by Jessica Hart
Being driven was a luxury too, she thought, sinking into the comfortable leather seat. It certainly beat the tube, or squeezing onto a bus with everyone else, coats steaming and breath misting the windows.
‘You don’t strike me as a man who’s scared of his mother,’ she said, turning slightly to look at him as he got in beside her.
‘She has her own ways of getting what she wants,’ said Simon in a dry voice. ‘I’ve learnt it’s easier just to do what she says.’
Throwing his arm over the back of her seat, he reversed out of the narrow parking slot. Clara sat very still, afraid to move her head in case she brushed against him. All at once it felt as if there wasn’t quite enough oxygen in the car.
‘I thought she was charming,’ she said breathlessly.
‘Oh, yes, she’s charming,’ he said with a sigh and, to Clara’s relief, he brought his arm back to put the car into forward gear once more. ‘Great fun, wonderful company and completely irresponsible, but she gets away with it. She can be utterly infuriating, but if you try and reason with her, she just smiles and pats your cheek and, before you know where you are, you’re doing exactly what she wants.’
Now why hadn’t she thought of patting his cheek? Clara wondered. Somehow she felt it wouldn’t have worked for her.
She liked the sound of Frances, though. She seemed a most unlikely mother for Simon.
‘You must take after your father,’ she said.
It was a throwaway comment, but Simon’s face closed and his mouth set in a compressed line.
‘No, I don’t,’ he said harshly. ‘I don’t resemble him at all.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘Wow.’ A-glitter with lights, London lay spread out below Simon’s apartment. Across the Thames, the bridges were illuminated as if strung with fairy lights, and Clara could see right down to the Houses of Parliament and the huge circle of the London Eye. In the darkness, the streets seemed to be shimmering with energy.
‘Wow,’ she said again. ‘What a fabulous view! It feels like you’re on top of the world, doesn’t it?’
She turned back to admire the rest of the apartment, which was stark and stylish, and somehow not at all what she had expected of someone as conventional as Simon Valentine. ‘What an amazing place.’
Simon shrugged as he pocketed his car keys. ‘It’s a convenient location for the City, and these properties make sound investments.’
‘Right,’ said Clara, who had never invested in property in her life.
‘I think it’s ghastly!’ said Frances. She had changed and was looking remarkably relaxed and elegant for someone who had been mugged hours earlier. ‘I keep telling him that he should at least put up some curtains.’
She looked around her disparagingly. ‘Soulless is the only word for it. What this place needs is a woman’s touch,’ she said as Simon blew out an exasperated breath, having clearly heard it all before. ‘Don’t you agree, Clara?’
Clara thought of the cluttered flat she shared with Allegra. It was cosier than Simon’s apartment, that was for sure, but she couldn’t see Simon wanting cushions and throws and magazines scattered on the sofa. He wouldn’t like cold mugs of tea left lying around, shoes discarded on the floor or bras and tights drying over the radiators. That coffee table would never be buried under nail polishes and phone chargers and old newspapers and empty crisp packets and menus from the Indian takeaway round the corner.
In fact, the woman’s touch was probably the last thing Simon needed.
‘It’s very spacious,’ she said diplomatically.
Frances sniffed. ‘I don’t know why he doesn’t buy a nice house in Chelsea or somewhere. It would be so much nicer for me to visit.’ She heaved an exaggerated sigh but, when Simon remained unmoved, turned back to Clara.
‘Anyway, come and sit down.’ Without giving Clara an opportunity to protest, she drew her over towards one of the cream sofas and spoke over her shoulder to her son.
‘Darling, do get Clara a drink. You must be gasping for a G&T,’ she told Clara. ‘I know I am! Or I suppose Simon could make tea,’ she added doubtfully.
‘Mother—’ Simon’s teeth were audibly gritted ‘—Clara’s anxious to get home. She might not want a drink.’
‘Nonsense, of course she does. Don’t you, Clara?’
Clara was torn. Simon was clearly desperate to get rid of her, but it had been a long day and now that Frances had mentioned gin…
‘I’d love a gin and tonic,’ she confessed.
‘There you are!’ Frances turned triumphantly to her son. ‘And I’ll have one too, darling, to keep her company.’
Simon sucked in a breath. ‘Of course,’ he said tightly and disappeared to what Clara presumed was a kitchen.
‘Don’t mind him,’ Frances said with a sunny smile. ‘He likes to disapprove, but it’s good for him to relax a bit. He works so hard, poor darling, and now he’s on his own again…’ She leant towards Clara confidentially. ‘Well, I always thought Astrid was a bit of a cold fish, but at least she would make him go out.’
Clara was dying to gossip, but didn’t think she ought to. She asked Frances how long she was visiting instead, and Frances chatted happily about herself until Simon reappeared with drinks.
