The Mother And The Millionaire

by Alison Fraser

  Esme managed not to lose her temper. After all, he was being polite enough, just monosyllabic. She decided to con­centrate her energies on preparing the meal for Charles.

  She made less effort on her appearance, changing from jeans and sweatshirt to simple trousers and a polo neck.

  Charles phoned from the gates and she went down, once again taking several clicks on the device to open them.

  She waved Charles through and, after more frantic click­ing, managed to shut the gates. Why couldn’t Doyle have just let the old ones alone?

  She climbed into the car with Charles and wasn’t quick enough to avoid the kiss he placed on her mouth. Pleasant enough, but it left her determined. Tonight was the night. She had to finish things.

  It was hard, especially when Charles said and did nothing to suggest that he now wanted a relationship beyond friend­ship until they reached coffee and liqueurs and he suddenly slid an arm across the back of the sofa.

  ‘Cream!’ she exclaimed, grabbing the flimsiest of excuses to escape.

  She disappeared to the kitchen and counted out ten seconds before returning empty-handed. ‘Sorry, all out of it!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ a bemused Charles assured her, ‘I don’t actually take cream.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Esme managed to make this sound like a newly discovered fact. ‘It just shows, doesn’t it—we don’t really know that much about each other?’

  A start! she applauded herself while making sure to sit back down on the single armchair.

  ‘We know the important things.’ Charles smiled back. ‘I mean we come from similar backgrounds, like the same things...opera, the ballet, the hunt.’

  Esme’s heart sank. That sounded like the beginning of a speech, one he’d rehearsed a few times.

  ‘Not totally, no.’ She decided dissension was called for, ‘I’ve never really liked hunting. It’s always struck me as a little barbaric, horses and hounds chasing one poor fox.’

  Now surely that was sacrilege to an ardent countryman like Charles?

  ‘Yes, well—’ he smiled indulgently ‘—that’s a matter of opinion, although any farmer will tell you what a pest the foxes are... Still, I admire your stance.’

  Esme sighed inwardly. She didn’t want him admiring her stance. She wanted him to open his eyes and see how vastly unsuited they were.

  ‘Anyway, I meant horsemanship generally,’ he continued in his dogged way. ‘You were such a brilliant jumper, I re­member. You really should take it up again. You could use one of my horses.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m usually too busy.’ Esme smiled to soften her refusal. ‘With work and everything.’

  ‘At the moment, yes,’ he conceded, ‘but if your life were different... Which is really what I’m trying to say. I’d like to make it so. In fact, I came here hoping we might discuss the future—’

  ‘Charles—’ Esme had a premonition of what he was about to say and intended to stop him at all costs ‘—it’s very nice of you, but I’ve already made some plans. I want to grow the business and move—probably to London in the longer term. That’s where the work is.’

  ‘I...oh...right.’ This information threw Charles com­pletely, ‘I didn’t realise you were so serious about this dec­orating lark.’

  Esme could have said it was design, not decorating, and work, not a lark, but it wasn’t Charles’s fault that he was stuck in a time warp where girls only worked as a hobby before marriage.

  ‘Totally serious,’ Esme stressed, ‘which is why I wanted to talk to you tonight. You’ve been great, taking me out and about and treating me, but you deserve better. Someone more focused on you... And, between my career commitments and Harry, that’s never going to be me,’ she finished gently as his face finally reflected disappointed resignation.

  ‘No,’ he agreed at length, ‘I see that now and I appreciate your honesty.’

  Esme yearned to reply, Don’t be nice. Get mad for once. Stand up for yourself. Tell me I’m a bitch.

  But it would be perverse when she’d just negotiated a minefield to gain this quiet acceptance rather than a slanging match.

  She settled for a prosaic, ‘Want some more coffee?’

  A cue, and Charles for once took it, looking at his watch to exclaim, ‘Is that the time? No, I’m afraid I’ll have to go. Cricket match tomorrow.’

  ‘Right.’ She rose and he followed. ‘I’ll get a jacket and take you down to the gates.’

