And the Bride Wore Prada (27 page)

‘Why didn’t you just knock on the door and tell me who you were?’ Pen asked. ‘Why the secrecy?’

‘Would you have believed me?’ he retorted. ‘Would you have thrown your door open to a complete stranger who looked like a street vagrant, claiming to be your long-lost son?’

Pen bit her lip. ‘Probably not,’ she admitted.

‘Initially it was about the money,’ he added, and shrugged. ‘I was bitter. I knew the Campbell family was wealthy. I wanted what I’d been denied all my life – a share of my rightful inheritance. I felt you owed me that much.’

‘Oh, Colm,’ she said, her expression indescribably sad. ‘I owe you
so
much more than what you got.’

‘But as I got to know my half-brother Tarquin, and Wren, and Archie... I began to feel like I belonged, for the first time since,’ he flicked a glance at Helen and away again, ‘for the first time in a very long while.’

‘What about you, Graeme?’ Pen asked suddenly, and turned back to her ex-lover, silently nursing his whisky. ‘Why did you leave London and come here with Archie? You couldn’t have known that Colm was living here at Draemar.’

‘Another, Longworth?’ Archie enquired as he stood and went to the drinks table by the door.

‘I will, thank you.’ The older man waited as Archie poured him another whisky, then took a sip. ‘To answer your question, Pen – no, I had no idea that Colm was here. I called Archie, and after several failed attempts – I couldn’t quite work up the nerve to speak, you see – I told him I was trying to locate my son.’

‘The strange phone calls,’ Helen exclaimed. ‘All the hang-ups. That was you!’

He nodded.

‘But why the sudden interest?’ Penelope wondered. ‘After all those years...’

He sighed. ‘Various reasons. But the catalyst was my wife, Anne. She died last month.’

Pen eyed him in sympathy. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. That must’ve been terribly difficult for you.’

‘It was.’ He set his whisky aside. ‘Eight months ago I was diagnosed with a tumour on my left lung. Malignant. They tell me I might have six months, possibly a bit longer. I’m in remission at the moment.’

‘How awful.’ She reached out and touched his hand.

He shrugged. ‘I’ve more or less made my peace with it. What else can one do? But facing my own mortality made me realize I had a huge wrong to right.’ He looked at his son.

‘If it’s forgiveness you want before you die,’ Colm shot back, ‘it’s too late.’

‘Colm,’ Helen chided, ‘perhaps you’re being a bit too hard on your father…’

‘No, I deserve it,’ Longworth said heavily. ‘I deserve every bit of his scorn. I have no right to expect anything else. After Anne died, I was obsessed with finding out what became of our baby.’ He fixed his gaze on Pen. ‘I wanted to find the child I’d asked you to,’ he took a deep breath, ‘to get rid of.’

‘Of course I didn’t do it,’ Pen murmured. ‘I couldn’t.’

He nodded. ‘I knew you wouldn’t. I imagined you’d given the baby up for adoption, and so I began a series of discreet enquiries, until I learnt that Colm was adopted by the McRoberts family.’

‘Why bother to find me after all this time?’ Colm demanded. ‘Are you planning to leave me your millions?’ he added scornfully.

There was a charged silence. ‘As a matter of fact,’ Graeme said finally, ‘I am.’

Chapter 49

Colm stared at his father, his jaw tight and his scowl deepening. ‘Why? Why would ye do such a thing? I meant less than nothing to you for all these years.’

‘It’s simple.’ Longworth picked his glass up and stared pensively down into the contents. ‘We had no children, Anne and I. We tried...but it wasn’t meant to be, I suppose. Now that we’ll both soon be gone, I want to ensure that you – as my only son – inherit my estate. All of it. I know it comes far too late,’ he added, ‘but I hope it goes some small way towards making amends.’

‘That’s incredibly generous.’ Penelope eyed him with curiosity. ‘But surely you have other relatives ‒ cousins, uncles? Your wife’s family?’

He shook his head. ‘They’re all dead. And my wife’s family has no need of more money, God knows. No,’ he finished, ‘what I have – the money, my cars, the townhouse in Mayfair and the house in Wiltshire – all of it belongs to my son Colm, now. Or will do, very soon.’

Colm stood up. ‘I don’t want it. I don’t want your charity. And I won’t let you throw your money at me as a salve to your conscience before you die.’

Longworth stood as well, his face etched in pain, both physical and emotional. ‘Colm, please!’

‘Nae, I want nothing you have to offer. Keep it. Thanks for making the trip, and I wish you a safe journey back to London, but I want no part of you or your money.’

With that, Colm flung open the study door, and strode out.

‘Colm! Please, wait!’ Helen demanded as she left the study and ran down the hall after him.

