‘Ben is the elder. He’s eight. Sam is five.’
Miles stood up and walked over to have a closer look. He had to keep remembering Jemima Chadwick was a single mum—with responsibilities. It put her firmly out of bounds. If a single mum was in the market for a no-strings relationship she shouldn’t be.
Personal freedom was all well and good, but he knew first hand how it felt to be dragged through a series of short-term father-son relationships. How it felt to be without a secure base. Never quite knowing which ‘special friend’ his mother would have introduced into his home each holiday.
Occasionally, very occasionally, he’d like one or another, but their involvement in his life had always been brief. Miles didn’t consider he had much of a code of honour, but, for what it was worth, this was his. He’d never let himself get involved with a woman who had children. It wasn’t fair on the children.
Miles picked up the photograph of the elder child. Ben, wasn’t it? He looked like a sensitive boy. Intelligent.
Not unlike how he’d looked as a child, he thought, taking in the guarded expression. Ben would find his father leaving him difficult to deal with. He knew it as certainly as if he’d been told. It was a betrayal, and betrayal dug deep. How could a child be expected to understand the full ramifications of adult emotions? The whys and the wherefores?
Even now, as an adult himself, he didn’t really understand it all. No doubt a psychoanalyst would have a field day if he allowed them to delve into his motivations. He put the picture of Ben back down on the mantelpiece.
However tempted he might be, Jemima Chadwick would remain unkissed. His eyes followed along the mantelpiece and he gave a cursory glance at the next cluster of photographs. Lots of smiling groups—more snapshots than formal portraiture. Presumably they were of extended family? Parents?
And…
He didn’t quite believe what he was seeing. He looked closer, then over his shoulder. ‘You know Verity Hunt?’
Was it his imagination or did Jemima curl up more tightly on the sofa? ‘She’s my sister.’
Verity Hunt? Jemima’s sister? Miles looked again at the photograph, almost prepared to disbelieve her.
‘Younger sister,’ Jemima continued, as though it were nothing out of the ordinary. ‘Imogen is the eldest. She’s a homeopathic vet. Married, three children, three ponies, a house in Cheshire and a Danish au pair.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ Miles managed neutrally.
‘I don’t know about perfect, but it’s a great place to go during the summer. She takes us in each year for a holiday. I’ve promised the boys we’ll spend at least a week with them before they go back to school in September.’
Miles took a moment to look more closely at the picture of Imogen and her family. Of the two sisters, she was the most like Jemima, but she lacked the stunning hair. In any other circumstances her strawberry-blonde would have been dramatic. Against Jemima’s vibrant mane it looked washed out and colourless.
Verity was completely different again. She had a gamine look and a smooth shining curtain of carefully highlighted chestnut hair.
Jemima pulled her legs in closer. ‘Do you know Verity?’
‘No.’ He crossed back to the sofa and sat down. ‘At least I’ve met her at a couple of parties, but I can’t say I know her. We certainly don’t handle her PR…but you must know that.’
It wasn’t appropriate to say, but what he remembered most about Verity was that he’d thought her less beautiful than her photographs—something that wasn’t uncommon with models. They had amazing bone structure and the camera loved them, but that didn’t necessarily translate into a real beauty. Not the kind you wanted to find curled up under your duvet, anyway.
Nevertheless, she must be a difficult act to live up to. The homeopathic vet too. How hard was it to see your life disintegrating around you when your siblings were living the dream?
‘I wondered whether you might know her. We don’t look similar. Obviously.’ Jemima smiled and he thought she looked sad. ‘She’s lovely. Both my sisters are.’
If Verity Hunt was so lovely, the question that begged to be asked was—why didn’t she help with re-roofing the house? The sister with the three ponies and the Danish au pair didn’t look like she was strapped for cash either.
Miles glanced across at Jemima. There was no way he could ask her that. It would be treading on far too personal ground. Her whole body language had mutated from that of a kitten to something entirely more wary.
