The Mother And The Millionaire

by Alison Fraser

  So much so that she talked herself into believing it was the place and, putting fifty pounds’ deposit down, presented it to Harry.

  But Harry hadn’t been round dingier, filthier, more cramped possibilities and saw the place for what it was. A dump!

  When Esme asked on the car journey home, ‘What do you think?’ Harry had no idea how much time she’d invested into finding it.

  He was honest. ‘It’s horrible.’

  For once Esme didn’t appreciate Harry’s straightforward­ness or consider his feelings or remember, for all his intel­ligence, he was just a child.

  She let all her anxiety out, telling him bluntly that he’d have to like it because if he imagined they could go on living in the cottage, he could think again. The cottage wasn’t the family’s any more. It was Jack Doyle’s and sooner or later he would want it back. For his housekeeper or a friend or simply because he didn’t want a couple of strangers living on his estate.

  Esme gave him a dose of reality as she saw it. Unforgiv­able, when she’d spent the first ten years of his life shielding him from the very same reality, but she couldn’t help herself. It all came tumbling out, a catalogue of money worries and insecurities, while Harry retreated into silence.

  His very reserve seemed to incite her more, and only when they reached home and he disappeared to his room did she ask herself why she was telling him all this. He might be smart but he had only just turned ten, and was hardly re­sponsible for the fact she’d messed up her life, and his along with it.

  She tried later to make up for her outburst, but he remained solemn and largely silent, a mood that persisted over the weekend.

  Hardly the first time Esme had doubted herself as a mother but that didn’t make it any easier. It simply confirmed what the rest of the world thought—what Jack Doyle had actually said—that she’d been too young when she’d had Harry.

  It was three days later when Harry suddenly announced, ‘I think we’ll be able to stay here, Mum.’

  ‘Oh, Harry, I want you to stop worrying about such things,’ she responded guiltily, ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did, and whatever happens I’m sure everything will work out for the best.’

  ‘But if we could stay in the cottage forever,’ he persisted, ‘that’s what you’d want?’

  Esme didn’t know how to answer that. A fresh start some­where far from Highfield had begun to seem an attractive option, but she appreciated Harry’s reluctance to be uprooted.

  ‘I don’t know any more,’ she answered honestly.

  ‘But if Jack wants you to stay—’ he pursued.

  ‘Jack?’ she questioned her son’s familiarity with the name. ‘Mr Doyle, you mean?’

  Harry nodded. ‘He said I should call him Jack.’

  ‘When?’ Esme didn’t recall such an exchange.

  Harry shrugged evasively. ‘I can’t remember. Does it mat­ter? Mum, if he doesn’t want us to go, then we can just stay here, can’t we?’

  Esme didn’t see it as that simple, but she wasn’t up to any deeper discussion with ten minutes to go to the school bus.

  ‘It’s possible,’ she replied.

  Her tone was noncommittal but Harry read more into it, and his face brightened.

  Coward that she was, Esme decided to leave him with this false hope until she could present him with an alternative to the des res above the takeaway.

  But she still hadn’t found anywhere when Jack Doyle reap­peared at the weekend.

  It was late on the Friday evening. Harry was at a birthday sleepover with his one good friend and Esme was newly out of the bath and drying her hair before the fire when the knock came.

  Quiet as it was, it startled her. She never had visitors— none that didn’t telephone first at least.

  She crept through the hall to her downstairs bedroom and, leaving it in darkness, peeped through a curtain. It was rain­ing outside, and almost chilly for late June, but enough light remained to recognise her caller.

  Relief quickly gave way to that stomach-churning feeling she tended to get round Jack Doyle.

  She dropped the curtain back in place and considered pre­tending she was out. She was hardly dressed for callers, al­though modestly enough covered by one of her mother’s vo­luminous silk robes over her nightgown.

  He knocked again. ‘Esme, it’s Jack.’

  Was that meant as reassurance?

  She made no move towards, the door. Perhaps he would just go away if she ignored him.

  He added. ‘I know you’re in there, Es.’

