A Summer of Secrets (7 page)

She grimaced. ‘A bit nervous, to be honest. You?’

‘Ever so slightly terrified.’

She nodded. ‘Well, I guess it isn’t every day you discover you have a kid you didn’t know about.’

Rich gave a snort of ironic laughter. ‘No, thank God.’ Then, realising how bad that sounded, immediately added, ‘Not that it wasn’t … I mean, it isn’t … I mean, you aren’t …’

This time her smile was sympathetic. ‘It’s okay. I can imagine it came as a bit of a shock.’

The arrival of the waitress at that point spared Rich having to explain that there was no “bit” about it. He ordered a café latte and sat back in his chair. ‘Well …’ he began. Well, what? He had no idea what to say next.

‘Awkward?’ she suggested with a shy smile.

Rich noticed how it lit up her face, making her appear, if not exactly pretty, then certainly a deal more animated.

‘It took me ages to pluck up the courage to contact you,’ she admitted, her gaze shifting to her drink as she fiddled with the two straws ensconced therein. ‘I didn’t know the best way to do it. If I should send you a letter, or phone, or … Anyway, after much deliberation, I decided it was probably best just to bite the bullet and do it in person.’

Rich nodded. ‘You were right. I think if you had sent me a letter, I probably would’ve thought it was a wind-up.’

‘I’m really glad you called me,’ she confessed, her gaze still on the straws. ‘I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t.’

Rich gawped as, for the first time, it occurred to him that he hadn’t given a moment’s thought as to how she must be feeling about all this. He needed to find out more.

‘So how long have you known I was your …?’ What? Dad? Father? Donator of sperm?

‘Just after my A-levels last year,’ she replied, sparing him the trouble of further indecision. ‘We moved house so Mum had to empty all the drawers in the bureau she normally keeps locked. I knew my birth certificate was in there so I managed to have a rummage. Of course, I’d asked her loads of times before, but she just fobbed me off.’

Great, fumed Rich. Not only had Bernice ousted him from playing any part in their daughter’s life, but she’d withheld his very existence. Indignation surged through him. For all he wasn’t over the moon about the discovery, surely he had the right to know he’d fathered a child? Wasn’t there some law about that? Because if there wasn’t, there damned well should be.

‘Does your mum know you’ve contacted me?’ he asked, attempting to banish any hint of venom from his tone.

Behind her spectacles, Candi’s eyes grew wide. ‘God, no. She’d go ballistic.’

Rich caught his bottom lip between his teeth. Recalling many of the tantrums Bernice had thrown in the short time he’d known her, he could well imagine that being the case. ‘How, er, is she?’ he heard himself asking. Crap! Where had that come from? He couldn’t give a toss about Bernice’s state of health.

Candi shrugged. ‘She’s okay, I suppose. Has her moments. She can be a bit …’ – she resumed her straw fiddling – ‘… a bit difficult at times.’

Hmm. Rich suspected there may be a deal more to that than she let on, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to explore that particular avenue just yet.

‘Did you go out with her for long?’

His heart plummeted. Shit. Of course she’d want to know about his relationship with her mother. He should’ve seen that coming. But he’d been so wrapped up in how all this affected him, it hadn’t once occurred to him the kid must have a gazillion questions of her own. Although none he could probably satisfactorily answer. He suspected her conception had resulted from a clumsy, drunken fumble behind Beverley Fitzgerald’s garage after a house party. As tactless as he could sometimes be, though, even he didn’t think she’d want to hear that. Well, at least if Bernice hadn’t said anything about him, he could inject a dash of poetic licence.

‘We went out for a couple of months,’ he replied. ‘We were young. I don’t think either of us really saw any future in it.’

‘What was Mum like back then?’

The waitress appeared at the table with Rich’s coffee. He smiled his thanks, grateful for the few seconds extra thinking time the intervention allowed him. Bernice had been a selfish cow. In fact, if his memory served him correctly, the reason they’d split was because she’d been absolutely plastered but wanted to go on to an all-night rave. Rich had put his foot down, which hadn’t evidently been the response she’d desired.

‘She was, um, a bit of a party girl,’ he said at length.

Candi bit her lip.

‘Do you like parties?’ he asked, wincing at how naff that sounded. Anything to veer the conversation away from him and Bernice, though.

Candi shook her head. ‘Not really. I don’t drink. It makes me throw up.’

