Wronged Sons, The (21 page)

I nodded.

“See? You’re a survivor, darling. You always find a way, that’s what you
do
. You’re a much stronger person than I am. An opportunity like this doesn’t come knocking at your door every day, so I implore you to grab it with both hands.”

I kept quiet for a moment and mulled over her suggestion. On the surface, pole-vaulting across the Grand Canyon looked easier.

“Be honest, do you really think I can do it?”

“When have I ever been anything but honest with you, Catherine? If I didn’t think you were capable, I’d have never put the offer on the table. Now what do you say?”

November 26, 7.40pm

Margaret’s offer was all I could think about.

Once upon a time, I’d have laughed it off straight off the bat, as it was pretty ridiculous. But times had changed I owed it to myself to at least think about it.

I calculated I had enough savings to pay the mortgage for five months, and I could show my bank manager my accounts to prove I was loan worthy. But that wouldn’t have covered all of Margaret’s asking price. And it wasn’t my only problem.

“The college has a night school, two evenings a week in business, bookkeeping and accounts,” she’d explained, pre-empting another excuse.

“But what about my clothes? I won’t have time to make them and run a shop.”

“That’s what staff are for, dear. Ask some of the girls at the local fashion college to help; they’ll bite your hand off for the experience. And while Selena’s reluctant to accept my offer of employment, I’m sure she’d be more than willing to step up for you.”

For every argument I had to oppose her, Margaret found reasons why I could do it. And it started to light a fire in my belly that I’d never felt before. I was like Dorothy caught up in a cyclone; only no matter how many times I clicked my ruby red slippers, I was still in Oz. I had to give it a shot.

But in doing so, I’d need to lead two separate lives. At home I’d have to continue being mum to a growing brood, while at the boutique I’d be a budding businesswoman learning the ropes.

So I followed Margaret to meetings in London with designers and manufacturers, and she even paid for my flights to Paris, Milan and Madrid for catwalk shows. It was a different world, one that scared and fascinated me. It was like jumping into the pages of the fashion magazines I read. And if I’m honest, at times I didn’t think I deserved to be in places like the third row of the runway as Thierry Mugler launched his spring collection.

My mother’s voice tried telling me I was a fraud and Margaret’s charity case. So to spite her, I stuck with it to see how far I could go.

I doubted whether I’d have had the courage or confidence to do it if you’d still been alive. I’d got all the fulfilment I’d needed in being your wife and mother to your children. But I was a different woman two years ago. With each new challenge I discovered I had passions, ambitions and a desire to be my own person.

And I was about to find something else I’d never expected to see again.

***

Today, 3.30pm

She’d listened intently to every word he’d said, hanging on to a glimmer of hope that he might show some regret over killing Caroline. But when he blamed Caroline for her own death, it merely revealed the true character of the man. In fact he was no man, she thought.

He was a shade; a lifeless, colourless, shade.

Try as she might, she couldn’t understand why he’d come back after all that time to confess to something he knew would disgust her. He could have taken his secret to the grave and she’d have been none the wiser. So why did he want to hurt her? And surely only someone who realises he has nothing to lose would so readily admit to such evil deeds? What had he already lost that had made him so unafraid?

His mind was elsewhere. To hear how far she’d come bolstered his belief that leaving had been the best thing for her. But for the children? He was still undecided and his head hurt the more he thought about it.

“Is that what you do when something stops being useful to you or gets in your way?” she asked.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“The car you set fire to. The hotel you burned. Me. The children. Caroline. If it becomes an inconvenience or interferes with your plans, you destroy it.”

“No, no,” he replied, unsure how she’d failed to grasp the significance of incinerating Betty or the Hotel.

He thought she’d understood they had been selfless acts and the closing of chapters. His reaction to her, the children, Caroline… they had been spurred on by something completely different. But it wasn’t an argument worth pursuing. There was more important ground to cover.

Suddenly she gasped, the colour draining from her face once again. “My parents… their fire… tell me you didn’t…”

“Of course not!” he snarled; offended she could have considered such a thing. But when he gave it more thought, he conceded it was probably an obvious conclusion to jump to given his track record. Maybe later she would realise it was just those who’d sought to ruin him who’d fallen foul of his acerbity.

