Folly's Child (55 page)

Mark Bristow poured himself another scotch – his third since Theresa had left – and stood swirling the liquid around in the glass. The small carriage clock on the mantlepiece said twenty to two but he made no attempt to get ready for bed. He wouldn't sleep, he knew, and there was nothing worse than tossing and turning for hours. Besides, his skin crawled at the prospect of lying in the bed where he had so lately made love to her.

Christ Almighty what a mess! he thought and swigged angrily at his whisky. Christ Almighty, I don't believe this! But unless I am very much mistaken I have just made love to my sister.

At the thought his stomach turned again and he felt the sweat beading on his forehead and running in rivulets down his neck. He hadn't known, of course – had had no idea such a thing was even remotely possible, but that made no difference to the terrible, deep seated revulsion. Nothing could alter that, no explanations, no excuses. He had made love to his sister. Worse – he had fallen in love with her, and she with him. No wonder they had had that affinity from the very beginning! he thought, the taste of the whisky rising like bile in his throat. No bloody wonder. It was sick – too sick for words.

But how could he possibly have known? He couldn't. He hadn't even known she was adopted and he had certainly not had the slightest idea that his mother had borne – and given away – a second baby.

What the hell was the matter with her? he wondered, irrationally angry suddenly and ready to vent his feelings on her. He had known, of course, that he was illegitimate. She had never made any secret of it, even though after she had married Hugo the designer had treated him like a son. In any case there would have been no point in trying to conceal it. He had been old enough to remember living in London with his mother – in Kensington. He had already started at nursery school before he was uprooted and whisked off to the States. But she must have been already pregnant. He did a quick calculation guessing at Theresa's age. Strange. There seemed to be some sort of discrepancy. He didn't quite understand it but then she might be older than he thought she was. Yes, it must be that. There was no other explanation. Sally Margaret Bristow of Kensington was his mother, for sure. The chances of there being two girls of the same name living in the same couple of square miles must be a thousand to one against.

He refilled his glass yet again, running over the likely scenario. Sally had been pregnant again when Paula had disappeared. God alone knew how she had managed to get herself into the same fix twice – one would have imagined going through what she had done to have and keep him she would have been more careful a second time, especially by the end of the Swinging Sixties. But somehow she had and she hadn't been able to face going through with it a second time. Besides that would have totally blown her chance with Hugo, he imagined. So this time Sally had decided to give the baby up for adoption. And that baby was Theresa.

Who had been her father? The same as his? Or Hugo even? Her birth certificate bore the same embarrassing blank as did his – ‘father unknown'. He did not understand it. There were still plenty of unanswered questions, but it almost fitted. Mark thought with a sinking heart that he was not far off the truth.

Well, there was only one way to be sure. He did a quick calculation of time zones and placed a call to Sally in the States. When she came on the line her voice was light, surprised, and he experienced a moment's hope.

‘Hi, Mum.'

‘Mark! What a lovely surprise! How are you?'

He did not answer her question, instead asked one of his own.

‘Mum – did you have a baby adopted in London? Late sixties – early seventies?'

There was a silence. Even allowing for the time lapse as the words hummed along the lines across the vast distance it was too long. Then she said, a trifle breathless, a trifle startled: ‘ How did you find out?'

So that was it. No more room for doubt. No more room for hope. He couldn't bring himself to answer, much less to talk about it. Without another word he replaced the receiver and stood looking at it.

It was true then. Theresa was his sister. God help them both. It was revolting, disgusting. Even worse, even now knowing what he now knew, his heart still ached for her.

He couldn't see her again, of course. But he didn't want her to learn the truth. At least he could spare her that.

When dawn broke he showered, shaved and went in to the office.

‘I've been thinking,' he said to Toby Rogers, his partner. ‘About the Hemingway account. I think it ought to be handled from the New York end.'

Toby had looked at him in surprise. He'd said as much himself several times during the last few weeks, but prising Mark away from London since he had been seeing his latest girl had not been easy.

‘I'll book myself on a flight sometime later today,' Mark went on. ‘If you think you can run this end without me, that is.'

‘Of course but …'

‘I don't know when I'll be back. Depends on how it goes.'

‘What if Theresa rings?' Toby asked astutely. ‘Should I give her your number?'

He knew he had hit the nail on the head when Mark's face went closed in. God but he looked dreadful this morning – pasty pale like old parchment with red rimmed bloodshot eyes!

‘No. Tell her … oh tell her what you like. But keep her out of my hair.'

‘Fair enough, old son,' Toby said equably – and like the old friend he was knew better than to ask any more questions.

In New York Mark stayed with another friend in an apartment on the East Side. He couldn't bring himself to stay under the same roof as his mother. It was no longer his home, anyway – she and Hugo had moved the previous year to a new apartment on Central Park South which she had had done up entirely to her specifications, finally leaving behind the last echoes of Paula.

He had wondered how he would feel when he saw her again and as he had anticipated, at first it was awkward and he felt heavy with resentment. He had expected her to raise the subject of the baby, ask him how he had learned about it and perhaps try to explain, but to his immense relief she did not and he found that cold hard core of anger softening.

Judge not that ye be not judged. He loved Sally with the total love that most young men feel for their mothers and perhaps because of those early years when they had been alone together their relationship was even more special than most. Who knew what had driven Sally in those grim days? It was not her fault that he had met Theresa and fallen in love with her; she was not to have known.

Besides, to ask questions would be to have to explain himself and he did not want to do that. The knowledge of what he had done was a dark secret he wanted to keep to himself. Only that way might he one day be able to put it behind him. So the subject of the mysterious baby was never raised between them and gradually he found it in himself to forgive Sally whatever she had done for the pain she had caused him and resume their relationship as before. If anything he found he was even more protective of her.

