Sins of the Fathers

by Anthea Fraser

  Mark laid down his fork and stared at him disbelievingly. ‘You’re not trying to tell me you’re thinking of leaving Jenny and the kids? For God’s sake, man, come to your senses! You probably thought it was “the real thing” during your other “dalliances”, as you call them. This will pass, like the others did.’

  Simon shook his head again. ‘Not this time. I can’t let her go – it’s as simple as that.’

  ‘What’s simple is that you asked for my advice, and I’m giving it to you. Forget this woman, whoever she is, and give your family the love and attention they deserve.’

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if you knew who she was,’ Simon said a little sulkily, spearing a chip.

  ‘I don’t care who the hell she is, she’s off-limits and you know it.’

  ‘I expected a bit of understanding, if nothing else.’

  ‘Then you’ve come to the wrong person. Jenny’s sweet and amusing and generous, and she doesn’t deserve this.’

  ‘God, you sound like her father! I know she doesn’t deserve it, but I can’t go on living a lie.’

  ‘Try!’ Mark said harshly. ‘It’s better than breaking up your marriage.’

  ‘She’d want me to be happy. If she knew how I felt, she wouldn’t stand in my way.’

  ‘And have you spared a thought for what it would do to her? To the children?’

  ‘You’re talking as though I’d cut them off without a penny! Of course I’d make every provision for them. They could stay in the house—’

  ‘Big deal!’ Mark drew a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m sorry if you thought I’d be an easy ride, tell you that you were doing the right thing. Since I’ve no intention of doing so, we’d better talk of something else before we both get indigestion. Subject closed, OK?’

  Simon’s face was mutinous. There was a pause, then he said in a low voice, ‘OK. Forget I said anything.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ Mark replied.

  Despite himself, however, over the next few days Mark’s thoughts kept returning to Simon’s unwelcome confidences. What had he meant about Mark understanding if he knew who the woman was? Could it be someone he knew personally, or – highly unlikely – some minor ‘celebrity’, a term now seeming to encompass anyone who’d appeared, however fleetingly, on television?

  Well, he told himself, no matter who it was, his advice would have been the same. He could only hope Simon would take it.

  The weather in Bournemouth was disappointingly cold and blustery, and despite their mothers’ urging, the little girls showed no enthusiasm for walks along the front. Consequently by the end of the week they’d visited a considerable number of attractions including the aquarium, a theme park and a ride on the land train, and were beginning to run out of ideas.

  On the Thursday evening Stella, who’d been exchanging daily texts with Lance, hurried into the kitchen where Sophie was cooking their meal.

  ‘Guess what!’ she exclaimed excitedly. ‘Lance is suggesting he and James come down and join us tomorrow evening!’

  Sophie felt a tide of heat sweep over her. ‘They can’t stay here!’ she said sharply.

  ‘No, of course they can’t; they’ll book in at a B and B. I think we deserve a bit of “us” time, don’t you, after trailing dutifully after our kids all week?’ She studied her friend’s face. ‘You did like James, didn’t you? You never really said.’

  Sophie hesitated. ‘To be honest, I couldn’t make him out; he virtually ignored me all that evening, and then—’

  ‘Leapt on you in the car? Yes, I noticed! But he obviously likes you, or he wouldn’t have agreed to come.’

  ‘They are coming, then?’

  ‘Yes, driving down after work. Obviously we can’t go out, so I’ve suggested they come here for a meal.’

  Sophie was trying to ignore her accelerated heartbeats. ‘Suppose one of the children wakes?’

  ‘Well, they haven’t so far, but we’ll face it if we have to.’

  Sophie was floundering around searching for objections. ‘We can’t see them during the day. Florence tells Mark everything she does in meticulous detail.’

  Stella smiled. ‘They’re not worried about the daytime – they’ll amuse themselves playing golf, walking, whatever – but we’ll have two lovely long evenings with them. Come on, Sophie, it’ll be great! I don’t know about you, but I’m getting withdrawal symptoms!’

  ‘You promise they won’t spend the night here?’

