by Various
When she rang Thomas Anderson’s offices, she was put straight through to his receptionist; she remembered the haughty, frosty-haired woman with a patina of glossy make-up all too well.
‘Mr Anderson will see you four o’clock tomorrow,’ she informed Zoe crisply, ‘at the Collegiate Club on Fifty-fifth and Fifth Avenue. Do you know it?’
‘No,’ Zoe said, ‘but I’m sure I can find it.’
The receptionist hung up.
It was a beautiful day, the sun bathing the city buildings in light, as Zoe walked down Fifth Avenue towards the meeting place. The trees on the edge of Central Park provided leafy shade for the cobblestone path that led down to Fifty-Ninth Street, the famed Plaza Hotel presiding over that well-known corner. She walked past the streams of tourists and the sidewalk sketch artists, one enterprising soul decked out in silver paint as a Statue of Liberty mime. She absorbed it all, realising that she’d come to love this city, its vibrant energy and its colourful canvas of people. It was a shame, she thought with a wry sorrow, that she no longer had a reason to stay.
The Collegiate Club was a prepossessing building with an ornate, Italianate-style facade. Inside it was all dark panelled wood and book-lined walls, the spacious rooms still managing, to Zoe, to feel stuffy.
She found her father in the library; he sat in a silk armchair, spectacles on the edge of his nose, reading a report. He looked up as she came into the room, ushered by a silent staff member who disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.
‘Hello,’ Zoe said. Her voice sounded small in the large room; the heavy Turkish carpets and endless rows of books absorbed all sound.
‘I took the liberty of ordering us tea.’
‘Thank you.’
She sat down across from him, on the edge of a matching armchair. He put down his report.
‘I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you when you came to my office,’ he said. His voice sounded formal and slightly stilted. ‘You shocked me, obviously. When my receptionist announced your name, I thought—hoped, really—that it was mere coincidence that brought you. I hadn’t heard the reports.’
‘No?’ Zoe asked quietly. Her fingers curled around the strap of the handbag she hadn’t let go of. She stared at the floor, the carpet a rich swirl of reds and yellows.
‘No,’ Anderson said heavily. ‘But I’ve since seen some of the…articles…and I’m sorry, for your sake. What you’ve had to go through.’
Zoe lifted a shoulder in a silent shrug. Funny, but the horror and humiliation of those days after the story broke seemed nothing to the emptiness and heartbreak she felt now.
Anderson cleared his throat. ‘It seems, however, that you have a very supportive family back in England. A supportive father.’ Zoe looked up, surprised by his choice of words. The tea things had arrived, and the same staff member set out porcelain cups and saucers, a rather impressive-looking teapot.
‘Would you like to pour?’ her father asked awkwardly, and Zoe almost reached for the pot. Then she stopped and sat back in her chair.
‘Why exactly did you ask me here?’
‘I wanted to explain—’
‘Explain what, exactly?’ Zoe pressed. She felt strangely, remarkably calm, and when Thomas Anderson next spoke she wasn’t even surprised.
‘As much as I regret…what happened, this situation isn’t…tenable.’ He spoke the words haltingly, yet Zoe still had a feeling it was a rehearsed, and unpleasant, little speech.
‘Tenable?’ she prompted when he trailed off.
‘I have a wife,’ he said. He sounded apologetic. ‘And children—’
‘Yes, I saw their picture. Three. Four, if you count me.’
Something hardened in Anderson’s features, and without another word he handed her the manila folder he’d been perusing when she arrived. ‘I’d like you to sign this.’
Zoe flipped it over and scanned the officious-looking document. It was a waiver of sorts, a gag order to keep her from ever acknowledging they were related. In return she would be given two million dollars. She looked up, dry-eyed.
‘Do you think I need money?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied evenly. ‘Since you’re not actually a Balfour—’
‘I don’t receive any money?’ Zoe finished. ‘Fair point.’ She flipped the folder closed and held it out for him to take. After a moment he did so, reluctantly. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to say no to your offer,’ she told him. ‘As tempting as it might have seemed to you, when you were putting it together. But thank you for proving to me that blood really doesn’t matter.’
