True Colours (26 page)

But it wasn’t Sebastian who answered.

‘
Jocelyn Blake, how can I help you?’

Caroline picked up her glass and took a large swig of gin, the ice clinking, her anger building. ‘It’s Caroline. I was looking for Sebastian, he isn’t answering his mobile.’

There was a pause. ‘I think he’s gone down to Kilfenora. The reception’s very bad there. I’m expecting him to call; will I give him a message?’

It was Caroline’s turn to pause. Why on earth would she give Joss a personal message for her fiancé, why on earth? The woman was mad, no question about it, totally unhinged…and as soon as Caroline became Lady Kilfenora, Jocelyn Blake would be getting her marching orders.

‘
No don’t worry.’ She felt herself smiling, ‘I’ll catch up with him.’ And she hung up.

So he was at Kilfenora was he? Caroline mused on this information, taking a pull of her cigarette, a tiny part of her wondering why he had gone down without mentioning it, a larger part of her sure that it had something to do with some unspeakable domestic disaster, leaking pipes or a rat infestation or something. Caroline pulled a face involuntarily, then pursed her lips as her mind clicked through the implications.

Actually it was perfect – with no mobile reception he wouldn’t be getting any urgent business calls that would mean he’d have to rush off, and he usually stayed the night when he went down this late in the day, so, if she dropped in and surprised him, she’d have his compete and undivided attention for at least twelve hours. Perfect. And she had plenty of time to have another quick G and T, throw a few things into her Louis Vuitton weekender and still arrive in time for dinner. She stubbed out her half-finished cigarette, cupping the ashtray in her hand.

TWENTY NINE

In her office, Jocelyn Blake looked at the receiver of her desk phone in disbelief. Had Caroline just hung up on her? Surely not. No one could be that bad mannered. Jocelyn screwed her face in thought, well maybe Miss Audiguet-O’Reilly could. She of the haughty manners and the small red sports car. The small red convertible BMW that despite its neat size and satellite navigation system was unable to find its way into a public car park. How many parking tickets had Sebastian passed to her to be paid? Joss had lost count, had realised after the third or fourth that Miss Audiguet-O’Reilly had little regard for the law and even less for her fellow road user.

‘
I’m off now Joss, is that okay? The switchboard has been quiet for the last half an hour or so, so I think you’ll be grand until 5.30.’

Jocelyn looked up at the blonde head that had appeared around her door, startled for a moment.

‘
That’s grand Sally, don’t be late for Zac now, he must look forward to seeing you – it’s a long day for a little fella.’

Sally grinned, her thick-rimmed black glasses moving as she smiled, ‘Well you wouldn’t believe it, but he loves that crèche so much he hates coming home. If I didn’t tell him we’re having cocoa and a cuddle for supper, I don’t think he’d come home at all. He’s manic.’

Jocelyn frowned for a moment, her mind computing what Sally had said; but this time she didn’t get it.

‘
Manic? Of course he is. Off you go now – no messages are there?’

Sally shook her head, then frowned, ‘Those books Mr Wingfield left are still on the counter – the courier never came – will I get them picked up first thing in the morning?’

Jocelyn looked puzzled, ‘Books?’

‘
For that footballer in Vincent’s, the goalie isn’t he? Terrible what happened to his head.’

Again, Jocelyn paused. Sally had some sort of peculiar verbal dyslexia which had prevented her from finding any sort of permanent employment until she had applied for the position of Receptionist in Wingfield Holdings. Sebastian had been charmed by her, amused after a very stressful day by her unwitting misunderstanding and miss-use of the language and equally charmed by her struggle as a single mother to bring up her son Zac, whose IQ was topping 160 at age five. Jocelyn had had her doubts, but from the day she had been installed behind the reception desk, no matter what mood visitors to Wingfield Holdings arrived in, they were always chuckling by the time they left Reception, and for that alone, Sebastian insisted she stay.

‘
You mean the gamekeeper Sally, Mr Wingfield’s gamekeeper?’

‘
That’s the one’

‘
He had an accident with his leg.’

She nodded fervently, ‘Mr Wingfield wanted some books sent in to him to cheer him up, but they’re still here.’

