Falling for You

by Jill Mansell

“B-but why?” Truly terrified now, Estelle gripped the edge of the table. “What’s happened? You didn’t even phone!”

  Marcella sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

  Kate sighed. “Oh, Norris, not again.”

  “No, not that kind of smell.” Pregnancy had heightened Marcella’s olfactory senses. Lifting her head like a meerkat, she sniffed again. “It’s like that disinfectanty smell you get in hospitals.”

  Wearily Oliver rubbed his eyes. Still bemused by the unexpectedness of his arrival, Estelle said, “Hospitals? Is that why you’re back? Oliver, are you ill?”

  The next moment, somehow, she just knew. Maybe it was the expression on Marcella’s face, maybe the look of resignation on Oliver’s. Whichever, Estelle found herself feeling suddenly weightless with shock, as if someone had just switched off the gravity in the room.

  Kate, still worried, said, “Dad? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Tiff Price, isn’t it?” Estelle heard the words coming from her mouth as if from a great distance. “That’s why you came back…That’s where you’ve been. I don’t believe this,” she blurted out. “Are you actually going to tell me he’s yours?”

  Oliver didn’t reply.

  White-faced with shock, Kate said, “Dad? Is it true?”

  More silence.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Estelle was by this time breathing so fast her fingertips had begun to tingle. “Of course it’s true! If it wasn’t true, he’d say so, wouldn’t he? He’s Tiff Price’s father.” Swinging around to Marcella, she demanded, “Did you know about this? Does everyone in the village know except me?”

  “I’ve never heard a thing.” Concerned, Marcella said, “Look, this is private. I should go.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.” Galvanized into action, Estelle stalked over to the door. “Why don’t I go? Come on,” she told Marcella, “you can help me pack.”

  Kate looked aghast. “Mum! What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking perfect sense. Why should I stay here and be publicly humiliated?” Estelle ran her frenzied hands through her fair hair. “Your father has a mistress and a child, living right here in Ashcombe. All these years he’s been having his cake and eating it, making a complete fool of me—”

  “I haven’t.” Oliver spoke at last. “I haven’t been making a fool of you, because nobody else knew. And I haven’t been having my cake and eating it either. Juliet isn’t my mistress.”

  “Really? How extraordinary!” bellowed Estelle. “What was it, artificial insemination?”

  “We had an affair once,” Oliver said shortly. “Not anymore.”

  “Oh, fantastic, that makes me feel so much better. How dare you? How could you do it?” Estelle was still struggling to take in the news. The shock was on a par with hearing Oliver announce he wanted a sex change.

  “These things happen. We met when Juliet was living in London. And just to set the record straight,” said Oliver, “she wasn’t the one at fault. I told her I was divorced.”

  “You bastard!” Estelle’s voice trembled with rage. How could she have spent the last twenty-seven years married to a man who would do something like this?

  “You’re absolutely right. Call me all the names you want, I deserve them. But right now,” Oliver said heavily, “my main concern is Tiff.”

  He’d come straight from the hospital. Stubble-chinned and ashen-faced, he looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. Remembering how she’d felt when the call had come through from America telling her about Kate’s car accident, Estelle experienced a pang of guilt.

  Next to her, Marcella said quietly, “How is he?”

  Oliver looked as if he was struggling to breathe normally.

  “Still alive. And that’s about as encouraging as it gets. If septicemia sets in, they could be forced to amputate his arms and legs.”

  Oh God, that poor little boy. A lump sprang into Estelle’s throat at the very thought.

  “I just came back to shower and change,” Oliver went on.

  “Tell Juliet we’re all praying for him,” said Marcella, her dark eyes luminous with compassion.

  Rubbing his face, Oliver nodded across at her. “I will.”

  Chapter 40

  “It’s not fair,” Estelle raged. “It’s not fair. He’s acting as if I don’t have any right to be upset because Tiff’s ill. He’s making out that I’m being selfish, and I don’t want to be selfish, but I am upset. I’m bloody upset! All these years I’ve stayed married to him. I could have had an affair, you know, but I didn’t because I was loyal to my husband, and all the time I was being so loyal he was busy having sex with Juliet Price, telling her he was single, getting her pregnant—”

  “Is this wise?” Marcella said patiently, sitting on the end of the bed watching Estelle hurl nighties, skirts, shoes, and assorted items of underwear into two cases.