  Es. He was the only one who shortened her name like that. Once she had liked it. Now it just caused resentment.

  Which was why she stopped cowering and, the next time he knocked, strode to the door, yanked it open and demanded, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hi,’ he greeted in return. ‘Nice to see you, too.’ She grimaced at the sarcasm. ‘What do you want? It’s past nine.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he apologised with a shrug, ‘but I just got back from the States.’

  Esme stopped herself saying, So? Was she meant to be impressed?

  ‘I thought I’d better come down,’ he ran on, ‘in case I missed you in the morning.’

  ‘If it’s about the rent,’ Esme muttered back, ‘I’d have paid it by now but we haven’t agreed how much.’

  ‘The rent?’ he echoed, as though he hadn’t given it any thought. ‘I don’t know. What were you paying your mother?’

  Nothing. But she couldn’t say that.

  ‘A hundred and fifty pounds.’ The figure came off the top of her head.

  He accepted it with a nod. ‘Fine.’

  ‘A month,’ she qualified quickly.

  He nodded again. He was clearly indifferent to what sum she paid. Her rent was a drop in the ocean as far as his finances were concerned.

  ‘It was actually your tenancy I wanted to discuss,’ he stated evenly.

  ‘Right.’ Esme’s mouth formed a tight line. Eviction time?

  ‘If we could go inside?’ He came a step closer.

  Esme went into automatic retreat. Short of closing the door in his face, she had no choice.

  She led the way into the living room. She tightened her robe, conscious of not being properly dressed.

  He was over-dressed, if anything. Businesslike in suit and tie, although the tie was pulled down and the top button of his shirt was open.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ The offer was grudging rather than gracious as she found herself playing reluctant hostess.

  ‘I’d appreciate it.’ He gazed around him at the changes wrought to his old home. ‘It’s not how I remembered it at all.’

  An accusation? Maybe not. More a statement.

  ‘The staircase is new,’ she admitted. ‘I had it built so Harry could use the attic as a bedroom. I changed the walls, too, taking them back to their original stone where I could, and painted the rest. Some of the furniture is your old stuff; the rest I bought at auction.’

  ‘It’s quite a transformation.’ He seemed genuinely admir­ing. ‘Hard to believe the difference in the place.’

  She accepted the compliment with a brief, ‘Thanks,’ before asking, ‘Tea, coffee, or something stronger?’

  He surprised her by saying, ‘Tea, I think.’ She’d expected him to ask for a whisky. ‘Take a seat.’ She indicated the sofa, and went through to the kitchen.

  The kettle was recently boiled. She made the tea quickly as she heard him prowling round her living room. When she came through with the tray of cups and teapot he was stand­ing by her work table in one corner, perusing sketches she had left out.

  ‘These look professional,’ he commented.

  ‘They’re for a client’s bed-and dressing-rooms,’ she re­layed. ‘Plan number ninety-nine or thereabouts.’

  He absorbed this information and concluded with a slight smile, ‘So that’s what you meant by “Doing” people’s houses. You’re an interior designer.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Why did
n’t you say?’ he added.

  Good question. Esme couldn’t remember the answer.

  ‘You seemed to be enjoying jumping to other conclusions,’ she declared at length.

  He looked askance at her but didn’t argue. Instead he be­gan to leaf through her portfolio of sketches. ‘How long have you been doing this?’

  ‘Design work—about three years,’ she replied. ‘This par­ticular commission—a few weeks. Although it seems a lot longer.’

  ‘Problems?’ he enquired.

  She shrugged. What did he care? She gathered up her work, slipping it back in its case, and, with a vague wave of the hand, invited him to sit down.

  He took the sofa, shrugging off his jacket to drape it across the back.

  Esme sat on an easy chair, carefully arranging the folds of her robe, before pouring the tea.

  ‘I was wondering,’ he continued when she’d handed him a cup, ‘if you’ve time to do some work for me...on the de­sign front, I mean.’

  The latter was added in case Esme imagined he was tout­ing for a cleaner.

