by Susan Lewis
To his dismay Elliot found himself thinking about Beth Ashby’s miscarriages and failed IVF. How painful it must be for her now, knowing this child existed, and how innocent the child was in all the suffering. ‘Have you ever met Beth?’ he asked.
To his surprise Heather went still for a moment. Then, smiling and frowning, she turned to him, saying, ‘What a strange question. I thought you knew when you did the story that it would be how Beth found out. We even discussed it.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose I was just wondering if you’d ever run into her at all, maybe even before you and Colin met.’
Shaking her head she said, ‘No. Our paths have never crossed. Everything I know about her I’ve got from Colin. He’s very protective of her, you know. She’s probably not half as dependent on him as he thinks, but men can be like that sometimes, can’t they? Flattering themselves that a woman can’t live without them? Actually, in Colin’s case, I don’t think it was flattery as much as frustration. He always said he’d have left her a long time ago if he hadn’t been afraid she’d go to pieces without him.’
‘So why would he want to hurt her by revealing your existence the way he did?’ Elliot asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she answered. ‘It seems so cruel, doesn’t it, which isn’t like him at all, normally. Maybe, being in prison, he’s resolved to make a choice between us. There’d be no kind way of letting Beth go. Possibly, if she hates him, he thought, she’ll be glad to be rid of him.’
Jessica was in front of them again. ‘It’s a bear,’ she declared, plonking the crumpled drawing in Elliot’s hands.
He studied the red squiggly circles critically. ‘Ah, it’s a polar bear,’ he said, understanding now.
‘I don’t know what a polar bear is,’ she confessed, hooking one foot up behind her and swivelling from side to side.
‘Polar bears are white,’ he explained. ‘And this one looks white, except his outside skin’s red. So maybe he’s a grisly.’
‘No, he’s a polar bear,’ she said definitely.
Elliot glanced at Heather, whose eyes were shining with merriment. ‘Does he have a name?’ he asked.
Jessica immediately ran round to the other side of her mother and whispered in her ear. Heather whispered back, then Jessica looked up and said, ‘He’s called Elliot.’
Laughing, Elliot said, ‘That’s a fine name for a bear.’
Laughing too, Heather put a hand on her daughter’s soft dark head saying, ‘Come on, Grandma will be wondering where we are.’
‘Grandma Ash?’ Jessica responded excitedly.
‘No. Grandma Dance. Grandma Ash is coming tomorrow, remember?’
‘Hooray!’ Jessica whooped, and skipped off to get her artist’s palette and sketchpad.
‘I’m sure you gathered that Grandma Ash is Colin’s mother,’ Heather said as she packed up the basket.
‘How long has she known about you?’ he asked, passing her his empty cup.
‘Actually, since before Jess was born. Colin was never going to tolerate her being a grandmother without her knowing it. She and Beth have never got on. She can be difficult, but having madam over there helps.’
As they walked back down the path together Elliot was reflecting on just how complete and cosy Ashby’s other family seemed. It jarred with him slightly, for while it was impossible not to warm to Heather and Jessica, he could hardly respect a man who’d do this to his wife. Still, like most marriages, there was no doubt a lot more to the Ashbys’ than anyone on the outside could even begin to guess, and quizzing the mistress wasn’t exactly going to result in an unbiased insight.
‘Are you OK for money?’ he asked, putting the basket into the boot of her car.
She appeared startled at first, then chuckling she said, ‘If that was an offer then it’s really very deeply appreciated, but we’re fine, thank you.’
He waited as she buckled Jessica into her seat, then said, ‘If the situation changes –’
‘I’ll let you know,’ she promised. ‘But honestly, we’re OK.’
He said no more, merely opened the driver’s door for her to get in.
‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, ‘did you see the story in the paper this morning about a copy of Beth’s manuscript being stolen from her publishers?’
‘I heard about it,’ he said. ‘I haven’t read the story yet.’
‘Who do you think would want it?’
‘Marcus Gatling for one,’ he responded. ‘Laurie Forbes for another.’
‘And you for another?’
