The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (7 page)

“Forgive me, please, I need you to forgive and then I can
pass in peace,” he was pleading.

She held the telephone away from her ear and looked at the
handset, hardly believing what he had just asked of her. She glanced quickly at
Daniel and then replaced the receiver slowly; finally, making sure Claude heard
her do it.

Daniel closed the book and came to join her at the desk.

“Thank you, he’ll pass more peacefully now,” Daniel
whispered, touching her shoulder, imagining Marianne too filled with emotion to
speak.

Marianne closed the front
door softly after saying goodbye to Daniel. Paul had left candles burning
everywhere and the newly fitted French doors to the garden were open to the
cold night air. Marianne poured herself a drink. A yellow post-it on the
microwave door bore the message, ‘Ping if you’re hungry’ in Paul’s handwriting.
She kicked off her shoes and wandered into the sitting room.

Paul and Monty lay curled up together, fast asleep on the
sofa. Monty lifted an eyebrow and waddled off the couch to greet her. Paul
stirred. A yellow post-it on his mouth, ‘Please remove to kiss’, another on the
fly of his jeans, ‘Please remove and ravage me’. He had clearly had far too
much wine.

She left the notes where they were, tousled his sandy head
in a brief goodnight and made her weary way upstairs. Monty followed, leaving
Paul on the sofa. Her feelings had altered, the grief had shifted. She had not
felt so brittle or bitter in years. She cleaned her teeth, yet her mouth still
tasted metallic, it was as if she had spent the entire evening chewing tinfoil.

Daniel left a message giving details of Claude’s funeral a
few days later. If she were ever asked, Marianne would pretend she had never
received it. Claude had been dead to her for years. She erased the message and
turned to Monty, who was spinning in an excited circle, anticipating his walk.

“Do you know what?” she asked him, clipping on his lead.
“Just lately, I feel as if I’ve had enough death to last me a lifetime!” She
threw open the door, striding down the pathway, leaving the gate ajar, so all
the negative vibes could swirl out into the street and dissipate before her
return.

Marianne read the publicity blurb
with mounting excitement. It was to be the grandest of occasions, combining the
very best that London and Los Angeles had to offer; an awards ceremony,
entertainment extravaganza and charity fundraiser to beat any that had ever
taken place on the planet. It was the event of the decade, the one on
everyone’s lips, ‘The Power 2 The People Awards’, and it was to be sponsored by
Global Communications Inc., the new parent company of the Chesterford
Chronicle.

The event was being hosted by the Baroness of Minesbourg, a
minor royal with major pull. Marianne’s campaign to reunite families following
her ‘Stolen Baby Scam’ exposé had been nominated for a major ‘Power 2 The
People’ Award. She could not quite believe it herself, this was fantastic news.
If she won, imagine the publicity it would give her campaign. It would send her
career into orbit. This was beyond exciting; this was earth shattering.

As usual, Marianne had the inside take, having interviewed
the Baroness on numerous occasions, because the Baroness was, after all, one of
Chesterford’s favourite daughters. Not quite a tale of rags to riches, hers was
a great story nonetheless, episodes of which, Marianne had reported at regular
intervals during her time at the newspaper.

Indeed, Baroness Bailey Caulfield, the former international
fashion model, was at the zenith of her popularity. The thrice-wed commoner
certainly made the most of the title her first husband, an adorable
old-fashioned aristocrat, had bestowed upon her. When Bailey’s Baron suffered a
heart attack not long after they married, the glamorous widow wed an
up-and-coming rock star who, unbeknown to her, maintained a coke habit and a
couple of mistresses on the side. After divorcing him, Bailey went on to marry
a young American politician, who rapidly climbed the ladder to become Senator
of one of the USA’s most southerly states.

Sadly, this marriage too, was doomed to fail, and not twelve
months after the wedding, Bailey was left with little choice but to divorce the
Senator, following salacious revelations involving a junior researcher attached
to his office. Seemingly undaunted, Bailey’s inheritance and two divorce
settlements, gave her the wherewithal to fly around the globe devoting her life
to all manner of good causes. Never considered a beauty in the conventional
sense, the extremely attractive Baroness, still one of the most photographed
females of her generation, could certainly add credibility to any event she
chose to attend, let alone host.

