The Godmother (36 page)

“Someone from the press called me,” I said, suddenly remembering the random call.

“People are sniffing for a story,” said Ben.

“There isn't one, is there?”

“No. Neil was paralytic, but I doubt Helen would have let him drive.”

“She didn't,” I said sadly. “But she should never have been driving at that time of night.” I remembered Helen literally dropping off to sleep on the sofa mid-sentence. It made me feel sick. She should have been at home, tucked up in bed, planning her divorce, not partying with him. It didn't make sense. “I don't even know what she was doing there. Bristol, of all places.” We talked round in circles until the taxi pulled up outside the cream-colored house. Marguerite was right: the press was hovering.

“Listen,” I said. “I've got to go.”

“Good luck, darling. If you need support, you know where I am.”

I thanked him, paid and got out of the cab. I pushed my way through to the gate and pressed the buzzer. I knew the security code into the front porch, but didn't dare use it in case someone saw the numbers. Cameras were flashing, but they quickly lost interest when they realized I wasn't anyone important. I couldn't understand why they were there. It must have been a quiet day in the newsroom.

Marguerite let me in, but not until she'd let me sweat for a minute or two. All the time I had known Helen I had known that, given the chance to be kind or mean, Marguerite was mean. It was in her DNA, she didn't know how to be any other way. I wasn't sure she even knew she was doing it. As I stood on the doorstep waiting to be let in, I squeezed and released my fists like a boxer
preparing for a fight. I knew I had one on my hands; I didn't know that in that brief thirty minutes, Marguerite had already taken the first punch.

A bewildered-looking woman opened the door and showed me through to the drawing room with the large cream sofas. It was there that Neil had held one of the twins high over his head, high on drugs, shaking him in time to the music. It was there that I had sat, having put Helen to bed, and poured myself a large whisky. It was there that I had thrown myself once again into the middle of someone else's drama and only seen the episode I had wanted to see. Had Helen had any intention of leaving Neil? Or had she gone to Bristol to patch things up again?

Marguerite sat as still as stone; she looked as immaculate as ever but I couldn't help noticing the empty brandy glass and the rapid pulse in her neck. I wanted to go over and hug her, but she wasn't that sort of woman, we didn't have that sort of relationship. I stood uncomfortably.

“I'm so sorry for your loss, Marguerite,” I said.

“Thank you,” she replied.

I tried to think of something else to say, but my words deserted me. Marguerite was looking at me with disapproval. I glanced at my own reflection in the large gilded mirror that hung over the fireplace. I had dressed in a mad panic. I had dressed a lifetime ago, preparing myself for the worst before dashing to hospital, not knowing whether I was going to make it in time to see Cora alive.

I thought going back to being just friends with Ben was enough to meet my part of the bargain I'd made, but it clearly wasn't—not by God's standards, not by Marguerite's and not by my own. Because here I was, in those same clothes, standing in the house that Helen would never come home to, trying to come to terms with her horrific, sudden death.

“I'm sorry,” I said, self-consciously pulling my jersey sleeve up my arm. “I dressed in a hurry.”

“Weren't you in a pub?”

I frowned. How could I explain the inexplicable? “Can I get you something? Water, a drink—”

“Another brandy, please.” She held out her glass. Her short, dark red nails brushed over my skin. As a child, Helen had been beaten with a hairbrush by
those same hands. I snatched the glass away. No wonder Helen never wanted her children being brought up by this woman. “Help yourself,” she said. I did. I carried the refilled glass back to her. She took it without thanking me. This was not a time for small talk or manners.

“How did you find out?” I asked after another lengthy silence.

“Bristol police called me in the middle of the night. I didn't answer it at first, but Helen never rang more than twice, so in the end I picked it up.” She swilled the brandy around the bulbous glass bowl. “I wish I hadn't.”

“Did you have to go and…” I faltered.

“I will tomorrow. A name can't be released to the press if it hasn't been officially identified,” said Marguerite, sounding a trifle victorious.

“So it might not be her!” I exclaimed, suddenly excited.

