by Jill Mansell
“I suppose so,” he said at last. “I know I’ve been a bastard, but this means so much to me. I want you to understand just how important it is.”
“Of course I understand,” said Antonia warmly. “I have feelings too, don’t I? I remember how important you were to me, for instance.”
Ross shot her a wary glance and she laughed. “Don’t look at me like that, darling. I used the past tense, didn’t I? What I’m trying to say is that you and I had a marvelous affair. At the same time, we both respected the fact that I was married to Richard. Being discreet about it was all part of the fun.”
Ross nodded agreement, since that was what Antonia appeared to expect him to do, although inwardly he couldn’t help remembering that discretion hadn’t always been one of Antonia’s major virtues.
“We’re both civilized adults,” she continued, stubbing out her cigarette and relaxing once more in her chair. “And of course I appreciate your current dilemma. So please don’t give it another thought, Ross, because I shan’t breathe a word about our recent…adventure…to anyone.” She paused, brushing her index finger against her mouth in a thoughtful fashion. “But you do have to promise me one thing.”
His heart sank. He thought it had all been too good to be true. “Go on,” said Ross, bracing himself for whatever lay ahead.
“Don’t tell me it’s over between us,” said Antonia simply. “I couldn’t bear to think that we’ll never make love again. I want to believe that just maybe, one day—if it doesn’t work out between you and Tessa—you might come back to me.”
Ross, expecting hideous blackmail at the very least, was so relieved he could have hugged her.
“You’ve got it,” he assured her, safe in the knowledge that such an occasion would never arise. “And, Antonia, thank you for being so understanding. I do appreciate it.”
“Good,” she said with brittle lightness. “And don’t forget, darling. Whenever you do decide to come back, I’ll be waiting for you.”
• • •
“Hello!” said Tessa, disguising her surprise with a smile. “How lovely to see you again. Did Ross send you over with those?”
Grace, hovering uneasily at the foot of the bed, turned pink. “No…no, they’re from me, actually. I remembered how much you like white roses…” Her voice trailed away as she spotted the lavish blooms spilling out of the tinny vases on Tessa’s bedside cupboard, creamy white roses of infinite perfection, far superior to her own.
“They’re beautiful,” said Tessa firmly, burying her face in Grace’s roses and breathing in their scent. “And they smell absolutely gorgeous! How kind of you, Grace. Come on, drag that chair over and sit down. Catch me up with all the gossip Ross doesn’t know about… Oh, how awful of me. You haven’t come here to gossip, have you? You want to meet Olivia!”
As Tessa slid out of bed, crossed to the wheeled crib, and carefully lifted the baby from its cocoon, Grace pushed her shopping bag under the chair and took a deep breath. The compulsion to see her half sister had been overwhelming, but now that she was actually here she could scarcely believe her own daring. “Here she is,” said Tessa proudly, and the next moment Grace was holding Olivia in her lap, gazing into eyes so like Ross’s that she almost expected the baby to issue a demand for fresh coffee. At once.
“She’s perfect,” said Grace, blinking back tears. The baby, needless to say, didn’t resemble her in any way at all.
Tessa smiled. “She looks exactly like Ross.”
“Yes.”
“You know, I can hardly believe she’s really here at last. Ross can’t keep away—he’s absolutely bowled over by her. He can’t get over the fact that he’s a father.”
“Yes,” repeated Grace tonelessly as she cradled the child in her arms. “It must feel incredible. Like nothing else on earth.”
Chapter 32
If it had taken a great deal for Grace to pluck up enough courage to visit Tessa and Olivia at the hospital, it was nothing in comparison with the effort of will required by Mattie when she had set out that evening.
Now, having found herself a seat in the crowded bar of the Charrington Grange Hotel, she ordered a large gin and tonic and allowed herself ten minutes in which to gather her nonexistent composure.
