by Sharon Booth
"He's never shagged another woman before, either," she pointed out.
I could hardly argue with that, and I felt a growing rage towards my brother-in-law. Men really were shits, when it came down to it. "Will you be okay?" A stupid question, because how could things ever be okay again?
"I will be," she said, sounding suddenly determined. "He's not going to ruin my life. If you can start over again, I'm damn sure I can."
I had to admire her. She was a lot braver than I'd have been in her situation. "If you need anything, any time, just call me, okay?" I knew, deep down, there was nothing I had that she could possibly want, and nothing much I could do to make things easier for her, but if there had been, if there was anything at all, I'd have done it.
I thought of Alice and Robyn with their whirlwind social lives and their posh private school. Surely, Brad wouldn't let them down over that, would he? He was a decent man, deep down. But then, I'd never have believed he'd have walked out on his family like that. It just showed, you couldn't trust anyone. Not really.
Mrs Fairweather gave me a very strange look, when I re-entered the kitchen, an hour or so later. She plonked a plate of sandwiches on the table and folded her arms. "Lunch. Eat."
I really wasn't hungry. In fact, I didn't feel I could face so much as a biscuit, not after hearing Tamsin's awful news. I felt quite miserable, and there was a part of me that also felt guilty, because my life was going so well, and her world, and the girls' world, had just come crashing down around their ears.
She didn’t seem interested in my protests, however. "You've had no breakfast and no lunch. Get them eaten." She pushed me onto the chair and sat beside me. Her eyes looked suspiciously bright, and she patted my hand. "You know, if you've got anything worrying you, you can always tell me, don't you?"
It was really kind of her, but I didn't think Tamsin would appreciate me blabbing about her marital problems to someone she hadn't even met. "Thanks, Mrs Fairweather. I'm fine, honestly."
"Are you sure, Cara? Because I won't judge, you know, and they do say a problem shared is a problem halved."
Was I that transparent? Obviously, my worries were written all over my face. I gave her a half-hearted smile and picked up my sandwich. "Thank you. But I'll be okay."
She nodded, but watched me intently as I bit into my sandwich. I managed half and then admitted defeat. "Sorry. I'm just not hungry today."
She gave me an encouraging smile, but as I stood to leave, she said hastily, "Don't go just yet. I was wondering if you'd help me come up with a menu for the party."
"Me?" I blinked, as she rushed over to the kitchen drawer and took out a notebook and pen. "What do I know about organising a party? Especially one as posh as this one is sure to be."
She pushed the paper towards me. "Two heads are better than one," she told me. "And I really would value your input."
It seemed a very odd thing to say, but then, she seemed to be in a very odd mood. Sighing, I picked up the pen and poised it over the notepad. "Okay, Mrs F. Where do we start?"
Chapter Eleven
Mrs Fairweather was determined to give Mr Rochester a party to remember, and she'd drafted in Mrs Turner and Mrs Jones for extra duties of cleaning and airing the guest bedrooms, and giving the downstairs rooms an extra thorough scrubbing. She'd also hired waiting and bar staff, and was, despite her grumbles, clearly enjoying herself. Little wonder she seemed far from happy to get a message from Mr Rochester, informing her that he'd hired a party planner, who’d be arriving that day and would be responsible for choosing a theme for the event and decorating the downstairs rooms accordingly.
"And just what's wrong with my party planning skills?" she demanded, while I attempted to soothe her wounded pride by making her a strong cup of tea and patting her on the shoulder. "Just look at that text," she said, handing me her phone. "A professional party planner. If that's not a kick in the teeth for all my past efforts, I don't know what is."
Reading the text, I frowned. "But that's not what he's saying, at all! Look, he says he apologises for dropping the party on you with so little warning, and he knows you've already got more than enough to do and wants to take the burden from you. He's being thoughtful and kind, Mrs F. It's not an insult. It's a confirmation of how much you matter to him, if anything."
She eyed me suspiciously, then, as if seeing I was genuine, she sipped her tea and nodded. "Well, I suppose you're right. I don't suppose it will matter, just this once. As long as this party planner stays out of my kitchen!"
