by Anna Jacobs
'You reported a blocked water main. Just investigating. We tried to contact you yesterday, but no one answered the phone, so we shoved a card under the door to say the water would be switched off. Didn't you find it?'
'No.' She'd been enjoying her painting so much she hadn't even looked at yesterday's post, let alone opened or read anything. 'But I didn't report anything.'
'Someone must have. They don't send us out for nothing.'
And then she realized. 'It's my ex. He's played a few nasty tricks like that on me since we split up.' She looked across the road. Sure enough, the car was there. She pointed. 'That's one of his employees, who comes to take photos of me every time a trick is played so that my ex can enjoy the sight of me getting upset.'
Even as they watched the man waved a mocking hand at her and raised his camera to take another shot.
The men looked at one another. 'So you're not having any problems with water?' the one who seemed to be in charge said.
'I wasn't till you switched it off.'
'I'd better ring my foreman.'
There followed at least ten minutes of waiting while the man listened and pressed numbers on his phone. She watched him impatiently. These automated systems were inefficient and like everyone else, she hated being kept waiting.
He gave her an apologetic look. 'The receptionist says the foreman's dealing with someone else then he has another call to answer. It'll be my turn after that.'
While he was waiting, she went inside and flung on some clothes then picked up her camera and marched down the drive, holding it out of sight behind her. She pulled the camera out and took a quick photo of the man sitting in the car, catching him before he could wind up his window. Then she took a photo of his number plate.
'Evidence for my lawyer!' she called cheerfully as she walked back up her drive.
'I'm here on general surveillance, that's all,' he called back.
'Tell that to the judge.'
Once she'd put the camera away she decided to use the age-old method of getting the two workmen on side. 'I think I've enough water left in the kettle for three cups of tea. Would you like some?'
They both brightened up and nodded. 'Very grateful,' one said.
'How do you take it?'
Two hours later the hole had been filled in and Judith watched them leave. Her drive now looked a mess, the pattern of the trench they'd dug showing clearly. She was furious with Des.
When was he going to stop doing these childish things?
Switching on her new computer, she sent him an email warning that if he played any more nasty tricks on her, she'd take out an injunction against him, then she printed it out for evidence. She should probably have taken legal action when he first started messing her around, but she hadn't because of Mitch.
At the thought of her son, she smiled involuntarily. He was coming up to see her at the weekend and she couldn't wait! She'd made all sorts of plans for showing him round the places she used to live as a child, which included taking him into what she called the 'border country', meaning the Pennines between Lancashire and Yorkshire.
Des looked at the report and photos that had been emailed to him that afternoon by the man on surveillance. He'd forgotten that he'd arranged this. For a moment he took pleasure in seeing how angry he'd made Judith. Serve her right! Then the pleasure faded to be replaced by an image of Tiff, looking soft and beautiful. He'd expected her to jump at his proposal of marriage. Was it because he was having difficulty making love to her that she'd not accepted him? .
Shame flooded through him at that thought. He couldn't imagine what had gone wrong with his body. He'd always been able to 'show an interest' as he called it to himself, given even a small encouragement. Until this past year.
He swivelled his chair round to stare at the magnificent view of the Thames beyond his office window. Usually that gave him pleasure too. But today he couldn't summon up more than a mild interest in it.
When he turned back to his computer he noticed an email from Judith. He read it and realized suddenly that he didn't want to play any more tricks on her. Didn't want her back, either. What he did want was the sheer comfort of Tiff, who was the most restful and undemanding person he'd ever known - and who was carrying his child.
He was too old to raise another child, really, but if Tiff was set on having one, he could always arrange for a nanny. Should he move Tiff into his present house or buy somewhere else for them to live? He'd make a more romantic proposal this time and—
The phone rang. He shook himself out of his daydreams and picked it up to hear Raymond Tate's voice.
'Reporting in from Cheshire, Des, but you're not going to like it.'
'What do you mean? What's gone wrong with the takeover?'
'Nothing. It's going very smoothly, but we've now found out that several key operatives had taken early retirement and there are serious gaps in the skills portfolio.'
'Find someone who can do those jobs and hire them. You shouldn't need me to tell you that.'
'That's just it. It's a dying set of skills and they're not easy to find. People have been replaced by automated systems, only this factory isn't tooled up for computer controlled production.'
'Then tool it up.'
'It'd cost more than it's worth.'
He could hear that there was something else Tate wasn't saying. 'And?' he prompted.
'I'm not sure the orders would justify it.'
'We checked the order books. They were full.'
'That was last year when we were starting our buyout operation. This year - well, the order books aren't full any more. And . . .'He paused again.
'Stop hedging about. I pay you to tell me how it is.'
'I think we've been sold a pup, Des.'
Suddenly he knew Tate was right, knew it instinctively, in a way that had guided him to riches and success. But he hadn't listened to that inner voice when he was trying to take over the family firm, only to the sweet siren song of vengeance. 'Don't do anything yet. I'll have a think about it.'
He put the phone down with great care then slumped back in his chair, eyes closed. If what Tate was saying was correct, Maeve had won again. And Tate was a shrewd analyst. He cursed long and fluently under his breath. She always won, that bitch did!
