by Jacobs, Anna
‘Did anyone see the Cassadee incident on the Pete Newbury Show?’ the man next to her asked, and the whole table instantly began discussing it.
‘It’s certainly got people stirred up, hasn’t it?’ Daniel said to her in a low voice. ‘You couldn’t pay me enough to go on that segment of his show.’
‘Would you need to find something out about yourself?’
‘No. I know who my family are and we’ve got a zillion photos of everyone. And you?’
‘I wouldn’t like to go on the show.’ But she had watched it again and kept remembering how the first attempt to show Pete as a child of three had looked like her lost brother – so incredibly like him that she hadn’t been able to get the image out of her mind. Stupid, really. His mother had said it wasn’t like him and Mrs Newbury should know.
But Beth still wondered sometimes where her brother was. She’d studied other children in the street when she was younger, imagining what her little brother would look like, keeping track mentally of how old he’d be. Each time his birthday came round she’d comforted her mother, similarly at Christmas.
As an adult she’d worried a few times in case she dated her brother without knowing it, and had tended to steer clear of fair-haired men. His hair might have grown darker now, of course, though hers hadn’t. Silly to keep thinking of him, really. The poor kid was probably long dead.
‘Would you like to dance?’ Daniel asked.
‘I’d love to.’
She wasn’t surprised to find that he was a good dancer, not showing off but able to steer her smoothly round the smallish dance floor and maintain a conversation at the same time. She let herself move with the music and was sorry when that set ended. It was rare these days to find someone who danced as well as this.
After they got back to the table, the woman on the other side of Daniel asked his opinion of something and the two of them got into a discussion. As the man on Beth’s other side had got up to dance, she was left to herself, which she didn’t mind in the slightest. There was enough going on around her to keep her interest.
‘Would you like to dance, Beth?’
She turned sharply and saw Edward smiling down at her.
Daniel half-turned and nodded, as if to urge her to accept.
‘I – um, yes, that would be nice.’
She got up and let Edward pull her into his arms. He was taller than her by several inches and led her out on the floor with an expertise that far outdid Daniel’s. He didn’t try to speak, but when she stole a quick glance at him, he was frowning slightly and looking down at her.
‘Are you involved with Daniel?’ he asked abruptly.
She swallowed. This was blunt. ‘Not in the way you mean. We’re friends, that’s all.’
‘Will you have dinner with me one night, then?’
Renée’s words came back to her: don’t close the door on other men. ‘Yes. That’d be – um, nice.’
He smiled slightly. ‘Good. Next Friday suit you? Since the show’s midweek, Pete’s usually quietened down by then.’
‘Quietened down?’
‘After the show there’s a lot going on behind the scenes that people don’t see: appearances, promotion events, planning for future shows, research. I’m not involved directly in most of it, of course, but I do have to watch Pete’s interests.’
‘Oh. Sounds busy.’
‘It is. Too busy. A bit like your life, I think.’
She nodded.
‘I’ll pick you up at seven, if that’s all right. You’re not working that night, are you?’
‘Ah . . . no.’ Should she tell him she wasn’t really a cleaner? No, not now. When they went out together perhaps. Actually, she thought better of him for not letting that mistaken idea stop him asking her out. People could be so snobbish.
‘Give me your phone number and address when we get off the floor.’
After that he didn’t speak, but he held her closer as they danced – and she let him. That wasn’t like her, but he moved so well and the music was good. Why spoil it with idle chatter?
Yet one thought kept interrupting her enjoyment: why had a man as attractive as Edward Newbury asked her out? And another thought kept following it: why had she said yes so easily?
It wasn’t because of what Renée had said, well only partly. It was because she found him attractive, extremely attractive. It had been a long time since this had happened and it made her feel rather nervous, as well as . . . interested.
She was sorry when the music ended and the MC got up on the small stage as the band filed out.
‘I’d better take you back to your seat. I think we’re in for a few speeches. Phone number, address?’ Edward crouched beside her, pulled out a pen and two business cards, giving her one with his contact number and using the other to scribble down her details before nodding and moving back to his own table.
Daniel smiled at her as she turned to chat to him. ‘There is definite electricity between you two.’
She could feel herself blushing. ‘Does it show that clearly?’
‘Indeed it does.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s me who’s out of step. Is he taking you out?’
She nodded.
‘About time he started dating again. I think Renée will be pleased that you’ve accepted.’
Hang Renée, Beth thought, I’m pleased.
Towards the end of the evening, one of the waitresses skidded on something that had been spilled. Before she could stop herself, she’d fallen over and the tray of drinks had gone flying, sending its contents all over the three people nearest. One of them was Pete Newbury, who copped the main shower of drink.
There was a sudden hush as red wine dripped down his face and shirt front.
The waitress’s face showed fear more than anything else and she hurriedly scrambled to her feet, glancing over her shoulder towards the maître d’, who was making her way towards the group with an expression of frozen disgust on her face.
Pete stood up and looked down at himself, said something to the waitress and burst out laughing.
Edward joined in the laughter.
