It had been a beautiful, tranquil time, Zoe simply content to be with her little son and her grandfather. Her own father was at the height of his fame, having just won an Oscar, and she rarely heard from him. She did her best not to mind, but still, just yesterday at the airport, when he’d hugged her and said he missed her, the invisible parental thread had tugged at her heart.
He’s getting old too . . . , she thought as she negotiated the roundabout at the end of the motorway and headed for central London.
When Jamie was three, it had been James who had gently convinced her to apply for drama school. “If you win a place, we can all live in Welbeck Street,” he’d said. “Jamie should be starting nursery a couple of mornings a week soon. It’s good for a child to socialize.”
“I’m sure I won’t get in anyway,” she had muttered, as she’d finally agreed to try for a place at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, only a short bicycle ride from Welbeck Street.
Yet she had got in, and with the support of a young French au pair, who collected Jamie from his nursery at noon and cooked lunch for both him and James, Zoe had completed her three-year course.
Her grandfather had then corralled his theatrical agent, plus a raft of casting director friends, to attend her graduation performance—“My darling, the world is built on nepotism, whether you’re an actor or a butcher!” And by the time she left, she had an agent and her very first small part in a television drama. By then, Jamie was at school, and Zoe’s career as an actress had subsequently blossomed. Although to her disappointment, it was the screen, rather than the stage—her first love—that formed her employment.
“My dear girl, stop complaining,” James had reprimanded her when she’d arrived home from a fruitless day on location in East London. It had rained solidly, and they hadn’t managed a single shot. “You’re employed, which is the most a young actor can hope for. The Royal Shakespeare Company will come later, I promise.”
If Zoe had noticed her grandfather’s slow decline over the next three years, she realized she had chosen to ignore it. It was only when he began to wince in pain that she had insisted he go to the doctor.
The doctor had diagnosed bowel cancer in its advanced stages; it had spread through James’s liver and colon. Because of his age and frailty, a grueling course of chemotherapy had been ruled out. The doctor had suggested palliative care, to let him spend the time he did have left in a positive frame of mind, free of tubes and drips. If, as James deteriorated, that kind of equipment was needed for his comfort, then it would be provided for him at home.
Further tears filled Zoe’s eyes as she thought of entering the empty house in Welbeck Street, a house that only two months ago had been filled with the pleasant aroma of Old Holborn tobacco, which James had smoked illicitly up until the day he died. In the last few months, he’d been very sick, his ears and eyes failing, and his ninety-five-year-old bones begging to be finally at rest. Yet his charisma, his sense of humor, his life force, had still filled the house.
Last summer, Zoe had made the heartbreaking decision to send Jamie away to school for his own sake. Watching his beloved great-grandfather deteriorate right in front of his eyes was not something she wished to put her son through. Because of their close bond, Zoe had known she must ease him into a life without “Great-James,” as Jamie called him, gently, with as little pain as possible. Jamie didn’t see the lines deepening on Great-James’s face, nor the way his hands shook as they played a game of Snap, or how he’d fall asleep in his armchair after lunch and not wake until early evening.
So Jamie had gone away to school last September and had thankfully settled down happily, while Zoe had put her burgeoning film career on hold and nursed an increasingly frail old man.
One bitter November evening, James had caught Zoe’s hand as she took an empty teacup from him. “Where’s Jamie?”
“He’s at school.”
“Can he come home this weekend? I need to see him.”
“James, I don’t know whether that’s such a good idea.”
“He’s a clever lad, more so than most boys his age. I’ve known since Jamie was first born that I wasn’t immortal. It was obvious I was unlikely to be around beyond his early years. I’ve prepared Jamie for my imminent departure.”
“I see.” The hand clutching her own teacup had shaken like her grandfather’s.
“You’ll call him home? I should see him. Soon.”
“Okay.”
Reluctantly, Zoe had collected Jamie from school that weekend. On the drive home, she’d told him how ill Great-James was. Jamie had nodded, his hair falling into his eyes and guarding his expression. “I know. He told me at half-term, actually; said he’d call for me when it was . . . time.”
