The thought that Brett Cranley might be up to something, and that she didn’t know what it was, accounted for part of her anxiety. The other part was harder to explain. She hated Brett with a passion, felt repulsed by the very thought of him. And yet she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him. In some dark, sinister way, Brett seemed to be all around her, a shadowy ghost hanging over her marriage, her career, her future. Worse, since bumping into him in New York, Tati had started to have dreams about him, some of them embarrassingly sexually explicit. She awoke from these dreams panicked and drenched in sweat, gripped by a sensation that was part arousal, part disgust and part fear. And then Jason would lean across the bed and ask her what was wrong, and a new torrent of emotions – guilt, shame, resentment – would wash over her. She hadn’t even told Jason or Logan that she’d run into their father in New York. Which was ridiculous! Why not tell them? It wasn’t as if she’d done anything wrong. But somehow, every time it might have come up naturally in conversation, Tati couldn’t bring herself to do it.
‘Mrs Cranley?’ The secretary’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker. ‘Janice Watkins is here to see you.’
Tatiana sighed. Running a successful business was good for the ego, but both the self-esteem and the financial rewards came at a cost. Brett Cranley had been paying it his whole life and it showed. Was Tati really becoming just like him, as Jason had said? She hoped not.
‘OK Caroline,’ she said grimly. ‘Show her in.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Beatrice Radley-Cave scowled as her goddaughter walked in.
‘You’re late.’
‘Only five minutes, Bee.’
‘Only? There’s no “only” about it. Late is late, Tatiana. Who in their right mind sits down to tea at five past four?’
Tatiana grinned. She was glad she’d come after all. Her godmother’s flat in Ashley Gardens was as familiar to her as her own body, and one of the few reminders of her childhood that made her wholly happy. She loved everything about it, from the sweet, musty smell that lingered in every room (part Garibaldi biscuit, part Gauloise tobacco smoke, part Chanel Number 5 and, Tati assumed, part mould) to the dust-covered ornaments along the mantelpiece, to the frayed Knole sofa still covered with its original William Morris fabric, now more hole than cloth. She loved Queen Bee’s face, a crumpled mishmash of folded, wrinkled skin, like crepe paper, but brought alive by the two twinkly, bright blue eyes, blazing with intelligence and wit and warmth amid the wreckage. She loved the fact that Bee had known her father, Rory, all of his life, and that she still dropped his name into conversation with Tatiana freely and easily. As if he were still alive. Or as if father and daughter had never grown apart, never hurt and disappointed each other and left it too late to put things right.
Tatiana made the tea, scrubbing out a pair of filthy bone-china teacups in the chipped Belfast sink in Bee’s kitchen, and risking electrocution at the hands of Bee’s ancient kettle. She brought everything through on a tray, complete with teapot and cosy (Bee was a stickler for these things) and a plate of ginger nut biscuits a mere two years past their sell-by date.
‘Now,’ said Bee, cheering up at the plate of ginger nuts, which she proceeded to devour enthusiastically like an arthritic Pac-Man. ‘What’s going on in your life, my dear?’
‘Well, the school’s going well, but things have been completely frantic,’ began Tati. ‘I had to fire two teachers today, which was horrid, and I’m battling with—’
‘Tatiana, my darling girl, you really must listen,’ Bee chided gently. ‘I asked you about your life. Why are you telling me about your job?’
Tati laughed. ‘What would you like to know, darling Bee?’
‘Well. We could start with your unsuitable husband. The Cranley boy. How’s he?’
‘He’s well, I think,’ said Tati. ‘Better than he was, anyway. Less depressed. His name’s Jason, by the way Bee.’
The old woman shuddered. ‘Must you? I’ve been trying so hard to forget.’
‘Don’t be such a snob,’ said Tati, plainly delighted.
‘Why was he depressed?’
It was a good question, and one to which Tati didn’t really have an answer. ‘I’m not sure. It’s complicated. Jason’s quite a sensitive person.’
‘Piffle. He’s fed up because his wife’s always working I ’spect.’
