by Janet Pywell
His family should be proud.
Ali’s mother sobs loudly.
Claudia, radiant and dressed in a peacock-coloured silk dress and matching turban, dabs at her eyes. Her beautiful black face crumples as she wipes away a tear.
The music is soulful and melancholy, chosen by the Parks,and I swallow hard and grip my hands into fists, digging my nails into my skin.
When a large screen comes to life at the front, the room is hushed, and the video I made of the Parks in Morocco and photographs of Ali bring his memory to life. The final shot is of him standing proudly in his flying jacket; his hair on top brushed forward and cut in a fohawk taper, buzzed around the ears and dropped down to the neck. He was a handsome young man who wanted to do the right thing.
If he hadn’t gone to Raymond’s office, we wouldn’t have had the CCTV evidence that he met Arlene – nor would we have matched his phone calls to Raymond’s office. Mulhoon’s diligent team of officers found phone records and his secretary Pat remembered leaving Arlene alone in the office. It wasn’t anything unusual; she often helped out. It was unlucky for Ali that she was there. The police also found the original dagger hidden in the bedroom of their Islington home, as well as receipts for the two replicas from the craftsman in Camden.
Arlene told Mulhoon that she had wanted to replace the original in her uncle’s collection but that she had become muddled. Arlene was devious and dangerous, but I wonder if alcohol had played a part in her confusion.
I gaze up at the screen. If it weren’t for Ali, we wouldn’t have continued our investigation. It was his memory and his determination that had kept us all strong.
I wipe a tear from my eye, and Peter reaches out for my hand. His solid reassurance makes me feel safe, and I straighten my back and take a deep breath.
Ali has saved the lives of many, many children. He has helped the Met, and I do not doubt that he would have made an excellent police officer.
As Ali’s image on the screen fades, and the coffin gradually disappears, I know I’ll never forget Ali nor any of the Parks. When I look across at Monika and see her tear-stained face, I understand that she is just one person, of the thousands, who will have a new chance in life. Wherever life takes her, she will be better and stronger for having known Ali, and Matt, and her other friends – the Parks.
The disappointment that Marco has been delayed in Croatia, and Stella and her family are staying in India, and I’m not seeing Peter’s wife and daughter, pale by comparison to these troubled lives. And, unlike Ali, I would still see my loved ones again next year.
* * *
It’s the day before Christmas Eve, and I’m on the train to Salisbury, heading to Blessinghurst Manor feeling exhausted, happy, and excited. I’ve been delayed in London by Chief Inspector Mulhoon. Two days ago, Peter left for Scotland and I agreed to go through the evidence and our statements one last time. It’s been long enough for the bruising on my face to fade.
Marco flew back to England late last night, and I can’t wait to see him. He’s promised me that he has organised a turkey and the necessary food for the holidays, but I don’t care. I know we can shop later today or tomorrow. There’s still time. I just want to be with the man I love and share Christmas with him.
The train slows. I look out of the carriage window expecting to see his tanned, happy, and smiling face waiting for me, but as I step down from the train with my case and backpack, he’s not there.
The platform is almost empty, and I’m gazing around wondering where he could be and hoping nothing has happened. He couldn’t have forgotten I was arriving. I’d called him early this morning, and he said he had lots of jobs to do and he’d see me later. I assumed he’d be here to meet me.
‘Mikky!’ I turn at the sound of my name and the familiar voice. ‘Sorry I’m late, darling; I couldn’t find parking.’
‘Josephine?’ I can barely hide my surprise as she pulls me into her arms and we hug tightly. ‘What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Simon and I came back yesterday. You’ve been through a difficult time, and I wanted to see you. Besides, I thought it would be a surprise.’
‘How lovely!’ I can’t stop hugging her. ‘This is amazing!’
‘Marco had a problem with the boiler, so he’s with maintenance men, and Simon has offered to help him—’
‘Simon?’ I laugh as we head toward her car, parked at the front of the station. ‘What does he know about DIY?’
Josephine laughs. ‘Exactly! That’s what I said. Pop your bags in the car. I want to hear everything.’