‘Of course.’
‘But it wasn’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Is Beth still refusing to see you?’
‘She won’t talk to anyone,’ he responded.
She appeared thoughtful for a moment, then, brightening, she put her arms around him and gave him an affectionate hug. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said. ‘In a way you make me feel more linked to Colin. I hope that doesn’t offend your male ego.’
Laughing again at her frankness, he said, ‘Not at all.’ He waited until she was behind the wheel then slammed the door closed. ‘Call me any time,’ he told her. ‘You’ve got my email address too?’
‘I have,’ she confirmed.
He stood back, waved goodbye to Jessica, then, after waiting for them to drive away, he took out his mobile and dialled the office.
‘Yes, boss?’ Murray’s voice came down the line.
‘Anything on the manuscript?’ Elliot asked.
‘The story they’re putting out now is that it wasn’t stolen at all,’ Murray responded, ‘but that the editor had put a copy in one of those famous safe places and forgot where it was. She now has it, and all’s well that ends well.’
Elliot’s tone was dry as he said, ‘And we believe every word, of course. Any other messages?’
Murray quickly ran through them. At the fifth Elliot stopped him. ‘Give me that one again,’ he said, getting into the car and taking a pen off the dashboard.
‘Simpson’s in Paris,’ Murray repeated. ‘Call him on 331 12 16 15.’
Elliot wrote the number down, then told Murray to continue. There were eleven messages in all. None was from Laurie.
‘OK,’ he said, starting the engine. ‘I should be back in a few hours. Anything happens, you know where to reach me.’
Dropping the phone on to the seat beside him, he turned the car round and began heading back down the track towards the main road. The roof was off, and the overhanging trees were providing some welcome shade while he was moving so slowly. He was thinking about the fact that Laurie hadn’t kept to the promise she’d given Ashby, and how he was going to handle calling her if she didn’t get in touch by the end of the day. In truth, he’d welcome her thoughts on the way all this was unfolding, for there were several aspects that were making him curious and several more that were baffling him completely. However, the manuscript theft was something he probably had a good picture on, presuming the lame excuse didn’t hold any truth. At first he’d been convinced Laurie had it, for he was well aware of her friendship with Rhona Childs, whom he knew fairly well himself, but after giving it some thought he just couldn’t see Rhona putting her job on the line by taking an entire manuscript and smuggling it out to a reporter – particularly not one who could so easily be traced back to her. Tip-offs, yes; early proofs, yes; theft no. So that left the Gatlings, who, rather coincidentally, were in Washington DC right now. How smoothly and effectively they managed to put a distance between themselves and anything unpleasant, he was thinking. It was rather like pressing the red button then returning to a party, while havoc erupted elsewhere on the planet. Not for the first time he wondered where they’d been at the time of Sophie Long’s murder. Since there had been no reason to question, or even link them, that missing piece of the puzzle wasn’t going to be easy to find, but even when it did turn up it was almost certainly going to be stamped with Switzerland, or the Caymans or any other haven for the stu
pendously wealthy and politically discreet.
Suddenly his mind was full of Laurie again, though this time neither objectively nor professionally. Sure, he’d call her if he had to, but the thought of working that closely with her took him right back to how damned wretched she’d made him feel that day at the pub. It was coming over him again now so, pushing his foot down hard on the accelerator, he sped towards London, eager to get down to some work rather than continue being stuck here in a car, where the volume of his thoughts was drowning out the music, and almost making him wish he’d been born someone else.
It was time to leave Spain. Though Ava was having a fabulous time with her new blonde hair and growing bravado, Beth just couldn’t stand being around her mother any more. The woman was a monster, and Beth was so easily upset by her that even Ava was failing to keep her afloat, especially now the tension had become so incendiary that their tempers were likely to explode like bombs at any moment.
There was also the problem of the manuscript that had been stolen, then mysteriously found. She was too out of touch here. It was unnerving her, for though the manuscript had apparently turned up in the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet, having gone nowhere, the fact that there had been any confusion at all was what actually mattered, for now the whole world knew that Beth Ashby had written a book under the name of Ava Montgomery – absolutely what she’d been trying to avoid, since being Ava was the only relief she was managing to get from what was starting to feel like everlasting hell.