  ‘Not the night, no, and if you and James want to spend the evenings watching TV, feel free. Lance and I will find another way of amusing ourselves!’

  By the following evening Sophie was in a state of panic. Suppose the children didn’t go straight to sleep and wandered back into the living room? Suppose she and James found nothing to say to each other?

  ‘Relax,’ Stella told her. ‘Lance will text to check the coast’s clear this end. If it isn’t, they’ll wait till it is. Everything will be fine.’

  As it happened the children did go straight to sleep, tired out by the strenuous day their mothers had intentionally planned, and at eight thirty a discreet knock on the door heralded their visitors. Sophie had wondered if James would match the picture of him that had haunted her for the last two weeks, hoping desperately that her response to him would have moderated in the meantime. But when he appeared in the doorway, the memory of his mouth and hands surged over her and she knew she was lost.

  Somehow she managed to eat the food Stella had prepared, helped down by several glasses of wine. It was a leisurely meal; no one seemed in a hurry for it to end, and to Sophie’s consternation it was she who was impatient for the next stage of the evening.

  Eventually the coffee was finished and everyone helped carry the dishes through to the kitchen. Then Lance took Stella’s hand, said to James, ‘See you in about an hour,’ and disappeared with her into her bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

  Sophie, who’d been putting away the napkins, froze. The time she’d been both dreading and longing for was upon her. Almost fearfully she turned, to find James surveying her quizzically, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Shall we follow suit?’

  She could only nod in reply.

  The next morning while Stella was preparing breakfast the children wandered into the kitchen in their pyjamas. There was no sign of Sophie.

  ‘Where’s Mummy?’ she asked Florence.

  ‘She’s got a headache,’ the child answered, climbing on to her chair and reaching for her juice.

  Stella made no comment, but having settled them with their milk and cereal, she went to Sophie’s door and tapped gently. There was no reply, but she didn’t wait for one. The curtains were still drawn and Sophie was lying face down on the bed, clutching the pillow with both hands.

  ‘Sophie?’

  She turned over slowly, shielding her eyes from the faint light in the room. Her face, Stella noted with shock, was red and swollen from crying. She hurried over and sat down on the bed. ‘Sophie, what is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I can’t believe what happened last night,’ she said in a clogged voice. ‘I’ve never behaved like that in my life.’

  ‘He didn’t hurt you, did he?’ Stella asked sharply.

  Sophie shook her head. ‘He wasn’t exactly gentle, but he didn’t hurt me. But God, Stella, I barely know him! What was I thinking of? He hardly said a word the whole time, and at the end he just got up, dressed, nodded to me and went out to meet Lance. How do you think that made me feel?’

  Stella reached for her hand. ‘Would you rather I cancelled this evening?’ she asked tentatively, and felt Sophie’s hand tremble in hers.

  After a minute she replied in a low voice. ‘No. Now do you understand why I hate myself?’

  Sophie did not appear to have benefited from her holiday, Mark thought when he greeted her and Florence on their return that Sunday. She was pale and unusually subdued, and her explanation of a headache came as a surprise, since she so rarely s
uffered from them.

  ‘Don’t bother unpacking, then,’ he told her. ‘Sit down and relax. I’ll bath Florence and give her her tea.’

  She nodded apathetically and when, after taking her case upstairs, he glanced into the sitting room, she was leaning back against the sofa with her eyes closed and what looked suspiciously like a tear on her cheek.

  He hesitated, unsure what to do, but Florence was calling him from the kitchen and there was no time for any in-depth conversation, if that was what was required. Somewhat uneasily, he set about cooking some pasta.

  Half an hour later, when he paused at the sitting room door on their way upstairs, she was in the same position and he presumed she was asleep.

  ‘Don’t disturb Mummy,’ he whispered. ‘She’ll come and say goodnight when you’re in bed.’

  Florence at least was her usual chatty self, endlessly regaling him with accounts of their activities in Bournemouth. She looked a picture, Mark thought fondly, with her hair pinned up for her bath and her little face glowing.