  She still didn’t know what to say. ‘I—I... At Highfield?’ Stupid question! Where else?

  He nodded. ‘The builders are still renovating the frame­work of the house, but it’ll eventually need to be furnished and decorated from top to bottom.’ But why me?’ she asked.

  ‘Why not you?’ he countered. ‘You know Highfield and I suspect you’re more likely to do something sympathetic to the style and age of the house.’

  Esme was tempted. A project like Highfield was a de­signer’s dream. But, realistically, could she manage it?

  ‘I’ve only ever worked on a single-room basis,’ she ad­mitted. ‘You might be better off with a bigger firm.’

  ‘I’ve had a couple in already.’ He grimaced. ‘Country home meets New York loft.’

  ‘Minimalist?’ The style was currently flavour of the month.

  ‘Bare is the word I’d use,’ he responded, ‘although, to be fair, I gave them pretty minimal instruction. I assumed they’d do something in keeping with the period of the house.’

  She shook her head. ‘You have to state some preferences or most designers will treat your house as a work of art rather than a place to live.’

  ‘Well,’ he responded, ‘I don’t like anything too flowery, I don’t like pastels, I don’t like light-coloured wood or pine or reproduction furniture. Is that sufficient brief?’

  ‘It’s a start,’ Esme agreed, although it was a more negative than positive indication of his taste.

  ‘So when could you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Start.’

  Was this why he was here? No, he had only just discovered that she did interior design. It had to be a spur-of-the-moment request.

  It would have been easy to accept it on the same basis but she couldn’t ignore the drawbacks. For her to work for him would require trust on both sides and that was certainly ab­sent.

  ‘I couldn’t,’ she replied at length, ‘I haven’t the time or the manpower.’

  ‘Or the inclination?’ he added astutely.

  Esme declined to answer, saying instead, ‘You wanted to discuss the tenancy?’

  His lips quirked but he let her change the subject. ‘I un­derstand you’re concerned about the security of your tenure.’

  An understatement. Her eyes went to his face, trying to read the unreadable.

  ‘So what’s this—pay-off time?’ she asked, referring back to an earlier conversation.

  Jack frowned briefly, then remembered. ‘Would that be your preference—a financial settlement?’

  Esme, who’d been joking, stared at him in surprise. Would he really do that? Give her money to leave? It seemed so.

  She didn’t hide her disdain, ‘I don’t want money from you. If I decide to move, it’ll be because I want to.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better tell Harry that, then,’ he countered, an edge to his voice now.

  She bristled at his use of her son’s name. ‘What do you mean?’

  He slipped a hand inside the suit jacket he was wearing. ‘Here.’ He extended a folded piece of paper. She took it with reluctance.

  It was a moment before she fathomed it was a printout of an e-mail. She read it quickly, then more slowly, with a grow­ing sense of disbelief.

  ‘You’ve been communicating with my son?’ She didn’t have to feign outrage.

  ‘No, he’s been communicating with me,’ he qualified, ‘I merely acknowledged receipt.’

  ‘But how?’ How could Harry have sent this—an appeal for Jack Doyle not to throw them out of the cottage?

  ‘By using considerable initiative, I’d say,’ the man relayed. ‘It seems he talked to Jones, the builder, who referred him to Rebecca—the wife of my partner; you might remember meeting her—who, with a little persuasion, gave him my e-mail address...I assume he has access to a computer.’

  ‘He has one in his bedroom,’ she confirmed.

  ‘With a modem?’ he enquired, and, at her uncertain look, added, ‘Is it connected up to the internet?’

  She nodded. ‘He uses it for homework, sometimes, but the company who installed it told me they’d put a block on it so he couldn’t go into chat rooms or receive any inappropriate material.’

  Esme fell silent, wondering why she was justifying herself to him. It wasn’t as if he were any better a parent. He wasn’t one full stop.

  ‘It wouldn’t stop him sending e-mails,’ he explained, ‘and I suspect Harry is smart enough to get round any blocking procedures if he chose... Still, no harm’s been done this time.’

