The Mother And The Millionaire

by Alison Fraser

  So? she demanded of herself. Was that meant to be a con­solation?

  No, more an indication that Jack Doyle hadn’t changed. He was still an opportunist. Willing to take what was on offer, regardless.

  Only she wasn’t. On offer, that was. And the sooner he realised it the better.

  The trouble was he still thought of her as Midge, needy younger sister to the more attractive Arabella. Or was his abiding memory of her the girl in the hayloft who’d proved so very easy?

  She let her mind wander back once more to the night Harry had been conceived and this time forced herself to remember the rest...

  They lay for a moment or two, catching breath, recovering sanity.

  Then he murmured, ‘God, that was good.’

  Briefly gratified, Esme let the words sink in. Good as in marks out of ten. Not good as in this has made me love you.

  A silly dream, worthy of a silly schoolgirl.

  ‘Are you OK?’ He stroked the hair back from her face.

  ‘Yes, fine.’ Don’t cry. Mustn’t cry. After all, she’d vol­unteered for this. Begged for it, some might say. How could she have known it would leave her feeling this empty?

  ‘I just thought for a minute there...’ He hesitated, reluctant to voice his concern. ‘Well, that I might have hurt you.’

  Asking without asking: were you a virgin?

  Esme wondered what he’d say if she told him the truth.

  She shook her head instead and detached herself from feel­ing. ‘No, I’m just cold.’

  She shivered for effect, then found herself shivering for real.

  He hugged her against his chest, his body hair warm against her bare skin, but she trembled all the more.

  It was then he sat away from her, feeling for the torch and their clothes.

  ‘Here.’ He found her dress, and, not bothering with un­derwear, pulled it over her head.

  She behaved like a robotic doll, raising her arms to slip into the sleeveless garment, lowering them as he zipped it up at the back.

  She heard him rustle into his own shirt, the only piece of clothing he’d fully taken off, before he picked up his denim jacket and draped it back round her shoulders.

  She still felt chilled and, worse, stone-cold sober.

  ‘Let’s go somewhere warmer.’ He slipped the shoes back on her feet and helped her towards the ladder, going first to guide her down each rung.

  Once on solid ground, Esme wanted to flee. She made the door before he caught her arm.

  ‘Esme?’ He angled the torch so they could see each other’s faces.

  ‘Yes?’ She turned and waited for words that could make this right.

  ‘You know I never meant for this to happen—’ Not those words. ‘Yes?’ Defiant this time.

  ‘I do like you,’ he added. ‘I like you very much.’

  Just not enough, Esme added for herself.

  ‘And who knows,’ he continued softly, ‘maybe one day I’ll come back and we’ll—?’

  ‘Look—’ Esme didn’t want his empty promises ‘—we had sex. It’s no big deal.’

  She tried to sound blasé. Perhaps she managed. His voice certainly hardened.

  ‘Well, it should be,’ he told her. ‘The world hasn’t changed that much, and if you go in for casual sex, well... Boys talk, Esme. I’d hate you to end up with a reputation.’

  Esme felt her face go redder and redder, a mixture of em­barrassment and temper. How dared he have sex with her, then follow it up with a lecture?

  ‘You hypocrite!’ she spat the word at him. ‘You sancti­monious bastard! You bloody—’

  ‘You’re right, I’m no better,’ he admitted, cutting across her. ‘Worse, even, knowing you’re just a kid. And, yes, I enjoyed it. So much that, if I weren’t leaving, I’d be back tomorrow night. But you’re no Arabella. You’re—’

  ‘Arabella! Arabella! Arabella!’ Esme didn’t want to hear how she compared with her sister. ‘You’re as pathetic as I am. Do you think she gives a damn about you?’ she de­manded, meaning to hurt him as he was hurting her.

  ‘That’s not the point!’ He held onto her arm while she tried to wrest free. ‘What I’m trying to say—’

  ‘I don’t care what you’re saying!’ She was crying now with angry humiliation.