  “I doubt it, but I’m bloody doing it anyway. How can I stay here?” Viciously, Estelle flung in her blow-dryer and a bottle of Chanel No. 19, not even caring if it smashed. “I’ll be the laughingstock of Ashcombe. Why should I let myself be humiliated?”

  “You wouldn’t be.”

  “Anyway, I’m going.” Estelle said it quickly, before Marcella could come up with some plausible reason why she should stay.

  “Where?”

  “God knows. Pass me my pink top, would you? I mean, can you believe he didn’t even say sorry?”

  “It’s been a shock,” said Marcella. “For both of you.”

  “Bloody right it’s been a shock. Oh, darling…” Estelle’s head jerked up as the bedroom door swung open and Kate appeared.

  “Mum, I don’t want you to go.” Fiercely, Kate hugged her. “I can’t bear it that Dad’s done this to you.”

  Aware that the news of Tiff’s existence must have come as a shock to Kate too, Estelle was nevertheless overwhelmed by the emotion in her daughter’s voice. Kate was on her side and that meant so much to her.

  “It’s the only thing to do. I can’t stay here. Darling, I love you.” Her own voice wavering, she stroked Kate’s face.

  “Where will you go?”

  “Not sure. Some hotel, I suppose. I’ll ring and let you know,” said Estelle.

  “You shouldn’t have to leave. He should.” Kate was vehement. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Yet, thought Estelle.

  * * *

  “Oh God, what a mess,” Estelle said when Kate had finally been persuaded to leave for work. In the space of an hour, her whole life had been picked up and shaken like a snow globe. From now on, nothing was ever going to be the same again.

  Marcella emerged from the en suite bathroom. “Here, don’t forget your razor.”

  “To cut my wrists?”

  “To shave your legs. Hey, don’t cry,” Marcella said encouragingly. “You’ll get through this.”

  “God knows how.” Estelle wiped her eyes with her sleeve, determined not to start. “Why do you keep looking at your watch?”

  “Do I? Oh, sorry. Jake’s taking Sophie along to the doctor this morning. The doctor at the hospital told him she might need a course of antibiotics. He said he’d let me know what was happening.”

  Another great wave of shame swept through Estelle. She truly didn’t mean to be a selfish, horrible person, but it was so hard not to think about what had happened to her. Right now, her own problems were what were uppermost in her mind, whereas as far as everyone else was concerned, the fact that Tiff was lying gravely ill in the hospital was far more important.

  It was just as well she was leaving Ashcombe. Under the circumstances, how could she stay?

  Poor Tiff, thought Estelle, picturing the little boy and feeling her bottom lip begin to wobble again. Poor Sophie. Poor me.

  * * *

  “No danger of a smil
e, I suppose.”

  “What?” snapped Kate.

  “You know, that thing people do with their mouths to cheer up the customers, make them feel welcome.”

  “Since when have you been bothered about customers feeling welcome? Anyway,” Kate turned her back on Dexter, “they’re all out on the patio. There’s no one in here to smile at.”

  Drily Dexter said, “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Really wishing he’d go away—although since this was his pub it was unlikely—Kate did the next best thing and wrenched open the dishwasher, which had just finished its cycle. Instantly she was enveloped in an impenetrable cloud of steam.

  The next moment she jumped as Dexter loomed through the steam like Swamp Thing, whisking the hot glasses from her hands.

  “You could try telling me what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.” Leave me alone.

  “And I’m Pierce Brosnan.” Through the haze of condensation she saw Dexter’s eyebrows furrowed in anger. “It’s bloody Jake, isn’t it?”

  Startled, Kate said, “Sorry?”

  “Messing you about again. I told you before, he’s nothing but trouble. You don’t need someone like that, always messing you around and—”

  “Fine, I’ll tell you,” Kate blurted out.

