‘You could have had it too, Nicole. It was your choice.’
She smirked.
‘You’re going to drop her like a hot potato when you find out what I’ve come to tell you.’
‘And what’s that?’
There was a gleam of triumph in her eyes as she delivered her death blow. It was the only sign of animation he’d seen in her face since she’d arrived.
‘She’s not yours.’
Damien laughed.
‘Nice try.’
‘She’s not. She’s the spitting image of me. There’s not a single drop of blood in her body that belongs to you.’
Damien made a supreme effort to hide the tremble in his voice.
‘We’ll have a test done.’
‘Just what I was going to suggest. Then you’ll have the proof. And then we’ll see what the court says.’
Damien felt winded. As if she’d punched him full on in the stomach without warning. But a voice in his head told him to keep his cool. She was goading him. It was a trap. No doubt she had a hidden camera ready for when he swung the first punch. Ready for the judge.
‘And you won’t have a leg to stand on. If she’s not actually yours, there’s not a judge in the land who would give you custody.’ She wiggled her bony fingers at him in a taunting farewell. ‘Be in touch.’
She jumped into the Sierra and the car sped off with a screech of tyres.
Damien didn’t make it back to his car before he threw up, retching and retching until there was nothing left in his stomach. In the back of his mind he thought he’d better clear it up before any of the other residents caught sight of it. It was strange how in times of total panic one could be so practical. And it made him realize how far he’d come. Where he’d been brought up, a pool of vomit wouldn’t merit a second glance.
At the Hippodrome in Birmingham, Keith settled into his seat, trying to relax and enjoy himself. Mandy had been sweet: she’d immediately suggested they go to the ballet together. She obviously realized how disappointed he was at being stood up, and thought it would take his mind off it. Better than sitting at home moping.
Romeo and Juliet were enacting the balcony scene. The ballerina looked so tiny, her seeming fragility belying the strength that allowed the graceful movements that were well beyond the physical capabilities of most people. She fluttered and shimmered before her lover.
Next to Keith, tears were streaming down Mandy’s face. The love between them was so tangible, so strong, so passionate, so right. It was like another presence on the stage. Finally the lovers kissed and Mandy buried her face in her hands. What luxury, to be so sure. She herself was torn in two, not knowing which way to turn, and seeing the star-crossed pair so certain of their commitment twisted the knife in her heart.
Rick had texted her earlier, about going surfing that weekend. She’d put Patrick to the test, and asked if they could go out for the day together. He’d hesitated before saying no; he had far too much to do at the Honeycote Arms.
He’d made her mind up for her.
*
Later, as they lay in his freshly-made bed in a sweat-drenched post-coital tangle, Bertie kissed Ginny’s bare shoulder and demanded, ‘Marry me.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ answered Ginny tartly.
‘Please. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.’
‘What – someone that will do all your dirty work? Clean for you and screw you, you mean?’
She was only teasing, but he was concerned that she shouldn’t think that.
‘No. You make me feel safe. You feel like you’d always be there.’
‘You make me sound like your mother.’
There was a short silence. She didn’t know. She couldn’t know or she wouldn’t have said it.
‘I never did anything like that with my mother, I can assure you.’
Bertie hooked his arm round her waist and pulled her to him. She was so comfortable, nestling up in the crook of someone else’s body. ‘There is just one other problem,’ she murmured in answer to his proposal. ‘I’m actually still married to someone else.’
But Bertie was already snoring gently. And moments later Ginny too dozed off on a little cloud of bliss, images of the day sliding through her mind, mops and dusters and mind-blowing orgasms…
Keith took Mandy to Bank after the ballet, a huge, bustling glass-fronted restaurant that was buzzing with life. As the car made its way up Broad Street, Mandy found herself thinking how much Rick would love it here. Everywhere you looked people were in party mode. There was an infinite number of bars and clubs to choose from: vodka bars, Irish bars, Australian bars, retro bars, salsa bars. Music spilled out on to the street. Outside one restaurant was a gaudily-dressed fire-eater. Legions of scantily-clad girls prowled the pavements in gangs, laughing and talking on their phones and flirting with strangers. It was a million miles away from Honeycote – and yet less than an hour’s drive.
