Listening to whatever was being said, Beth made mmmm hmmm noises for several minutes, then said, ‘Could you just give me a minute, please?’ Covering the mouthpiece again, she whispered, ‘This sounds genuine, Maria. But he reckons you need to go to the office because there’s too much information to tell you over the phone, and a ton of paperwork. What should I tell him?’
‘I don’t know.’ Maria shrugged. ‘I still don’t think I’m the right person.’
‘Well, someone obviously thinks you are,’ Beth hissed impatiently. ‘And if they want to give you a house, does it matter if they’ve made a mistake? Just go and talk to the man.’
‘But it’s in Manchester,’ Maria moaned.
‘Oh, shut up!’ Beth scolded dismissively. ‘I’ll come with you if you’re scared. We’ll book ourselves into a hotel and go shopping. It’ll be great.’
‘With what? I’m broke.’
‘Not for long, by the sound of this,’ Beth said, grinning now. ‘Come on. Let me tell him you’ll go. You can dip into your holiday money.’
‘No way.’ Maria shook her head adamantly. ‘If it turns out not to be me, I’ll be buggered. The girls would never forgive me.’
‘Well, I’ll lend it to you, then,’ Beth said impatiently. ‘You can pay me back when you’re rich.’
‘And what if it’s not me?’ Maria said again, feeling desperate now.
‘We’ll sort something out.’ Beth flapped her hand. ‘Can I tell him yes, or what? Come on, girl – take a chance for once in your boring life!’
Taking a deep breath, Maria nodded. ‘Okay. Go on, then. But if I end up in the shit, I’ll blame you.’
Making an appointment for one week’s time, Beth hung up with a whoop of jubilation.
‘Sorted! All you need is your passport for ID, and he’ll do the rest. Oh, crap!’ she said then. ‘I should have asked him about hotels. Oh, sod it, you must remember some. Make sure you pick a good one, though, ’cos I’m not staying in a B&B.’
‘I don’t remember anything,’ Maria said, stubbing the cigarette out and coming back to the couch. ‘Oh, hang on,’ she said then. ‘There was one called the Britannia. Me and my mates used to hang about outside in the summer holidays, winding the fat doorman up. We thought everything must have been made of solid gold inside, ’cos we used to see all these women in furs and diamonds going in, and men smoking big fat cigars.’ Sighing wistfully, she smiled. ‘I’d love to go there, but I bet it’s way too expensive.’
‘Only one way to find out,’ Beth said, tapping the Directory Enquiries number into the phone.
‘What are you doing?’ Maria yelped, making a grab for it. ‘I can’t afford it!’
‘I’ve already told you I’ll lend you the money,’ Beth said, holding her at bay. ‘You can pay me back when you’ve claimed that – Oh, hello . . . Manchester, please . . . The Britannia hotel.’
Tapping the number in when she had it, she said, ‘I’d like to book a room, please. Single, in the name of Price . . .’
‘Single?’ Maria hissed. ‘We can’t share a single bed! Are you mad?’
Shushing her, Beth gave the date and reached into her bag for her credit card.
‘That wasn’t too bad,’ she said when she’d finished. ‘It’s only fifty-five quid for the night. The way you were going on, I thought it would be more than double that.’
‘I’m glad you think it’s so cheap,’ Maria grumbled. ‘I can’t wait to see your face when you find out they’ve got the wrong person. I won’t be able to pay you back for years.’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ Beth drawled, taking a crumpled transport timetable out of her bag and dialling the booking office.
Maria was beginning to wonder what she’d let herself in for, but there was no stopping Beth when she got like this. She was so organised, it was frightening.
‘Right, that’s all sorted,’ Beth said with satisfaction when she’d booked the ticket. ‘Just pick it up from the station on the day, and off you go. Now, let’s see what you owe me . . . ?’ Pursing her lips, she worked it out in her head, then delivered the news.
‘A hundred and eighty quid ?’ Maria repeated, her eyebrows puckering with dismay. ‘Oh, Christ, that’s almost all my savings. You own me! I’m your slave.’
Wrinkling her nose, Beth said, ‘I’d rather take cash, if you don’t mind.’
