by Frances Pye
“There speaks the party planner. I say that because you were. You were too young to get married. And I knew it. But I asked you anyway. Because all I could think about was me, me, me.”
“You are much, much too nice. I’m not sure I’d feel like that.”
“I didn’t at the time. But hindsight, you know…”
“Were you very upset?”
“Well, I wasn’t dancing on the tables, put it like that.”
“I wrote and wrote to you. But I ripped them all up.”
“Probably a good thing. It saved me the trouble.”
“You wouldn’t have wanted to get a letter?”
“Not then, no. I was too angry with you to see straight. Too upset. Now all that’s gone.” Michael was amazed to hear himself say this. And to realize that it was true. All his resentment, all his hurt, all his rage, nurtured for so long, had disappeared. As had his fear of giving in to Jules. Because this didn’t feel like either of them was in charge. It felt like a joint venture of equal partners. “Now we’re going to have a baby together. Yes?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes.”
“Instead of the miserable, short-lived marriage we’d have managed years ago. I know what I’d choose.”
“Would you? Even when the mother’s a notorious man sharer who’s been plastered all over the tabloids?” Jules had been wary about mentioning the newspaper stories, but now she wanted everything out in the open. If Michael was upset about Sean and all the publicity, she wanted to hear about it. And deal with it.
“And there I’d almost forgotten you were part of a major new trend in male/female relationships.” Michael smiled.
“You don’t mind?”
“No. You saw what you wanted. You went after it. It didn’t work. The papers capitalized on it. That’s what they do. Since Rose and I split up, I’ve been engaged to two princesses, three film stars, and an Olympic gold medalist.”
“All at the same time?”
“Now, that would have been a story. Six at a time. I’d have outdone Sean.”
Jules laughed, then reached over and kissed Michael’s cheek. She was amazed by his generosity of spirit. Why had she never seen it in him before? Where on earth had he got this amazing ability to let go of old, very justifiable resentments, to ignore past scandal and look ahead? “You’re far too good to me.”
“And you’re far too kind.”
“I’m not. But let’s not quarrel about it. So what do we do now?”
“Maybe we can see a bit of each other?”
“I’d like that.”
“I want to help you through the pregnancy any way I can. And make sure your mother comes nowhere near you.”
“I can certainly agree with that. Although given how she feels at the moment, it’s unlikely she’ll stray within twenty miles of me.” Jules hesitated before continuing. She didn’t want to pressure Michael. On the other hand, she was desperate to find out what he had in mind. And no one was going to ask him unless she did. “And then?”
“Let’s start by being good parents. Anything more than that, well, we have time. Lots of time.” Michael’s smile grew and grew. He didn’t feel like a sober, distinguished earl anymore. Instead, he felt more like the young man he had been when he’d first met Jules. He had no idea whether they would make it together. Or even if they would decide to try. But for the first time in ages, he felt hopeful about the future. He and Jules were having a baby.
Three hours later, Jules lay in bed, Michael asleep next to her. They’d had dinner, talked, come home, talked, and finally gone to bed together. It had been a lovely, sweet, relaxed evening, a healing of past differences, an exorcism, in a way, of the mistakes they’d both made in the past. In the future, maybe they’d only be coparents, friends, and occasional lovers to each other. Or maybe they’d end up partners. Either way, Jules knew Michael would be a good father to her baby. As he had said, anything more than that, they’d have to see. But they’d made a good start.
eighty-seven
Mara lay back in the bubbles. She adored this room. She loved the old-fashioned, claw-footed bath and the original black-and-white-tiled floor. Oh, there were things that needed a bit of work, but it was all cosmetic. Just a bit of paint on the walls, a modern sink, a shower maybe if there was room. Most important, there were no leaks. She could hear rain drumming its fingers on the skylight in the roof and yet the room was completely dry.
As was the rest of the house. Mara and the girls had moved in a week before. It wasn’t strictly legal—probate wouldn’t be granted on Amy’s will for weeks yet—but Mara already had the keys and the lawyer had been sympathetic. She knew some people would think she was showing undue haste, but Amy would have understood. In fact, Amy would have been the first person to urge her to move as soon as possible. So they had packed up their belongings and transferred down the street.
The first thing she had done was write a letter to the Moores. Explaining what had happened and asking them to drop their suit against her. So far, there’d been no response.
She’d also investigated how long it would take for her to train as a therapist. She needed five years; two to finish school, then three at college. Looking at it now, it seemed like ages, but Mara was sure that, given her talent for thrift, she and the girls should be able to survive on Amy’s money for that time. She could always work on the holidays to get some extra cash. And after she graduated, she’d be able to earn more than enough to keep them.
But at the moment, her dream was dependent on the Moores’ response to her letter. If they insisted on going to court, she would have to continue cleaning and use Amy’s money to pay a lawyer.
