by Rosie Ruston
‘Got to go, Poppy,’ Frankie said, not without some relief. ‘See you later!’
She ended the call, opened her bedroom door and ran down the stairs. As she reached the hallway she saw to her astonishment that it was her uncle who was bashing the gong, his face even more florid than usual, his foot tapping in impatience.
‘Uncle!’ (Thomas was the one member of the family who refused to be known by his Christian name to anyone under the age of about thirty.) ‘I thought you were going to be in London all week.’
Thomas glanced up and beamed at her. This was another surprise: her uncle, while able to smile readily enough when caught on camera watching one of his new lines being paraded at London Fashion Week, was not given to jollity at home. He was a workaholic who, while exceedingly generous to his family and perfectly content for them to do whatever made them happy as long as it didn’t involve him, did not view relaxation or leisure time as something that applied to him. To see him not only at home during the week but looking positively cheerful was very odd.
‘Francesca!’ he cried. ‘There you are! Glad you’re here – I’ve something to announce.’ He bashed the gong once more. ‘Heaven knows where Tina’s . . . Ah! Here she comes – oh, and Nerys.’
For a moment his face clouded as Frankie’s two aunts (who weren’t her aunts) emerged from the kitchen – Tina teetering on four-inch heels and wearing a mini-dress that might have looked vaguely acceptable on someone half her age and Nerys, her trousers covered in dog hairs, striding across the hall and embracing Thomas.
‘Thomas, you’re home! This is such perfect timing! I’ve just come up to seek help – I’m having the most awful trouble with my boiler. And the pipes keep making the strangest sound. Of course, I rang the gas people but they’re frightfully expensive and I was hoping —’
‘Later, Nerys, we’ll discuss it later,’ Thomas interrupted. ‘I have something far more important to tell you all right now.’
Nerys frowned, as if struggling to imagine any issue of more concern to the world at large than the shortage of hot water at Keeper’s Cottage.
‘You’re ill, aren’t you?’ Tina gasped, snatching her husband’s hand. ‘You’ve got something dreadful – I knew it. I told you to go to the doctor when you had that headache last week, and you wouldn’t and now you’ve got us all together to tell us.’
‘Tina, I am absolutely fine!’ Thomas assured her. ‘There is nothing wrong with me – in fact, I’ve never felt better!’
He flung open the door to the sitting room, where Jemma and Mia were perched on the arms of the sofa, bored expressions on their faces.
‘Dad, is this going to take long?’ Mia burst out. ‘Only Nick’s picking me up in fifteen minutes.’
‘Where’s James?’ her father said, glancing round the room. ‘I thought he was due back yesterday.’
‘He’s at Charlie’s,’ Mia replied. ‘They went out with Nick and everyone last night and got totally hammered and —’
‘Mia, you know I detest that sort of language!’ her father snapped. ‘I sent him a text asking him to be here, saying it was a really big day for me. But I suppose hoping that my eldest child would care is too much to ask.’
For a moment he looked downcast, rather like a small boy who has discovered that Santa Claus is a myth. James was unlike the rest of his family in every way: his brooding, almost Gallic features contrasted with the fair hair and smoky grey eyes of his siblings and his thirst for excitement meant that he spent more time applying himself to any activity that gave him an immediate adrenaline rush than sticking to rules or bothering with passing exams. He was a passionate sailor, a reckless skier and above all, a brilliant musician who played drums for a band that, to quote their own website, ‘was going places and fast’. He’d had not one but two gap years before going to uni during which he had kayaked in Africa, sailed round Britain and skied the Lauberhorn twice. He was, in short, the kind of guy that girls adored and adults despaired of – largely because they secretly wished they could have had as misspent a youth themselves.
‘That’ll be him now,’ Frankie said as the heavy oak front door slammed shut. She ran across the room and opened the door, intent on giving James a warning about his father’s mood.
‘Oh!’
It wasn’t James standing in the hall, windswept and suntanned. It was Ned.
‘Frankie!’
As he stepped towards her, she caught sight of her reflection in the hall mirror. Scruffy shorts, hair in a mess and a coffee stain on her vest top.
