Date With a Single Dad

by Ally Blake

  ‘It’s been successful,’ Nick observed quietly.

  ‘I’ve worked hard. I thought I was focused before, but this has been more like a crusade. I really believe in what I’m doing. The fact that it’s brought me professional respect is a by-product. I’d do it anyway.’

  They walked through the narrow opening to the enclosed wall garden. Nick kept silent, instinctively knowing she wouldn’t want anything else.

  Lydia looked around at a kitchen garden that was still very much in the early stages of planning. He watched as her expression altered and she breathed softly. ‘This is going to be amazing.’

  Her eyes still held a hint of remembered pain, but she was back in control. The mask she wore to protect herself from the world was back in place. Even so, Nick didn’t think he would ever be able to look at her again without remembering how vulnerable she could be. The real Lydia Stanford.

  He looked around the kitchen garden which had taken him so many hours. It had been the place where he’d come to terms with many of his own demons. ‘It’s been slow going. When I arrived there was an old greenhouse on the site, which had been smashed. I’ve spent the better part of this year clearing away debris and picking pieces of glass out of the soil.’

  Lydia’s eyes followed the far wall with its fan-trained peach trees. ‘It’s coming along now, though.’ She walked between two beds and stopped. ‘I don’t recognise this.’

  ‘Allium cepa “Prolifera”.’ He smiled, watching the way she gently stroked the plant. ‘It’s a tree onion. I think it’s the most decorative form of the onion family. The onions themselves are small but strong. Fine for pickling.’

  He loved the way her eyes darted about the enclosed space. ‘This is south-facing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. It gets the sun for most of the day, until late in the afternoon, and the fact that it’s so sheltered should make it highly productive.’

  ‘You might be able to experiment with more exotic fruit and vegetables here.’ She looked up at him and he felt his heart tighten so that he felt almost breathless. ‘I must get a garden. I do miss it.’

  Nick glanced down at his watch. ‘We’ve given Wendy an hour. We ought to start heading back.’

  With one last look over her shoulder, Lydia led the way out of the kitchen garden. As they left the enclosed space the summer breeze whipped at her hair. She caught it and twisted it into a loose plait.

  Nick felt his stomach twist. Lydia was beautiful, intelligent and caring. It was hardly surprising that he should be attracted to her.

  But a woman as vibrant as Lydia Stanford was never going to be interested in a man like him. A single father, tied to one place in one country. No adventures. No great causes.

  They walked back across the lawn towards the house. What he needed to do was let Lydia get on with her job. She was here to see Wendy.

  He had to remember that when she’d gathered all the information she needed she’d be gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NEVER cry all over a man—they don’t like it. Who had said that? Lydia returned with the tray of filter coffee and mugs and set it down on a low table.

  She couldn’t remember who’d given such sage advice, but she wished she’d paid more attention to it. Her third visit within eight days to Fenton Hall and Nick was noticeable by his absence. When she’d left after seeing Wendy the first time he’d been taking an important telephone call from Germany. On her second visit he’d been in London. This time he was expecting a conference call and was in his study.

  It might be coincidental that he was never around, but if she’d been a betting woman she’d have laid odds on it not being. In her opinion it was beginning to look as if her arrival was his cue to disappear and she wasn’t holding her breath in expectation of seeing him before she left today. When she’d gone to ask Christine for coffee his study door had been wide open and his computer switched off, but he’d been nowhere to be seen.

  She pushed down the plunger. Perhaps she’d embarrassed him by crying? Maybe it had been information overload and he’d felt uncomfortable? Certainly she shouldn’t have cried. She never cried.

  She hadn’t meant to. It had shocked her that he’d thought she would have deliberately used Izzy … and then she’d started talking and hadn’t seemed able to stop. He hadn’t seemed to mind. In fact, he’d been lovely. Surprisingly so.

  Something had shifted the last time she’d seen him. It had felt as if they’d reached a new understanding, had begun a friendship. She shrugged. Clearly not. He’d obviously been marking time until his godmother woke. Anything else had been in her imagination.

