Whatever Love Is

by Rosie Ruston

  Rosie Rushton lives in Northampton, where she is a licensed lay minister in a parish church. She is passionate about all issues relating to young people. Her hobbies include travelling, theatre and cinema, reading, all manner of word games and puzzles, walking, being juvenile with her grandchldren and playing hopscotch when no one is looking. Her ambitions are to visit China and to learn to sing in tune. She holds out rather more hope for the former than for the latter.

  Other 21st Century Austens, by Rosie Rushton:

  The Secrets of Love

  Summer of Secrets

  Secret Schemes and Daring Dreams

  Love, Lies and Lizzie

  Echoes of Love

  First published in Great Britain in 2012

  by Piccadilly Press Ltd,

  5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR

  www.piccadillypress.co.uk

  Text copyright © Rosie Rushton, 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  The right of Rosie Rushton to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978 1 84812 157 7 (paperback)

  eISBN: 978 1 84812 208 6

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Cover illustration by Susan Hellard

  Cover design by Simon Davis

  This, the last in my 21st century Jane Austen series,

  is dedicated to my three wonderful, talented

  and inspirational daughters,

  Niki, Sally and Caroline,

  with so much love and pride.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 1

  ‘Nobody meant to be unkind,

  but nobody put themselves out of their

  way to secure her comfort.’

  (Jane Austen, Mansfield Park)

  ‘HEY FRANKIE, YOU’VE GOT TO SEE THIS – THIS IS SO YOU!’

  ‘You’d be brilliant in this – get in here quickly!’

  Frankie Price hesitated at the foot of the stairs, her finger poised over her iPhone. Her cousins, who had been on a shopping spree, had arrived back half an hour earlier laden with designer-label carrier bags and she could tell from the muffled giggles emanating from the sitting room that this was, in all probability, another wind-up, the kind of teasing that everyone said was ‘just a bit of light-hearted fun’ but which still hurt far more than she would ever have dreamt of admitting.

  ‘You’re made for this, really – come and see!’

  So what would it be this time? Frankie wondered. Mia, twenty-one years old, stunningly beautiful and confident that she was the centre of the universe, showing off yet another lacy mini-dress with the kind of bustier top that looked great on someone with boobs but that would make Frankie look like a rather sad pencil? Or Jemma, eighteen months younger, parading in a skintight gold-sequinned jumpsuit and Miu Miu stacks that made her legs look even longer than usual and remarking that it was such a shame that Frankie’s shape meant she could never borrow any of their gear?

  Frankie sighed, catching sight of herself in the ornate mirror on the opposite wall of the spacious hall. She wasn’t ugly, she knew that, but she wasn’t beautiful either; she was just five foot three, severely lacking in the boob department, with skin so pale that even an hour in the sun resulted in livid splotches all over her face and arms and a cluster of freckles on the bridge of her rather-too-upturned nose. She yearned to be curvy, she craved straighter hair and luscious lips – but most of all she longed to be bubbly, outgoing and free of the crippling lack of confidence that made her tongue-tied even when her brain was firing out witty – or caustic – remarks in her head.

  ‘Frankie! We know you’re out there! Be quick!’

  ‘Busy!’ she called, clicking on Inbox. She should have heard something by now. They’d said it would be today. Why was the network so slow? She had just turned to head up the stairs, her eyes glued to the iPhone screen, when Mia burst into the hall and grabbed her by the wrist.

  ‘This won’t wait,’ she insisted, dragging her into the sitting room.

  ‘Root of the Matter are looking for people just like you.’ If it hadn’t been for the acid-tongued presenter, Eleanor Edmonds, holding forth in close-up on the vast plasma TV screen on the wall, Frankie would have assumed she had misheard. Root of the Matter wasn’t Mia or Jemma’s usual viewing choice – it didn’t feature celebs locked in some hideously decorated house agonising over their boob enhancements, or fashionistas listing the absolute must-haves in summer tops. It was ITV’s most hard-hitting, cutting-edge series, focusing on the social issues of the day and exposing abuse and injustice in everything from care in the community to exploitation of farmers in the developing world.

  It was, in fact, the very sort of programme that Ned would have been glued to had he been at home, and for that reason alone, Frankie’s curiosity was aroused.

  ‘What do you mean, people like me?’ she asked, slipping her phone into the pocket of her shorts. ‘What are you on about? Is it a writing competition?’

  Ever since she could remember, Frankie had loved writing – not just her diaries but short stories and dozens of letters to magazines and newspapers – she’d even had a couple posted on really prominent websites.

  ‘Better than that – they want teenagers from dysfunctional families to take part in a discussion programme,’ Jemma said with mock solemnity.

  ‘And let’s face it, families don’t come much more dysfunctional than yours, do they?’ Mia giggled. ‘You’ve got the lot – lunatic mother, dropout dad.’

  ‘My mum’s not a lunatic!’ Frankie snapped, knowing even as she spoke that she should have just turned and left the room. ‘She’s bipolar. And my dad didn’t drop out, he —’

  She stopped mid-sentence, aware that she had been about to use all the phrases her father had been prone to use about himself:

  ‘I’m searching for my inner truth, Francesca.’