‘What’s wrong with the boiler?’
‘No hot water, but Marco said he’d fix it or we can move into a local hotel.’
Disappointed at the thought of spending Christmas in a hotel, I throw my bags into the boot of the Volvo and sit happily in the front beside Josephine.
‘I’ve been looking forward to our first Christmas at Blessinghust Manor. Is it bad?’
‘What?’
‘With no hot water?’
Josephine regards me carefully. ‘Pretty bad, but it will be alright. Marco, as you know, only arrived back yesterday, so he’s doing his best.’
I nod and remain thoughtful as Josephine pulls the car into the traffic. I’m thinking of earlier trips to Salisbury when Marco’s sister, Stella, had been admitted to hospital, eighteen months ago. It had led me on a quest to find Marco, her elusive brother. I’d finally managed to track him down in Croatia. We fell in love almost immediately, and when he turned up in Sardinia to trap his brother in a plan to win back the family estate and save the family heirlooms, I’d been surprised at our feelings. We didn’t want to let each other go, and I’d agreed, last year, to return to Blessinghurst Manor for his fiftieth birthday.
‘And how’s Peter?’ Josephine asks, as we head to the main road and follow the signs to the New Forest, one of England’s most picturesque landmarks, with its wild ponies, pretty villages, and views to the South Coast.
‘He met Aniela and Zofia a few days ago. They’ve gone to Scotland to see an aunt of his.’
‘Are they coming down here?’
‘Peter said they’ll spend Christmas in Scotland. He thinks it will be more festive.’
‘Are you alright?’
I feel Josephine’s gaze on me.
‘To be honest, I’m really upset. I wanted to see Aniela and meet Zofia. She looks so gorgeous on Zoom. She’s beautiful.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame, Mikky, but never mind. You’ll meet up one day.’
‘What about Glorietta and Bruno?’ I ask.
‘They’re in Lake Como for Christmas. Don’t look so gloomy, Mikky.’ She laughs. ‘At least you and Marco will be at home for Christmas together.’
‘His sister Stella was supposed to fly over, but then they had to cancel. Her husband is a doctor and he’s working—’
‘Oh, never mind, Mikky. Maybe next year we can organise something bigger. So, tell me, what happened about that dagger you had to find, was it difficult?’
I smile. ‘It was a piece of cake.’
I guess she won’t have seen the English news in America, so I gloss over the details.
‘And what about that politician?’ she asks. ‘Raymond Harris. I saw him on the news the day after the election. I thought the prime minister was very gracious to him. It wasn’t his fault, was it? He didn’t have a clue what his wife was up to, did he?’
I shake my head and look out at the darkening sky, only the Christmas lights cheering the otherwise gloomy road. ‘She used the Asian to put together a network of vulnerable children to supply drugs – and all out of Islington – so that her husband would be seen as the local hero and saviour.’
‘Like in the book The Three-Body Problem?’ Josephine says.
‘You’ve read it?’ I can’t hide the surprise in my voice.
‘Where the Chinese save the planet from aliens and everyone is happy, not knowing they’d triggered the problem in the firs
t place?’
‘Exactly.’ I smile.
‘She seems delusional but dangerous. So, the Asian followed you?’
‘Raymond told her I was snooping around and we think he followed me from Dixon House, and when we went to the craftsman who made the daggers, then Arlene knew she had a problem. She wanted me out of the way.’
‘But at least something good came out of it all with the Parks?’
‘Absolutely. They’re incredible, Josephine. I’d like you to meet Matt one day. He runs Dixon House and is instrumental in working with the kids and the local communities. He’s hoping that parkour training will take off and become relevant to more kids like Ali and the other Parks. It gives them a sense of pride.’
‘And the original dagger, did you find it?’
‘Mulhoon found it. Arlene had it upstairs in her bedroom, would you believe?’
‘She sounds a little crazy.’
‘She made a statement, and she’s confessed. She kept the original dagger worth over $3 million dollars as an investment for her retirement. She believed that Jeffrey Bonnington, her long-lost uncle, who she met for the first time at her mother’s funeral, owed it to her. He’d inherited all the family wealth and she had grown up in relative poverty. She’d also signed a prenuptial agreement that if she and Raymond ever divorced, she’d get nothing.’