‘Now you must tell us all about you,’ she insisted, and proceeded to grill Clara about her family, background and job.
‘Oh, you work in television? How exciting! Simon’s on television sometimes.’
Clara’s eyes met Simon’s fleetingly over the rim of her glass. ‘Yes, I know.’ She had to give him points for being able to pour a mean gin and tonic. It was long and fizzy, with just the right amount of lime and ice. She was feeling better already and she settled back into the sofa, prepared to enjoy herself before she had to face the reality of failure again.
‘You must be very proud,’ she said to Frances.
‘Oh, I am, terribly. Of course, the idea of him being a pin-up is a bit of a hoot. Not that he wasn’t a gorgeous baby.’
‘Mother…’
Clara smothered a smile at Simon’s expression as Frances rattled on. ‘I see him on the news, and he sounds so clever and sensible. You’d never guess what a reckless little boy he was, would you?’
‘Mother—’ said Simon again, warning in his voice ‘—Clara’s had a long day. She doesn’t want to listen to a lot of boring family stories.’
Frances ignored him and spoke to a fascinated Clara. ‘He was full of mischief when he was little. Your hair would stand on end if I told you half the things he got up to! But then his father died…’ She trailed off sadly. ‘That was a horrible shock. I don’t know what I would have done without Simon then. He sorted everything out, and he’s been looking after us ever since.’
Simon’s jaw was set. ‘That’s not true—’
‘It is true,’ insisted Frances. ‘I always wonder how different you’d have been if your father hadn’t left things in such a mess.’
What mess? Clara wondered. It sounded as if there was an interesting story there, but when Simon caught her eye his expression was so tense that she couldn’t help responding to his unspoken appeal.
‘I really should be going,’ she interrupted Frances, who was clearly ready to tell the who
le story. Draining her glass, she put it down and, one-armed, manoeuvred herself awkwardly to her feet from the deep sofa.
‘Must you go?’ Frances looked disappointed. ‘It’s been such fun meeting you, and I’m so, so grateful to you.’
‘It was nothing, really.’
‘It wasn’t nothing. You were an absolute heroine, and you’ve broken your wrist rescuing my wretched bag. I can’t possibly thank you enough. You must promise to tell us if there’s ever anything we can ever do for you. Mustn’t she, Simon?’
A nerve jerked in Simon’s cheek. ‘Of course,’ he said after the tiniest of hesitations.
‘That’s settled then.’
Frances fussed around, trying to remember where she’d put Clara’s bag, while Clara and Simon waited in awkward silence. Eventually it was found, and Frances handed it over, kissed Clara on the cheek and made her promise to keep in touch.
At last she let them go, waving them off from the door of Simon’s apartment.
He waited until the lift doors were closed before he spoke.
‘Thank you,’ he said gruffly.
Clara didn’t pretend not to know what he was talking about. ‘My mother can be really embarrassing, too.’
‘Does she regale perfect strangers with stories of what you did as a little girl?’ he asked, but his expression lightened a little.
‘Not exactly. She and Dad are both academics, and my brothers are really clever too. They all listen to classical music and read highbrow novels and if they go to the theatre, it’s to watch some avant-garde play, while I flick through magazines and love show tunes.’ Clara sighed. ‘My family are lovely, but sometimes I can feel them thinking that there must have been some mix-up at the hospital when I was born.’
‘They don’t sound too embarrassing,’ said Simon.
‘That’s because you’ve got a PhD,’ she pointed out. ‘Try taking a boyfriend home.’
She had a momentary pang when she thought about Matt, who had done better than most at coping with her family. But then, of course, he would have done. Matt got on with everybody. Clara pushed the memory aside.
‘He gets grilled on what he thinks about existentialist literature or Saint Augustine’s theology, and if the poor guy is brave enough to ask a question of his own about what they do, he gets a whole lecture on the spatial politics of post Reformation churches.’
‘The what?’
‘I think it’s something to do with kneeling,’ said Clara. ‘I ought to know. My mother’s been writing a book about it since I was five. I used to envy my friends who had proper mothers who read Glitz and watched television and talked about make-up and celebrities. The only famous people Mum knows about have been dead four hundred years!’
‘At least she doesn’t keep running off and marrying unsuitable men,’ said Simon as they headed back to the car.
‘How many times has your mother been married?’
‘Three, and every time she manages to pick someone who’ll leave her high and dry.’ Clara could hear the bitter undercurrent in his voice as he unlocked the car and helped her in so that she didn’t jar her wrist. His hand, she noticed, was firm and his grip surprisingly strong.
‘You’d think she would learn from experience, but no!’ Simon said, unaware of the tiny and disturbing frisson shimmying its way down Clara’s spine. ‘She’ll throw everything up for “love” and, before we know where we are, she’s having to extricate herself from another mess.’
