by Ally Blake
‘With her mother.’
She willed him to say more. ‘Who taught her to sign?’
Nick reached out for his wineglass, his natural sceptism returning. ‘Is this relevant?’
Lydia put down her spoon and sat back in her chair. ‘It is to Rosie. She’s not some kind of package you can pass between you. She’s deaf. She appears to sign very well and it’s cruel to leave her with no one she can talk to in her own language.’
‘I know.’ His voice was quiet, but it demanded to be heard. ‘I will organise something.’
‘When?’ Lydia waited, but he clearly had no intention of answering her. ‘Nick, you asked me to stay. You said you wanted to talk about ways to help Rosie, so I stayed. But every question I ask you blank. Or you give me a monosyllabic answer which, to be frank, is really irritating me.’
The muscle pulsed once more in the side of his face. It was the only indication that he’d heard her. ‘Would you like some more wine?’
‘No.’
Nick put the wine bottle down carefully in the centre of the coaster. ‘I never talk about my personal life.’
She blinked at the unexpectedness of his reply. She knew, of course, that he hadn’t this evening. He’d been the one to ask the questions and, very unusually, she’d told him some of the most painful things about her life. Things she rarely told anyone.
‘Why?’
‘I consider it private.’
Lydia frowned. ‘If we’re not going to talk about Rosie, then why am I still here?’
She watched as he poured cream liberally over his tart and then offered her the jug. Lydia shook her head. It all looked completely delicious, but she didn’t feel like eating any more.
It had been a long and very uncomfortable day and the truth was she’d really had enough of it. Now she wasn’t quite so hungry and the commuter traffic was off the road, she was ready to go home. A little bit of solitude, a power shower and her own bed seemed a better option than continuing with this pointless conversation.
‘I’m quite happy to discuss the merits of British Sign Language over Sign Supported English and residential deaf schools versus semi-integrated deaf units. What I’m not prepared to do is talk to you about the custody arrangements Ana and I have made.’
Now that was why he was so successful in business. Clear, concise and sparing no one. Lydia felt her hands clamp tightly together in her lap. Few men had ever made her so mad. Christopher Granger, her first editor, was one exception, but this came a really close second—and she was being irritated in her own time.
‘It’s a pity Rosie isn’t able to compartmentalise her life as easily. Whether or not you want to discuss “custody arrangements” with me doesn’t change the huge impact they have on your daughter’s life.’
‘I understand that.’
‘Do you?’ Lydia asked, warming to her task. ‘You’ve got a daughter asleep upstairs whose observation is that her mother doesn’t like her and her father is too busy for her. Perhaps you ought to consider letting her live with the grandma she loves so much.’
As soon as the words left her mouth she wondered whether she’d hit a bit below the belt. She couldn’t help but see the flicker of pain pass across his eyes. Sometimes she didn’t think before she engaged her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that …’
Nick sat back in his chair. ‘She’s dead.’
Lydia’s startled eyes flew to his face.
‘She died this summer.’
‘Rosie doesn’t know?’
Nick shook his head. ‘To be honest, I didn’t know she didn’t until today. I would have thought Ana would have told her.’
‘Clearly not,’ Lydia replied bluntly. ‘Maybe she found it too painful. You’re going to have to tell Rosie yourself.’
He met her eyes.
‘Try imagining what’s going through Rosie’s head right now. No wonder she keeps trying to run away. She must be so confused. Did her grandma sign?’
‘I imagine so.’
‘You don’t know?’ Lydia asked, mystified why he wouldn’t know the answer to a simple question like that. She was beginning to wonder what kind of ‘custody arrangements’ Nick and his ex-wife had for Rosie.
His face seemed completely shuttered. It seemed to her he was morbidly afraid of sharing any part of himself with anyone. Maybe he was uncomfortable talking to her and would be better with a professional carer.
‘Doesn’t Rosie have a social worker you could discuss this with? I know my parents worked with several very good ones who helped them enormously,’ she said, thinking out loud.
Still nothing.
Or maybe his problem was specifically with her? Yesterday she’d been convinced he didn’t like her at all. She’d been so concerned for Rosie she’d forgotten his earlier assumption that she might write something that would hurt his godmother. Perhaps this was all about that?
She finally lost patience. Lydia leant over the side of her chair and picked her handbag off the floor. ‘Look, I don’t think there’s much point to this—’
‘Please, finish your meal.’
She put her linen napkin beside her untouched plate and stood up.
Nick was on his feet. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Lydia draped her jacket over her arm. ‘For the record, I’m not nearly as interested in your personal life as you think I am.’
She wondered for a moment whether he was going to protest, but she ploughed on regardless. ‘You’re clearly fixated by the fact that I’m a journalist, but the only information I’ve read about you told me your name and that you invented an electrical component which, frankly, I thought made dull reading. You’ve got an interesting godmother and a delightful daughter. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’
Lydia turned to leave and Nick reached out to stop her, his hand resting on her arm. She looked down pointedly and he removed it. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not important.’ And then, ‘Oh, I forgot.’ She reached round for her handbag and opened the flap. ‘I spoke to my sister about Rosie. I hope you don’t mind.’ Lydia pulled out a small notebook and ripped the front page out. ‘I told you she’s a teacher?’