  Wendy put the sheaf of papers she’d been reading on the small table to her side. ‘Are we done for today?’

  ‘I think so,’ Lydia said, lifting the coffee jug. ‘You ought to have a rest after you’ve drunk your coffee … and I’ve got plenty to be going on with.’ She smiled. ‘Eighty-five thousand words, to be precise.’

  ‘You know, it’s depressing to think I was talking about all this twenty years ago,’ Wendy said, indicating the papers at her side. ‘I read the other day that the Amazon rainforest is currently being flattened at a rate of six football pitches every day. Six! And in some remote parts there’s just one forestry agent to monitor an area four times the size of Switzerland.’

  Lydia poured the coffee. ‘I thought governments were now committed to stopping forest-clearing.’

  ‘There’s a big difference between what a politician promises before an election and what he delivers after it,’ Wendy said dryly. ‘Depressing, but true. It’s complicated, of course. One can only be sympathetic to a country which needs agricultural businesses to keep expanding if they’re to pay their external debt, but that’s why I personally believe we should remove the debt …’

  ‘Is something the matter?’ Lydia asked as Wendy trailed off, her attention claimed by something outside the window. The elderly woman’s face had lost its crusading fire and had become wistful.

  ‘It’s Nick.’

  Nick. Immediately Lydia’s stomach did a kind of belly flop.

  ‘In the garden.’ Wendy turned her head to look at her.

  Lydia carried a bone china mug over to where Wendy was sitting. It gave her a perfect view of the sweeping lawn … and Nick. Nick and Rosie.

  She watched as he swung his daughter round and landed her carefully, their faces full of laughter. Father and daughter. They made a striking couple. Nick in dark blue denim jeans and an olive-green T-shirt, Rosie in yellow shorts and equally bright cotton sun-top. They could easily have been part of a television advert.

  ‘It’s good to see that relationship building,’ Wendy observed from her chair. ‘Give him time and I think he’ll be a fine father. Better than his own, anyway. Though that’s not saying much.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘George was a cold man.’

  Lydia glanced down at the grey head, hair neatly twisted into a chignon. She longed to ask questions. Her mouth twisted. It wouldn’t be wise. Wendy was sharp enough to notice and she wasn’t sure yet why she was so interested in everything concerning Nick.

  He might be making great strides in building a relationship with Rosie now, but the fact remained that he hadn’t done much in the previous five years. When she actually thought about it, that aspect of his character wasn’t attractive at all.

  So why did she feel this compulsion to see him, talk to him? Maybe she was piqued by the fact that he didn’t seem remotely interested in her.

  ‘Fortunately there’s enough of his mother in him to make Nick worth bothering about.’

  Lydia deliberately moved away from the window. It was almost painful to see how happy Nick and Rosie were together. Beautiful to see, of course, but she felt a stab of envy as she watched them. She didn’t understand why that was, either. It all smacked of domesticity and she avoided that like the plague.

  ‘Jennifer, Nick’s mother, was a lovely girl. Died when Nick was a young baby,’ Wendy continued as Lydia took her own cup an
d sat down again on the coral-coloured sofa. ‘She had rheumatic fever when she was a child and was never very strong afterwards.’

  ‘Did Nick’s father marry again?’ Lydia asked, trying to keep her voice light and neutral. It seemed an innocuous enough question.

  Wendy snorted as though it were the stupidest of suggestions. ‘It was surprising he found anyone to marry him the first time. Complete bore of a man, though very handsome. I never liked him. Thought he knew better than anyone else on any subject. Didn’t believe it was possible for a woman to understand world market indices. After thirty years of arguing with him, I finally came to the conclusion I’d leave him in his ignorance.’

  Even filtering that snippet of information through an understanding of Wendy, it still gave an evocative picture of Nick’s father and, by extension, his childhood.

  He’d grown up without a mother. That didn’t surprise her. And with a distant father. She was even less surprised by that. Lydia sipped her coffee and wrinkled her nose at the bitter taste. She leant forward and spooned in a teaspoon of brown sugar. ‘What’s happened to Rosie’s mother? Has she died?’

