‘It’s fine. I’m OK. It was just a bit of a shock. I’m coming.’
She swept past him before he could ask any more then went back along the corridor to the drawing room, where the girls from the tea tent were looking for her.
‘We’ve run out of sandwiches,’ said the waitress.
‘I’ll nip to the Co-op for some more bread and cucumber,’ said Bruce.
‘Thank you,’ said Belinda, thinking that, despite his nosiness, Bruce was a diamond and a trouper and she didn’t know where she’d be without him.
17
Leo spent longer than he meant to at the gym, then the traffic had been bad out of London. The nearer he got to Hunter’s Moon the more he knew he’d made the right decision to come away for the weekend. The air was sweet. The sky was . . . well, sky blue. The sun cast a rosier glow down here than it did in London. He’d bought a leg of lamb and vegetables and cheese for Sunday lunch. He turned up Ella Fitzgerald singing ‘Feelin’ Good’. He was coming home.
Leo frowned as he arrived at the entrance. The gates, which been lying in the verge for as long as he could remember, had been put back on their hinges. The Willoughbys didn’t worry about appearances or security. The gates wouldn’t keep anyone out anyway.
There was a freshly painted sign too. They had never needed a sign.
There was a pair of teenage boys standing there, both with sunglasses on, managing to look both awkward and self-important.
He rolled down his window.
‘What are you two doing?’
‘Could I see your registration documents, sir?’
‘What?’
‘For the open house? You can’t come in if you haven’t registered.’
Open house? What was this? Some sort of garden scheme his mother hadn’t told him about, where the public crawled over your grounds and pinched cuttings? He wished she’d told him. He’d have come to help. Though it wasn’t too late.
Through the trees he could see a gazebo on the lawn, and someone serving tea. He sighed. This was going to take the edge off his surprise. But never mind.
‘Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to turn around. If you would like to register to view on another occasion, you can contact the estate agent.’
He handed Leo an envelope. Leo drew out the paperwork inside. On the top was a glossy sales brochure.
He looked up at the boy.
‘You have no idea who I am, do you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I’m Leo Willoughby. This is my house. My home. You’d better get out of the way.’
And before the boy could protest, he accelerated off.
Belinda was talking to an earnest young couple with a dear little boy who sat on the sofa running his toy trains along the back.
‘We went through a lot to get Gideon,’ the man said. ‘We want to give him an idyllic childhood, so we’re leaving Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘I want ponies and dogs and chickens.’ The woman smiled. ‘I spent twenty years working for London’s biggest divorce solicitors. I want my life back. I want to make jam.’
‘Well, there are plenty of soft fruit cages in the walled garden,’ Belinda told them.
‘Oh, I know. This house is perfect.’
‘What’s the deal?’ said the man.
‘We will do anything. Anything.’ His wife fixed Belinda with the gimlet eyes of one who was used to ferocious court battles.
Yet again, Belinda found herself outlining the rules of a sealed bid and making sure they knew there was no way around it but to put in their best offer, then she heard the sound of a car roaring up the drive and coming to a halt outside the front door. No one was supposed to do that.
‘Excuse me,’ she said to the couple, and made her way out into the hall, just as a man strode in through the front door.
‘What is going on?’
He was in his thirties, probably about her age, she guessed. Despite his angry scowl he was good-looking: dark, good bone structure, glossy hair cut to look tousled, jeans and navy blue suede brogues and a moleskin jacket with a flash of bright lining.
He saw the hall table with the brochures lined up neatly in front of the vase of flowers.
‘Who are all these people and what are they doing in my house?’ he demanded. ‘Who’s in charge here?’
Belinda approached the man. ‘I’m Belinda Baxter. I’m the estate agent. I’m supervising the viewings. Who are you?’
The man glared at her.
‘I’m Leo Willoughby,’ he told her. ‘Where are my parents?’