‘You’ll be lucky. And what’s with the single room, by the way? Don’t you think they’ll notice two of us going in?’
‘Ah, about that . . .’ Beth grinned sheepishly. ‘I, er, won’t actually be able to go.’
‘Beth!’
‘Sorry, babe, but it’s my mum and dad’s anniversary that day. I only remembered after I’d already set the date with the solicitor, and I didn’t tell you straight away because I knew you’d bottle out. But you can’t now, can you?’
Narrowing her eyes cynically, Maria said, ‘You knew you weren’t coming from the start, didn’t you?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Beth replied innocently.
‘Yeah, well, don’t think I’m inviting you round to dinner when I’m living in my mansion.’ Maria laughed softly. ‘You’re far too devious for my liking.’
3
The knot in Maria’s stomach tightened as the train rolled into the station and came to a rumbling, squealing halt beside the Oxford Road sign.
Manchester.
It had been ten years since she’d been here, and she’d never planned on coming back. Beth had bullied her into it, making her believe that it would be fun, but now that she was here she just wanted to turn around and go back home.
God help the solicitor if he had got this wrong and she’d come all this way for nothing, because she hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep since his letter arrived for worrying how she was going to pay Beth back and still go on the holiday. Maria was shattered, and her nerves were screaming after so many hours on this cramped, stinking, heap-of-shit train. If she had to listen to one more mobile-phone-obsessed wanker telling anyone who’d listen about the ever-so-important meeting he was having when he got to the city, she would kill before the night was out!
Scowling at the wankers now as they jostled their way down the aisle, Maria gathered her stuff together and waited until the coast was clear before stepping out onto the platform. She shivered when an icy breeze gusted up from the tracks and swirled around her legs – just the welcome she should have expected from this dump!
Walking briskly out into the sunlight, she made her way down the sloping approach road to the revamped Cornerhouse Cinema. She gazed around with genuine surprise. She’d expected everything to be exactly the same as when she’d last seen it, but ten years was a long time, and a lot of new buildings had sprung up since she’d last been here: modern glass-and-steel monstrosities that towered over the faded old-timers like lanky, sneering teenagers.
Maria felt a little tug of nostalgia when she saw the blue and yellow sign above the scarred black doors of The Ritz club. She and the gang used to queue beneath that sign every Tuesday night for the under-twelves’ disco. They’d thought it was so glamorous back then, but now it looked as grotty as it probably always had.
The Palace Theatre looked shabby too, with its neglected paintwork peeling and its billboards a disgusting mess of pigeon crap. And the BBC building, where she and Vicky had spent many a freezing Saturday hyperventilating over the pop stars coming out after recording the weekend chart shows, was equally dated and dirty.
Brought back to the here and now by a shuffling sound behind her, Maria saw a scruffy man loitering in the shadows of the cinema doorway and eyeing her bags. Gripping them tighter, she gave him a fierce Just try it! glare and stalked away in disgust. They might have cleaned the place up, but it was still the same shitty old scene.
Reaching the hotel a few minutes later, she felt a flutter of excitement as she made her way up the wide stone steps. They had so wanted to know what it was like behind those doors when they’d been k
ids. Now here she was, all grown-up and ready to spend the night – and she didn’t even have to sneak in.
There was no solid gold inside, but it was every bit as fantastic as she’d imagined: huge and elegant, with black marble pillars and sparkling chandeliers. There was a vast curved stairwell, and an impressive fountain in the shape of a water-nymph mid-foyer, surrounded by lush greenery.
Conscious that people were having to walk around her as she stood in the centre of the mosaic-tiled floor like an awestruck tourist, Maria collected her room pass from reception and took the super-silent lift up to the fifth floor.
Her room was cheap and basic, but it had everything she needed, so she was quite happy: generous-sized bed, TV, phone, coffee-and tea-making facilities. The tiny bathroom was spotless, with the usual toiletries, fluffy white towels, and dressing gown with the hotel’s logo embroidered onto the lapel.
Drawing the blind up to check the view, Maria saw that there was an abandoned factory opposite, every window of which was smashed, making it look desolate and spooky. Pretty dismal, but she wasn’t planning to sit here gazing out, so she didn’t care.