  ‘Ana? Dead?’ Wendy smiled grimly. ‘No. Why did you think that?’

  Lydia sat back. ‘I—I don’t know. I just wondered—’

  ‘Rosie’s mother is Anastasia Wilson. She’s not dead. Though she’s just about as much use,’ Wendy added after a moment.

  Anastasia Wilson. For one moment Lydia wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly.

  ‘She’s a fashion designer. Has her own label now, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Lydia said. ‘I love her clothes, but … Anastasia Wilson is Rosie’s mother?’

  Wendy gave her habitual snort of derision. ‘Well, she gave birth to her, but she hasn’t done much mothering. Left all that to her own mother.’

  ‘Who’s just died,’ Lydia said under her breath, finally understanding why Rosie had come to live with Nick.

  Wendy didn’t seem to have heard her. ‘As soon as there was the slightest possibility she might have to assume some parental responsibility Ana passed Rosie over to Nick.’

  As though she’d been a parcel. Poor little girl. No wonder she’d looked so stiff and lonely when she’d first seen her. No one had even bothered to tell Rosie her grandmother had died.

  But …

  Her mind seemed to have frozen on the one thought—Anastasia Wilson had been married to Nick Regan-Phillips. It had the same impact as if Wendy had said he’d been married to the Queen. It didn’t seem possible.

  They were two completely disparate people with, surely, nothing in common. Lydia had been at the same function as Anastasia Wilson several times without actually ‘meeting’ her, but she had read several articles about her in glossy magazines. Any visit to a dentist waiting room inevitably brought you into contact with one. She didn’t remember any mention of Nick or of her having a child.

  She frowned as she tried to pull disregarded information into the forefront of her mind. Anastasia, she was sure, currently lived with a man who Lydia would describe as having too much of everything: too tanned, too blond and too rich. And before that there’d been … Gaston Girard, the charismatic tennis star whose family had been involved in fashion for several generations. He’d seemed a better idea, but slightly too smooth for her taste.

  But, a child? She couldn’t remember anything about Anastasia Wilson having a child.

  Most recently it had been about her fabulous new home in Jamaica and the inspiration she’d found experiencing a new culture. There’d been some mouth-watering photographs of her last collection, soft wisps of chiffon which had been turned into stunning evening gowns.

  Without a doubt, Anastasia Wilson had an incredible flare for colour and a seemingly effortless ability to make the woman in her designs shine rather than her clothes. She was a brilliant designer. In fact, one of her favourites. But as a woman …

  As a woman she came across as shallow, vain and rather silly. Everything she said was peppered with anecdotes of parties, people and places.

  Married to Nick Regan-Phillips?

  No. She couldn’t believe it. Nick was fearsomely intelligent. Quiet and private. It just didn’t fit.

  Lydia wanted to ask so many questions. How long were they married? How did they meet? Why did they divorce …?

  And then she remembered her jacket and cringed. Had Nick recognised it as one of his ex-wife’s designs? Who was she kidding? Of course he had. It was unmistakable.

  But she hadn’t known. If she’d known who his ex-wife was, she’d never have worn …

  Anastasia Wilson was Rosie’s mother. That single fact pounded in her head and still she couldn’t quite take it in.

  ‘I’d no idea Anastasia Wilson had any children. I’m sure I’ve never seen any pictures …’

  Wendy shook her head sadly. ‘When Rosie was a baby there were plenty of photographs of them taken together, but in recent years … no.’

  Lydia frowned.

  ‘She’s deaf.’ And then, because Lydia clearly hadn’t made the connection, Wendy added, ‘Ana has a real problem with having a deaf daughter. She strives for perfect … and deaf isn’t perfect. Not for her.’

  Lydia swore softly. This beggared belief. ‘Who taught Rosie to sign?’

