twopence worth in.’

She looked at her mother. Sally looked bewildered, as if things were moving too fast for her. Which they
probably were. Richenda decided it was best if she was out of earshot while she dealt with things.

‘You look shattered. Why don’t you go and have a nice hot bath while I call my contact? I can lend you some clothes. Then we can have supper; talk everything over.’

Sally’s voice was shaky.

‘I don’t know if I deserve this…’

Richenda stood up.

‘Let me make it quite clear. I’m doing this to save my career. Not out of loyalty to you.’

Sally winced. Richenda regretted the harshness of her words, but she was only going to get through this by keeping Sally at arm’s length. Once it was all over, then she could afford to let her guard down.

‘Come on,’ she said briskly. ‘I’ll show you the bathroom.’

Ten minutes later, Sally wallowed in the water that came up to her chin, looking round in awe at the marble bathroom with its two inset sinks, the enormous shower-head the size of a car wheel. This was like some peculiar dream – and God knows she’d had a few of those in her time, courtesy of the mind-altering substances she’d shoved in her system.

She’d often had nightmares, too – dreams about babies being ripped from her arms, little girls crying for help, screaming for their mummy. She would wake up drenched in sweat, shivering with fear, guilt souring her stomach. Then she’d look at Mick sleeping beside her and try to convince herself her daughter deserved everything she got: what sort of a child seduced her own mother’s lover?

Now she’d faced the truth, she wondered if it was too late to salvage anything of their relationship. The beautiful creature who had answered the door to her bore no resemblance to the mousy little girl she remembered. They had nothing in common; their worlds couldn’t be farther apart. Sally had no hope of entering Richenda’s territory, and Richenda wouldn’t want to go back to the world she had done so well to escape. Was a mere umbilical cord strong enough to reunite them, bind them together and allow them to rebuild the love they had lost? Or had so much time passed that the cord had withered and shrivelled to nothing, become meaningless? She hoped not. She’d longed to fill the empty space she’d carried inside her for so long. At one point she’d thought about another baby, but she’d been too afraid that it might look up at her with reproachful eyes; that rather than filling the void it would be a constant reminder of the daughter she’d rejected. Where had she gone wrong, she wondered? Why had her life been so filled with regret and mistakes and disappointment and guilt? And so lacking in hope? She wasn’t wicked. Just weak.