Love Nest

by Julia Llewellyn

  ‘I know. But then you’ll talk to Phil.’

  ‘Maybe not today. But I will talk to him soon.’

  Max’s face darkened. ‘You won’t back out on me, will you, Karen?’

  ‘I won’t.’ She meant it. ‘But just not today. I’ll have to find a time when the girls are at school or something. Maybe take the day off work. I can’t just drop the bombshell.’

  Karen didn’t want to think about it. She just wanted to enjoy the summer air on her face, watch the poppies swaying in the field, listen to the larks singing in the elm trees. Ironically, all the things she could enjoy every day if she moved here. But this wasn’t about Devon versus St Albans any more. It was about Phil versus Max, a man she’d never loved wholeheartedly versus a man who consumed her.

  She didn’t want to think about it.

  They climbed to the top of a hill, where an ancient menhir stood.

  ‘Look at me,’ said Max, pulling himself up on to it, wobbling precariously. ‘I’m the King of the World. I can see for mi-i-i-les.’

  She was laughing at him, arms outstretched to keep his balance, as her phone started to ring in her pocket.

  ‘Oh my God. We have a signal.’

  She pulled it out. Phil, said the caller ID. The ground seemed to shift beneath her as if she’d hit turbulence.

  ‘Hello.’ She braced herself for her husband’s voice. But she didn’t hear him. She heard Eloise.

  ‘Mummy, it’s me. Mummy, where are you?’

  Mummy? Eloise had stopped calling her that six years ago when she’d announced out of the blue that it was ‘lame’ and by the way there was no such person as Santa Claus. Or the tooth fairy. Bea cried for days.

  ‘Darling, I’m… away. Are you OK, sweetiepie?’

  ‘It’s not me, Mummy. It’s Daddy. He’s sick. Really sick. He’s gone back into hospital this morning. Mummy, we need you back home. We need you now.’

  ‘I’ll give you a lift,’ Lucinda told Nick, as they walked through early morning Gatwick towards passports. ‘I’ve got a car waiting.’

  It had been a snap decision to end it, but already she was mightily relieved. She knew the Tobago gossip machine would be in overdrive after the lunch, but she’d begged Dolly and Marilia to stay schtum and she was going to claim to Mummy and Daddy, or whoever, that Nick was merely an acquaintance she’d bumped into on the island, that of course he hadn’t stayed in the villa. It felt like a narrow escape. Something she’d laugh about when she’d taken over Daddy’s empire and Nick was as famous as Mick Jagger. No one would ever know, she thought smugly, as a man jumped in front of them.

  ‘Nick! Nick!’ he shouted. A flashbulb started going off.

  Momentarily blinded, Nick’s hand flew to his eyes.

  ‘Lucinda!’ another man shouted.

  ‘What in heaven’s name is going on?’ she snapped. ‘Go away.’

  The man had a beer belly and a beard. He merely laughed, continuing running in front of them, his shutter snapping like the jaws of a hungry crocodile.

  ‘I take it you haven’t seen today’s papers?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  He shoved a copy of the Sunday Post into her hand. Lucinda stared at it aghast. ‘The rock star and the heiress’, read the headline. In smaller letters underneath, she read: ‘Star’s girlfriend in clinic after suicide attempt’.

  The photographer continued snapping their shocked expressions.

  ‘Welcome home,’ he said.

  39

  Lucinda sat on the overstuffed sofa in the living room of her father’s Claridge’s suite. She kept her eyes focused on the Linley furniture. Perfectly tasteful, but so overpriced thanks to the fact that it was made by the Queen’s nephew, cashing in on his title. She kept thinking this, hoping it would stop her crying.

  ‘How could you have done this?’ her father bellowed, standing above her. He had flown in that morning for an emergency family summit. ‘You’ve brought shame upon the family.’

  ‘But why not, Daddy?’ she said, looking him straight in the eye and twisting her fingers together so he wouldn’t see them shaking. Where was her damn bracelet? ‘I’m young and single. So is he. Why shouldn’t we go on holiday with whomever we like?’ She was pleased with the ‘whom’. Lucinda Gresham did not forget her grammar, even in moments of the gravest crisis.