Mandy realized Rick was right. She didn’t have a clue about the real world. If this was Birmingham, then what was further afield?
In the restaurant, Keith put down his fork with a sigh.
‘Mandy, love – is anything the matter? You don’t seem yourself.’
She looked down at her plate. The Dover sole was perfectly cooked in lemon butter, but she couldn’t face it. She shook her head emphatically. So emphatically it was obvious she was lying.
‘I’m fine. I’m just… tired.’
‘Maybe you need a break. Have a little holiday. Get on the Internet, book yourself something.’
Her father was so kind, so concerned. Mandy felt herself about to dissolve into tears. Keith put a hand on hers.
‘Hey…’
‘I’m so confused, Dad.’ She couldn’t elaborate. Couldn’t confide in him. He’d be shocked.
‘Just follow your heart, love. I know you’ll do the right thing.’ He paused. ‘I’ll always be here for you, you know that.’
He trusted her so much. She didn’t deserve his concern. He’d be furious if he knew what she was about to do.
*
On the journey back, Keith slowed down at Tinker’s Barn as he went past, wondering how Ginny was. He peered towards the front door, and saw his basket still inside the porch. She must be still in bed, and hadn’t ventured outside. He was concerned. She must really be ill. She might need a doctor.
Another thought occurred to him. One that he didn’t like much.
Perhaps she hadn’t actually been at home when she phoned him.
Keith put his foot down and headed back to Kiplington, trying to ignore the horrid little stab of humiliation that was digging him just below the ribs. It was far worse than the disappointment he’d felt earlier, when Ginny had phoned him to say she was unwell. Now he realized that he’d been passed over; that she’d had a better invitation. He supposed he’d been optimistic to think that their relationship might work. He remembered how he’d had a little daydream, about them being an item, a couple, and hosting dinner parties at Keeper’s Cottage. Not dinner parties like Lucy and Mickey had – he could never hope to have their style, their élan – but it would have been nice to have been on the social circuit; to have people saying ‘We’re going to Keith and Ginny’s tonight,’ and perhaps looking forward to it.
That wasn’t going to happen. Keith contemplated the future gloomily and decided he wasn’t going to bother putting himself through the torture any longer. He thought ruefully that perhaps he should try and find a partner on the Internet. A Russian bride, or Thai – apparently they devoted themselves to making their husbands happy, waited on them hand, foot and finger.
But that wasn’t what he wanted. He was a giver, not a taker. Sod it, he thought. Why had he driven past and looked? He could have been at home asleep in blissful ignorance by now.
He turned and looked at Mandy fast asleep in the front seat next to him. She was still the only thing that mattered. If things didn’t work out with Ginny, if the Honeycote Arms was a disaster, if the
whole bloody brewery went bust, it didn’t matter. As long as Mandy was happy. He wished desperately that he knew what to do to put a smile back on her face.
Damien had never known such pain. Such fear. Such uncertainty. If the bitch had wanted to make him suffer, she’d certainly succeeded. He’d hustled a somewhat bewildered Kelly out of the house, wanting to be alone with Nicole’s dreadful revelation. And when Anastasia padded in wearing her pyjamas with the little pink stars all over them, all ready for bed, he held her warm little body so tightly she protested.
One moment he was able to convince himself that of course Nicole was talking nonsense. And the next his heart would give a lurch as he realized that she could be speaking the truth. If Anastasia had been sired by someone else, no matter who he was he was unlikely to have been as wealthy as Damien. Anastasia would have been Nicole’s ticket to the life she craved. Only now, when they’d reached the end of the road in their negotiations, was she willing to give up her weapon in order to hurt him, out of spite.