  ‘Look, calm down, will you, unless you want an audi­ence?’ He glanced in warning towards the big house, where the upper floors were lit.

  Esme followed his gaze, and, made aware that somebody could be watching them, swallowed hard and fought back further tears. But she had no intention of calming down. She just wanted to get away.

  She went still, fooling him into believing she was acqui­escent, then the moment he released her she ran.

  The move caught him by surprise and she was halfway across the back yard before he called out for her to stop. She kept running, casting off his jacket as she did so.

  He pursued her, something she hadn’t anticipated.

  As she ran towards the back door she prayed Maggie, the new cook, had left it unlocked. Luck in, she was through it and shooting the bolt seconds before Jack got there and turned the outer handle.

  ‘Esme?’ he urged from the other side.

  She stayed where she was, leaning against the heavy wood, trusting he couldn’t hear her laboured breathing.

  ‘Esme?’ He rattled on the handle. ‘Let me in. We have to talk.’

  She did not respond.

  ‘Esme.’ A hand slammed on the door in frustration. She waited, tears streaming. Till finally he went...

  And here she was, more than ten years on, still feeling the humiliation. Not that it had been deliberately inflicted. She understood that. Nor was it the sex she minded, although that first taste of it seemed to have left her emotionally debilitated.

  It was the pity he’d felt for her. That was the worst of it. As if she was a lame duck—or perhaps the proverbial ugly duckling—whom he’d briefly noticed, only to regret his in­terest almost instantly.

  The fact that he’d come up to the house the next day to say goodbye hadn’t healed any wounds. She’d been out— gone, in fact, to stay with a schoolfriend in London. He’d left a message with Maggie. No letter, as he’d claimed, but a simple, ‘Tell Esme she deserves better.’

  How she’d blushed when Maggie had relayed it on her return. Thankfully the cook hadn’t asked for any explanation. Perhaps she’d believed it to mean that Esme deserved better than the family she had.

  Esme hadn’t been altogether certain of his meaning either. Better than what? Better than him? Or better than turning into the type of woman who slept around?

  She’d never been that. He’d confused her with Arabella. Only, in Arabella’s case, he’d been prepared to forgive prom­iscuity.

  Because he’d loved her?

  There seemed no other explanation, and even now Esme could feel pangs of jealousy. Ridiculous, really. She should have got over it long ago. She’d thought she had.

  But that had been when Jack Doyle was consigned to the far, murky reaches of her memory, reduced in size, impor­tance and physical attraction. That was before he’d come breezing back into her life, better looking than ever in his thirties, successful and wealthy enough to be deemed eligible by anyone’s standards, so confident about his place in the world she had an urge to drag him down.

  And any scruples where she was concerned? Clearly gone out of the window. After all, she was twenty-six, old enough to know better, already with a messed-up life, an unmarried mother with few prospects. He probably reckoned she would be grateful for his lunch offers—and any other offer that might proceed from it.

  Well, he was wrong. The outside world might view her as a failure but she had more self-respect than she had ever had as a girl. She was bringing up a son virtually single-handed, slowly establishing a business and making her own way in the world. If she was sometimes lonely, well, surely she was strong enough to survive that rather than risk some meaning­less relationship which would
upset her well-ordered exis­tence?

  Let him move into the big house and play lord of the manor, but he wouldn’t be claiming anything from her apart from rent.

  And Harry? That hurdle had been crossed. Jack Doyle had looked at him and failed to recognise his blood. No reason to imagine that would change—and she would never tell him.

  Why should she, other than to relish his horrified reaction? And she wouldn’t do that to Harry.

  He deserved better, too.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Work on the estate began the very next week. On the Monday, when she accompanied Harry to the West Gate, there were already builders’ vans, a mini-crane, digger and site caravan parked both outside and inside the estate.

  She told herself it was no business of hers but, after Harry had climbed on board the bus, she went over to the man in charge and asked what was happening.

  ‘Gates have to come down,’ he informed her laconically.

  It was just as Esme had feared. The desecration had started.

