by Sharon Booth
'Listen, kid,' he'd grumbled, 'I'm singing this pap to the best of my ability, and I'm sure all your teenybopper fans will be only too happy to interpret your precious lyrics when they stick your CD on and —'
He'd realised his mistake immediately and hadn't needed their incredulous looks and snorts of derision to confirm it.
'CDs!' Dominic had groaned and shaken his casually-styled hair that had, no doubt, taken his stylist several hours to perfect. 'Jesus, what century are you from?'
'Nobody buys CDs these days,' Kent informed him pompously. 'Everyone downloads.'
'So why bother making CDs then?' Cain challenged them. 'You wanna be careful before you start dissing people who buy a CD, mate. You might find yourself alienating half your fans.'
'I doubt it,' Dominic said, looking at Cain with a sneer, as if he could smell something rotten nearby. 'None of our fans are over fifty, for a start.'
'Anyone who listens to this tosh is probably under five,' Cain retorted, stung. Who did they think they were, anyway? Cheeky little gits. Five minutes in the industry and they thought they knew it all. He'd hung out with Mick Jagger, got pissed with Rod Stewart, gone on the pull and trashed hotel rooms with some of the best in the business. He didn't need this shit.
It was only the thought of his manager, Derek, that stopped him from punching them in the nose and walking out. He'd promised him he would behave, give it his best shot.
'This could be a great opportunity, Cain,' Derek had warned him. 'Don't fuck it up.'
So, he'd bitten his lip as they complained to the producer and whined at their manager and then demanded to know why there weren't any more nibbles. Nibbles! He'd never heard the like. He remembered the recording sessions he'd had with his own band. Singing through a cloud of smoke, stoned out of his head, empty beer cans and overflowing ashtrays everywhere, sexy blondes draped around the studio, eyes heavy with the effects of marijuana, the familiar and comforting odour of whisky and weed, stale perfume and vinegary fish and chips. He sighed fondly. Such happy memories. These kids had no idea.
He'd been glad to call it a day and head home. Swallowing the lozenge, he made himself a cup of coffee and stuck two slices of bread in the toaster. The truth was, everything had changed. The good old days were gone, and life had moved on, leaving him behind. He didn't belong in this weird music industry any more. He didn't have the heart for it, truth to tell. He stared at his distorted reflection in the shiny steel cooker splashback, remembering how he'd stuck out like a sore thumb next to the squeaky clean, makeup free, fresh-faced members of Sun King. They looked like students on a work experience jaunt. He felt old, worn out. Foolish.
Yep, he thought, buttering the toast despondently. That's exactly how he'd felt. Like some relic from the past who was only there to laugh at.
He remembered, at Honey's wedding, how Marcus had almost passed out in relief to discover his father wasn't wearing much makeup and had obeyed orders by wearing a suit, rather than leopard skin leggings.
He thought about Rex, looking a sight in his own suit, those stupid teardrops tattooed on his face. Hadn't he looked a prick! Thank God Cain's own tattoos were more discreet. His children would really have something to be embarrassed about otherwise.
Not that they weren't embarrassed enough. He was aware that they considered him to be outdated. He supposed he was, in a way. Even Rodders had abandoned the leopard skin. All the old rockers were more sedate these days, more respectable.
Was he really a joke? Was it time to abandon the old ways, act his age? Would his kids appreciate it, if he did? He knew Honey thought his hairstyle was hideous, for a start, and even Jed had suggested that he tone down the makeup. His new granddaughter, Florence, had started howling the minute he'd picked her up, and Janette had hurriedly removed her from his arms. Had the eyeliner scared the kid? Maybe, just maybe, he should think about having a makeover. New hairstyle, new look, new clothes. Did he dare?
Of course, if he did that, it would show Rex Scotman up. Now that git was stuck in the past. Sun King would have had a field day with him. How would it look if Honey's father cleaned up his act, got respectable, and left her father-in-law to look like some museum exhibit? He'd bet she'd be delighted with him. Hmm.