But the time had come to confront Ross Monahan at last. Ostrich-like, she had done nothing and simply prayed that matters would somehow sort themselves out. Having persuaded herself that Grace’s uncommunicativeness was a sign that she was dealing with the bombshell in her own characteristically silent manner, Mattie had concentrated instead upon urging her daughter to get out more, to take up new interests and make new friends. Passively, Grace had agreed, and Mattie had heaved a sigh of relief.
Sipping her gin and tonic now, and willing her hand not to shake, Mattie suppressed a shudder as she recalled yesterday’s chance meeting in the supermarket with Barbara Newcombe, who lived for salacious gossip and whose own dull family were a source of constant disappointment to her.
But Babs Newcombe’s loudly whispered and triumphantly proclaimed comments had turned Mattie’s stomach. Evidently, Grace had been seen—not once but twice—very much the worse for wear. On the first occasion Babs herself had spotted her drinking straight from a vodka bottle on a bench in Bathampton Park. The second time her daughter had come home and reliably informed her that Grace, sprawled out on the grass in the same park, had been holding an unintelligible conversation with a pigeon.
“I felt it was only my duty to tell you,” Babs had concluded happily. “My Tracey was shocked of course, but then she’s such a good girl, never been any trouble at all.”
“Oh yes, you’re lucky,” agreed Mattie, numb with shock and at the same time suppressing the urge to hurl a can of mixed vegetables at the smug, smiling face looming before her. “And now that she’s stopped mixing with that crowd of glue-sniffers who hang around the underpass her complexion is so much better…”
But, of course, a thorough search of Grace’s bedroom that evening had produced the damning evidence she so desperately hadn’t wanted to find. At the very back of the wardrobe, hidden inside a shoebox, was a three-quarters full bottle of Smirnoff. At that exact moment, Mattie knew that something had to be done.
• • •
Richard Seymour-Smith, on his way to the bar, didn’t notice Mattie sitting alone at a table for two. His mind was taken up with what he imagined his wife might be up to right now.
Having returned unexpectedly early from a meeting in Birmingham to find Ross’s car parked outside the house, Richard had driven smartly away again and headed for The Grange, where he could at least have a few quiet drinks safe in the knowledge that his wife’s lover was fully occupied elsewhere.
But the drink didn’t appear to be doing its job tonight. As he paid for his fourth scotch, he reflected that he was still completely sober. The edges weren’t even faintly blurred, and the remorseless sense of humiliation was still as strong as ever.
His coordination failed him, however, as he made his way back toward his table. With his drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, he was unprepared for the sudden movement of a chair being pushed back as its occupant rose to leave. Caught momentarily off balance and taking care not to spill his scotch, Richard didn’t even realize that the lighted tip of his cigarette had come into contact with human flesh.
Mattie shrieked, jerking instinctively away from the sudden, searing pain and almost knocking over her own drink. But it was too late; the damage was done. The burn on her upper arm would heal within a week—she wasn’t a bit bothered about that—but her one and only decent dress was without doubt ruined beyond repair.
Richard was mortified. Apologizing profusely, breaking out in a film of perspiration as he realized how much unwanted attention he was receiving from surrounding tables, he dabbed hopelessly with his handkerchief at the scorched material. His glasses slipped down his
nose as his anxiety intensified.
Finally, gently—and because he was getting in everyone’s way—Mattie caught hold of his arm and managed to persuade him to sit down opposite her.
“Please don’t worry,” she said, a sympathetic smile warming her face. “It was an accident. And I’m sure I’ll be able to mend it, anyway. It’s only a little hole.”
Although still agitated, Richard was by nature an observant man. The dress, he realized at a glance, was neither new nor expensive, yet the woman was prepared to take the trouble to try to repair it herself—unlike Antonia who would have gone home and chucked it in the nearest trash can. Furthermore, whereas Antonia would have screamed abuse and demanded immediate compensation, this woman was reassuring him, playing down the situation, and not even mentioning the burn on her upper arm, which had to be painful.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” said Richard, fumbling for his wallet and pulling out a sheaf of ten pound notes. “Please, you must allow me to reimburse you…”
“Oh, stop it!” exclaimed Mattie, pushing his money away and laughing out loud. “I couldn’t let you do that. This old thing is on its last legs anyway.”