‘It was her financial security?’
‘She felt it was her birthright.’
‘How did she meet the Asian?’
‘She said she met him at a local gym. They went and had a lunchtime drink and they had an affair. He probably gave her the attention that Raymond never had the time to dedicate to her.’
‘Raymond Harris? Well, I guess his political career is over?’
‘Time will tell. He’s working with Matt and trying to help the Dixon Trust. His heart was always in Dixon House and, presumably, Jeffrey Bonnington is still supporting the Dixon Trust financially.’
‘That’s kind of him.’
‘Yes.’
‘He must be delighted with you for returning his dagger?’
‘He was pleased. He invited Peter and me for dinner last week.’
‘You have been busy in London.’ She smiles.
‘It was Ali’s funeral, and then I promised I’d take the Parks out for dinner and give them a preview of the documentary.’
‘So, you finished it? I’d love to see it.’ She sounds genuinely excited for me.
‘You will. It will be on TV in the New Year. Sandra Worthington made it all possible. She’s been very supportive.’
‘I met her at an awards evening once. She was a splendid person. I’ll look forward to meeting her again, one day.’
‘I’d like you to meet the Parks, too.’
‘I’d like that.’
Josephine turns the car into the long driveway of the Chedwell family estate, Blessinghurst Manor, and I take a breath. It looks different since I came here last year. It’s almost dark – the December light has faded. My tummy begins somersaults at the thought of seeing Marco.
‘Excited?’ Josephine grins.
‘Very.’
She turns off the track and veers away from the main house toward the cottages: Buttery Cottage, Stable Cottage, and Dairy Cottage.
‘Where are you going? It’s that way.’
I point to the main house, lit up and welcoming, and the two Christmas trees standing at the entrance, decorated with pretty white festive lights.
‘Trust me. I know where I’m going.’
She parks the car outside Dairy Cottage, where I stayed on my first visit, when I’d been employed as a curator to document the Chedwell family treasures, and she throws open the car door. ‘Come on. I’ve got a surprise for you.’
‘I stayed in Dairy Cottage. Marco used to live here before his brother framed him and tried to get him sent to prison,’ I say, climbing out of the car. ‘Stella had Buttery Cottage,’ I add.
‘She still does, and Joe and Tina have Stable Cottage now.’
‘You’re very well informed, Josephine.’
‘Marco has guests staying in the main house on the estate – you know, the one that Roberto lived in with his wife and Megan.’
‘Guests?’
‘Well, I suppose Simon and I are hardly guests,’ she says with a laugh. ‘We’re family.’
I step inside Dairy Cottage, and it’s how I remembered; the open lounge-diner is warm and the log burner is welcoming. Teacups and home-made cakes, including Sandy’s home-made carrot cake, have been laid out on the counter. I imagine Sandy’s happiness running the estate cafe with Marco back at home. A bucket of ice is holding a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon Vintage.
Josephine turns to face me. She can hardly contain her excitement.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask.
‘Come upstairs, Mikky. I want to show you something.’
Intrigued, I follow her up the narrow staircase. She stands aside to let me enter the main bedroom before her.
Hanging on the wardrobe door is the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen – a low-cut, Cinderella-style dress that seems to shimmer like tiny golden, glittering stars, in the glow of the bedside lamps.
I reach out, surprised at the softness of the satin and silk. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I whisper.
‘I had it made for you,’ she says.
‘For me?’
‘Yes.’
‘And these?’ I point at a polished pair of my favourite biker boots.
‘It’s what you said you wanted to get married in. Today is your wedding day, Mikky.’
I stare at her, but she doesn’t stop smiling.
‘Where’s Marco?’ I ask.
‘Waiting for you in the main room at the Manor.’
‘And the broken boiler?’
‘It’s all been an elaborate surprise. Marco flew back a week ago,’ Josephine continues speaking, not pausing for breath. ‘He’s with all the other guests; everything is arranged and—’
‘What other guests?’