Mentally, he began calculating and knew he'd knocked a big fat hole in his finances to buy back the family firm. He'd have to retrench, be careful about his spending - and try to do it in a way that wouldn't betray the fact that he'd be scrabbling for money for some time to come.
If he had Maeve here, he'd strangle her. Only he didn't have her. And if what they told him was right, Maeve was seriously ill. Maybe this was her swan song?
He picked up the phone and contacted the fellow who was watching Judith. 'Stop working on that job. This is what I want you to find out . . .'
Then he rang Tiff. 'Something urgent's cropped up and I'll be busy. Probably won't be round for a day or two. Are you going to be all right?'
'Yes, of course. What's wrong, Des? You sound stressed.'
'Got a few business problems. I'll tell you about it next time I see you. Got to go.'
Tiffany put down the phone, wondering if this was the beginning of the end. Had she mortally offended Des by not accepting his proposal of marriage? She put her chin up defiantly at the mere thought. She'd like nothing better than to marry him - but not when the offer was tossed at her as an afterthought. And anyway, he hadn't started divorce proceedings against Judith yet, so talk of marriage was premature.
She picked up the publishing contract she'd just received through the post and forgot about Des. The contract was eighteen pages long and complicated. She wasn't stupid, but she simply didn't understand the legal jargon. For all she knew, the publisher could be taking advantage of her ignorance. Perhaps there were clauses that could be improved, should be improved. How could she know?
She went to get the book she'd been studying carefully then opened her email program to send a messag
e to her favourite writers' list. She'd belonged to the Romantic Novelists' Association for years and had learned so much from the published authors on the email list, and from submitting her early efforts to their New Writers' Scheme.
Her message read: 'Just received my first contract and am wondering about getting an agent to translate it for me. Does anyone have any information about the following literary agents: Jane Ferringer Associates, Peter Castorill or Felix Nemerson?' It felt wonderful to be able to talk about publishing contracts. She was still mentally dancing on the ceiling every time she thought about her book being published.
She had her first reply within minutes. 'Felix is my agent. He's a sweetie. Shall I introduce you?'
Within half an hour she had an appointment to see him.
Someone posted a warning about one of the other agents and sharp practices, so she crossed that one off her list.
Not bad for a day's work, she thought, and opened the file containing her new story. She was dying to get an uninterrupted run at it.
It wasn't until evening, as she was sitting alone in front of her television, that she wished Des were there. She ought to be used to being alone by now, but ever since becoming pregnant she seemed to need company, particularly his. Did he really want to marry her or was it just for the sake of the baby? Perhaps he'd changed his mind about it by now. Business problems didn't usually take up the evenings as well as the days. Did they?
She shook her head. How could you ever tell for certain what people were thinking? Des had had two marriages break up so he had to be a bad risk. She smiled. She knew all that, but when did reason ever stop you loving someone? He was fun, cared for her in his own way - to her he was just Des, the man she loved.
She'd miss him dreadfully if he didn't stay with her, but she wasn't going to marry him unless she was convinced it was what he really wanted and that he'd give it his best effort this time. She knew she was easy-going to a fault, but she had her sticking points, as he'd found out once or twice in their five years together.
Maeve spent three days in bed, reading, relaxing as she hadn't done in years, but most of all sleeping.
On the fourth day she got up, surprising Lena in the kitchen.
'I thought you were staying in bed.'
'I feel a bit better today, so I thought I'd have breakfast in the garden room. Has Andy eaten yet?'
'No, but I heard him stirring a few minutes ago.'
'Ask him to join me when he comes down, would you?'
When Andy came in, she smiled to see how anxiously he looked at her.
'Should you be up, Maeve?'
'Yes. Eat your breakfast then we'll talk.' Until he'd finished his meal she kept the conversation light, chatting about how much good it had done her to rest, and how much she'd enjoyed reading Lena's books.
She watched him clear his plate and pour a second cup of coffee then said quietly, 'Let's go and sit in the conservatory.'
He followed her out and fussed about whether she was comfortable. She patted the seat next to her. 'Stop fussing and sit down.' She hesitated then allowed herself to take his hand.
She seemed to need a human touch lately, need it so badly. 'The other day I got to thinking what if I never got up out of that bed again? So I made a few plans.'
He nodded and clasped her hand in both his, waiting for her to go on.
'We've already agreed that Kate and Mitch are the two most promising from the next generation of Corrigans, and I'll soon be able to meet them. But there's one that I know hardly anything about - Des's illegitimate daughter. I want a report on her, and as quickly as possible. Can you get things moving?'
'Yes, of course.'
'And arrange for me to meet Mitch?'
Another nod. 'What about Kate? She sounds to be in a bad way, Maeve.'
'We've got her the best available help. She's ypung, has only had ME for a few months, so we have to hope she can be cured. And even in her weakened state, she defied her father to come here, while that brother of hers rejected even the idea of meeting me - and not politely, either. From the reports, he sounds to be very like Leo.' She pulled a face. 'Too much of a plodder for my purpose, and he's a bit old to allow his father to make his decisions for him.'