Further down the road, the bus station had been rebuilt, and the Piccadilly Gardens had had a long-overdue sprucing-up.
That ‘little oasis in the heart of the city’ had been nothing but a squalid haunt for tramps and prostitutes when she’d lived here, the never-working fountain a repository for empty cider bottles and soggy condoms. Now it looked clean and cheerful, and there were several young mothers chatting happily on the benches while their toddlers played among the flowers so it was obviously safer, too.
Yawning when a wave of exhaustion swept over her, Maria checked the time to see if she dared risk a nap. But there was only an hour to go before her meeting, so she made herself a strong coffee instead. Then, opening the window wide, she turned the TV up loud and chain-smoked to keep herself awake.
In his office some time later, Nigel Grayson sat back in his chair with a sigh and ran a long-fingered hand through his hair – which, to his despair, was already receding at the tender age of twenty-six.
He usually blamed his mother for stressing the hair out of his head. But it wasn’t her fault that his hands were clammy and his heart racing today.
It was Maria Price who had him all a-fluster.
To say that he had been surprised when she walked in was an understatement; he’d been shocked. And not just because she was so slim and pretty, with long honey-blonde hair and the bluest, most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. Nigel was astonished that she was a woman at all, and not the fragile little orphan girl he’d been expecting – the waif in a shabby dress whom he had envisaged whenever his uncle had talked about her at family dinners over the years.
The Cinderella story had fascinated Nigel, and, since taking his uncle’s place in the firm following the great man’s death a few months ago, he’d been counting off the days until he got to meet Maria and hand over the keys to her kingdom.
That day had finally arrived, but things were hardly going to plan. Maria was having a hard time believing what he was telling her. And, more than that, it actually seemed as if she didn’t want it to be true – and Nigel didn’t understand that at all.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said when he had told her everything he knew. ‘But there’s really nothing more to add. I appreciate that this has come as a bit of a shock, but Miss Davidson’s instructions were quite precise: if she were still alive when you reached the age of twenty-one, you were to be given access to a trust fund. But if she had passed on – which she has – then you would inherit in full. That’s it.’
‘And you’re absolutely sure you’ve got the right person?’ Maria asked – again. ‘It’s a common enough name. There must be thousands of Maria Prices in England.’
‘I’m sure there are,’ Nigel agreed, wondering why she seemed so set on talking herself out of a fortune. ‘But I am positive that you are the right one.’
Still unconvinced, Maria folded her arms. ‘No offence, but you are a proper solicitor, aren’t you? Only you look a bit young to me. Are you sure you’re not a trainee making a cock-up?’
‘I’m definitely not a trainee,’ Nigel assured her, his cheeks flaming now. ‘And there is no mistake.’
Reaching for the thick folder that was sitting between them on the desk, he flipped it open and rifled through it. Finding what he was looking for, he cleared his throat and read it out.
‘“Maria Ann Price. Born at St Mary’s Hospital, Manchester, 16 August 1985. Father unknown. Mother, Maureen Ann Price. Born 3 April 1965 – deceased 12 September 1996. Previous address: 535 Brook House, Merrydown Estate, Manchester. Present address: Flat 8, 23 Jackson Lane, Teignmouth, Devon.”’ He glanced up, one eyebrow raised. ‘Those are your details, I take it?’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t prove anything,’ Maria muttered, disconcerted by the accuracy of the information.
Where the hell had they got it all from? Somebody had obviously done their homework – and that wasn’t just creepy, it was a downright invasion of privacy.
And a downright lie.
Her father had died when she was still in the womb, and he hadn’t had any family. Her mum had told her all about it, and why would she have if it wasn’t true? She’d loved Maria, and would never have deliberately left her alone in the world if she’d known there was someone out there who could take care of her.
‘Look, I know this woman wasn’t my aunt,’ she said adamantly. ‘She couldn’t have been. I didn’t have any family apart from my mum, and she’s been dead for years.’
‘Miss Davidson was aware of that.’