‘Verity lives abroad for most of the year,’ Jemima continued tonelessly. ‘She has a flat in Manhattan.’ Then she shook her head. ‘No, that’s wrong. It’s an apartment. I never remember to call it that. She also has a smaller place in Milan. It’s tiny, but it has the most stunning roof terrace leading off the kitchen. She had an architect who—’
The telephone rang.
Jemima broke off and looked at her watch. Immediately her face paled and she threw the cushion on the floor. ‘Oh, God, I hope the boys…’
Chapter Five
MILES pulled himself forward on the sofa, draining the last of his coffee. It was too late for someone to be calling casually—well past midnight. Jemima was probably right to suspect the worst.
‘Hello.’
There was a short silence. Miles put his mug down on the low ‘apprentice’ chest which served as a coffee table. He sat poised, ready to leave or to help, whatever was the most appropriate.
Jemima tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘I’ve been out for dinner.’ Another pause while the person on the other end spoke and then, ‘I must have had my mobile switched off. I’m sorry. What’s happened? Are the boys okay?’
It didn’t take any imagination to realise she must be talking to the absent Russell. So why was she apologising to him? What for? It was entirely within her rights to turn her mobile on or off as she saw fit. And none of her ex-husband’s business any more where she was.
Miles found himself wondering what Russell Chadwick would be like. What kind of man would Jemima have married? And what kind of man, for that matter, would walk away from a woman like Jemima?
Miles watched as Jemima’s face took on an expression of intense worry. Something had happened to one of her boys. He felt the low kick of dread as he observed the change in her. Her knuckles were white from the fierce hold she had on the receiver and there were deep frown lines in the centre of her forehead.
In a way he couldn’t possibly explain, she suddenly seemed more beautiful. There was a luminosity to her that froze his breath. Just for a moment. Perhaps because he’d never seen what selfless love really looked like on a person.
Jemima would do anything, brave anything, for the people she loved deeply. It was written across her face. In his entire thirty-six years he wasn’t sure he’d ever witnessed that kind of love. It was… awe-inspiring. And, in a strange way, it made him feel cheated. There was no one anywhere on earth who had ever felt that kind of love for him. Certainly not his mother. Hermione had her passions, but they’d never been centred around her only son. Currently she was in the Himalayas researching a new book and he doubted she would return for anything less than the news of his death.
Ben and Sam were lucky. They might never realise quite how much.
‘I can’t. The car’s broken down.’ Jemima glanced up at the clock. ‘Perhaps I can call a cab…’
Miles spoke quietly. ‘Where do you need to go?’ Whatever it was that had happened, he couldn’t drive away into the distance and leave her to deal with it alone. That was impossible. ‘Can I help?’
Jemima pulled an agitated hand through her curls and stared at him as though she wasn’t sure what she should say. ‘Miles, I don’t—’ Then she broke off, clearly listening to her ex-husband on the other end of the phone.
Miles stood up, waiting.
She glanced across at him, then away, speaking into the phone. ‘It’s a friend. Hang on a second.’ Jemima turned her incredible eyes, now full of worry, back towards h
im. ‘It’s Sam. My youngest. He’s been sick and wants to come home.’
Miles felt his muscles relax. Sick. Nothing too serious, then. Just a little boy who would rather be with his mother. He could remember that feeling. Only his mother had been too busy to stay at home and nurse him. Whereas Jemima…
There was no question but that she’d move heaven and earth to make things right for her son. However awkward she might find accepting another favour from him, Miles knew that she’d do it. And, strangely, there was no doubt that he’d do what he could to help.
Miles felt the stirrings of a smile. What exactly was he getting himself into? Somewhere up there someone clearly had an acute sense of humour, he thought as he experienced a momentary pang at the prospect of his precious Bristol 407 carrying a child who might well vomit.
‘Do you need to go and fetch him?’ he asked quietly.
‘Ben’s asleep and Russell doesn’t want to wake—’
‘Tell him we’re on our way.’ Miles didn’t wait to hear what Jemima had to say. He shrugged on his jacket, catching only the edge of her smile. It was still enough to blow him away.