  Dexter shook his head. “Not if you don’t want to.”

  “By tonight everyone in Ashcombe will know, so it really doesn’t matter. My father had an affair with Juliet Price. Tiff Price is his son. So you see”—Kate’s voice began to waver—“it isn’t only men like Jake Harvey who women should avoid; it’s ones like my father too. They’re all as bad as each other. And now my mother’s left him. She’s gone off, goodness knows where, my father’s at the hospital, and I’m left here like a lemon wondering what the bloody hell’s going to happen next.”

  “Here.” Grabbing a clean bar towel adorned with the Guinness logo, Dexter handed it to her to wipe her eyes with. Awkwardly, he patted her on the arm. “And congratulations, that’s definitely the best excuse for not smiling I’ve heard all day. Little Tiff Price, eh? And he’s your half brother. Poor kid.”

  Bristling, Kate said, “Because he’s my half brother?”

  “Because he’s got meningitis. The bad kind. You’re not that much of a nightmare.”

  Kate wasn’t so sure. Her feelings were hideously mixed. When she’d been much younger, her father had made no secret of the fact that he’d wanted a son as well. Well, now he had one, which was absolutely typical of Oliver Taylor-Trent, because he’d spent his life making sure he got everything he wanted.

  A more recent memory struck Kate: the morning when Tiff Price had spilled chocolate ice cream down her best cream trousers and she had blown her top. And the way Oliver had laughed the incident off, siding not with her, but with his precious, longed-for son.

  “Hey, you’ll be fine.” Sounding most unlike himself, Dexter pushed a brimming glass of wine into her hand and steered her onto a stool. Mortified, Kate realized she was feeling jealous of a critically ill seven-year-old.

  Was it possible to sink any lower than this?

  * * *

  The Intercity from Bath to Paddington was full of business types endlessly announcing into their cell phones that they were on the train before launching into tedious discussions of sales figures, past and future meetings, and projected targets. It would probably have made their week to overhear Estelle’s phone call, but she was far too embarrassed to make it from the train car. Instead, she locked herself in the tiny bathroom stall to press out the number.

  Hanging on to the sink as the train clattered and swayed through the countryside, Estelle held her breath and envisaged the conversation going horribly wrong. What would she do if Will picked up the phone and said, “Well, for God’s sake, don’t come here. My wife’ll be back from school any minute with the kids.”

  “Hello?”

  Will’s voice sent a shudder of joy mingled with fear through her. Was she presuming too much?

  “Hi, it’s me. I’m on the train.” Taking a deep breath, Estelle said, “I’ve left Oliver.”

  Silence. Out the window, fields and trees and Friesian cows hectically zipped past. Why wasn’t he saying anything?

  “Which train?” Will asked at last.

  “Gets into Paddington at three thirty.”

  “I’ll meet you there then.” Will sounded as if he was smiling. “At the gate.”

  Chapter 41

  Paddington station had never looked more romantic. Magically, all the filth and grime seemed to have melted away. Estelle no longer saw the heaving mass of grim-faced commuters milling like worker ants across the concourse. All that mattered was Will’s arms around her, the wonderfully comforting smell of him, and his unstoppable smile.

  At the sight of him, she had actually broken into a run. Well, more of a clumsy canter. With her two cases banging against her legs and the music from Brief Encounter swelling in her brain, Estelle had cannoned into Will and known at once that this was truly meant to be. This was where she belonged.

  “I can tell you’re an innocent country girl,” Will whispered into her ear.

  “Really? How?” Did she have bits of straw in her hair and smell of pig muck?

  “Look at your cases.” He shook his head at the sight of them, flung carelessly down onto the platform. “Do that around here and they’ll be gone in two seconds flat. You’re in London now.”

  “I’m not safe to be let out on my own,” said Estelle.

  “I know.” Having gathered up the cases, Will kissed the tip of her nose. “Just as well you’ve got me.”