  ‘I’m a free spirit, Frankie; I can’t be hemmed in by the rules and regulations of a blinkered society.’

  And, most frequently of all:

  ‘I never expected any of this to happen. It wasn’t part of my game plan.’

  This last remark would always be accompanied by a series of deep sighs and an expansive gesture meant to include the crumbling house, her mother either weeping buckets or manically joyful depending on the moment, and the pile of unpaid bills that got shoved from table to sideboard and back again without anyone ever making any attempt to do anything about them. As usual, just thinking about her family brought a lump to her throat, rapidly followed by a gut-twisting stab of guilt that she was living in a huge house in one of the most upmarket villages in Northamptonshire while her mum was . . . no, she wouldn’t think about where her mum was right now. If she did, she would cry and that was something she only did in the privacy of her own room.

  ‘OK, OK, so he didn’t drop out,’ Mia scoffed, tossing her copy of Grazia magazine to one side and stretching languidly on the sofa. ‘He – what’s the phrase? Opted f
or an alternative lifestyle!’

  ‘Leave her alone.’ Jemma’s voice reverted to the softer tones she used when her sister wasn’t around and there was no need to keep up with her finely honed cattiness.

  ‘Hey, there you go!’ Mia cried. ‘There’s the website on the screen! Come on, you really should email the programme. It’d be cool – they say they want to see how people survive a bad start in life. They could come here and film us! Because you have to admit, it is down to us that you’ve got a life at all.’

  Frankie took a deep breath, vowing that she wouldn’t let their taunts get to her. Over the past couple of years, she had run all manner of scenarios in her head: she had pictured herself coming back with witty retorts when her past was thrown in her face; she had imagined waking up one morning, free of all her stupid inhibitions; she had even set rational thought to one side and imagined her father settling down, buying a house, getting the family back together again and announcing that he was going to care for them all, no matter what. She had made inroads on the first, was working on the second, but even she had to admit that the third was just a childish dream, best forgotten. It was never going to happen.

  The fact of the matter was that Mia was right. It was down to the Bertrams that she had the sort of life the rest of her family could only dream about. When she had arrived three years earlier, a month after her fifteenth birthday, she had been reeling from what her mother had told her when she had visited her in the psychiatric hospital on her last morning in Brighton.

  ‘You need to know something,’ her mother had said, fiddling abstractedly with a strand of prematurely greying hair. ‘Your Aunt Tina – the one you’re going to stay with – she’s not your real aunt. And neither is Nerys.’

  She had shuffled in her chair, avoiding Frankie’s penetrating gaze.

  ‘You see, I was adopted.’

  For a moment, Frankie had thought that her mum was fantasising, that the drugs she took to keep her symptoms at bay were confusing her thinking. Her mother, Ruth, had always referred to Tina (one-time model whose face had graced the covers of Elle and Vogue and who had married the founder of the hugely successful Bertie’s chain of high street clothing stores), and Nerys (wife of Gabriel Lane, rising star in the diplomatic service until he disgraced himself by leaking confidential documents, took to drink and died of alcohol poisoning), as her sisters. On good days, they were the sisters she adored and missed; on bad days, of which there were rather more, they were the smug, self-satisfied so-and-sos of whom she was well rid.

  But they were always her sisters.

  ‘So Grandma and Grandpa . . .’

  ‘Weren’t your real grandparents, no.’ Ruth’s voice had flattened and she had stood up and begun pacing the room. ‘In fact, I reckon the only reason they upped sticks and moved to Florida was to avoid any risk of ever seeing me – crazy weirdo Ruth – again!’

  For some reason she didn’t understand, Frankie felt defensive of the not-grandparents who had been been killed in a freeway accident when she was still a toddler.

  ‘I love you, you know that?’ Ruth had pleaded, changing the subject as rapidly as she had started it. She hugged Frankie. ‘You’ll come and see me?’

  ‘Mum, I don’t have to go. I can stay with you.’

  ‘And be taken into care? I don’t think so.’ For just a moment, her mother had sounded more rational than she had for weeks. ‘William’s got his own life now and I want to know you’re safe and being looked after.’

  She brushed a tear from her cheek. ‘I’ve failed, Frankie, I’ve failed you all. I’m useless, worthless . . .’

  Frankie hugged her mum tight and waited for the trembling and arm-scratching to pass – just as she had countless times over the years. ‘Mum, you’re not – you’re just not too well right now,’ she repeated, almost by rote.

  ‘Yes, you’re right, I just need a little rest. And this is an opportunity for you, Frankie,’ her mum replied. ‘Posh lifestyle in a big house, meeting all the right people, and Nerys says you’ll go to a really good school. The teachers always said you were bright but then I was bright once, only life dealt me a cruel blow and now I guess you’ll forget I exist . . .’

  Frankie had curtailed her mother’s increasingly manic outpouring with another hug. ‘Mum, of course I won’t!’ she’d insisted. ‘I’ll come and see you.’

  ‘You will? Frankie, I love you so much. I never meant it to be like this. I’ll get better, I promise I will.’