“It was her.”

I wasn't listening. Neil liked picking up girls, it could have been any of his floozies. Maybe Helen had left him, maybe she'd set up home in the Mandarin Oriental.

“I'm sorry, Tessa, but wishful thinking isn't going to get you out of this one. It was Helen driving the car.”

“I hate to tell you this, now of all times, but Neil often went off with other women. She was thinking of leaving him because of it.”

“She was never going to leave him over a couple of minor indiscretions. Honestly, you'd have thought I'd taught her nothing.”

“I don't understand,” I said, perplexed.

“Please will you stop pacing.” I hadn't realized I had been. I stood still. “Anyway, I know it was Helen, because she rang me before she got into the car.”

There was still a possibility that Marguerite was mistaken. “What did she say?”

Marguerite looked at me, then shook her head a fraction. “Nothing.”

“She rang you at two in the morning and said nothing?”

Marguerite paused again. “Yes.”

“Had she been drinking?”

“Tessa, do you mind? I'm not feeling up to an inquisition right now.”

“Sorry, I just thought—”

“I know. That's you to a T. Underneath it all, you've always been a very
positive person. I hoped it would rub off on my daughter. I don't think it did.” Marguerite looked at me again. “She wasn't a very happy woman, was she?”

I shook my head. Marguerite downed the rest of her drink and put it on the coffee table next to a pile of
Hello!
magazines.

“The twins will fare better. I'll see to that.”

Ah…So the easy bit was over. The ceasefire, what little there had been of it, had ended. I braced myself for battle.

“Where are the twins?” I asked, taking a seat opposite her.

She looked me over. “Upstairs, of course. Sleeping.”

“Do you think they know?”

“Don't be ridiculous, Tessa. They're babies.”

I sighed. She was right. They'd never know. “Poor little things, life without a mother to care for them…”

“The nanny seems very competent. She specializes in twins and has been very eager not to alter their routine.”

I decided she was missing my point on purpose, but I refrained from saying anything. I was going to try and keep things amicable. Trouble was, Marguerite and I didn't do amicable very well.

“Rose telephoned,” said Marguerite, not bothering to wait for my reply.

I looked up. At last, someone I could genuinely commiserate with. Rose loved Helen, had cared for her since she was a child; she'd come, she'd come back.

“I told her she was no longer required since I'm fairly sure she has no intention of coming to live with me. She hated me the day I moved to Hong Kong and she's hated me ever since. She spoilt my husband and Helen rotten. Well, I'm sorry, but indentured servitude wasn't my style.”

I opened my mouth to protest.

Marguerite held up her hand. “Please keep those thoughts to yourself and try and remember that my daughter died last night.”

That's all I was thinking about. “Marguerite, about the twins?”

“Yes, Tessa.” It was clear to me that she'd simply been waiting while I plucked up the courage to have the conversation. My stalling, my pretence at sympathetic chat, had just given her the opportunity to see how scared I was.

“Helen left me in charge of deciding what should be done in the event that
she and Neil died. I never thought I would have to have this conversation with you, I never thought in a million years…” I couldn't go on. I paused, breathing deeply. “I don't believe this is happening.”

“You want the twins,” said Marguerite, putting me out of my misery, and adding to it at the same time. “My daughter has just been stolen from me, and you want to steal the twins, too?”

Stolen? Steal? I wasn't stealing anything.

“No, Tessa. Family is family.”

Since when did family mean so much to you? I thought. She could con everyone else, but she couldn't con me. Forget trying to keep this amicable. I stood up. Even if she stood too, I had height on my side. “I think you're forgetting who you're talking to. Your relationship with Helen has always been strained. So don't ‘family' me.”

“Or what? What are you going to do?”

That, I didn't know. “Come on, Marguerite, let's not do this. We both loved Helen, we both love the boys. Let's do this together.”

“You are not getting my grandsons, Tessa, and that's that.”

I opened my mouth, but Marguerite went on.