‘Yes, well. One of us has to earn a living,’ said Tatiana, a little piqued by this brisk assessment of her marital issues.
‘Why?’ countered Bee, with her usual directness. ‘From what I read in the Sunday papers, you’ve got pots of money. Far more than Rory would have been able to leave you, even if you hadn’t been so difficult and forced him to cut you out of the will. To want even more money seems a bit vulgar. Can’t you just retire?’
‘I’m thirty-one, Bee. Jason’s only twenty-six.’
‘There you go again. “Only” twenty-six. There’s no “only” about it, child. Roger and I had three children by the time we were twenty-eight. Why haven’t you and … Cranley … had any babies yet?’
Tati rolled her eyes. ‘You sound like my mother-in-law.’
‘That’s not an answer,’ said Bee, helping herself to more Lapsang from the pot.
‘Maybe I don’t want to retire and have babies,’ said Tati. ‘Maybe Hamilton Hall is my baby.’
She was starting to feel quite emotional. It had been a rotten, stressful day. Firing people was the worst part of the job. She simply didn’t have the strength for one of Queen Bee’s grilling straight afterwards.
‘I see.’ Sensing perhaps that she’d upset her goddaughter, the old woman sat back in her chair and paused for a moment. But only for a moment. ‘May I give you some advice, my dear?’
Tati knew Bee well enough to understand that this was a rhetorical question.
‘Don’t take marriage for granted. If you love this husband of yours … I assume you do love him?’
‘Of course,’ Tati said quickly. She could never explain her feelings about Jason to Bee. He was more like a brother, or a son, than a husband. But she did love him.
‘Then don’t ignore him. Especially not for the sake of your career. A career is not a life, Tatiana. It is not a family. You must take an interest in his life, his aspirations, as well as your own.’
Tati thought about Jason’s music, and the set he was playing tonight at Ronnie Scott’s. She hadn’t intended to be there, and she was sure Jase didn’t expect her. But perhaps Bee was right? Perhaps I will show up, and surprise him.
‘And give the man a child,’ the old woman added, draining her teacup.
‘Jason doesn’t want a child, Bee,’ Tati said patiently.
‘Nonsense. All men want children. Some of them just don’t realize it, that’s all.’
Since 1959, Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club, on Soho’s Frith Street, had been the place to watch live jazz in London. An old-school establishment in every sense of the word, with dimly lit red leather booths and tables crammed into tiered circles around a central stage, Scott’s was still unparalleled not just for ambience and clientele, but for performers. The food was average, the drinks warm and the prices high. But the music was sublime, and that alone had kept the club on the top of its game for more than half a century.
Tatiana slipped in late. The doorman and hostess both recognized her. Tati was, once again, the toast of London society these days – not that that mattered much at Ronnie Scott’s, where celebrity patrons were ten a penny. But few looked as beautiful in the flesh as Tatiana Cranley. In a red Victoria Beckham cocktail dress, with a Rick Owens black leather bomber thrown casually on top, she’d abandoned her usual elegant businesswoman image. As a result she looked both sexier and younger, her long hair left loose for once and her flawless face betraying no trace of the day’s stresses or her earlier exhaustion.
‘My husband’s playing tonight—’ she started to explain, but the manager cut her off.
‘Of course, of course. Good to see you, M
rs Cranley. If you’d like to follow me I’ll make some space for you up front.’
‘Oh, no no no, please.’ Tati sounded mortified. ‘Don’t disturb anyone. I’ll slip in at the back.’
The manager tried to protest but Tati insisted. ‘Really. Jason would prefer it that way, anyway. He doesn’t know I’m here. I wouldn’t want to throw him off stride.’
Sliding into a tiny table at the very back of the room, it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. The room was packed, and loud, with people drinking and dining and socializing while the musicians performed. Jason was playing some sort of complicated freestyle number, accompanied by a saxophonist. Secretly Tati loathed this sort of jazz. Atonal, fast-moving and loud, it sounded to her as if a cat were being strangled. But Jason was clearly in his element, eyes closed, head rocking, his entire upper body swaying to the music. Tati watched as he leaned into the keyboard, a look of ecstasy on his face, then swung up and out and away, like a surfer riding some imaginary wave of sound.