With the Baroness’s name intrinsically linked to what
promised to be a show-stopping spectacular, Marianne knew that royals, movie
stars, politicians, world leaders and all manner of celebrity would be beating
a path to the capital; this would be a fundraiser of monumental proportions;
the party to beat all parties, and anyone who was anyone wanted to be there.
She read and re-read the email aloud.

“Wow, this could be it Monty, our big break, catapulted from
the sleepy backwater of journalism which is the Chesterford Chronicle, to
superstardom. I could become an international roving reporter; a world
commentator; a global campaigner.” Monty ran around the kitchen table in
delight, tail wagging. “Of course, I can’t go anywhere without you, that would
have to be written into the contract. Oh Monty, this could be it, this could
really be it!” She picked him up and twirled him round in her arms.

With the Chronicle’s parent company, the media conglomerate
Global Communications Inc. one of the event’s main sponsors, whispers that a
handful of employees from the newspaper were going to receive invitations to
the ‘Power 2 The People Awards’ fluttered through the city centre office block
like ticker tape. By the time Marianne reached the building, she was feeling
pretty smug, with her campaign nominated for an award, she was definitely on
the guest list.

The gilt-edged, Royal
Crest embossed invitation requesting Marianne Coltrane and Partner to attend
the event, was propped against her computer screen. She immediately phoned
Paul; he would be thrilled to come as her guest and was always good company,
whatever the occasion.

Marianne knew exactly what
she was going to wear; she chose an exquisite full-length, swirling red silk
gown. One of the most expensive items she had ever bought, a classic halter
neck with plunging back that skimmed the base of her spine, highlighting her
neat waist and bottom. The last time she had worn it was to the National Media
Awards. The night George had stepped in and presented the prizes and she had
apologised for downgrading his article to a rather insignificant ‘Lifestyle’
write-up. The night George told her that it could not have mattered less, and
the night she won the accolade ‘Journalist of the Year’, drank litres of
champagne and kissed him far too over-enthusiastically for so short an
acquaintance.

Even more importantly, it was the night George had asked her
out and she had said yes, and that was it, the red dress, the Awards, the
champagne, the kiss. He had fallen, hook, line and sinker. She hugged the
dress, smiling.

It was not long before Marianne found herself smiling again,
this time wryly. No such thing as a free lunch, she told herself when she read
the email from Jack, commissioning her to write a series of articles about the
build-up to the ‘Power 2 The People’ event. With her usual attention to detail
she began her research, making copious notes and interviewing as many of those
involved as she could.

At first sight, she could not believe the area chosen to
build the main auditorium would ever be ready in time or be large enough to
hold the thousands of guests planned to make up the audience. As she watched
the plan come together, she was fascinated by every aspect of this fantastic
event. Impressed by how hard the team worked, and in awe, because everyone,
from the humblest junior to the biggest star, was giving their time free to
support charities and good causes across the globe.

The white, stretch
limousine slid along Oakwood Avenue to sit purring outside the gate. Paul
Osborne ran along the path and then leapt the steps to the front door,
launching himself into the hallway, brandishing a corsage of dark yellow
lilies.

“Are you
rea-dy
?” he sing-songed up the stairwell.

Monty appeared first, woofing softly and wagging his tail so
hard his whole body wriggled. He tumbled off the first two steps, regained his
balance, then charged downwards leaping into Paul’s arms from a safe height.
Flowers aloft, Paul nuzzled Monty’s ears; a polite cough sent both pairs of
eyes upwards.

“Wow!” Paul put Monty down. “You look ravenous!”

“You look rather delirious yourself,” laughed Marianne, the
misnomers, a tribute to Sharon’s calamitous deciphering of messages. Marianne
descended slowly, the crimson fish-tail of her gown swishing behind her. Paul
presented the corsage. Their lips touched briefly and, thanking him, she
attached the flowers to her dress.