He was going to have to watch it. She was the kind of woman who might well get under your skin and stay there.
Jemima spoke into the receiver. ‘Russell, I’m coming now. Tell Sam. Fifteen minutes and I’ll be there.’ She put the phone back into its cradle. ‘Are you sure? I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t waste time.’ Miles smiled at her. He didn’t want her gratitude. It seemed to him she’d spent a surfeit of her time being grateful to other people who may or may not deserve it. And he genuinely wanted to help her. He’d caught only the slightest glimpse of what her life was like…and it was the least he could do.
‘No. I’ll…’ She tucked her hair behind her ears again in a nervous gesture. ‘Right, I’d better fetch an old ice cream tub in case he feels unwell in the car…’
As she disappeared into the kitchen Miles thrust a hand through his hair. Old ice cream tub? Alistair wouldn’t believe the way his evening was panning out, even if he told him— and he’d absolutely no intention of ever doing that.
Miles waited in the hall as Jemima flew past him.
‘I’m going to grab the duvet off Sam’s bed. I won’t be a second.’ She turned at the top of the stairs, stopping halfway up to say, ‘Stuff it! I’ve left the ice cream tub on the island in the kitchen. Could you—’
‘I’ll fetch it. Get the duvet.’
Another first. Miles couldn’t remember ever having spent the evening with a woman who’d ended up thinking absolutely nothing about him. Her attention was entirely focused on her son. Jemima would probably have driven off with the devil incarnate if it would have got her to Sam quickly. He admired her for that.
Miles smiled and walked through to the kitchen. He picked up the empty tub and pulled a face, hoping it hadn’t been used for this particular purpose before and wouldn’t be this time either. Beside the tub there was a small jar of Calpol. Without reading the label it looked medicinal, so he picked it up as well.
He came back into the hallway as Jemima was hurrying down the stairs with a duvet wrapped into a tight roll under one arm. She’d grabbed a pale green cardigan in soft angora. She looked…charming. Unconsciously charming. He cleared his throat. ‘Do you want this?’ he asked, holding up the bottle.
‘Yes. Thanks. It’s liquid paracetamol.’ Jemima picked her handbag up from the hall chair. ‘It’s great for bringing temperatures down. Of course, it’ll be no good if Sam’s actually being sick…’
Miles held out the ice cream tub, trying not to think about that.
‘It’s okay. It’s got a lid,’ she said with a sudden smile, obviously able to read his expression.
The green wool of her cardigan intensified the colour of her eyes. He felt his mouth curve in an answering smile. ‘Don’t say it.’ He stopped her, taking the duvet off her and giving her the tub. ‘I don’t want to know. That’s advanced parenting and I’m strictly the chauffeur.’
Her smile widened. ‘You know, I’m really grateful—’
He gave her a gentle push in the small of her back. ‘Just go.’
She was lovely. If anyone had told him at the start of the evening he’d be driving through Harrow in the early hours of the morning to collect a sick child for his temporary secretary, he wouldn’t have believed it. Miles glanced across at Jemima’s profile. It felt right, though.
He wouldn’t swap his life with hers for anything. She carried such responsibilities. Where in all of it was time for herself? Did she ever have a moment where she could think about absolutely nothing but herself and what she wanted? Somehow he doubted it and he wished…
Jemima looked across at him. ‘What?’
Miles focused back on the road. He couldn’t put words on what he was thinking. He didn’t really understand what they were himself. ‘Where now?’
‘Take the second left at the next roundabout and follow the road on. There are a couple of T-junctions, but you need to keep going straight.’
‘Okay.’ There was silence for a few moments. Miles concentrated on the road, but was acutely aware of Jemima sitting beside him. Every now and again she shifted slightly in her seat, or brushed her hair away from her face. Small, totally insignificant movements, but for some reason he was aware of them.
He swallowed and searched for something to say. That was a first too. Not since he was thirteen had he struggled for something to say to a member of the opposite sex.
It didn’t make sense. Any of it.
‘It’s straight on here.’