‘
That’s fine Sally, thanks for letting me know. I’ll look after it. Off you go.’

It took Jocelyn a good half an hour to finish clearing her desk, send the necessary emails for the next day’s business, and gather up her bits and pieces Sebastian still hadn’t called in, but there was little that couldn’t wait. Jocelyn was sweeping through Reception turning off lights when she spotted the large cardboard box Sally had mentioned, languishing on the reception desk. She looked at it for a moment, before flicking the last light-switch.

She knew what was in the package, had sourced JR Hartley’s famous book Fly Fishing herself plus the Worst Case Scenario Handbook, which Sebastian had insisted Tom would enjoy. A balloon of worry began to inflate in her stomach – after working with Sebastian so closely for so many years she knew how much he relied on Tom Ryan to help him run the estate, knew, although they had never met, that Tom Ryan was as an essential cog in the Wingfield machine as Sebastian was always saying she was, and she knew too how annoyed Sebastian would be if he found out that the courier had failed to collect the package. The courier company was a new one, one run by another of Jocelyn’s waifs and strays, a woman whose son Jocelyn had met one day on the DART, a teenager who had cystic fibrosis, but had plans to join the Irish Olympic swimming team. Whatever happened, Jocelyn wanted to keep Super Swift Couriers as their courier of choice, but she knew full well that if Sebastian knew they had let him down, they would be for the chop.

Picking up the parcel, Jocelyn tucked it under her arm. St Vincent’s was on the opposite side of the city from her apartment, but she was sure the traffic wouldn’t be too bad on the return leg, so it would be just as well if she dropped the books in herself.

St Vincent’s Hospital was humming when Jocelyn arrived. Evening visiting time was in full swing. It only took her a few minutes to find the lift to the men’s surgical ward.

Pausing outside the swing doors of the ward, Jocelyn could see that there was only one bed not surrounded by visitors. In it lay a man in his sixties, earphones plugged firmly into his ears, his right hand tapping in time with whatever was playing in his ears. He looked pale, ill, but at the same time Jocelyn could tell that his shoulders were broad, that when he stood up he would surely tower over her, that in fact, he had all the bearing of a military man. She caught her breath as she pushed the doors open; despite her usual ebullient confidence she felt suddenly rather shy, could feel a blush creeping over her cheeks. After all, she’d never met this man before, and although she had heard enough about him that she could almost guess what he ate for breakfast, she was about to arrive unannounced as he lay in his pyjamas and a rather stylish navy silk dressing gown.

‘
Excuse me, I’m so sorry to disturb you. It is Tom Ryan isn’t it?’

Aware of a presence beside his bed even before she spoke, Tom’s eyes flew open as soon as Jocelyn said his name, regarding her with some interest. He had been expecting Alex, was rather surprised to see the friendly face of a voluptuous woman wearing a blazing orange shawl over a dress the colour of a ripe plum, her steel grey hair caught in a Spanish style knot on the top of her head. It was certainly a strange ensemble, but it suited her. And he didn’t get many visitors. As ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ shuddered to a close he nodded curtly to the chair beside the bed. Feeling she needed to explain, Jocelyn pulled it over, lowering her not inconsiderable bulk onto the red plastic seat.

‘
I’m Jocelyn Blake,’ she struggled to free her right hand from the tangle of chenille that had slipped down her arm. ‘I’m…’

‘
Sebastian’s PA..’ Tom interrupted her, his face breaking into a broad grin. ‘Could have recognised you anywhere, Sebastian gave me a very clear picture.’

Jocelyn flushed bright pink, suddenly lost for words, ‘All good I hope.’

‘
All excellent. He couldn’t cope without you, says so himself at least twice a day when he’s down on the estate. So what brings you here?’

Jocelyn blushed again, unsure of how much she should reveal of her knowledge of the accident. But, before she could answer, he pulled out his earphones,

‘
Was expecting my daughter Alex, she comes most nights, but she must have got held up.’ He paused, ‘She’s a designer you know, doing a big job for the Spanish government.’ He nodded proudly.

Jocelyn was startled for a moment, didn’t quite know what to say.

