‘It just feels right,’ Evie says, reassured by his reply. ‘Christmas will be a good trial run.’
‘So when do you plan to move over?’
Evie thinks about it. Now that Claude is with her she is in no particular hurry.
‘Let’s play it by ear,’ she says at last. ‘We’ll give Ben a week or two to get over Charlie and Ange.’
‘And you’re not going to tell Charlie about this new plan about leaving the house in trust to Ben?’
‘Not yet, though actually I think he’d welcome it. He’d know that the house was coming back to him at some point and I think he’s fond enough of Ben to be pleased for him. I can’t decide whether Ange will be content with knowing that her children will inherit it or would just make all our lives a misery. What do you think?’
He leans back in the corner of the sofa and gazes out at the reflections that jitter and tremble on the inky water.
‘It would get it out into the open,’ he says at last. ‘It’ll be tough for Ben living with her constant warfare and unable to speak out. After all, why not? It’s your house. You know the truth about the inheritance so you aren’t doing anything unfair. In fact, Charlie and Ange are lucky to be getting it at all. I agree it’s a good way to deal with a very unsatisfactory situation but it might be sensible to be upfront about your will for Ben’s sake.’
Evie takes a deep breath; in her heart she knows that Claude is right. Ben should be able to live in the house without the pressures that Ange will bring to bear on him. Evie can remember only too well, from her own experience of living in the Merchant’s House with TDF, Ange’s relentless campaign to make her feel like an outsider.
Now, thanks to TDF, she no longer feels like an outsider; legally the house is hers and she can go part-way in making the restitution TDF wanted without causing a family rift. Yet why should Ben have to put up with this ongoing campaign of Ange’s if it isn’t necessary?
‘I’ll think about it,’ she promises. ‘I think you’re right and it would be better to have it out in the open. I just need the right moment to tell them.’
‘Good,’ Claude says. ‘I’ll drink to that and to Christmas in the Merchant’s House,’ and he raises his glass to her.
Mikey watches his father across the supper table. It’s fish and chips again.
‘Are you OK, Dad?’ he asks.
Ever since Mikey saw him with Evie, Dad’s been behaving very strangely. He refused to let Mikey go to say hello to Evie, dragged him into a little café for something to eat, and then they went back to the flat where Dad flung himself down on the sofa and dropped into a heavy sleep as suddenly as if he were falling off a cliff.
Mikey sat and watched him, feeling miserable and frightened. He missed his mum and wished he had someone to talk to; to share the responsibility of his father. He thought about Aunt Liz. Mum was her sister so she’s gutted, too, and it seems unfair to worry her about Dad so Mikey always pretends that things are fine when he’s with Aunt Liz, and somehow Dad’s always on his best behaviour when she’s around. Even so, he thought he might say something; tell her about these very odd moods. After all, Mum must have told her a bit about Dad’s depression and the tablets he has to take. It’s not a secret.
Mikey slipped out into the kitchen, keeping one eye on his father, and dug his mobile phone out of his pocket. Still watching, he sent a text to Aunt Liz.
Worried about Dad. Think he’s ill.
He’s still waiting for a reply though he’s switched his mobile to silent in case Dad asks who the message is from or asks to see it. Ever since he came back from getting the fish and chips he’s been a bit hyper and his breath smells of something strong. Mikey wonders if he’s been into the pub for a drink.
‘I’m fine,’ he says now, staring at Mikey with oddly bright eyes, as if he’s challenging him; daring him to question the fact. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
Mikey suddenly feels a little shot of anger thrill through him: it’s not fair that he has to be so careful all the time in case Dad is upset. Why should he be the one always hiding his own sadness and pain?
‘It’s just you looked a bit odd on the Boat Float with Evie and that man,’ he says. ‘Right at the end I thought you were going to hit her.’
The oddest expression creeps over his father’s face: a look compounded of amusement, complacency and hatred.
‘So what?’ he asks. ‘She deserves it. Evelyn Drake ruined my mother’s life and mine. Time she paid for it.’