Or was he the one who had to extricate his mother every time? Clara wondered, glad to feel that the frisson had reached the coccyx and appeared to have vanished. Perhaps she had imagined it?
‘I think it’s nice that she hasn’t lost her faith in love,’ she said neutrally when Simon settled himself behind the steering wheel.
‘She thinks she needs a husband, but that’s not true. Mother likes to tell everyone that I looked after her when my father died, but that’s not true. She was the one who kept us going, and it was hard for her. Whenever she’s at her most exasperating—which is often—I remember that.’
‘Is that why you won’t do a programme about romance? Because it never worked out for your mother?’
‘No,’ said Simon with a withering look. ‘I won’t do it because (a), I’m extremely busy with more important things and (b), frankly the last thing I want at the moment is more media exposure. I didn’t mind when I could draw attention to the micro-financing crisis, but nobody ever mentions that now, and instead I get sackloads of fan mail from silly women who have obviously got nothing better to do with their time. I wouldn’t keep doing the news interviews at all if the CEO of Stanhope Harding hadn’t insisted it was good PR.’
Clearly remembering that particular conversation, he shoved the car into gear with unnecessary force. ‘He didn’t quite tell me that my job depended on continuing to comment, but I got the message.’
‘Mmm,’ said Clara, unable to resist. ‘It’s hard, isn’t it, when your job depends on your boss, who insists that you do something you don’t particularly want to do.’
Simon said nothing, but the distinctly abrasive quality to the silence told her that he had got the point.
You must promise to tell us if there’s ever anything we can ever do for you, Frances had said.
And then Simon had been forced to say, Of course.
He must know that there was indeed something he could do for her.
Apart from directions to the flat she shared in a shabby street in south-west London, the journey passed in silence. Clara folded her lips together and heroically refrained from reminding Simon of his mother’s promise, but she knew that he was thinking about it. Whenever she sneaked a glance at him from under her lashes, she could see a muscle jerking in his jaw.
Miraculously, Simon managed to find a parking space only a little way down the street from Clara’s flat. He switched off the engine, but neither of them moved.
The silence lengthened. His jaw was still working, Clara noted. It would be a mistake to say anything, but he could do with just a tiny push.
Lifting her arm in its sling, she winced. Not too much. Just enough to suggest great pain, bravely borne, but not so bravely that he didn’t notice. It was a delicate balance.
‘Oh, all right!’ Simon ground out as if she had been nagging him for the entire journey.
Clara opened her eyes at him, all innocence. ‘What?’
‘I’ll do your bloody programme, all right?’ he snarled. ‘There’s no need to keep going on about it!’
‘I didn’t say a word,’ protested Clara, careful to conceal her jubilance.
‘You didn’t need to. I know perfectly well you registered what my mother said. You must promise to let us know if there’s ever anything we can do for you,’ he mimicked Frances savagely. ‘One of these days I’m going to wring her neck!’
‘Oh, don’t do that! She’s so lovely.’
Far from agreeing, Simon blew out a breath and glowered through the windscreen. ‘You’d better tell me what she’s let me in for,’ he said heavily.
‘It won’t be that bad, honestly.’ Now that he was on the point of agreeing, Clara perversely began to feel a little sorry for him. ‘We’re not asking you to take part in any st
unts or cheap tricks. Ted is a brilliant director. MediaOchre has won several awards for documentaries we’ve made, and we’re expecting this one to be just as successful.’
She could hardly believe she was getting to do the speech she had practised so carefully at last. This was worth a broken wrist!
‘Romance: Fact or Fiction? will be a serious examination of romance,’ she assured him. ‘We’re going to look at what it is and how it works and why it’s so popular around the world, but we want to get beyond the clichés.’
‘Right.’ Simon’s voice dripped disbelief.
‘Your presence will give the programme real gravitas,’ Clara went on, ignoring his scepticism. ‘Stella Holt is incredibly popular at the moment, so she’ll represent the “romantic” idea while you would be in the “anti-romance” camp, if you like. I know Stella is very keen to work with you on this,’ she added. ‘We think the contrast between the two of you will make for intriguing television.’
‘Intriguing television…ye gods.’ Simon rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I can’t believe I’m even listening to this!’
Clearly she wasn’t converting him to the idea. Clara ploughed on. ‘The plan is to shoot the film in three classic “romantic” locations. One will be Paris, obviously.’
‘I thought you were going to avoid clichés?’
‘We’re testing the clichés,’ she said firmly. ‘After Paris, we’ll film on a tropical island and, for the last segment, Ted wants me to find somewhere wild and stormy—a cottage in the Highlands, for instance.’ She looked at him hopefully. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard,’ said Simon, not mincing his words. ‘What’s it supposed to prove?’