by Jill Mansell
“But if he does, will you make a casket for him?”
“He’s not going to die,” Jake repeated, because what else could he say?
“You hope he isn’t going to,” said Sophie, “but if he does, he wants one like a Batmobile. And if I die, I want a red one with a giant spider on the lid.”
“Poor Kate,” said Maddy when Jake had carried Sophie off up to bed. “Must be a bit weird for her. I still can’t get over it—Juliet and Oliver, of all people. I can’t believe they never once gave themselves away.”
“It’s good, really, that Estelle’s left. Otherwise you wouldn’t know whose side to be on, hers or Juliet’s.” Finishing her can of Coke, Nuala gazed at Maddy with longing. “Is it my turn now?”
“No.”
“Oh, go on. Don’t be so mean. Let me have a go.”
“Look, I’m an expert. I know how to handle these things. You’d just fall out and fracture your other collarbone.” As she said it, Maddy shielded her eyes from the setting sun and watched Jake reemerge from the house without Sophie.
“Maddy won’t let me have a turn on the hammock,” Nuala called out. “Tell her she’s being selfish.”
“What’s wrong?” Maddy knew something was up the moment Jake failed to kick her out of the hammock and leap into it himself.
“I just rang the ICU. They let me speak to Juliet.” Jake’s throat was working as he struggled to keep his voice under control.
Fearfully, Maddy said, “And?”
“Tiff’s taken a turn for the worse. The doctors have warned her that he may not last the night.”
* * *
“I have to go to Ashcombe,” said Will. “You understand that, don’t you?”
It was nine o’clock in the morning. Since waking twenty minutes earlier, Estelle had been torn between reveling in the fact that she had spent last night making love with a man who wasn’t her husband, and coming to terms with the realization that she was a cheated-on wife. The other unfamiliar situation was her nakedness beneath the bedclothes—it actually felt quite weird, when you weren’t used to it, not to be wearing a nightie.
“Today?” Hauling the duvet up around her breasts, she struggled into a half-sitting position.
“It’s my job. I’m a documentary maker.” Will, already showered and dressed, came to sit on the bed. “Not including all this stuff in the program would be like making a film about Hitler and not mentioning the war.”
Estelle nodded. Of course he had to go.
“You’re amazing.” Will reached out to stroke her cheek.
“You won’t tell him I’m here, will you?”
“Absolutely not.” He pulled a face. “Do I look stupid?”
“Nor Kate,” Estelle insisted. “I don’t want anyone to know.”
“Hey, don’t panic. We’re on the same side, remember? I’ll be back tonight.” Will held up a front door key. “Now, this is my spare. Will you be OK here without me?”
Blissful memories of last night came flooding back, of Will whispering how beautiful she was, and how she didn’t have to hold her stomach in for him. In a rush of love and gratitude, Estelle decided she’d spend the day cleaning his apartment, restoring order from chaos, and discreetly bleaching his coffee mugs.
“I’ll be fine.” Taking the key, she leaned up for a kiss.
“Typical,” said Will good-naturedly. “All these weeks I couldn’t wait to race down to Ashcombe, and now all I want to do is get back here to be with you.” Then he paused. “How will you feel if Oliver’s distraught about your leaving? Will it make you want to go back to him?”
“I’ve made my decision.” Counting off on her fingers, Estelle said, “For a start, nothing’s going to make me want to go back to him. Secondly, he wouldn’t be distraught, that’s just not Oliver’s style. And number three,” she concluded, “I doubt he’ll even notice I’ve gone.”
By midday the apartment was looking fifty times better and Estelle was feeling like Wonder Woman. Ironic, really, that back in Ashcombe she paid Marcella to do most of the housework for her, yet here she was having the time of her life doing it herself.