Nick nodded.
‘She’s a specialist teacher, so I rang her. I thought she might know of some useful contacts. Anyway,’ she said, handing over the piece of paper, ‘I jotted down the numbers she gave me.’
‘Thank you.’ His voice sounded tight and constrained.
‘She also said she might know of a nanny who might suit your daughter—if, of course, you and … Ana decide on replacing Sophie. Izzy’s happy to speak to you if you want to ring her. Her telephone number is on the back.’
She saw him look down at the piece of paper as though he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Well, that was his problem now. She’d done everything she could do to help Rosie.
Lydia tucked the notepad back inside her handbag and flicked it shut. Turning abruptly, she walked confidently from the dining room, aware that Nick was close behind her. At the front entrance she stopped and waited while he opened the door.
‘Lydia—’
She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye. Please thank Mrs Pearman for cooking such a delicious supper. I appreciated it.’
Nick took her hand and held it firmly. ‘Lydia, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you—’
‘Not at all.’
‘It wasn’t intentional. And thank you for everything you’ve done today. For bringing the cat here. And for Rosie …’
‘You’re welcome.’
Lydia shivered in the night air and slipped her arms into her jacket. She adjusted the collar and set her handbag back on her shoulder. Halfway down the steps she turned and looked back up at him. ‘You know, you could have trusted me.’
‘I don’t trust anyone.’
Which just about said it all. Lydia turned and walked towards her car. If it was true that he trusted no one then it was one of the saddest things s
he’d ever heard—and such a waste.
Was it money that had done that to him?
Or life? Perhaps a combination of both.
She climbed into her car and started the engine before fastening her seat belt.
Looking over her shoulder, she gave a brief wave and started down the drive before remembering the gates. Then she shrugged. Nick would remember she needed them to be opened.
It had been a peculiar day. And one she wouldn’t be at all sorry to leave behind. She only hoped, for Rosie’s sake, that Nick would take the initiative and call Izzy. She couldn’t bear to think he’d leave his daughter so lonely and isolated.
CHAPTER SIX
WENDY BENNINGTON sat ensconced in a high-backed chair positioned so she had a view of the sweeping lawn on the west side of Fenton Hall, her injured ankle elevated on a high footstool. ‘I like that girl,’ she said decidedly, watching Isabel Stanford’s battered car disappear down the drive. ‘Talks a lot of sense. Wouldn’t believe she’d ever taken an overdose, would you?’
Nick certainly wouldn’t have believed it.
‘She seems tougher than that,’ Wendy added, accepting the cup of tea her godson handed her.
Nick absent-mindedly picked up his own teacup. It would seem that his much vaunted ability to judge character had been at fault—once again. Isabel Stanford certainly didn’t blame her sister in any way. He’d misread the situation entirely.
‘Pass me a digestive biscuit,’ Wendy said, pointing at the plate.
Nick picked it up and held it out to her.
‘Thank you,’ she said, proceeding to dip the chocolate-coated biscuit in the hot liquid. ‘You know, this is one of the greatest pleasures of being my age. I no longer care whether anyone thinks this is good manners or not.’
‘Did you ever?’ Nick was rewarded with a sniff that he knew meant that his godmother agreed.
She fixed her eyes on him. ‘You’re very quiet. What did you make of what Isabel had to say?’
Nick stretched out his legs. ‘I think she’s right in thinking a deaf unit will suit Rosie.’
‘What about the girl she mentioned? Rachel? Very young, of course, but if she signs it might make Rosie feel more settled here.’
Nick didn’t answer.
‘You do need to do something, Nick. Rosie’s devastated by her grandma’s death. It might help to have someone to sign with. She certainly liked talking to Isabel.’ Wendy’s face grew hard. ‘Ana should be horse-whipped for not having dealt with it better.’
He didn’t disagree. When Rosie had finally believed what he’d told her about her grandma she’d sobbed as though her world had ended. It had ripped him in two to think that, as far as she was concerned, it probably had. She’d lost the one person she seemed to have loved, had been uprooted from the only home she’d ever known and dumped with a father she barely knew.
Nick picked up a biscuit. ‘It’s certainly worth meeting Rachel, particularly if she’d be prepared to act as Rosie’s communicator at school.’
Wendy watched him for a moment and then sipped her tea. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been told before that children who have cochlear implants have to learn how to interpret what they’re hearing. It’s fascinating.’
‘That’s never been an option for Rosie.’
‘No,’ Wendy agreed, adding, ‘but it made me wonder, if Rosie had been a suitable candidate for one, how Ana would have coped with the discovery that it wasn’t a cure-all.’
Nick frowned. His imagination hadn’t taken him that far, but Wendy was right. Ana thought hearing aids, in whatever colour, were simply ugly. In her mind a cochlear implant would have returned Rosie to normal.
‘Can’t see her liking a plastic disc stuck on her daughter’s head any more than she likes things attached to her ears.’
‘No,’ Nick agreed. She wouldn’t have liked it and it would have been impossible for Rosie not to have known.
