by Jill Mansell
“I suppose I should make sure Olivia’s all right,” she said, her tone determinedly neutral. Being packed off to bed at ten o’clock with a tray of coffee wasn’t exactly what she was in the mood for, but if Ross wanted to be rid of her…
Before she had a chance to take him at his word, however, he caught her arm. “There’s really no need for you to go, is there?” he said beguilingly. “Relax. The babysitter’s booked until twelve, and you know perfectly well that if there were any problems we’d be paged. Now, if you smile nicely, I’ll order us another bottle of wine.”
The excellent claret slipped down easily, warming her and weakening her resolve. When Ross had tipped the last of it into their glasses, she finally asked the question that had been bothering her all evening. “So, who will run this new hotel when it opens?”
Ross sipped his drink, then shrugged. “I don’t know. It might be me.”
“But why?”
“Why not?” he countered, a note of challenge in his voice. “It’s not as if I have any real ties in Bath. I don’t have a wife to worry about, after all.”
She felt less warmed, less relaxed now. Keeping her voice low, so that diners at adjacent tables wouldn’t overhear, she said, “There is Olivia.”
“I’d see her whenever I returned to Bath. I told you that this afternoon,” he replied evenly. “Tess, she’s my own daughter. You know I wouldn’t abandon her.”
But now that her defenses were crumbling, she could no longer hold back. Inwardly horrified by the unmistakable trace of self-pity in her own voice, she said, “But it’s not the same.”
And Ross, exhaling slowly, smiled. “Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, Tessa, but does this mean that you might actually miss me if I weren’t always around?”
She drained her glass and glared at him, hating him for making her say it, but at the same time experiencing a rush of relief. It did, after all, need to be said.
“Dammit, Ross, of course I’d miss you. Not that you deserve to be missed—”
“Shh.” He reached for her hand, forestalling her. The smile, that wicked, mesmerizing smile that had gotten her into so much trouble in the past, broadened. “Don’t spoil it now. That first statement was perfect. You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you say those words…or any kind words at all,” he added, leaning fractionally closer toward her. “Do you realize, Tess, that you never say anything nice about me?”
She knew that she was in danger of sliding over the edge, of relinquishing her long-held principles and allowing herself to wallow deliciously in the sea of sheer, uncomplicated pleasure. But it had been so long, so very long since she had permitted herself such luxury…and it was so nice to be wanted, flirted with, desired…
“That’s probably because you don’t deserve to have anything nice said about you,” she retaliated, but gently. Her entire body was tingling with newly acknowledged emotions, her stomach muscles taut. “But if you’re fishing for compliments, OK. Ross, that’s an extremely nice shirt you’re wearing. It suits you.”
His dark eyes glittered with a mixture of amusement and desire. “Why, thank you. It wasn’t quite what I was hoping for, but it’s a start. For someone so desperately out of practice, it isn’t bad. Now concentrate, Tess, and see if you can manage another one. I’m particularly partial to compliments about my body…”
“Not fair,” she protested, dizzily aware of the warmth of his hand and the way he was stroking the inside of her wrist with his thumb. “An eye for an eye, a compliment for a compliment.”
“In that case, you are the most beautiful, difficult, desirable, complicated, wonderful girl in the world,” he declared with an air of triumph. Then, lowering his voice, he added, “And I love you.”
Tessa’s heart lurched. She dropped her gaze and swallowed, hard. That really wasn’t fair.
“Go on,” prompted Ross, infinitely gentle now. “You can do it.”
“You have…very nice hands?” she said helplessly, realizing that she was well and truly lost. Humor was no longer appropriate; Ross wasn’t going to let her wriggle out of this one. And the relief of knowing that, and of realizing that she no longer even wanted to resist him, was so indescribably wonderful that she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Absolutely not good enough,” murmured Ross. He gave her hand an encouraging squeeze. “Try again.”
“Mr. Monahan,” said the maître d’ with a small, apologetic cough, “there is a phone call for you at the reception desk.”
Neither Ross nor Tessa had noticed his arrival; Tessa jumped, and Ross looked up at him with barely disguised impatience. Then he relaxed and grinned, because it didn’t really matter; Tessa was finally his again, and nothing else mattered at all.
“I have to say that your timing is lousy,” he told the maître d’ with a friendly shrug to show him that it wasn’t really his fault. “Look, could they take the name and number of whoever it is? I’ll phone them back later.”
“I’m afraid the caller insisted upon speaking to you,” replied the man, his tone apologetic but grave. “Apparently it is a matter of extreme urgency.”
“Go and see who it is, Ross,” said Tessa, tumbling back to reality with a bump and wondering what the urgency might be. “Maybe there’s a problem at The Grange.”
“It’s probably Theo,” he said, winking at her as he pushed back his chair. “He’s gone to the casino. Maybe he needs to borrow a couple of grand.”
When he returned almost ten minutes later, Tessa knew at once that something terrible had happened.
“What is it?” she said, suddenly dreadfully afraid.
Ross, pale and obviously shaken, sat down. “It’s Richard Seymour-Smith. He’s dead. He died this afternoon.”