  ‘Nick asked Ana about that the other day.’ Wendy paused to readjust her leg on the footstool. ‘Apparently Ana’s mother was very keen on it. There’s some research to show that all babies, hearing or otherwise, do better intellectually if they sign pre-language. At least that’s how she sold it to Ana. Makes me think a lot better of Georgina. I’d always thought she was a fairly stupid woman for giving birth to Ana, but …’

  Georgina being Rosie’s grandmother, Lydia thought, trying to piece together so many new pieces of information.

  ‘… obviously not so stupid after all. She was also the person who insisted Rosie went to a nursery school with a deaf unit.’

  Thank God for Georgina. But where had Nick been in this? Why hadn’t he been the one insisting on the sign language and finding nurseries?

  ‘So Nick hasn’t told you anything about Ana?’

  ‘No.’ Lydia put her empty coffee cup down on the table. He certainly hadn’t.

  ‘Can’t blame the boy for that. He should never have married her.’ Wendy finished the last of her coffee. ‘Though I doubt I’d have listened to me in his position. I’ve never been able to see much point in any marriage. I’ve always thought there had to be more to life than handing round hors d’oeuvres and having babies, so I’m no judge of what will suit other people.’

  She lifted her leg off the footstool and reached behind her for the crutches resting against the chair back. Lydia was on her feet but Wendy waved her away. ‘Have you ever used crutches?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can’t wait to get rid of the things.’ Wendy started towards the door. ‘We’re not meeting now until next week are we?’

  Lydia shook her head. ‘You’ve got an orthopaedic outpatient appointment tomorrow and I’ve got a book launch to go to the following day.’

  ‘Until next week, then.’

  Lydia resisted every impulse to help her, knowing how much that would be resented. She slowly gathered together all her papers and tucked them into her briefcase.

  It really was impossible to think of anything other than the fact that Nick had been married to Anastasia Wilson. If she was being really rude, she couldn’t quite get her head round the fact that an intelligent man had married a woman who talked in a ‘little girl’ voice.

  Hadn’t it grated? Or had he been completely mesmerised by her petite frame and cloud of jet-black hair? And with a spurt of jealousy she realised she didn’t want to think about that.

  Lydia put the final papers, the ones Wendy had been reading, in her briefcase and clicked it shut. She looked out of the window where Nick and Rosie had been.

  They’d gone.

  There was just that long expanse of lawn leading down
to the weeping willow and on to a tightly packed spinney. There was no chance of seeing Nick today then. It was probably for the best, but …

  She felt strangely purposeless. It would have been nice to have spoken to him. Seen Rosie. Lydia glanced down at her watch and debated whether she should make the drive home or stop in Cambridge for some retail therapy. There was so much she should be doing, but she didn’t have the motivation.

  Even though the sunlight had shone brightly through the windows all morning, the midday sun was something of a shock when Lydia walked out on to the stone steps. Heat hit her like a wall. She wrinkled her nose as she thought of the long sticky car journey home.

  She crossed the front courtyard and unlocked her car, putting her briefcase inside, as the sound of scrunching gravel made her look up. Rosie came running round the corner as a streak of yellow. She looked bright, happy and very hot.

  Lydia smiled, loving to see her energy and exuberance. It was what a childhood should be about. Rosie caught sight of her and waved a hand.

  Anastasia Wilson’s daughter. Now she knew she could see her mother in the dark curling hair and the almond-shaped eyes. A beauty—but not perfect enough for Anastasia. Lydia felt a wave of sheer anger at the ignorance and injustice of that.

  Lydia shut the car door and waited until Rosie was near enough to sign. She wanted to ask where Nick was, but settled on asking where Rosie was running to.

  The little girl’s eyes shone with excitement. Her hands moved to show a square rug laid out on the floor and then she peppered her picnic with strawberries and cream, cheese, bread, small cakes and, best of all, crisps. They were her favourite and she’d picked them out of the cupboard herself, four whole packets.

  Lydia laughed and told her she didn’t like strawberries. After a moment of surprise Rosie signed that they also had bananas, but clearly she didn’t feel they were as good. She was an absolute sweetheart. How could her mother not love and cherish her?