by Sasha Morgan
Marcus rolled his eyes. ‘Load of bollocks, more like,’ he scoffed.
Finula laughed, but carried on reading. ‘She’s on tonight, at The Bear.’
‘Really?’ replied Marcus flatly. Did people actually believe that stuff?
‘Let’s go, it’ll be fun.’ Finula’s eyes sparkled with amusement.
Marcus stopped mid-sip. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Oh, go on.’
‘Finula, it’s all a con.’
‘I know, but it’ll still be interesting,’ she cajoled.
It was hard to say no, so full of enthusiasm and cheer was Finula, and he felt himself being persuaded.
‘OK. We can go there tonight if you really want to,’ he chuckled, loving the way her face lit up when he finally gave in.
*
Located off Oxford’s High Street, the cosy little pub with low ceilings and chestnut-brown wooden panelling was heaving. Its worn oak floor had been weathered by the feet of countless generations. The first thing Marcus noticed was the ties: ties of members of renowned colleges, schools, regiments, sports clubs and long-lost establishments were assembled in serried ranks and placed in glass showcases that covered the walls. Marcus and Finula wrestled to get served at the bar and wove their way through the crowd to the snug.
‘I can’t believe there are so many gullible people,’ remarked Marcus as he handed Finula her wine.
‘Look, there she is.’ Finula pointed out Lola Burrax, sitting at a corner table reading tarot cards to a young girl with eyes like saucers, evidently gripped by what the medium was saying.
Marcus smirked into his glass and suppressed a snigger. The room was crammed full of goths, hippies and long-haired drop-outs, who frankly ought to know better. It beggared belief how much money Lola Burrax would be coining in, given that each of the expectant crowd had paid £15 a ticket to watch her perform. Anticipation mounted and, in spite of not believing in anything remotely mystic or supernatural, Marcus could sense the electric atmosphere.
The young girl having her cards read gasped out loud, causing a lull and wave of whispering amongst the people in the pub.
‘What do you think she’s told her?’ Finula hissed.
‘The price of her reading probably,’ replied Marcus dully. He was rewarded with a contemptuous look.
‘Have an open mind,’ chided Finula.
‘Yeah, and an open wallet,’ retorted Marcus.
The medium stood up from the table, closed her eyes and began breathing heavily. Her hands were held in a prayer-like position.
‘Sounds like she’s connecting with the energy,’ whispered Finula, trying her best not to laugh out loud.
‘Sounds like she’s asthmatic to me,’ batted back Marcus under his breath, making Finula double over with giggles.
Suddenly Lola opened her eyes and the crowd fell silent.
‘I am about to confirm what you already know deep within you, but cannot fully access on your own. Receive higher wisdom and find your direction.’
Her dark eyes roamed over her audience. Her long brown hair was covered with a headscarf and she wore a tie-dyed kaftan. Lola started to circle around the room, creating a stillness, and each person she passed seemed dying to be picked by her. She stopped short in front of a small, grey-haired man in a colourful waistcoat. She took hold of his hand and closed her eyes again.
‘I feel your vibration,’ she announced, causing a faint twitter amongst the bystanders. ‘I detect unrest.’ The man nodded knowingly. ‘You have suffered much injustice.’ He nodded even more. Marcus noticed a faded band mark round his finger where a wedding ring had obviously been removed recently. ‘It is a lonely path you travel, but not for long.’ This seemed to brighten him up no end, judging by the big beam lit across his face.
Then Lola came to a middle-aged lady sitting down at a nearby table. Crouching down, she touched the lady’s forehead with her fingertips. ‘She’s safe, don’t worry,’ Lola claimed, making the lady double over and cry. Marcus’ eyes widened: what the hell was this woman playing at?
Then, as if reading his mind, she spun round to face him. Marcus stared back defiantly. ‘You are in turmoil,’ she said pointing a finger directly at him.
He rolled his eyes. ‘Am I really?’ he answered in a bored monotone.
She moved closer and searched his face.
‘Your revenge will not be sweet.’
