The Finishing Touches (32 page)

“Delightful as it is to celebrate your marvelous triumph with you, Betsy, dear, someone ought to be saying good-bye to our guests,” said Miss Thorne with just a hint of reproach in her voice as she pushed herself away from the desk. “We shouldn’t forget our manners. Mark, perhaps you can assist me?”

Mark gave me a private look that made me feel pleasantly awkward, and then escorted Miss Thorne out in a show of gallantry. I sank into the chair opposite Lord P and gave him a huge smile.

“Wow,” I said. All I had to do now was to find the teachers, sort out the classes, check the legality of some of my ideas—but that could wait. I wanted to savor this moment and Lord P’s obvious happiness.

“I wish Frances were here to see this,” he said simply. “Place is full of life. It’s what she always wanted. And because of you!”

I felt my face go pink with pride.

“I, ah, I haven’t mentioned this to Geraldine,” Lord P went on, “but if you do decide to change horses, careerwise, to make it worth your while, if you like, I’d hand over the ownership of the business to you. I’ll just be a shareholder; you’ll run the whole shooting match.”

“But…” My mouth went dry, and I didn’t know what to say. “That’s very generous of you!”

“Not at all. It’d be yours in the end, in any case. About time I took things easier. Apparently I’m overloading myself.” Lord P looked rather confused. “Thought I
was
taking things pretty
easy—spot of fishing, light gardening sort of thing—but Adele reckons I need to slow down. Spend more time in the country. Foreign countries, mainly.”

His face brightened at exactly the same time as mine assumed a rictus expression of horror. “She’s a funny little thing, Adele. Reminds me of Frances in some ways. She thinks I ought to see the Caribbean! Can’t imagine why—place is far too hot, unless you’re watching the cricket.” Lord P looked at me hopefully. “Do you think that might be it? Girl’s a cricket fan?”

“She does seem to be well up on international matches,” I said tactfully.

Lord P raised his silvery eyebrows. “Really? Frances couldn’t bear cricket. Still miss her grumbling away at the Test match. Knitting through the Ashes series. Knitting!” He sighed. “Adele thinks I should take up tennis—offered to book me some lessons. Never too late to learn, apparently.”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s any need for that!” I insisted so hard that Lord P nearly rocked backward in his chair. “I mean,” I added, “stick to cricket. Safety in numbers. I mean…it’s more companionable.”

“Indeed it is. Anyway,” he went on, “you sleep on it, and get back to me. And in the meantime, you’ve made me and Frances very proud.”

He raised his glass a polite two inches, being far too well brought up to clink, and nodded in a meaningful sort of way.

This must be it, I thought, dizzy with more than just champagne. The final proof. It
had
to be Hector who’d left me here—handing over the Academy kept it in the family, didn’t it? Maybe Lord P had sworn some gentleman’s oath not to reveal the truth to anyone in his lifetime or something, but the pride in his eyes was enough for me for now.

I raised my glass to him, and to Franny, and to the rest of the Phillimore family. Up to and including me.

I had barely had time to enjoy that heartwarming thought before it was replaced by another, much less warming one.

Mark and Miss Thorne were clearing out the guests, and I hadn’t had a chance to check with Divinity whether all the 1980 girls had arrived!

I banged my glass down on a side table, missing the coaster, and leaped up. “Will you excuse me?” I gabbled, as Lord P stared in bewilderment, and rushed into the hall.

There was no one left. Only Divinity was standing by the front door, ostentatiously tallying up her guest list, while the others made desultory tidying-up gestures to cover the fact they were scarfing the leftover buffet.

“Can I see that list?” I blurted out, grabbing her clipboard.

“Pretty good turnout. Some no-shows,” she said, unaware of my agitation. “I would write to them and ask why they didn’t turn up. Rude, if you ask me.”

My eyes scanned up and down. Rosalind and Bumps had been on the list but hadn’t showed.

“You’re certain you checked everyone in?” I demanded.

“Betsy, the security was tighter than a gnat’s chuff,” Divinity assured me.

I stared round the hall. Had she been here? Had I got so distracted by my own business plan that I’d forgotten to look out for her?

My shoulders drooped.

“Problem?”

I could tell by the way Divinity puffed out her chest like a parakeet that it was Jamie behind me, even without recognizing the voice.

He slung an arm around me. “Thought that went very well, didn’t you, Divinity? Top marks for Miss Cooper, eh?”

