She tried to analyse her feelings. What was she hoping for? A happy reunion with total forgiveness on both sides? All these years later the pain of her mother’s treatment of her had finally abated – when she thought about it now, it was like watching the re-run of a film in her head: a hideous incident that had happened to someone else. Did she have the strength to confront everything she had so successfully buried? They would have to talk about it; they couldn’t pretend nothing had happened. Could they? Of course not, Richenda told herself. Besides, she wanted the chance to set the record straight, and convince Sally that she had never seduced Mick. Although somehow she thought her mother had known it all along. In which case she had to face the ugly truth – that Sally had chosen Mick over her own daughter. For a moment her stomach filled with the red-hot bile she had felt in those first few days after running away: a gnawing pain that seemed to eat away at her insides, fuelled by insecurity, panic, fear and the knowledge that she was very much alone… The pain had gone, eventually, once she had found a job, a purpose, an identity. But feeling it now, Richenda was reminded of the hell she had gone through. She told herself she was only human; coming face to face with her mother was bound to churn up bitterness and resentment. Did she have the strength to deal with it graciously, and remain in control of her emotions?
The buzzer went, and for a moment Richenda wished that she hadn’t been so hasty, that she had slept on the contents of Sally’s letter. She’d invited her into her home, back into her life, without really considering the possible consequences. It was too late now. Sally was standing on the steps downstairs, no doubt looking at the buzzer with the number five next to the bell. No name. When you were a TV star, you didn’t advertise your whereabouts.
Steeling herself, she lifted the entryphone.
‘Come on up,’ she said, and pressed the button that released the lock.
It took thirty seconds for Sally to come up the stairs, and they felt like the longest of Richenda’s life. Slowly she opened her front door, and the two of them looked into each other’s eyes for the first time in ten years, mother and daughter.
Superficially, Sally hadn’t changed at all. She had the same hair – long, shaggy and hennaed; the same clothes – leather jacket, short skirt, biker boots; the same makeup – black kohl, pale foundation, plum lipstick. She even smelt the same, of some earthy, exotic essential oil that came out of a tiny blue phial. But Richenda was shocked at how unkind the intervening years had been to her. Her mum had always been glamorous in a punky, rebellious way; her clothes slightly outrageous. Now she just looked horribly dated, as if she’d been stuck in a time warp. And faded. Her make-up made her look older: the foundation highlighted the wrinkles, the dark lipstick bled into the lines around her mouth.
For what seemed an eternity they surveyed each other warily. Then Richenda managed a smile.
‘Hello, Mum.’
Sally blinked, looking slightly shocked, as if this was the last thing she’d expected. Then her whole expression crumpled, and she put her hands up to her face.
‘Oh God,’ she choked. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry’
Instinctively, Richenda put an arm round her and drew her inside, shutting the door on the outside world. Sally collapsed against her, and Richenda held her, uttering soothing noises, feeling her mother’s fragile frame shaking with sobs. After a few moments Sally pulled away, half laughing with embarrassment through her tears, wiping her face with the back of her hand.
‘I was going to be so cool,’ she laughed shakily. ‘Look at you,’ she went on in wonderment. ‘You’re so beautiful. Oh God, I’m going to cry again…’
‘It’s OK,’ Richenda assured her. ‘It’s allowed.’
‘You’re not,’ said Sally.
‘I know,’ said Richenda. ‘But I might any moment.’
It was true: she did have an enormous lump in her throat. But Richenda was used to staying cool. Her acting training had enabled her to mask her feelings as well as put them on. There wasn’t a person in the world who could tell what she was thinking or feeling. She was serene, implacable. A blank canvas.
Masterfully, she swallowed the lump and cleared her throat so her voice would be steady.
‘Come on in. Come and sit down.’
Sally followed her out of the entrance hall and into the open-plan living area. Her eyes widened at the sight. It was pretty impressive: a huge, open space, with gleaming wooden floors, white walls, recessed lighting, a sleek, state of the art kitchen and a few carefully chosen pieces of Italian furniture. It was truly fit for a star.
‘Wow. Is this all yours?’