Mikey’s stomach curdles with fear; the fish and chips sit like a stone in his gut. Even so, he won’t back down or try to soothe his father into a calmer state of mind. He’s tired of doing that; he’s had enough.
‘I like her,’ he says.
His father sneers at him. ‘So did your grandfather. That was the trouble. Your grandfather liked her way too much. And she liked him.’
Mikey puts down his knife and fork and folds his hands tightly together under the table as if he is giving himself courage: bracing himself. He understands what Dad is saying – he’s not a child, not a little boy – but even so, the words are a shock. It’s as if Dad isn’t really seeing him any more as Mikey but as another adult and he needs to prepare himself for what else he might tell him.
‘It broke my mother’s heart,’ Dad is saying, ‘but he didn’t care and neither did she. He helped her with her research, she took everything he had to give and then she walked away.’
He begins to chuckle – a horrid sound that grates along Mikey’s nerves – and his eyes look elsewhere as if he is seeing visions unknown to Mikey.
‘This afternoon I would have liked to break her neck and chuck her in the water,’ he says almost conversationally, ‘but I’m going to give her the chance to make up for it.’
‘How do you mean?’ Mikey manages to keep his voice quiet and calm, even interested.
Dad glances at him as if he’s surprised he needs to ask.
‘Money, of course. She owes me. She broke my mother’s heart, fleeced my father and cheated me out of a first-class education. Well, it’s my turn now.’
His face changes again; he looks surly and tired and bleak. Mikey recognizes the look.
He draws a deep breath so that his voice will be steady and as he does so he feels his mobile vibrate in his pocket. He shoves his hand in quickly as if to muzzle it.
‘Have you taken your tablets, Dad?’ he asks gently but cheerfully, too, just like there’s nothing wrong. ‘How about some coffee?’
His father nods. He frowns as if he’s puzzled, as if something is slipping away from him and he’s trying to remember what it is. Mikey gets up, one hand still in his pocket, to find the happy pills. In the kitchen he quickly checks the little screen: a text from Aunt Liz. He pours a glass of water and carries it and the tablets in to his father, who swallows them back.
‘Go and relax,’ Mikey suggests. ‘I’ll clear up and make some coffee. There might be something on the telly.’
Still frowning, his father heaves himself off the chair, staggers to the sofa and slumps down. He looks exhausted. Mikey watches him for a moment and then goes back into the kitchen, fills the kettle and switches it on. Out of sight he scrolls down and finds the message.
Can you phone me?
Mikey glances through the half-open door. Dad is already falling asleep. He decides to take a chance and he sends back a text.
Give me 10 minutes.
He clears the table, piles the plates into the dishwasher, makes the coffee. By the time he puts the mug on the little table beside the sofa his father is deeply asleep. Mikey stands looking down at him, his hand still holding his mobile, then he slips out and runs down the stairs.
Jason opens his eyes slowly. A strange spoked creature is crawling down the wall towards him and he stifles a scream of terror. Another glance shows him that this is simply a spider, its shadow magnified by the angle of the light on the table beside him, and he leans back, gasping with relief and feeling ashamed. It’s
that shot of Glenfiddich that’s the cause of it. Perhaps it was two shots, but oh, the smooth, cool joy of the way it slid down his throat. He’d needed it after that scene with bloody Evelyn Drake, standing there mocking him, still making a fool out of him. He deserved a little treat and he simply wasn’t able to resist as he stood there at the bar. Just the one wouldn’t hurt while he was waiting for the fish and chips.
‘No drink, Jay-bird,’ Helena would say. ‘Can’t you see it’s like poison to you? You don’t need it.’
He leans forward, resting his aching head on his clammy hands and groans with the pain of his despair and longing for her. His troubles stand piled like an impenetrable brick wall, waiting to be confronted, but he can’t face them. Jason looks at his watch: nearly midnight. Mikey must be in bed. He frowns, thinking about Mikey, trying to remember the conversation he had with him about Evelyn Drake but he can’t recall it now. He’s too tired and it’s too late. Tomorrow will do: tomorrow he will deal with it all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHARLIE DOESN’T PARTICULARLY want to be in Alf’s this morning with Ange. He’s not sure that Alf’s is really Ange’s kind of place but she’s suggested that they go for a coffee and now here they are, sitting under the awning, and every minute he’s wondering whether Jemima will come strolling in with Otto.