  She smiled bravely and pushed Frankie towards the door.

  ‘Now go – you’ll miss your train.’

  ‘Mum . . .’

  Frankie couldn’t remember which of them had begun sobbing first. She had spent years struggling to care for her mum, manage her schoolwork and deal with the increasingly infrequent and unpredictable visits from her father. She had become adept at pretending to the world that life was totally normal while longing for an escape from it all. But that day, as she’d hugged her mum goodbye, a hole opened in her heart that still hadn’t completely closed. Sometimes she wondered whether it ever would.

  She would never forget the stomach churning misery of the long journey from Brighton to Northampton, during which she’d discovered that her new mascara, boldly advertised as a hundred per cent waterproof, clearly wasn’t, and that the further you get away from the sea the heavier the air becomes. She remembered in sharp detail the anxiety of finding no one waiting as promised on the platform at Castle Station when the train pulled in. She had waited for what seemed like an age, but was probably no more than five minutes, and was just fumbling in her bag for her phone when a large woman in a pleated skirt and maroon gilet had come panting down the steps from the opposite platform.

  ‘Francesca, dear – oh, let me just catch my breath! Ridiculous man at the barrier said you’d be coming in on platform three. Honestly, these days no one knows how to do their job properly! But all’s well. Now come along, the car’s outside and I don’t have all day.’

  ‘Auntie, are we —?’

  Nerys had stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Oh darling, just call me Nerys! Auntie sounds so pedestrian, don’t you think?’

  ‘OK, I —’

  ‘Tina would be the first to agree with me, but of course your Uncle Thomas – well, you’ll have to sort that out with him. Not that he’s at home right now what with the troubles in Peshawar.’

  At the time, Frankie hadn’t a clue where Peshawar was or the nature of any troubles except her own, so she had merely kept quiet as Nerys led her to the car park and unlocked the door of her Toureg. As she climbed in, a pungent smell of wet dog assailed her nostrils and two Springer Spaniels began barking and hurling themselves against the protective grille dividing the back seat from the boot. It explained to Frankie why her aunt had smelt so strange on the very infrequent visits she had made to Brighton.

  ‘Quiet!’ Nerys shouted and the dogs slumped sulkily down onto the floor as she fired up the engine and rather jerkily reversed out of the parking space.

  ‘Meet Bonnie and Bridie – frightfully well bred but still wet behind the ears. We’ve got dog training class tonight, however, so that should move things on.’

  ‘Is it far?’ Frankie ventured to ask as Nerys swung the car out of the car park, narrowly missing a bollard. She was feeling nauseous and tearful and while her mother had repeatedly told her to ‘make intelligent conversation so they know you’re just as good as their lot’, she was afraid that if she opened her mouth for long she would either throw up or cry.

  ‘Thornton Parslow? Ten miles,’ Nerys said, turning onto the dual carriageway. ‘Just enough time for me to fill you in on the plans. Of course, it’ll all seem very strange to you at first – coming to live with a normal family.’

  Frankie’s sharp intake of breath alerted Nerys to the tactlessness off her last remark and she reached across and patted Frankie’s knee.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, dear, it’s not your fault,’ she said hastily. ‘Your poor mother
was always, shall we say, a little strange, even as a child. Blood will out, you know, and rumour has it that her background . . . Well, enough said about that. And then of course, marrying that no-hoper Sean. Sorry, dear, I know he’s your father but I said at the time it would end in disaster, and I was right.’

  Frankie had been too overwhelmed to comment, not that she would have been able to get a word in edgeways. It didn’t take more than ten minutes for her to realise that Nerys Lane loved the sound of her own voice.

  ‘It was me, you know, who suggested you came to live here. Well, after seeing the state of your mother when I popped down to talk with the doctors after that first nasty little episode . . . It was always me that knew my duty to poor Ruth. None of the others made the effort,’ she continued, speeding up as they left the town behind them and headed into open country. ‘She may have behaved atrociously but as I said to Tina, that’s no reason her children should suffer. Oh for goodness’ sake, move!’

  For a moment, Frankie looked at her in alarm, but realised the last remark was addressed to an elderly man in a rusting Ford Escort who was hogging the outside lane at a sedate thirty miles an hour.

  ‘Honestly, they shouldn’t let geriatrics out on busy roads,’ Nerys sighed. ‘Anyway, where was I? Oh yes – living arrangements. Thomas suggested that you should live with me at Keeper’s Cottage, but of course, that was a non-starter. I’m here and there all the time, never a moment to myself: chair of the WI, church warden at St Peter’s – we’re in an interregnum, you know, and without me the whole place would fall apart – and then there’s all my voluntary work not to mention the dog shows: I judge spaniels, you know, very well respected, and —’

  There was a sudden jolt as she crashed the gears. ‘We turn off here for Thornton Parslow. There are the three Thorntons – Thornton Lacey, Thornton Parva and this one.’

  Frankie craned her neck as the car weaved its way down a narrow, twisting lane, dark and shady from the beech and oak trees that formed a canopy over the road. Nerys grabbed her phone from the glove compartment, and with one hand on the steering wheel, punched a button.