‘Yes. I hate it, really, but I needed a London base. So this is ideal. As well as being an investment.’
‘Shit. It’s amazing.’ Sally ran her hand along the back of the white leather sofa. ‘Convenient for Harrods,’ she added drily.
‘I never go there,’ grinned Richenda. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?’
‘Actually, I could do with a drink,’ admitted Sally. ‘Have you got any in, or shall I nip to the offie?’
‘I’ve got wine. But it’s probably not cold enough yet.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘I’ll stick a couple of ice cubes in it.’ Richenda walked over to the kitchen area, pulled the bottle out of the fridge and plucked two glasses off a shelf, then filled them with ice from the dispenser on the front of her fridge-freezer. Sally hovered awkwardly, looking round the kitchen in awe, stroking the black marble work surfaces.
‘I’ve left him, you know,’ she announced defiantly. ‘It took me ten bloody years, but I finally did it.’
Richenda pulled the cork and poured the wine.
‘Good.’
‘I just wish I’d had the nerve to do it ten years ago. But I was scared. When you’re mad about someone, you can put up with a lot.’
‘I’m sure you can.’ Richenda passed her mother a glass. Sally took it and gulped gratefully. Richenda saw her hands were shaking. She wondered if it was just nerves, or if her mother had a drink problem. Sally saw her looking and smiled.
‘It’s all right. It’s not DTs. I’m just a bit of a nervous wreck. I didn’t know what to expect. I thought you might have a go at me. And I wouldn’t blame you if you had.’
Richenda shrugged.
‘What would be the point? It was ten years ago. I’ve moved on.’
‘Yes,’ said Sally. ‘You really have. I wish I could say the same.’
Her face was bleak; her voice bereft of hope. Richenda panicked; she wasn’t quite ready for soul-baring. She decided to move on to a safer subject.
‘So where are you living?’
‘I slept on my friend’s floor last night, but I can’t really go back. They haven’t got room for me. And I haven’t got any of my stuff. I’m not bloody going back for it either. I don’t want to see that bastard again.’ She smiled grimly to emphasize her point. ‘So I suppose I’m officially homeless.’
‘Oh.’ Richenda was shocked that Sally was so matter of fact. She’d forgotten all about her mother’s world, how she’d always lived on the edge, with no security, and how it never seemed to phase her. Even now. She opened her mouth to say that she could stay with her, then stopped herself. She needed to be cautious. They’d got a lot to talk over, and she didn’t want Sally getting too comfortable until she was certain of her motives. Her mother was quite capable of using her, she was sure. The people she mixed with had always thought the world owed them a living; they were takers, not givers, and their attitude was bound to have rubbed off.
‘So,’ she said briskly. ‘Tell me about Mick. Who’s he sold his story to?’
Sally looked stricken.
‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. But he reckoned he was going to make a few quid out of it. He wanted me to tell my side of the story – how I was betrayed by my own daughter.’
Sally looked down at the floor, unable to meet Richenda’s gaze, ashamed of the memory. Then she looked up.
‘I’m ready to tell them the truth,’ she announced. ‘That it was me who betrayed you. That I was stupid and gullible and selfish. That I sacrificed my own daughter for a total…’ She groped around for a suitable word. ‘I don’t even know what to call him. Scumbag. Arsehole.’
‘Let’s not even think about him,’ suggested Richenda. ‘Let’s see how we can turn this round. The one thing we don’t want to do is give him an opportunity to capitalize on the situation. If we move quickly, we can come out of this smelling of roses.’
She was surprised at her own efficiency, how she was able to take control so swiftly. But time was of the essence: although she’d had the press on her side up until now, she knew how quickly they could turn the tables if there was a juicy bit of scandal in the offing. No one was safe if there was an opportunity to boost the circulation figures.
‘I think what we need to do is come clean,’ she said quietly. ‘If we go to the press with our story first, then whatever Mick’s got up his sleeve won’t have the impact.’
‘How do we do that?’
‘I’ve got someone I can call straight away. We can have a meeting first thing tomorrow. Which gives us this evening to work out exactly what we want to say. We’ve got to make our story watertight; make sure Mick can’t get his twopence worth in.’