‘
Really? Sebastian bought you some books, I wanted to drop them in.’ It was her turn to pause, ‘Your daughter isn’t Alex Ryan by any chance is she?’

‘
She is. Her mum was Spanish so she’s a lot better looking than me, but she’s a Ryan through and through. Have you heard of her?’

‘
Senor Marquez’s PA is a very good friend of mine. Alex is doing a fantastic job for them apparently…’

‘
That’s good,’ Tom smiled sheepishly, ‘You always think your children are wonderful – it’s good to hear that someone else thinks so too.’ He pulled himself up in the bed, wincing as he did so, ‘So tell me what Sebastian’s up to. Are you invited to the wedding?’ he raised his eyebrows with a knowing look that made Jocelyn laugh out loud. She could see that they had a lot to talk about, and from his look, he shared a few of her own thoughts as well.

THIRTY

Clouds were gathering over the city as Caroline headed through the busy Dublin streets, her tiny BMW Z9 cabriolet sports car nipping along the quays, weaving through the coagulating traffic like the bright red dot of a laser pointer at an interdepartmental traffic management meeting. A taxi driver hooted angrily as she cut across him to shoot into the bus lane and down a one-way street. She waved cheerfully at him.

Once she was on the N7 and heading for Kildare, Caroline turned the CD player to full volume and lit a cigarette, putting her foot down, eating up the miles to Kilfenora. Within the hour she was zipping through the village and turning towards the grand gates of Kilfenora House itself.

She slowed down as she turned between the gate posts, heading into dappled shadow; a group of deer almost hidden between the majestic oaks and elms that lined the edge of the drive raising their heads in interest as she passed. A few moments later the house came into sight below her, huge, its castellations concealing a barrage of chimney pots, the windows winking. Behind it, the lake reflected the landscape like an oil-painting, the occasional ripple initiated by a gentle breeze that rustled the leaves above her.

Pulling over to get a proper look, pushing her sunglasses up to the top of her head, Caroline shuddered. The house looked like it was laughing at her; like an ugly old woman, cackling at her.

The first time she’d seen Kilfenora House, captured in an aerial photo in Sebastian’s study, she’d been bowled over by its splendour, splendour added to by the excitement of becoming Lady Kilfenora, by the pink wave of romantic dreams set in motion by her friend Sophie’s wedding and her well-aimed bouquet. She’d been working towards it of course, had focused on marriage as her goal ever since that night with the Chinese Ambassador when she’d realised that her brother’s best friend was actually rather gorgeous, as well as being a major catch. And before she’d even set foot in Kilfenora, they had moved from a playful ‘if’ to a ‘when we get married’.

Then she had got inside.

Caroline had heard all about the house of course, about its famous Palm House, how Paxton had been commissioned by whichever Lord Kilfenora it was when he’d seen the splendid Italian Renaissance-style chateau and magnificent glasshouse that Paxton had built for Baron James de Rothschild outside Paris. But, unfortunately, while Paxton might have been busy on Kilfenora’s Palm House, it seemed he hadn’t been allowed near the main house at all.

Somehow, Caroline expected the splendour of Baron James de Rothschild’s Château de Ferrières with its 120-foot glass-ceilinged central hall, the eighty guest bedrooms, the sculptured columns and decorative painting, but instead, when she had finally found a weekend free to accompany Sebastian to his family home, she had been met by the smell of damp and an even smellier dog, dust an inch thick on the picture rails, and had suddenly, scarily, wondered what she was getting herself into. Still, as she’d told herself at the time, once they were married she could get the decorators in (and an army of cleaners), and give the whole place a facelift, get the awful dog a kennel as far away from the house as possible. And this was their country house, so they wouldn’t be spending much time here, could organise house parties for the weekends they came down, and spend the rest of the month in town.

Now, looking at the house again, Caroline knew she could never live here, not permanently – she just wasn’t made for the middle of nowhere, famous architects or not. Decisively, she flicked the automatic into drive. So that was another thing they would have to sort out if this marriage was to go ahead – they’d need a proper house in Dublin. It wasn’t exactly Paris or New York but one step at a time…and at least Dublin had an international airport…