Miles changed gear to negotiate the roundabout. ‘Why couldn’t Russell drive Sam home?’ he asked without looking across at her.
‘Ben’s asleep and he didn’t want to wake him. Didn’t I say that?’
‘I don’t know.’ Miles frowned. He couldn’t remember her telling him that, but he was sure she’d told him her ex-husband had a girlfriend. Stefanie, wasn’t it? Or maybe he was leaping to conclusions and they didn’t live together. It was none of his business, but he really wanted to know.
‘Does he live alone?’ he asked carefully.
He felt her head shake in denial. ‘He’s bought the flat with his girlfriend, but…’ Jemima paused to consider what she was going to say ‘…she…isn’t particularly maternal, apparently.’
‘Then why get involved with a man who has two children?’ he asked without thinking.
Jemima smiled and brushed at her hair. ‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Russell really loves the boys too, so she’s on to a loser if she thinks he’ll forget about them. He won’t. If it’s a choice between her and the boys, he’ll pick the boys.’ She sat back in her seat. ‘But I suppose Stefanie didn’t know that about him when they got together.’ Her eyes flicked across to him. ‘They met at work. So she wouldn’t necessarily have known what she was taking on, would she?’
Anyone with an ounce of sense would factor that in as a significant risk. Miles made a non-committal response. He could see why Stefanie might not want to drive a sick boy to her boyfriend’s ex-wife, but where was the problem with taking care of a sleeping child?
‘You take a left at the next junction.’
Miles made the turn. ‘Is she at the flat tonight?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask.’ Jemima looked at him. ‘It wouldn’t make any difference. Ben doesn’t like her. Russell couldn’t leave him with her in case he woke up while he was out. If that happened he’d have a difficult job to get him to stay again.’
Interesting. But still none of his business, Miles reminded himself. He couldn’t help but admire the way Jemima had carefully avoided being vitriolic towards her ex-husband or his new girlfriend. That was rare, in his experience. Most people couldn’t resist the opportunity to dish the dirt. Human nature, he supposed.
But Jemima hadn’t done that. For the second time in a very short space of time it occurred to him how lucky Ben and Sam were in their mother. It
clearly cost her to let her boys see their father regularly, but she did absolutely nothing to get in the way of it. Contrast that with his own mother, who’d made it her personal mission to make sure he didn’t have a male role model anywhere in his life.
‘It’s here,’ Jemima said, pointing a little way up the wide tree-lined road. ‘Just after the next junction. On the left.’
Russell Chadwick might live in a flat, but it was an expensive one. Miles felt a simmering anger when he compared the elegant art deco façade with the run-down family home he’d conceded to his ex-wife. The man ought to be horse-whipped.
Jemima was out of the car seconds after he’d pulled to a stop. ‘I won’t be long.’
Miles watched as she hurried up the steps and bent to speak into a metal grid on the side wall. She pushed the door open and disappeared inside the entrance.
Miles stood with his back against the bonnet of his car. The street lights were amber orbs in a dark clear sky…and it was cold. He pulled up his jacket collar and tucked his hands into the pockets.
What was he doing here? Saturday night… No, it was Sunday morning. But the question remained the same. What in heaven’s name had possessed him to be here doing this? He never…
The door opened and Jemima appeared carrying a small backpack. A man with a young boy in his arms was closely behind her. Sam’s father? It had to be. Miles stood straight. As they walked down the steps he opened the car door and pulled the front seat forward, turning back to face them.
‘This is Russell,’ Jemima said as soon as she was close enough. ‘Sam, climb in the back and I’ll come and sit next to you.’
Russell lowered the pyjama-clad boy to the ground and he scrambled into the back seat. Even in the dark Miles could see that Sam’s face was pale and entirely miserable. Miles watched as Jemima smiled encouragingly at her son and leant in to hand the ice cream tub across. The backpack she tucked in the front.
Miles turned his attention to Sam’s father. Russell Chadwick looked ordinary. He was of average height, average build and of average colouring. Miles felt a curious sense of relief. God only knew why.
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