He didn’t stop. ‘You’ll not change my mind,’ he said grimly. ‘I have my pride.’

‘
Damn
your pride!’ Helen snapped, and caught at his arm. ‘Are you mad? Your father’s just begged your forgiveness and offered you his entire fortune! He’s got a townhouse in
Mayfair
, Colm – do you even know what the property values in central London are these days?’

‘I don’t care. I’m not leaving Draemar.’

‘Why? Will you throw away everything your father’s offering you to live in a gatehouse and – and deliver bloody
packages
? My God – you could sell the townhouse in London and have enough money to buy two bloody castles!’

He fixed her with a hard stare. ‘Not everything’s about money, you know.’

She bristled. ‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning, I’m not like you. I’m not looking for the main chance, for a way to cash in. My integrity means more to me than my bank balance.’

‘And mine doesn’t?’ she challenged, her eyes flashing. ‘Why? Because I’m a journalist? How
dare
you question my integrity.’ Helen dropped her hand from his arm.

‘If you had an ounce of integrity,’ he snapped, ‘you’d not be taking unauthorized photos of Dom and Gemma’s private wedding tomorrow for your bloody tabloid rag! But never mind that they don’t want their wedding made public – you’ll do it anyway. For the money.’ He spat out the last word.

Helen stood unmoving, stunned by his accusation. ‘I’m a reporter, Colm. It’s my job—’

‘It’s your job to report news, to inform the public. It’s not your job to trash someone’s special day by splashing it all over the red tops.’ He paused. ‘Oh, sorry – but that
is
your job, isn’t it?’

‘I thought I knew you, Colm MacKenzie,’ Helen said, her voice shaking with fury. ‘And I thought you knew
me
. But it turns out...we don’t know each other at all.’

Her eyes, bright with anger and hurt, seared his long and hard before she turned and stormed away.

It was late, and Caitlin, tired and upset after her argument with Wren, had excused herself as soon after dinner as she could and went up to her room. She’d just drifted into a light sleep when the phone by her bed rang.

Groggily she reached out and grabbed the receiver. ‘Hello,’ she mumbled.

‘Hello, my darling girl.’

She sat up and pushed the hair out of her face. ‘Niall!’

‘I called to wish you a happy Christmas, Cait, since I can’t be there with you. I miss you terribly.’

She yawned and leant back against the pillows. ‘I miss you, too. Where are you?’

‘In my flat in Fulham. Jeremy’s with his mother.’

‘Are you spending Christmas with them tomorrow?’ she asked.

He hesitated. ‘No. I’m not invited. I’ve promised Miriam I’ll drop off the presents and leave straightaway.’

‘So you’ll be alone.’

‘All by myself,’ he responded, ‘just like the song. I wish you were here, darling. Soon enough, you will be. We’ll set up the nursery, and start shopping for baby things. I can scarcely wait.’

‘It’s only a matter of time before he cheats on you, Caitlin. Because those sorts of men always do.’

The thought made her indescribably sad, and she began, quietly, to cry. Was Wren right? Was Niall destined to cheat on her, as he’d done to his wife Miriam?

Was she about to make a huge mistake?

‘Cait, what’s wrong?’ Niall asked, alarmed. ‘Why are you crying? Is everything all right? You’re not – you’re not having second thoughts, are you?’

She groped for the box of tissues on the bedside table and pulled one out. ‘No. No, of course not,’ she answered, and blew her nose. ‘I’m just hormonal, I suppose. Everything makes me sad. Or cranky.’ She hesitated. ‘I had to tell Wren today that I’d changed my mind, that I wasn’t giving the baby to her and Tark for adoption. She – she was devastated, and I feel awful,’ she admitted.

‘I’m sure you do,’ he said firmly, ‘but you mustn’t blame yourself. When you promised the baby to Wren, you’d no idea I wanted to marry you and keep the child. Wren will just have to understand.’

‘Easier said than done,’ Caitlin sighed. ‘I feel like the worst villain in the world right now.’

‘Like the Rat King?’ he teased.

‘Worse.’

‘The Grinch?’

‘At least the Grinch saw the error of his ways.’

‘Cait – don’t be so hard on yourself. Wren will come through this. She and Tarquin can always adopt another child.’

‘I suppose,’ she agreed. ‘Oh, Niall – I wish we could spend Christmas together! But I’ve got this stupid wedding to be in, and you’ve got family obligations...’

‘Darling, even if I come up there tomorrow, you know your parents won’t welcome me to the festivities. They’d sooner pluck me, truss me up, and roast me in a pan next to the Christmas goose than welcome me into the Campbell family bosom.’

‘It won’t always be like this, will it, Niall?’ she asked plaintively.

‘Once my divorce comes through,’ he reassured her firmly, ‘this will all be nothing more than a bad memory.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘Of course I am. I’m always right,’ he joked. ‘Now,’ he ordered, ‘bundle yourself back into bed and get some rest. You’re sleeping for two now, you know.’

Caitlin giggled. ‘Goodnight, Niall. I love you.’

‘Goodnight, darling. I love you back.’

She hung up the phone and snuggled down into the pillows, imagining that Niall was next to her, and soon drifted back to sleep.

Chapter 50

It was Christmas morning, and Gemma’s wedding day dawned bright and clear.

She regarded her reflection from her seat in front of the dressing table mirror with a critical eye.

‘You look stunning, love,’ her mother approved, and paused with a can of hairspray in hand. ‘Do you like it? I can take it down if you don’t.’

Mrs Astley – former head hairstylist at the Spit and Curl Salon in Essex – had expertly worked her daughter’s auburn tresses into a French braid, artfully inserting sprigs of baby’s breath throughout.

‘No, I love it,’ Gemma exclaimed. ‘Go on, spray the hell out of it. I want that braid to stay put.’

As a cloud of Elnett filled the air, her mum enquired, ‘What about your nails, then, love? How about a nice French manicure?’

Gemma nodded distractedly as her mobile buzzed. ‘Perfect. Thanks, Mum.’ A text had just come through.

Babes – I hate wearing this fucking monkey suit. And as for this top hat you borrowed from Archie?? I look like a shitting undertaker. Can’t wait to see you in your gown. Can’t wait to take it off. Love you, miss you, scared shirtless. SHITLESS. Fucking auto correct. Dom xx

She smiled and returned her phone to the dressing table. There was a knock on the bedroom door. ‘Who is it?’ Gemma called out. ‘If it’s you, Dom,’ she warned, ‘you can’t come in. It’s bad luck.’

‘It’s me. Caitlin.’

Mrs Astley opened the door a crack and ushered the girl in. ‘You look lovely, dear,’ she approved, ‘but you’re a bit green. Feeling nervous?’

Caitlin shook her head miserably. ‘I’m not nervous...I’m pregnant. And I’m feeling a little queasy.’

‘Morning sickness,’ Gemma’s mother declared. ‘Wait, I’ve got just the thing.’

Caitlin sank down on a chair and waited as Mrs Astley rummaged through her handbag, unearthing pens and cough drops, bits of paper, crumpled candy wrappers, and several tubes of lipsticks before she found what she was looking for.

‘Ah, here we are,’ she announced, and thrust out a peppermint from a small round tin. ‘Take one, you’ll feel better straight away.’

Dubiously Caitlin eyed the round white candy. ‘I don’t know...’

‘Just take it,’ Gemma said irritably, and turned back to the mirror, makeup brush in hand. ‘It’s a mint, not LSD.’

‘Oh, very well,’ Caitlin muttered, and popped the peppermint into her mouth.

‘Well?’ Mrs Astley asked her after a moment. ‘Helps, doesn’t it?’

Amazingly enough, it did. Her stomach already felt calmer and the queasiness had abated somewhat. ‘Thanks. I think I’ll be okay.’

‘I’m so glad,’ Gemma said, her words tart as she expertly wielded the makeup brush across her cheeks. ‘I’d hate to see one of my bridesmaids chunder halfway down the aisle.’

‘Don’t mind her,’ Gemma’s mum told Caitlin, and shot her daughter a reproving glare. ‘She’s got the pre-wedding jitters, she has.’

‘It’s okay, I understand. Thanks for your help, Mrs A. I really
do
feel better.’

The older woman adjusted the pashmina around Caitlin’s shoulders. ‘Perfect. You look very pretty, dear. And it’s a good thing about that pashmina ‒ it emphasizes that lovely cleavage of yours to perfection.’

Caitlin blushed. ‘Thanks, Mrs Astley. You’re brilliant. Really.’

‘Not brilliant, love,’ she corrected, and winked at the young woman. ‘I’ve just learnt how to work my assets over the years. Now, it’s time you went out and did the same.’

Draemar castle, lavishly decked out in Christmas and wedding finery, had never looked more festive than it did that afternoon. The delicious scents of Mrs Neeson’s roast goose and sage and onion dressing wafted out from the kitchen, harbingers of the family’s private Christmas dinner to follow later in the day.

Tables along the perimeter of the ballroom walls groaned with Scotch eggs, bannock cakes, smoked salmon and thick slices of brown bread, as well as a dizzying assortment of homemade shortbread, cookies, and cakes of every description. A three-tiered wedding cake enrobed in white fondant and lavished with white icing roses had pride of place in the centre of the table; bottles of champagne, wine, and Draemar’s finest Scotch whisky waited.