‘You weren’t meant to be home till tomorrow,’ she gasped. By which time I would have washed my hair, done my face and worn something that made me look marginally older than thirteen, she added silently.
‘I had to get back,’ he explained. ‘There was no way I could stay once I realised . . . Oh, Frankie, if you knew . . .’ He stepped closer and took her hand.
‘James? Is that you?’ Thomas’s voice boomed out from behind the closed sitting-room door.
‘No, Dad, it’s me, Ned.’ The moment was broken as Ned took a deep breath, dropped her hand and walked into the room. Frankie stood stock still, savouring the moment. He was back. And what’s more, she was pretty certain what he had been about to say.
‘There was no way I could stay once I realised how much I missed you.’ Or could it even have been, ‘If only you knew how much I love you’? Either way, even winning the writing competition paled into insignificance as she followed him into the room.
‘Ned! You’re back! This is a bonus!’ Thomas cried. ‘I wanted you to be here but I didn’t think I could drag you away from the adventure camp.’
‘Dad, there’s something I need to tell you.’
‘Later, later,’ his father replied. ‘No sign of your brother, I suppose.’
‘No. Dad, that’s what —’
‘Oh well, never mind,’ his father cried, pulling a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and waving it in the air. ‘What do you think this is, everyone?’
‘A piece of paper,’ sighed Mia, raising her eyes to the ceiling.
‘Dad, seriously I need —’ Ned ventured.
‘This,’ his father declared, ignoring him, ‘is an invitation to Claridges for the Fashion Awards ceremony.’
‘Oh, big deal,’ Jemma burst out. ‘You go every year.’
‘Yes, but this time . . .’ He paused, beaming at them all. ‘I have won the top accolade – Outstanding Achievement in Fashion! What do you think of that?’
‘Darling, that’s wonderful!’ Tina burst out. ‘Lovely!’
‘Uncle, that’s fantastic!’ Frankie cried.
‘Cool,’ Mia murmured.
‘Well done, Dad.’ Ned’s words lacked expression and Frankie noticed that he kept tugging at the collar of his polo shirt, something he always did when he was anxious or distracted.
‘And of course,’ Thomas went on, ‘the timing just couldn’t be better with my Cheeky Cheetah adverts hitting TV screens next week.’
‘Your new label, of course!’ said Nerys. ‘I was reading about it in my Sunday paper – such a coup! “Flair and finesse for the front runners of fashion” – that’s what Hilary Alexander said.’
‘Won’t suit you then,’ Jemma murmured, winking at Frankie who, drunk on the joys of winning a prize and knowing she was loved by Ned, struggled to suppress her laughter. While Tina made looking glamorous second only to spending hours on her laptop analysing her symptoms and reading up on every new alternative therapy, Nerys had a penchant for corduroy skirts and cable knit sweaters and judged clothing solely as something to keep one warm while walking the dogs or bossing the members of the WI.
‘It’s going to be a hectic week. The One Show have already been onto me, and I’m sure there will be lots of interviews with fashion editors. Suzy Menkes adores my work.’
‘So, Dad, well done and all that,’ Mia said, jumping to her feet at the sound of a car crunching to a halt on the gravel outside. ‘But th
at’ll be Nick, and I have to go, OK?’
She ran to the window and peered out.
‘Yeah, it’s him – and James is with him. He looks a right mess. Must have been some night he had. Anyway, I’m out of here.’ And before anyone could stop her, Mia was out of the door and onto the drive outside.
Ned turned to Frankie and gripped her arm. ‘Get to James and stop him making an appearance till I’ve spoken to Dad,’ he hissed in her ear.
‘Why? What —?’
‘Frankie, just do it, OK? Please.’
The urgency in his voice, and the way he practically shoved her towards the door convinced her that whatever was going on, it was serious.
‘Dad, can you come into the conservatory for a moment? There’s something you need to —’ Ned began as the front door slammed and footsteps thudded across the hall. ‘Now, Dad, please!’
The door to the sitting room flew open, almost knocking Frankie off her feet and James, unshaven and with bloodshot eyes, stumbled into the room.