  Michael Gresham’s face was very red. ‘Because this rock star was also a client of your agency. Can’t you grasp the measure of such unprofessionalism?’

  ‘Anyway, he’s not single,’ Mummy said softly from her armchair in the corner where she’d been intently inspecting her manicure. ‘He has a girlfriend.’

  ‘I know,’ said Lucinda, hanging her head.

  ‘You’ve lost your job. You’ve brought terrible publicity to the family when we’ve always tried to be so discreet.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Daddy, I really am.’

  ‘Sorry isn’t good enough. You won’t be coming to work for me now, you realize that?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy.’ Lucinda was devastated, but she kept her face as expressionless as possible. This wouldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen. She’d get another job. She’d be a brilliant success and then Daddy would beg her to join the company. She would not let one stupid mishap defeat her. The thought sloshed round and round her head like clothes in a washing machine.

  Her father stood up.

  ‘I’m going to stop your allowance. Evict you from the house. Someone who repays their father’s generosity with this tramplike behaviour doesn’t deserve any more part of it.’

  ‘Michael!’ Mummy protested. ‘That’s very harsh.’

  ‘Lucinda can fend for herself. Like every other woman in the world has to. They manage fine and so will she.’

  ‘All right, Daddy.’ Lucinda kept her eyes pinned to the carpet but her mind was reeling. Where would she go? What would she do? She still had some cash from her investments but they’d taken a nasty knock recently and would only cover a month or two at best.

  She had to find a job. Who could she ask?

  There must be other people out there. People whom it would be less humiliating to approach. But she simply couldn’t think. Cass’s chinless boyfriend and his hedge fund. He’d say she could make the tea and enjoy watching her messing up the nasty strong English brews. She could go home to Switzerland, of course, but that would be even worse, living in the same town as Mummy and Daddy, doing what – working in a cuckoo-clock factory?

  ‘Another thing you’d better know,’ Daddy said. ‘I’ve offered Benjie the job with the company that you seemed so arrogantly to think was meant for you. He’s going to start after Christmas.’

  All the feelings she’d been keeping a lid on burst out. ‘Benjie! But he doesn’t care anything about property. About what you do. All he wants to do is…’

  ‘Benjie is my son. I’ve always felt it was right that he took over the business. Of course if he’s no good at it then maybe your sister’s husband would be a better candidate. Or, most probably, none of you.’

  Lucinda glanced at her mother. Still gazing at her nails as if they were this week’s copy of Hello! magazine. Stupid cow. But then she looked up. The concern in Gail’s eyes made Lucinda’s stomach turn. Made the already unbearable guilt worse than ever before. Her mother loved her and was heartbroken for her. She’d never really realized that. Until now.

  ‘So off you go, Lucinda. I wish you luck. Hope you can get over this rocky phase. But don’t expect to hear from us again.’

  ‘But Daddy…’

  ‘I spoilt you children. I see that now. But now you have to manage on your own. Benjie is returning to Geneva at the end of the week. I’ll give you the same amount of time to find alternative accommodation.’ He looked at his Rolex. ‘Right, you’d better be off. I have a meeting in five.’ He picked up his BlackBerry and began scrolling through his messages.

  ‘Bye, Daddy.’ Lucinda turned to Mummy and smiled. Chin up. Show no pain. Gail smiled back, at least as muc
h as the services of Dr LeGrand would allow her.

  ‘’Bye, darling. I…’

  Lucinda walked out of the room, her knees feeling as if they were on loose hinges. Down the corridor. It was as if every sound was muffled; all she could hear was the beating of her own heart. What had she been doing? She’d been so foolish. It had all been because she’d been lonely and too proud to admit it. And vain too. Nick had flattered her and she’d fallen for it unquestioningly. She was so insecure she’d risked everything for a few compliments and some good sex. How could she have done it? And she’d been so ruthless about Kylie. Poor Kylie, who had clearly known all about them and had been suffering. The papers said she was recovering, but that was scant comfort.

  Lucinda realized she’d targeted Nick because that was what Daddy did. Had affairs with whomever he felt like, no regard for other people’s feelings. Well, it was horrible. She’d learned her lesson. Would never do it again.

