Anna was disgusted by the suggestion, but dog-tired weariness was setting in and she just wanted to leave. ‘Fine, whatever,’ she said, staring at the edge of Juliet’s desk.
‘Good. So go, take some time away from this. I’ll call to advise when to come back to work, yes?’
To be away from the Messenger, her colleagues and a certain journalist she never wanted to set eyes on again was exactly what Anna wanted. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’ For a moment, Anna thought she saw a glimmer of compassion in the editor’s eyes. ‘It will pass. It always does.’
The news story might, Anna thought. But the damage Ben has done won’t . . .
Thirty-Seven
Juliet’s driver picked up Anna from the service entrance at the rear of the Messenger building. He’d been instructed to drive her wherever she wanted to go and offered to take her home, but Anna needed time to think, and the possibility that a journalist might be following the car scared her. Instead she asked to be dropped off near Covent Garden, scurrying into a café near the Royal Opera House that she’d been to once before on one of Ruari’s rare visits to the city. The small link with family made the café feel like a sanctuary. She found a table near the back and ordered a large coffee, intending to take her time over it.
‘I’ll give you a biscotti, too,’ the Italian-accented waiter smiled, as if guessing Anna’s troubled mind. ‘On the house.’
As he placed the cup and saucer on the table, Anna’s mobile buzzed beside it. The heartening smile of her brother beamed up at her from the screen.
‘Rua?’
‘An, you all right? I saw the paper. Never expected my big sis to be a celebrity.’
‘It’s awful. I’ve been given time off work.’
‘Wish I could be sent home on full pay. Sorry, An. I just wanted to check you were okay, though?’
‘Not really, not at the moment. But I will be. The worst thing is, the story was written by Ben.’
She heard a sharp intake of breath at Ruari’s end of the call. ‘Not that journo you’ve been seeing? What a rat! Want me and the lads to drive up to the Smoke and sort him out?’
Anna gave a weary smile, her heart filled with love for her brother. ‘Bless you. Not right now, but I might keep the Perranporth Hit-Squad on standby, if you don’t mind.’
‘Pleasure. We’ll await your call! Look, you know if you fancy a few days down here, me and Jodie and the kids’d love to see you. Jodie was the one who spotted the story today. Vicious about it, she was! She sends her love.’
‘Thanks, Rua. I’m just going to sit it out and hope the story goes away soon.’
‘I imagine it’ll pass quick enough. But you know where we are, yeah? Love you, Anna.’
Ruari’s concern was touching and she loved that his first instinct was to call her. They might be separated by physical distance, but in many ways the Browne siblings grew closer every year.
As she ended the call, her finger inadvertently caught the phone-book icon on the screen – and she came face-to-face with Ben’s number. She stared at it, the image of a cup of coffee that she’d picked for his caller ID, in lieu of his photo, reminding her of every hope she’d carried during their coffee-shop meetings. She could do nothing about his article, but she could evict him from her mobile. Without hesitation, she deleted the entry. It was a hollow victory, her heart wincing as confirmation flashed on the screen: ENTRY DELETED.
Not wanting any more calls, Anna switched off her mobile, picked up a discarded copy of The Times from a neighbouring table and tried her best to escape the endless carousel of questions in her head. Her eyes skimmed the newsprint, not really seeing the stories. She thanked heaven that the café wasn’t the type to offer the Daily Messenger to its customers. For a few hours at least, she could be free of Ben’s article.
What hurt the most was that Ben never even hinted that the story was imminent. He claimed to be a friend – and to aspire to be more than that – yet he was happy for Anna to be ambushed by his handiwork. She had expected better from him. But maybe Ted was right: once a hack, always a hack.
She was angry with Juliet Evans for being so willing to sacrifice her privacy on the altar of the paper’s salvation. A ride home in her expensive Aston Martin and fully paid leave fell woefully short of an adequate apology. But then what did the high-powered editor care for a receptionist she barely knew, when faced with losing her own job? And how bad was the situation at the newspaper, if Anna’s story could be its salvation?