His ex-wife lived her life in a way that placed beauty beyond anything else in importance. She hated poverty and illness in equal measure. Anything Ana perceived as ugly almost caused her physical pain. It had taken him a while to see that. Even longer to realise it extended as far as their child.
He might never be able to quite forgive himself for having not fought harder to keep a relationship going with his daughter, but now, given this second chance, he wouldn’t fail her.
There was so much to absorb in what Isabel had said. The idea that there was an established deaf culture was completely new to him. He hadn’t known that many deaf people didn’t consider themselves disabled, but described themselves as a minority group. Isabel had said that her father had passionately believed that.
He was Lydia’s father too. No wonder she’d been so angry that Rosie was being denied access to her first language. He wished he’d taken the opportunity to ask more questions, had tried to understand more.
If he’d known then that Isabel had really supported her sister’s actions he might have listened.
He might even have kissed her, a quiet voice whispered inside his head. There’d been moments during that dinner when he’d wanted to. He’d hated the way his body responded to her laugh and the movement of her hand through her hair. He’d not understood how he could be so attracted to a woman whose value system he completely disagreed with. After Ana, he’d vowed he would never let that happen again. And it had been easy … until Lydia.
It didn’t matter. Whatever Lydia Stanford was or wasn’t, Rosie had to be his priority now. But he couldn’t help but wish he’d handled dinner with Lydia differently. He’d been rude—and there never was an excuse for that.
Lydia approached Fenton Hall with a sense of déjà vu. Almost two weeks and she hadn’t given the place a thought other than to wonder how Rosie might be faring.
Actually, that was completely untrue. She’d been itching to know whether Rosie had tried to run away again, whether Sophie was still there, whether Nick had taken on board anything she’d said to him over that disastrous dinner.
Not that she’d thought it remotely likely when she’d left, although there’d been a glimmer of hope that something she’d said might have made a difference when Izzy had rung to say that Nick had called her.
Lydia rounded the final bend. The flowers he’d sent her were a nice touch too. Twenty-four long-stemmed red roses with a white card attached saying simply ‘Thank you. Nick’. It was difficult not to be impressed.
She’d told herself red roses were a predictable choice of flower and that twenty-four was an obscene number to send anyone. But then she’d already ascertained that he was a traditional sort of man and they habitually lacked imagination. Besides, he had plenty of money and she had given up a whole day waiting for a cat.
The heady scent of roses had filled her flat for all of last week and every time she’d looked at them she’d thought of him. Had wondered how he was getting on with Rosie. Whether his daughter was happy.
And she should have rung to say thank you for them. She’d almost done it—twice—but, for some reason, hadn’t. That part annoyed her. She’d been struck down by a kind of adolescent nervousness she thought she’d long since outgrown.
Lydia pulled into the lay-by and reached over for her mobile. It was easier to phone to get the gates opened than to get out of the car and use the intercom. She always hated those things anyway. She felt so foolish talking to a crackling voice through a metal box.
Nick’s card was still tucked in the front of her handbag. Her fingers hesitated before keying in the number.
She was nervous. How ridiculous.
It was probably because she’d not contacted him about the roses. She should have done that. If she saw Nick today—and she probably wouldn’t—she only had to thank him for the flowers and move on. She was here to see Wendy. This was really no big deal. There was no need to feel embarrassed or remotely uncomfortable, she reminded herself sternly.
Besides, he was very unlikely to mention her leaving their di
nner so precipitately because … well, why would he? Lydia bit down on her lip. The trouble was she’d been so affected by meeting Rosie that she’d forgotten there was no reason on earth why Nick should confide in her. And, if she was honest, it had hurt her that he hadn’t chosen to.
‘Just phone,’ she said out loud. ‘Get it over with. This is work.’
Obediently her fingers tapped out the number. She didn’t realise how tensely she was holding herself until Christine Pearman’s contained voice answered.
Her initial relief was immediately followed by a wave of disappointment that it hadn’t been Nick. Lydia stamped down hard on it. What was the matter with her?
‘Is that Christine Pearman?’ she asked, trying to inject her voice with professional confidence.
‘Yes.’
‘Hello. It’s Lydia Stanford. Can you open the gates for me? I’m a little early, but I’ve got an appointment to see Wendy Bennington.’
‘Yes, of course, Ms Stanford.’
Lydia tossed the mobile back onto the passenger seat and the gates started to swing open. She was almost at the house before she remembered she hadn’t called back to tell Christine she was safely through. Presumably the housekeeper would have shut them anyway. She’d have to check, though. How embarrassing.
One glance up at the house made her feel infinitely worse. It seemed she was going to have to confront Nick after all. He was walking down the wide steps towards her. One glimpse of his athletic physique and she felt distinctly more flustered than before.
Which was illogical. Completely, utterly, irritatingly illogical. She absolutely wasn’t interested in a man who hadn’t been bothered to learn to sign for his daughter—even if he did fill a pair of jeans better than most.
She pulled the car to a stop and Nick was there to open the door before she’d even taken the key out of the ignition. Her voice sounded pitifully breathless as she looked up at him. ‘I forgot to ring back and say I was through the gates.’
For a moment he looked confused and then he said slowly, ‘They’re on a timer.’