  If that was meant to mollify Esme, it missed its mark by a mile. No harm? An as-good-as-begging letter to their land­lord. And what about his response?

  ‘What did you tell him?’ she demanded next.

  ‘I can’t remember exactly,’ he replied, ‘but you’ll probably find it still on his hard drive, if you care to vet it.’

  Esme might have leapt up and done just that if she’d known how, but computers were largely foreign territory to her. Not that she was about to admit it.

  ‘The basic gist,’ he continued at her silence, ‘was not to worry, your tenancy was assured and I’d clear things up when I returned.’

  ‘How magnanimous of you!’ Now Harry would think that any future move was down to her.

  The sarcasm drew a quizzical look from Jack, before he worked things out for himself, ‘I get it. You wanted to leave and I was a convenient excuse. And if the boy thinks I’m a wicked landlord, who cares?’

  He obviously did and Esme had the grace to blush. She couldn’t make any denial—so she didn’t.

  ‘Have you found somewhere else?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But you’re looking?’

  Esme studied her hands as she nodded.

  ‘Why exactly?’ he asked, then answered for himself, ‘This thing between you and me?’

  His bluntness had her head jerking upwards. Mistake. Grey eyes met and locked on hers.

  She wanted to say, Thing? as if she hadn’t the first clue what he meant. She would have if she’d felt she could be convincing. But the thing had stirred into life the moment she’d seen him again and, under his steady gaze, was now bashing away at its cage door.

  ‘Everything isn’t about you, Jack Doyle,’ she retaliated instead, ‘I’ve been buried away here for the best part of eight years and it’s time I moved on.’

  She was conscious of speaking in clichés but managed to make it sound heartfelt.

  ‘I can’t argue with that,’ he countered, ‘but are you sure a flat above a Chinese takeaway in Southbury is the way to go?’

  She cursed Harry. Was nothing sacred?

  ‘It’s what I can afford,’ she justified before glancing back down at the e-mail in her hand. ‘How did you know about that, anyway? It isn’t on here.’

  He hesitated before admitting, ‘Harry was on-line when I e-mailed him last night.’

 
So they’d had a nice little chat, Esme concluded, taking a dimmer and dimmer view of the wonders of modern tech­nology.

  ‘I’m sorry if you don’t approve, but—’

  ‘What’s not to approve?’ she cut across him. ‘Other than the fact my son spends his evenings revealing our personal lives to a virtual stranger.’

  ‘Come on, Esme, I’m no stranger,’ Jack cajoled, ‘and the boy was acting in what he saw as your interests. You can’t blame him for that.’

  He clearly imagined she was going to punish Harry in some way. Perhaps she would—or pull the plug on his com­puter for a while, at least. But whatever she did was none of Jack Doyle’s business.

  She told him as much, saying, ‘I’ll deal with Harry how I see fit,’ before rising from her seat.

  He was quick, following suit so he effectively blocked her way to the door. ‘Look, I didn’t come here to get the boy into trouble. He’s a great kid. A credit to you. I know it can’t be easy, raising the boy on your own.’

  Esme didn’t hear the compliment, just what she considered his patronising tone. Her resentment spilled over. ‘As if you care.’

  She cringed at her own words. They could have come from a five-year-old. Perhaps that was why he showed forbearance.

  ‘Actually, I do care.’ He gazed down at her, willing her to look up at him, before he said, ‘Why else do you think I’m here? I want to help you.’

  His concern sounded genuine but Esme saw something quite different in his eyes. Did he really take her for a fool? ‘You want to sleep with me, you mean.’

  Jack contemplated denial, then he remembered how she’d been in his head all the time he’d been away. Maybe it was good that they didn’t play games.

  ‘That as well,’ he agreed at length, ‘but it isn’t a prereq­uisite. I’ll help you, regardless.’

  Esme remained sceptical. ‘So I tell you now that I’m never going to bed with you and ask for, let’s say, some money as deposit on a decent flat, you’re going to give it to me?’

  It was a rhetorical question, not intended seriously at all.