He can’t really concentrate on what Ange is saying and he’s drinking his coffee quite quickly so that they can move on. Meanwhile he’s trying to decide what would be the best modus operandi if Jemima were to arrive: to casually introduce her as a friend – or as Ben’s friend? And how would Jemima react to a direct confrontation? He longs to see her – but not publicly like this with Ange beside him.
Even as he thinks about their first meeting, that expression on her face as she walked towards him through the regatta crowds, the impossible happens. Holding a woman’s hand Maisie appears, coming in from the street eagerly as if she is looking for someone, and when she sees him her face lights up with pleasure and surprise.
‘Hello!’ she cries, and as she comes closer to him she beams at him. ‘Charlie,’ she says with enormous satisfaction. ‘It’s Charlie, Mummy.’
The woman is staring at him, frowning in confusion, and he can feel Ange beside him, stiff with suspicion. He begins to get to his feet, wondering what the hell he should do, when Maisie speaks again.
‘You bought me an ice cream and we went to the dog show,’ she reminds him. ‘It wasn’t Ben, it was you. You and Jemima had coffee and then we went to the dog show. I told you that it wasn’t Ben, Mummy.’
The woman is looking at him with a mixture of apology and amazement.
‘I really thought you were Ben,’ she says. ‘It’s extraordinary.’
‘Yes,’ he says, trying to gloss over it, aware of Ange’s growing annoyance. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘We liked the little fluffy ones, didn’t we?’ Maisie is saying. ‘And Jemima liked the dog like Otto best.’
He stares down into the glowing little face. He could deny it – clearly Maisie’s mother doesn’t know whether it was he or Benj – but somehow he cannot lie to this child who looks so pleased to see him; who, somehow, has remembered him. It would be the denial of everything that happened to him during that regatta week.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, that’s right.’ He smiles at the woman. ‘I’m Charlie Fortescue, Ben’s cousin, and this is my wife, Ange.’
‘Hello,’ she says. She smiles at Ange, who barely acknowledges her. ‘I’m Miranda Weston and this is Maisie. She had such a lovely time with you and Jemima that morning.’
Even as she speaks he sees in her eyes a tiny flash of realization at what she’s said and she glances quickly at Ange with a half-apologetic, half-curious smile. He knows she’s wondering why Ange is so unresponsive and he stands awkwardly, undecided as to whether he should suggest that she and Maisie should join them.
The decision is made by Maisie who scrambles into the chair opposite so that Miranda hesitates, shrugs, and goes off to order drinks.
Charlie sits down; his legs feel shaky and he simply doesn’t know what to do next.
Ange’s voice is low, cool, and brittle as glass: ‘Who is Jemima?’
Charlie tries to frame words that will not belittle Jemima whilst satisfying Ange. He feels miserable, uncomfortable and very nervous. Maisie smiles at him confidently, as if he is an old friend, and suddenly he decides to tell the truth, though maybe not all of it.
‘I met Maisie and Jemima on the Embankment when we were down for regatta,’ he says. ‘Jemima thought I was Benj so we started on quite the wrong foot. It was funny, really, but she was so embarrassed that we bought Maisie an ice cream and watched the dog show.’
Ange is watching him with a kind of disbelieving contempt. When he’s finished she simply repeats her question. ‘Who is Jemima?’ It’s clear that all her instincts are working double time and Charlie begins to feel desperate.
‘She’s one of Benj’s friends,’ he says, almost irritably, as if he’s assumed she knows that. ‘It was Jemima who got him work with her holiday letting company. I told you, didn’t I?’
He still feels as if he is denying Jemima, betraying her, and he cannot quite look Ange in the eye. Before he can think of anything else to reassure her, Maisie’s voice chimes between them.