She looked at her mother. Sally looked bewildered, as if things were moving too fast for her. Which they probably were. Richenda decided it was best if she was out of earshot while she dealt with things.
‘You look shattered. Why don’t you go and have a nice hot bath while I call my contact? I can lend you some clothes. Then we can have supper; talk everything over.’
Sally’s voice was shaky.
‘I don’t know if I deserve this…’
Richenda stood up.
‘Let me make it quite clear. I’m doing this to save my career. Not out of loyalty to you.’
Sally winced. Richenda regretted the harshness of her words, but she was only going to get through this by keeping Sally at arm’s length. Once it was all over, then she could afford to let her guard down.
‘Come on,’ she said briskly. ‘I’ll show you the bathroom.’
Ten minutes later, Sally wallowed in the water that came up to her chin, looking round in awe at the marble bathroom with its two inset sinks, the enormous shower-head the size of a car wheel. This was like some peculiar dream – and God knows she’d had a few of those in her time, courtesy of the mind-altering substances she’d shoved in her system.
She’d often had nightmares, too – dreams about babies being ripped from her arms, little girls crying for help, screaming for their mummy. She would wake up drenched in sweat, shivering with fear, guilt souring her stomach. Then she’d look at Mick sleeping beside her and try to convince herself her daughter deserved everything she got: what sort of a child seduced her own mother’s lover?
Now she’d faced the truth, she wondered if it was too late to salvage anything of their relationship. The beautiful creature who had answered the door to her bore no resemblance to the mousy little girl she remembered. They had nothing in common; their worlds couldn’t be farther apart. Sally had no hope of entering Richenda’s territory, and Richenda wouldn’t want to go back to the world she had done so well to escape. Was a mere umbilical cord strong enough to reunite them, bind them together and allow them to rebuild the love they had lost? Or had so much time passed that the cord had withered and shrivelled to nothing, become meaningless? She hoped not. She’d longed to fill the empty space she’d carried inside her for so long. At one point she’d thought about another baby, but she’d been too afraid that it might look up at her with reproachful eyes; that rather than filling the void it would be a constant reminder of the daughter she’d rejected. Where had she gone wrong, she wondered? Why had her life been so filled with regret and mistakes and disappointment and guilt? And so lacking in hope? She wasn’t wicked. Just weak.
This was her one chance, decided Sally. This was an opportunity to atone, and to start again. She didn’t have Mick filling her head with cynical nonsense, exerting undue influence over her. Now she was free of him, it occurred to her that was what he’d done for years: controlled her every move, her every thought. But now she was in charge of her own destiny. She could do what the hell she liked. Sally felt flooded with excitement as she looked to the future.
There was a big fluffy towelling robe on the back of the door. Sally stepped out of the bath on to the mat, and slipped it on, then wrapped her wet hair in a towel. She looked in the mirror: a weary, malnourished, haunted face looked back at her. She was going to look dreadful in the photographs next to her radiant daughter. The optimism of a moment ago suddenly drained away. Who was she trying to kid? Richenda wasn’t going to be interested in rekindling their relationship. She’d salvage what she could from the story to save her career, then send her packing. Which, after all, was no more than she deserved…
Richenda’s head was spinning. Wearily, she wondered if she should capitulate and call in a publicist, someone who could engineer this unfortunate turn of events to her best advantage and cash in on it at the same time. But she decided not to: she really didn’t want to make more of this than was necessary. A heart-warming tale of a mother and daughter’s reunion and a few pictures, that was all they needed. If you got greedy and made a big deal, it encouraged the press to dig deeper for dirt. This was about damage limitation. She realized she needed a plan of action before Sally came out of the bathroom. She had to be in control. She fished about in her bag for a notebook and pen, and made a list of people to call.