Cain chewed his toast. Try as he might, he couldn't imagine receiving his knighthood from the Queen looking the way he did now. Her Majesty would think he was some sort of weirdo, with his kohl eyeliner and bleached mullet. If he wanted to act the mature, responsible adult, who donated to charity and deserved a knighthood, perhaps he should look the part.
Maybe that was why he hadn't got his knighthood yet? He couldn't imagine any other reason. He'd pretended to care about loads of good causes, and he'd given buckets full of cash to the Party. There had to be a reason, and he could only think of this one.
It was time he took some advice on image. God knows, he had enough contacts. Yeah, sod it. He would show Sun King, his kids, every numpty who had ever taken the piss, that he was modern, progressive and relevant. Fuck 'em all.
****
Dinner at Thwaite Park that night was eaten, not for the first time, in almost total silence. James wondered how it was that four people, so closely related and living under the same roof, could be so distant with each other. It seemed there was little to say, no conversation to be had.
His mother was prodding at her salmon, showing as much interest in it as she'd taken earlier in her soup.
His father was bolting down his food while simultaneously scanning the newspaper. Now and then he grunted, rattled his pages and scooped up another potato.
Beth was chewing asparagus, a thoughtful look on her face. James wondered what she was thinking. At least she looked a bit happier, which was a bonus. He was sick of seeing her moping around the house with her usual mournful expression. Come to think of it, she'd seemed a lot brighter lately. He would have to find out why. It had better not have anything to do with Harland, that was all.
James put down his knife and fork and pushed his empty plate away. 'That was delicious. Thank you, Mother.'
Deborah raised an eyebrow. 'For what? I only told Mrs Ketley what to cook, I didn't do it myself.'
'Yes, well, even so.' He tried not to feel irritated. She was a hard woman to be pleasant to, sometimes. 'Would you excuse me? I have some work to be doing and I'd like to get on with it.' It was a lie, but he'd say anything to get away from the uncomfortable atmosphere in this room, with only the occasional clatter of cutlery and the ticking of the old grandfather clock to break the silence.
His father put down the newspaper at last. 'Actually, I need to talk to you, so shall we go to the sitting room?' He scraped back his chair, gathering up his newspaper at the same time.
James was dismayed. 'You haven't finished your dinner yet,' he pointed out.
David tutted. 'I've eaten all I can of that. I hate fish, as your mother should know.'
James glanced sympathetically across at Deborah, his eyes widening as he noted a distinct twitch of amusement on her lips. Then it was gone, and he blinked. He must have been mistaken, surely? 'Very well. If you really need to speak to me now.'
'I do.' David gave him a meaningful look and James sighed inwardly. He could well imagine what this was about. At least he had one thing to tell him, something to please him at any rate.
David threw open the French doors as soon as they reached the sitting room, taking deep lungfuls of fresh air. Outside, the weakening rays of the evening sun still managed to warm the gardens, as the first of the season's butterflies and bees hovered around the flower beds, performing a last dance before bedtime. It was only early April, but the weather had been kind for the last few days. Not that his mother thought so. She spent her evenings in the snug, wood burner blazing away as if it was the depths of winter.
'So, have you anything to tell me? Any news?'
David didn't believe in beating around the bush. There was only one thing he needed from his son, and he wasted no time in getting to
the point. James was relieved he'd had that meeting in Kirkby Skimmer the other day. It had been most fortunate. 'I have, actually. I met Emerald Carmichael.'
David frowned. 'Cain Carmichael's daughter? How did you manage that?'
James felt quite smug. 'I spotted her in town and — shall we say — I engineered a little accident.'
'What sort of accident?' David sounded alarmed.
James smiled. 'Nothing to worry about. She was busy gawping at her own reflection in the shop window and far too enchanted by it to notice me, until I bumped into her and spilled coffee all over my shirt.' He would never have gone that far if the coffee hadn't been lukewarm, he thought. He'd been planning to throw it away, so it was no loss, and it'd had the desired effect. 'Of course, I made out that it was her fault for not looking where she was going. She was most apologetic. We ended up having a drink together in a café.'