  They busied themselves with finding car keys and an um­brella, because the hot summer’s day had given way to an­other storm, and took refuge in typically English conversation about weather till they reached the gates and discovered they wouldn’t open at all.

  ‘It’s either your device or the gates.’ Charles stated the obvious. ‘We’ll have to call the main house. I think there’s an intercom by the side of that pillar.’

  He was out of the car before Esme could stop him. Maybe it was better, she decided, letting Charles do the talking.

  Or maybe not, as Charles returned to declare, ‘Odd chap. I told him who I was but he insists on verification from you.’

  Esme sighed loudly. ‘OK, I’ll deal with it.’

  Forgetting the umbrella, she braved the storm and impa­tiently buzzed the intercom button.

  ‘Yes?’ a disembodied voice enquired.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Esme.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Esme gritted her teeth. ‘My clicky thingummy seems to be on the blink.’

  ‘Clicky thingummy?’ he repeated in dry, mocking tones. ‘And that would be the technical term for what, precisely?’

  ‘My—’ what was the word again? ‘—remote. It’s ceased functioning,’ she added for good measure.

  ‘Have you dropped it at all?’ he asked next.

  ‘No. Why, would that help it work again?’

  ‘Is that a joke?’

  More in the nature of sarcasm at his suggestion she must have done something wrong. Perhaps unwise in the circum­stances.

  ‘Well, this isn’t,’ she retorted crossly, it’s raining and I’m getting wet, so if you could just come down here and do something. Charles would like to go home.’

  ‘On his own?’ Unbelievable.

  ‘Is that any of your business?’ she seethed.

  ‘Is last night any business of his?’ he countered.

  Was that a threat? To tell Charles what had happened be­tween them?

  It scarcely mattered now her relationship with Charles had ended, but she didn’t want Charles hurt, thinking he was being dumped for someone else.

  ‘I forgot—he’s the jealous type,’ Jack resumed. ‘Well, don’t worry, it’ll be our little secret.’

  He was mocking her and, realising it, Esme muttered a careless, ‘Oh, go to hell!’ before she noticed the gates were finally opening.

  She half expected them to shut again. When they didn’t, she hurried back to the car. She didn’t climb in but went to the driver’s side.

  Charles, having already wound his window down, looked at her with concern. ‘You’re soaked.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ She took the umbrella he handed her and unfurled it.

  ‘He seems an awkward devil,’ Charles added, ‘Is that why you’re moving?’

  ‘One of the reasons.’ She glanced towards the gates. ‘You’d better not hang around. He might shut them again.’

  Charles nodded before saying, ‘Well, look after yourself, Esme.’

  ‘You, too.’ She leaned inside the car and kissed him briefly on the cheek. ‘Thanks for everything.’

  It was goodbye. They both knew that. Esme didn’t prolong it as she backed away from the car.

  She waited until he’d swept through the gates before buzz­ing once more on the intercom.

  ‘You can close them again,’ she informed Jack coldly.

  ‘Has he gone?’ was his curt response.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

&
nbsp; Good? What was that—approval?

  Esme scowled as she walked away and the gates closed behind her. She wondered if she was going to have to go through the Spanish Inquisition every time she wanted to leave Highfield.

  She shook her head. He surely wouldn’t want the hassle, either.

  Back at the cottage, she changed into her night clothes, towel-dried her hair, then went to wash the dinner dishes, cursing Jack Doyle and his useless security gates.

  Still, she’d done what she’d set out to do—disentangled herself from Charles without too much upset. She might have felt guilty: she was almost sure Charles had been leading up to a proposal. But surely the ease with which he had been diverted said it all? Had he truly wanted her, would he have given up at the first hurdle?

  Her mind wandered involuntarily to Jack Doyle. She couldn’t imagine him meekly accepting a turn-down if he wanted something or someone. Even with Arabella he hadn’t given up because of the terrible things their mother had said, but rather the realisation that she was just a mouthpiece: that it was Arabella who hadn’t considered him good enough for her. And he hadn’t reacted with disappointment but fury. She knew that well enough because she’d received the backlash, albeit turned into a different kind of passion.