I'd hoped that would be the end of it, but I hadn't foreseen exactly who Mr Rochester would employ. At a buzz from the intercom, I rushed over to answer it, while Mrs F pulled a face and tutted.
"Hello?"
"Is Paolo."
"Paolo?"
"Paolo. Is Paolo."
"Er, are we expecting you?"
Mrs F scowled. "I don't like the sound of him."
I didn't see how she could possibly judge a man by the sound of his voice, but I decided to pick my battles.
"Is Paolo. Mr Rochester say you expect me? Am party planner."
"Ah, yes. Hang on."
I hung up the receiver and pressed the button that would order the main gates to swing open.
"Here we go, then," Mrs F sniffed. "Let's see what work of genius he comes up with."
"Give him a chance," I pleaded. "It's not his fault that he was employed, is it? He's only here to do his best for Mr Rochester."
She sighed. "I suppose so."
In the event, though, she had cause to be wary. I kept out of the way most of the day, taking Adele into the garden to play on the swing. We sat on the bench, and I read her a story, and we had another picnic on the grass under the tree. I decided that there were already far too many cooks working on that particular broth, and I was better off out of it.
When I finally took Adele indoors to wash and change, I heard a commotion coming from the drawing room. After ushering Adele into the sitting room and settling her with some toys, I rushed over to find out what was going on.
"You're completely mad!" Mrs F stood, hands on hips, glaring at a small, slight young man, with fake-tanned skin the colour of a satsuma and startlingly white teeth. All he needed was a green wig, and he could’ve gone and worked for Willy Wonka. "You do realise who Mr Rochester is?"
"Of course. I meet him in London. He very kind. He very polite," Paolo snapped, his expression clearly showing that he didn't think Mrs F shared her employer's manners.
"Well, if you met him," she said, "you must surely understand that this is the last thing he'd want. It's a joke!"
"What's going on?" I said.
Paolo looked completely outraged, to the point I feared a walk-out. Behind him, two other men seemed equally indignant, and rather worried as they studied what I could only presume to be mood boards.
"Cara, you won't believe what he's got planned," Mrs F said. "A Midsummer Night's Dream as the theme. Seriously! Can you see Mr Rochester going for that? I mean, does he look like the king of the fairies?"
Biting my lip, I stifled a giggle. "It's very artistic, Mrs F," I said.
Paolo beamed at me. "You see? She understand! I think you," he said, glaring at her, "are prejudiced."
"Prejudiced? What do you mean by that?" she said indignantly.
"You are afraid of men showing softer side," he said. "You are afraid that people think Mr Rochester is not real man."
It was Mrs F's turn to look outraged. "I sincerely hope you aren't saying what I think you're saying," she thundered. "I'll have you know that my favourite uncle is gay, and I have no problem with that, whatsoever."
"Then, what is your problem?" Paolo demanded. "Oberon is strong, determined, stubborn. He is masculine through and through."
"But he's a fairy!" Mrs F wailed. "Fairies are for children. Mr Rochester is a grown man, for goodness sake."
"Picture it," Paolo appealed to me. "A woodland scene. Branches and flowers adorn every surface. A fairy gl
ade. A veesion in green."
"Forget it," said Mrs F. "I'm not having messy branches dragged in here, for a start. Besides, green's an unlucky colour."
"You are mad," Paolo shrieked. "You have no veesion."
His employees muttered to each other and shook their heads, evidently waiting for an explosion. I held my breath, while Mrs F folded her arms and glared at him, seeming unconcerned by his fury.
To my surprise, he unexpectedly relaxed and gave her a slow smile. "Okay. We do it your way. No fairies for Mr Rochester. I make this room masculine. Party for a real man's man. Yes?"
Mrs F smiled. "That's more like it. Now you understand. Well, now you've seen sense, I'll leave you to it. Oh, and while we're at it, can you tell your cronies to keep out of my kitchen please. I don't like skulkers. If you want something, just ask."
Paolo gaped at her, while his two employees stared at each other and shook their heads.
