by Liz Fielding
‘You’re not eating.’
He turned around and found himself confronted by the woman in the wheelchair, offering him a plate of sandwiches.
‘Thank you, but I’m not hungry.’
‘That’s no excuse. It’s part of the ritual,’ she said. ‘Man’s natural reaction to his own mortality. An affirmation that life goes on. You know…eat, drink and be grateful it was someone else who fell under the bus. Metaphorically speaking.’
‘In my case,’ he replied, ‘I suspect it would have caused a great deal less bother all round if it had been me. Falling under the metaphorical bus.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Her eyebrows rose to match her interest. ‘Then you must be Guy Dymoke, the rich, successful older brother who no one ever talks about. You don’t look like Steven,’ she added, without waiting for confirmation.
‘We’re half-brothers. Same father, different mothers. Steve favours—favoured—his. Mother.’
‘Should one speak ill of the dead at his own funeral?’ she enquired, with a refreshing lack of sentimentality. Then, clearly not expecting an answer, ‘I’m Matty Lang,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘Francesca’s cousin. So what’s the mystery? Why haven’t we met?’
‘There’s no mystery. I’m a geologist. I spend a lot of time overseas in remote places.’ Then, because he didn’t want to elaborate on why he didn’t include family visits when he was in London, he said, ‘Francesca must be glad to have you here. Her parents live overseas, I understand.’
‘They do. In separate hemispheres to avoid bloodshed. As for the rest of them, they’re all too busy to waste time at a funeral that won’t benefit them in any way.’ She looked around, rather pointedly, then at him and said, ‘It was one of the things Fran and Steven had in common, apparently.’
‘I’m surprised his mother isn’t here.’ A B-list actress who had been through half a dozen husbands and lovers since his father had paid through the nose to be rid of her, she rarely missed a photo opportunity. ‘She looks good in black.’
‘She sent flowers and her excuses. Apparently she’s filming some lust-in-the-dust mini-series in North Africa. She was sure Fran would understand. Call me cynical, but with Francesca getting top billing I suspect she decided there wasn’t any PR mileage in admitting to having a son old enough to have made her a grandmother.’
‘Not good for the image,’ he agreed, doing his best to keep the bitterness from his voice. ‘She was never cut out for grandmotherhood. Or motherhood, come to that.’ Every time that Steve had got himself into trouble, every time he had sworn that this was the last time he’d dig him out, he had found himself rerunning a long distant memory of his stepmother screaming at his father, furious that she’d had to surrender some film part because she was pregnant. Had found himself remembering the miserable little boy sobbing his heart out when he had finally realised his mother wasn’t coming back.
And he was no better. He’d walked away, too. He’d told himself that Steve didn’t need him any more now he had a family of his own. But that had just been an excuse.
‘I’m glad Francesca had you to give her some support today,’ he said.
‘She was there for me when I had my own close call with death-by-transport.’ Her smile was slightly wry. ‘Not a bus, in my case, but a combination of speed, black ice and a close encounter with a brick wall.’ The sympathetic response that came to his lips on automatic was neatly deflected as she went on, ‘Of course, since I live in the basement I didn’t have to make much of an effort to be here.’
‘The basement?’
She clearly misread his expression. ‘I believe that Lower Ground Floor is the correct “estate agent” term. It’s not as bad as it sounds, I promise you. It’s a basement at the front, where I have my kitchen and bedroom and a front door for visitors who can handle steps, but the land slopes away at the rear. My sitting room and studio is on ground level so that I have direct access to the rear garden, the garage and my car. I can’t walk now, but I can still drive.’
‘I’m familiar with the layout,’ he said, although her reference to a studio puzzled him. ‘My maternal grandmother used to live here,’ he explained when she looked surprised.
‘Did she? I didn’t know that it was a family house. I thought Steven had paid…’ She clearly decided that she was getting into something that was none of her business. ‘What I meant to say is that I’m not dependent. I’m totally self-contained and go for days without seeing either of them.’ She stopped, clearly realising that ‘either’ was no longer a possibility. ‘Fran managed to convince Steven that the conversion was a good idea. That a self-contained granny-stroke-staff flat would increase the value of the house.’
‘I’m sure she’s right.’
‘She’s more than just a pretty face. Of course I paid for the extension work.’
‘Of course.’
‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you to one of Connie’s sandwich surprises?’
‘Who is Connie?’
‘Another of Fran’s lame ducks. She has a bit of trouble with English and can’t seem to tell her lemon curd from her mayonnaise, which tends to make her cooking a bit of a gamble.’
‘In that case I’m quite sure,’ he replied.
Matty grinned. ‘Where’s your spirit of adventure?’
‘I left it behind in a steaming swamp. It needs a rest.’
‘Fair enough.’ Then, looking at the crowded room, ‘Oh, good grief, this lot look as if they’ve taken root. I’d better go and circulate. There’s nothing like a wheelchair to make people thoroughly uncomfortable, make them remember that they have to be somewhere else. And, if that doesn’t shift them, I’ll fall back on my pathetic-relative-from-the-basement act and dribble a little. I don’t think Fran can take much more of this.’