  ‘They seem perfectly good gates to me.’ She glanced to­wards the magnificent structures of wrought-ironwork.

  ‘Rusted,’ the man told her, ‘possibly dangerous.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she dismissed, purposely blind to the scarred paintwork and corroded hinges. ‘They’ve been here about ninety years.’

  ‘Old, then.’ The man obviously thought she’d proved his point. ‘Better talk to your husband. His orders.’

  ‘He’s not my husband!’ Esme refuted immediately.

  The man raised a slight brow before shrugging indiffer­ently. ‘Whatever, love, he’s the boss.’

  Esme could have declared who she was, but being a tenant wasn’t going to cut any ice. Why should it?

  She walked away instead, wishing she’d never instigated the conversation. Nothing she said or did was going to make a difference.

  Jack Doyle could do what he liked to Highfield. Paint the outside pink or rip out the windows to put in aluminium double glazing. Who was to prevent him?

  Not her, certainly. After their last encounter she’d decided to give Jack as wide a berth as possible until she could find somewhere else to live. Forget her rights as a sitting tenant.

  She didn’t think rights would stop Jack if he wanted her out and she wasn’t going to wait around until he made his move.

  With Harry off to school, she scoured the accommodation ads in the local papers and soon discovered that houses were outside her budget. It would have to be a flat. She called two numbers—at one there was no answer, at the other the flat had already gone.

  Next she consulted the Yellow Pages for the names of letting agencies and found a couple in Southbury. She copied down addresses, having decided to visit in person. She locked up the cottage and got into her car, a cheap runaround that had seen better days.

  She drove to the back gates. Or where the gates had been. Now there was just a gaping hole.

  A couple of the workmen waved her through and she nod­ded a thank-you. It wasn’t their fault, after all.

  By the time she reached town she’d talked herself into a more positive frame of mind. It was time she and Harry moved on, said goodbye to their old life, started anew.

  Her optimism dwindled, however, as she signed onto the books of the first agency. Had a child? Mmm, that might be a problem. She was self-employed? Could she produce ac­counts for the last year, then? Possibly. A reference from her current landlord as well? Difficult. Difficult to explain, too.

  At least she was more clued up for the second agency. Ready for the questions and ready to say, ‘Yes,’ and worry later about how to conjure up non-existent accounts and ref­erence letters. Still nothing, however, in her price bracket. Next week, perhaps. Leave her telephone number.

  So she trawled back home, deflated, and tried to concen­trate on her sole commission, the master bedroom for Mr and Mrs City Analysts.

  By the time she went to collect Harry, a small crane was being used to position a new gate in place. She did a double take, it looked so similar to the old ones.

  ‘Like it?’ the man in charge called out as she passed.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she conceded grudgingly.

  ‘Should be,’ he ran on. ‘Specially commissioned. Best wrought-iron manufacturer in the country.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Wouldn’t like to say how much they cost.’

  Esme suspected he would. ‘Will you be finished tonight?’

  ‘No chance.’ He shook his head. ‘But don’t worry. We’ll leave the plant blocking the entrance.’

  Plant? Esme almost asked, then realised he meant the ma­chinery, crane and diggers and such.

  He nodded towards the caravan. ‘And one of us will be stopping, as we agreed with your man.’

  She frowned, then bristled. ‘If you mean Jack Doyle, the owner, he’s not my man. There’s a cottage in the grounds of which I am the tenant. That’s all.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m sure.’ He didn’t look it, smiling a little. ‘Just thought: you and him... Well, natural enough.’

  Esme wanted to say there was nothing natural about it, apart from the fact Jack Doyle was a man and she was a woman, but she coloured instead, remembering their last en­counter.

  ‘I hardly know the man,’ she said at length before walking off.

  True, in a way. She’d known the old Jack Doyle. Clever, kind, funny. The new one was a stranger. Still clever, but not so kind, and nothing funny about him being here.

  With some relief she saw the school bus appear on the horizon. Harry was the only one to get off but she heard some other boys jeering at him before the doors closed.

