Second Chances (26 page)

Years
ago,
and
she
well
knew
it,
she
should
have
got
over
this
absurd
regression
into
reacting
as
a
child
whenever
she
had
to
confront
her
father.
But
as
she
slowed
to
turn
into
the
lane
that
led
up
to
the
house,
her
spirits
were
unexpectedly
lifted
by
the
sight
of
a
gleaming
fleet
of
BMW's,
Mercedes,
a
Ferrari
or
two,
all
wedged
up
against
the
thick
hedgerows
that
shielded
the
surrounding
fields
from
the
road.
Sound
evidence,
she
grinned
to
herself,
that
while
she
was
horribly
late,
no-one
was
leaving
early
either.
She
might
not
have
been
missed.

'Ye-ay,'
she
cheered,
giving
the
air
a
little
punch.
'Oh
God,'
she
groaned
in
the
same
breath.
'How
pathetic
are
you?'

*

The
house
was
quiet
and
deserted.
Only
the
faint
babble
of
voices
from
the
horde
of
people
milling
about
in
the
garden
and
the
strains
of
a
string
quartet
playing
selections
from
Bach
to
Coldplay
drifted
in
as
Alice
made
for
the
stairs
on
the
far
side
of
the
hallway
to
change
in
her
old
room.

'Alice,'
a
relieved
voice
called.
'There
you
are.'

She
looked
up
to
see
her
mother
just
rounding
the
bend
in
the
stairs
bewilderingly
clutching
a
straw
boater,
flowing
ribbons
streaming
from
its
brim
totally
at
odds
with
the
understated
white
V-necked
linen
top
and
silk
navy
skirt
she
was
wearing.

'Sorry,'
Alice
leaned
forward
to
kiss
her
cheek.
'Traffic.
I
did
ring.'

'I
know,
dear,'
Molly
said
hugging
her.
'I
told
him.
He's
fine,'
she
soothed
as
Alice
raised
a
doubtful
eyebrow.
'Too
busy
to
really
notice.
And
when
you're
ready,
give
this
to
Bob
Maynard's
wife,
will
you?'
She
gave
the
hat
a
shake
and
handed
it
to
Alice.
'What
possesses
them
to
dress
as
though
they're
at
a
wedding
beats
me.'
Suddenly,
she
paused
and
searched
her
daughter's
face.

'You
look
different
dear.
Now
what
have
you
done?'
But
before
Alice
could
reply
Molly
gave
a
start.
'Talking
of
pretty.
You've
just
reminded
me.
There's
a
photographer
somewhere.
That
magazine
that
Vix
always
goes
on
about.
Dad
said
we
had
to
put
up
with
it,
but
I'm
staying
out
of
the
way,
just
in
case,
but
I
think
he'll
be
happy
with
just
Dad
and
Vix.
Or
you.'

'Certainly
not
me,'
Alice
said
cheerfully.
'You
and
Dad
are
what
he'll
want.
Mind
you,'
she
teased.
'Soap
star
daughter?'
she
gave
a
little
balancing
movement
with
her
hand.
'Wife
of
big
noise
in
the
City?
Bit
of
a
contest
there
I'd
say.'

'Fingers
crossed,
then,'
Molly
laughed.
'To
be
honest,
I
think
we're
just
a
side
show.
Half
the
cabinet
seem
to
be
here.
Making
sure
Dad
doesn't
back
out.
Aiming
for
six
o’clock
news
to
announce
it
I
gather.
Oh,
and
Alice?'

'Don't
worry,'
Alice
called
back
reaching
the
top
of
the
stairs.
She
knew
what
her
mother
was
going
to
say.
'I
won't
upset
him.
Promise.'

'That'll
be
a
first,'
Molly
sighed
continuing
on
her
way.

'Sorry?'
Alice
looked
down
through
the
stair
well.

'I
said,
I
know
you
won't,'
Molly
lied.

Alice
craned
over
the
stairwell
to
watch
her
mother
go.
Molly
was
as
tall
and
slender
as
Alice,
the
same
high
cheekbones
and
serious
grey
eyes.
What
they
also
shared
was
fairly
unruly
hair.
But
apart
from
having,
that
very
morning,
her
much
shorter,
and
now
greying,
hair
tamed
into
obedience
by
the
village
hairdresser,
a
narrow
gold
watch
on
one
wrist
and
a
single
neat
row
of
Cartier
pearls
that
her
husband
had
bought
for
her
on
their
last
anniversary
around
her
neck,
Molly
made
no
particular
statement
that
claimed
she
was
the
wife
of
a
very
rich
man.

'Hey,'
Alice
called
after
her
mother's
retreating
figure.
'If
I
wear
this
hat,
that
photographer
might
think
I'm
someone
as
well.'

'No
he
won't,'
called
Molly
calmly
back.
'He'll
think
you're
deranged.'

Alice
chuckled.
She
was
home.
It
felt
good.

*

Alice
paused
to
survey
the
crowd
gathered
on
the
terrace
and
spilling
down
into
the
perfectly
manicured
lawn
that
stretched
in
one
direction
to
a
high
stone
wall
beyond
which
lay
fields
where
in
the
distance
a
herd
of
cows
could
be
heard
lazily
moo-ing
or
swishing
their
tails
at
flies
who
ventured
too
near.
In
the
other,
it
rolled
like
soft
velvet
towards
the
copse
of
trees
behind
which
her
mother's
precious
greenhouses
could
be
found.
All
around
a
profusion
of
pink
and
blue
peonies
jostled
with
purple
columbine
in
flower
beds
that
sturdily
guarded
the
walls
of
the
house,
the
parterre
with
its
gravel
paths,
the
vine
house
where
all
year
round
Molly
coaxed
all
manner
of
fruit
and
a
fine
tribute
to
her
genius
for
gardening.
It
was,
for
those
knowing
the
considerable
knock
on
effect
on
their
own
standing
at
being
seen
in
Harry
Melrose's
company,
a
potent
scene.