‘James, wait! I haven’t —’ Ned began, but his father pushed him to one side and strode across the room and gripped his elder son by the shoulders.
‘OK, I should be angry with you. In fact, I should be incandescent.’
‘But you’re not?’ James asked.
‘Well, at least you’re here now,’ he said, slapping him on the back. ‘I was about to suggest we opened a bottle of bubbly.’
‘Champagne?’ James seemed dumbfounded.
‘Oh, of course, you don’t know. We’ve a lot to celebrate.’
‘Celebrate?’ James glanced at Ned, bewilderment written all over his face.
‘Dad’s won an award for outstanding achievement in fashion,’ Ned said hastily. ‘That’s what we’re all here for.’
‘And he doesn’t know about . . .?’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘Well thanks for nothing, Ned!’
James slumped down into the nearest armchair and buried his head in his hands.
‘James, what is it? What’s happened? Are you ill? Thomas, he’s ill!’ Tina wailed.
Ned took a deep breath. ‘He’s not ill,’ he said. ‘He’s in trouble. Real trouble.’
CHAPTER 3
‘Thomas though a truly anxious father,
was not outwardly affectionate.’
(Jane Austen, Mansfield Park)
‘I’VE GOT INTO A BIT OF A MESS.’
Frankie’s fingers darted over the keyboard. For as long as she kept typing, creating a new story and a wayward hero by the name of Jasper, she could detach herself from the enormity of James’s latest escapade. For a character in a story to behave like a complete jerk was one thing; she could manoeuvre the outcome into whatever ending she wanted. Creating a happy-ever-after scenario for James Bertram was going to be a whole lot harder.
‘It wasn’t exactly my fault.’
She highlighted the last sentence and hit delete. No way was she going to insult even a fictitious guy by forcing him to spout the garbage with which James had tried – unsuccessfully – to mollify his father. This was one occasion when writing wasn’t going to make things any easier to understand.
Who was she kidding? It wasn’t what James had done that she was trying to blot out, it was the disappointment of knowing that Ned hadn’t come home early to be with her. He’d come because his brother had asked him to.
She pushed back her chair and walked to the window, staring out at the garden. When her uncle had frogmarched James into his study, slamming the sitting-room door behind him with such force that a crack appeared above the lintel, no one had moved, and no one had spoken for a full half-minute. Even Nerys, not known for pregnant pauses, had sat, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, staring into space.
And then from behind the study door the shouting had begun, and as Thomas laid into his son, and James countered each verbal onslaught with more expletives than was probably wise under the circumstances, the rest of the family had started talking, babbling over one another as if trying to blot out the sounds with their own voices.
‘I just don’t get it. So, like, James stole money?’ Jemma had blurted out. (There were a lot of things in life that Jemma didn’t get, but on this occasion, Frankie had to admit that she too was at loss to grasp the full horror of it.)
‘Surely he didn’t actually steal it,’ Tina had said, her bottom lip trembling as it always did when she hoped to divert attention to her own suffering. ‘Maybe he was just stressed and got forgetful?’
She had looked close to tears.
‘Tina, don’t get upset,’ Nerys had said. ‘It was probably just a little misunderstanding.’
‘A MISUNDERSTANDING?’ Ned had exploded. ‘James sets up a syndicate with his mates – mates, remember? – to buy lottery tickets and then conveniently forgets to buy the tickets and creams off the money for himself.’
‘Yes, but —’
‘What’s more,’ Ned had ranted on, ‘the odd time their numbers came up, and they thought they’d won ten pounds or even fifty pounds, he persuaded them it was too small an amount to split between thirty of them, so they agreed to plough it back in. And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he used their money to buy himself essays because he can’t be arsed, sorry, bothered to do any work. You know he’s already had two warnings for plagiarism – well, he’s really blown it this time.’
Ned had shaken his head. ‘No wonder he’s been scared of admitting to anyone that he’s been asked to leave uni.’ He had sighed. ‘It’ll break Dad’s heart.’
‘YOU OWE THEM WHAT?’ There was no mistaking the disbelief and fury in Thomas’s bellowed demand from across the hallway.
