Folly's Child (54 page)

‘Funny you should say that. I was thinking the same thing.'

She was surprised. ‘As if you know me too, you mean? We haven't met, have we?'

He laughed. ‘I don't think so.' As if I'd ever forget! he added mentally.

The exchange made them awkward for a few minutes; it had contained too much unspoken intimacy for comfort. Then he said: ‘What do you do for fun, Theresa?'

‘Fun? I don't have much time for fun. Fashion is a very demanding course. We don't even get to do much student roistering. Sometimes I think I should have chosen something simple for my degree, like engineering or classics.'

‘Hmm.' He wondered if he should tell her about Hugo and decided against it. It might sound like boasting.

‘It's infuriating,' she went on. ‘ Everyone seems to think an art degree is an easy option. It's not, believe me. For one thing, it's continuous assessment – project marks count towards your final grade. There's a thesis to write – I did mine last summer, so that's out of the way, thank goodness, and they are so fussy about the way each project is presented. I spend a fortune on letraset and binding and so on for source sheets and that's even before I begin to make anything up. Now I'm doing my final collection – and that is a hellish expense, I can tell you. If you don't use nice fabrics you can't show off your designs to their best advantage – and nice fabric for fourteen or so pieces doesn't come cheap.'

‘I guess not,' he said, and the nonchalance of his tone embarrassed her again.

‘I'm sorry, I'm boring you,' she said. ‘It's just that sometimes I get very despondent. I'm determined to succeed and I work my socks off and still end up getting lower grades than some of those who do next to nothing because I just can't afford to present it as they do.'

‘That's tough.' Mark, who had started out with every advantage in life, had seen something of the other side since he had been in business on his own account.

‘Never mind,' she said, determinedly cheerful, ‘ I'll get there in the end. Practically no one fails a fashion degree anyway, so that's a comfort, even if it means they don't get any sleep for a fortnight before the final collection show.'

Again Mark was tempted to remark that at the top end of the business things were much the same, again he refrained, saying instead: ‘You wouldn't be able to take time off for a drink one evening then?'

Theresa's heart lifted; her pulses had begun to hammer. – ‘Is that an invitation?'

‘Well – yes.'

‘In that case I don't suppose one evening would make much difference,' Theresa said, and thought that if it meant staying up all night for three weeks before her final collection show it would still be well worth it.

She was in love, crazily, madly, head over heels in love and it was wonderful. As she had warned him there was little time in those last months before graduation for anything but work and in any case Mark, too, led a busy life, chasing accounts, working overtime on brilliant new ideas and jet-setting between London and New York, but what time they could spend together they made the most of. Sometimes he took her out, grand style, to a show or a restaurant, sometimes they shared a drink with friends in an unpretentious bar or watched a video, curled up with cans of lager and a Chinese take away. Occasionally Mark cooked for her, suprisingly good spaghetti bolognese or chicken curry, and the last night before her final projects had to be handed in for marking he supported her with his presence while she napped: ‘Oh shit, I'll never get it all done in time!' handing her the spray mount as she arranged last minute source sheets for her portfolio and clearing up the heap of cuttings that littered the floor. He made coffee for her as she sewed on buttons, neatened hems and pressed seams, he had a handkerchief ready when she burst into tears over a revere that refused to sit properly no matter how she fiddled with it, and again when she told him she had been awarded a 2.1 degree.

‘That's wonderful. You are a clever girl', he congratulated her.

‘No I'm not – I wanted a first. And I've worked so hard for it!' she wept, over-emotional through sheer exhaustion.

‘Doesn't meant a thing. Who cares what degree you've got as long as you've got it? Your work is what counts – and it's good,' he comforted her.

‘The examiners obviously didn't think it was that wonderful.'

‘The examiners are blockheads. If they'd seen it on the catwalk instead of hanging on rails they'd know how good it is. It's a very commercial collection, babe, and you'll have no trouble selling it.'

‘I hope so. I've got to recoup some of what I've spent on it – or rather what poor Mum has spent on it!'

‘You will. You'll see.'

And of course he had been proved right. After the final collection showing Theresa was approached by several people who were interested in buying individual items and by the boutique chain who wanted to take the complete collection, lock stock and barrel, with orders for repeats and a proviso that she would also be designing a spring collection.

‘You see – what did I tell you?' Mark swung her round jubilantly. ‘You've got to go into business now. Forget about all these other pissy little jobs and go for the big one. Your own label!'

‘But I wouldn't know where to start …'

‘You get yourself a little work room somewhere, hire some outworkers and let your talent do the rest.'

‘You make it sound so easy but I don't know a thing about running a business …'

‘What about your friend Linda George? She's just finished at commercial school, hasn't she? She'd be just the one to help you with that side of things. You worry about designing and let her worry about the business details.'

‘And where on earth would I get the capital to set up something like that?'

‘Go and talk to your bank manager – that's what banks are for.'

‘Oh Mark – I'm scared …'

‘I thought you planned to be a famous designer.'

‘I do.'

‘Then have the courage of your convictions – go for it!'

She took a deep breath and her eyes had begun to shine with determination.

‘Perhaps you're right. If I don't take chances I'll never get anywhere, will I?'

He kissed her. ‘I am very proud of you, lady. Very proud indeed.'

Although they were in love both Mark and Theresa had held back certain facts about themselves, each for their own reasons.

Mark had omitted to mention the fact that his mother was married to Hugo Varna, merely saying his family lived in the States where his step-father was ‘in business', for he was something of an inverted snob who was embarrassed by the wealth and success that had given him so many advantages in life. Besides this he still felt, foolishly perhaps, that to admit to connections with such high echelons of fashion when Theresa was still on the bottom rung of the ladder might be interpreted as ‘swank'.