“Oh!” Meeting his troubled gaze, she exhaled slowly. Richard Seymour-Smith. Ross’s accountant. Antonia’s husband. Such a premature and unexpected death was undoubtedly tragic, but having imagined the worst she was secretly relieved. At least it hadn’t been Max or Holly. Nevertheless, the news appeared to have affected Ross badly, and she took his hand. “That’s awful. Poor…Antonia.”
But Ross, paler than ever, shook his head. “There’s a problem, Tess. That was Max on the phone. And Antonia. Apparently she turned up at The Grange this evening in the most terrible state. She’s practically deranged with grief… Well, that’s only natural, I suppose. But it seems that she insisted upon speaking to me, and now she wants me to be there with her. She won’t even speak to anyone else. It was so awful, listening to her… She can’t stop crying, and she’s blaming herself and saying she can’t go on living without Richard. Tess, she thinks I’m the only person who can help her.”
“I see,” said Tessa carefully. It was hard to believe that less than fifteen minutes ago everything had been perfect. “She wants you to go to her. Right away?”
“I don’t want to go,” exclaimed Ross. “But I really don’t see how I can refuse! Tess, you didn’t hear her… She’s distraught… She isn’t strong like you… She’s never had to cope on her own, and now that this has happened, she’s gone completely to pieces.” He paused, then fixed her with a sober, unswerving gaze. “Please don’t make this any more difficult for me than it already is, Tess. Antonia’s husband is dead, and she needs me. I have to go.”
Chapter 50
Mattie, having slept extremely badly, finally gave up the struggle and got out of bed at six thirty, telling herself over and over that there was no need to worry. If Richard hadn’t phoned or visited her the previous day, it was simply because he had been unable to and not because he had changed his mind about leaving his wife. Presumably Antonia had kicked up a fuss, pulled out all the stops, argued her case and wept…despite herself, Mattie couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. Being discarded wasn’t the pleasantest of experiences, no matter what Antonia might have done to deserve it. But oh, it was hard not
knowing what had happened. Glancing across at the phone and willing it to ring, she switched on the kettle and attempted to divert her mind with the prospect of tea and strawberry jam on toast, although strawberry jam was beginning to lose its appeal. The faintest twinge of nausea was making itself felt, and she didn’t know whether it was the onset of morning sickness or sheer nerves. What if Richard hadn’t been able to go through with it after all? What if she was standing here waiting and worrying while at this very moment, following an idyllic reunion with Antonia, he was lying in bed, asleep in her arms? But he had seemed so utterly determined yesterday, and so overwhelmingly thrilled by the news that he was going to become a father…
At that moment the morning paper was shoveled through the mail slot, flopping onto the tiled floor and making her jump.
Having made her tea, Mattie picked up the paper and settled down at the kitchen table to read it. Anything was better than dwelling on her own silly insecurities, after all, and there really was nothing like a little local news and gossip for diverting the mind.
• • •
Antonia was indeed in a dreadful state. Having refused point-blank to leave the hotel, Max had put her in one of the second-floor suites. Ross, who had flown down on the early morning shuttle and driven from Heathrow to Bath in pouring rain, reached The Grange at midday.
Antonia lay huddled beneath a mound of blankets in the center of the bed, her normally immaculate dark-blond hair tousled beyond recognition, her pinched face smeared with tears and the remains of yesterday’s makeup. When she saw Ross she burst into a fresh storm of sobs and flung herself at him, her words at first incomprehensible, her fingers clutching desperately at his shirt.
Ross, who had been dreading the ordeal, had finally forced himself to imagine how he would feel if Tessa were dead. Now, all reserve and self-consciousness having melted away as he imagined the extent of his own grief in the face of such a terrible loss, he simply held Antonia and let her cry, hearing the dreadful, racking sobs and murmuring the reassurances she so desperately needed to hear.
“There now, sweetheart, cry as much as you want to… I’m here now…”
And eventually, finally, the flood of tears subsided, and he was able to make her drink a little milk together with two of the mild tranquillizers her doctor had left for her the previous night. Gently wiping her face with a cool, damp washcloth, he eased her into a sitting position on the enormous bed and held her trembling hands firmly between his own.
“Now, do you want to talk about it, or do you feel like sleeping for a while?”
“Of course I want to talk about it,” said Antonia weakly. “I’ve been waiting for you to come home so that I can talk. Oh, Ross, it’s horrible. I keep expecting to wake up and realize that it’s all been some ghastly nightmare.”
“Tell me what happened. Talk as much as you like, cry as much as you like, do whatever you want to do,” he said reassuringly. “I’m here now, and I’m not going to go away.”