‘Well, I think you’d better get dressed and come and see for yourself; they’re all waiting for us.’
‘Really?’
‘I promise.’
* * *
We walk along the illuminated garden path, decorated especially with thousands of Christmas lights and little lanterns hung over our heads, to the Manor house.
‘It’s like a film,’ I whisper, conscious of the beautiful golden gown that fits me perfectly.
‘It’s a fairy tale, my darling. You deserve the happy ending of a princess.’
‘Did Marco arrange all this?’
‘With a little help.’
‘Did you even go to Miami?’
‘Er, well, we went for a few days, but Marco needed help to organise all this – Simon and I couldn’t wait to get back from Miami. Marco loves you with all his heart.’
‘Is this why you told me to go to the hairdressers and get my nails done in London?’
Josephine laughs. ‘And a little makeup hides your fading bruises.’
Inside the Manor, a stranger in a three-piece grey, pinstriped suit smiles at us. His blond hair is gelled into a quiff and he claps his hands in delight.
‘Hello, Treynor,’ Josephine calls happily.
‘I’m Treynor, welcome to your wedding, Mikky. You look gorgeous. I’ve heard so much about you, and I’m so excited. The guests and,’ he grins, ‘your future husband are all waiting for you.’
I stare at him, unable to speak, the realisation of this event dawning on me.
It’s my wedding day.
Treynor turns to Josephine. ‘If you’d like to go inside and take your seat?’
Josephine nods; dressed in a peach suit, she’s stunningly beautiful, and I realise how fortunate I am. I reach out.
‘Wait! Aren’t you going to give me away?’
‘I … I didn’t know if you’d want me to—’
‘I’d be honoured, Josephine. You’re my mama, are
n’t you?’ I pull her closer to me.
‘I didn’t want to presume.’
‘Why? That’s not like you!’ I joke, and wipe a tear from her eye.
She smiles. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
‘I know.’
‘This is the best day ever,’ she says. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you, too.’
‘Are you ready, ladies?’ asks Treynor.
‘Yes, I’m ready.’ I turn to Josephine. ‘Thank goodness you poured me a glass of champagne. Look, my hands are shaking.’
Josephine giggles and I can’t stop grinning, although my tummy is fluttering wildly.
‘Follow me,’ Treynor says; he swings his hips when he walks, and when I laugh, hysteria rises in my throat. He sashays toward the main lounge and, very dramatically, pushes open both doors and announces grandly, ‘The bride.’
My laughter dies in my throat as we pause to take in the perfect scene before us; the roaring fires, two stunning Norwegian Firs rising to the ceiling, golden lights, candles, and a massive array of blue irises.
Glorietta, at the front of the room, is facing us. Wearing a cream dress that contrasts with her suave Mediterranean complexion, and her dark hair pulled into a chignon, she begins to sing. Pitch-perfect, the note is melodious and breathtaking as it swells, filling the room.
She.
Written and sung by Charles Aznavour and Herbert Kretzmer, and later recorded by Elvis Costello for the film Notting Hill, it is one of my favourite songs.
‘She may be the face I can’t forget …’ Glorietta’s soft voice is filled with love and emotion.
Josephine takes my arm, but my step falters. Marco is waiting for me. He’s wearing a tailored dinner suit, white jacket, and golden bow tie. His tanned face crinkles in an excited smile, and I know it’s a scene I’ll never forget.
I slow my pace, determined to enjoy and remember every moment; every face and every friend gathered here to help us celebrate. We walk, mother and daughter, along the aisle and I glance at each row of chairs, as I walk toward the handsome man waiting for me. Marco – my future husband.
‘She may be the song that summer sings …’
I stop in surprise when I see my lovely friend Javier, now a world-famous artist living in South America. He was my flatmate in London five years ago when I was about to steal Vermeer’s The Concert. But then Josephine came into our lives, pretending she needed her portrait painted by him on the pretence of finding me. Javier, still attractive, smiles and raises his hand to blow me a kiss. Beside him, his handsome partner Oscar beams happily.