‘Here she is. Here’s Jemima,’ and he swivels round in his chair to see Jemima strolling in from the pavement with Otto on his lead, and just behind them is Ben. Charlie wants to shout, to warn them, but all he can see is Jemima, who comes confidently in, smiling at him, at Maisie.
‘Hi, Maisie,’ she says. ‘Well, this is fun. Hello, Charlie. And you must be Ange. Benj has told me so much about you,’ and she stretches a hand across the table so that Ange can do nothing but take it.
Behind her Benj gives him a swift wink, slips his arm around Jemima’s shoulders.
‘Latte, Mimes?’ he asks. ‘Cappuccino?’
She smiles up at him. ‘Cappuccino. Lots of chocolate on the top.’
He laughs. ‘Would I forget the chocolate?’
For a brief moment, Charlie is taken in; they look so easy together. Then Miranda returns and there is a fuss about getting two more chairs and very slowly he relaxes just a little, his heartbeat slows, and he gives himself up to the pleasure of being with Jemima again, to watch the way she smiles and glows as she talks. He can tell that she’s enjoying the situation, very slightly playing up to Benj, including Ange in the conversation as if she’s delighted to meet her. Part of him wants to roar with laughter, part of him aches with the pain of it. When Miranda asks Ange a question, and she turns slightly to answer her, Jemima gives him one quick glance full of love, amusement, and that familiar deep-down knowing so that he is flooded with relief, with joy, and gratitude.
Ben watches the scene with a mix of horror and amusement. Jemima’s text, that she planned to meet Miranda and Maisie in Alf’s and did he want to join them, arrived moments after Charlie and Ange had left to go to Alf’s for coffee.
He texted back and she came hurrying round from the office.
‘Text her and change the plan,’ he said anxiously. ‘Oh my God, this is what I’ve been dreading,’ but Jemima shook her head.
‘Perhaps this is right,’ she said quite calmly. ‘It’s going to happen sometime, Benj, isn’t it? I’m not going into hiding each time Ange turns up. Why should I? Look, I don’t intend to break up Charlie’s marriage – I’ve made that decision – but I want to try to keep us all together. It might be too much to ask but I want to try. Of course, Miranda asked me to ask you along because she fancies you. She insisted on Alf’s because she thought there was a chance she’d see you if I refused. Well, OK. Let’s all go. Meet up in a big old muddly way. And, just for the purposes of verisimilitude, you and I can pretend that we’re … well …’
She had the grace to look a little embarrassed and he helped her out.
‘Slightly more than just good friends?’
‘Something like that. It’ll let Charlie off the hook if things are going wrong and it’ll get Miranda off your back.’
He laughed at her. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’
‘I want to see him, Benj. I just want to be with him for a few minutes and I know that I can do it if you’ll go along with it. After all, Charlie won’t be deceived and it will mean that Ange will just see me as a family friend. We can’t afford for her to become suspicious.’
‘OK,’ he said, but he sent one more text as they set out together.
And now here he is, sitting beside Jemima, behaving in a very slightly lover-like way, which is clearly confusing Ange and irritating Miranda. Maisie is playing up to the crowd.
‘I told you it wasn’t Ben, Mummy,’ she says to Miranda. ‘I told you but you wouldn’t believe me.’
And Jemima laughs, leaning a little into Ben, who has his arm along the back of her chair, and says: ‘Poor Charlie. We absolutely fell on him, demanding coffee and ice cream and dragging him to the dog show, and he was much too polite to protest.’
Ange’s words drip like tiny splinters of ice on to Jemima’s warmth. ‘I wouldn’t say they’re that much alike. It seems quite odd to me. Why didn’t you tell them, darling?’ she adds, looking at Charlie, frowning at the foolishness of the story.
‘Oh, I nearly did the same just now,’ says Miranda, trying to draw the attention back to her, smiling at Ben. ‘I thought he was Ben, too. You’ll have to watch it, you know.’
She’s trying to create a little something between them and he smiles at her simply out of gratitude that she’s helping to allow this very sticky moment to pass as smoothly as possible. Then Charlie’s eyes widen with surprise and Ben turns to see Claude and Evie standing behind them.
Summer on the River Page 23