I tried to smile, but my heart wasn’t in it. I felt like I’d won the battle but lost the war.

“Fruitcake doesn’t stand to be cut
into such small slivers,” said Kathleen, inspecting the fairy-sized portions of cake on the silver stand. “You need two of these to get the taste.”

“Oh, Kathleen!” said Nancy. “Stop complaining—it’s not every day we come to the Ritz for tea.” She gave me a happy pat on the knee. “It’s a lovely treat, Betsy. You’re far too good to us.”

I could see Kathleen’s point—it was a bit like taking coals to Newcastle, tormenting her with a doll’s house version of her own creaking table of delights—but Nancy loved the tinkling piano and the fancy napkins and all the fuss of a proper hotel tea.

We were sitting in the golden splendor of the Palm Court, at a prime spot from which we could see the rest of the room and comment on the other guests as well as the lavish pastry selection. No one had dressed up as smartly as Kathleen and Nancy, who were one wicker basket short of the full Agatha
Christie–Sunday night special. Nancy even had a hat on. I say hat—it was almost a bonnet.

“Well, you should thank Jamie.” I helped myself to a minuscule éclair. “He was the one who managed to get a table at such short notice. Normally you need to book weeks in advance for a Saturday tea.”

“He must think very highly of you to arrange that,” said Kathleen, inspecting a fragment of cheesecake.

“He thinks highly of you two, more like.” I didn’t tell Kathleen that I thought Jamie had done it by way of apology for arranging Adele’s party. I’d told him he didn’t need to apologize. He said he did. I hadn’t meant to sound so huffy, and he’d looked at me as if he wasn’t sure why I was being so off, but my brain refused to cooperate, and I couldn’t find the words to explain why it riled me so much.

Kathleen and Nancy exchanged glances.

“There’s no favor done in the day that’s not collected in the dark.” Kathleen popped the cheesecake into her mouth and shut it like a trap while she chewed.

“Oh, now, Kathleen, don’t be like that,” said Nancy. “Just because he’s good-looking doesn’t mean to say he’s
always
after something. I do think Jamie should have been born when he could have worn breeches. Will they ever come back into fashion, do you think, Betsy?” she asked hopefully.

“You’d have to ask Liv that, not me,” I said. “But if they do, I’m sure Jamie will be one of the first people to be wearing them.”

“I saw you talking to that Eleanor Howard yesterday,” said Kathleen, in her “apropos of nothing” voice. “What did she have to say for herself?”

“Ooh, she’s gone very dramatic,” observed Nancy. “I remember Eleanor when she wouldn’t say boo to a goose, let
alone wear a fur hat during the day. Of course, she married that actor chap who didn’t know whether he was Barry or Carrie, if you know what I mean…”

I hesitated, unsure whether to tell them about my parental investigations, but somehow it didn’t seem so important, not now. I still had a snug glow of belonging from the previous day. Lord P’s proud smile felt like a thermal vest around my heart.

“I’ve been talking to her about finding my mother,” I confessed. “Nell thought she was an Old Girl who might have come along yesterday, but…” I stopped and made my face more positive, for their benefit. “I reckon if she wants to find me, she will. And in the meantime, my family’s right here.”

“Ah, bless,” said Nancy, patting her eyes with her napkin. “’Course it is, darling. We’re always here. Who’d like another sandwich? Do they still replace your empty plate? Or would that be greedy?”

Kathleen was looking at me more circumspectly, but I didn’t really notice, in my general flush of goodwill.

“I know I should have spoken to Lord P years ago,” I went on. “But with Franny and everything…Anyway, I think I know who my father is, at least. I just need him to admit it. It’s not like it’s going to change anything.”

“What do you mean, admit it?” asked Kathleen sharply.

“That Hector is my father.” I looked at them both over the silver teapot and cake stand. “I mean, it’s obvious, isn’t it? I’ve always suspected it was, the way they took me in with no fuss, and now Lord P’s given me the Academy to run, so it stays in the family! I can understand why Franny might not have wanted to talk about it, if they didn’t like my mother…”

“Have you found your mother?” asked Kathleen quietly.

I blinked. I wasn’t so sure about this, but I was starting to
have an inkling. “I think so. She hasn’t actually said anything yet, but I’ve got my suspicions.”

“And who’s that, love?” Nancy looked worried.