But, Richard noticed, the pale-pink cotton dress was immaculately pressed and obviously well cared for. Attacked by a fresh wave of guilt—he was by no means an expert, but he was pretty sure that a cigarette burn couldn’t even be repaired—he thrust a handful of notes into the woman’s hand.
“I won’t take any money!” persisted Mattie, pushing them back at him and still smiling. “Besides, whatever will people think? Everyone’s going to assume I’m a prostitute now!”
“God, I’m sorry,” muttered Richard, aghast. His glasses slid down his nose once more, and he shook his head in embarrassment. “Look, if it would make you feel happier you can buy me a drink,” Mattie said kindly. She glanced at her watch and grimaced. “I was supposed to be seeing someone, but I could do with a bit of Dutch courage anyway, before I do.”
“You’re meeting someone here? Won’t he mind if he sees me sitting with you?”
“It’s not that kind of date,” replied Mattie, her smile draining away as she remembered the purpose of her visit. “Actually, I wanted to speak to the hotel manager, but I don’t even know if he’s on duty this evening. I suppose I should have made an appointment, but I didn’t think—”
“He’s not here,” said Richard, the muscles at the sides of his mouth tensing with renewed regret. He liked Ross; he just wished Antonia didn’t like him too.
“Oh,” said Mattie, slumping back in her chair. It was like dreading a visit to the dentist then being told at the last minute that your appointment had been canceled. She didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved. “You’re quite sure? He’s definitely not in the hotel?”
She had a sympathetic face, thought Richard, and such a soft, reassuring voice. She would understand.
“I’m quite sure,” he replied evenly. “You see, at this very moment he’s probably in bed. With my wife.”
• • •
He was such a nice man, thought Mattie two hours and several drinks later. She hadn’t realized that nice men still existed.
She had been careful, of course, not to unburden herself as he had done, explaining only that she was concerned about her daughter and that she had hoped Ross might be able to reassure her that all was well at work.
Mostly, however, they had talked about each other. Following his initial “confession”—for he persisted in taking the blame for his wife’s infidelity and refused to admit that either Antonia or Ross might be at fault—Mattie had steered the conversation around to him. Within a short time, she had learned about his upbringing in the sleepy Yorkshire dales, his school days in Leeds, his scholarship to Oxford, and his subsequent career in accountancy. She learned too of his love for classical music and Duke Ellington, for Chinese food and real Yorkshire puddings, for wildlife and hot-air ballooning, for the writing of Anthony Trollope and H. E. Bates…
“You’re making me do all the talking,” he said finally, leaning back and giving her a wry look. “How do you do that?”
“Truth drug,” said Mattie with a shrug. “I slipped it into your drink when you weren’t looking.”
“I’m not used to talking so much. Not about myself, anyway.”
“I’m interested,” she replied truthfully. “I love listening and finding out about other people’s lives.” She smiled and took an appreciative sip of her drink. “Probably because they’re almost always more interesting than my own. I suppose I’m just plain nosy.”
Richard thought she was wonderful. He had never felt so comfortable, so completely at ease in his life. And the more he looked at Mattie the more she appeared to metamorphose from a slightly overweight, tired-looking housewife without particular distinguishing features into a charming, sparkling-eyed, somehow younger woman with an irresistible smile and a voluptuous figure that suited her down to the ground. It was so wonderfully appropriate to her warm personality that he couldn’t imagine her being thin.
“Now it’s your turn,” he said, leaning across the table toward her. “Tell me all about your life. I want to know what you like.”
“I’m not like you, for a start,” replied Mattie, with a self-deprecating shrug. “I’m not an intellectual, I haven’t been up in an airplane—let alone a hot-air balloon—and I’ve never even eaten proper Chinese food, only chicken chop suey from our local takeout.”
