by Jill Mansell
“I’m a selfish old bag,” said Holly, watching the expression on her friend’s face and giving her a quick hug. “Look at you, on the brink of stardom. I’m so proud of you, Tess.”
“It might be a dismal failure,” said Tessa hastily. “And anyway, artists don’t become stars.”
“Then you’ll be the first. How on earth are you planning to cart all your paintings down here, anyway? Seventeen journeys in the Merc?”
“Sylvie Nash’s boyfriend has a van.” Tessa, taking her arm, drew her toward the gallery. “He’s picking them up from the cottage and bringing them down here tonight. I’ll hang them tomorrow morning. Come on, I want to take a proper look around and decide where some of them are going to go.”
Mattie, having read in the local paper the announcement that Tessa’s one-woman exhibition was being held at the Devenish Gallery, was hugely embarrassed when Tessa spotted her lingering outside on the pavement fifteen minutes later. Not knowing whether or not Ross had told her about Grace, she hadn’t the least idea how to react. On the point of slipping away, however, she was prevented from doing so by Tessa, who shot out of the gallery and greeted her with enthusiasm.
“Hello, how nice to see you again! I meant to contact Grace to ask her if she’d like to come along to the opening tomorrow night, but I’m afraid there’s been so much to do…”
Mattie relaxed a little. Clearly, she decided, Tessa didn’t know.
“But now that you’re here I can invite both of you,” she continued cheerfully. “And please don’t think that you’d be expected to buy something—all you have to do is eat and drink and look happy to be here. I’m going to be so nervous that I’ll need lots of friendly faces around me for moral support. Please say you’ll both come?”
Mattie hesitated. From the corner of her eye, she could see Max and Ross getting out of Max’s car just a few yards up the road. “It’s very kind of you to invite us,” she said hesitantly, “but I don’t really know whether—”
“Ross!” Tessa swung around as he came up behind her. And in that brief moment Mattie both saw and felt the inextricable bond of love that united them. Envying them that happiness and at the same time remembering that what she and Richard had shared had been every bit as wonderful, she instinctively pulled her coat more tightly around her. Ross, however, didn’t miss a trick; his gaze flickered for a split second in the direction of her stomach. To Mattie’s enormous relief, he said nothing.
“Ross, this is Mattie Jameson, Grace’s mother. I’ve invited them to the opening tomorrow, and she’s wavering. Tell her that they have to come!”
“You have to come,” he recited, his tone reflecting amusement for Tessa’s benefit. Then, meeting Mattie’s troubled gaze, he added slowly, “Although I understood that Grace had moved away. Is she back now?”
Mattie nodded. “Two days ago.”
Seeing that Tessa’s attention was temporarily diverted—a meter reader was heading purposefully toward them, and she and Max were hunting frantically for change for the unfed meter—he lowered his voice and said, “In that case, why don’t I come over this afternoon?”
Unable to reply, Mattie nodded once more.
“And hopefully you will both come along to the show. I mean that. No more excuses,” he added as Tessa returned to his side.
“No more excuses,” agreed Mattie, smiling at Tessa and wondering how she would react when Ross—as he surely now must—broke the news to her that Grace was his daughter.
“That’s great,” said Tessa. “We’ll see you both tomorrow, then. I can’t wait to see Grace again.”
When Mattie had left, Ross attempted to steer Tessa in the direction of the car. “Come on, let’s go back to the cottage.”
She dug her heels in. “Holly’s still inside the gallery. I can’t just leave her.”
“Yes you can,” put in Max, who was in a good mood. He hadn’t realized that Holly was here. “I’ll take her out to lunch.”
Chapter 55
“So that’s it,” concluded Ross, wondering what was really going on in Tessa’s mind and searching her face for clues. “Maybe I should have told you earlier, but it isn’t exactly a pretty story.”
When Tessa didn’t reply, he leaned forward and said urgently, “Say something.”
She shook her head. The knowledge that Olivia had a half sister—and that the half sister was Grace—had hit her harder than she could have imagined possible. It was such a strange idea. It also explained why Grace had taken such an interest in Olivia and why her attitude toward Ross had been so ambivalent. Most of all, Tessa realized how easy it was for this kind of thing to happen. Mattie’s experience with Ross had been identical to that of her own, and if it hadn’t been for the merest chance—when Holly had unknowingly explained her predicament to Ross—he would have gone through life unaware of the fact that yet again he had become a father. How many men had been in the same situation? Hundreds of thousands? Millions? And for each of these men there was a woman left holding the baby. She couldn’t help wondering whether, somewhere in the world, Olivia and Grace might not have another sister or brother. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility, after all.
“Tell me,” prompted Ross. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“It’s complicated,” she said finally. “But most of all, I suppose, I feel sorry for Mattie and Grace, for what they’ve had to go through.” Then she smiled. “And now I realize how glad I am that it turned out differently for Olivia and me. It’s much nicer having you here…and so much nicer for Olivia, knowing who her father is and not having to wait until she’s eighteen before she finds out.” She paused, her expression thoughtful. “What are you going to do about Grace now?”
“I’m seeing her this afternoon.”