  That she’d asked for it did not make it feel any better. She’d allowed herself to play second best to Arabella, per­petuating the whole pattern of their childhood.

  Well, that was then and this was now. She was out of her sister’s shadow, had been for years. On the rare occasions she met up with her she could make meaningless small talk without feeling anything worse than boredom and certainly never envy, recognising her own life as happier, more mean­ingful.

  Yet she was still regressing, devaluing all her efforts to leave the old Esme behind.

  OK, she wasn’t falling over Jack Doyle like an over-eager puppy. Or hanging on to his words of wisdom any more. Or mooning around, wondering if he’d ever notice her. She’d opened her eyes and seen him for what he was—a clever, arrogant, good-looking bastard. Yet she’d succumbed.

  Why? was the question. She forced herself to think back to last night. He’d come to talk about the tenancy and Harry’s e-mails, ostensibly to offer his help. She’d thrown it back in his face, suggesting he was trying to buy her. He’d pointed out he’d never had to do that, alluding to their encounter in the barn, and things had degenerated from there.

  She should have shown him the door. Why hadn’t she? She’d tried to retaliate and somehow they’d ended up talking about sex. She remembered being both repelled and fasci­nated, like watching a blue movie. Then suddenly she’d been starring in her very own one, only she was honest enough to admit there had been nothing phony about her moans and groans and the climax he’d given her.

  Esme felt herself trembling, and quickly shut off the pro­jector in her head. She had her answer. It was need. Quite simple, if rather shameful. She had needed sex. After three years’ celibacy and emotional detachment, her body had be­trayed her.

  That it had been with Jack Doyle didn’t hold any great, mystical significance. He had been there. That was all. He had been there and suddenly familiar, as if it was meant to be, and he was good at it, very good, and she’d weakened. End of story.

  She just had to face up to it. She wasn’t as self-contained as she’d imagined. She was like many single mothers, putting children and work first, learning to live with loneliness, emo­tions firmly on hold, until some man came along—often wrong but timing right—to breach their defences.

  She told herself it wouldn’t happen again but that errant voice inside her just laughed back, Who are you kidding?

  She would have argued with it but it sounded so certain. And, anyway, it was late and she was tired.

  She trudged upstairs, checked on Harry, fast asleep, then trudged back down to her room off the hall and fell into bed to toss and turn until exhaustion won out.

  The storm died out by early morning. She slept through her alarm clock ringing and the sun filtering through half-drawn curtains, only to be aroused by knocking on the cot­tage door.

  It took her a moment to gain full consciousness, glance at the time—ten o’clock—then scramble for clothes.

  Already too late as she heard the bolt being shot and the sound of voices in conversation. Impossible not to hear, with her room just off the hall.

  She’d pulled on a sweatshirt and was dragging up her jeans when Harry said, ‘Maybe you could persuade her.’

  ‘I don’t think so somehow,’ Jack replied. ‘Anyway, she may be right. It is very isolated here.’

  ‘Better than town,’ was Harry’s opinion. ‘If I go there, I’ll never get away from them.’

  Esme stopped in her tracks. Was Harry that miserable at school?

  ‘Them?’ Jack asked the question on her lips.

  ‘Kids at school.’

  ‘Bullies?’

  No answer came but Esme guessed Harry was either nod­ding or shaking his head.

  Nodding, it seemed, as Jack resumed, ‘Yeah, that stuff happens if you’re different.’

  ‘Did it happen to you?’ Harry wondered aloud.

  ‘Off and on,’ Jack confirmed.

  ‘What did you do?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Well, I’d like to give you some magic solution,’ Jack responded in his slightly Americanised drawl, ‘but I’m afraid there isn’t one. You could tell your teacher.’

  ‘Done that.’

  ‘Not very effective?’

  ‘She says I should try to fit in and make friends with them.’

  ‘Great,’ the man applauded sarcastically. ‘Is that before or after they beat you up?

  Harry laughed, as intended, before volunteering, ‘During, maybe.’

  ‘Have you told your mother?’ Jack suggested next.