Mara could have wallowed in the large, deep bath for hours, reading or thinking, but she had to get going. The girls would be awake any minute, needing clothes and breakfast and packed lunches before they left for school. She stood up and got out of the water, dripping. Sitting curled up on top of a pile of towels was Joey, Amy’s cat. He had disappeared the night of Amy’s death and Mara had presumed that he’d found himself another forgiving old lady looking for a companion to love. But the day they had brought their belongings up the street, he’d reappeared. Over the next week, it had become obvious that he had transferred his loyalty from Amy to her and the girls. And Mara had found herself becoming increasingly fond of him, not least because he was a last, living connection to her friend. She leaned over, picked him up, grabbed a towel, and then gently replaced him so he could continue his early-morning nap.
She, Moo, and Tilly were sitting in Amy’s kitchen, the girls wolfing down bowls of Cheerios, Mara nibbling on a piece of toast, when they heard the mail drop through the letter box.
“I’ll get it! I’ll get it!” And Tilly raced out of the kitchen. Moo smiled at her mother and made no attempt to follow. She was growing up. A few months ago she too would have found the idea of collecting the post exciting.
“Two letters. And a magazine. Oh, no. It’s about knitting.”
Mara held out her hand. Tilly passed the mail over. One letter was a circular from a cable company. The other was an official-looking communication from the Moores’ solicitors. Mara put it aside, not wanting to risk opening it while the girls were there in case the news was bad and she let something slip.
“Aren’t you going to open them?”
“No. It’s nothing important. Come on. School for you.”
HALF AN hour later, Mara was back, and sitting in front of the letter, almost too scared to open it. She so hoped they would have thrown in the towel but had a feeling that it was not going to be that easy. That they would fight on.
She reached out, picked up the letter, and opened it. And read it.
The Moores were not giving up. They intended to drag Mara into court and parade her secret in front of the world. The move to Amy’s house had made no difference. As far as they were concerned, her past was enough to damn her as an unfit mother.
If they told the court, there was every chance
the girls would find out about it sooner or later. Find out that Mara had sold her body. Had spent years as a call girl, being paid to have sex. And that would be how Moo and Tilly would view their mother from then on.
She was sorely tempted to tell the Moores the truth about their sainted son. Only that would help no one. And, on second thought, they might not be surprised. Maybe they had known Jake better than she had.
Mara stared and stared at the words on the page, as if hoping that they would miraculously disappear and new, more conciliatory, less aggressive ones would appear in their place. But they weren’t going away.
And neither was she. She and the girls had been given a real chance at a good life by her friend Amy and she had no intention of throwing that chance away. Somehow, some way, she would fight this.
“GO AWAY.”
“I just want to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Well, we don’t want to talk to you.”
“Yes you do. You may not know it, but you do.”
“Who is it, Dorothy?”
“It’s her. Wanting to talk to us.”
“Please let me in.”
Mara stood at the door of the Moores’ neat, tidy, Twickenham home. Over the past few days, she had come up with hopeless scheme after hopeless scheme to change the Moores’ minds and had eventually rejected them all in favor of simplicity. She’d come to their house to try to make them see just how much their court case hurt Moo and Tilly.
“What are you doing here?” Mr. Moore asked.
“I just want a few minutes of your time. Please. Only a few minutes.”
“No. I don’t want a piece of…I don’t want you in my house.”
“Maybe we should listen, Dorothy. It can’t hurt to listen.”
“No.”
“But we don’t know what she’s going to say. Maybe it’s good news.” Mr. Moore looked at his wife meaningfully. Mara knew what he was thinking, that perhaps she’d come there to capitulate, and she had no intention of disabusing him of that notion. She’d use whatever was necessary to get into that house. And get them to listen.
“Oh. Yes. Well, a few minutes, then.”
George Moore led the way down the flowery-carpeted corridor into the bright-white, scrubbed-clean kitchen. He and his wife sat at a round dark-oak table set in a small conservatorylike space overlooking the manicured back garden, but made no attempt to offer Mara a seat. She shrugged her shoulders and ignored the insult. She wasn’t there to get annoyed. She was there to talk, to try to make some sense out of this mess.
She pulled out one of the spare chairs and sat opposite the Moores. “It’s very simple. I think it’s time we stopped concentrating on ourselves and thought of the girls.”
“We are thinking of them.”
“Please, Mrs. Moore. Let me finish. Now, they don’t know anything about this, not yet anyway. I’ve let them believe that their Nan and Pops are away on an extended holiday. And I think we should keep it that way.”
“That’s up to you. If you agree to our terms—”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. No parent could.”
“Then get out. Now.”
“No. I need you to listen to me. For just a moment. And then for you to think about what I’m going to say.” Mara was amazed by her own composure. Standing on the doorstep, waiting for the Moores to answer the bell, she’d been a bundle of nerves. But now, somehow, she was calm. And determined to get her points across. “I know you’ll never like me, and I don’t expect you to, but I am Tilly and Moo’s mother and that will never change, wherever they live.”
“My Jake should never have married you.”
“Maybe not. But he did. For better or worse, he did. And we had the girls. And nothing you can ever do will alter that.”
