‘Are you serious? You’re in the national press. People are looking for you—your family, friends, even private detectives!’
Wolf dashed a hand over his cropped head. ‘Well, what if I don’t want to be found, yeah? What if I’m happy as I am? You know your mother’s views on the so-called privileged.’
‘But, Wolf, er, Brodie—’
‘Wolf,’ he said quickly.
‘Okay,’ I sighed. ‘Wolf. You have to tell my mum who you really are. What if she finds out like that?’ I pointed an accusing finger at the newspaper.
Wolf stroked his beard. ‘Do you know this is the happiest I’ve been for a long, long time?’ I flopped back onto the sofa and watched him sink dejectedly into the armchair opposite. ‘That bloody Fairbairn name has clung to me for years like a curse. Everybody just assumed I’d take over the reins of the family business.’ He let out a weary laugh. ‘The thought of overseeing some sodding stationery factory, marrying a jumped-up posh girl who only wanted me for my money . . .’ His voice vanished into a whisper. ‘I felt like the walls were closing in.’ He leaned forwards slightly. ‘You have no idea how many times I tried to speak to my parents about it all. They know I want to be a writer.’
‘But they don’t approve?’
Wolf snorted, raising his eyebrows. ‘That’s the understatement of the year. Even when I had a top literary agent interested in me they still kicked off with all the duty and tradition crap, yeah?’ He shuffled his feet across the carpet. ‘If they weren’t giving me the silent treatment I was being frog-marched into Dad’s office.’
‘So you took off abroad?’
Wolf nodded. ‘Yep. Grew a beard, roped in a few favours from a couple of close friends and kept my head down.’ A warm spark ignited his grey eyes. ‘Then I met your mum.’ His expression slid into a soppy smile. ‘I’ve never met anyone like Chris before.’ ‘And you’re highly unlikely ever to again.’
Wolf laughed briefly, showing off a slash of even teeth.
‘So do your parents know you’re safe?’
‘Of course they do. I couldn’t leave them hanging like that.’ He raised his hands in the air. ‘I sent them a postcard when I was in Europe. At least it was something.’
Wolf went on to explain how he’d met Mum at an arts festival in South America. By then he’d well and truly shrugged off the debonair, floppy-haired persona, turning himself into a trendy hipster.
‘I’ve written my first novel,’ he added, ‘and that got me an agent.’ Wolf carried on. ‘It’s a black comedy. My agent has got it out to publishers at the moment.’
We both turned to look at the newspaper article, now lying in a crumpled heap on my coffee table.
‘But what about your passport?’ I puzzled. ‘That’s pretty risky, travelling in your circumstances.’
Wolf’s mouth twitched at the recollection. ‘Let’s just say I have one or two friends who Mum and Dad most certainly didn’t approve of. Their “connections” were invaluable, if you know what I mean.’
Visualising Wolf engaging the services of passport fraudsters wasn’t so difficult. Conjuring up his alter ego, the sharp-suited heir, was proving trickier.
By the time Wolf had finished telling me his story he looked exhausted, so I offered to make us some coffee. ‘You have to tell Mum,’ I repeated, more forcefully this time. ‘She’d want to know.’
Wolf’s pleading eyes reminded me of a puppy’s. ‘But what if she can’t accept me for who I really am? I can’t lose her.’
Crikey. He really was in love with my mum. I gulped and steadied myself against the kitchen doorframe. ‘From what you’ve told me, Wolf is really who you are, not Brodie Fairbairn.’
Wolf’s mouth split into a grateful smile.
‘But you have to tell her,’ I called over the clatter of cups. ‘I don’t want Special Forces breaking down my door. Even worse, I don’t want Mum finding out from the papers.’
I’d rather face balaclava-clad soldiers any day of the week.
Thirty-one
My little chat with Wolf resulted in a sleepless night.
Mum had returned with enough material on the powerful vagina to paper my bathroom twice over. As she and Wolf vanished into the spare room, I’d directed a stiff nod of encouragement to him and retreated to my bed.