Huh. That was weird. Rich was similarly affected after only a couple of glasses of wine. ‘So what do you do with yourself?’ he continued. ‘I presume you’ve left school now.’

She nodded. ‘Last summer.’

‘And are you planning on going to uni?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘No. It’s never appealed, to be honest. I don’t know what I want to do really. I guess you could say I’m having a year out to assess my options. I’m earning a bit of money working in a clothes shop at the moment. But, as corny as it sounds, I feel like I need to find out who I am and what I really want before I trot down some route just for the sake of it.’

Wow. A wise head on young shoulders. Rich liked that. What he wasn’t so enamoured with, though, was the distinct air of sadness that hung about her.

‘So, what about you?’ she enquired. ‘Apart from owning the hot-tub business, I don’t know a thing about you.’

Oh, God. He really didn’t want to talk about himself. He’d keep it brief. ‘Not much to tell, really. I’m married to Alison and have a six-year-old daughter …’ – Bollocks. Should he have said “another daughter”? – ‘Bethany.’

‘What’re they like?’

Despite his reticence, Rich smiled. ‘Bethany is hilarious. Six going on sixteen. And Alison is beautiful and clever, as well as being a superb businesswoman. We started Bubbles together a few years ago.’

‘And it’s going well?’

‘Very well. Much better than we’d ever imagined.’ A sudden unpleasant thought struck him. Was he being particularly dense here? Had she contacted him because she wanted money or –?

‘Sorry,’ she said, as if reading his mind. ‘I only asked out of interest. Please don’t think I want anything. Money, I mean, or anything like that. Because I don’t. I just wanted to meet you. To find out a bit about you. But if you’d rather not –’

Rich reached across the table and squeezed her hand. ‘I would,’ he said.

***

‘I can’t believe it,’ admitted Annie, clearing away the remains of the vegetable lasagne her husband, Jake, had made for dinner. ‘I mean, I thought –’

Portia nodded as she sliced off a sliver of Stilton from the hunk on the board in front of her. ‘That there’d be loads of money left?’

Annie grimaced. ‘Not that it’s any of my business. But I merely assumed –’

‘As did we all,’ confessed Portia, nibbling the cheese. ‘But how wrong we were.’

‘Didn’t your father ever hint at money problems?’ Jake asked. ‘I mean, surely this has been going on for years. He must’ve known it would all come to a head at some point.’

Portia shrugged. ‘He never said a word. But then he was a bit like Jasper in the sense that he didn’t like dealing with unpleasant things. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just stuck his head in the sand and hoped all the problems would miraculously disappear.’

‘So what are you going to do? Sell the manor?’

Portia grimaced. ‘Not if I can help it. Even if it is going to cost thousands to put it right.’

‘God. I feel really guilty,’ puffed Annie. ‘I should’ve kept a better eye on the place. But with the kids, the shop, and the party-planning business –’

‘It’s not your responsibility. Jasper and I should’ve been up here at least once a month.’

Annie tutted. ‘There’s no way you could possibly have fitted that into your work schedule, plus visiting your dad in the nursing home. But with hindsight we could’ve asked someone else – someone conscientious and trustworthy – like Joe, the window cleaner – to keep an eye on the place. At least he would’ve been able to attend to the little jobs as they cropped up.’

‘It’s no one’s fault except mine and Jasper’s,’ reiterated Portia.

‘Hmph,’ harrumphed Annie. ‘I know Jasper is your brother, but I honestly can’t tell you how furious I am with him, leaving you to deal with all of this. Especially after everything else that’s happened to you recently.’

‘Would you really have expected anything else of him?’ asked Portia, swiping up her glass of red wine. ‘Jasper is, and always has been, concerned with nothing other than Jasper.’

‘So, any idea what you’ll do with the manor?’ Jake ventured.

Portia set down her glass and twizzled the stem. ‘None at all at the moment. On the plus side, given that it’s months since I last saw it, it doesn’t look half as bad as I’d imagined it might. On the downside, though, it still needs bucketloads of cash throwing at it to bring it up to anywhere near a decent standard.’

‘You could try the banks. The building is part of the country’s heritage. They should be happy to help preserve it.’

Portia shook her head. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t think they’re so community-minded. Without a solid business plan and at least some form of guaranteed income to repay a loan, I can’t imagine they’d touch me with a bargepole.’