“Well, I think it’s Nell Howard.” As I said it aloud, I felt sure I was right. “She was there at the memorial, and she gave me a photograph of the 1980 girls, but I think it’s a red herring—I think
she’s
my mother. I think she’s in the photograph and isn’t telling me. She recognized my necklace, and I showed her the letter that came in the box—she said she didn’t know the handwriting, but there was something odd about the way she said it.”

“But she hasn’t told you?”

“No. Not yet. I thought…I thought she might be waiting to see how much I wanted to find my mother.”

“Oh, maybe she wants to make a declaration!” said Nancy, putting down her dessert fork. “Maybe she wants to take you back to the place where she left you—”

“This isn’t one of your scullery-maid dramas, Miss Kirkpatrick.” Kathleen beetled her brows at Nancy, then turned to me. “Has Nell told you that Hector’s your father? Actually told you?”

I shook my head. “But she doesn’t need to. I’ll ask Lord Phillimore tonight, and he can—”

“No, you won’t. Nancy?” said Kathleen, and gave a very unwilling Nancy a nudge. “Speak the truth and shame the devil. I know it’s not nice, but…”

“
Kath
-leen!”

“
Nan
-cy!”

“What?” I looked between them.

“Oh, Kathleen! Betsy, dear, Hector isn’t your father,” said Nancy. “He can’t be anyone’s father—he had a bad do with mumps. Caused all sorts of…” Her face went pink. “Complications…with his…you know. Hereditary parts.”

I flinched in shock as my nice, comfy new world fell apart. Hector wasn’t my father? So Lord P and Franny really
were
just strangers who’d taken me in? I really
could
be the child of anyone at all?

“Are you sure?” I managed.

She nodded. “Of course I am, love. I was sent back home to nurse him through it, wasn’t I? I had to listen to the doctor explaining all the business to Lord Phillimore—”

“You didn’t have to listen,” Kathleen reminded her. “But your ear just happened to be pressed up against the door.”

Nancy tossed her head. “It’s as well to know these things. Anyway, it was a very bad do; he was warned that children weren’t on the agenda. Lord Phillimore was devastated. It was bad enough, Hector being the way he was, without thinking that was it, the end of the Phillimores.”

Kathleen spotted my stricken expression and leaped in. “So you can imagine what a blessing it was when you arrived on their doorstep! No wonder they were so thrilled to have you!”

I barely heard a word she said for the blood roaring in my own ears. All the years I’d been imagining ballerinas and rock stars, a tiny part of me had always taken it for granted that Franny and I had some link. I hadn’t realized that until now. But we didn’t. We couldn’t. There was
nothing
binding her and Lord P to me at all. I felt as if I were cut off from everything I’d ever known.

I really was just a stranger. A nobody.

“But I thought…the way Franny looked at me…” My eyes filled up, and the sandwiches blurred on the stand.

“She looked at you like that because she worshiped the ground you walked on,” said Kathleen stoutly. “It didn’t matter a jot to her who your father was. Or your mother, for that matter. I doubt she’d have loved you an iota more if Hector
had
been your father. So, this Nell woman—are you going to ask her what’s what?”

Suddenly, I didn’t know if I wanted to. Was Nell playing some game, where I had to wait before she would tell me?

“I don’t know,” I said in a small voice. “I don’t know if I want to know now.”

“It doesn’t affect anything here,” said Nancy, almost pleading. “We still love you, and Lord Phillimore obviously thinks the world of you if he wants you to stay on. I know it’ll mean giving up that marvelous job of yours in Edinburgh, but…” She was bunching up her napkin in distress. “I do hope you’ll give it some thought. Home’s where the heart is.”

I struggled inside, desperate for them not to see the shameful mess raging inside me.

Home
was
where the heart was. But I wasn’t sure if that was quite enough.

I picked up some ice cream on the way back to Liv’s and a DVD of
Mamma Mia,
so we could at least have a girlie night in.

But as soon as I opened the door, the smell of curling irons and perfume hit me, and the sound of Abba was already blaring from Liv’s stereo upstairs, so loud that I couldn’t even hear Barry the cat mewling when I found him on the sofa in a heap of discarded clothes. The way his pink mouth was opening and closing, he looked as if he was miming along to “Dancing Queen.”

This meant only one thing. Liv’s man detox was at an end. She only played Abba when she was getting ready for a date. The stomping upstairs also suggested she’d reached the dance routine stage—i.e., shoes on, only lip gloss to go.