As Jamie had run upstairs to see him, Zoe had paced the kitchen, worrying how her precious boy would react to seeing Great-James so ill.
That night, as the three of them ate supper in James’s room, Zoe saw the old man had brightened considerably. Jamie spent most of the rest of the weekend ensconced in James’s bedroom. When she’d finally gone upstairs and told Jamie they had to leave for school to arrive in time for Sunday curfew, James had opened his arms wide to his great-grandson.
“Goodbye, old chap. You take care of yourself. And that mother of yours.”
“Yes. Love you!” Jamie had hugged his great-grandfather tightly, with all the abandon of a child.
They hadn’t talked much on the journey down to Jamie’s Berkshire prep school, but just as they’d pulled into the school car park, Jamie had finally spoken. “I’ll never see Great-James again, you know. He’s going soon, he told me.”
Zoe turned and looked at her son’s serious expression. “I’m so sorry, darling.”
“Don’t worry, Mumma. I understand.”
And with a wave he was off up the steps and inside.
Less than a week later, Sir James Harrison, OBE, was dead.
* * *
Zoe pulled up next to the curb in Welbeck Street, got out of the car, and glanced up at the house, whose upkeep would now fall to her. The redbrick building, despite its newer Victorian facade, had stood here for over two hundred years, and she saw the frames around the tall windows were in dire need of repainting. Unlike its neighbors, its exterior curved out gently, like a pleasantly full belly, and it reached up five stories, with the attic windows winking down at her like two bright eyes. Walking up the steps, she unlocked the heavy front door and closed it behind her, picking up the mail from the mat. Her breath was visible in the cold air of the house and she shivered, wishing she could retreat back to the comforting semi-isolation of Haycroft House. But work had to be done. Just before he’d died, James had strongly encouraged Zoe to take the leading role in a new film version of Tess of the D’Urbervilles directed by Mike Winter, an up-and-coming young Brit. She had only given her grandfather the script to keep him from boredom during his illness—it was one of many that were sent to her every week—and had never expected him to read it.
Yet, once he had, James had grabbed her hand. “A part like Tess isn’t going to land in your lap every day and this script is exceptional. I entreat you to do this, dear girl. It will make you the star you deserve to be.”
He hadn’t needed to say “last request.” She’d seen it in his eyes.
Without taking off her coat, she walked down the hall and turned the thermostat up. She could hear the clanking as the ancient boiler was brought to life, and prayed that none of the pipes would freeze in the deepening winter temperatures. Wandering into the kitchen, she saw wineglasses and dirty ashtrays were still stacked by the sink, left over from the drinks party–cum–wake she’d felt obliged to hold after the memorial service yesterday. She had perfected a gracious expression of gratitude as dozens of people had come to pay their respects and regale her with stories of her grandfather.
Half-heartedly, she emptied some of the ashtrays into the overflowing bin, knowing that most of the money from Tess would go to renovating the old
house—the kitchen alone was in desperate need of an update.
The answering-machine light was blinking from the worktop. Zoe pressed “play.”
“Zoe? Zoeeeeee . . . ??! Okay, you’re not there. Ring me at home. Immediately. I mean it. It’s urgent!”
Zoe winced at the slur in her brother’s voice. She’d been horrified when she’d seen what Marcus had turned up wearing yesterday at the church—not even a tie—and he’d snuck off as soon as he could from the wake afterward, without even saying goodbye. She knew it was because Marcus was sulking.
Just after James had died, she, Marcus, and her father had attended the reading of his will. Sir James Harrison had decided to leave virtually all his money and Haycroft House in trust for Jamie until he was twenty-one. There was also an insurance policy to pay for Jamie’s school fees and university education. Welbeck Street had been bequeathed to Zoe, along with his theatrical memorabilia, which took up most of the attic space at Haycroft House. However, he’d left her no actual cash; Zoe understood that he wanted her to be hungry and continue to pursue her acting career. There was also a lump sum of money in trust to set up the “Sir James Harrison Memorial Scholarship.” This was to pay the fees of two talented youngsters who would not normally be able to attend a reputable drama school. He had asked that Charles and Zoe set the scheme up.
