Folly's Child (59 page)

‘It's all right, Mark, I'll take it.'

The two men waited in awkward silence. A few minutes later Harriet was back. She looked shell-shocked, and she stood very upright in the doorway as if she was carefully holding onto erself, consciously controlling every muscle.

‘It's Dad,' she said in a small tight voice. ‘The hospital called to give us the news. He died ten minutes ago.'

Theresa Arnold knelt on the floor in her workroom pouring boiling water from her temperamental old electric kettle onto a spoonful of instant coffee in a mug. The mug was bright blue and bore the legend ‘You're the Tops' above a cartoon of a pleased-looking ginger cat with one ear and a striped bow around its neck. Theresa had bought it – from a market stall – because it amused her and the cat's smug grin had the power to cheer her up when she was feeling low. Today however she scarcely glanced at it, merely clasped it tightly between hands that felt colder than ever although the weather had taken a turn for the better.

Tonight she was due to pay her visit to Fergal Hillyard's apartment – and she was dreading it.

Oh God, I'm little better than a prostitute! Theresa thought wretchedly, for she had no illusions about the strings that were to be attached to any money he put up to back her. He had made it clear enough and for that at least she was grateful to him. At least he hadn't pretended to be interested only as an entrepreneur and then swung the conditions on her later. No, he had laid it on the line – be nice to me and I'll be nice to you – and sick though she felt every time she thought of it Theresa didn't see that she had any option if she wanted to save her business – and her mother's investment in it of everything she owned.

I can't allow her to lose her house, Theresa thought, sipping the coffee so hot that it scalded her throat. If there was any other way I'd tell him what he could do with his money, but there isn't.

In the last week since Fergal had made his qualified offer she had urged Linda to redouble her efforts to find new markets but Linda, who thought she had already done rather well in arranging the meeting with Fergal, was less cooperative than usual and Theresa was ashamed to tell her of the boutique owner's proposition and the fact that she had, for even a moment, considered doing as he asked. But in any case, no matter how hard Linda worked for her, Theresa didn't expect she would have had much luck. Everywhere, it seemed, stores and boutiques were pulling their horns in and ‘sales', as in discounted merchandise, not profits, were the order of the day – not just end-of-season sales but mid-season too, anything to move the garments off the racks. With falling profits no one was in to taking chances of any kind – and certainly not on some unknown designer. And besides Theresa was fast losing confidence in Linda and herself as a team. Once, she thought, she had been prepared to work all the hours that God sent, in whatever conditions she had to, to make a success of the business. Now all her determination seemed to have gone, sapped away by one blow after another, eroded by worries about how the bills were to be paid and repayments on the loan met, where the next lot of materials were coming from and what the hell would her mother do if she lost everything.

All week Theresa had found work almost impossible. She tore up page after page of sketches until her wastepaper basket was overflowing. And eventually, unable to think about anything else but the impossibility of the situation, she had succumbed and telephoned the number Fergal had given her. Just hearing his voice made her stomach quake, imagining that smooth smile and remembering the stale smell of his breath had made her want to vomit. But she had held on to herself tightly and tried not to give him any indication of the revulsion she was feeling. It was done now. She had arranged to go to his flat this evening. But the fact that the decision was made did not make her feel any better, any more than it helped to tell herself she was not the first, and would certainly not be the last, who had sold herself for reasons other than love or even desire.

A door banging at street level made her glance up and she heard footsteps on the stairs. Linda – with some good news just in time to save her? But the steps were heavy and too slow – Linda, bursting with energy, always ran up the stairs. Weasel, then, or one of the others. In her present state Theresa hoped not. She did not feel like being sociable.

She watched, semi-mesmerised, expecting to see the door handle turn. Instead there was a tap. Theresa was surprised. None of her friends ever bothered to knock.

‘Come in,' she called.

The door opened and Theresa stared, unable to believe her own eyes.

‘Hi,' he said.