‘That doesn’t prove anything. And neither does all that stuff you read out. Anyone could have found that out, considering it was all over the papers. Everyone in Manchester must have seen it. Oh, Christ . . .’ Trailing off, Maria frowned as it occurred to her that she might just have hit on something. ‘That’s not what happened, is it? She didn’t read about me being orphaned and get obsessed with me, like some kind of weirdo? Oh, my God! That’s so sick!’
‘I really don’t think that was the case,’ Nigel said, his pale eyebrows puckering with dismay at the venom in Maria’s voice. ‘My uncle knew Miss Davidson for many years and considered her both intelligent and astute. But he wouldn’t have hesitated to caution her if he’d thought she was deluding herself – about this, or anything else.’
Giving him a cynical look, Maria said, ‘Okay, let’s pretend it’s true, and this so-called brother of hers was my father. Why didn’t he come forward when my mum died, then?’
‘I, er, believe he was already deceased by then,’ Nigel told her.
‘What about her, then?’ Maria flapped a dismissive hand at the folder. ‘If she was so keen to include me in her freaky little family, why didn’t she take me in instead of letting me rot in care?’
‘I really couldn’t begin to speculate on the whys and wherefores,’ Nigel admitted, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I only know the documented facts. Anything my uncle might have learned from their off-the-record conversations went with him to the grave, I’m afraid.’
‘How convenient.’ Giving a snort of contempt, Maria shook her head, biting her lip to contain the anger. It didn’t work. ‘Why did you make me come all this way?’ she demanded. ‘It’s cost me a fortune, and for what . . . ? I’m sure there’s nothing you’ve said that couldn’t have been said over the phone. Then I could have told you it’s a load of rubbish, and saved us both the bother.’
Sitting forward, Nigel rested his elbows on the desk, barely able to meet Maria’s gaze. He couldn’t blame her for being furious, and he couldn’t deny what she’d said, because she was right – about the phone, at least. But he’d been so desperate to meet her that he’d made her come to the office – proving what a shamefully unprofessional creature he truly was. His uncle would be turning in his grave, wondering why he’d ever thought Nigel fit to fill his shoes.
‘Would it help if I go
t you copies of some of the paperwork?’ he asked. ‘You could take it back to your hotel and go over it at leisure. Then we could meet up again in the morning when you’ve had a chance to—’
‘No!’ Maria interrupted waspishly, folding her arms and crossing her legs – a tight, simultaneous action that displayed how tautly her nerves were stretched. ‘I want to sort it out now. Isn’t there somebody else I can talk to – someone who actually knows what’s going on?’ She stared at him expectantly, the muscles jumping in her cheeks as she clenched her teeth. She knew she was being a bitch, but she couldn’t help it. She was tired and frustrated.
‘I’d be happy to refer you to one of the partners, but I doubt they’d have anything significant to add, because . . . well, they don’t actually know as much as I do.’ Pausing, Nigel gave a sheepish shrug. ‘You were one of my uncle’s favourite topics at family dinners, you see. He used to give us updates whenever your aunt received reports, and—’
‘Excuse me?’ Maria cut in incredulously. ‘What do you mean, reports?’
Wincing when his leg gave an involuntary jerk and his bony knee smashed into the underside of the desk, Nigel gritted his teeth. ‘I, er, believe they related to your schooling and general home life.’
Squinting at him, her face deathly pale, Maria said, ‘Are you telling me that my social workers knew about this?’
‘As far as I’m aware, nobody knew,’ Nigel assured her.
‘That can’t be true,’ Maria argued. ‘Who provided these so-called reports, then?’
‘A private detective.’ Nigel dropped his gaze when she glared at him in disbelief. Rooting through the folder again, he took out a sheet of letterheaded paper. ‘Here we are . . . Holt & Shaw Detective Agency, Longford Street, Levenshulme. I haven’t actually spoken to them personally, but I don’t think anybody was privy to the information they gathered, other than Miss Davidson – and ourselves, of course.’
‘Oh, well, that’s all right, then!’ Maria’s eyes were sparking with indignation. ‘Let’s see if I’ve got this straight . . . She paid some creep to follow me around and write reports about my personal business, but you don’t think she was a weirdo?’
The Charmer Page 3