And the rest! The girl could certainly eat. No wonder she was so plump. She was bordering on fat, not his usual type at all. Although, he had to admit, she was stunningly pretty, and refreshingly natural-looking.
'So what? What's that got to do with anything?' David sounded grumpy. Evidently, he wasn't impressed. James bit down his annoyance.
'So, we got talking. She's quite chatty and rather naïve. She was open about what's going on at Fleetsthorpe. For instance, Harland and his fiancée are getting married, and she's been hired as the wedding planner.'
David swung round, tutting impatiently. 'How is that good news? The last thing we need is for them to seem even more secure, more settled. We need the Harlands to look unstable, not like love's young dream, for God's sake.'
'But that's my point,' James said, trying his best not to sound snappy although, God knows, his father was pushing it. 'Emerald Carmichael is the best placed person to ruin their wedding, and she could also be useful to us in other ways.'
'What ways?' David sank into the chair opposite James and frowned. 'I'm not following.'
'Emerald,' said James, leaning forward and eyeing his father with some satisfaction, 'has a crush on Harland. Oh, she didn't say as much, but reading between the lines and seeing her soppy expression when she talked about him — well, it was obvious. He certainly does attract them,' he added bitterly, thinking of his own wife's not infrequent visits to Fleetsthorpe. You couldn't tell him she'd developed a sudden passion for sheep and chickens. Something was drawing her there, and he could make a very good guess what — or rather who — it was. 'Not only that, but she despises Eden. That's Harland's fiancée. As far as Emerald's concerned, she's a prize bitch who has bewitched poor, innocent Harland, and conned him into falling in love with her. There'd be nothing she'd enjoy more than breaking those two up, and how good would that look when this case goes to court, eh?'
He sat back, waiting for David to congratulate him on his cleverness. Instead, his father rolled his eyes. 'Is that it? So, have you got her onside? Have you made arrangements to meet up with her again? Is she going to help us?'
James felt his face heat up. Damn! Trust his father to ruin the moment. 'I gave her my card,' he told him, realising how feeble it sounded. 'She'll call me, I'm sure of it.'
'So that's it? One drink in a café, one business card handed out, and suddenly all our problems are solved?'
'Look, Emerald's clearly harbouring a major grudge against Eden — not only because she fancies Eliot, but because Cain Carmichael adores Eden and is even paying for their wedding himself. Emerald's furious about it. I reckon she's going to want to cause as much mischief as possible for her. If she can split Eden and Eliot up, I think she'll go for it. She wants Eliot for herself, that much is obvious, but more than that even, I think she wants to punish Eden. What better way to do it? And if she joins forces with us, we can make it happen, I'm sure of it.'
'Hmm.' David nodded. 'And if the Harlands go through a split — as acrimonious as we can make it — a judge is going to pretty much see us as by far the best choice for George.' He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'You know, I don't see why we don't move now. A birth certificate can be amended. All it would take would be a DNA test. Once that's sorted out, there'd be nothing to stop you applying for custody. He's your biological son and you must have rights.'
James shuddered. 'I've told you, if we rush into this it will go horribly wrong. For a start, Beth will be against the idea. She doesn't want me to have George, and she'd see it as a betrayal of Harland. She's far too close to — that family — to go against him like that. She would probably go so far as to defend him in court, tell the judge that I never wanted George. She'd make me out to be an uncaring father. We could easily lose the case. Plus, she'd never forgive me. She'd leave me, no question.'
'Pity you weren't so considerate of Beth's feelings before you had your vasectomy,' David muttered.
James swallowed down his anger. He was getting used to doing that whenever his father was around. 'The point is, there are far too many people in this village who adore Harland and would be willing to stand up in court and tell the judge what an amazing father he is. Think about it, he looks like a saint, bringing up the son of an unfaithful wife and the man she betrayed him with. How bad will it make me look next to him?'