He looked around as if expecting them to be walking down the stairs. Belinda hesitated. She should ask him for identification, but she could see he was who he said he was. His resemblance to Alexander was noticeable, and Sally had spoken of her son Leo. She didn’t want to antagonise him further.
‘Shall we go and have a chat in the kitchen?’ asked Belinda.
‘Right after you get rid of all these people,’ Leo bit back.
‘I’m afraid we can’t do that.’ Belinda tried to keep her voice as soothing as possible. ‘The viewings are scheduled until six. Your mum and dad should be back about seven. I’ve made arrangements with them to lock everything up and leave before they get back.’
He wasn’t really listening.
‘I’ve got the weekend off. I came down this afternoon to surprise them,’ he told her. ‘How could they do this?’
‘I can’t explain their decision,’ said Belinda. ‘I took instruction from them. They wanted it to be discreet. That’s all I can tell you.’
‘It’s a terrible thing to do. I just don’t understand.’ He looked utterly bewildered.
Belinda didn’t know what to say or do. It wasn’t her place to tell him the truth about his father’s illness. His parents had obviously decided to hide it from him, for the time being.
‘Does my sister know? Does Jess know?’
‘I don’t know. I really am just the agent. And I’m very sorry this has caused you such distress . . .’
‘Have they gone mad? Have they actually gone mad? They can’t sell Hunter’s Moon. Has anyone made an offer yet?’
‘There’s been a lot of interest.’
‘Of course there has.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Would you mind clearing everyone out as quickly as you can? I don’t want anyone here when my parents get back. I need to talk to them alone.’
Belinda nodded.
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you.’ He looked at her, his face bleak and full of fear.
Belinda felt hypnotised. She felt as though she’d seen him before.
And then she realised, of course she had. He had his father’s eyes.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
It seemed such a trite, useless, meaningless thing to say. He gave a wintry smile.
‘A stiff drink more like.’
He turned and walked away, heading down the corridor towards the kitchen. Belinda wasn’t quite sure what to do. The couple she had been talking to appeared in the doorway of the drawing room.
‘Everything OK?’ said the man.
‘Fine,’ said Belinda. ‘I’m just coming. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.’
As dusk started to fall, Belinda dished out six cash-filled envelopes to the teenagers and sent them on their way.
Cathy and Bruce were pulling up the croquet hoops. She’d filled them in on Leo’s arrival, swearing Bruce to secrecy on the background to the drama. She trusted him. He liked idle gossip, but he knew when to keep his mouth shut.
‘The poor love!’ Cathy’s eyes were wide with sympathy. ‘Did he really have no idea?’
‘None. I feel terrible. Do you think I should call his parents and give them the heads up?’
‘I do,’ said Bruce.
She tried to call Sally’s mobile, but it went straight to voicemail.
‘Mrs Willoughby, it’s Belinda. Everything has gone well, but I thought you should know that Leo is here. So I won’t have
locked up. I hope that’s OK.’
She hung up with a sigh.
‘I’d better go and say goodbye to him. You two go off home.’
‘There were some nice people today, though, weren’t there?’ Cathy sounded plaintive, as if she needed reassuring. ‘This house has to go to someone nice.’
Belinda didn’t want to think about the alternative.
‘Ever Mr and Mrs Nice from Niceville wouldn’t be nice enough,’ she said.
There was an air of gloom. It was a shame. Usually after an open house they would have fun dissecting the day and guessing who would put in the highest bid, as well as choosing who they would like as the new owners. But now didn’t seem the time for speculation.
Belinda went through all of the rooms to make sure everything was in order. She was satisfied that the house looked pristine, with no evidence that there had been people tramping through it all day. She drew the curtains in the drawing room and put another log on the fire.
She went down to the kitchen to say goodbye to Leo. He was sitting at the table, an empty glass in front of him, scrolling aimlessly through his phone.
‘We’re off now,’ she told him.
He raised a hand in farewell but didn’t look up. She wanted to reach out to him, but what could she say?