Tessa nodded, knowing that it wouldn’t be easy for him, but at the same time sensing that everything would be all right. “Tell her,” she said slowly, “that I’m looking forward to seeing her tomorrow night.”
• • •
“What’s the matter?” said Max, frowning slightly as Holly pushed her plate to one side, virtually untouched. He had never known her to be so quiet. He hadn’t even realized that she was physically capable of being quiet. Most alarming of all, however, was the loss of appetite. Of all the women he’d ever known, none had enjoyed their food as much as Holly.
“Nothing,” she said in such subdued tones that he wondered if she might be on the brink of tears.
Holly, however, was determined not to cry. It was sad, but it was her own decision, and at least she knew she was doing the right thing. Like amputating the foot before the whole leg became gangrenous, she thought, willing herself to be strong. Finishing this quasi-relationship now would be painful, but not half as painful as waiting, becoming more deeply involved, loving Max and not being loved in return… It definitely needed to be done. With a quick glance around the bright, crowded restaurant, she thought what a shame it was that there was nothing on earth she could do to make Max feel more for her than he did.
Watching her miserably tracing patterns in the peony-pink tablecloth with her fork, Max said, “Look, you obviously aren’t hungry. I don’t have to be back at the hotel until six—why don’t we go back to your place?”
And have casual, uninvolved, just-good-friends sex, she thought, momentary anger mingling with the automatic surge of longing. Well, why not? It had always been fantastic sex, after all. Maybe it would cheer her up, like pigging out the night before the start of a particularly ruthless diet.
“OK,” she replied, laying aside her fork and mustering a small smile. Afterward, she would tell him. “That sounds like a nice idea.”
Max, glad to see the smile, took her hand briefly in his and squeezed it. He’d known she would come around eventually. “Nice?” he demanded, regarding her with mocking amusement. “If nice is all I can muster, I’ll begin to think I’m l
osing my touch.”
This time she laughed, masking her own unhappiness and joining in. Failing to make the most of this—their last time together—would be the most shameful waste of an afternoon, after all.
“Sorry, my mistake,” she assured him lightly. “I’m sure it will be…memorable.”
• • •
Mattie, sensing that a tactical withdrawal was called for, had shown Ross into the small living room and discreetly disappeared. Grace was sitting uneasily in one of the fireside chairs. Not having touched alcohol since the night of her last fateful encounter with Ross, she felt that if she could just get through this final ordeal without giving in, she would win the battle. Never had she wanted a drink more badly, and never had she been more determined not to have one.
“Well,” said Ross, seating himself in the chair opposite and propping his cane against the mantelpiece, “I suppose I owe you an apology.”
And quite suddenly Grace was no longer afraid. He was here at last, and she didn’t need to be afraid. The sense of relief was almost dizzying.
“I suppose I owe you one too,” she replied in a low voice. “I thought you were dead. I was so scared that I just panicked and ran away. Then when I read in the papers that you were paralyzed, I was even more scared.”
“You weren’t the only one,” said Ross with a brief smile.
“Well, I’m sorry. And I’m glad that you’re OK now.”
“Yes.”
The silence that followed was broken only by the loud ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Ross shifted in his chair and realized that he had to say what he felt.
“Look, I don’t know what you were expecting today. This isn’t exactly easy for me. Logically, I accept the fact that I am your father, but I don’t feel like your father. If you’d like to come back to work at The Grange, that’s fine by me, and maybe we can both get used to each other gradually. I’ll help you—and Mattie—as much as I can, in any way that I can, but we still don’t really know each other. If you were expecting me to come here today and give you some big fatherly embrace, then I’m afraid”—he shrugged helplessly—“I’m just not cut out for that kind of thing. So if that’s what you thought would happen, then I’m sorry, but it wouldn’t feel—”
“It’s OK,” Grace cut in, relieved. “I couldn’t do all that stuff either. Too embarrassing for words.”
Ross grinned at her. “Maybe we’re more alike than either of us realized. How about returning to work, then? Would you like to come back to The Grange?”
More visible relief. Now that she was relaxing, he saw that she was looking better than she ever had before. The new haircut, less aggressively short now, framed her face and flattered her delicate bone structure. With a little guidance, he thought, she could learn to make the best of herself. She might not resemble him physically, but she appeared to possess plenty of Monahan spirit. And Mattie had told him that she was bright; maybe with the right help she might be able to build a real career for herself at the hotel.
“I’d love to,” said Grace simply. “Thank you.”
“Right, that’s settled. And now,” he said, settling back in the chair and fixing her with his most direct gaze, “I need you to answer a couple of questions for me. About your mother.”
Chapter 56
By the time the police managed to contact Marcus Devenish at seven fifteen the following morning, there was almost nothing left of his beloved gallery. Apparently triggered by a loose wire inside the fuse box, the Fire Officer explained, the flames had spread, setting off the smoke alarms, but doing their damage so rapidly that by the time the fire engines arrived on the scene, the entire top floor was ablaze. Bringing the fire under control had taken three and a half hours, and the building—or what remained of it—was now barely recognizable.