“I mean, look at you—hardly the model parent, are you?” she said, eyeing me with obvious disapproval. “My daughter is not yet dead for one day and you're already planning how to get custody of her children.”

“I don't want custody of them. I wish this wasn't happening.”

“Oh, you just don't want me to have them.”

Whatever you do, don't let my mother get her hands on my boys
. “It's complicated. We've got to be adult about this. Helen had wishes, wishes I intend to see she gets.”

“I've called the lawyer. You being the twins' guardian is just a whimsical thing that Helen did to tie you to her. But it doesn't stand up to very much. It isn't statutory law. The courts deal with everything on a case-by-case basis. Really it is up to Helen's trustees to decide where the boys should go and I've already spoken to them. I am their next of kin, whether you like it or not. Bad luck, you don't get an instant family.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Helen died in a car crash. I only found out a couple of hours ago.” I ran my hands through my hair. “I'm still trying to get my head around that!”

“Lie to yourself, Tessa, all you like, but it doesn't wash with me.”

“Lie to myself about what, exactly?”

“You want the boys for yourself. This is nothing to do with Helen's wishes.”

“What?”

“You want the twins. It's a perfect solution to your life, isn't it? Can't get the man, but you can get the babies, who happen to come with a considerable amount of money.”

I didn't want to be in the same room as Helen's mother, but temporarily found that I lacked the strength to stand. She'd sucked the last of my courage from me. I landed in the oversized cushion and felt myself sink slowly into the sofa. That was when I noticed the same silver-framed photo of Neil and Helen's wedding day that I had seen Neil use to chop out lines of cocaine on. My beautiful friend, who'd swung from a hammock on a Vietnamese beach, was dead. The man standing next to her in the photograph had killed her, I didn't care what the police report said; I didn't care if she had fallen asleep at the wheel, she wouldn't have been exhausted if it hadn't been for him, so whatever the outcome, he killed her. He killed my friend, but long before she'd met him, the woman sitting opposite me, had been bleeding her dry. I wanted to cry but I would not. For Helen's sake, I would not. I knew what Helen wanted better than anyone. I knew she wouldn't want her mother taking care of her kids. No way. Whatever Marguerite threatened me with, I would fight her to the bitter end. I would use any means I had to ensure that Helen's wishes were met.

I lifted my chin from my chest. “Apart from the christening, when did you last come over to the house to see the boys?”

“That is irrelevant.”

“When were you last invited to?”

“Tessa—”

“You only live round the corner, you must have popped in all the time.”

“I work, remember.”

“What about the weekends—did you look after them and let Helen have a few minutes to herself?”

“Helen had her own nanny living here, as well as one for the boys. I didn't think she needed my help.”

“OK, when did you just pop over for a visit? When did you and she last have a nice mother-daughter lunch? And her last exeat from school doesn't count!”

Marguerite simply stared back at me.

“Where did she want to be buried?”

“I presume where she was married.”

“Wrong. She wanted to be cremated. She wanted her ashes to be scattered on a beach in Vietnam. China Beach, to be exact. It spoke to her roots. What was her favorite piece of writing?”

Marguerite raised her chin slightly.

“Desiderata. Where were the twins conceived?”

I watched with satisfaction as Marguerite shifted uncomfortably.

“What song did she play loudly on the stereo every time you invented a new way to hurt her?”

Marguerite stood up. Her Nicole Fahri suit hung off her slim frame. “Yes, yes, I'm sure she confided all those things to you. No doubt trying to impress you. But then you know that; that's why you liked her, isn't it, Tessa? Because she relied on you so much. How very life-affirming it must be, to be so pivotal to others.” Marguerite turned the clasp of her large Mulberry handbag with a click and looked at me. “Doesn't leave you with very much, though, when they move on, does it?”

I let a little sarcastic laugh fall from my lips while simultaneously erasing Marguerite's words from my mind. “If finding fault with me provides you with comfort at this difficult time”—I spread my arms wide as an offering—“then I am glad.” I straightened up. Two could play at this game. “But let's get one thing straight: I didn't fuck up your daughter. The damage was done long before we ever met.”