She had no answers because none existed. It was cruel and unfair – and Anna was the unwitting collateral damage. At the end of it, the paper might be granted a reprieve and Ben would emerge unscathed, save for a dip in popularity at work. But Anna’s heart had been broken – and she didn’t know if it would recover.
A horrible thought reared up in her mind: maybe the parcels had just been part of a plan to create a story. Could that be true? In her heart she felt it was unlikely, but not knowing who had sent them meant she didn’t understand why they had been sent to her. That was the worst thing. The question why was what she most wanted answered. Why had she been chosen? Ben hadn’t confirmed he was the sender on Saturday night, but he hadn’t denied it either, had he? There had been a moment before his kiss that swept Anna’s questions aside, when she’d almost believed he was trying to tell her something.
But would Ben have gone to all the trouble of sending eight parcels just for a small story that might have helped the newspaper’s fortunes for a couple of days?
She considered the midnight-blue shoes and how they had made her feel. Regardless of whether Ben had sent them or not, Anna couldn’t bring herself to write off the gift. Discovering the shoes and their gold box in the brown paper had been a magical, heart-stopping experience of deep personal significance. Whatever the sender’s motives, she couldn’t discount what she’d felt.
And then a new, defiant voice appeared in her head. Why should she have to dismiss the parcels? She hadn’t asked for them, or used them to draw attention to herself, but their arrival in her life had sparked something profound inside: changes that she and other people had noticed. Changes for the better. Through them she had discovered her own voice, her confidence and even the beginnings of ambition. Perhaps the greatest gift had been what Anna had found within herself. Nobody could take that away from her.
The thought sparkled in her mind, casting out a little of the gloom and strengthening her resolve. She might have been betrayed by Ben and used by the Daily Messenger, but she still had what she’d taken from the experience. When the story had passed, what mattered was what she retained.
I’m not going to be defeated by this, she vowed as she joined the throngs of commuters heading for Leicester Square Underground station. I’m worth more than that.
It was almost seven o’clock when Anna arrived home. She was relieved to discover the pavement outside Walton Tower mercifully free of camped-out journalists, the street more or less empty of people as the early-evening traffic crawled past. Her post-box was empty in the lobby and the building had an air of quiet welcome. If it remained like this for the rest of her paid leave, she would be more than content.
Seamus, in the middle of a phone conversation, gave her a thumbs-up as she passed his open door, and a lady from the floor beneath Anna’s apartment wished her a good evening without making extraordinary eye contact. For tonight at least, the Daily Messenger exclusive had seemingly yet to reach these walls.
Taking what felt like the first deep breath of the day, Anna turned the key in her front door and inhaled the welcome scent of home. Discarding her bag, she walked into the kitchen and picked up the kettle.
‘Seems my girl’s a bit of a star then,’ said a voice.
Slowly Anna turned, already knowing its owner before her vision confirmed it. Six years since she’d last heard it in person, but the chill of recognition was as sure as ever. The very last person Anna ever expected to see in the city was making h
erself comfortable on her sofa, sun-browned bare feet up on the cushions and nicotine-stained fingers picking at chipped pink varnish on the toenails.
‘What are you doing here?’
Senara Browne folded leather-jacketed arms across her ample chest and gave a loud tut. ‘T’ain’t no way to welcome your own mother, is it?’
‘And how did you get in?’
‘Nice Irish bloke at the front door let me in, when I said I was your mum.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Less of your attitude! Not allowed to visit you, am I now? ’Gainst the law, is it?’
‘No, but . . .’
Senara nodded at the kettle still swinging limply in Anna’s hand. ‘Cup of tea dreckly would be nice, thank you. Do you know what they tried to charge me on the train up for a cuppa? No wonder nobody smiles here. Blinkin’ daylight robbery.’
Numb with shock, Anna made tea. It seemed the logical thing to do, both to fill time while she constructed a response and to prevent conversation while the kettle boiled noisily. Senara had shown no interest in Anna’s life since she’d moved to the city. There had been no correspondence between them – not even a Christmas or birthday card – and only one phone call, in six years. Why change that now?