For a moment they both looked in her direction.
‘How’s she doing?’ he asked.
‘What do you think?’
Francesca’s smile was fixed, her eyes glassy with fatigue and the effort of listening to the two men who seemed to have her pinned in the corner.
‘Actually, I think she needs rescuing.’ He also knew that she’d endure anything rather than accept help from him. ‘Who are those people? Can’t they see she’s at the end of her tether?’
Matty shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. Probably people Steven was doing business with. Obviously things have been let go a bit in the last few months.’
‘Obviously,’ he muttered, heading in their direction, furious with Steven, furious with himself, but most of all furious with them for bothering Francesca at a time like this. She might not want his help, but she was getting it anyway. ‘We haven’t met,’ he said, offering his hand to one of the men and, as he took it, he turned him away from her, stepping between them. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t intended to be. ‘Guy Dymoke, Steven’s brother. I’ve been out of the country for a while. You’re friends of his?’
‘We’re business acquaintances.’ They introduced themselves, but he cut them off as they launched into an explanation of their precise connection with his brother.
‘It’s very good of you to give up your valuable time in this way.’
‘No trouble. I was just asking Miss Lang—’
‘This really isn’t a good time. Why don’t you give me a call?’ he said, handing the man his card and mentally willing Francesca to take advantage of the opportunity to escape, but she seemed fixed to the spot. Beyond help.
‘As I was just saying to Miss Lang,’ the man continued, stubbornly refusing to take the hint, ‘it’s really a matter of some urgency and no one at the office seems to know—’
This time he was cut off mid-sentence as Matty caught him behind the ankle with her wheelchair. ‘Oops, sorry. I can’t seem to get the hang of this thing.’ she said. Then, ‘Fran, sweetheart…’ It needed a second prompt before she responded. ‘Fran, you’re needed in the kitchen.’
‘Oh, right.’ She snapped out of whatever memory she was lost in and s
aw him. That seemed to do the trick. ‘If you’ll excuse me…’
‘But Miss Lang, I really need—’
‘Not now.’ Guy softened the words with a smile, all the while urging them firmly towards the door. ‘I know Francesca appreciates your sympathy, but it’s a difficult time for her. Bring your problems to me.’
Realising that they were not going to get any further, they took the hint and left.
‘Jerks,’ Matty said as she watched them leave, one favouring his left ankle.
‘I don’t think you’re a very nice person, Matty Lang.’
‘Really?’ She grinned. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in ages. For some reason, because I’m confined to a wheelchair, people seem to think I should have suddenly been transformed into a saint.’ Then, ‘Can I leave you to mop up the stragglers while I go and rustle up a pot of tea?’
No one needed her in the kitchen, although she was just in time to prevent Connie from loading crystal glasses into the dishwasher. Matty had simply been giving her a chance to escape, Fran realised belatedly. Guy, too, although it hurt to acknowledge that he might have even one kind bone in his body.
She should go back. People would be leaving, but she couldn’t face the drawing room again. The polite condolences which, for the most part, simply masked the unasked questions she could see in everyone’s eyes. They were sorry Steven was dead, sympathetic, but their concerns were with the future. Would the company go on? Would they have their jobs at the end of the month? Survival was the name of the game. For them, just as much as those two tactless imbeciles who undoubtedly wanted to know when their bills would be paid.
Questions to which she had no answers.
It occurred to her that she was now the owner of a business that she knew next to nothing about. She’d talked about going back to work once she’d had Toby, but Steven had insisted that she had enough to do running their home, being Toby’s mother. That it was his job to take care of them.
Even while he was dying he’d insisted that he’d got it sorted…that he was going to take care of them all.
She choked back a sob as she sank on to the saggy old sofa that filled one corner of the kitchen, curling up into it for comfort. For endless days she’d been holding on, knowing that once the funeral was over she would have to confront the future. But not now. Not today.
Guy shut the door on the last of the mourners, then went through to the kitchen to find Francesca. He had no illusions about his reception, but he had to convince her that she must call him if she had any problems. That he’d be there for her. He doubted that she’d ask him for help, but he’d leave his number with Matty anyway. She was sharp enough to call him if…
A ball bounced at his feet and he turned to confront a small boy who was standing on the half-landing. There was no mistaking who he was. He had something of Steve about him, a nose that was a gift from his grandfather, his mother’s corn-gold hair.
The wrench at his heartstrings was so unexpected, so painful, that for a moment he clutched his fist to his chest as if to hold his heart in place. When he’d read that Francesca and Steve had a son he had been bombarded with such a mixture of emotions that he hadn’t known what to do with himself. The truth was that there was nothing to do. Only endure.
He bent to pick up the ball but for a moment couldn’t speak, just stood there, holding it.
The child bounced down the stairs one step at a time, then, suddenly shy, stopped about halfway. Guy swallowed, tried to form the words, finally managed, ‘Hello, Toby.’
‘Who are you?’ he said, hanging on to the banister rail as he hopped down another step. ‘How do you know my name?’
He’d read it in a newspaper clipping sent to him by his secretary.