There was a stunned silence. Marcus eyed the medium with cool distaste. Speechless, Finula looked from one to the other. Suddenly, it wasn’t funny any more. They both stood their ground, staring each other out. Finula gulped as she took in Marcus’ steely gaze, not flinching a muscle. His hand clenched his glass so hard she could see the whites of his knuckles. Neither spoke. A still silence filled the air. One or two smothered coughs could be heard from the crowd. Marcus remained motionless, his glare challenging. The psychic eventually moved on.
‘Marcus, are you all right?’ Finula could see from the look on his face he wasn’t. For all his dismissive comments, Lola Burrax had clearly hit a nerve to prompt such a reaction.
‘Of course I’m all right, Finula,’ he replied, then gulped his drink down.
Finula noticed his hand shake slightly and regretted her insistence of coming there.
18
Viola lay all the photographs out on her bed yet again. This was more than just research, it was becoming an obsession. Since Marcus had confirmed that they would definitely be filming inside Treweham Hall, and more importantly, that Tobias Cavendish-Blake had actually agreed to being interviewed, Viola’s anticipation had reached fever pitch. Never had she been so focused on an interviewee. This was the one. This was going to be the interview that made her. How many interviews had the devilishly handsome Lord Cavendish-Blake given? None. That’s how many, and she was about to be the first. This was a momentous occasion – well, for her, anyway – and, she suspected, for all those ladies out there that had secretly lusted after him for years. Now they were about to see him up front and personal, if she had her way.
The interview had come at a price, quite a hefty one, apparently, but nothing Marcus couldn’t deal with. The powers that be at the BBC were more than happy to meet Tobias’ demands, not only on the cost, but also on the format of the interview. Lord Cavendish-Blake was to be consulted on every question beforehand. Anything he didn’t like the look of was to be deleted and replaced with one of his own choice. Hardly an open, candid approach, thought Viola with disappointment, but still, an interview was an interview, and a long-sought-after one at that. Tobias Cavendish-Blake was notorious for hating the media, after they had chased him relentlessly, and shamefully in some instances, over the years. The fact he was prepared to appear in front of a camera at all was a miracle. Viola thought that Finula had played a large part in securing this; Finula and Tobias’ wet wife, she presumed with spite.
Viola homed in on her favourite picture of him again, the most recent one, taken on his wedding day. She sighed out loud at his relaxed, smiling face, green eyes crinkled with laughter, his dimpled chin and long, dark hair. Absolute perfection. She began to feel hot inside. The need to nail this interview was of paramount importance. Her career was hinging on it. If she messed up this unique opportunity, nobody would touch her again.
*
Marcus was in the bedroom next door. He should have been preparing the schedule for the shoot at Treweham Hall, but in truth, he was unable to apply his mind to anything but the chilling words of Lola Burrax. After all, it hadn’t been just some random information she’d thrown at him. It was quite specific. Your revenge will not be sweet. It had hit a nerve instantly, because Marcus really did intend to seek revenge, big time. He fully meant to expose the Cavendish-Blakes for what they were: high-handed, overindulged, pompous bastards. The worst of all being the late Lord Richard Cavendish-Blake, his own father. How would the current Lord Cavendish-Blake react on learning he wasn’t actually the rightful heir? That in fact he had an older brother? N
ot that Marcus envied Tobias his standing, and all that came with it, but the principle mattered greatly. It killed him to think of his mother being banished to Ireland carrying Richard Cavendish-Blake’s child, never to be heard of again. He obviously hadn’t paid a penny towards their upkeep. Even as a small child, Marcus had known that money was tight.
His hand curled into a fist. Tobias thought he was in control of the interview; well, let him think that if that’s what it took to get the bastard in front of a camera. What Tobias couldn’t manipulate was the way Marcus would oversee the editing and the whole production. That’s where it was all won and lost. Even the saintliest of people could be portrayed as the devil incarnate with clever editing: speeches cut off to deliberately misconstrue, losing all of the positive comments and homing in on the negative, pausing over an awkward moment for emphasis, close-ups of any make-up or costume malfunction, filming before the ‘action’ and after the ‘cut’ calls to catch anything the interviewee wouldn’t want to display on air. Marcus knew every trick in the book and he was going to use them all. His ultimate trump card would be to disclose his own parentage, but he was fully aware that, without proof, it was futile.