As Mrs F swept out of the room, head held high, I rushed after her. "Well, that told them," I said, trying not to laugh.
"Really, have you ever heard the like?" she demanded. "Blooming fairies and muddy old branches in that nice drawing room? Where on earth did Ethan find him?"
"What was that about them keeping out of your kitchen?"
"Another one of his lot, in here, if you please, rooting for food. I mean, they should bring a packed lunch. I'm pretty sure he'd been in the fridge. I swear I heard him shut the door just as I walked in. Blooming rude, if you like."
"Have they eaten?" I asked.
"How should I know?" she said irritably. "That tangerine twit should take them out for lunch. I'm not having anyone in here, and that's that. Now, let's think about dinner, since we've put that lot straight. What do you fancy?"
"I don't really mind," I said. "I've had quite a big picnic lunch with Adele, so I'm not hungry."
She shook her head. "Don't be silly. You need to eat. You're wasting away, Cara."
To please her, I ate a hearty dinner with her that evening, after Paolo and his gang had left for the day. I didn't want to sit with her while she watched another riveting episode of some dreary drama series she was hooked on, though, so, despite her protests, I excused myself and went upstairs to my room.
Curled up on my bed, I read for a while, but didn't take much of the story in. I kept thinking about my family, wondering how they all were. Funny as it seemed, in spite of the geographical distance between us all, I hadn't felt so close to them for years.
Mum and Dad were still in Spain, and Dad had messaged me that morning to tell me that Auntie Sylvia had a fabulous lifestyle over there, and he'd quite made up his mind that he and mum wouldn't be wasting any more precious holiday time in a chalet in Skegness, which said a lot, since Dad was probably Skegness's biggest fan.
From his cheery text, I gathered he didn't know about Tamsin and Brad. I was quite glad she hadn't told them, because I didn't really want their holiday spoiled, but I was also incredibly proud of my sister for keeping it to herself. It must’ve been tough for her, especially since Alice and Robyn had since been told their father wasn't away on a business trip, as she'd initially told them, but had left the marital home for good. They'd, obviously, got very upset, she later told me, and all three of them had had a jolly good cry together.
Almost as if my thoughts had conjured her up, the phone rang with her name across the screen, and I answered the call.
"I was just thinking about you," I said. "Just remembering what you told me about how the girls took the news. I'm so glad they were there for you."
"It's odd," she said, "but they haven't been anywhere this week, except school, and they're happy to just stay in with me and watch television. It's like they don't want to leave me alone. I don't think we've ever spent so much time together—well, not since they were little, anyway. It's been nice, in a strange, surreal sort of way. We've talked so much. They're actually quite interesting people."
"That's great. And have you heard from Brad?"
"Not much. He's still at the hotel, as far as I know. Although, of course, that could all be a lie. I haven't checked. I guess I don't really want to know." She sighed. "He hasn't closed the joint account, anyway, and his salary still went in there this month. He hasn't said anything about taking my debit, or credit, cards away, so I suppose I can't say he isn't playing fair."
"Do you miss him?"
She laughed. "What's to miss? He was barely around, anyway." There was a sort of sniffling sound, and then she admitted, in a rather choked voice, "Of course I bloody miss him. Don't ask me why. How do you miss what you haven't had? But I always knew he'd be home, however late at night it was. And even when he seemed distracted, at least he was there. Bastard was probably daydreaming about his tart."
"I'm sorry, Tamsin," I said. "This must be so hard for you."
"There are worse things," she said, trying to sound cheerful. "At least you're sorted. And Redmond and Susan seem to be much happier."
"Do they?"
"Well, I presume so," she said. "At least, Redmond rang me the other day to offer his brotherly advice, and he was remarkably cheerful. Not like him, at all. Something's changed, clearly. Maybe she's stitched his balls back on for good behaviour."
We laughed and said goodnight, and I went into the en-suite and took a shower. I was just towelling myself dry when I heard it—a sound so faint I wasn't sure if I was imagining it.