Smugly, Estelle surveyed the vacuumed carpets, the dusted surfaces, and the neat piles of magazines in the living room. In the kitchen, the mugs were gratifyingly stain free and the countertops sparkled. Ruthless decluttering, that was the key. Now that she’d cleared away all the extraneous rubbish, she could set about improving the apartment in other ways, jazz it up a bit with some nice cushions, vases of flowers, bright rugs, and a few decent prints on the walls—come to think of it, the walls could do with a fresh coat of paint. Maybe she’d go out on a shopping trip this afternoon—
Bbbrrrppp went the doorbell. Startled, Estelle froze. Will hadn’t said anything about the doorbell ringing. What was she supposed to do now?
While she was wondering, it rang again. Cautiously she made her way over to the window and peered out.
Although there really was no need to be cautious, Estelle reminded herself. She was allowed to be here. And it was hardly likely to be Oliver, begging her to forgive him and come home.
The lanky lad on the pavement was wearing a cycle helmet and carrying a package. Oh well, even she could manage to take a package in. Raking her hands through her hair, Estelle ran downstairs to open the front door.
The delivery boy looked distinctly taken aback when he saw Estelle. In her hurry to get on with cleaning up the apartment, she hadn’t actually gotten around to dressing this morning. Double-checking that her peacock blue cotton robe wasn’t gaping open, Estelle said nicely, “Is that for Will Gifford? I can take it.”
The boy didn’t hand it over; he was too busy boggling at her. For heaven’s sake, was opening the front door in your nightgown not the done thing in London? Was it against the law?
“Really,” Estelle persisted, “I can. It’ll be safe with me.”
Cautiously the boy said, “Do you…um, live at this address?”
He’d clearly delivered packages to Will before and was making sure she wasn’t some madwoman who liked to break into strange houses and steal other people’s parcels.
“Yes, yes, I live with Will.” God, it felt lovely saying that. “He’s at work right now, but he’ll be back this evening. I’ll make sure he gets it then. Where do you want me to sign?” Belatedly, Estelle realized he wasn’t carrying a clipboard.
“No need.” Handing over the package, the boy said, “It’s just the latest tape from the edit suite. Will wanted to check it out himself. You’re Estelle, right?”
Startled, Estelle wondered how he could possibly know her name.
The boy broke into a geeky grin. “Yeah, that’s it. Got it now. Recognized you from the tape.”
Chapter 42
When he’d wandered into the Fallen Angel to innocently inquire why there was no one at Dauncey House, it had occurred to Will that if Kate refused to tell him what had been happening, he was going to be stuck.
Thankfully, this didn’t happen. Kate sang like a canary. On tape. Only too keen to bring Will up-to-date, she didn’t even object to being filmed while the whole sorry story came tumbling out.
“And now Mum’s gone. God knows where,” Kate concluded heatedly. “She just took off, yesterday afternoon. I mean, what must she be going through? She could be suicidal for all he cares… That’s so typical of my father: the only person he’s bothered about is himself.”
Will kept the camera rolling. This was perfect. In his diffident, apologetic way he said, “So you’re concerned about your mum.”
“Of course I’m concerned about her!” Kate looked at him as if he were mad.
“Not so long ago, the two of you seemed, well, not so close.”
“She’s my mum. Until she gets in touch, I won’t even know if she’s still alive.” Kate paused, then said abruptly, “OK, switch that t
hing off now. Don’t try to make me out as being some cold bitch who was always horrible toward my mother.”
Will, having switched off the video, was now replacing the lens cap and fitting the camera back into its carrying case. He said mildly, “I wasn’t trying to do that, but I’m glad you spotted it.”
“Oh, don’t practice your amateur psychology on me.” Kate looked defensive. “I know I wasn’t that great when I came back to live here, OK? I was under a lot of pressure.”
“That great? You had an attitude problem the size of Texas.” To soften the blow, Will said, “Anyway, you’ve come on in leaps and bounds since then. And I’m glad you appreciate your mother more now.” I know I do.
“You sound like a trendy vicar,” snapped Kate.
Will patted her arm. “Right, I’m heading over to the hospital. See if Oliver’ll speak to me.”
When he’d ambled out of the pub, Dexter stopped sweeping up spilled peanuts and said, “Does he have his eye on you?”