Heavily insured but shaken to the core nevertheless, Marcus Devenish thought back to the previous evening. Not wishing to be late for his dinner appointment with a New York buyer, he had handed the keys of the gallery over to Colin Rowland, the young man who, later on in the evening, would be returning with the consignment of paintings due to be exhibited the following day. With a shudder he recalled his hearty, joking reminder not to forget to lock up again afterward because they didn’t want a busload of burglars making off with the contents of the gallery. “I don’t think young Tessa Duvall would be too thrilled,” he had added cheerfully, “if she turned up tomorrow morning and found an empty gallery. Just stack all the paintings against the walls and make sure you reset the burglar alarm before you leave. OK?”
But resetting the burglar alarm hadn’t helped. As Marcus Devenish stood, hunched inside his overcoat, in the middle of the road outside the smoking, blackened, windowless remains of his gallery, he wondered how on earth he was going to find the words needed in order to break the news to Tessa.
• • •
“Oh God,” she whispered, clinging to Ross as the full horror of the fire revealed itself. The initial frantic hope that maybe at least some of her work might have escaped intact was dashed now; the one hundred and twenty-six paintings—upon which she had pinned her hopes, her aspirations, her entire future—were gone. Destroyed. Reduced to wet ashes.
She was shivering so violently that all Ross could do was hold on to her. In the gray November half-light, the scene of devastation was so total that there were no words with which to comfort her. It should have been such a happy day…
Tears rolled down Tessa’s cheeks, and she pushed them away with the back of her sleeve, breathing in the acrid smell of scorched wood that still hung in the air. “I suppose I should be ashamed of myself,” she said eventually, the words catching in her throat as she fought for control. “It’s not a real disaster. No one’s died. I just can’t believe that all those paintings have…gone. I wanted so badly for the exhibition to be a success, so that you could feel proud of me, and now there’s nothing left…”
• • •
Colin Rowland winced as the van swung around the corner, intensifying an already brutal hangover. Last night had been a hell of a night, and when Sylvie found out that he’d met up with Barry Edgeson—“that pond life” she called him—she wasn’t going to be pleased. But at least he’d remembered to set his alarm clock before he’d crashed into bed at around two thirty. He had a vaguely uneasy feeling that he should have phoned Ross Monahan at the hotel yesterday evening to let him know what had happened, but it was only eight thirty now, and with a bit of luck he’d reach the art gallery before anyone else arrived. If he could unload the van quickly enough he might even get away with it completely, and then no one need ever know what had happened.
“Bloody hell!”
Hangover forgotten, Colin braked hard and brought the van to an abrupt halt. Jumping down from the driver’s seat, he stared openmouthed at the scene of devastation before him. Firemen, clambering through the now sodden debris, were winding up their hoses, and a collection of shocked onlookers littered the pavement, surveying the remains of the most prestigious art gallery in Bath.
Then he saw Tessa, being comforted by Ross Monahan. And slowly, arising from the depths of his tired, dehydrated-by-alcohol brain, came the thought that maybe failing to make the delivery wasn’t going to turn out to have been such a disaster after all.
• • •
Colin Rowland didn’t smell that great—stale whisky fumes mingled unhappily with wafts of late-night vindaloo—but Tessa didn’t care. Finally managing to make sense of his garbled explanations and realizing that her paintings had not, after all, been inside the gallery when it had burned to the ground, she kissed first Colin, then Ross, then Colin again. Finally, for good measure, she kissed one of the firemen who had been attempting to comfort her earlier.
“I still don’t understand why you didn’t deliver them,” said Ross, glad that he wasn’t expected to kiss Colin in turn. But Colin, having in the space of less t
han five minutes cast himself in the role of conquering hero, was already telling his story to the team from a local radio station, who evidently weren’t put off by the smell of curry.
“See, after we’d loaded the van up at Tessa’s place, I started off back and realized that I was getting low on gas,” he explained importantly, his rich local accent thickening with the excitement of it all. “So I pulled in at the filling station, like, and who should I bump into but me old mate Barry Edgeson. Well, we hadn’t seen each other in years—he’s bin away in the army, like—and there we both were, practically next door to the Golden Lion, which was always one of our old stamping grounds, so we popped in for a quick one to celebrate. Next thing I knew, it was chucking-out time, and I’d sunk a few so I thought I’d best leave the van in the pub parking lot. Me and Barry went off for a chicken vindaloo—bloody ’ot it was an’ all—and then got a taxi ’ome. First thing I knew about the fire was when I brought the van down ’ere just now…and all the paintings snug as bugs in the back of it. Blimey, if I hadn’t kept ’em safe, they’d have gone up in flames along with the rest of this place. Bloody lucky, I reckon, that me old mate Barry hightailed it out of the army after all…”
• • •
“If my memory serves me correctly,” said Holly at five forty-five that evening, “your mother once told me that there was nothing she hated more than parties full of strangers. And now here she is, just over a year later, hosting one of her very own. So what do you make of that?” she demanded, addressing Olivia and pulling a face to make her laugh. “What has happened to your funny old mother in the last year? Would you have even recognized her then if you’d passed her in the street?”