As he tucked his daughter in that night, he analysed her every feature, her every mannerism, searching in vain for a similarity between them. Physically, she was emphatically Nicole, from her colouring down to her bone structure – her dark curls, her pale skin, her sooty lashes and her eyes the colour of Coca-Cola. Personality-wise, she was just herself. She could be bossy and assertive when she wanted to be, but she wasn’t demanding as such; never had a tantrum when things didn’t go her way, but listened to reason. She would just give the smallest pout of disapproval. She was loving, giving, affectionate – would bring him glasses of juice full to the brim and a handful of biscuits when she thought he needed refreshment, without being asked. Every picture she painted at school, every model she made, every sticky, squashy fairy cake or biscuit was proudly presented to him.
He waited until she was fast asleep, then slipped into his study. It was immaculate, as if no one had ever set foot in there, but then Damien was meticulous about filing: everything was slipped into a colour-coded file and stored in the beech-fronted cabinet.
He sat in front of the computer, heart thudding as he turned it on and the screen-saver swirled into life in front of him. He connected to the Internet and called up his favourite search engine. His hands hovered uncertainly over the keys. He wasn’t sure what to type in.Eventually he made a decision and typed in ‘paternity test’.
Hundreds of possible web sites came up. He didn’t suppose he was the first person ever to face this particular dilemma, but he was amazed that there was a huge industry supplying what were, in effect, home DNA tests, for those with a sneaking suspicion that their children had in fact been fathered by the milkman, or had been presented with a demand for financial support for offspring they were sure they couldn’t have fathered.
He read through everything carefully. The procedure seemed straightforward and painless, involving a simple swabbing of the inside of the mouth with a Q-tip. The only complication seemed to be that if a sample wasn’t available from the mother, then the test might not be so conclusive. Damien couldn’t imagine Nicole opening wide and providing him with a gobbet of saliva, and he certainly didn’t want to alert her to what he was doing
He trawled through what felt like hundreds of web sites until he found one that seemed efficient and bona fide and quick. The test itself wouldn’t stand up in a court of law, but at this moment Damien was only seeking reassurance for himself. He applied for the kit on-line, typing in his credit card details and asking for the express service. The kit should arrive with him by courier the next day, with the results within two working days. She had to be his. What the hell had he done to deserve this?
He stopped short as he suddenly realized something. This was, in fact, exactly what he deserved! He’d made his money exploiting women, for God’s sake! What was that saying? An eye for an eye? Perhaps taking Anastasia away was just punishment for all those souls he had tarnished, all those sixteen-year-olds who’d leaped at the chance to dance in his clubs, only to discover the horrible, seedy truth. She was the price he was going to have to pay.
And now, even though he’d moved on from all of that, he wasn’t behaving any better, with his bully-boy plan to destroy the Honeycote Arms. Just so he could have it for himself. Just so he could impress everyone. Just so he could play the big I Am.
He was getting his just deserts all right. Who on earth did he think he was? He might think he had moved on and purged himself, but in fact what he was planning – the sabotage, the hostile takeover bid, the vain attempt to prove he was one up on everyone else – was even more despicable than his previous dabblings. How could he hope to prove he was better than everyone else, when in fact he was probably what they had thought he was all along: a small-time petty criminal-cum-gangster, with a chip on his shoulder.