More secrets. It just made me feel even more certain that this marriage debacle had to be out in the open up at Glenlovatt. Gordon was obviously carrying the weight of the estate’s financial woes and, more than likely, he felt he couldn’t speak to Vaughan about it, for obvious reasons. Hugo was gone. Perhaps I could step into the breach.
In the morning, unable to eat, I scooped up my bag after a quick coffee. Mum and Wolf were probably still asleep, their door tightly closed. As I examined my lipstick in the hall mirror I guessed that Wolf hadn’t yet revealed to Mum who he really was: there had been no theatrics from my mother, no rants about the ‘pillaging upper classes’, not so much as a raised voice during my wakeful night.
I drove to Glenlovatt beneath a canopy of russet and beige leaves, negotiating the country lanes in a haze and unable to appreciate the song of blackbirds and the curves of the Fairview Hills the way I normally did. Because of last night’s insomnia I’d been motivated to get to Thistles even earlier than normal and do some baking. Images of mini chocolate and vanilla cupcakes, maple and pecan slices and a banana loaf danced in my head.
I eased my car into Glenlovatt’s snaking grounds. What would Gordon think of my latest idea to earn some extra money for the estate—and more importantly, what would he think of my impertinent advice against marriage to the toxic Rhiannon?
‘I know what you’re thinking of doing, Gordon.’
Bugger!
I had planned to broach the subject with some tact, not charge in there like a bull in a tea shop. Obviously, my mouth again wasn’t communicating with my brain.
Gordon paused in front of me with his morning coffee. ‘Oh?’ he smiled. ‘And what might that be?’
I moved closer, out of earshot of the occupied tables. A family of four, decked out in expensive walking gear, were tucking into their Americanos and slices of crumb cake with gusto.
Gordon’s curious expression sent my stomach into an impressive somersault. Last night and this morning I’d been all fired up about raising Rhiannon with him. Now, as he stood there, reminding me of Vaughan with his thick eyebrows and broad shoulders, my resolve shook.
‘What is it?’ he pressed. ‘What’s wrong, Lara?’
‘Could we go to your study for a moment, please?’
Gordon took a big glug of his coffee. ‘Of course.’
We were silent as we walked along the cool black-and-white tiled hall. Everywhere I looked, Vaughan’s talents were evident. A spiralling acrobat shone within the confines of an antique cabinet, and an ivory white horse’s head, its mane bristling in an imaginary wind, was set on a nearby plinth.
Until I had ventured into Vaughan’s studio—until I had seen firsthand what beauty he was capable of making—I hadn’t really taken much notice of his work dotted around the house. Now it screamed out at me, demanding my attention and causing a weird flipping sensation in my chest.
Gordon swung open his study door and slid it shut behind me.
‘I know about Rhiannon Kincaid,’ I blurted. There I went again. Miss Tactful.
I waited for Gordon to erupt, to vent his anger or blame me for snooping. Instead he slowly turned to face the window behind his desk and gazed at the nodding flowers bursting from their beds. Guilt welled up inside me. What a bloody clumsy way to raise the subject with him! I couldn’t have been any less tactful if I’d been waving a placard with the words ‘Don’t Marry That Bleached Bitch!’.
I wanted Gordon to say something. Anything. Finally, he spoke. ‘I don’t think I have any other option.’ His voice was laden with resignation. ‘How do you know about it?’
I sank into a chair. ‘I accidentally overheard you on the phone the other
day.’ This time, I rallied my reason before I spoke again. ‘Please don’t do anything rash. Things can’t be that bad, can they?’ I put my hands up defensively. ‘You don’t have to tell me. It’s none of my business but you’ve been so good to me. I just want to help.’
Gordon’s silvery grey eyes looked resigned. ‘You are helping. Really you are. You’re doing such a great job with the tea room but this place . . .’ He cast his gaze around the study helplessly. ‘It swallows up money fast.’ He placed his white coffee cup on the desk. ‘Things are a lot worse than we feared.’
I didn’t know whether I wanted Gordon to continue. ‘In what way?’
He sat down behind his desk, the curtains casting shadows across his face. ‘We’ve discovered Glenlovatt has developed dry rot in her masonry.’
‘How bad is it?’