  ‘And this morning we went for a last walk along the beach and Uncle Lance bought me and Rosie an ice cream and—’

  She broke off, flushing, and Mark’s attention, which had started to wander, snapped back. Uncle Lance?

  ‘What is it, sweetie?’

  Florence’s lip trembled. ‘Mummy said not to tell you,’ she said. ‘It’s our secret.’

  Mark felt a tide of anger well up inside him. Was it possible this was the cause of Sophie’s malaise? Who the hell was ‘Uncle Lance’, and why was he a secret? It seemed that not only was his wife seeing another man, she was involving their daughter. Downstairs he heard the house phone begin to ring. Well, she could damn well wake up and answer it. He was busy. But he’d have a word or two to say to her later.

  ‘Daddy?’ Florence’s worried little face looked up at him. ‘Mummy won’t be cross, will she?’

  He pulled himself together. ‘Of course she won’t, darling.’

  Behind him he heard the bathroom door open, and Florence’s eyes went past him. Talk of the devil, he thought. He turned, ready with a sarcastic remark, but stopped short at the sight of his wife. If she’d been pale before, she was now chalky white and leaning for support against the door frame. God, perhaps she was really ill!

  He got clumsily to his feet. ‘Sophie?’ he said sharply.

  Her eyes, huge and clouded, moved slowly towards him and came into focus. She moistened her lips. ‘Could you …?’ she began, and swayed against the door frame.

  Mark glanced back at the child, aware of her alarm. ‘It’s all right, sweetie – I shan’t be a minute. Play with your toys.’

  He moved swiftly forward, took Sophie’s arm and moved her outside, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said urgently.

  Her eyelids were fluttering and he was afraid she was going to pass out. Then her fingers fastened on his arm, digging into the flesh. ‘Margot just phoned,’ she said, her voice halfway between a croak and a whisper. ‘Mum asked her to.’ She drew a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Daddy’s just died!’

  SEVEN

  Drumlee

  Harry stood staring after Natalie as she followed the others into the sitting room. Pregnant? She couldn’t be! She’d have said! Anyway, they’d not discussed starting a family since they were first married; Jess had always stressed the importance of her career and he hadn’t wanted to press her.

  Sudden coldness washed over him. Suppose she was planning to get rid of it? Was that why she hadn’t told him? Or was Nat wrong? OK, she was a medic, but she wasn’t infallible. Another thought: since she’d noticed, had anyone else? Was he the only one who hadn’t spotted the signs? Surely Seb would have said something? A baby? He felt foolish, angry and elated, all at the same time.

  He drew a deep breath. If Jess was upstairs he’d go straight up and tackle her about it. However, glancing into the sitting room, he could see her sitting on the sofa, apparently perfectly composed, with a glass of water on the little table in front of her. So it would have to wait till bedtime.

  He came slowly into the room, looking at his wife with new eyes. Was there anything different about her? She didn’t seem to have put on weight. What other signs should he look for? Across the room he caught Natalie’s eye and she gave an almost imperceptible nod. He walked over and sat beside Jess. She was in the middle of a conversation with his mother and barely seemed to register him. Well, he’d get her full attention later, he promised himself, and, taking the cup of coffee handed him, prepared to bide his time.

  ‘I hope everyone remembers,’ Natalie was saying, ‘that not only is Tuesday Mum and Dad’s big day, it’s also Valentine’s Day!’

  ‘In other words,’ Douglas remarked with a smile, ‘any “unknown admirers” had better make damn sure they post their cards tomorrow!’

  God! Mark thought, why hadn’t Helena warned him? They could have bought a card in town yesterday. He’d assumed Valentines were a thing of the past now Sophie had left, but remembered with a sudden tug of guilt that he’d always sent a card to Florence – something he’d omitted this year. Would one posted tomorrow reach Dormers by Tuesday? He could only hope so.

  Jessica stood up, smoothing her skirt. ‘Would you excuse me if I go up now? I’ve had a headache threatening ever since bowls; an early night and some paracetamol should stop it in its tracks.’

  ‘Of course, dear,’ Paula sympathized. ‘I hope it lifts soon.’