The article – that’s what’s brought her here.
Senara Browne didn’t understand the concept of selflessness. Nothing had ever happened in her life without a perceivable benefit attached. Seeing Anna in a national tabloid must have set pound-signs floating in her vision. Ben McAra had no idea of the trouble he had caused Anna. Encouraging her mother to leave the ‘blessed Duchy’ and land at Anna’s door was the worst possible thing he could have done.
‘Why are you here?’ Anna asked, ignoring the dramatic snort of disapproval Senara made when tasting her daughter’s tea.
Never one for hidden motives, her case became immediately clear. ‘It’s all over the papers, ain’t it? My Anna, gettin’ gifts from a stranger. What you do to be that lucky, hmm? And how much did you get for that tale? National papers pay big, everyone knows it.’
Anna chose a seat at the table – as far away as possible from Senara. ‘First of all, I didn’t sell my story. Someone else wrote it without my permission. And secondly, I don’t know who sent me the parcels. I have nothing to give you, Mum.’
‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you.’ She abandoned her mug of tea after a second displeased sip and looked around the room. ‘Nice place you got here. Fancy. You don’t get that from a nine-to-five.’
‘I do, actually.’ Because unlike you, Mum, I don’t need to blag my way through life . . .
‘Whatever. Never think of your poor old mum, though, do you? I almost lost my home last year, no thanks to you. I don’t make much, not working the bar at the Blue. And what little work I pick up here and there don’t cover it, either. If it hadn’t been for my Ruari, I’d be on the street by now.’
Anna shook her head. Ruari’s sweet nature was a mine of rich pickings for their mother, and Senara knew it. She remembered the phone conversation with her brother last autumn that had painted a very different picture: ‘She’s missed a month’s mortgage payment,’ Ruari had told her, the weariness evident in his voice. ‘I lent her money again, but I’m not convinced she’ll use it for that. She’ll be straight to her latest flame and it’ll be gone . . .’
‘Ruari has a family and a business he’s worked hard for. You shouldn’t keep running to him for money.’
‘What choice do I ’ave, when life slings me the muck it does?’
‘You seem to be looking after yourself just fine, Mum.’
‘No thanks to you.’
Anna hadn’t even known her mother owed money until Ruari told her, probably because Senara knew what Anna’s response would be. But there was no use in arguing the point. Anna looked at her watch. ‘It’s getting late. What time’s your train back?’
A defiant smile spread across Senara’s face, the one that said: I know I’m going to win. ‘Got one of them open returns, didn’t I? Thought I’d see the bright lights you’re so fond of.’
‘You can’t stay here.’ It blurted out from a far-away place; from a small child terrified of the trouble her mother was about to unleash. Anna might have to hide away from work for a week, but she was not sharing the experience with her mother.
‘Giss on, Anna! You’ve more than enough room.’ She patted the sofa. ‘I’ll be good on this. Very comfy. Very expensive.’
‘No.’
‘I ’spect you need support, at a time like this,’ her mother continued, undeterred. ‘Being a national laughing stock an’ all. You need your mother.’
The statement was as ludicrous as it was heartbreaking. There had been countless times when Anna had needed a mother, but Senara had missed every one. Instead, Anna had learned to do without – never to call on Senara to fulfil the role she claimed to own only when it suited her. When Anna had nightmares as a child, Senara’s room was out of bounds; when she fell in the playground, her teacher kissed the grazed wounds better; when her first period arrived, her best friend helped her. First break-ups, exam stress, achievements to be celebrated, fights to be settled – all went unshared and unnoticed. Besides carrying her and giving birth, Senara’s maternal remit was blank.
‘I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.’
‘Well, it’s too late to go back tonight, so I’ll have to stay one night at least. Now, what food you got, Anna? I’m starved.’