Francesca Lang and Steven Dymoke are pleased to announce the birth of their son Tobias Lang Dymoke.
He’d sent the antique silver rattle, a family heir-loom that should have been passed to his own first-born. A gesture that was meant to say to Steve that he was valued. That they were equals. He’d hoped that with a woman like Francesca at his side, with the birth of his son, Steve might have discovered an inner strength, self-confidence to finally realise that. Maybe he had, but his gift had been returned. The message was clear. Keep away.
‘I’m your Uncle Guy.’ He offered the child the ball and he descended another couple of steps until they were at the same eye level. Then, as he made a grab for the ball, he lost his balance and Guy found himself with an armful of small boy.
‘What are you doing?’
Francesca’s anxious voice startled Toby and he began to cry.
‘Give him to me!’ She didn’t wait, but wrenched the child from his arms, making things worse as she hugged him tight, frightening him. ‘What is it with you? You think just because Steven’s dead you can walk into his home as if you own the place, pick up his son—’
‘The boy overbalanced, Francesca. I caught him before he fell.’ About to add that he was fine until she’d shouted, he thought better of it. She’d just suffered one terrible loss and it was only natural that she’d be protective. ‘I was looking for you to let you know I’m leaving.’
‘You’ve said it. Now will you please just go.’
Distraught, grieving, she wasn’t about to listen to him and he wasn’t about to try and justify his absence from their lives. ‘I simply wanted to let you know that you don’t have to worry about the paperwork, Steve’s business. I’ll handle it, and if there’s anything you need—’
‘You won’t,’ she declared, lifting her chin a little. ‘It’s my concern, not yours. And I don’t. Need anything.’
Her rejection felt as physical as a slap. He took a breath. ‘All you have to do is call my office. Speak to my secretary—’
‘Your secretary? Well, thanks. It’s good to know where I stand in your priorities.’
‘I thought…’ He’d thought that dealing through an intermediary would be easier for her, but the truth was that in the face of her complete refusal to see him as anything other than her enemy he felt utterly helpless.
Matty appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘I’ve made a pot of tea if anyone fancies a cup,’ she said, then glanced from him to Francesca and back again. ‘I can make that Scotch if you’d prefer?’
‘Another time. I have to go.’ He crossed to her, bent to take her hand, then taking the opportunity to slip her the card with his mobile number on it, the one he’d been planning to give Francesca. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Matty.’
‘Well, don’t say it as if was the first and last time.’
‘I’m sure Guy has more pressing demands on his time, Matty. A potential oil field or three needing his expertise.’
‘I’ll be staying in London for a week or two.’
‘That long?’ The scorn in Francesca’s voice would have withered crab grass. ‘Oh, well, then we’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about, have we…?’
She was near the edge of hysteria, he thought, and his presence wasn’t helping. Maybe Matty realised that too because she caught his eye and said, ‘I’ll see you out.’
‘It’s all right. He knows the way. This used to be his house until he sold it to Steven at the top of the property boom.’ He looked up and, seeing the shock on his face, she said, ‘What’s the matter? Did you think I didn’t know how much he paid you?’
What could he say? Tell her that she was wrong? That the man she loved, nursed, cared for, had lied to her?
‘He adored you, Guy,’ she said, as he turned to leave. ‘Worshipped you. He was always making excuses for you. In his eyes you could do no wrong…’
How he wished that was true, but wishing helped no one. Instead, he smiled at the child who had stopped crying and was peering up at him from beneath long wet lashes.
‘Goodbye, Toby,’ he said, through what felt like a rock in his throat, and the child thrust the ball he was still holding towards him.
He didn’t know what was expected of him and he
got no help from Francesca. Feeling helpless was becoming repetitive. He wasn’t used to it. He didn’t like it. Choosing action, he took the ball and said, ‘Thank you, Toby.’ The child buried his head in his mother’s shoulder.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow, Francesca.’
‘Don’t bother.’ She didn’t wait to see how he reacted. She swept from the hall, taking Toby with her, and he forced his unwilling feet towards the door.
‘Shall I leave this with you?’ he asked, offering the ball to Matty.
‘Toby gave it to you because he wants you to come back,’ she said.
‘His mother doesn’t feel the same way.’
‘Possibly not, but I don’t see anyone else crossing continents and oceans to be at her side—’
‘Steve was my brother,’ he said.
‘—or leaping to her rescue when she was being hounded by men anxious about their invoices,’ she continued as if he hadn’t interrupted. Her face, thin, plainly marked with everything she’d suffered, was bright with intelligence and he sensed an ally.
‘Have they reason to be?’ he asked. ‘Anxious?’
‘Steven didn’t confide in me but he hasn’t been in any state to run the business himself for the last six months.’
‘I wish she’d let me know.’
‘He wouldn’t let her. At the end she called your office anyway, but it was too late. All you can do now, Mr Knight Errant, is stick around and help her pick up the pieces.’
CHAPTER TWO
FRANCESCA was shaking so badly that she had to sit down before her legs gave way. Toby struggled to free himself, but she clutched at him as if he was the only thing standing between her and some dark chasm that yawned in front of her.