“It was so awful.” Antonia reached for a tissue from the box beside the bed and wiped her reddened eyes. But that compulsion to talk was so overwhelmingly strong that she couldn’t stop now. “Richard and I had lunch together. He was in such good spirits, and it was a beautiful day… He seemed fine, then. We made arrangements to go out to dinner together when he’d finished work. He…he told me to go out and buy myself something nice to wear—he was going to reserve a table at Zizi’s—and I kissed him and told him that he was the most wonderful husband in the world…and then he got into his car and left for the office. I cleared away the dishes and messed around in the house for about an hour and then set off in my own car to go into town and buy myself a new dress. But when I reached Channon’s Hill, I saw…I saw Richard’s car parked there, and there was a police car and an ambulance… Oh God… And I pulled in just as they were putting his…him…into the back of the ambulance, and when I asked the policeman what was wrong with him, they told me that he was d-dead.” At this point she burst into tears once more, collapsing into his arms and burying her face in his shirt. And Ross, moved by the awful tragedy of the situation, feeling desperately sorry for her, held on to her and said again, because it was really all he could say, “It’s all right. I’m here now. I’ll look after you. I’m here.”
• • •
God, he was tired. Last night having been a sleepless one—and not for the reasons he had been hoping it might be—all he longed for now was his bed. Being with Antonia was emotionally exhausting, but until she fell asleep he felt duty bound to stay with her; consequently, he hadn’t even been able to phone Tessa in order to reassure himself that she truly understood why he had had to return to The Grange.
A timid knock at the door reminded him that he had ordered coffee ten minutes earlier. Antonia’s fingers tightened convulsively around his arm, preventing him from getting to his feet, and with an inward sigh he said, “Come in.”
As Grace entered the room, he observed with weary annoyance the expression on her pale, disapproving face and recalled that this was the girl who had tipped lobster salad over him. At the time he had apologized for causing the accident, but her remark afterward had made him wonder if the action hadn’t been deliberate.
Annoyance kindled to anger as she continued to stare at him with almost supercilious distaste.
“You can leave the coffee on the table,” he said brusquely. “And if you want to carry on working here, I suggest you do something about your attitude. Guests at this hotel have a right to expect courtesy from our staff, at the very least.”
You bastard, thought Grace, an icy shudder of revulsion running through her as she surveyed the scene before her. Her father, his tie loosened at the neck and the top two buttons of his shirt undone, was actually sitting on the bed with his arm around Antonia Seymour-Smith. And he had the nerve to suggest that she needed to mend her ways.
“I am courteous,” she said, her unwavering gaze still fixed upon them as she planted the tray on the table. “To guests at this hotel. And to anyone else,” she added with calculated insolence, “who deserves courtesy.”
Ross had had enough. The situation was too ludicrous for words. “That’s it,” he said, no longer even bothering to conceal his anger. He did, after all, have more important things on his mind right now. “You’re fired.”
“Good,” said Grace. He was her father… He wasn’t going to get away with this… He was her father… “Good,” she repeated fiercely, to show that she really meant it. “I’m glad.”
• • •
One of the advantages of instant dismissal, she decided with almost manic cheerfulness, was that it left you with plenty of time to make a spur-of-the-moment trip to the hairdressers. Her appearance, such as it was, had never featured highly on her list of priorities, but all of a sudden it seemed important, something she simply had to do. And although the price had been extortionate, she was pleased with the result, an ash-blond, ultra-short cut that made her look, according to the enthusiastic stylist, positively elfin.
The living room curtains were drawn when she returned home at three o’clock. Puzzled, for she had expected Mattie to be at work, Grace let herself into the house and said cautiously, “Mum, are you here?”
The living room, when she pushed open the door, was in almost total darkness. Mattie, wearing her old pink dressing gown, was curled up on the settee, a newspaper discarded on the floor beside her.
“Mum, are you ill?” she asked, automatically switching on the overhead light. At the sight of her mother’s face, she flinched and grew afraid. “What’s happened?”
Slowly and with seemingly great effort, Mattie turned her head to look at her, and the extent of her silent, helpless anguish sent a wave of real panic through Grace. Dropping to her knees at her mother’s side, unable to imagine what could possibly have happened, she said desperately, “Tell me. Tell me what it is!”
“
Oh, Grace,” said Mattie weakly. “He’s dead. I loved him. I loved him so very much…and now he’s gone. I just can’t believe it’s happened.”
So it was the lover, of whose existence Grace had been aware but whose identity had remained unknown to her. Reading between the lines—and working at The Grange had given her more than enough practice in this field—Grace had worked out for herself that secrecy had needed to be maintained because the man in question was married, and although she hadn’t approved in principle, she had appreciated the difference he had made to Mattie. Being in love had suited her wonderfully.
And now her mother, who had seemed so much younger recently, looked so old and grief-stricken that she could scarcely bear the unfairness of it all.
Overt displays of affection didn’t come easily to Grace, but now she put her arms around Mattie and hugged her. Mattie, dry-eyed and unable to cry, said, “He was going to leave his wife and marry me.”
“Oh, Mum.”
Mattie nodded, almost to herself. “He really was.”
“How did you find out about…what happened?”
“It…it was in the paper. Darling, you’re kneeling on it… Don’t crease the page.”
Grace picked up the local newspaper and scanned the pages at which it had lain open. There it was, headlined: DEATH IN CAR. In silence, she read the accompanying half column.
“Richard Seymour-Smith?” she said finally, unable to truly believe it. “The man you’ve been seeing… It was him?”
Mattie couldn’t speak. Covering her aching eyes—why, why couldn’t she cry?—she nodded.