“Liv!” I yelled up the stairs. “Liv!”

“I’m coming down!” she yelled when she eventually heard me. “Two minutes!”

I went into the kitchen and was surprised to see Mark at the breakfast bar, idly going through the bread bin where Liv and I put all the bills and receipts.

He was wearing an outfit I hadn’t seen before—dark jeans and a soft weekend-y shirt and, blimey, indigo suede sneakers. There was a black corduroy jacket hanging over a chair, though, so he hadn’t turned entirely fashionable without warning.

“Mark?” I said.

He spun round guiltily and rammed the council tax bill back in the bread bin. “Oh, hello, Betsy.”

“Are you auditing Liv now?” I asked. “Academy not challenging enough for you?”

“Um, sort of.” He gave me a nervous smile that made his face look surprisingly attractive. I wondered if the attic offices had some cruel kind of lighting flaw, because Mark looked about 100 percent more cute in Liv’s kitchen. His hair was shinier; his expression was more confident. I took back my “porridge oat box” assessment and upgraded him to “rugged, outdoor J. Crew model.”

He went on, “I’m taking her out to say thanks for helping me buy some new clothes.”

“She helped you buy some new clothes?” I repeated, rather stupidly. I couldn’t quite line up the mental images of Mark Montgomery spending actual money on clothes and Liv strolling around Selfridges with a man who wore red socks and tweed jackets. “When?”

“This afternoon.” Mark looked pleased and embarrassed at the same time. “She made some rather, um, punchy obser
vations yesterday about my wardrobe looking like someone’s dad’s and suggested she take me shopping, and so we did, as you can see.” He made a self-conscious gesture toward his outfit. “And I thought the least I could do was to take her out to say thanks.”

“Right.” I looked him up and down. “Well, it’s definitely worth at least a burger. Those are fantastic jeans—they really suit you! You’ve got great legs! Can I get you a drink?” I asked, opening the fridge. “Liv might be a while. When she says two minutes, she doesn’t mean two of our earth minutes. She works on some Roman numeral system.”

“Oh, er, yeah, thanks. Cup of tea would be great.” I’d expected Mark to come out with some sarcastic quip about the female time/space continuum, as he’d have done over sandwiches in the office, but he didn’t. In fact, he seemed a lot less confident altogether out of his suit.

I put the bottle of chardonnay back into the fridge and stole a quick glance as I swilled the teapot with hot water. Mark was so much better-looking when he wasn’t spitting feathers about Miss Thorne’s expenses. It was suddenly easier to imagine him working on his car, stripping it down with oily rags and that sort of thing. That was a
good
practical hobby for a man to have. And quite a sexy one…

I wondered if Liv would mind me coming with them. I could help the conversation along—she was getting mildly obsessive about the change jar stacking up in the kitchen, but that didn’t mean she could sustain a whole evening’s chat about personal tax allowances, with a little engine chat for light relief.

Mark ran a hand through his hair, which also seemed to have been cut. Was it this light, I wondered, or was he looking more like Colin Firth? Could Liv have helpfully chipped away the outer economist to reveal the inner attractive man she kept
insisting would walk into my life one day and sweep me away from—

The kettle boiled, and I jumped, taken aback by the unexpected turn my imagination had taken.

“Great news about you staying,” said Mark. “Don’t suppose you’ll be needing a bursar now, will you, if you’re going to be in charge?”

“Sorry?”

“I mean, since you’re more qualified than me, probably.” He smiled wryly.

I put the teapot down in front of him. If we were going to start flirting properly, then I needed to be honest. From now on, I decided, I wasn’t going to make up anything about my job, my social life, my background, anything.

“I’ve got a confession to make,” I said.

“Go on,” said Mark. “Don’t make me guess. It’ll only end in tears.”

“I’m not really a management consultant.”

“Of course you’re not.” He lifted the pot and raised an eyebrow. “Milk first or second? I can’t remember.”

“Yes, no sugar.” I realized what he’d said, and my mouth dropped open in horror. “What do you mean, of course you’re not?”

“I worked that out after day two.” He stirred my tea and passed me the mug. “Obvious. You didn’t delegate anything to anyone. You just did it. I could understand every word you said, and there were no memos, jargon, or long absences while you lunched other people. The math degree I could believe,” he added. “Your budgets added up, at least.”