As for Theresa, even in their most intimate moments she had never admitted to Mark that she had been adopted. This was partly because she seldom thought about it herself and partly out of a sense of loyalty to Doreen. When she talked about her past it was always in terms of life as it had been, not as it might have been. She was Theresa Arnold, her mother was Doreen Arnold, her father was dead and she had been brought up in Beckenham – end of story.

But when she came to try to set up her own business she discovered for the first time in her life that it did matter to her that she was adopted – though not for any of the usual reasons. And as she and Mark discussed it, the truth came out.

As Mark had suggested, Theresa had paid a visit to the bank manager. He had been interested in her proposals and not unhelpful, but he had pointed out the necessity for collateral on a loan of the size she required. When she heard of the conditions Doreen had not hesitated. Inordinately proud of Theresa and anxious to give her the best possible start in her chosen career she had immediately offered to put up her house as security and though grateful and filled with love for her mother, Theresa was overcome by a sense of terrible responsibility and fear of failure.

‘I don't think I can let her do it,' she said to Mark. ‘It's too much to ask.'

‘You haven't asked – she has offered,' Mark pointed out.

They were sharing a curry at Mark's flat, but Theresa's was almost untouched as she pushed the rice around her plate with her fork.

‘I know she's offered, that's not the point. Supposing I should fail?'

‘You won't fail. Eat up your curry.'

‘I might. And if I did she'd stand to lose everything. It's not even as though Dad were alive. He didn't leave her much – the house is all she's got. If she lost it she'd have nothing. What the hell would she do? I can't let her risk it.'

‘Look.' He finished his curry and pushed his plate back across the low table. ‘A – you're not going to fail. B – if the bank want collatoral you don't really have much choice – I'd help you if I could but I'm mortgaged up to my ears myself. C – she
wants
to help you. Mothers are like that.'

‘But she's done so much for me already. I can't tell you the sacrifices she's made for me. It's time I was paying her back, not taking her for every penny she's got.'

‘If this comes off you will be paying her back,' he argued. ‘You will be able to afford to keep her in luxury for the rest of her days …' He broke off, thinking of how Hugo had been able to spoil Martha, not only with material things but with the reason for pride in her offspring that warms a mother's heart. ‘ Believe me, you've got to let her do it. Nothing worth having comes without taking a few risks. You know the old maxim – you have to speculate to accumulate.'

‘I know, I know, but …' She hesitated. ‘She's done so much for me already, and … well, there's something I've never told you. She isn't actually my real mother. I was adopted as a baby.'

‘So?' He was surprised but not shocked.

‘Well – I feel doubly responsible.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I don't want to disappoint her or let her down. God knows what son of a life I'd have had if they hadn't adopted me. They gave me everything – all their love, a wonderful home, everything. I don't want to repay all that by ruining her.'

He reached for her hands. Although his flat was centrally heated they felt cold as they so often did and a little stiff. He massaged them gently.

‘I keep telling you, honey, you have to have confidence in yourself. You can do it – you can! And as for disappointing her, that is the biggest load of rubbish I ever heard in my life. She is proud of you already and she'll be prouder yet.'

He pulled her towards him, kissing her hair, her eyes and finally her mouth. Because of her pre-occupation it was a little while before she began to respond, then his nearness worked its old magic and she temporarily forgot all her worries as her body became sensitised with longing.

Mark was a generous and considerate lover, waiting for her at every stage and drawing her to heights she had never achieved with those boys who rushed in eager for their own gratification. When at last it was over and she lay in his arms, relaxed and replete, the problems of everyday survival seemed a long way away.

Sometimes after lovemaking Mark smoked a cigarette and he did so now, propped against the pillows with her head resting against his shoulder. She nuzzled his skin with her nose, enjoying the faint smell of fresh perspiration mingled with soap on his skin and the wafting smoke of the cigarette. She felt drowsy and happy, glad she had gone down to the west country that day four months ago even though she had not got the job, for if she had not she would never have met him – unthinkable! After such a short time she felt she had known him all her life and when he said: ‘So, you are adopted. You never told me', she was glad there were no more secrets between them.

‘It didn't seem important,' she said. ‘Most of the time I don't even think about it,'

‘Do you know anything about your real parents?' he asked casually.

It was natural curiosity, there was no hint, no suggestion that what she was about to say would change both their fives.

‘Next to nothing. I applied for my birth certificate when I was eighteen but I never did anything about it. I didn't feel I wanted to follow it up. As I said, I look on Doreen and Les as my real parents. They are the ones who were always there for me.' She hesitated, running one finger down the feathering of fair hairs that clustered down the line of his breastbone. ‘One funny thing, though, my real mother's name was the same as yours – Bristow.'

‘Really? How odd. I've never thought it was that common a name.'

‘It's not, is it? She was called Sally, Sally Margaret Bristow and her address was given as somewhere in Kensington. My father wasn't named though. The space for that simply said ‘‘Father unknown''.'

Almost intuitively she felt him stiffen.

‘What's wrong?'

‘Nothing. Nothing at all.' But he withdrew his arm and got up, pulling on his jeans. ‘Shall we go back in the other room? There's a good film on TV I'd like to see.'

‘All right.' But she had sensed him going away from her and she was hurt and puzzled. She didn't know what was wrong but she could tell from his attitude that he was not going to explain. Somehow, some time during the last minutes a barrier had gone up between them that had never been there before. Suddenly Theresa was cold with misgiving, her whole body feeling heavy and numb the way her hands so often did.

‘Mark, I love you,' she wanted to say, in the hope that somehow miraculously everything would be all right again just as it had been before … what? But she did not say it. Instead she levered herself up off the bed, reached for her clothes and followed him into the living room.