A Hidden Life (31 page)

‘Spare me
The Godfather
clichés, please. You could refuse. You should have refused. You should at the very, very least have
consulted me.
'

‘Don't shout at me, Matt.'

‘I'm not shouting.'

‘That's what it feels like to me.'

Matt sighed. ‘If I'd been shouting at you, Justin … if I let you have
even a tiny percentage of what I'm feeling, you'd be on the floor and unable to pick yourself up for a week.'

‘Is that a threat?'

‘No, no … what good would a threat be? You've done it now, without telling a soul. In fact, if I hadn't heard rumours at the bridge club and asked you about it, I daresay you'd not have come clean even now.'

‘I would have told you in the end.'

‘Exactly. In the end. You just didn't have the courage to let this matter be discussed in the family. You sold the family home. I still can't take it in.
My
family home. The place I grew up in. How much did they give you for it?'

‘I don't have to tell you that. A considerable amount of money. And it's not yours, Matt. After Constance died, it became mine. To do with as I thought best. And don't give me that family home shit. You've never shown the slightest interest in Milthorpe House.'

‘Because I thought the place was safe, you fool. I don't believe what I'm hearing. It nearly killed me when Constance left it to you if you must know …'

‘Oh, I do know. Believe me, we both know. Me and Nessa just didn't count when stacked up against your precious Lou. That was obvious. Well, too bloody bad, Matt. Constance left the house to
me.
No one else. Just me. And I didn't need the hassle of taxes and so on, did I? I didn't have to consult you and I didn't have to get your permission and I'm glad I went ahead and sold because now, instead of sitting there like a stonking white elephant that everyone gets all sentimental over but no one actually wants to live in, it's going to be a jewel in the crown of the Eremount empire and I'm going to be almost three million quid richer and I don't give a flying fuck what you think.'

He sank down on to the sofa, exhausted by this outburst. Matt stood up. He'd long ago decided, not because of anything Constance had done in his childhood, but after years of dealing with hysterical and sometimes abusive clients, that it was quite pointless to go on trying to discuss something with a person who'd become foul-mouthed.

‘Goodbye, Justin. I'll see myself out.'

‘You're running away because you haven't got a leg to stand on,'
Justin was shouting himself now. ‘You're not going to admit there's even a tiny bit of justice on my side.'

Matt forced himself to smile pleasantly. It took some doing but it was worth it. He was well aware that nothing would infuriate Justin more than him walking out right now, without saying another word, so that was what he did. As he went down to the ground floor, the sound of the flat door being slammed echoed round the stairwell, which made Matt feel marginally better, but not for long. Once he got outside, he started walking quickly along the street. Justin will be looking at me from up there, he thought. I won't give him the satisfaction of appearing anything except brisk and upright. Once he turned the corner, he leaned against the wall, closing his eyes and breathing in and out in an effort to calm himself. What now? Where to go? He didn't feel like going back to the office. He took out his mobile phone and stared at it. Ellie's flat was quite close by. Portland Place. Would she be in? Was he mad to try and see her? No, he wasn't. Justin was her son after all. Maybe she'd be able to talk some sense into him. Worth trying, Matt thought. He flipped his phone open and punched in Ellie's number.

I'm having withdrawal symptoms, Phyl thought, as she sat behind the counter in the surgery waiting for the last animals of the day to leave with their owners. She'd just shown Montpelier Tango, a Borzoi with a spoiled and arrogant mistress, into Doc Hargreaves' room, and since there weren't any new animals to process she went through to the back where the cats and dogs who'd had surgery that day were lined up in their boxes, waiting for their anaesthetic to wear off.

‘You'll be going home soon,' she whispered to Mimi, one of her favourite cats, who'd been coming to get her boosters here for the last ten years or so. Mimi was an affectionate creature. She'd been in for a minor operation and had now recovered enough to purr a little as Phyl stroked her head and spoke to her. ‘I wish I could take you home with me. Actually, I wish I weren't here at all, if you really want to know. I wish I still had Poppy to look after.'

When Lou came to take the baby back to London, Phyl had made all the right noises. I didn't show how much I was going to miss her,
she thought now, how empty my days would suddenly become. I rattled on about how Doc Hargreaves would be pleased to have me back; how much I missed the animals, and if Lou didn't believe me, then she pretended to.

To be fair, Lou did seem to be coping a lot better with Poppy nowadays. Perhaps she was growing into motherhood at last. Or maybe (and this was a possibility that Phyl favoured) there was somebody in her life who was making her happy.

‘A boyfriend, Mimi,' she told the cat. ‘That'd be good, right? A possible dad for Poppy.'

As soon as she said those words, a chill came over her. I've read too many tabloid newspapers, that's my problem, she thought, and urged herself not to be so stupid. Not all stepfathers were either cruel or sexually predatory to their stepchildren, and it was a very long way from being that kind of relationship, wasn't it? If indeed there was a relationship at all. Lou hadn't said so. She hadn't said anything. It was more a feeling that Phyl had picked up. I won't think about it, she said to herself. She sighed. As soon as she stopped fretting about Lou, there was Matt to worry about. He hadn't been himself in the last couple of days. She'd asked him about it, and he'd denied there was anything wrong. He was obviously lying, but they'd never been the kind of couple who probed and prodded one another, digging after innermost thoughts. He'd tell her when he was ready.