I stared up at the ceiling with a frown, and head tilted to one side, I strained my ears, listening, but heard nothing else. Shrugging, I wrapped the towel around me and walked into the bedroom. I was just pulling on my pyjamas when I heard another sound. It didn’t seem to be coming from directly above me, so it was hard to be certain what it was. A scraping sound, perhaps? Or a faint scratching?
I climbed into bed and pulled the duvet up to my chin. Something was up there in the attics. But what?
#
"Bats," Mrs F told me the following morning over breakfast, when I voiced my anxieties to her.
"Bats? Seriously?"
"More than likely. Little blighters. Still, better than rats, eh?"
"I suppose so."
I must have sounded doubtful, because she patted my arm and said, "Don't worry. We've had them before. They like to make themselves at home. And we can't do anything about it, you know, because they're protected. If they want to live there, that's their business, apparently."
"It didn't sound like bats to me," I said.
"Surprising how the mind plays tricks," she said. "Especially at night, when you're alone, and it's a big house like this one. You imagine all sorts. You don't want to worry too much about it. If it helps, they're not your average attics. Don't think they're dark, gloomy rooms, with no light and creatures lurking in every corner. It's basically another floor up there, with lots of rooms off a central corridor."
"Is it?"
"Yes. Used to be the servants' quarters, a long, long time ago. Still some old beds and stuff up there, from when they lived there. And there's electric lighting, too, in a couple of the rooms, so it's not as scary as you'd think."
I nodded. "Okay. Well, maybe I was imagining things. Don't really like the thought of bats above me, but I suppose they're harmless."
"Nothing we can do about it, anyway, so no use worrying. Now, we had squirrels up there once. That wasn't so good. Had to catch them and hand them over to be put to sleep before they did any serious damage. Chew through wiring and wreak havoc, if you leave them."
"Put to sleep? Why would you do that?"
"Had to. It's an offence to let them go free. If they'd been red squirrels that would have been different, but these were grey ones, and there's enough of those running around already."
"Well," I said, "you live and learn."
"So, no more worrying about it, okay?" She gave me a reassuring smile. "Now, sit yourself down, because I'm about to dish up pancakes and syrup. Adele's favourite breakfast."
It was becoming increasingly clea
r to me that Mrs F was determined to fatten me up. Why, I couldn't imagine. It wasn't as if I needed help, was it? Thinking about it reminded me of Tamsin. I had a sneaking suspicion that her strict exercise programme and low-calorie diet was a way of taking back control in a life that, with Brad's workaholic behaviour, and the girls' demands, had seemed to be spiralling out of her control. Bearing that in mind, I had to wonder how she was coping with that? Given that her husband had walked out on her, was she eating at all? How did I find out? And how did I help her, anyway?
After doing my best to shovel down my breakfast, I shrugged off Mrs F's protests that I should stay at the table and let my meal digest, and left Adele enjoying her own pancakes, while I headed into the sitting room and switched on the laptop. Mr Rochester had provided it, saying he wanted Adele to learn how to use it as soon as possible, and that there were lots of things she could do on a computer that would be educational and fun. He was certainly keen on technology, as Mrs Fairweather had said. I was quite glad of the fact just then, though, as it meant I could do some research in peace. It was all very well Googling stuff on my phone, but it was a small screen, and took some reading. Much easier on a laptop.
I must have been very absorbed in reading the information I found, as I obviously didn't hear a car pull up outside, or the front door opening, or footsteps in the hall. It was only when the door to the sitting room opened and a voice enquired, "Hard at work already?" that I realised he was home.
Mr Rochester stood looking down on me, an odd expression on his face.
No use denying it—my heart thumped, and I felt an unmistakable joy as I smiled up at him. Without warning, he sat by my side, and I remembered what I'd been reading and hastily closed the laptop.
If he'd noticed the article about eating disorders, he didn't mention it. "How are things here?" he asked me. "Is Adele behaving herself?"
I nodded. "Always. She's a little angel."
"Not like me," he confessed. "I was a wicked child. I drove my mother insane."
"Will she be visiting soon?" I asked. "I'm looking forward to meeting her. I expect she'll be here for your party?"