He gave a heavy sigh and turned his head towards a magazine opened out on the desk. To his shame, he had succumbed and bought a copy of Psychic Intelligence. As he’d flicked through the glossy pages, various adverts had leapt out at him, offering, ‘personal, accurate readings’, or ‘guidance from the grave’, or telephoned ‘star sign direction’. There was even a ‘white witch’ selling love potions and curses. It was incredible how much business there was in this mumbo-jumbo. At the back of the magazine, there was an article warning people about fake psychics, and the irony made Marcus laugh.
A genuine psychic will give you some personal information about yourself that is not common knowledge to prove they are truly connected with you.
He stopped laughing when he read that. Up until Lola Burrax had actually spoken to him, he had thought her a phoney. To him it was so transparent, the way she had read and manipulated her audience. Just a person’s age and sex could tell clairvoyants things about their general lifestyles, interests and sometimes the status of relationships. Even where you lived could reveal a lot about a person’s life, education and social background. So-called mystics would examine the way you sat, talked, the clothes and jewellery you wore, all these telltale signs offered clues in how to exploit vulnerable people who wanted some form of reassurance. It disgusted Marcus and yet… what clues had he given Lola Burrax? None. He hadn’t even given her eye contact before she picked him out. It baffled him. Telling himself it was just the power of charisma and suggestion he closed the magazine with force and turned his thoughts to the far more pleasant side of his day with Finula. They’d got on well, just as he had anticipated. Finula was easy to be around. She had a natural openness about her, which he didn’t often find in people. Maybe it was because of the type of characters he worked with, all of whom were a little self-centred and too ambitious for their own good. In Finula he suspected what you saw was what you got. She had an innate honesty, and it was apparent she wore her heart on her sleeve. The attraction was definitely reciprocated, of that he had no doubt.
Many women had thrown themselves at Marcus over the years and he had hated the unwanted attention. He secretly thought the interest was more due to his job as a producer than anything else, but he was wrong. Without his realising it, Marcus’ quiet, reserved, almost cool exterior left many a female hungry for more. They wanted to ‘crack’ his armour and familiarise themselves with the inner man. The more they pressed, the more he retreated. Marcus always used his demanding career as an excuse to hide behind. If he didn’t particularly fancy socialising – or, indeed, the woman herself – he would make a hectic work schedule the ideal apology for opting out.
He had married years ago when he was twenty-one, fresh out of university. Niamh had been his girlfriend of two years and, on discovering she was pregnant they both panicked and did what was expected of them. Niamh had miscarried a month after their wedding. At first they tried to carry on as normal, pretending they would have married anyway, but inevitably each found his and her own way and parted as good friends. Niamh was now a researcher for a television company in Ireland, and was married with two boys. She and Marcus still remained in contact, never having really fallen out, and their work had sometimes meant they met up.
Marcus found Finula refreshing, a far cry from the vain, go-getter girls he was surrounded by. She was happy in her own skin, without any hidden agenda.
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Could the same be said about him? Yes, he definitely was drawn to Finula, and yes, he’d absolutely enjoyed her company the other day, but hadn’t he used her just a little? He had manipulated Finula to persuade Tobias Cavendish-Blake to take part in the documentary. Was this fair? After giving it some thought, he convinced himself it was. After all, Finula was desperate to tag along with the crew at Treweham Hall and experience the filming. He’d make sure she enjoyed herself, involve her with the team, rather than detaching himself as he usually did.
On their date, Marcus hadn’t allowed Lola Burrax to ruin the evening. He had made a swift recovery after her words of doom and soon afterwards he and Finula had slipped back into cheerful banter.