Bruce was waiting by her car. He had stayed on to make sure she was all right. He realised she’d been unsettled by the afternoon’s events, and she appreciated him caring enough to hang on for her. Just as long as he didn’t start an inquisition about Charlie. But somehow the drama of Leo turning up had overshadowed that event.
‘I feel so terrible for him. What an awful way to find out. And his poor parents.’
‘Maybe they should have told him? But it’s classic isn’t it? My dad was the same. Never let on he had Parkinson’s for ages. I didn’t want to worry you . . .’ Bruce shook his head. ‘He’s still going strong though.’
‘It’s still very sad,’ said Belinda. ‘Mr Willoughby is so lovely.’
‘It’s life, I’m afraid, love,’ said Bruce. ‘We’re all going to die.’ He slung an arm around her shoulder and squeezed her to him. ‘Which is why we’ve got to have as much fun as we can while we can.’
Belinda couldn’t help laughing. ‘Well, I know that’s your motto.’
‘Yes. It is. And it should be yours too. But what do you ever do but work your arse off ?’
‘Don’t start.’
‘I’m not letting you get away with it this time. You’ve had a long day. A difficult day. You are going to go home and have a long bath and then you’re coming out with me for a Chinese.’
Belinda’s instinct was to protest. She wanted to go back to the office and go through all the details, making notes about everyone she had spoken to while they were still fresh in her memory.
She opened her mouth to refuse, but he put a hand up. ‘I’m not taking no for an answer.’
Bruce was right. She never had any fun. She had had a difficult day. And he’d been a sweetheart and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings by saying no.
‘You win,’ she laughed. ‘But it’s my treat. The company can pay.’
Bruce rolled his eyes.
‘We can argue about that later. Now go home and get out of your Margaret Thatcher uniform and I’ll meet you at the Hong Kong Garden at eight.’
18
Leo was standing on the doorstep when he saw his parent’s Volvo come along the drive. A safe and sensible car on the surface, but this was one of the snazzier sporty models and had a tiger in its tank. It suited them, as it combined his mother’s reliability with his dad’s derring-do.
His mother saw him first. She was driving, which was unusual. Alexander loved to drive fast, which was why they had the turbo. Leo’s heart was pounding. He hated confrontation, but that’s what this was going to be. He was afraid, too, because he knew that selling Hunter’s Moon – or at least putting it on the market; the show wasn’t over yet – wasn’t just a whim. There would be a reason, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to like it.
Sally pulled the car up right in front of the house and he heard her pull on the handbrake. His father rolled down the window before she switched off the engine.
‘Hey,’ he said softly. He looked tired, thought Leo, and remembered thinking he looked tired at Borough Market. He looked sad too, his dark eyes lugubrious where usually they snapped and crackled.
He stepped forward to open the car door for his father as Sally got out the other side.
‘Leo,’ she said, and came around to hug him. He breathed in Calèche. She was still as slender as she had been when she arrived here – he’d seen the photographs of her from Phoebe’s first collection. Alexander had framed them for Sally one Christmas. But suddenly now he held her she felt frail rather than slim. He supposed that was just his protective instinct. His heart stalled for a moment. Was it his mum? What would he do without his mum? Jesus, what would he do without his dad? Either of them.
He was terrified.
The three of them stood on the gravel. It was starting to get dark, and a malicious April breeze made them shiver.
‘I came down to surprise you.’
‘Oh, darling . . .’ Sally looked tearful.
‘You better tell me what’s going on.’
‘Of course,’ said Leo. There was silence for a moment, but there was no sense of accusation or recrimination or defensiveness. Just a heavy sense of foreboding.
‘Go and sit in the drawing room, you two,’ said Sally. ‘Light the fire. I’ll bring in tea.’
What unnerved Leo was the lack of platitude. He realised he had been hoping for his mum to say ‘Oh, we were just having a silly moment – thinking we would sell up and go around the world’. He could tell by their demeanour this was not the case.