'But in law —'
'We need Beth onside,' James said firmly. 'And the only way to ensure that is to take our time to convince her that I'm genuinely missing George. Then I need to convince Mother that I want my son back, wind her up so that she goes after the Harlands and Beth can blame her for taking action, not me. You know Mother. When she really wants something, she's like a dog with a bone, and you say she wants a grandchild. It's the only sure-fire way to win this. With Beth and Mother working with me to get my son home, and Emerald working against the Harlands for us, making them look unstable and unsuitable, we can't lose, and what's more, we'll have the villagers and my wife on our side, rather than furious with us and causing trouble for us. You must see it makes sense?'
He could see in his father's face that he knew he was right but hated the fact. David never liked to give James credit for anything. It went against everything he stood for. 'Huh. This is going to take ages.'
'It doesn't matter how long it takes, as long as it happens, does it?' James hesitated, wondering if he dared to push it, having just won a small victory over his father. On balance, he decided it was worth the risk. 'Look, are you sure about this? Can't we drop it? I don't want George back, you know. I'm not the paternal type, and Harland is doing a good job of bringing him up. I can't say he's not, much as I'd like to.'
David glared at him, then marched over to the bureau in the corner of the room. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the drawer and rummaged around for a moment, before removing a letter. Scowling, he handed it to James. 'Read this and then tell me if we should drop it.'
James scanned the letter, his spirits sinking as he realised it was from his uncle Scott. More boasting as he announced the birth of a second grandson, Solomon. Eight pounds six ounces and, apparently, the spitting image of Aunt Kathryn — poor little sod. Scott had ended the letter with a casual enquiry as to whether there was any sign of a grandchild for David and Deborah, pointing out what a shame it was for them, and what a blessing the grandchildren were, enriching their lives so much. And what a blessing to have an heir and two spares lined up, should James fail to live up to his duties was the subtext. No wonder his father was so desperate to get George back. It was almost enough to make him want to rush over to Fleetsthorpe and stake his claim right there and then — almost.
'Your son is coming home to Thwaite Park,' David told him, through gritted teeth. 'Those brats get their hands on this place over my dead body.'
Chapter Sixteen
Beth was curled up on the sofa in the sitting room, book in hand, trying hard to concentrate on the story she was supposed to be reading. She'd gone over the same paragraph several times now and couldn't for the life of her remember what it was she'd read. The truth was, she acknowledged, she was too busy making up
her own story in her head — a romance, featuring a lonely, bored housewife and a sexy American singer with fair hair, an amazing physique, and the bluest eyes she'd ever seen in her life. Her stomach fluttered as she closed her eyes, the story unfolding in her imagination with disturbing clarity. She ought to be ashamed of herself. She wondered why she wasn't.
'Something amusing you?'
Beth jumped, startled at the sound of James's voice. She felt heat sear through her cheeks. Thank God he couldn't read her mind. 'No, no. Just daydreaming. It's this book. Very good.'
He gave the cover a cursory glance, clearly losing interest. 'I've made you a coffee,' he said, handing her a mug.
She took it, surprised. Since when did James make her a drink? 'Thank you.' She eyed him uncertainly. 'Is there something wrong?'
'Why should there be anything wrong?' He sank down beside her.
Beth involuntarily tensed and edged away from him, taking care not to spill the coffee on Deborah's white sofa. She put her book on the coffee table and cradled the mug in her hands, eyeing James warily. 'I don't know. You seem a bit — odd.'
'Odd?' He shook his head, smiling. 'I'm not sure how to take that.'
'You know what I mean. Since when do you make me a coffee? And since when do you come and sit with me in an afternoon? Come to think of it, you're not usually at home. Are you feeling all right?'
'I'm fine, fine. Don't worry about me.'
Beth thought, with some shame, that she wasn't. She was curious, that was all. It was a very different thing.
'Not going to Fleetsthorpe today, then?'
The question came out of the blue and threw her. Fleetsthorpe was never discussed in this house. It was a taboo subject. On the rare occasions when Eliot's name was mentioned, it was before, during or following a row, or said in icy tones. The words Harland and Fleetsthorpe were practically swear words at Thwaite Park. 'No. Eliot and Eden are up to their necks in lambing, and I didn't want to get in their way.'