However, Robin’s surprise had provided some cause to feel good, for the fact that he had no less than three film producers vying for an option on the book was a bonus Ava hadn’t even considered until he’d brought it up.
‘And if we can swing it when we sign a deal,’ Robin said when they’d spoken on the phone, ‘you can go and lose yourself in LA for a while, where no one’s ever heard of Beth Ashby, or Ava Montgomery, so you can be who you like, whenever you like and to hell with whomsoever you like.’
This was what she adored about Robin – how understanding and non-judgemental he could be, and so ready with a solution. ‘We can try to get you a story consultancy role, unless you want to tackle the screenplay?’ he told her.
‘Story consultancy sounds safer,’ she laughed, ‘but don’t do anything until I get back, because I’m not sure I really want to go.’ It was tempting to say yes. But maybe it was too drastic, too cut off and unknown. Ava could cope with that, but Beth might not, when LA was so far from Colin. However, the alternative, staying in England and watching her book turn into something about Beth and Colin, when it was only about Carlotta and Rodrigo was, in some ways, enough to make her never want to go back to England again.
Blowing on her nails to dry them, she stretched her long legs out to the balcony balustrade, allowing her flame-red sarong to fall open to the waist. Her skin had turned an exquisite walnut brown and looked as smooth and inviting as chocolate. She ran her hands languorously over her thighs, then was just picking a stray bougainvillaea bract from the sleeve of her T-shirt, when the apartment door crashed open and her mother stormed in like a bull. If Beth had been quicker she’d have whipped off her sarong and held it out for the charge, but Joyce was already yelling.
‘I can’t believe you’d do this!’ she cried, slapping a hand against the newspaper she was holding. ‘Just what kind of game are you playing, letting me find out from a neighbour who I don’t particularly like, and a bloody newspaper, that you’ve been paid over a million pounds for some book that you never even bothered to tell your own mother about?’
Though it was rising fast, somehow Beth held on to her temper. ‘I didn’t think you’d be particularly interested,’ she responded, blowing on her nails again. ‘You never have been in anything else I’ve ever done. But then, there was never a million smackeroos before, was there? So silly me, I should have realized you’d want to know.’
Joyce rounded on her husband, who was quietly closing the door behind them. ‘Did you hear that?’ she shouted. ‘There she goes with that attitude again. I suppose she thinks being rich makes her better than us. Is that what you think?’ she shouted at Beth, ‘that you’re above us all now?’
‘Probably,’ Beth answered.
‘Well, let me tell you this,’ Joyce snarled, starting towards her, ‘they’re only interested because of who you’re married to, so you’ve got no cause for airs and graces around here, my lady. Who’d want to publish anything you wrote otherwise?’
At that Beth lost it. ‘You are such a bitch!’ she cried, leaping to her feet. ‘It wouldn’t even occur to you, would it, that I might actually be capable of writing a good book?’
‘I told you, it’s because of who you are. They’re interested because your husband’s a celebrity killer –’
‘Shut up!’ Beth raged. ‘Just shut the fuck up!’
‘Get in here now,’ Joyce seethed. ‘Don’t you dare stand out there, using that language where everyone can hear.’
‘Just shut the fuck up!’ Beth screamed. ‘Or I swear I’ll do something we’ll both regret.’
‘Is that a threat? Did you just threaten me? Who the bloody hell do you think you are, coming into my house and threatening? Did you hear that, Hal? She just threatened me, her own mother.’
Beth was stalking into the room, her face glowing red with fury. ‘For your information, bitch,’ she spat, ‘that book was accepted before anyone knew who I was.’
Joyce snorted. ‘Don’t kid yourself. They knew. Jesus Christ, look at you. You can dye your hair blonde and wear all the flashy clothes you like, but you’re still Colin Ashby’s wife, and it’s him they’re interested in, not you! It’s always been him, because you’re nothing! You never were, and you never will be.’