‘But with no job, how are you …? Sorry to be nauseatingly practical, but how are you going to survive?’

Portia lifted her glass again and knocked back another slug of wine. ‘I put the London flat on the market yesterday. It’s mortgaged but should still realise a decent profit. That’ll tide me over for a while.’

Annie’s eyes grew wide. ‘You’re selling the flat? So does that mean you’ll be staying in Buttersley?’

Portia’s mouth stretched into a broad grin. ‘It does, Mrs O’Donnell. For the time being, at least. I think I need to … what do they call it? … regroup.’

‘Well, regroup away,’ Annie gushed, clapping her hands together. ‘That’s fantastic news. But only if we see you at least once a day.’

‘Keep feeding me like this and you’ll soon be sick of the sight of me,’ Portia giggled. ‘Now, if you two good people don’t mind, I’d best be making tracks. I’m absolutely shattered.’

‘I’m not surprised, what with the drive up and all that cleaning this afternoon. And I bet you’re not sleeping properly. Why don’t you stay here tonight? I know the thought of two squealing kids bouncing on your bed at six in the morning isn’t exactly appealing, but it might be better than being on your own.’

Portia shook her head. ‘No, honestly. I’ll be fine. The cottage is looking great now, thanks to all the elbow-grease we’ve invested. Thanks again for that, by the way.’

‘My pleasure. But at least let me drive you back.’

‘I will not. You’ve done more than enough for me today. The walk will only take fifteen minutes. And I could do with a bit of fresh air.’

Annie pulled a face. ‘Am I fussing?’

‘Totally,’ chuckled Portia. ‘But it’s lovely to know someone cares.’

Although not of a religious nature, walking back to Buttersley Manor, Portia thanked the powers that be for blessing her with such a fantastic friend as Annie. She really didn’t know how she would’ve survived the last few weeks without her. And when she’d said it was nice to know someone cared, she’d meant it. It was a long time since she’d felt anyone had her best interests at heart. Not that she’d always held such things as important. Until a few weeks ago, flitting around some of the world’s most notorious countries, putting her life on the line to ensure the best TV coverage possible, had been her number-one priority. But following the incident in Afghanistan there had been a seismic shift in her priorities. In a complete fluke of fate, she’d vacated the spot where a bomb had gone off less than an hour afterwards. Sixteen people had been killed. She could so easily have been one of them, making her realise that life was precious. And far too short to spend amongst death and destruction every day. For years she’d felt like she was doing something important; making a difference; keeping the world informed of the plethora of atrocities taking place. But enough was enough. She’d done her bit. Was ready to pass that responsibility to someone else. When she’d handed in her notice, her boss had accused her of going soft in her old age. But Portia didn’t care. Rather than burning buildings, gunfire, and what she had once deemed as excitement, she now craved fresh air, birdsong, a calm, quiet “normal” life – with all the mundane things that entailed.

She swiped a tear from her cheek as an image of her father suddenly popped into her head. Olivier Pinkington-Smythe had been a giant of a man and Portia had adored him. At six foot six, with a booming voice you heard minutes before the man himself appeared, a flamboyantly mismatched wardrobe, and an inability to take life seriously, he’d been a colourful, popular character – the archetypal eccentric aristocrat. Right up until five years ago when his beloved wife died suddenly of a brain haemorrhage. After that Olivier had slid steadily downhill. His head of jet-black hair, previously without a trace of grey, turned lily-white in a matter of weeks. Shortly afterwards he started to forget things. Always verging on the scatty, this failing had initially been attributed to his wife’s absence. She had been the more pragmatic of the two, always keeping him right. But when Portia received a call from Mrs Gates in the village shop one day, informing her that Olivier had been hammering on the door at three in the morning wishing to purchase some butter, she knew he couldn’t possibly be left alone, rattling around the enormous manor. And she couldn’t stay and care for him. Her job meant she was only ever in the country fleetingly. And given she wouldn’t rely on Jasper to look after a snail, never mind a human being, she’d concluded the best thing for all concerned was to find a suitable nursing home for their father.

After weeks of searching she eventually settled on The Meadows in Derbyshire – ironically, a converted stately home. Clean and comfortable, with scarily efficient, pleasant staff, it came highly recommended. Olivier’s room had been large, airy and beautifully furnished, with spectacular views across the rolling countryside.