The saxophonist, who was black and looked to be in his early seventies, was if anything in an even deeper state of bliss, his elderly body jerking around in paroxysms of musical pleasure. Tatiana could hear her father’s clipped vowels in her head, as if he were sitting next to her. ‘The poor fellow looks like he’s got St Vitus’s dance.’ She smiled to think how vehemently Rory would have disapproved – of the music, of Jason, of everything. And yet had it not been for her father reneging on her inheritance, she would never have met Jason, or any of the Cranleys. How strange life was.
She ordered a double gin and tonic, and was mentally calculating how much longer she was going to have to sit through this cacophony, when something caught her eye. In the very front row, a man, sitting alone, was on his feet, swaying to the beat and applauding wildly as Jason reached the end of a brief piano solo. Tati watched as Jason opened his eyes and beamed back, acknowledging the man’s applause. It was only for a split second, but his face looked utterly transfixed, suffused with happiness in a way that Tati didn’t think she’d ever seen it before. That in turn made Tati happy. But her broad grin was replaced by a lurch of surprise when the man in the front row turned and she saw who it was.
A few moments later, she weaved her way down to join him, slipping into the empty seat at his side.
‘George!’ she said warmly. ‘How sweet of you to come. Do you know, I hardly recognized you in those trousers. How trendy you look!’
For a moment George Wilkes’s face froze in shock. Then he forced a smile. ‘Tatiana. I didn’t expect … I mean … I didn’t know you were coming tonight.’
‘Last-minute decision,’ she shrugged. ‘Where’s Maddie?’
‘Erm, she’s at home. With the children.’
Is he blushing? Tati was confused. It was unlike George to be so awkward. He was normally such a smoothie, with the right line for every occasion. Perhaps he feels embarrassed because of his clothes? Tati knew George Wilkes as a slightly scruffy, corduroys and brogues man, but tonight he was looking unusually dapper in tight drainpipe jeans and Doc Marten boots, paired with a seventies-style floral shirt, open to the top of his chest. He actually looked good, just … different.
‘It’s so sweet of you to come and support Jason,’ she said. She had to lean in very close to make herself her heard. Her lips were almost touching George’s ear.
‘Not at all,’ said George, regaining a little of his usual composure. ‘It’s the least I could do. Besides, I love jazz.’
‘Do you?’ Tatiana raised an eyebrow. ‘I must say, George, you are a dark horse. I always had you down as a classical man.’
Glancing up, Jason saw his friend and his wife together. He briefly registered his surprise at Tati’s presence, then smiled at the two of them. It wasn’t quite the rapturous grin Tati had witnessed a few minutes ago. But it was enough to tell her he was pleased to see her.
She was glad she’d made the effort; glad she’d taken Queen Bee’s advice. Perhaps it was easier to make Jason happy than she’d realized?
In the cab on the way home she took a step further and leaned into her husband, resting her head on his shoulder and her hand on his knee.
‘You were wonderful, darling,’ she enthused. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Good,’ said Jason. ‘Tired. Relieved. Good.’ He smiled shyly. His face was flushed from heat and exertion and his hair was damp and stiff with sweat.
‘Were you surprised I came?’
‘Very,’ said Jason, truthfully.
‘Were you happy?’
‘Of course.’ He stroked her hair, gazing out of the window at the Soho streets, still crammed and buzzing with people at almost two a.m.
‘And what about George Wilkes?’ said Tati. ‘How adorable of him to come and see you. I couldn’t believe it when I spotted him in the front row, jiving away like a teenager.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Jason.
‘He’s terribly kind. He and Madeleine both are.’
‘Hmmm,’ Jason said again.
They rolled on in silence for a while, Tati enjoying the sensation of having Jason’s arm around her, of being the protected for once, rather than the protector. Out of the blue she heard herself saying:
‘Jason? Would you like us to have a baby?’
She could feel his body stiffen, like one of those heat packs where you click a button and the surrounding liquid suddenly transforms into a solid, hot mass. When he spoke, his voice sounded different too. Higher pitched. Strained.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘That would be lovely. One day.’