  Will’s apartment was in Islington, on the second floor of a three-story terraced Victorian property opposite a tatty rank of shops. Gazing out of the living room window at the video store, the Laundromat, the convenience store, and the betting shop, Estelle reflected that she was a long way from Dauncey House. Will’s apartment was exactly like Will himself, scruffy and uncoordinated but welcoming and, against the odds, attractive in its own way. The decor was basic, tidiness clearly wasn’t a priority, and the wallpaper out in the hall was, frankly, very 1970s, but Estelle didn’t care. She was here with Will and that was all that mattered.

  “Here we go. Should be champagne really.” Will appeared, carrying two mugs of tea, leaving a trail of drips in his wake.

  “Tea’s fine.” Taking a sip, Estelle suppressed a shudder. He’d put sugar in.

  “Sorry, sorry. God, I’m a hopeless case.” Snatching it away from her, Will swapped it with his own. “I still can’t believe you’re here, that you’ve actually left Oliver. It’s like a genie has just burst out of a lamp and granted my wish.”

  This time the tea was better, but the mug was a bit grim, chipped and stained and looking as though it had been hastily rinsed out rather than introduced to the joys of dish liquid. Bravely forcing the tea down, Estelle said, “All these years, I never had any idea. What kind of a man brings his mistress and son to live in the same village as his family?”

  “The kind of man who thinks he can do anything he likes and get away with it.” Will’s voice was gentle.

  “Exactly! That’s Oliver all over. Bastard!” raged Estelle. “Well, I’m not going back. It’s over.”

  “Bed,” said Will.

  “Really over. Juliet’s welcome to him.”

  “Bed.”

  “God knows how many other women he’s had…” Estelle paused. “What did you say?”

  Will removed the chipped mug from her grasp and drew her toward him. “Let’s go to bed.”

  She shivered with anticipation. “Are you sure?”

  He grinned. “Are you kidding? This is my second wish.”

  “OK, but there’s something I have to say first.” Estelle hesitated, because she might not be wearing her hideous honeycomb
underwear this time, but there was still the problem of her less-than-perfect body. “Don’t expect…you know, too much, OK? I’m forty-five.”

  “Fantastic,” Will said happily. “That’s my third wish come true.”

  * * *

  By early evening, everyone in Ashcombe had heard the news. Phil Jessop, who worked as a porter at the hospital by day and in the kitchen of the Fallen Angel at night, had told everyone he knew, and the ripples had spread out from there. Tiff remained in a critical condition at the hospital. Juliet was still with him, as was Oliver Taylor-Trent. Estelle, along with a pair of suitcases, had left Dauncey House in a taxi. Kate was currently serving behind the bar of the Angel, biting the heads off customers faster than Ozzy Osbourne could bite the head off any bat.

  Since Ashcombe was currently a hotbed of gossip, it wasn’t too surprising that Sophie Harvey had gotten to overhear most of it before bedtime.

  “I might be seven, but I’m not stupid,” she announced to Jake, Maddy, and Nuala, who were outside in the backyard of Snow Cottage. Wearing a blue tank top and yellow pajama bottoms and with toothpaste splashes around her mouth, Sophie settled herself on Jake’s knee. “I heard Cyrus Sharp talking to Theresa Birch in the shop. They were saying Oliver Taylor-Trent is Tiff’s dad, but he can’t be. He’s never even bought Tiff a Christmas present.”

  Jake wondered how he was supposed to do this. He’d been putting off the birds and the bees lecture for as long as possible, but there wasn’t just the technical aspect of procreation to consider. Sophie was only seven, for heaven’s sake. How were you supposed to answer the Christmas present question?

  “Oliver is Tiff’s biological father,” Nuala came unexpectedly to the rescue, “but it was a big secret. So nobody knew, not even Tiff.”

  “Biological.” Sophie was frowning. “That’s the seed thing, right?”

  “Right. Anyway, it doesn’t matter a bit,” said Nuala. “All we care about is Tiff getting better.”

  “But what if he doesn’t?” Sophie’s gaze swung back to Jake. “Theresa Birch said people die of meningitis.”

  “Tiff isn’t going to die,” said Jake.