“If you’re not here to hurt me then give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call the police and tell them what you did to Caroline?”

“I don’t have one and you have every right to. But if you’re going to call them, at least wait until you’ve heard everything first.”

“And when will that be?” she asked, as the sick feeling in her stomach made itself known again.

For so many years, he had tried to blend in. But now he’d begun enjoying being the focus of someone’s attention.

‘Soon,’ he thought, ‘soon.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Northampton, Twenty-Two Years Earlier

January 7, 3.15pm

I can honestly admit, with my hand on my heart, that I hadn’t given another man a second glance in the two-and-a-half years since you’d gone.

Sometimes I’d daydream of how it might feel to fall in love again. But there’d never been a face attached to the strapping hunk that would sweep me off my imaginary feet. And even if the Milk Tray man did burst through my bedroom window, I’d probably snatch the chocolates out of his hands before giving him his marching orders.

Falling in love meant risking losing someone, and I was terrified of feeling that all over again. So I vowed to keep potential aggravation at arm’s length for the time being.

Instead, I threw all my attention towards my dressmaking, and more urgently, trying to find the money to buy Fabien’s from Margaret. Steven had done a wonderful job making a success of your business and now had a staff of five. I still owned your half, and when I told him about Margaret’s offer, he thought I’d be mad to turn her down. He also suggested he could give me the extra capital I needed if he bought me out.

In theory, it was the perfect solution, but I still needed to think about it. You’d invested so many hours in building it from scratch so giving up your share was another way I’d be letting you go. But I had to put myself first and although I’d be waving goodbye to your dreams, you’d be helping me to reach mine. So with Steven’s money and a small bank loan, I was soon to have a business of my very own.

But just when I had everything mapped out for the year ahead, something - or more accurately someone - came along to throw a spanner in the works.

Tom caught my eye the first night I began the bookkeeping course Margaret suggested. He was the only person who smiled when I walked nervously through the classroom door. He was classically handsome with dark wavy hair, greying temples and his few laughter lines drew me to his chestnut brown eyes.

I was stacked from waist to chin with textbooks when Suzie’s Bros pencil case toppled from the top to the floor. Tom’s hand shot out and caught it and he chuckled at Matt and Luke Goss’s cheesy grins. I blushed.

“I don’t think you’ll be needing all of them tonight,” he began as we queued for a vending machine coffee during the first lesson break.

“I’m sorry?”

“All your textbooks, they’re for the entire course,” he said, pointing to my desk. “Unless you’re planning to condense six months into one night?”

My nervous laugh came out like a pig’s snort and I died a little inside.

Tom introduced himself and explained how he was about to start his own business in wood sculpture and furniture design. He’d recently quit a successful career as a solicitor to follow his dreams – a brave decision for man in his late-thirties. And, like me, he hadn’t known the first thing about accounts. Already we had something in common.

“Are you busy later?” he asked as we returned to our seats. “Do you fancy a drink after school?”

“Me?” I asked, taken aback. “Oh, um, well I’ve got to get home.”

“How about the weekend then… Saturday night, dinner? That’s if you’re free. Or if you want to.”

“I barely know you,” I replied, sounding like an uptight virgin from a Bronte Sisters’ novel.

“That’s what dinner’s for,” he grinned.

I stared at him blankly, unsure of what to say. Then my mouth stepped in before my brain had a chance to.

“I’ve got four kids and my husband’s disappeared and he’s probably dead but I can’t be sure because we haven’t seen him in years and I’ve not been on a date since Abba won Eurovision,” I blurted out in a babbling stream.

He responded with a silent smile until he was sure the onslaught of information had peaked.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know where that came from,” I mumbled.

“Well, I’m divorced with a bitch of an ex-wife who’s sadly very much alive and I’d love to go on a date with you,” he smiled back at me. “So how’s about it?”