‘Beth, no!’ her father cried, grabbing her as she threw herself at her mother. ‘Just leave it. Come on, both of you …’
‘I hate her!’ Beth cried. ‘She denigrates everything I do and always has. Well, the truth is that they didn’t know who I was, so I got paid over one million pounds for something I created without any help from you, or Colin or anyone else. So fuck you, Mother. Do you hear me? Fuck you!’
‘There she goes with that vile language again,’ Joyce shouted, her face quivering with outrage. ‘And if you’ve got so much money, Miss High and Bloody Mighty, then it’s about time you started sharing it around, because we’ve never seen a red cent from you since the day you were born. You didn’t even bring us a present from England when you turned up. You never think of anyone but yourself.’
Beth lunged towards her again, but her father still held her. ‘Just listen to her!’ she yelled. ‘The most self-centred, grabbing bitch of all time. Talk about me only ever thinking of myself! What have you ever done for anyone except yourself? When have I, your own daughter, ever mattered? Where were you when I was growing up and needed a mother to make things better? What happened to the birds and the bees and the boyfriends you were supposed to tell me about? Where were our days out shopping? When did we ever do anything together? What have you ever told me about my grandparents, or my childhood, or all those little things you’re supposed to share with your daughter? Where’s the support now, when I’ve never needed it more in my life? Just what the hell kind of mother are you?’
Joyce’s face looked about to explode. ‘I’m the only one you’ve got, so you’d better learn some respect,’ she hissed.
‘For what? What is there to respect about you? Even Colin, who you thought the sun shone out of until now, couldn’t stand you.’
‘It was you he couldn’t stand, you stupid cow!’ Joyce shouted. ‘Why else do you think he had all those mistresses? No man goes looking around as much as he did, if he’s got himself a wife who’s fit to call herself a wife. Why else do you think he’s where he is now? None of it would have happened if he hadn’t been stupid enough to marry – get back!’ she yelled, as Beth wrenched herself free from Hal and towered over her like an animal ready to strike. ‘Don’t you d
are touch me. Hal, grab her! She’s gone mad.’
Beth’s fists were bunched tight to her mother’s head. Her teeth were bared, and a terrible fury vibrated in her throat as tears streamed from her eyes. ‘He kills a twenty-two-year-old girl, and you manage to make it my fault!’ she screamed. ‘And do you know what’s really sick about that? I knew you would. Your own daughter, your own flesh and blood, and you blame me. Just thank God you never had any other children, because I’d never want to inflict you as a parent on anyone else. I just wonder how Dad can stand being married to you.’
‘At least he’s here, providing a decent life for me, not sneaking round other women’s bedrooms, or locked up in some prison cell. It even took someone else to give your husband a child because you were too inept … Don’t you dare!’ she shrieked as Beth’s fury threatened to smash right into her. ‘Hal, get hold of her. She’s lost her mind.’
As her father’s hands clenched round her wrists Beth jerked herself away, sobbing. ‘You’re not worth it,’ she choked. ‘You’re just not worth it,’ and, grabbing up the car keys and her bag, she ran out of the flat.
For hour after hour she drove and drove, too distraught to know where she was going, or even to care. Time after time she almost left the road, then, spinning the wheel, skidding and throwing up dust, she’d right the car and press on, up into the hills, down into valleys, while all the time tears coursed down her cheeks and sobs of utter despair racked her body. It was the worst scene they’d ever had, and though she’d sensed it building, she’d never dreamt it would be so terrible or hurt so much.
It was early evening when she finally registered the sign for a taberna and followed the winding dirt road out towards the cliff edge. By then the need for Colin’s arms and comfort was swelling and threatening like another kind of storm. But that need was always there. It probably wouldn’t ever go away until they could be together again, so she would just have to wait for it to pass, holding herself back from its might until the worst had gone. And it would go, she knew that, just as she knew they’d be together again, and then it would be as though nothing bad had ever happened, and only good would take them to the end. Oh dear God, she had to believe that. She just had to.