The talk about Paris, which was what had made her agree to giving Poppy back in the first place, hadn't come to anything yet, and they were already well into May. When the Poppy business came up, Phyl had the impression that a trip to France was imminent, but then some things had happened at work which Matt needed to attend to, and they'd put it off ‘till another time'. Those were his very words. ‘Sometime soon,' he'd gone on, to dispel her disappointment.

And she'd cheered up. She wasn't a sulker. Paris would happen when it did and meanwhile it was something to look forward to. And with Poppy gone, they'd started making love again. She had to admit that it was lovely to be gathered into Matt's arms, caressed, kissed, fondled. She was conscious of the fact, though she'd have died rather than tell a soul about it, that perhaps she wasn't getting the full – what could you call it – value? That sounded funny. The full
glory –
yes, that was better – out of sex that other people did. She wasn't one of those women who'd never experienced an orgasm, but she was aware, from the pages of the fiction she read, that others were obviously much more highly sexed than she was. Or something. Some writers created heroines who went off like a rocket the moment a man came within inches of an erogenous zone. Were they lying or just exaggerating? Or maybe some people truly were like that and it was seen as something for more run-of-the-mill readers to aspire to … Her thoughts flew to Ellie. Phyl had always assumed she was very highly sexed. She'd be one of those rocket-women for sure. Then another thing occurred to her: maybe the sexual exploders were pretending, at least for some of the time. She herself didn't have the amorous sophistication to know how to pretend and would have felt a fool groaning and moaning and arching her back if she didn't mean it.

The mobile in her handbag was ringing. She went through quickly to the reception area and found her bag under the counter. By the time she got there, the phone was silent. She flipped it open and listened to Matt on the voicemail.

‘Er, it's me, darling … I'm going to be a bit late, I'm afraid … Something's come up. I'll tell you all about it when I get back. Don't wait supper for me. I'll be … well, see you when I see you, all right? Sorry, Phyl.'

She listened to the message again, feeling worried. That was silly. It couldn't be anything to do with Lou or the baby or Matt would have said. So what was it? He'd tell her later, so nothing private, but he sounded – how had he sounded? He was never quite himself on the phone anyway and he hated leaving messages. She decided to phone him back. When he picked up and said, ‘Hello?' she thought she could detect a note of something like panic in his voice. Why did he sound like that? She said quickly, ‘It's only me, Matt. I was a bit worried by your message, that's all.'

‘Oh. Oh, no need to worry, love. I'm fine. Really.'

‘Has something happened?'

‘No … no, nothing's happened. It's just …'

‘Tell me, Matt. Or I'll worry. Please.'

‘No need to worry. And I'd rather tell you later. I've just been to see Justin, that's all.'

‘Is he all right?'

Matt gave a laugh, though it was clear he didn't think anything was in the least funny. ‘He's more than all right, believe me. I'll tell you all about it when I get home.'

‘Why can't you come now? Where are you?'

‘Oh.' He paused and Phyl wondered why he wasn't answering at once. He must know the answers to both her questions. She was just about to prompt him when he said, ‘I'm in Brighton. I ran into Neil Freeman, remember him? We're going to have a quick meal together before he goes back to London. Okay?'

‘Fine. That's fine. I'll see you later then.'

‘Yes. Of course – shan't be long. Bye.'

Phyl dropped the phone into her bag and went back to sit with Mimi, who had now fallen asleep.

‘You're not much company,' she whispered and sat staring into space, not really thinking, but aware of a sense of unease. Something wasn't right. Matt sounded as though someone else was listening in on the conversation. Well, they probably were. He wouldn't have been able to speak freely if Neil Freeman could overhear what he was saying.

The room where Poppy's cot took up most of the space was dimly lit and she could see her baby, sweetly asleep among the cuddly creatures she adored. She'd dropped off almost as soon as Lou had put her down and now she lay with her plump cheek making a lovely smooth curve and her hand on top of the blanket, the fingers spread out. It looked like a small pink flower. Poppy's hair fell into ringlets, and spun gold described it exactly. Bloody hell, what's brought on all this poetic nonsense? Lou left the room feeling rather silly, but unable to stop herself feeling a pleasant glow of satisfaction and happiness, most of which had to do with the prospect of the nice glass of wine she'd promised herself. But some of it was pleasure at having her daughter there in the next room, fast asleep. Perhaps she was getting the hang of motherhood at last. She'd have a drink and then just look at the screenplay once more before taking it round to Ciaran Donnelly's house in the morning.

She sat down and took a long sip of her wine. Grandad's novel lay on the table, and she picked it up, handling it carefully, as she always did. She couldn't stop thinking of it as a living part of her grandfather, though no one else would see it like that. An out-of-print book which wasn't exactly a bestseller even when it first came out. Now though, there was some hope of it being reissued and then other people would be able to read it. What would they think of it? Even if that did happen, which was far from certain, it didn't affect the work she'd done on the screenplay.

I wonder if I've got it right, she thought. What will it be like as a movie? Some things were so difficult to write, like the scene where Peter's baby sister dies. She knew exactly where it came in the book: