B004D4Y20I EBOK (57 page)

‘But …’ Jemima was baffled. ‘I don’t understand. If Mother already had an idea that Jecca could be Daddy’s daughter, why was she so shocked when Jecca confronted her with it?’

Alice’s face turned grey. ‘Yes – when the girl said she was a natural Trevellyan it was no great surprise, even if it was harsh to hear, ’specially the way she said it. Your mother was composed. She said that if Jecca was Cecil’s daughter, she had to be prepared to prove it in a court of law. Jecca said she’d be happy to, that she intended to get her share of everything. But …’ Alice faltered. ‘What she said next was that your father … she and your father …’ Alice closed her eyes and grimaced. Then she opened them, stared straight at Jemima and said quickly, ‘I’m sorry, miss, but she said she and your father were lovers for years, from the time she turned twelve years old until she ran away. And that’s what killed your mother.’

50

FERRERA HAD BEEN
as good as his word. He took Tara to a quiet, quirky little restaurant in the Village and they ate lobster, fries and salad. To her surprise, they didn’t talk about business at all. Ferrera was relaxed and open with her, charming but without any hint that he was flirting with her. He told her how New York had changed since he had grown up there.

‘There was always money in New York,’ he said, dipping a French fry in some ketchup. ‘But there were many more people who had almost nothing. These days there seems to be money everywhere. Some of the poorest places are now the most exclusive.’ He grinned. ‘It makes me laugh sometimes, all these rich kids desperate to live in the kind of warehouses once reserved exclusively for pan-handlers, addicts and rats.’

‘You sound like you know the rough side pretty well,’ said Tara, interested despite her resolution to stay on her guard.

His face darkened. ‘Yes. My background was very
tough.
Very poor. My parents were immigrants from Mexico, working hard to raise five kids in a rough part of New York. Even though they worked all hours to support us, we had almost nothing. The hardest day of my life was when I was thirteen years old. I saw my father crossing the road to join us and get knocked down and killed by a car. That day changed everything. We had no compensation, no help. My mother had to raise us all on her own, and I had to become a man, just like that. The man of the family. So that’s what I did.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s amazing what you can do when you’ve got no choice. I went out to work from the age of fourteen, fitting in odd jobs whenever I could. My mother insisted I study hard in school, there was no debate about that, but I also wanted to help her, so that she didn’t have to slave all the time.’ Ferrera looked thoughtful, an almost wistful expression on his face. ‘You know what I remember? Once a year, she bought herself a present. It was just a cheap, stupid thing – a bottle of drugstore perfume that couldn’t have cost more than just a few dollars. But she treasured it and loved it, and used it incredibly sparingly, to make it last the whole year. I knew that when she wore it, it made her feel special. For a moment, it lifted her out of her trouble-filled day-today existence, and gave her a sense of there being something better beyond the hardships she endured. It made her feel like a woman, not just like a worker or a mother or a cook or a housekeeper. It was her very own luxury and it meant everything to her. I was fascinated by that. I still am.’

‘It must have been hard,’ Tara said, unable to hide her admiration for what Ferrera had achieved, and touched by his story. She’d always been proud of her own accomplishments but she could see that they had been made a lot easier to achieve with a first-class education and the safety net of wealth and privilege. ‘I understand now why the world of luxury lured you in. Where is your mother now?’

His eyes brightened and he grinned at her. ‘My mother is enjoying a
very
pampered life, in her New York duplex which I bought her last year. She can have as many bottles of perfume as she wants.’

Tara picked up her wine glass, smiling back. ‘So it had a happy ending. Her story, I mean. She worked hard, she brought you up well and now she has the reward of a successful son who’ll look after her.’

‘Yes – that’s true. But there are plenty of other moms out there, doing what mine did and not getting the happy ending because their kids stay in the same kind of life – maybe get into drugs, flunk school, can’t get a job. Rich kids do that too, but their money buys them out of trouble. Poor kids sink to the bottom of the heap and are never seen again, except maybe in prison or in welfare lines.’

Tara was surprised at his sudden passion. ‘I suppose that’s the way of the world.’

‘It doesn’t have to be. We can do something about it. I try and help where I can but the challenge is enormous …’ Ferrera trailed off, lost in thought for a moment. Then he changed the subject suddenly. ‘Have I told you about Santa Anita?’

Tara shook her head.
Who is this man?
she wondered. His honesty and openness were startling and affecting. She couldn’t help warming to him – perhaps it was his drive and ambition, or perhaps it was his obvious determination to help other kids who’d started out like him, even though he was reluctant to talk about it. But how did that square with the man she thought she knew?

‘It’s my estate on the Mexican coast. It’s so beautiful there. It’s where I go when I need an escape, somewhere to retreat to and gather myself together.’ He told her about the golden sands and dazzling blue sea of the Pacific coast, the lush greenery and tropical blooms of pink and yellow. ‘There are four villas. The main one is for my use and the others are guest villas. Most of the time they’re unoccupied but occasionally I’ll take a party of friends out there and we’ll chill down by the ocean, having cook-outs on the beach, playing football on the sand and winding down with some cold beers and the most beautiful view you’ve ever seen in your life.’

Tara smiled. ‘I don’t know. The Bahamas have their charm – we have a cottage there.’

‘Uh uh.’ Ferrera shook his head. ‘They have nothing on the Mexican coast. It’s the most stunning place in the world. But maybe I’m biased. My family comes from that area originally. I always feel like somehow I’m coming home when I go there.’

‘Home,’ Tara said quietly. ‘It’s such an emotive word, isn’t it? We place so much on it. It means more than you can ever explain.’

‘Where’s your home?’ he asked. ‘Your real home?’

Tara thought for a moment. ‘I suppose it’s wherever my children are. They are home for me. I’ve got plenty of dwelling places – too many, really, I’ll be glad to get rid of some of them and all the expense and hassle. I could leave them without a backward glance tomorrow as long as I had my children with me.’

Ferrera gazed at her, searching her face. Then he said softly, ‘Maybe you should come out to Santa Anita some time. Your kids would love it. You look like you could do with some time off. The sand, the sun, the sea … it would do you good.’

‘I bet you say that to all the girls,’ rejoined Tara playfully.

He looked a little sheepish. ‘Well … I guess I do invite quite a lot of people, but you know, most of the time it doesn’t really mean anything. But this is different. I mean it.’

Tara was surprised. She gazed down at her plate, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

‘Hey, let’s go somewhere for coffee.’ Ferrera signalled for the bill. ‘It’s great walking round here on a summer’s evening.’

They wandered through the Village, watching all the different New Yorkers, going about their business. They passed the basketball courts alive with athletic young men vying for the ball, chess games being played in the streets, lovers sitting on benches, kids dancing on the pavements, old men shuffling about in shabby jackets and battered hats. Beautiful girls strolled about
in
packs, their bare midriffs and long slim legs on show. Couples queued outside the movie houses for the next picture.

They stopped for coffee in a small café, sitting out on the street and watching the world go by.

‘You know, you’re not what I thought you would be,’ Tara said as they sipped their espressos.

‘What did you think I’d be?’

Tara didn’t say anything, feeling suddenly embarrassed. How could she say that he was supposed to be rotten through and through? It just didn’t fit with the man sitting opposite her – unless he was a very skilled actor indeed. ‘Just different, I suppose,’ she said at last. ‘I’ve read things in the papers, about your divorce … things like that.’

‘You, more than most, should know not to believe that stuff. I understand that it’s reported my ex-wife gave an interview in which she claimed I’d divorced her without a cent of alimony. Well, let’s just say my accountant would beg to differ.’ Ferrera smiled at her. ‘I’ve read quite a few things about your marriage as well, if we’re being honest here. You’ve separated, is that right?’

Tara nodded. ‘Yes. But I can’t really talk about it. It’s all very recent.’ She felt awkward to have brought up the subject of his ex-wife but relieved that he denied her account of their divorce.

‘I wouldn’t ask you to.’ Ferrera watched her intently for a moment and then said, ‘Listen, I think we should meet again. When do you go back to England?’

Did she want to meet him again? Yes … yes, she did.
She
was surprised to realise that she’d enjoyed their evening together. Besides, they hadn’t even touched on the subject of Jecca, or on his business intentions. ‘Well, I’m due on a flight the day after tomorrow. I’ve got a couple of meetings in the morning. Then I’m seeing some girlfriends and going shopping. I want to get some gifts for the kids. Then home.’

‘Meet me for lunch the day after tomorrow. Come to the FFB headquarters. We’re on Park Avenue – I’ll email you the details. Will you do that?’

‘I won’t be able to stay long,’ Tara said doubtfully. ‘My flight’s at six.’

‘Don’t worry, you’ll make your flight. I promise.’

Poppy closed the file and shut her eyes. It was too much to absorb all at once. The scale of the betrayal shocked her. The planning involved was so cynical. It made her feel sick and used and utterly stupid.

But it also made her strong. She felt a cold, powerful fury like nothing she had felt before and that made her able to face things she hadn’t thought she could face.

After a few minutes’ thought, she knew what she would do, and exactly what she wanted to achieve. She found her mobile and called George’s phone.

Two hours later there was a knock at the door. Poppy opened it. He was standing in the doorway, red-faced and out of breath, his bicycle helmet dangling from one hand.

‘I came as fast as I could,’ he panted. ‘I cycled all the way from Nunhead.’

‘Come in.’ Poppy stood aside to let him pass.

Once inside, he turned back to look at her, his face alight with happiness. ‘I’m so glad you called me! I’ve been so completely miserable since we parted. All I could do was sit there and hope that you’d have a change of heart and give me a second chance. You’ve got to believe that I love you, I really do. I know I told you some lies, but that part was true, I promise. I love you, I truly do.’

Poppy stared at him, all the hurt and anger flooding back. She had spent a long time pacing round the flat, trying to calm herself before he got there so that she could talk to him rationally. Now she wanted to scream at him again, pound on his chest and demand to know how he could love her and lie to her so appallingly. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. When she opened them, she said as calmly as she could, ‘I’m prepared to believe that you think you love me.’

‘I do, oh, sweetheart, I do!’ George protested, obviously desperate to convince her that now he was telling the truth. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’

‘All right. But you’d better sit down because I want to talk to you about everything else. The things you claim you can’t tell me.’

George looked agonised. ‘Please, Poppy, can’t we just forget all that?’

‘Do you really think I could possibly just conveniently
forget
that you’ve been conning me since the moment we met?’ she spat, her anger boiling up. ‘Don’t you think I want some answers? Credit me with a little intelligence, please.’

He sat down and hung his head. ‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘I can see it’s got beyond that point now.’

She held up the dossier that Neave had sent her. ‘I’ve done a little investigation, and I’ve found quite a lot of interesting things about you. For instance, I know that you’re an actor. Not a very successful one, by the looks of things. Gideon
Wright
doesn’t seem to have made the big time exactly. What have we got here?’ Poppy pulled a print-out from the file as George looked on, astonished. ‘A few provincial theatre tours in minor plays. Some television appearances –
Casualty. Midsomer Murders. Hollyoaks. Lewis
. All one-off roles. Nothing you can build on.’

‘I’ve acted at the National!’ George protested.

‘Yes, but only in minor parts and in the chorus. You haven’t exactly played Romeo, have you?’ She glared at him. ‘Not on the stage, anyway. So tell me, how did this ridiculous scheme come about?’

George looked sullen for a moment and then his sulkiness evaporated. He looked sad and tired. ‘It’s not something I’ve ever even thought of doing before. No one I know has ever done anything like this. I don’t even know why I was picked, but my agent was approached and asked if I’d be interested in a private acting commission. Perhaps my photo in
Spotlight
was the reason – I’ve no idea. But the money was good – Christ knows I need it – and I didn’t really see what harm it could do.’

‘So what was the point of it all? I mean, I can guess, but I’d like to hear you say it,’ Poppy pleaded as she sat down.

‘They said it was nothing that could hurt you personally. They told me that all I had to do was let you tell me anything you wanted about your business and your plans for the new perfume, and pass it on. Simple as that.’

‘How on earth did you think I wouldn’t find out? What about your job at the bookshop? Didn’t it occur to you that I might go in and ask for George?’ she demanded.