‘I guess James has finished the story,’ Ned had murmured. ‘The bit he avoided mentioning when we were all together.’
All eyes were on Ned.
‘There’s more?’ Frankie had whispered.
‘Just this last week, their numbers came up. Between them they had won ninety thousand pounds.’
‘So all’s well that ends well,’ Tina had said, brightening visibly. ‘Lots of money and everyone’s happy.’
‘No, Mum,’ Ned had said, biting his lip. ‘James never bought the tickets. So when they all wanted their prize money, he had to admit there wasn’t any – and when they asked for their stake money back, he had to confess he’d spent it. What’s more, he has debts like you wouldn’t believe.’
For a moment no one spoke.
‘And now his mates – well, ex-mates by now, I guess – have reported him to the University Dean,’ Ned continued. ‘He’s been sent down, not just for paying other people to write his essays, but for fraud. What worries me is that unless he repays the money in full, I reckon they will hand the whole matter over to the police.’
‘Oh no! Rest assured, the police won’t be coming near this place.’ Thomas, breathing heavily, his forehead beaded with perspiration, had stood in the doorway with James, white as a sheet, behind him.
‘Let me make a few things perfectly clear. One, I am going to pay these poor deluded friends of James the money he owes them.’
‘Dad! Thank you,’ James had said.
‘Oh, I’m not doing it for you – I’m doing it because right now the last thing this family needs is a scandal. The more I can do to keep a lid on this the better.’
He gripped the back of one of the sofas for support. ‘And of course, I’m thinking of those naive guys you cheated,’ he added hastily. ‘Rest assured, every penny of that – and the fifteen grand to clear your other debts – will be deducted from your future inheritance.’
‘But, Thomas, that’s an awful lot of money . . .’ Tina began.
‘There’s no other way,’ her husband insisted. ‘Damage limitation. Not only am I going to be in the public eye more than ever before, what with the award and the launch of Cheeky Cheetah, but I have a few deals in my sights that could be dead in the water if the family name is tarnished.’
‘I might have guessed it would be all abou
t you,’ James muttered under his breath. Sadly his father’s hearing was more acute than he had bargained for.
‘How DARE you!’ he exploded. ‘It’s only through my hard work that the money is available to bail you out in the first place! I started out —’
‘With a market stall and thirty pounds in the bank, we know,’ James muttered.
Thomas closed his eyes briefly and rubbed his temples. ‘And another thing – I’m going on a three-week visit to some of the factories in Mexico on Tuesday, and you’re coming with me. You’ve spent enough time wasting the money I earn – now you can see just what goes in to making it!’
‘Dad – no way, I can’t,’ James spluttered. ‘It would mean missing the festival and the band – well, we’ve got plans.’
‘Change them,’ his father snapped.
‘Dad, I can’t!’ James protested. ‘This festival is our biggest chance so far to make a real name for the band. The organisers said our demo tape was ground breaking and they’ve given us a slot for the ENT evening!’
‘Ear, nose and throat?’ Tina frowned.
‘Emerging new talent,’ James snapped.
‘If you had been less obsessed with bands and a playboy lifestyle, you wouldn’t be in this mess!’ Thomas shouted. ‘Maybe knuckling down to work with me will make you see sense.’
James bit down hard on his lip and turned away. Frankie could see that he was actually fighting back tears and for a moment, despite his stupidity, she felt sorry for him. Music was his life; Frankie was well aware that despite Thomas’s hopes and dreams of his son following him into the business, all James wanted was to be a professional musician.
Thomas turned to the rest of the family. ‘And none of you will breathe a word of this to anyone outside this room,’ he went on. ‘On Saturday we will all be at the Rushworths’ for Nick’s party – the Grants will be there, the Peabodys . . . people whose respect I cannot afford to lose and —’ He stopped short. ‘Mia! She doesn’t know about this. Right! We’ll keep it that way. Get the party done with and tell her then; I don’t want her blabbing to Nick’s parents – not yet. They’re planning to invest some more cash in an idea of mine and, well, let’s just say the timing of all this couldn’t be worse.’