Gordon plucked his spectacles out of a nearby leather case and slid them on. Then he reached across, pulling a leaflet from the top of a pile of papers. ‘Bad,’ he answered shortly. He gave the paper an aggressive shake. ‘According to the builders it’s been developing slowly over a long period of time.’
I shuffled in my seat. ‘Well, what can be done about it?’
Gordon examined me through the glint of his half-moon spectacles. ‘They’ve told me dry rot can spread under, over and through masonry walls, effectively hiding in any nook or cranny.’ He slapped down the builder’s leaflet and picked up his coffee. ‘Because it can spread like that, we’ve been advised to have additional measures, such as masonry sterilisation, so we don’t miss anything.’
Gordon leaned forward and steepled his hands. ‘This sort of thing can cause widespread structural damage, which is exactly what we don’t want. If we find that even some of the timber and brickwork has been affected by this dry rot fungus, then, the builders said, they would have to apply a fungicidal paste to act as some sort of protective chemical barrier.’
I really didn’t like the way this conversation was going. ‘The cost?’
Gordon announced a figure that more closely resembled an international telephone number.
‘Bloody hell!’
‘Apparently it’s a good long-term investment, as it can prevent attacks from wood boring insects for years to come.’ Gordon smiled ruefully. ‘Added to that, we also have a colony of bats living up in the eves, so I want to make sure they don’t come to any harm either.’
My eyes widened. ‘Really?’
Gordon noticed my horrified expression and gave a short laugh. ‘Don’t worry, we occasionally hear them but hardly ever see them, just the odd ones soaring across the gardens at nightfall.’
‘That’s a relief.’
Gordon’s chest heaved under his red checked shirt. ‘I can’t let this place go under, Lara. It’s our family home.’
I ferociously shook my head. ‘But you can’t marry that woman because of it. You still love Lydia. Anyone can see that.’
Judging by Gordon’s stricken face, I knew I’d put my size sixes well and truly in it—again.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I gushed, ‘that was tactless of me.’
‘No, it wasn’t. You were just speaking the truth.’
He turned his silver head away, lost in thought for a few moments. Lydia’s portrait looked down on both of us from the wall.
‘You must think I’m terrible,’ he said on the crest of a sigh. ‘Contemplating marriage to someone for money.’
I gathered myself. ‘No, I don’t think you’re terrible. You just seem to think you’ve got no other option—but you have.’
Gordon’s shoulders sank further. ‘I can’t see it.’
With no coherent plan to base the statement on, I blurted, ‘Yes you have. You’re looking at her.’ I smiled manically, jumping to my feet. ‘Leave it with me. And, please, promise me, Gordon, that you won’t do anything rash for now.’
He looked as if he was a drowning man who had suddenly been thrown a rubber ring. ‘But what are you going to do?’
‘I’ll get back to you with the details soon, trust me.’
I hurried out of the study before slumping against the hallway wall. Shit! Now I really did have to come up with a plan to help Glenlovatt—and it would have to involve Vaughan, whether I liked it or not.
During the lunchtime lull, I moped about, lost in thought.
I had to think of something—and quickly. If there was any way at all I could help Glenlovatt I would do it without hesitation.
‘Tada! Well, what do you think?’
I jumped as Morven thrust her iPad in front of me. I dropped my brie and grape salad sandwich back on plate. As promised, she’d pulled together a mock-up of the new Glenlovatt website.
‘If Gordon gives it the go-ahead, Aidan said he can pop round tomorrow morning to take the photos.’
‘It looks amazing!’ I grinned. ‘Gordon is going to be seriously impressed.’
‘Do you think so?’ she blushed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course!’
I loved the cream and gold colour scheme, and the text rolling across the screen in a more readable and attractive font, with a side column promoting Thistles in mint green, was a vast improvement. It was subtle and attractive, far more in keeping with an ancestral home. In its former incarnation it had been more like an advert for an undertaker. ‘Let’s finish our lunch and then take this to him. We might as well while it’s quiet in here.’
‘What about Vaughan?’ Morven asked with a hint of apprehension.
I arched my eyebrows. ‘I wouldn’t worry about him if I were you. If it’s not something he can use his chisel on, he’s not interested.’
Becky poured a fresh bag of coffee beans into the machine. ‘You like him, don’t you?’