 To complete the ensemble, she wore George’s engagement ring
and his mother’s art deco diamond droplet earrings. These perfectly
complemented her hair, which was swept upwards into a professionally acquired
French pleat. Paul, in a borrowed midnight blue velvet dinner jacket, had
managed to smooth his wayward locks, although his navy blue bow tie flopped to
one side and the frill of his dress shirt had been singed, due to overzealous
ironing. His eyes sparkled and, placing Marianne’s golden pashmina around her
shoulders, he stood back from the doorway to reveal the waiting car.

She checked Paul’s expression to ensure this was a joke.

 “Great isn’t it? On the company, of course.”

They said goodnight to Monty and, pulling the door closed,
tangoed, giggling, along the pathway. Marianne laughed even louder when Ted
Cassidy, one of the Chronicle’s long-serving photographers, jumped from the car
to open the door. Ted apologised for being inappropriately attired for his role
as chauffeur but explained he had been commissioned to take some shots to
accompany the article, Marianne would no doubt be writing.

 “No such thing as a free Awards dinner either then?” She
smiled as they posed, glasses in hand, for Ted and the neighbours, who had
gathered to see who was responsible for the white monstrosity filling half the
cul-de-sac.

‘The Power 2 The People
Awards’ extravaganza was highly organised; it had to be. Marianne’s invitation
had come with an allotted time for her party to arrive; ensuring all guests and
celebrities could be photographed and interviewed at manageable intervals along
the stretch of traditional red carpet.

Paul had another surprise for Marianne. His sister Zara and
her husband Mike were also on the guest list; as was Mike’s father, the
American TV star who had failed to make it to the National Media Awards; his
actress girlfriend, and their New York agents, Leeson & Leeson. But just
hours before the event, Zara called to say the New York team had to bow out and
the American TV Star, a great friend of the Baroness, had arranged for Marianne
and her guest to join their table. This meant Marianne and Paul would be seated
in the centre of the arena, flanking the huge stage and catwalk that had been
designed to bring the live action right into the heart of the auditorium. If
Marianne’s campaign was to win an award, she would be perfectly placed to be
called to the stage to receive it.

Paul and Marianne smiled graciously at the crowds as they stepped
from the limousine onto the crimson strip of runway stretched before them. She
dug her fingernails into his hand, as various stage whispers of, “Who’s that?”
“What are they in?” flew about them. Flashbulbs popped, as they sashayed
onwards, just fast enough to keep onlookers and photographers guessing, before
Paul broke into an undignified canter, waving his arms madly.

“Hey sis, look it’s me, we’re here!” he called out.

Marianne, now stranded on the carpet, maintained her regal
swish until she reached the little group and, then joining in the laughter,
shared embraces and kisses all round.

Marianne liked Paul’s older sister, Zara, she was warm and
friendly, if a little protective of her idealistic younger brother. When they
first met, Zara often hinted, despite the age difference, and the fact that
Marianne was technically Paul’s boss, that she hoped their relationship would
develop beyond friendship. When Marianne became engaged to George, Zara
graciously put that ambition aside and had telephoned Marianne personally to
congratulate her. She had also been genuinely upset when George died. In fact
the last time Marianne had seen Zara, was at George’s funeral, although she
could barely remember if they had spoken.

Zara wrapped her arms around her.

“You look fabulous, you look amazing. How are you, really?”
She took Marianne’s hands and looked into her eyes.

“I’m alright,” Marianne held her gaze, “honestly, I’m doing
okay.” Zara beamed. She could not deny she was again hopeful, that once a
certain amount of time had passed, Paul and Marianne might become an item. They
seemed so good together.

 But to Marianne, Paul was, well, just Paul. The young, cub
reporter, she laughed and joked with. The typical younger brother she never
had, who still got smashed, went on disastrous dates and seemed to maintain a
wide-eyed wonder on the world, no matter how hideous the assignments Jack
Buchannon managed to fling at him. She was his mentor. He was part of her job.
It would never even cross her mind that he might be someone she would have a
proper, grown up relationship with, and anyway, Marianne knew her last chance
of ‘happy ever after’ had died with George. She had her career, she had Monty,
she had a lot to be grateful for.