‘Zoe—’ It was the first time he’d said her name.
‘But don’t worry. You don’t need a gag order to make sure I stay silent about you. I don’t want anyone to know I’m related to such a selfish, cold-hearted bastard.’
Anderson coloured faintly. ‘That’s not completely fair—’
‘Oh, only partly? Would it have killed you to acknowledge me in some way? To explain? Did you love my mother?’
He blinked. ‘I knew her for one summer. We were both unhappy.’
‘I see.’ Zoe rose from the chair. Her legs felt damnably weak, but her voice still came out strong. ‘Well, you were right about one point. I do have a family back at home, and they’ve been incredibly supportive. So has my father. My real one.’ She gestured to the impressive tea set. ‘I’ll leave you to pour.’
Chapter Ten
SHE took a flight home to England the next day. For it was home, and it always would be, as much as she’d fought against it, out of hurt and pain and a fear—like Max—of rejection. She’d faced her demons, faced herself, and she wanted to be where she knew she would always be loved and accepted. The place where she could change and grow and become the woman she knew she was meant to be.
She had stopped by the pregnancy centre before she left, thanking Tiffany and the other volunteers for their time and support.
Tiffany hugged her goodbye. ‘You seem to have sorted yourself out,’ she said quietly.
‘I’m afraid the father’s still not involved.’
‘You can only control yourself.’
Zoe nodded. ‘True words.’
‘Anyway,’ Tiffany said, stepping back, ‘you seem strong. Stronger than you did when you first found out.’
Zoe smiled. ‘I am,’ she said simply.
She hired a car at the airport, not wanting to call Balfour Manor for their driver to pick her up. She didn’t want anyone to know she was coming. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to keep her arrival as a surprise; perhaps because she wanted to see them in that unguarded moment when they first caught sight of her, perhaps because she wanted to be real.
She was done with pretending.
She turned through the familiar wrought-iron gates, the family motto, Validus, Superbus quod Fideli., worked into the metal in elegant script. Ahead of her the lawns rolled out towards the estate in a velvety green scroll, the house with its imposing yet no less dear facade, the circular gravel drive and the Renaissance-style fountain. She pulled up in front of the front stone portico and killed the engine. The gravel crunched underfoot as she stepped out of the car, and to her surprise the double doors that served as the main entrance to the manor house opened almost at once. Tilly, the manor’s former housekeeper, her father’s former wife and an often-surrogate mother to Zoe, stood there.
‘Zoe!’ She wrapped her in a gentle, all-encompassing hug, leaving Zoe with no choice but to return the embrace, resting her head on Tilly’s soft shoulder with gladness. ‘I’m so glad you’re back.’
‘So am I.’ Zoe pulled away a little bit. ‘Where’s Daddy?’
If Tilly noticed how Zoe referred to her father she gave no sign. She simply nodded and tilted her head towards the house. ‘He’s in the study.’
Zoe nodded and slipped from her arms, climbing the steps towards her home. Inside, the foyer was cool and dark, and as she stood in front of her father’s study, the door only slightly ajar, she thought she ca
ught a whiff of tobacco. Smiling, she knocked lightly.
‘Tilly?’ Her father sounded absorbed, slightly impatient, and Zoe knew he must have been reading. She pushed the door open.
‘Hello, Daddy.’
Oscar looked up as she stood in the doorway. He didn’t say anything, merely gazed and blinked rapidly. Then he smiled and rose from his chair, discarding the book he’d been so absorbed in with careless ease. ‘Zoe. Zoe. I’m so very happy to see you, my child.’
He enveloped her in a hug just as Tilly had, and once again Zoe leant against him, her head on his shoulder.
‘I’m happy to see you too.’
‘You found what you were looking for?’ Oscar murmured against her hair, and Zoe smiled.
‘I think so,’ she said, her voice muffled by his shoulder.
He pulled away, smiling, although concern pleated his brow. ‘You look tired. And pale.’
‘It was a long flight.’ She wasn’t quite ready to tell him—or anyone—about her pregnancy, although she wouldn’t be surprised if Tilly guessed sooner or later.