When the maître d’ joined them, Pete said something to her, and though she forced a smile, the look she threw at the waitress did not bode well for her future.
Pete took off his sodden dinner jacket and the waitress quickly took it from him. The maître d’ gestured towards the rear doors. Pete nodded, grimacing at his shirt which was still dripping blood-red wine from the several glassfuls that had been spilled over him. He began to unbutton it, and as he reached Beth’s table, stopped to slip the dripping garment off.
The maître d’ took it from him, leaving him in a sleeveless white T-shirt that had plenty of splash marks on the front.
Edward rolled his eyes at Beth and followed his cousin out.
Conversation began again, staff hurried to mop the floor and change the tablecloth, and the band started to play a waltz.
‘Are you all right?’
Beth realized Daniel was speaking to her and tried to pull herself together. ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
But she wasn’t really. She felt as if the world had stopped spinning for a moment then speeded up. On Pete’s right arm she’d seen a long scar, which ended near his wrist in a twist like a small sickle blade. It had faded to a thin white line now, but it was still very recognizable.
She’d seen that scar many times before – on her brother’s arm.
Greg had always been a lively child and had fallen down the house steps once, cutting his arm badly on a rusty old bucket. She could remember blood pouring from the cut, her mother screaming, then the drive to the local hospital with Beth sitting in the back holding her wailing brother and trying to keep a clean tea towel wrapped round his arm.
There couldn’t be two scars exactly like that one, in the same place on the person’s right arm – just could not.
So the image of him as a child on the TV programme had been cor
rect the first time.
Why had Pete’s mother lied about it, then? And how had her brother Greg turned into Pete Newbury?
Beth felt slightly dizzy and was finding it hard to breathe properly. She couldn’t take it in, couldn’t believe it – except that she’d seen that scar, been near enough to touch it.
There was no doubt: Pete Newbury was her brother.
The noise of people enjoying themselves seemed to echo around her. All she wanted was a few moments’ peace to come to terms with what she’d seen. ‘Daniel, I feel – a bit woozy suddenly. Could we go out for some fresh air?’
‘Of course.’ He walked outside with her to the steps in front of the hotel. ‘Something happened in there. Do you want to talk about it?’
She shook her head.
‘Do you want me to take you home?’
‘Would you mind? I’m sorry to spoil your evening, but I really can’t – I’m not in the mood for dancing and . . . all that . . . now.’ She waved one arm towards the room they’d just left.
‘Of course I don’t mind. I just wish there was something I could do to help.’
‘You’re taking me home and being understanding. That’s an enormous help.’
She waited for him to collect her wrap and call a taxi. As they sat together in the back, she was grateful he didn’t attempt to make conversation.
When they arrived at her block of flats, she fumbled in her bag for her key, her hand shaking.
Daniel eyed her with concern. ‘Do you want me to come up? I don’t think I should leave you alone. You don’t look at all well.’
‘I just had a bit of a shock, that’s all.’
‘You didn’t move out of your chair, didn’t say a word to anyone. And surely an accidental spilling of wine on someone else can’t have made you react like that?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t talk about it. It’s very – personal.’
‘What number is your flat? I’m coming round tomorrow to check that you’re all right.’
She’d told him before she realized what she was doing. ‘There really is no need.’
‘I took you out. Something happened while you were with me and I feel guilty about that. Humour me. We’ll go out for lunch. I’ll pick you up at twelve.’
He stood watching as she keyed in her security number and entered the block of flats.
She was glad when the lift whisked her out of his sight. She’d ring him in the morning and cancel the lunch. What she really needed now was time to think.
The flat seemed horribly empty and she ached for someone to hold her and comfort her. For a moment, she almost wished she’d let Daniel come up with her.
Of course she got out the photo. Then she played the recording of the show and stopped it at the image of three-year-old Pete, holding her tattered, faded photo up against it. There was no doubt in her mind now that it was the same person. How could she have persuaded herself that it was a coincidence in the first place?
She watched Mrs Newbury’s reaction to it very carefully, then played that segment twice more. The poor woman had looked terrified for a few seconds, then had pulled herself together. Rather clever of her to have had changes made that altered the photo of Pete as a child.
The photo of Beth’s brother!
What had happened to Greg? How could he possibly have turned into Pete Newbury? Surely a woman like that, as middle-class as they came, with a gentle expression on her face, wouldn’t have kidnapped a child?
You heard of children vanishing. You didn’t often hear what happened to them. Or recognize one of them as an adult. Beth wasn’t sure what to do about it.
Would Pete even want to know the truth about himself? He had a good life, was becoming more and more successful, might not want an old scandal revisited. And if he loved the woman who’d brought him up, as his body language on the show seemed to suggest, he wouldn’t want to do anything that might upset his mother, or worse still force her to answer a police investigation.
But Pete and his adoptive mother weren’t the only people affected. What about Beth’s mother, who had mourned her son for forty years? Was she to go to her grave grieving and thinking her son dead? No! The incident had blighted Linda Harding’s life and thrown her into a nervous breakdown. It had also made Beth’s own childhood very difficult. Childhood! She’d had to grow up quickly and young as she was, had been her mother’s main support for the decade following the disappearance, because her father had moved on, got himself a new life.