“When they learn what you’ve done, what you’ve been—”
“They’ll be hurt, of course they will. And confused. But they’ll still be my daughters. Even if I die, that’ll still be true.”
“They’ll reject you.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. They’ll certainly want to blame someone. But who’s to say that person will be their mother? They’re just as likely to hold you responsible for having told them.”
“They wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t.”
“Maybe not.”
“They love us.”
“Yes. And they love me too. And we all love them. So I think we should forget all this talk about my past and who’s the most suited to have the girls and try to agree on what should happen between us. Not bring courts into it. If you insist on that, I’ll fight, of course I will. I have the money to fight now, thanks to my friend Amy. But I’d much rather spend it on building a life for myself and the girls than on a long, drawn out, bitter court case where the outcome’s in doubt.”
“It’s not in doubt. You’re going to lose.”
“Perhaps that’s so. But you can’t know that. Can you?”
Mrs. Moore was silent.
“Can you?”
“They won’t let you have our girls. Not someone like you.”
“No. We can’t know.” Mr. Moore spoke for the first time since they’d entered the kitchen. Mara began to see a little chink of light. Dorothy might be dead set against her, but at least George was not completely blinded by prejudice.
“So here’s what I think. I think we should forget all this and concentrate on making Moo and Tilly happy. On giving them what they want and need. Their mother and their grandparents. We have to learn to share. Split their time between us. Say you have them every third weekend, half the holidays, and a week every month during school time. Or more. Or less. We can work that out later. But all this fighting needs to stop. Yes, we’ll never be friends. But we can be civilized. We can think of Moo and Tilly and not of our own selfish needs and wishes. You don’t want them to be brought up by me, and I’d prefer you to have as little time with them as possible, but they lost their father and they need what little family they do have. They need both me and you. And the sooner we recognize that, the sooner we can sort this out.”
“You’re asking us to give in.”
“No. I’m asking you to choose peace over war, Moo and Tilly’s happiness over our own.” Mara stood up. “Think about it, that’s all I ask. Now, I’ve taken up enough of your time. Good-bye.”
eighty-eight
“Claire? Claire?” Jules’s words echoed through the cavernous room.
There was no answer.
She was standing on the ground floor of the old gin warehouse that was still virtually unchanged from its original state. There were no internal walls, just rows and rows of ornate iron pillars supporting the high ceiling. Apart from the fact that the place was clean, it felt and looked like a building site. Electrical wires dangled, pipes were exposed, window frames unpainted. The only out-of-place elements were a series of trestle tables stacked against one wall and boxes and boxes of wine and glasses piled up in the far corner.
It was the day of the women’s party. The cleaning crew had just been in and the caterers were expected any minute. Followed a couple of hours later by the fake party guests. And, hopefully, Sean.
Jules had expected the warehouse to be closer to completion than it was, but the developers were behind schedule. And, she suspected, short of ready cash. Hence the opening. They could show the one flat they had finished and furnished and from that persuade prospective buyers to choose the one they wanted from the plan. And put down a deposit. Jules thought it an odd way to do business, to sell something before you even had it, but the developers insisted it was normal procedure.
And maybe it was. Just so long as Sean saw nothing wrong with it…
Claire came bustling down the stairs from the show flat.
“There you are. Where are the caterers? They’re late.”
“They’ll be here. It’s Tylers, remember? The old reliables. You chose them yourself. There’s no need to worry.”
“I know. I know. It’s only…I�
�ve never given a non-party before.” Jules was desperate for everything to go well. Terry had encouraged her to confess all to Michael and she felt the need to repay her friend for her great advice.
Claire laughed. “I’d treat it as a real one if I were you. There’s not much difference. Same champagne, same waiters, same canapés.”
“Just only one guest.”
“And twenty or so extras.”
“God, what happens if they don’t turn up?”
“They will. Didn’t your friend Lily organize them?”
“Yes. Of course they’ll come. Sorry.”
Claire had never seen her employer so tense before a party. Normally, she was as cool as ice. “Stop panicking. Go get a cup of coffee or something. Chill out. You’ll set everyone off if you go to pieces like this.”
“I know. I know. Usually I don’t care all that much about the outcome of a party. Usually there isn’t an outcome.”
“It’ll be fine. Leave it to me.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Nor do I. Go on, off you go. There’s a nice café at the end of the street does a great line in cappuccinos. Go on.”
THREE HOURS later, Lily and Mara were huddled in a black cab parked in between streetlights on the other side of the road from the warehouse, waiting to see if Sean would arrive. And to warn Jules when—if—he did. His secretary had accepted for him, so they could only hope that he would turn up. But they had no idea when. Everything was ready. The party was in full swing. Lily’s extras—some out-of-work actor friends she’d paid to come—had arrived, the champagne was flowing, and the canapés were doing the rounds. Now all they needed was the guest of honor.
“Where the hell is he?” Lily was definitely twitchy.
“Lily. Calm down. He’ll be here.”
“Terry’s coming at seven.”
“It’s only six-forty.”
“She might be early.”
“She might. I think we just have to trust to luck.”