‘Yes,’ Tatiana agreed happily, lying down across his lap. ‘It would, wouldn’t it? One day.’
She’d been worrying about nothing. She and Jason were on exactly the same page.
Next time she saw her godmother, she must make sure she told her so.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Angela Cranley trod her way gingerly across the Wetherby Garden Centre car park, being careful not to slip on the icy tarmac. Winter had arrived in the Swell Valley in earnest about a week ago, but last night’s ground frost had been the coldest and deepest so far. All the lanes around Fittlescombe were slick with black ice, a biting east wind whistled in across the Downs and heavy snow was confidently forecast for later in the day.
‘Morning, Mrs Cranley. You all ready for Christmas, are you, up at the big house?’
Janice Wetherby, who ran the garden centre with her husband Jim, greeted Angela with the same relentless good cheer she showed to all her customers, especially at this time of year. The Wetherbys loved Christmas, not least because the business tripled its usual takings in the three weeks leading up to the big day. As well as trees and mistletoe, the garden centre stocked every conceivable kind of light, bauble, crib ornament and decoration, from outdoor reindeer sculptures to novelty snow globes at two pounds a pop. The café shifted tons of mince pies and Christmas cake, and this year had introduced homemade Yule log, a roaring success that was selling out daily at almost four pounds a slice! And if that didn’t fill one with Christmas cheer, then the glorious sounds of carols from King’s College wafting over the loudspeakers was surely enough to melt even the hardest and most cynical of winter hearts.
‘Sadly not, Mrs Wetherby,’ said Angela. ‘My daughter came home for the holidays last night from London with her new boyfriend, Tom. They’ve already complained that Furlings isn’t looking Christmassy enough. I’m here in search of supplies, the gaudier the better, apparently.’
‘Well you’re in the right place, Mrs Cranley, you’re in the right place!’ Janice Wetherby looked fit to burst with excitement and happiness from beneath her cheap fur-trimmed Santa hat. A house the size of Furlings would take a lot of decorating. Janice could already hear the festive sound of ringing tills.
‘Can I offer you a free mince pie?’
‘Thank you,’ said Angela, suddenly remembering that she’d had no breakfast as Logan and Tom had polished off the last of the milk, cereal and bread.<
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The mince pie was delicious, warm and sweet and satisfying. But pushing her trolley through row after row of tinsel and garlands and tasteful felt robins, Angela couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness. She’d been reading a book about separation and divorce in middle age – Michaela’s Journey it was called, written by an irritatingly earnest New Zealander. According to Michaela it was important to ‘walk through’ one’s feelings of sadness and loss, and not to try to ignore them. Angela Cranley disagreed. Thinking about Brett didn’t help. Nor did crying. It wasn’t cathartic, it was miserable. Angela was determined not to be miserable, whatever the future might hold. Especially not at Christmas.
She still found it hard to come to terms with the fact that Brett would not be home for Christmas this year. Part of the problem was that the decision had been taken almost accidentally. A conversation about nothing much – travel arrangements and some debate over Logan’s A-level choices – had ended with Angela agreeing that it ‘made sense’ for Brett to accept an invitation to Mustique with some old friends of theirs from Australia, rather than come home to Furlings.
‘You’ll be more relaxed without me,’ Brett said breezily. ‘It’s the first time Logan’s been home in months, and she’s bound to make a fuss if you and I sleep in separate bedrooms.’
‘I suppose so,’ Angela agreed vaguely, forgetting that Logan would make at least as much fuss about Brett not showing up at all.
‘I’m assuming you’re not ready for us to share the same bed again?’ said Brett.
‘Well … not yet.’ The truth was they hadn’t talked about it. Angela wasn’t sure how she felt. But Brett seemed to have all the answers.
‘If I go to the Listers’, we can say it’s work-related. She’ll accept that. Then you and Logie can have some mother-daughter time together. You and I can both have a relaxed Christmas, and then we can regroup and talk about things in the New Year. Sound good?’
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