‘Are you sure that’s all?’
‘It’s been a long journey,’ Zoe said, and she knew her father took her double meaning.
‘But you’re all right?’ he clarified, and Zoe nodded.
Even if her heart was broken…She would be all right. She was strong.
‘Good.’
‘I want to tell you I’m sorry,’ Zoe said. Oscar raised his eyebrows. ‘For everything.’
‘Zoe, my dear, there is nothing you need apologise for.’
‘There is,’ Zoe said. ‘I was so hurt when I realised I wasn’t really a Balfour. But more than hurt, I was afraid.’
‘Afraid of what?’ Oscar asked softly.
‘Afraid of being scorned. Humiliated. Treated differently.’
‘Not by us?’
‘By everyone. I put all my identity—all my meaning—into being a Balfour. When I found out I wasn’t one, I had to take a long, hard look at myself.’
Oscar smiled faintly. ‘That’s never easy.’
‘Or pretty,’ Zoe agreed. ‘But I got through it. And I’m stronger for it.’
‘You always were—’
‘Stronger than I thought. Perhaps you were right.’ Zoe smiled; her eyes were damp. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly, and Oscar briefly touched her cheek.
‘Zoe, it is my deepest pleasure. You are my daughter. I love you.’
‘I love you,’ she returned, heartfelt, and then she left the study.
The manor was strangely empty—Bella and Olivia were both off, having their own adventures—and yet Zoe didn’t mind. Silence, solitude, didn’t scare her any more. She didn’t mind being alone with herself, her thoughts. Even if those inevitably drifted to Max, imagining what he was doing—or not doing—how he felt, if he missed her.
A few days after her arrival, Zoe knew she needed to act. She was not going to let herself fall into a lifeless lethargy, for she knew all too well how that could lead to a contemplative and unhelpful sort of self-pity. Instead she took action. She enrolled in a night course in A-level biology, and then found her way to the nearest market town, where there was a small pregnancy centre off the high street.
She smiled at the grandmotherly type standing at a tired-looking photocopier in the front office.
‘I’d like to volunteer.’ She gestured to the machine. ‘I’m good with those.’
The days turned into weeks, and even as Zoe occupied herself with school and volunteer work, she knew she’d have to tell her father—as well as the others—about her pregnancy. It would soon prove difficult to hide her condition; and while her nausea had finally abated, her stomach bore a new, not unpleasing roundness and her breasts had become heavy and full. Her father might not notice such things, but Tilly and any one of her sisters certainly would.
Despite her newfound resolve, the sense of peace she’d come to have about herself and who she was, she was still nervous to tell her father she was going to have a baby, and that the father was nowhere in sight.
In the end it was surprisingly easy. They were having dinner, just the two of them, in the huge dining room, and Zoe couldn’t quite manage the French onion soup.
‘You don’t seem to have much appetite,’ Oscar commented, a telling shrewdness in his eyes. His voice still remained gentle.
‘No…’ Zoe clenched her napkin in her lap. She took a breath and looked up, meeting her father’s clear gaze directly. ‘The truth is, Daddy, I’m pregnant.’
Oscar’s expression didn’t flicker. ‘Someone in New York?’ he surmised gently.
Zoe nodded. ‘He’s not—that is, I love him—but…he’s not ready to be involved.’ That was an understatement.
‘Then he’s a fool.’ Oscar paused. ‘You want to raise the baby? On your own?’ Swallowing, Zoe nodded, and Oscar raised his glass. ‘Then let us toast this precious little one.’
And Zoe raised her glass too.
‘I’m not taking no for an answer.’
Max gritted his teeth even as he smiled reluctantly at his sister Allison’s fierce determination. ‘You might just have to.’
‘I mean it, Max. You’ve been keeping yourself apart for too long. I won’t have it any more. Lunch tomorrow at Nobu at noon. Be there, or I’ll drag you by the hair from that modern monstrosity you call a home.’