And with a small gasp that was part pleasure, part astonishment, she whispered: ‘ Mark!' He came into the workroom, tall, fair and handsome in sneakers and jeans and a black leather jacket. Her pulses were racing; she felt slightly sick. So often she had day-dreamed about him walking in exactly like this, unannounced, but she hadn't really believed he ever would. Men didn't. They came and went – mostly went, especially if you cared deeply for them. Unexpected reunions only happened in romantic novels … didn't they?

‘Well!' she said, setting down her mug and wondering if he would be able to see she was trembling. This is a surprise!'

‘I know. I should have let you know I was coming, I suppose, but I was afraid you might say you didn't want to see me.'

‘Now why should I do that?'

‘Well, it has been rather a long time … How have you been, Theresa?' He was the only one, apart from her mother, who called her Theresa rather than Terri. She had always rather liked it, now it made her heart miss a beat.

‘Surviving – just. And you?'

‘Yes.' Now he was here he scarcely knew what to say. ‘I wondered if I might buy you lunch – or have you already eaten?' She laughed ruefully.

‘I don't eat at midday. I can't afford to. I've just had a coffee.'

‘Then how about it?'

‘Now wait a minute,' she said. Her heart might be beating a little too fast, there might be a bubble of excitement sending shivers and quivers to every nerve ending, but she was not about to be made a fool of again. ‘ You walked out on me, Mark, without a word of explanation and no goodbye. What makes you think I'd have lunch with you now just because you see fit to breeze up those stairs and ask me?'

His face fell.

‘I know it must have seemed to you I behaved very badly,' he said apologetically, ‘but I did have a very good reason.'

‘Such as?'

He hesitated. This would have been difficult enough if he had been in full control of his emotions. As it was, looking at her and wanting to kiss her, it was impossible.

‘Theresa, if I hurt you I'm truly sorry. You must believe it was the last thing I wanted to do. In fact I left when I did to try to avoid you being hurt more.'

‘Don't they all say that?' she enquired archly. ‘I did it for your own good? I loved you, Mark, and you buzzed off – just like that.' She tried to snap her fingers together, but cold as they always were, and trembling as they were now, she couldn't quite manage it.

He looked at her warily. ‘ Loved,' she had said – past tense. Did it mean she no longer loved him?

‘Is there someone else?' he asked.

‘No,' she said, ‘ but if there was it would be none of your business.' He winced. There was going to be no easy way to do this. ‘Theresa, please have lunch with me. I have to talk to you.' Her mouth set in a stubborn line.

‘If you want to talk to me, talk here. Then when I've heard what you have to say I'll decide if I want to have lunch with you.' A corner of his mouth lifted in a shadow of his old carefree grin.

‘It doesn't seem I have much choice.'

‘You don't, Buster, you don't.'

‘The trouble is I don't know where the hell to start.'

‘At the beginning?'

‘I'm not certain where that is. And I'm sure as hell I don't know the end. I only know what I hope it will be.'

His eyes met and held hers for a moment before she tore them away.

‘Go on then.'

‘Are you sure we won't be interrupted?'

‘No, I can't even promise that. But for the moment, Mark, you have my undivided attention.'

‘So,' he said when he had finished. ‘ Now you know.'

She was sitting, head bent, turning a pencil over and over between those mittened fingers. She had remained silent while he talked, stunned into silence by the revelations. Now she looked up at him and her eyes were moist.

‘My God,' she said. ‘Are you sure about all this?'

‘As sure as I can be. Hugo Varna was your father.'

‘Was?'

‘He died last week. Didn't you read about it in the papers?'

She shook her head. She had been too busy to so much as glance at a paper or catch a news bulletin all week.

‘He died of a heart attack, possibly brought on by all this, though no one can say that for sure. He certainly worked very hard, pushing himself to the limits.' He paused. ‘I'd have liked to have been able to come over and tell you all this in time for you to come to the funeral – if you wanted to, that is. But my mother has been in a terrible state. I didn't feel I could leave her.'

‘I can imagine.'