There was a hard lump of dread between his heart and his stomach. He followed his father into the drawing room. There he saw that the curtains had been drawn and the fire lit and the guard put in front of it. Belinda must have done that, which was thoughtful. He felt a twinge of guilt that he had been so curt with her.
‘Sit down, Dad.’ He patted the back of the leather club chair that his father usually sat in and went to put another log on. It might be late spring, but there was still a chill that needed keeping at bay.
Leo looked around the room and thought of all the Willoughby rituals that took place in this room. They always opened their stockings in here, even now. They always had champagne in here at six o’clock when it was a birthday; all the cards would be lined up on the mantelpiece. Sally would bring in a cake – always chocolate with shiny icing and the name piped in white on the top. Engagements – not his, not yet, heaven forbid – and imminent babies had been announced. Toasts had been made to the newly departed. The formal events had been confined to the drawing room, but it was the kitchen where the real dramas had taken place: the drunken arguments, the midnight feasts, the illicit kissing. The kitchen . . . the beating heart of Hunter’s Moon.
‘So what is it, Dad? You better tell me before Mum gets back. I need to know.’
If he was going to cry, he didn’t want to do it in front of Sally.
Alexander sat down on the sofa facing the window. Leo sat opposite him, leaning forward, his elbows on his thighs, his fingertips touching.
Alexander tipped his head back and shut his eyes. ‘I’ve been diagnosed with motor neurone disease.’ He waited a moment, then opened his eyes and looked at Leo. ‘I know you’ll be cross with me for not telling you as soon as I found out. But . . . I just wanted more time with you without you knowing. I was going to tell you the other day but I didn’t want to spoil things. I wanted . . . needed . . . longer. I’m sorry if that was wrong.’
He shrugged his shoulders. He looked utterly defeated.
‘Motor neurone disease. That’s the Stephen Hawking thing, right?’
‘Yeah. But he’s an outlier. Most people don’t last nearly as long as him.’ Alexander pressed his li
ps together. ‘By a long chalk.’
‘Oh God.’
‘I can give you leaflets. Or a website. Or you can talk to my neurologist if you like. But the only things you really need to know are it’s going to be tougher on everyone else than me, and I’ve probably got three years max.’
Leo flinched.
‘It’s OK. You don’t have to say anything. It’s a shock. And it’s awful. But we have to find a way to get through it. For your mum.’
Leo nodded, not trusting his voice. ‘Of course,’ he managed. ‘Dad. I’m so sorry.’
‘I know.’ Alexander’s smile was wintry. ‘Shh – your mum’s coming. So . . . brave face. OK?’
As Sally came in through the door with a tray Leo jumped up to help her.
‘I thought tea was a waste of time. I’ve done gin and tonics . . .’
She took one off the tray and took it over to Alexander, who looked up at her.
‘I told him.’
Leo put the tray on the coffee table and took his mum in his arms.
‘I’m so sorry, Mum.’
‘I know. I know.’ Sally held her son as tightly as she could.
‘But I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me. Why you tried to sell the house behind my back?’
‘Not behind your back,’ Sally looked pained. ‘It’s been very difficult for us. You must understand that, Leo. We wanted everything sorted and organised before we told you and Jess.’
‘OK,’ said Leo. ‘But I wish you’d trusted me. I want to help.’
Sally sighed. ‘Of course. But the point is we don’t want this to affect your life.’
‘How can it not?’
‘I mean we want to be as independent as possible. We’ve taken as much advice as we can about the future. Life will get very difficult as the disease progresses.’
‘The bottom line is we’re strapped for money. There’s a reason I keep nagging you about your pension plan,’ said Alexander. ‘It never occurred to me to do a proper pension plan when I was younger. I thought money just reproduced itself somehow. I did very well for myself, for all of us, but I did nothing about the future. And now it’s come to bite me on the arse.’
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