  ‘What’s that about?’ she asked as one boy thumped on the bus window as it drew past.

  Harry shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

  It didn’t seem like nothing and Esme stared after the bus with a furrowed brow.

  Harry had lost interest, however, watching the workmen as they continued to position the new gate.

  ‘I don’t know why they bothered,’ Esme volunteered, ‘it looks almost the same as the others, give or take a spot of rust.’

  ‘They’re automatic,’ Harry pointed out, ‘remote control, I bet.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ his mother asked doubtfully.

  ‘They’re laying cabling.’ Harry indicated the work going on on the far side, partially shielded by a van.

  Esme finally noticed the trench already half-dug, leading away from the gate, ready to tap into the nearest electricity supply.

  ‘Oh, great,’ she muttered, clearly meaning the opposite, as she turned back up the road to the cottage.

  ‘It is really,’ Harry argued alongside her. ‘You always said they were heavy and awkward, and now you’ll be able to open them with just the touch of a button.’

  ‘If I had a button, yes,’ she replied drily.

  Harry caught on. ‘The new man—he’s bound to give you a handset to operate them.’

  Oh, bound to, would have been Esme’s sarcastic response, only she kept it to herself. Being just the two of them, it was sometimes tempting to confide her worries to Harry, but it wasn’t right. He was only ten.

  ‘You wouldn’t be able to drive your car out otherwise.’ Harry voiced her worries aloud.

  ‘True.’ She painted a smile on her face and seized the opportunity to suggest, ‘Well, we could always move, couldn’t we?’

  Unfortunately it went down like a lead balloon with Harry. ‘Move? Move where?’

  He’d obviously never considered the possibility.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She was intentionally upbeat. ‘Some­where in Southbury. It would be less isolated.’

  Harry pulled a face and declared unequivocally, ‘I’m happy here.’

  ‘But you might be even happier in town,’ Esme ploughed on. ‘You must feel lonely at times, with just me for com­pany.’

  ‘No,’ he claimed stubbornly.

  Esme held in a sigh and decided to leave things
there. At least she had planted the idea of moving in his head, and by the time she found somewhere suitable he might have grown used to it.

  It took two days for the West Gate to be completed, and almost immediately the construction gang moved on to re­constructing the rear driveway. Even Esme couldn’t maintain it didn’t need work. She had too often cursed the potholes and vegetation growing in its centre that made ominous noises as it scraped against her exhaust pipe.

  She couldn’t complain about the gates either, as Colin Jones, the head builder, made a point of visiting her cottage to present her with her very own remote control. Apparently Mr Doyle had instructed him to do so when he’d called from America to check their progress.

  Esme just stopped herself saying. He didn’t tell me he was going away again.

  Fortunately she recognised her own absurdity. Why should Jack Doyle inform her of his movements? She was nothing to him.

  And he was nothing to her, she reminded herself quickly.

  But knowing he was not in residence had Esme giving way to curiosity and taking the path to the main house to see what changes were being made there.

  She had expected some but was shocked to find almost every inch of the back covered in scaffolding, as the stone­work was cleaned and repaired, while the stable block was now entirely roofless in preparation for conversion into guest cottages. It seemed as if an army of workmen was there.

  Unchallenged, she slipped through the open gateway at the side of the house to find a similar story at the front. Logically she recognised that Highfield needed this work to survive, but emotionally it was like watching her past being erased, leaving her rudderless.

  From that point her resolve to leave the cottage became an imperative. It wasn’t Jack Doyle or his alterations but a real­isation that her life had to move on. She scoured the classified ads and phoned the agencies on almost a daily basis. Harry was often a silent but, she assumed, accepting witness.

  A week slipped into two, then three, before she found somewhere vaguely acceptable. She’d already viewed several so-called ‘apartments’ that were no better than bedsits, so when she saw the flat above the Chinese takeaway her ex­pectations were already considerably lowered. Drawbacks like a dirty kitchen, no shower and a living room barely big enough to swing a cat in had ceased to matter. It was within her budget and seemed a veritable palace.