  But still she’d have to take the punishment.

  She pressed the button for the lift. Stepped into it, trying to think. Where would she live? Who would give her a job?

  She had no friends in London to ask. She could probably find work in a café or a shop or whatever, but she didn’t want that. But she didn’t see how she could find a job in property without going through the proper channels, and Dunraven Mackie were hardly going to give her a reference after this fiasco. Gemma Meehan had probably grassed her up by now anyway.

  It came to her as the doors pinged and she stepped out into the lobby.

  Anton.

  Anton owned a thriving business. He employed people with her knowldge and skills. He’d said she had some great ideas, that he wished there were more like her.

  And he loved her. Well, not love but he certainly had strong feelings for her. Whether it was a good idea to exploit them or not was another question. Lucinda would investigate that later. Once Lucinda had an idea, she was physically incapable of stalling, she had to get the ball rolling.

  She picked up her phone and began scrolling for his number.

  Gemma was standing outside the flat on Western Avenue. She’d rung Bridget and Massy’s door bell three times but clearly no one was home. She’d even braved the neighbours, but nothing.

  She’d been calling Bridget every day, but every day the line went dead. Once she tried the Costa where Massy had been working. ‘He’s left,’ said a woman. ‘No, I have no idea where he go.’

  Sweating slightly in the early summer heat, Gemma pulled a pen out of her bag and scribbled on a page of her notebook.

  If you do get this, I want to talk to you. I’m sorry Massy didn’t tell you what was going on. I’ll pay you whatever you want. G xxx

  She posted it through the door, knowing it wouldn’t help but not knowing what else she could do. Then she turned back towards the Tube. For a second, her hands rested on her stomach. There were twelve more days to go before she was allowed to do a pregnancy test. She didn’t know if her nerves could stand it. This was her one and only shot at motherhood. Although they’d frozen four of the remaining embryos, she didn’t see how she could use them. It had been one thing to say ‘too bad’ to Bridget with the embryos already inside her; to remove them from the freezer and use them in cold blood, knowing her sister was against it, was quite another.

  As she returned to the Tube, her eye was caught by the Standard’s billboard.

  THE ROCK STAR AND THE HEIRESS. BLINDS GIRLFRIEND IN COMA.

  Blinds girlfriend? Gemma paid the vendor 50p. On the platform, waiting for a delayed train, she began to read. Six pages of coverage, including aerial shots of a mansion ‘on the shores of Lake Geneva’ with an indoor swimming pool, two tennis courts and its own stables. There was a brief biography of Michael Gresham, outlining how he’d capitalized on his father’s fortune. A picture of a trout-mouthed mother in a pink suit with braiding around the collar and pockets, holding a pair of binoculars at some race meeting. Another of her brother and sister, and then Lucinda. ‘It is believed she was working at estate agents Dunraven Mackie incognito in order to gain experience before joining her father’s property empire. Colleagues told the Daily Post they were “gobsmacked by the news”. “I always thought there was something different about her, she was very snooty and had no point of contact with planet earth whatsoever,” said one, who asked not to be identified. “But Michael Gresham’s daughter? We could never have guessed that.” ’

  Amusement at Lucinda’s true identity was overlaid with horror at the thought of gentle, unassuming Kylie in a coma. Apparently she’d overdosed on discovering where her boyfriend was and been found by band member Ian’s girlfriend just in time. Then Gemma was assailed by a more selfish concern. What about the flat sale? All this drama was going to hold it up again. As soon as she emerged from the Tube, she called Dunraven Mackie. The phone was answered by a man with a kind, West Country accent.

  ‘Is Lucinda there?’ she asked, although she already knew the answer.

  He sounded embarrassed. ‘I’m afraid Lucinda has left the company. Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes. She was selling my flat. To the… er, to the man she was on holiday with.’ Whom we also found her rogering in our flat but you’ll never know about that.

  She explained who she was. The man, who was called Gareth, was very sympathetic.

  ‘Right. We are aware of the situation and we’re chasing Mr Crex. He’s not answering his phone at the moment, which is understandable, but I’m sure he will in the next day or so when things calm down. I’ll keep you posted as soon as I hear anything, I assure you.’