“Fancies me rotten, if that’s what you mean.” With a brief smile, Kate said, “It’s pretty obvious. He hangs around our house like a puppy, half the time when Dad isn’t even there.”
“I have exactly the same problem with Nicole Kidman.” Dexter nodded gravely, then waited. “And?”
“Oh please. I know I’m ugly, but I’m not that desperate.” Kate’s lip curled with derision. “Will Gifford just has a high opinion of himself. He can’t quite believe I don’t fancy him back.”
* * *
Will persuaded Oliver to come outside the hospital and talk to him, just for five minutes.
“I’m so sorry. It’s a terrible thing to happen.” Will was genuinely sympathetic. “How’s Tiff?”
“Not so good.” Rubbing his face, which was gray with fatigue, Oliver said, “The doctors are doing everything they can, but it’s…you know. Hard.” He paused, indicating the whirring camera. “Do we have to do this now?”
“Your wife has left you,” said Will. “We need to see your side of the story. You do have a reputation as a ruthless businessman,” he pointed out. “This way, the viewers will be touched by your anguish.”
Angrily Oliver said, “I don’t give a fuck about the viewers. It’s not their sympathy I’m after. Tiff’s my son and I love him.”
“Of course you do, of course you do.” Will’s voice was consoling. “It’s a tragic situation. What a way for your wife to find out that you had a love child actually living right there in Ashcombe. How did she feel about that?”
“Not too happy, obviously.” Oliver’s tone was curt. “She’s gone, hasn’t she?”
“Do you think she felt humiliated? Made a fool of? Do you have any idea,” Will persisted, “where she is now?”
A look of pain crossed Oliver’s face. He shook his head. “Look, I can’t concentrate on this. I need to get back to the ward.”
“Would it be possible to have a word with Juliet? Do you think she’d come out and speak to me?”
“I’m sorry.” Oliver had already turned to leave. “Absolutely not.”
* * *
“Hang on, did somebody switch front doors? Am I in the wrong apartment?”
“Surprise,” Estelle sang out, flinging her arms around Will, covering him with kisses and simultaneously dragging him through to the living room.
“Oh wow,” said Will, staring. “Cushion city.”
“I just thought I’d tidy up.”
“And buy some cushions.”
“I might have gotten a bit carried away,” Estelle admitted.
“Hey, you heard the rumors about the national cushion shortage and grabbed them while you could. That’s completely understandable.” Will nodded. “When you can only buy them on the black market, we’ll be millionaires.”
“Sorry,” said Estelle.
“Shhh…eleven, twelve, thirteen.” He grinned. “Thirteen cushions. In one room.”
“I found this great cushion shop in Barnsbury.”
“And candles.” He did an exaggerated double-take. “And a rug. God, and everything’s so clean.”
“I just wanted to help.” Estelle hung her head. The cushions had cost an absolute fortune. Then again, it was Oliver’s money, so who cared?
“Hey, listen, you don’t have to do all this.” Lifting her chin, Will said, “I’m just glad you’re here. I’d be happy to live with you in a tent.”
You might be happy, Estelle thought, but I jolly well wouldn’t be. Unless it was a luxury tent. But it was so sweet of Will to reassure her like this.
“I’ve been too busy to cook anything. We’ll have to eat out.”
He pulled a face, gesturing toward his pockets. “I’m a bit…”
“My treat,” Estelle said hurriedly.
Well, Oliver’s treat. Better still.
“Let me just grab a shower first.” Will gave her a quick kiss.
“Hey,” he yelled minutes later from the bathroom. “Posh soap!”
Estelle smiled to herself, because it wasn’t posh at all. Then again, compared with Will’s beloved soap, presumably any soap was posh.
* * *
“Kate’s missing you,” said Will. “She’s on your side.”
His words brought a lump to Estelle’s throat. It was eight o’clock and they’d come to an Italian restaurant a couple of streets away from Will’s apartment. Over fettuccine alla marinara and a bottle of Barolo, he had brought her up-to-date with the goings-on in Ashcombe.
“I should ring her, let her know I’m OK.” Estelle was overcome with guilt.