  Damn! Harry thought. It was only just after nine – too early for him to follow her – and ten to one by the time he got upstairs she’d be asleep. It looked as though the discussion now weighing heavily on his mind would have to wait till the morning.

  Up in their room, Nick said, ‘I don’t know how you feel, but it occurred to me that as the two not-quite family members we should make some contribution towards the anniversary. I mean, Nat has bought something, obviously, and no doubt so has Helena, but they’re not really from us.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Mark agreed. ‘Anything in mind?’

  ‘Perhaps a bouquet of red roses, to be delivered before they go to lunch?’

  ‘Perfect!’

  ‘Right; no doubt we’ll be going out some time tomorrow, so I’ll arrange it then.’

  Mark nodded, taking off his tie. ‘Let me know what I owe you.’

  Natalie came back from the bathroom to find Helena tapping on her mobile.

  ‘Whoever are you texting this time of night?’ she asked.

  ‘A work colleague,’ Helena said shortly.

  ‘God, you businesswomen! It’s Sunday night, for Pete’s sake!’

  Helena flushed. ‘She’d left a message earlier that I’ve only just picked up.’

  ‘And it couldn’t wait till morning?’

  ‘Is it really any of your business?’ Helena flared.

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Natalie shrugged off her dressing gown and climbed into bed. Though she wisely held her peace, she remembered now that her sister had been on her mobile at the leisure centre. Either Helena’s job was considerably more frenetic than she’d thought, or she wasn’t telling the truth. Knowing her sister, Natalie concluded it was the latter.

  Sebastian lay awake a long time that night, listening to Danny’s soft snuffles in the darkness. The call from Diana had unsettled him more than he’d realized, and now that he’d nothing to distract him memories came flooding back of their time together.

  God, how he’d loved her! They’d met at university; she’d been his first love, and, for a long time after she left, he’d feared she would also be his last. But now there was Miriam, Diana’s complete opposite, whom, as he’d told Harry, he was on the verge of loving. But, as he’d also told Harry, there were complications, and he had to weigh up whether or not they could be resolved without causing hurt to Danny.

  He turned over impatiently, trying to focus on his current problem, but the image of Diana again intruded – Diana with her sleek hair, her long legs, her in
definable air of elegance no matter what she wore. Diana who, so in control of herself, had nevertheless responded to his lovemaking with a passion that had surprised and delighted him and which, remembering it, made him want her again with an urgency he was unable to gratify.

  He sat up abruptly, reaching for a glass of water and managing to locate it without turning on the light. A cold bath would be more appropriate, he thought with grim humour as the icy liquid went down his throat, and he wondered yet again if there’d been any stage at which, if he’d acted differently, things might not have ended as they did. But he’d been so sure of the stability of their marriage that he’d not seen the danger latent in the quiet, unassuming presence of Gordon Carrington, who’d insinuated himself into their circle without his noticing and proceeded, apparently without effort, to steal his wife away from him.

  He realized belatedly that he was still holding the cold water glass and that not only was his hand numb, but the freezing air in the room was insidiously chilling his neck and shoulders. Swearing softly he lay down again, pulled the duvet up to his ears and, condemning his ex-wife to perdition, made a concerted effort to go to sleep.

  When Jessica stirred and opened her eyes the next morning, Harry was sitting on a chair in his dressing gown. She stretched luxuriously, reminding him of a cat.

  ‘Been awake long?’ she asked sleepily.

  ‘Most of the night.’

  She frowned, propping herself on one elbow. ‘Oh, bad luck. Was it something you ate?’

  ‘No.’ He gazed at her steadily, at her tangled hair and her face flushed from sleep, and felt a lurch of love for her. He took a deep breath and blurted out, ‘Are you pregnant?’

  Her eyes widened and she gave a little gasp. ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘Natalie thinks you are. Is it true?’

  A hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh, Harry!’ she whispered, and burst into tears.

  He was with her instantly, gathering her into his arms and holding her closely. ‘Oh, my love,’ he said against her hair, ‘why didn’t you tell me?’

  She shook her head blindly, sobbing into his chest.