January 11, 7.35pm

I wasn’t sure how I’d found myself in a Chinese restaurant sharing a chicken chow mein with a single, drop-dead gorgeous man.

Dating in my thirties was not such a different experience to dating as a teenager. When I met you, I may have been young but I remembered how naturally we fitted together and how I didn’t want to be chatted up by anyone else. Other boys asked me out, but there’d been a vulnerability that came with you that they didn’t have.

As a fifteen-year-old, I was embarrassed by my growing boobs and pimply skin. As a thirty five-year-old, I was embarrassed by my sagging boobs and wrinkly skin.

I started putting my make-up on for my ‘date’ - a word that seemed ridiculous for a woman of my age to use – and glared into that unforgiving bathroom mirror.

I asked myself what Tom had seen in me. I had more baggage than an airport check-in; my once sparkling blue eyes had been dulled by circumstances beyond my control and my confidence with the opposite sex was at rock bottom. Actually it was lower than that. I was not what you’d call ‘a catch’.

Twice I almost phoned him to cancel, blaming a sick child, before I reminded myself dating was just another mountain waiting to be conquered. In the end, I had nothing to worry about. Once the butterflies stopped circling my stomach, I was drawn in by his sense of humour, self-confidence and honesty.

Tom explained how his ex-wife had walked out on him to live with a much younger man. He’d distracted himself from his divorce and high-pressured job by wood carving and creating incredible sculptures and furniture.

“I don’t know if I can explain it properly without sounding like an idealist or a hippy,” he began. “But one day it was like I had an epiphany. I realised that I was actually capable of doing anything I wanted to if I put my heart and soul into. And being creative with wood gives me more fulfilment than the path I’d mapped out for myself in law. The other lawyers in the firm thought I was mad when I resigned, but I had to give it my best shot even if the odds were stacked against me. Do you understand what I mean?”

I identified with every word he said. And like me, Tom was new to the dating scene.

“When I tell women that I quit being a lawyer to do this, I learned a man who wants to follow his heart into the unknown isn’t as attractive as one who knows where his belongs,” he continued. “That’s what I like about you. You didn’t look at me like I was barking mad.”

Likewise, I’d examined his reactions for any sign of blame when I went into more detail about my life than the rambling coffee machine highlights: one morning, my husband simply fell off the face of the earth.

“Do you think he’s still alive?” Tom asked.

“No, I don’t think he is,” I replied. “I’ve been through every scenario of what might have happened, but I don’t think I’ll ever really know. So the kids and I have accepted we’ve lost him.”

“And you’re ready to move on?”

“Yes,” I replied with certainty, “Yes, I am.”

“Good,” he smiled, and reached out to hold my hand.

June 12, 7.35pm

Tom knew without me ever having to explain that I was a repair in progress. I took our friendship slowly and cautiously with post-lesson drinks, pub lunches, coffees and then finally a kiss. Although the front seat of his car outside Argos wasn’t quite straight from the pages of a Jackie Collins novel, it didn’t matter. He’d given my life a much-needed thrill.

And with that came guilt. Was I cheating on your memory? It was all very well promising till death do us part, but there was no clause in our wedding vows to cover an unexpected disappearance.

I asked myself what you’d do if the roles were reversed and I wasn’t convinced you’d have moved on. But after all I’d been through; I felt I deserved a spring in my step.

That said; I still made Tom wait nearly four months before I was ready to make love. I’d become used to my body as a solitary vessel navigated by a crew of one. And Tom was someone who wanted to steer her into fresh waters. With each touch, each stroke and each kiss, I found it hard to concentrate on pleasuring him or feeling him pleasuring me as I was too focused on stopping my body from involuntarily shaking. But when the second time came around, I was much more relaxed, and by the third, I couldn’t wait for more. And there was a lot more.

I still had inhibitions over what my body had to offer to Tom or any man, so lights-on lovemaking was a strict no-no. The war wounds of five pregnancies gave me as many hang-ups as hang-downs. But Tom didn’t appear bothered. He was no Richard Gere, but I didn’t need a six-pack, tree trunk thighs or the libido of an eighteen-year-old to satisfy me.