“No hurry. Call her in the morning,” said Will. “It won’t do them any harm to worry about you for a change.”
He was right. And he was so lovely. Wondering if she’d ever felt happier, or naughtier, Estelle sat back, heaved a sigh of satisfaction, and finished her glass of red wine. Beneath the table, under cover of the cobalt-blue tablecloth, she slipped off one of her shoes and wiggled her bare toes along the inside of Will’s jean-clad thigh.
“You’re a wicked, shameless woman.” Will shook his head. “I’m being corrupted. Are we having dessert?”
For once, tiramisu wasn’t exerting its irresistible pull. Her toes still wiggling, Estelle murmured, “You know, I think I’d rather get back to the apartment.”
“And count cushions?” Wasting no time, Will signaled the waiter to bring their bill.
Estelle reached happily for her purse. “Well, something like that.”
Estelle reveled in the feel of Will’s arm slung around her shoulders as they made their way out of the restaurant. In her whole life, Oliver had never slung an arm around her shoulders in public. It was an altogether too casual gesture for him. Impulsively, she turned and planted a warm, loving kiss on Will’s mouth.
Flash went a camera somewhere nearby. Well, that was London for you, heaving with tourists snapping away nonstop—
“What the hell…?” Will, his head jerking back, gazed in disbelief at the man who’d appeared from nowhere on the pavement in front of them. Flash flash flash went the long-lensed camera. Bewildered, Estelle clung to Will’s arm. Her first thought was that Oliver had hired a private investigator to track her down and spy on her, but how could he possibly have known where to find her? How could anyone have known?
“What’s this about?” Will was every bit as flummoxed as Estelle.
“You’re Will Gifford, right? And that’s Estelle Taylor-Trent,” said the photographer with a grin. “Neat twist, making a documentary about some big-shot businessman, then running off with his wife.”
The next moment he was gone, vanished into the crowds thronging the pavement.
“Shit. Shit,” Will seethed.
Estelle, shaken up but thinking fast, said, “Hey, it’s OK. It’s not as if you stole me away from Oliver. He’s the one with the mis
tress and the baby.”
For some reason Will wasn’t reassured. “But how could this happen?”
Estelle exhaled, fairly sure she knew the answer. “I forgot to tell you. A tape arrived for you this morning. It was delivered by someone who works at the editing place. Tall and skinny, in his twenties, funny teeth…”
“Garth,” Will said grimly.
“Anyway, he recognized me from the tape. I was still in my nightgown.” Estelle searched Will’s face. “Could that be it?”
“Oh yes.” He nodded, unamused. “That could definitely be it.”
“But it doesn’t matter,” Estelle insisted. “I mean, so what if Oliver does find out? It’s not the end of the world!”
“Of course it isn’t,” Will said after a long pause. “It’s hardly going to do my career the world of good, but never mind about that. Come on.” With a rueful nod he took her hand in his. “Let’s go home. Ever been on the front pages of the national press before?”
A jolt like electricity zapped through Estelle’s body. “Oh God, will I be?”
“Of course not,” Will teased. “My name’s Will Gifford, not Jude Law.”
Estelle squeezed his hand. Feeling ridiculously happy, she said, “I’m glad you’re not Jude Law.”
* * *
She wasn’t on the front pages of the national press. Will eventually found the photograph the next morning on page seventeen of the Islington and Barnsbury Observer.
“Well, that’s OK,” said Estelle, peering over his shoulder to read the accompanying article. “Nobody I know is going to see this.”
“So long as it doesn’t get picked up. Bloody Garth.” Will shook his head. “Blabbing to everyone at work. He thought it was funny, I suppose. I’m sure they had a good laugh about it down at the pub. Then word spreads and some keen young journalist gets to hear about it… It just doesn’t occur to them that something like this could have consequences.”
“Hey.” Wrenching the newspaper from his grasp, Estelle pushed him back onto the bed. “Consequences don’t scare me.”
“God, I love you.” Will sighed as she straddled him, her peacock-blue robe falling open almost to the waist.