James had left Marcus £100,000; a “paltry token gesture,” according to Marcus. After the reading of the will, she could feel the disappointment crackling like electricity from her brother.
She switched on the kettle, weighing up whether to call Marcus back, knowing if she didn’t, he was likely to call her at some ungodly hour of the morning, drunk and unintelligible. However excruciatingly self-obsessed he could be, Zoe loved her brother, remembering her childhood with him and how sweet and kind he’d always been with her when she was younger. Whatever his more recent behavior, she knew that Marcus had a good soul, but equally, his penchant for falling in love with the wrong women and his very bad head for business had subsequently rendered him broke and very low.
When he’d left university, Marcus had gone to LA to stay with their father and had tried to make his mark as a film producer. Zoe had known from what her father and James told her that things weren’t going as he’d planned. Over the ten years Marcus had been in LA, one project after another had crumbled to dust, leaving him and his benefactor father disillusioned. And leaving Marcus virtually penniless.
“The problem with that young man is that his heart’s in the right place, but he’s a dreamer,” James had commented when Marcus had returned from LA to England three years ago with his tail between his legs. “This new project of his”—James had flapped the film proposal Marcus had sent him in hope of funding—“is full of sound political and moral ethos, but where’s the story?” Subsequently, James had refused to back it.
Even if her brother had not helped himself, Zoe felt a sense of guilt for the fact that she and her son had been so favored by James, both in his lifetime, and in the recent will.
Cradling a mug of tea in her hands, she wandered into the sitting room and glanced around at the scuffed mahogany furniture, the worn-out sofa and the old chairs, their undercarriages visibly sagging with age. The heavy damask curtains were faded, with small vertical slits woven through the fragile material, as if an invisible knife had cut through them like butter. As she mounted the stairs toward her bedroom, she thought she’d try removing the threadbare carpets to see if the hardwood floor beneath them could be salvaged . . .
She paused on the landing, outside the door to James’s room. Now that all the grim paraphernalia of life and death had been removed, the room felt like a void. She opened the door and stepped inside, picturing him sitting up in bed, a congenial smile on his face.
All her strength left her, and she slid to the floor, curling up by the wall, as all her grief and pain poured out in body-wracking sobs. She hadn’t let herself cry like this up until now, holding everything together for Jamie. But now, here for the first time on her own, she cried for herself, and for the loss of her true father, and her best friend.
The ringing of the doorbell startled her. She stilled, hoping the unwelcome caller would go away and let her lick her wounds in peace.
The doorbell rang again.
“Zoe!” a familiar voice shouted through the letter box. “I know you’re home, your car’s outside. Let me in!”
“Damn you, Marcus!” she cursed under her breath, angrily swiping the last tears from her face. She ran down the stairs, pulled the front door open, and saw her brother leaning against the stone portico.
“Jesus, sis!” he said as he saw her face. “You look as wrecked as I do.”
“Thanks.”
“Can I come in?”
“You’re here now, so you’d better,” she snapped, and stood back to let him through.
Marcus slid past her and headed straight to the drinks cabinet in the sitting room, where he reached for the decanter to pour himself a healthy slug of whiskey before she had even closed the front door.
“I was going to ask you how you were holding up, but I can see it in your face,” he remarked, falling back into the leather wingback chair.
“Marcus, just tell me what you want. I’ve got a lot to sort out—”
“Don’t pretend you’ve got it so hard when good ol’ Jim left you this house.” Marcus swept his arms around the room, the whiskey sloshing perilously close to the rim of the glass.
“James left you a lot of money,” Zoe said through gritted teeth. “I know you’re angry—”
“Damn right I am! I’m this close—this close—to Ben MacIntyre agreeing to direct my new film project. But he’s got to be sure I have the capital to begin preproduction. All I need is a hundred grand in the company account and I reckon he’ll say yes.”