  ‘She knows they call me names and stuff,’ Harry confided, ‘but if I tell her how serious it is she’ll just go up to the school and make a fuss and then I’ll be in even more trouble.’

  ‘I can see your point,’ Jack agreed, ‘but they’re not going to stop until someone stops them. You should speak to your mother... Where is she, by the way?’

  ‘In bed.’ Harry betrayed her without thought. ‘I’ll get her.’

  He knocked on Esme’s door and she called out, ‘Be out in a moment,’ as she pulled a brush through her hair and finally made her entrance into the hall.

  ‘Go help yourself to breakfast,’ she directed at Harry, ‘while I speak to Mr Doyle.’

  When Harry had departed, she turned to the man on the doorstep. He was dressed in white T-shirt and black jeans, freshly shaven and coolly handsome. Esme felt at an imme­diate disadvantage and wished she hadn’t just grabbed the first clothes to hand, her scruffiest jeans and a grubby old sweatshirt.

  ‘Yes?’ She dispensed with niceties.

  ‘I’ve brought a replacement remote.’ He handed over the new device. ‘That’s the only spare, so if I could have the faulty device?’

  ‘Of course.’ She opened a drawer in the hall cabinet where she’d put it for safe-keeping.

  ‘Thanks.’ He nodded as if about to depart, then thought better of it. ‘Look, I was just talking to Harry...’

  ‘I know—I heard.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’ll deal with it,’ she stated abruptly.

  He continued to stand there. She stared back at him, daring him to dispense unwelcome advice.

  But either he had the sense not to or he didn’t care, because he suddenly switched subjects on her. ‘About last night, I was being difficult. I admit it. I suspect I took exception to your friend’s tone.’

  Esme’s brows drew together. Charles only had one tone.

  ‘Which was?’ she demanded curtly. ‘I’ve never known Charles to be anything less than polite.’

  ‘Maybe it was that then.’ He made a face. ‘Upper-class English superciliousness, scrupulously polite with just a hint of condescension.’

  ‘Whereas y
our tone is what?’ Esme couldn’t resist retort­ing. ‘Working-class-boy-done-good with just a hint of chip-on-shoulder.’

  He laughed. He actually laughed. Didn’t he know when someone was insulting him?

  ‘And you?’ He held his head at an angle. ‘Let’s see... English lady, seemingly so remote and untouchable, but un­derneath—’

  ‘Was there anything else you wanted?’ she interrupted, somewhat unwisely.

  It gave him the chance to murmur, ‘I think we both know I want something else but it’ll have to keep for now. I’m leaving for Tokyo in the morning. Any more trouble with the gates and you should speak to Colin Jones, the builder. He’ll be working on the house.’

  She listened to this information with a mixture of feelings. She should feel relief and she did. But there was also a sense that he was abandoning her once more. Definitely odd.

  ‘Your rent?’ Esme reminded them both of their current relationship. ‘I can give you a cheque.’

  ‘No rush,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be back in a few days.’

  ‘If that suits.’ She wasn’t going to argue.

  He inclined his head. ‘Say goodbye to Harry for me.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Tell him...’

  ‘What?’

  She frowned, unsure if she wanted any dialogue between the two.

  He shrugged before suggesting, ‘Tell him it gets better.’

  ‘Right.’ She wondered if he was speaking from experience.

  ‘See you, then.’ Already walking away, he raised his hand in a farewell salute.

  Esme had no need to echo, ‘See you,’ but she did, which was probably why he turned briefly and slanted her a smile.

  No. More of a grin. Did he imagine he was wearing her down?

  Well, he wasn’t, and to prove it she awarded him a positive scowl.

  It didn’t seem to bother him as he went up the path, hands in pockets, whistling.

  She closed the door with a slight bang and passed through the living room to the kitchen beyond.

  ‘Has he gone?’ Harry looked up from his breakfast.

  ‘Mr Doyle? Yes.’

  ‘You could have invited him in.’

  Esme raised a brow—this, from the most antisocial boy in the world.

  ‘He was in a hurry,’ she lied. ‘He’s off to Tokyo.’