It wouldn’t be fair to leave Linda in ignorance that her son was still alive – not only alive, but a highly successful celebrity. Beth and her mother both needed closure, an explanation . . . a reconciliation.
But dear heaven, how was she to arrange this? How could she tell her mother who Greg had become without upsetting her all over again? How could she be sure Pete would want to meet his real mother?
Fran got into the front of the taxi with the driver to avoid getting smudges of wine from her husband’s clothes on her oyster satin outfit. Pete lounged in the back, wearing a jacket the maître d’ had found for him over the slightly damp tee shirt.
‘They’ll never get the stains out of that shirt,’ Fran fumed.
‘If they don’t, we’ll buy another one.’
‘Why should we have to? No, the hotel will have to pay. And there’s the tux, too. That wasn’t a cheapie, off-the-rack model. If the wine stains don’t come out, if it doesn’t look perfect when it’s been cleaned, they can damned well replace that too.’
‘Stop nagging, Fran. I’m tired. The poor waitress didn’t do it on purpose. She looked terrified afterwards. I must get Edward to ring up on Monday and check that she hasn’t got the sack.’
‘She should get the sack.’
‘Have a heart. The floor was greasy because Jack Garner had knocked food off his plate. He’d had too much to drink before the food arrived, he always does. He should have called for someone to mop the floor properly, not dabbed at it with his napkin.’
‘The wait staff were all busy. There weren’t really enough of them tonight. I don’t know why you bother to go to Mettacom’s annual bash, anyway.’
‘Because it’s a good evening out and I meet some useful people at their bashes. Don’t nag, Fran. I’m tired.’ And though she never seemed to notice such things, the taxi driver was listening avidly.
Fran threw him a dirty look over her shoulder then fell silent.
When they got home he had a shower, by which time Fran was in bed pretending to be asleep. He could always tell when she was pretending, because her breathing was too even and quiet. She snorted and snuffled like a puppy when she was really asleep. He used to find that appealing, now it just irritated him.
He went into the living room and got himself a glass of mineral water. He was thirsty but not in the mood for more alcohol. Moving out on to the balcony even though it was very chilly, he sat watching the city lights, wondering what his new segment would bring from viewers next week. He grinned and raised the glass in a silent toast to his own future. It was rather exciting to do these regressions. He wanted to do more than just chatting to celebrities and this was a good start.
Turning round, he raised another mocking glass to where Fran lay. He wanted more than her, too. But not quite yet, not till he had a good excuse for leaving her – and proper proof to satisfy a court about the lover she’d recently taken, the bitch.
He’d take legal advice about how best to divorce her. He didn’t want to lose half of everything he possessed to a woman who’d contributed nothing to earning it and who poured out his money like water from a tap.
Five
When Jo Harding went to pick up her son after work one evening, she saw that her friend Ghita had been crying. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Have you opened your mail yet?’
‘No. I need a cup of coffee before I can face more bills.’
‘Let’s go to your place and look at the brown envelope.’
<
br /> Next door, they left the children to play and Ghita put on the kettle while Jo tore the letter open. She read it quickly, screwing the single sheet of paper up in anger and hurling it across the room. Then she sighed and picked it up, smoothing it out again to re-read it.
Yes, it did say the small block of flats was being demolished and that the tenants had to vacate the premises by the end of the month. She looked at Ghita. ‘Oh, hell!’
‘I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t go back to my family. They disowned me when I had Kaleel.’
‘I don’t know what I’ll do, either.’
‘At least your mother will help you, Jo.’
‘I’m not sure about that.’
‘Of course she will. You said how happy she was when you phoned.’
‘Yes, but she doesn’t know about Mikey, does she?’
‘Will that make a difference?’
‘How do I know? I’ve not seen her for five years. And she never was the sort to drool over babies and small children, besides being the Queen of Neat and Tidy.’
‘She’ll be glad to meet her grandson, I know she will. And I’m sure she’ll help you.’
They were both silent, then Jo said quietly, ‘I don’t want to be parted from you, Ghita. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, more like a sister. And our little boys love one another like brothers, too. Aw, don’t cry. We’ll think of something.’ She put her arm round her friend and guided her to the scruffy old sofa, leaving the two toddlers playing together on the floor.
‘I will think of something,’ Jo repeated, patting Ghita’s heaving shoulder and looking round. ‘Mind you, if it wasn’t for losing my home, I’d say it’s not before time they demolished this dump. It’s falling to pieces around us.’
‘But at least we can afford the rent here.’
‘And I have you to look after Mikey for me when I’m at work, to talk to when I’m sad. Why couldn’t the damned owners have waited a few weeks to turf everyone out? I’ve had some big bills lately and I haven’t got the money for a rent deposit on a new place, because you can bet the owners of this dump won’t be in a hurry to pay us our deposits back.’
‘I don’t have the money either.’ Ghita laid a hand on Jo’s arm. ‘Phone your mother. Tell her. She’ll help you.’