I almost dropped the iPad in shock at her question. ‘Don’t be daft!’
She swung round, sending her pink ponytail shooting back over her shoulder. ‘He’s dangerously attractive, you’ve got to admit.’
‘That’s why he should be wearing a “Keep out” sign around his neck.’
Becky’s burgundy lips slipped into a wry smile. ‘I find they’re the ones that tend to be the most fun.’
A fleeting image of Anton shimmered into my memory. ‘Yes, well, I’ve had enough of the bad-boy variety to last me a lifetime, thanks very much.’
Becky placed one hand on her hip. ‘Oh, you can never have too many bad boys.’
Morven rolled her eyes. ‘Stop encouraging her.’
I laughed a little too loudly as I took a further bite of my sandwich. ‘If you’re so interested in our resident grump, why don’t you make a play for him then?’
Becky fixed me with a meaningful stare. ‘Lara, it’s not me he’s interested in.’
Thirty-two
The next morning arrived bright and crisp with sunshine fingering its way across the Fairview hillsides.
Gordon was extremely enthusiastic about Morven’s suggestions for the Glenlovatt website. He’d given the mock-up the go-ahead, as well as awarding her a tidy little extra sum for all her efforts. Buzzing with enthusiasm, Morven had rung Aidan, who had agreed to come over first thing to take new photographs of Glenlovatt, and of us and Thistles.
I’d only just pulled up in my Cleo and hitched my sunglasses on top of my head when Becky swung into the space beside me in her acid green Polo. She waved enthusiastically from the driver’s seat and snatched up her bags before jumping out. She looked lovely in her navy blue floral tea dress, splashed with yellow and orange roses. Teamed with dark platform shoes and her pink hair piled in a chignon, it was like she’d stepped out of a forties musical.
Morven, who was already hovering by the side entrance, had opted for a dress too, but hers was a long red lace number. She had tied her hair back and added cream wedges to her outfit.
I glanced down at my mint-coloured shift dress and stacked heels. I’d washed my hair and let it dry naturally, partly because I’d felt too knackered to give it the full blow-dry treatment. My corkscrew curls fell ove
r my shoulders. Just as long as it didn’t rain, I was quietly optimistic they would behave themselves for the day. And, of course, I was wearing my charm bracelet too. I did hope the good fortune I believed it was bringing me would continue.
‘I love your outfit,’ Becky beamed, ‘but I tell you what. As soon as Aidan is finished with us, I’m taking all this lot off.’ She waggled a carrier bag.
‘I’m with you on that one,’ I smiled, pointing at my shoes. ‘If I had to totter around in these all day I’d end up falling on someone.’ I pulled my own change of clothes, which were folded up in a holdall, from the passenger seat.
‘Talk about instruments of torture,’ muttered Becky, lifting one leg to give her right foot an ineffectual wiggle.
A squeal of tyres sending gravel spurting in all directions made us spin round in alarm.
‘He’s prompt,’ said Morven, squinting in the morning light.
Out of a black Porsche stepped a pair of long, muscular legs. The driver was blond, with broad shoulders and a wide grin, attractive in an American jock kind of way, dressed in a lilac T-shirt and jeans.
Aidan swung a bag and tripod out of the boot of his car and strode towards us. ‘Morven,’ he exclaimed, planting a theatrical kiss on each cheek.
‘Hi, Aidan. This is my boss and best friend, Lara McDonald. Lara, meet my cousin Aidan Docherty.’
‘I’m not Morven’s boss,’ I corrected. ‘She’s my colleague.’
Aidan’s hazel eyes flicked over me and he smiled charmingly. ‘Hi there.’ We introduced him to Becky, who eyed him appreciatively from under her kohl-lined lids.
‘We’re just waiting for our other colleague, Jess, to arrive. She should be here any minute. Let me take you to the tea room,’ smiled Morven, before engaging her cousin in some general chat. She guided him towards the patio doors.
While Aidan set up his equipment, Morven, Becky and I got busy ensuring the tea room was at its best for photos.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ called an exasperated Jess. ‘I couldn’t prise Harry away from the telly.’
A Room at the Manor Page 17