‘Fine.’ Max was tired of fighting. ‘Noon, it is.’ Amazingly, as he hung up the phone, he realised he was almost looking forward to it. It had been four endless, agonising weeks since Zoe had left—since he’d made her leave. A few discreet inquiries by his assistant told him she’d returned to England. The thought made him ache. She was well and truly gone…and it was his fault. He thought he’d been doing the right thing, the only thing, yet now he found himself wondering. Wishing. Had he simply been afraid, and used honour as his excuse? The thought was terrible and yet all too possible.
‘You look like hell,’ Allison told him as he sat across from her at one of the restaurant’s best tables. Forty years old, impeccably turned out and a high-powered lawyer, it was a testament to her tenacity that Allison had only recently given up trying to manage him. He imagined he could see the burnished gleam of her hair and nails even though his vision was too blurred to take in much.
‘I feel like hell,’ he said, surprised by his own honesty.
‘Max? Is everything all right?’ Allison paused, uncharacteristically uncertain. ‘I know the accident shook you up—’
Max took a breath. Zoe had taught him one thing, at long last: he couldn’t live in fear. He couldn’t live alone and apart either. ‘Actually, it did more than that,’ he said, and he proceeded to tell her the truth of his condition.
Afterwards Allison insisted on ordering a second bottle of wine. ‘I need it even if you don’t,’ she said.
Max gave a glimmer of a smile. ‘I think I need it too.’ He waited until the wine was poured and he was taking a sip of Dutch courage before he added, ‘That’s not all. It’s not even the worst.’
‘What?’ Allison exclaimed. ‘What more could there be?’
Max smiled sadly. ‘I met a woman.’
‘That sounds like good news, very good news—’
‘I made her leave.’ He didn’t mention the baby. He knew Allison’s contempt would be complete and scathing.
‘Why?’ Allison didn’t let him answer. ‘Not because of some godforsaken misplaced sense of honour, Max? Because of your blindness? Tell me you didn’t.’
‘Something like that.’ Allison groaned. Max tried to smile. ‘It seemed like the right thing at the time, but now I wonder—’ He stopped, his throat tight. Wondering was the worst. Wondering made him feel as if he’d thrown away the best—the only—chance of happiness with both hands.
‘Where is she now?’
‘England.’
Allison was silent for a moment. Max could almost hear the cogs in her brain turning over. ‘Do you think she loves you?’ she finally as
ked.
Max’s throat had tightened so much he could barely get the words out. ‘She told me she did.’
‘Then the only question,’ Allison said, leaning forward so Max could smell her citrusy perfume and hear her jewellery clink and jingle, ‘is what the hell you’re still doing here?’
It was one of those rare, perfect summer days, the roses in full bloom along the gravel drive, the sky a deep, pure blue. Zoe had taken a rug out to the front lawn to enjoy the sunshine, a paperback forgotten on her lap. She felt almost completely happy, until she remembered. Then she experienced that jagged, lightning streak of pain that made her realise her happiness—as solid and strong a thing as it seemed—was really as insubstantial as smoke. It had been a month since she’d seen Max on that cold, dark beach and he’d sent her away. Gazing down the long, empty drive shimmering under the sunlight, Zoe realised she’d been cherishing hopes—hopes she hadn’t even acknowledged to herself—that Max would find her. Write. Call. Something.
Not this unending silence, not when she knew he loved her, when he knew she was carrying his baby. Was he really so determined? So stubbor.?
She’d thought of going to New York, finding him, demanding more answers. Yet what answers were there that he hadn’t already given? She just didn’t like them.
She hated them.
Zoe closed her eyes. It wasn’t pride that kept her from returning to New York; she had none left. It wasn’t even fear, because the worst had already happened.
It was despair.
Funny, how she could think she was doing fine, that she was happy, only to be utterly swamped by despair.
Zoe opened her eyes. And blinked. Then she blinked again. There was a figure standing at the end of the drive.
Even as her heart lurched in wild hope, she told herself that it was improbable. Impossible. Max Monroe had not—could not, would not—travel to England to find her. And even if he did, he wouldn’t walk up her driveway like some returning soldier of war.
He’d drive up in his damned limo.