He told himself it was partly for Kelly: revenge for the way she and her parents had been treated by the Liddiards. But what would she say if she knew the truth? She wouldn’t be impressed in the least. Kelly was honest and true to herself. She was happy with who she was. She didn’t need to prove herself, not like he did. And she’d never felt the need to get revenge; she didn’t seem to hold anything against Patrick or his father. So why did Damien feel the need to go charging in and give them their come-uppance? Because Patrick had called him a pimp and sneered at his car? Perhaps Patrick hadn’t been so far from the truth…
Why couldn’t he be comfortable in his own skin? Why did he have this brash need to show off how big, how clever, how rich he was? How he could pull a fast one? Why on earth did he think people would like him more and accept him, just because he owned the Honeycote Arms? It wouldn’t change the person he was underneath at all. Bitter, cynical, greedy, insecure, hard-bitten…
No! thought Damien. That wasn’t what he wanted to be. It might be what he had become, through circumstance, because of the cards life had dealt him, because of the way he’d been treated. But it wasn’t what he wanted to be at all. He wanted a simple life, a happy life. He wanted to be a good father to Anastasia – he thought he was a good father to her already, but he wanted to be someone she could be proud of, not someone who had skeletons and secrets and a dark past. And he wanted a healthy, happy, trusting relationship, to provide Anastasia with a secure environment.
Assuming, of course, she was his and he still had that choice.
Damien had never been superstitious before. He’d never felt the need to avoid cracks in pavements, was happy to walk under ladders, didn’t panic if he broke a mirror. He believed that you made your own luck. But now, he wasn’t prepared to take the risk.
He had to turn his back on everything he had done. He had to undo all the evil things he had done. And everything he was about to do. He had to turn over a new leaf. If he did, Anastasia would be his. He rushed to his phone.
‘Pebbles? It’s Damien. Listen – that deal we had – I want you to call your boys off. Forget I even said anything.’
There was a pause and sucking in of breath through teeth.
‘No can do, mate. The orders have gone out.’
‘Well, surely you can cancel it?’
‘No. I put the word out to my man, see. He sorts it, anonymously. So it can’t ever be traced back to you, see.’
‘There must be some way?’
‘You know the rules, Damien. You shouldn’t strike a deal if you want to go back on it.’
‘Can you just tell them – no rough stuff? No violence.’
‘I told you. It’s out of my hands. The boys have got their money. They’ll do their job, like they were asked.’
Damien put the phone down, hands trembling. That was the trouble with going straight to people who you knew would do the job. They did it, no messing. They had no truck with people who changed their minds.
19
Anyone watching Mandy pack for the weekend might have thought it was strange that all that was going into her rucksack were jeans, T-shirts and shorts, plus a swimming costume and two bikinis. Ver
y odd, given that she was going to spend the weekend in London with an old school friend.
‘It’s Libby’s birthday. She’s having a girls’ weekend. We’re going to go shopping. And clubbing,’ she explained to Patrick, who had no objection. In fact, he was relieved. He’d been wondering how to keep her out of the way during the auction.
‘I’m debriefing with Suzanna this morning,’ he covered.
Huh, thought Mandy. Yet more proof of his increasing uninterest in her and his obsession with Mrs Blake. At least that was what she convinced herself.
Keith was delighted, and glad that she seemed able to snap herself out of her gloom of the night before. She had to get away and have her own space and a bit of fun. It might be just what she needed to bring her out of herself. He dropped her at Eldenbury station to get the train to Paddington and slipped her a couple of hundred quid.
‘Have some fun. Get yourself something nice.’ Mandy didn’t really need spoiling, but Keith’s marriage had led him to believe that what made women happy was money, and it was a hard mindset to lose.
All it made Mandy feel was guilty. She waited for his car to disappear before buying a ticket to Evesham – totally in the opposite direction for Paddington – and nipping over the bridge to platform two. She lurked in the waiting room, praying that she would see nobody she knew, and leaped on to the train when it arrived, looking anxiously over her shoulder all the while. She was, she decided, no good at deception, and thanked God it hadn’t been Patrick who had taken her to the station. She would never have been able to go through with it.
She didn’t like lying to him. But then, she reasoned, if he’d given her the attention she felt she deserved, she wouldn’t be asking herself if indeed there was more to life. She felt unsettled and insecure. Not just about her relationship with Patrick, but about her entire future. It would be only too easy to settle down into a cosy existence in Honeycote, perhaps become the next Mrs Liddiard. It was very idyllic, on the surface. But would she be missing out, by settling for the soft option?
Making Hay Page 32