He looked down at the hand he was still holding and surprised her by raising it to his lips. 'If I do all this, Maeve, will you continue to take it easy?'
'Yes. Resting has done me a lot of good. Oh, Andy, I'm not stupid.' She sighed and for once let down her guard. 'I want to live as long as I can. I'm too young in the head to die without kicking and fighting all the way.' She tried to laugh, but it was unconvincing and her voice broke on the final word.
He pulled her into his arms and gave her a hug. 'I'll fight and kick alongside you every last inch of the way.'
That brought tears to her eyes. She didn't push him away, but laid her head on his shoulder and they just sat there for a while until the distant tinkle of a phone made her raise her head and say gently, 'Go and find out about Lily for me now. And Andy . . .'
He turned to look at her.
'Thank you.'
Cal rang his lawyer. 'I need to get a court order to allow me to see my daughter. I called at the house today and they wouldn't even let me speak to her.'
The lawyer rang back later. 'We've got a hearing for Monday.'
'Can't you get one sooner?'
'Sorry. Unless you can prove it's an emergency.'
'I don't suppose a day or two will make that much difference.'
'I think you have a very good case and I'm sure you'll get access.'
At Dr Upson's, Kate had to fill in a long questionnaire before she went in to see the doctor. She felt nervous and foggy-brained but she struggled on, ticking the boxes.
Dr Upson studied the questionnaire, nodding and pursing her lips as if it was meaningful to her. 'Now, tell me exactly what's been happening to you, Kate.'
When she'd finished explaining, she leaned back, feeling the room swim around her.
'The pattern is very typical of chronic fatigue,' that quiet voice said. 'Your Australian doctor was quite right about that diagnosis, I'm sure. And it's a serious, debilitating illness, make no mistake about that. There is no instant cure, it takes a year or two to get your body's biochemistry back on an even keel, so you're going to have to be patient and accept incremental progress. But the good news is that we're having a lot more success nowadays, especially with a nutritional approach. I'd like to run a few tests, but I'm fairly certain we can improve some things quite quickly, that foggy brain for one.'
Kate stared at the doctor, unable to believe what she was hearing. 'You can do something?'
'Oh, yes. Though I can't guarantee a full recovery. I think you'll prove to have an iron deficiency, hence the extreme weakness. As for the fuzzy brain, it's likely that you've developed a wheat intolerance, possibly one to milk as well. It quite often happens in these cases, especially in those with Irish ancestry.' She reached for a pad. 'Let's get the tests done as quickly as possible and we'll bring you back in as soon as we get the results to discuss what else we can do. In the meantime, do you think you can give up eating wheat?'
Kate nodded.
'It'll mean reading all the labels. Wheat is in more products than you'd believe. But you can get rice bread in any health store.'
As they walked out, Kate stumbled, and again Mark's arm was there to support her.
She looked at him and smiled, in spite of her tiredness. 'You've been a tower of strength. Thank you.'
'Looks like you're about to get better,' he said quietly. 'Now, let's go and get those tests done.'
When they got back to the hotel afterwards, she turned to him and dared say it herself. 'Dr Upson sounded so confident that she could help me.' And then tears were running down her cheeks and she was sobbing against him.
Hope, she found, was as hard to bear as the lack of it.
Eighteen
Early morning mist drifts across the moors, rags of it
trailing down the slopes. Sheep huddle in clusters near the walls. No sign of the sun today, no blue in the sky even.
Judith woke feeling apprehensive. She couldn't have said why. Yesterday she'd been full of hope and enthusiasm. Today it had all evaporated and she had a feeling something was about to happen. The phone rang just as she was setting out her painting materials. She hesitated but decided to answer it because she didn't want any more workmen turning up unannounced.
'Hi, Judith. Andy here. Have you a minute to talk?'
'Of course.'
'Maeve's not been well this week. She's very keen to meet Mitch as soon as possible - and Lena and I are keen to give her whatever she wants.'
There was a pause and she heard him taking a deep breath, as if the subject was painful. She waited patiently for him to continue.
'You said he was coming up this weekend. Could we build in a visit to Saltern House on Saturday, do you think?'
'Of course. I was going to show him round this part of England and it'd be good for him to visit his father's old home.'
'Maeve will be pleased.' He chuckled. 'Though it wasn't their home until they were in their early teens.'
'From the way Des talks about it, his family had lived there since the middle ages!'
'No. Maeve's father bought it after he made some money. It was quite tumble-down then.'
'Des doesn't talk much about his childhood or his family. I'm sure Mitch would love to chat to Maeve about the Corrigan side of the family.'
'I'll tell her. She's had some genealogical research done which goes back quite a long way. So, do you want to use the same ploy as last time to avoid your watcher?'
'He isn't here this morning and if he stays away, I'll just drive straight over on Saturday. It's only for Mitch's sake that I'm even bothering to keep the visits secret. I don't want to get him into his father's bad books.'
'All right. Let me know what you decide to do.'
She put the phone down, glad she'd answered it. When it rang again she picked it up automatically, thinking Andy must have forgotten to tell her something.
'Judith?'
Her heart sank. 'What do you want, Des?'