Cindy Marks. There was a pleasing symmetry to her giving Cindy the story, when it had been the spread in last Saturday’s Post that had essentially reunited her with her mother. And she thought she could trust Cindy, as much as you could trust any journalist. Plus they could tie it in with the Post awards this Wednesday, if they got their act together. If she got her mother together, more like. She had to do something drastic about Sally’s appearance. She looked dreadful: twenty years out of date yet at the same time in clothes that were far too young for her, as if she was clinging on to some vestige of lost youth. Richenda didn’t want to be cruel, but being photographed next to that wasn’t going to do her image any good. She added the names of her hairdresser and her make-up artist to the list, and the owner of the little boutique where she bought a lot of her clothes. Then she flipped through the address book on her phone until she got to Cindy’s mobile number.
‘Cindy Marks.’
‘Cindy? It’s Richenda.’
‘Richenda! I hope you’ve got a serious dress for Wednesday. Not that I’m giving anything away, of course.’
Richenda’s heart began to beat faster. The stakes were creeping higher. If Cindy was hinting that she might have won an award, the spotlight really was going to be on her.
‘Listen, I’ve got a story for you. I want you to promise me if I give it to you, you’ll handle it sensitively. And I want copy approval.’
‘Darling, you haven’t broken up with that gorgeous man. Not already?’
Shit, thought Richenda. She hadn’t even begun to decide how to break the news to Guy. Where was she going to fit that into the scheme of things? Later. First things first. She laughed smoothly.
‘Of course not. We’re still going strong. I’ll still be wearing my ring in the photos.’
‘Thank goodness for that. I’m relying on your wedding pictures for a Christmas special. So what’s the story?’
‘It’s about my mother.’
‘She’s in Australia, isn’t she?’
‘Um – no. She’s here, in my apartment. And she’s never been to Australia. I haven’t seen her for nearly ten years.’
‘Ah,’ said Cindy. ‘Have you been telling me porkies?’
‘I think they call it lying by omission,’ admitted Richenda. ‘Give or take the odd white lie. But I’m ready to set the record straight.’
‘Bloody h
ell,’ laughed Cindy. ‘Call me naive, but I genuinely thought you had no skeletons in the cupboard. And me a muckraking journalist.’
‘That just goes to show you what a good actress I am,’ said Richenda lightly. ‘Come to my apartment at nine tomorrow. I’ll give you all the gory details.’
She hung up, feeling rather drained. She’d committed herself now. There was no way out; if she reneged on the deal, she risked losing Cindy’s loyalty, which at the moment was the most valuable commodity she had.
Behind her, Sally appeared in the doorway, dwarfed in a huge white robe. Richenda was surprised. With her hair wet, face devoid of make-up, she didn’t look old, but incredibly young, her eyes wide with awe and uncertainty.
‘You said you might have some clothes…’ Sally looked awkward and embarrassed, and Richenda suddenly realized how uncomfortable she must feel. And how brave she must have been to come here.
She got up off the sofa.
‘Of course. Jeans and a sweater OK?’
Sally nodded hesitandy. ‘Um – I didn’t bring anything with me at all. I came out in such a rush…’
She couldn’t quite bring herself to ask for underwear. Luckily Richenda took the hint.
‘That’s OK. I’ve got stacks of everything.’
As she rummaged through her wardrobe, she thought how weird this was. Here she was lending clothes to the mother she hadn’t seen for ten years, whose parting words had been a spiteful tirade of abuse. She pulled open the door of the walk-in wardrobe that was custom-fitted with shelves, shoe racks, rails and drawers, where everything was neatly hung or stacked the moment it came back from the laundry service. She took a white T-shirt off one pile, a pair of Earl jeans off another, and slid a black velour hoodie off a hanger. She stood for a moment with the clothes in her arms, steeling herself. They had a long evening ahead of them, and a lot of painful ground to cover. Was she ready for it? She’d imagined this eventuality so many times, usually in the early hours of the morning when she woke and couldn’t sleep, yet was too tired to stop the unwelcome images creeping into her mind. She might have walked out on her mother, cut herself off from her past, totally reinvented herself and become, to all intents and purposes, an entirely new person. But the bond was still there. Even now, despite everything, she yearned for Sally’s reassurance, to be told that she was loved, unconditionally and for ever. Would that happen?
An Eligible Bachelor Page 25