Ambushed by her mother and dog-tired from the emotion of the day, Anna had no choice but to accept her unwelcome visitor for the night. After a meal and awkward exchanges bordering on civility, she made up a bed for Senara and retreated to the blessed peace of her own room. Finally released, she climbed fully clothed into bed, burying herself down under the duvet and sobbing soundlessly into her pillow. Ben, her mother, blurred newsprint and perfectly wrapped parcels whirled about her head in a taunting mental merry-go-round until the early hours, when sheer exhaustion dragged her to a fitful sleep.
Thirty-Eight
Next morning, with Senara’s loud snores drifting through from the living room, Anna sat in bed nursing her throbbing head. There had to be a way through it all, but how would she find it? One thing was certain: she wasn’t going to share her time off work with her mother. Quickly dressing, she took her purse and mobile phone and sneaked out, grateful that Senara was a famously heavy sleeper. It was only when she emerged on the street outside Walton Tower that she felt she could breathe again.
It was almost eight-thirty, but the coffee shop was surprisingly empty. Unlike Freya & Georgie’s, which was packed all day with city workers, Spill the Beans did most of its business at the end of the day, when weary local residents needed to unwind before heading home.
‘Hey, Anna,’ Chas, the smiling owner, called out as she arrived at the counter. ‘We don’t usually see you this early. You okay?’
‘I’m good. Just taking a little time off work,’ she replied, hoping against hope that a certain copy of the Daily Messenger hadn’t made its way here yet.
‘Sounds nice.’
With her mother hanging around, this was unlikely. She settled at a table and sought out her brother’s number on her phone.
‘Anna? Wass gonon?’ Ruari sounded sleepy, despite probably being up for hours catching waves before work.
‘Sorry to call so early, but I’ve got a bit of a crisis.’
Her brother’s chuckle brought a smile. ‘Even more than yesterday? Lads on the beach were agog with it last night. Clem Wheelwright says he wished he’d dated you at school, so he’d have a story to sell on you now.’
‘Charming. It’s not the story that’s the problem this time, but it’s dragged Mum up here.’
There was a pause. Anna pictured her brother’s face as he processed what he’d just heard. Anna could hear the gabbling of seagulls and the crash of waves on the beach, where Ruari would be preparing for the day’s surf-school clients
. ‘Mum’s in London? Mum?’
‘Caught the train up the minute she read the paper, apparently. I haven’t heard from her for six years and then yesterday there she was, bold as brass in my flat. I asked her to leave, but she refused last night.’
‘I’m still getting over her leaving Cornwall. I always figured she’d turn into a pillar of salt the moment she crossed the Tamar.’
‘I think she wants money, Rua. I can’t imagine she’s come to look after me.’
Ruari laughed – but this time Anna could hear the hollowness of experience. ‘What you going to do?’
‘Short of getting a restraining order, I don’t know.’
‘I might be able to help you out on that score. Remember Griff Grantley, the little kid who used to trail after our gang wanting to join us? He’s only a Detective Inspector now! I could ask him to sort you out.’ He let out a long breath. ‘I wish I could come up and drag her back, An, but I’m run off my feet here. Besides, I’m not ’zackly her favourite person at the moment.’
‘Oh? That isn’t what she said.’ Anna might have known that her mother’s glowing endorsement of Ruari’s behaviour was merely a stick to beat her with.
‘Jodie and me are pretty much done with her now. She turned up last Saturday, drunk out of her mind, scared the kids – and that was it: Jodie threw her out and threatened to leave me if I help her again. I’m not risking my family for that woman, not any more, An. But I’m always here for you, yeah? Always. And I mean that.’
‘I know.’
‘Look, I’ll try and call her mobile today if she’s got it turned on, and talk some sense into her, yeah? But beyond that, I don’t know what I can do.’
‘It’s okay. I just wanted to tell someone more than anything. I’ll deal with her.’
‘Well, be careful. You know how conniving she is. And if it gets worse, call me and I’ll . . . just have to make sure Jodie don’t find out.’
A Parcel for Anna Browne Page 25