“So those are the things you haven’t done,” said Richard gravely. “Tell me what you enjoy doing.”
“I like watching old films,” she said, cupping her chin in her hands and gazing dreamily into the distance. “Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly, that kind of thing. I adore fresh cream cakes. And bonfire night. And managing to complete the crossword puzzle in the Express. And I’m addicted to trashy novels, the romantic kind where you know it’s all going to work out in the end. I love happy endings.” Then she flushed, realizing how silly and trite she must sound. “So there you are,” she concluded, flapping her hand in an awkward gesture of dismissal. “I did warn you that I wasn’t an intellectual.”
“You’re a romantic,” replied Richard, gazing at her with sheer pleasure. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. And if you didn’t like happy endings, you wouldn’t be human.”
• • •
The meeting with Antonia had been difficult, but Ross had made up for it by spending the second half of the evening far more pleasurably, with Tessa and Olivia. Convinced now that nothing more could go wrong between them, he was in an extremely good mood.
As he drove up the graveled drive to the hotel entrance he observed two people climbing into a waiting cab. The lights were dim, but he could have sworn that the person helping the woman into the backseat of the taxi was Richard Seymour-Smith.
But by no stretch of even the wildest imagination could the woman with him be mistaken for Antonia…
• • •
“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” whispered Mattie, terrified that the taxi driver would overhear.
“Shh.” Richard didn’t want her to start voicing doubts. He placed his hand over one of hers and gently squeezed it. “Tell me what else you like. I want to know.”
She giggled. They were both slightly drunk but nicely so. “Long baths, long hot bubble baths after a hard day at work. And listening to The Archers on Sunday mornings… Oh, it’s no good! You’re trying to distract me and you mustn’t. We really shouldn’t be doing this.”
“We haven’t done anything yet,” Richard reminded her, secretly astounded by his own daring.
“You know what I mean,” said Mattie, shaking her head. “This is terrible. I’m supposed to be trying to sort out my daughter’s problems and here I am, tipsy myself. What sort of mother am I?”
“I’m sure you’re a wo
nderful mother.” Richard spoke in low, reassuring tones, but she shook her head once more, with such vigor that her breasts jiggled enticingly against his sleeve.
“I’m a disgrace.”
Terrified that she was about to change her mind, Richard said, very firmly this time, “No, you are not.”
“Of course I am! Apart from anything else, you’re a married man.”
During his evening with Mattie, Antonia’s infidelities had faded into misty insignificance. Now, thought Richard, they seemed a positive godsend.
“It doesn’t count,” he declared triumphantly, “when the man is being cheated on by his own wife.”
“Oh.” Mattie smiled into the darkness. She hadn’t seriously intended changing her mind anyway, but absolution, she decided dizzily, was a marvelous thing. “Good. But we must stop at my house first. I have to make sure that Grace is all right.”
Richard, praying that she would be, patted Mattie’s hand and said, “Of course.”
• • •
Grace was in fact in a surprisingly good mood. Visiting Tessa and the baby in the hospital had provided her with a feeling of secret importance that had cheered her up immensely. And since she had felt in no need of a drink, she hadn’t yet discovered the fact that her secret vodka supply had disappeared.
She looked up from the television and smiled when Mattie arrived home and was immediately intrigued by the expression—a mixture of guilt, elation—and surprise—on her mother’s face. It was exactly how Holly King always looked when, once in a blue moon, Max deigned to be nice to her.
Mattie, whose first act upon returning home was invariably to toss her handbag onto the dining table and collapse into her favorite chair, hovered in the center of the room and clutched her bag to her stomach like a hot-water bottle.
“Hello, darling! How are you?”
Grace, who favored vodka herself because it was odorless, realized that her mother was speaking through clenched teeth in an effort to hold in the gin fumes. She sounded like a very bad ventriloquist.