“Just be patient. When probate comes through, you’ll get it.” Zoe sat back on the sofa, massaging her aching temples. “Can’t you get a loan?”
“You know what my personal credit rating is like. And Marc One Films doesn’t have the best financial track record either. Ben’ll move on to something else if I hang about. Honestly, Zo, if you met these guys, you’d want to be involved too—it’s going to be the most important film of the decade, if not the millennium . . .”
Zoe sighed. She’d heard plenty about Marcus’s new project in the past few weeks.
“And we need to start applying for permits to film in Brazil soon. If only Dad would loan me the money until probate comes through, but he’s refused.” Marcus glared at her.
“You can’t blame Dad for saying no; he’s helped you out so many times before.”
“But this is different, it’s going to turn everything around, Zoe, I swear.”
She paused and held his gaze. He’d really unraveled in the past few weeks, and she was becoming seriously worried about his drinking.
“I have no cash, Marcus, you know that.”
“Come on, Zoe! Surely, you could easily remortgage this house, or even get a bank loan out for me just for a few weeks until probate’s through.”
“Stop!” She slapped her hand down on the arm of the sofa. “Enough is enough! Listen to yourself! Are you really surprised James didn’t leave you his house when he knew you’d almost certainly sell it immediately? And you hardly visited him when he was ill. I was the one who cared for him, who loved him—” Zoe broke off, swallowing the sob that was threatening to escape her.
“No, well . . .” Marcus had the grace to look ashamed. He lowered his eyes and took a sip of his whiskey. “You were always his special girl, weren’t you? I hardly got a look-in.”
“Marcus, what’s happening to you?” she said quietly. “I care about you, and I really want to help you, but—”
“You don’t trust me. Just like Dad and Sir Jim. That’s the real reason, isn’t it?”
“Oh, Marcus, it’s hardly surprising, the way you’ve been acting recently. I haven’t seen you sober in God knows h
ow long . . .”
“Don’t you ‘oh, Marcus’ me! After Mum died, everyone was in bits over who would take care of precious Zoe! And who gave a toss about me, huh?”
“If you’re going to drag up ancient history, then you can do it on your own time, I’m too exhausted for this.” She stood up and gestured to the door. “Call me when you’ve sobered up, but I won’t speak to you when you’re like this.”
“Zoe . . .”
“I mean it. Marcus, I love you, but you have to pull yourself together.”
He stood up heavily, leaving his whiskey glass on the carpet, and walked out of the room.
“Remember, you’re taking me to that premiere early next week,” she called.
There was no reply and she heard the front door slam behind him.
Zoe wandered into the kitchen to make herself a cup of soothing chamomile tea, then surveyed the empty cupboards. A bag of crisps would have to suffice as supper. She searched through the heap of unanswered mail by the telephone for the invitation to the premiere for the film she had finished just before James became really sick. As she checked the details so she could text Marcus to remind him, the name at the top of the card suddenly came into sharp focus.
“Oh my God,” she muttered.
She sank into a chair as her stomach did a 360-degree turn.
4
Marcus Harrison walked down the dank alley behind the twenty-four-hour betting shop on North End Road, and unlocked the door to the entrance of his apartment. He retrieved a pile of letters from his pigeonhole in the hall—each one no doubt threatening to pull out all his pubic hairs individually with tweezers if he did not pay the enclosed amount immediately—and climbed the stairs. He winced at the foul smell of drains, unlocked the door to his apartment, then closed it behind him and leaned against it.
He had a raging hangover, which had still not cleared, even though it was almost six the following evening. Dumping the bills on the worktop to gather dust with the rest, Marcus headed for the sitting room and the half-empty whiskey bottle. Pouring a hefty amount into a used glass, he sat down, knocked it back, and felt its comforting warmth flow through him. And wondered miserably where it had all gone wrong.
The Royal Secret Page 4