‘She blames herself, of course. And so did I at first but I am beginning to come to terms with it and understand why she did … what she did.'

Theresa nodded.

‘Poor Sally. She must have been through hell.'

‘Yes.' Love for Theresa warmed him; after all this she could still find it in her to feel compassion for Sally.

‘I wish you could have been there,' he said. ‘ You were, after all, his daughter.'

She stared down at her hands again.

‘Yes. It explains so much. Where my talent comes from for one thing. It just goes to show – heredity
is
important. I never saw him, never even knew, and yet… I never wanted to do anything but design fashion. But my mother … oh God', she shivered. ‘My poor mother! I only hope I haven't inherited
her
traits.'

‘You are not to worry about that,' Mark said swiftly. ‘I'm sure it was a combination of circumstances that sent her on the path to … what she became. And Harriet is fine, you know. She's your sister, full blood, and you couldn't wish to meet anyone saner than Harriet.'

‘Harriet Varna,' she said wonderingly. ‘I've heard of her, you know. She's a photographer, isn't she?'

‘Yes. A very good one. And she can't wait to meet you.'

‘Oh …' Theresa bit her lip, afraid suddenly. ‘I'm not sure I'm ready for any of this, Mark.'

‘I hope you are,' he said, ‘ because I have a suggestion to make, Theresa. You are a very talented designer and with Hugo dead that is exactly what the House of Varna needs – new blood. Especially his blood. Come to the States. Work for Varna.'

‘What?' Her eyes widened. ‘Mark – I couldn't! I'm just a novice. Besides, they wouldn't want me.'

‘They do want you.'

‘I couldn't!' she repeated, appalled.

‘Theresa, I've seen your work and I know – it's Hugo all over again. A new Hugo, of course, young and fresh, but with that indefinable something that makes clothes work. Oh, it would have to be taken steadily, of course. You'd be part of a team to begin with and Laddie would help you make the adjustment. Laddie is Hugo's assistant – he's been with him for years and years.'

‘So why can't he take over?'

‘Laddie is not an original designer and never will be. He lacks the spark of new ideas. But technically he is as sound as a bell. He would work with you, guide you, nurse you along.'

‘How do you know he would be prepared to do that?'

‘We have talked to him about it. Oh, it's quite all right. Laddie is totally loyal. He won't breathe a word about who you really are unless or until we authorise such a move.'

She laughed, a shrill, tight sound.

‘It sounds as though you have everything worked out.'

‘We have talked it through, yes. But of course in the final analysis it is down to you, Theresa. Maybe you want your own label. Of course, if you come to Varna you'd have recognition in time, but if you are already building up your name here and doing well, we shall understand. I know Hugo would – and he would approve.'

For a long moment Theresa was silent, twisting the pencil back and forth between her fingers. Then she raised her eyes to his.

‘The truth is I'm not doing very well. It's all gone wrong. I don't even have confidence in myself any more. God knows, I'd be crazy to turn down an opportunity like this. But I'm honestly not sure I could do it. Six months ago – less than that – I was full of confidence. But now … I'm scared I'm just a big fraud and I'll mess everything up.'

‘Theresa!' He reached for her hand, touching her for the first time since he had walked through the door. ‘I don't like to hear you talk like that. But it won't last – it's a temporary loss of faith in yourself, that's all and it happens to everyone from time to time. You could do it, I know you could. You owe it to yourself to take your courage in both hands and give it a try.'

She sat silent for a moment. This was more than a wonderful opportunity – it was the answer to a prayer. No more worries about survival in the fashion jungle, no more fears that her mother would lose her home, no more Fergal Hillyard. It was the chance of a lifetime – if only she dared to take it.

‘Well?' Mark pressed her. ‘What do you say?'

She smiled, a little wanly. ‘It looks as if you've talked me into it,' she said quietly. ‘I don't suppose I have anything to lose.'

‘Nothing to lose – and everything to gain.'

‘And us?' she said. It was spoken as a whisper, the most important question of all. ‘What about us?'