On the ride home he talked about his childhood in Ireland, but was guarded in giving too much detail. Finula, having had quite a few glasses of wine, had opened up far more, telling him about her friendship with Megan, and her previous relationship with Nick. Marcus sat driving in stunned silence as she regaled him with her ex-boyfriend’s antics. She finished her story off by telling him how Tobias had finally given Nick his just deserts at the Landlord’s Supper. Marcus had turned sharply.
‘Why, what happened?’
Finula explained the traditional event. ‘Nowadays it’s just a good excuse for a piss-up,’ she concluded. ‘Anyway, Nick turned up absolutely hammered and tried to kiss Megan, who was working behind the bar at the time. Tobias came over and smacked him one!’ She fell into giggles, then hiccupped. Marcus smirked to himself. Interesting. That story held all the qualities he was looking for: custom, tradition and the Lord of the Manor battering a villager.
Once he had pulled up outside The Templar, Finula was practically asleep. He gently stirred her.
‘We’re home, Finula,’ he whispered.
She opened her eyes and looked into his face. ‘What killer cheekbones you have. Do you know who you remind me of?’
‘Who?’ He laughed softly.
‘That Irish actor, Ci… Cil… Cilli…’ she struggled pronouncing his name.
‘Cillian Murphy,’ he supplied with a grin.
‘Yes! That’s the chap.’
‘Come on, you, let’s get you to bed.’ He helped her out of the car and led her inside. Once in The Templar she turned to him.
‘Fancy a nightcap?’
Marcus shook his head, ‘No thanks, Finula, and neither should you,’ he gently warned. ‘Your father will have my guts for garters, returning you in this state.’
‘What state?’ Finula exclaimed indignantly.
‘Shush!’ He put his finger over her mouth. Their eyes suddenly locked. Marcus leant forward and kissed her on the lips. She tasted of dark berries from the red wine. He pulled away and smiled.
‘Good night, Finula. Thanks for a great day.’
‘Good night, Marcus,’ she replied hoarsely, the kiss having sobered her up in an instant.
19
Dylan opened the office door and found Flora sitting at the desk, busy talking on the phone. He sighed for the hundredth time. Would she ever talk to him like that again? All pleasant and polite, with the odd tinkle of laughter? In fact, when would she start talking to him at all? he thought bleakly. He thanked his lucky stars she’d actually shown up for work.
It was two weeks now since Flora had packed her things and left his house. He missed her dreadfully. It wasn’t home any more w
ithout her, just an empty shell devoid of any warmth. Everything was the way he had left it on returning home after a day’s work at the racing yard. He yearned for her comforting smell of jasmine, seeing her clothes discarded at the end of the bed, her toiletries scattered haphazardly around the bathroom, her soft, warm body lying next to his. He had actually shed real tears into his pillow last night, such was the agony of his big, empty bed. But it was no good. Flora simply wouldn’t listen to him.
Dylan had tried, on many occasions, to reason with her. He had endeavoured to explain what had happened between himself and Samantha Tait. To remind her that he and Flora had not strictly been an item at the time. It was at this point that Flora had coolly reminded him why that was. ‘No, Dylan, we weren’t together, because I’d read an explicit article about how you seduced Sadie Stringfellow.’
Dylan gave up, realising the hole he was digging himself into had just got considerably bigger. Instead he had backed off, given her space to calm down. Except Flora hadn’t calmed down. If anything, her mood was getting darker by the day, well, with him anyway. With the rest of the staff she was the same delightful Flora. With the owners she was the same obliging Flora. With him she was the hard, stubborn Flora he had witnessed before.
Praying she would finally relent, Dylan attempted once more to make conversation with her. He walked over to the desk and stood in front of her, but Flora finished her phone conversation and began typing, refusing to give him eye contact.
‘Flora…’ He coughed awkwardly.
‘What?’ she asked, staring stony faced at him. He flinched.
‘I’m leaving for Newmarket tonight.’ Newmarket, otherwise known as the British horseracing headquarters, would be the venue of the last race he ever rode. Ideally, he wanted Flora by his side, but knew she wouldn’t entertain the idea in this mood.
‘Right,’ she replied flatly.