  ‘Good. Because you know we’re meant to exchange soon.’

  ‘I know. I understand. House sales are always stressful at the best of times, without your buyer being involved in a scandal with the estate agent.’

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ Gemma said, emboldened by his kindly tone, ‘is why Lucinda was working as an estate agent at all?’

  Gareth sighed. ‘We don’t understand that either. I wish she’d told me. I would have kept her secret.’

  You don’t know the half of it, Gemma thought. ‘Thank you for your help. I look forward to hearing from you.’

  Lucinda’s phone kept ringing. Emails kept dropping into her inbox. Friends who found the scandal hilarious. Reporters wanting to talk to her. The next message cheered her up slightly.

  ‘Wotcha. Gareth here. Hope you’re OK. It’s all been a bit of a drama this end, as you can imagine. Really sorry about what’s happened. We’re going to miss you here.’ A tiny pause. ‘Doubt you’ll miss us, though. And – I have to say – some people were a bit pissed off with the way you and Niall kept us in the dark. Anyway, if you fancy a drink some time just give us a bell. All right. Cheers then. Er. ‘Bye.’

  ‘You are a fucking arsehole,’ Martine Crex told her son.

  ‘I know, Mum,’ Nick said humbly.

  ‘How could you do that to Kylie? After what your dad did to me? You men, you’re all the arseing same.’ Nick could hear her inhaling sharply on her Embassy filterless. ‘Unbe-fucking-lievable.’

  ‘Have you seen Kylie?’ Nick asked. He’d returned to the flat in Belsize Park to find it stripped of her belongings. None of her girly shit in the bathroom, the cupboards stripped bare, photos of them taken down from the shelves. The place seemed echoing, empty. He knew he was the world’s biggest hypocrite to miss her, but still he did. A faint fruity smell was all that remained. The teddies littering the bed, the piles of magazines, the tampons, the handbags, the make-up. All gone. Packed up.

  ‘What’s it to you? You’ve got a new girlfriend now. Lucinda Gresham.’ Martine cleared her nicotine-clogged throat. ‘According to this, daughter of property mogul Michael Gresham, currently listed at number twenty-seven on the Sunday Times Rich List. Veeeery nice, Nicky. When are you going to bring her up to Burnley then, to meet your old mum?’

  ‘It’s over,’ Nick said.

  ‘Over? Fucking hell, Nicky. Then why did you do it
in the first place?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t mean to hurt Kylie.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you work at it? Oh, don’t answer! I don’t want to know your pathetic excuse. You men. You’re all the bloody same. So do you really want to know how Kylie is doing? I’ll tell you. She’s still in intensive care. They think she may be brain-damaged. Plus there was a baby and of course she’s lost it.’

  Nick felt dizzy.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Why would Sharon lie to me? My only chance of a grandchild. How could you do this to me?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum, I didn’t know she…’ Nick felt flustered and hot.

  ‘Whatever. Just fuck off. I don’t know if I want to talk to you any more. My own son, treating a woman like this. Didn’t you learn anything from what your dad did to me?’

  And she’d gone.

  Nick stared at the phone. How could Kylie not have told him this? History was rapidly being rewritten in his brain. He’d never have gone to Tobago if he’d known about it. Why the hell hadn’t she told him? A child. A son, obviously. Their baby. She’d killed it. How could she not even have consulted him?

  Immediately, his phone rang again. Number withheld. Perhaps this was Kylie. He was surprised how visceral was his need to talk to her.

  ‘Hello?’ His voice wobbled as if he were stilt-walking.

  ‘Hello, Nick,’ said an oily voice. ‘It’s Charles here. I’ve been taking calls from your solicitors and the estate agents. They want to know what on earth has been going on with the flat while you’ve been off getting a tan. Forgive me, but you can’t avoid the papers.’

  The flat? For a second Nick genuinely didn’t know what he was talking about. Then it came back to him. Flat 15. Of course. How could he have forgotten? Wasn’t he meant to be paying for it next week or something? But he didn’t want it now. No way. It would remind him of Lucinda and that whole sorry episode. Remind him of Kylie. Whom he’d hurt so badly. How could he have done it?