But he had not been able to forget Theresa. Even knowing what he did she was still there in his heart and her presence was a constant shame to him. He did not see her, did not return any of her calls, and told himself it was the best way. A clean break meant she would have nothing to reproach herself with.

Mark threw himself into his work, spent as much time as possible away from England and never spoke of his innermost thoughts and feelings with a soul. One day perhaps he would no longer experience this sharp pain, this sick ache when he thought of her. One day perhaps there would be someone who would help him to forget her. But it hadn't happened yet.

And now here was Harriet, telling him a story almost beyond belief, and suddenly pieces of the jigsaw that he had not even known were missing were falling into place.

A baby born secretly, not to Sally but to her sister Paula, whom the world had thought was dead. Not his sister. Not even a half sister. A cousin, perhaps, but that was permissible, wasn't it?

He looked at Harriet, who was turning to him for comfort as she always had, and could only think that he had lost his love and all for nothing.

A baby – Paula and Hugo's baby – who had inherited her father's talent along with some of his looks (Mark knew now why she had seemed strangely familiar to him). A baby who had grown up into the most wonderful girl he had ever met.

Emotion overcame him. He buried his head in his hands.

‘Theresa,' he said.

Sally returned from visiting Hugo in hospital just after seven.

When they heard her come in Harriet and Mark looked at one another, slightly apprehensive. Neither was looking forward to the inevitable scene. They had spent the afternoon fitting together the pieces of the jigsaw and trying to decide what should be done. Now, faced with telling Sally they knew the secret she had kept from them for the whole of their lives, both quaked inwardly.

In the hall Sally hesitated when she saw Harriet's things, still waiting to be taken upstairs, but when she came into the room she was her usual poised self. Only her eyes, shadowed and wary, showed the trepidation she was feeling. Harriet and Mark here together. What had she told him? What was she going to tell him?

‘Harriet – you're back!' she said breezily – brazening it out, Harriet thought grimly. ‘Did you have a good trip?'

Harriet ignored the question, asking one of her own instead.

‘How is Dad?'

‘Doing well. He really does look much better today, thank God. He was asking for you, though.'

‘I'll go and see him tomorrow.'

‘Yes, he'll be so pleased to see you. Look, darlings, I must go and have a bath before dinner.'

‘Never mind about dinner,' Mark said, levering himself up out of the chair where he had been sitting. ‘ We have to talk, Mum.'

She knew from his face what it was he wanted to talk about but still she could not bring herself to admit it.

‘Won't it wait? I can't bear it if I don't have a bath this minute and get rid of the smell of hospital. What is it about that smell? It clings to everything and seems to get right inside you and …'

‘Mum!' Mark said threateningly. ‘ Shut up.'

Sally held his gaze but she had turned pale beneath her make-up.

‘What is this? What has happened?'

‘I think you know very well,' Mark said sternly. ‘It's no use pretending any longer. Harriet has told me everything.'

‘You mean … about …?' Sally could not bring herself to speak her sister's name. She looked as if she were about to cry now, her control hanging on a knife edge.

‘Yes. Mum – how could you do it?'

Sally's face began to work and her fingers plucked restlessly at one another.

‘I told Harriet. I explained. She needed peace and quiet. It was all that was left to her …'

‘But it shouldn't have been your decision. Hugo was her husband. He had a right to know, for God's sake. Especially in the circumstances.'

‘The … circumstances …?'

‘Leaving Paula there in the care of the nuns wasn't the worst of it, was it?'

‘I don't know … what you mean …'

‘I found out about the baby,' Harriet said quietly.

Sally swayed. Mark was at her side in a moment, steadying her.

‘Sit down. I know this is a shock – it has been for all of us – but now we know it's no use trying to cover it up any longer. Paula gave birth to a baby – Hugo's baby. She was Hugo's, wasn't she?'

Sally shook her head, words almost eluding her.

‘I don't know. I never asked. I assumed she was
his
– Greg Martin's. I didn't see any point in hurting Hugo any more. She'd hurt him so much! I just wanted him to forget all about her and the way she had treated him. I wanted him to be happy. I knew I could make him happy. I
have
made him happy.'

‘Yes, you have,' Mark agreed. ‘ But don't you see – it was terribly wrong, taking it upon yourself like that? And quite apart from deceiving Hugo, what about the baby? You deprived her of her birthright.'

‘No, I made certain she went to a good home. She was adopted by nice people. They are very fussy, you know, adoption societies …' She looked up at Harriet, her eyes wild and puzzled. ‘How did you find out after so long?'

‘You know I went to Italy, Sally,' Harriet said with more patience than she was feeling. ‘I spoke to one of the nuns who was there when my mother gave birth – Sister Maria Theresa. I assume you named the baby after her.'

‘Yes, I did. I had to call her something. As soon as she was born I took her to London and registered the birth there.'

‘As your child.'

‘I could hardly register her as Paula's could I, when Paula was supposed to be dead? It was surprisingly easy. The registrar was just a bored looking girl. She accepted what I told her without question.' Her eyes narrowed. ‘But how did you know what I called her? Sister Maria Theresa couldn't have told you that. No one knows – except me.'

‘I knew,' Mark said.

Sally looked up at him with a flash of fear and total bewilderment. This was not her Mark, so laid back and charming and humorous. This was an angry young man with an edge of steel.

‘You?' she asked helplessly.

‘Yes, me. I am going to tell you a story, Sally, about a guy who met a beautiful young woman named Theresa Arnold. He was crazy about her – he had even entertained thoughts of marriage.' His mouth hardened, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘He'd already slept with her. And then one day she told him she had been adopted as a baby and her real name was the same as his – Bristow. She didn't know who her father was but her mother's name was Sally Margaret Bristow who had given her address as Kensington. Am I ringing bells, Mum?'