It was a cute notion, but he deserved the truth. ‘I thought I’d changed because of the parcels, but I was wrong. They gave me the excuse I needed to become who I wanted to be. I have you to thank for it – don’t deny it now. It’s okay.’
‘Why do you think I sent them?’
Was he playing with her? ‘It was obvious. You noticed the necklace I was wearing, before anybody else. We talked about music and an old record arrived. I told you books were special to me and, after we rowed, I received a copy of my favourite childhood book . . .’ Clutching at straws, she added, ‘And Ted overheard you warning anyone else in the newsroom off my story.’
Ben lowered his voice. ‘What?’
‘He said you were saying that if anyone was going to tell my story, it would be you.’
‘You think I organised all of that – for the story?’
Anna stared back. ‘What else should I think?’
He groaned. ‘I don’t believe this.’
‘Then why did you ask about my parcels?’
‘My back was against the wall, okay? I admit that’s what it became, but it wasn’t my first motivation. To begin with, I asked because I wanted to know more about them. Not because you were a scoop, but because I wanted to know what was responsible for the change I saw in you.’
‘Then why warn everyone off my story? Weeks before we started talking?’
‘I didn’t . . .’ His gaze drifted across the darkened formal garden.
‘Liar! I know Ted has some pretty wild theories at times, but he wouldn’t make up something like that. There must be some truth in it.’
‘If I did, it was because I didn’t want anyone haranguing you, cheapening what was happening in your life by reducing it to a story.’
‘Like you did . . .’
‘It was a mistake! I’d pitched it to Juliet before I had a chance to think. And then it was out of my hands. I know I hurt you, okay? I know I betrayed your trust – and I’m trying my best to apologise for that. But I didn’t send the parcels to get a story. Did you really think I was capable of that?’
Anna stared back. Was Ben so pig-headed that he would protect his methods to the end? ‘But the dress?’
He followed the movement of her hands to the red fabric. ‘It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.’
‘Then – I don’t understand . . .’
‘Anna, if you’re asking me to be some mystery benefactor, then I’m not the person you’re looking for.’
But you are! she protested silently. At least, I thought you were . . .
‘I want to be with you – there, I’ve said it. I’ve been miserable without you and I want to see where we could go. But if you’re in love with whoever sent the parcels, we have no hope.’
‘No, Ben, that’s what I wanted to tell you. I think I’m—’
‘It’s okay, really. I get it. The guy who sent your parcels changed your life. What hope do I have of comparing with someone whose gifts can do that?’
‘You said you’d be here tonight . . .’ Her thoughts became audible as she tried to make sense of everything.
‘When?’
‘In the message – with this dress. You said, “I will see you there.”’
‘So the sender is at this party? Well, you’d better go and find him then.’ Ben made to stand up, but Anna caught his arm.
‘No, please – wait . . . I need a minute to work this out.’
This was fast descending into a jumbled mess, and Anna couldn’t catch hold of her thoughts before they knotted together. Was Ben right: was she in love with the parcel-sender because she believed it was Ben, or could she have fallen for someone she’d never met?
‘I like you, Anna. More than I realised when you refused to speak to me. I’ve tried to put you out of my head, but I can’t.’ Even as he said it, Ben’s eyes registered defeat. ‘But if the only way you want me is to be someone I’m not, there’s no point.’
Hurt and confused, Anna rounded on him. ‘Don’t you dare turn this around on me! What gives you the right to take the moral high ground? You admitted you only started meeting up with me because of the parcels – doesn’t exactly qualify you for Man of the Year, does it?’
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I never said it did. I said I was sorry, Anna . . .’
‘I thought you’d sent the parcels. And I wanted to thank you, because I’ve wanted to thank the person responsible for a long time. Obviously I was mistaken thinking it was you. Maybe I wanted it to be you – but you haven’t even considered that, have you?’ She was on her feet now, blood as scarlet as her beautiful dress pumping through her body. ‘Instead you accuse me of being some kind of gift-junkie who is only looking for someone to feed her addiction . . . Well, thanks for nothing, Ben. Have a nice life.’
He said nothing, just stood and headed back towards the light and music of the party. Turning on her heels, Anna stormed in the opposite direction, into the darkness of the gardens.
It was all wrong. The way she had pictured this evening didn’t fit with its unfolding reality. Ben was meant to make a confession; she was meant to forgive him for the story and thank him for his kindness and then . . . What did she expect to happen next?
With Ben ruled out as the sender, who else could it be? Had she already seen them this evening? She thought back to the people she had spoken to: at least twenty Messenger journalists, Ted, Sheniece, Ashraf, Babs . . . Any of them could have sent the parcels.
The beautiful notes of Chopin’s Nocturne No. 2 began dancing on the night air. Laughter and the hubbub of voices floated across the gardens towards her. It should have been serene, Anna basking in the glow of the end of her journey. Instead she felt numb, bombarded by questions she hadn’t anticipated as another road stretched out before her. The challenge was far from over.
I have to find the sender, she vowed, the orange-blackness of the city night her witness. I won’t leave here until I know who they are. Separated from the lavish party by more than the hedge behind her, she felt utterly alone.
But where do I begin?
Fifty-Two
‘Anna? What are you doing here all by yourself?’
Anna looked up to see Rea’s concerned smile. ‘Oh, I just – I needed a breath of fresh air. It’s a bit crowded in there.’
‘Isn’t it just?’ Rea bent down, slipping off her party shoes and rubbing her feet. ‘Although there are a fair few blokes in there I’d happily be squashed up against.’
Anna welcomed the chance to talk about something other than the mess she found herself in with Ben. ‘Anyone I know?’
‘Hugo Benedict. He’s new. We just poached him from the Post. You have to see the guy – looks of Henry Cavill, voice as smooth as Tom Hiddleston – and, most importantly, single and straight.’ She chuckled. ‘He’s been snapping at McAra’s heels since he arrived, so I reckon he’ll make himself at home, once Ben’s gone.’
The mention of Ben leaving held greater significance than before. Emotion constricted Anna’s throat, but she fought to constrain it. ‘That’s definite, is it?’
‘As good as. Course, nobody’s said anything official, but we all know how these things work. I don’t think it’ll be long.’ She patted Anna’s knee. ‘Not that you care, huh? Sooner that toerag is out of the building, the better for you. So – anyone on the cards for Miss Flippin’ Stunning Anna Browne?’
Not now, Anna thought. ‘I don’t think so. I’m having too much fun on my own.’
‘Looks like it. Come back to the party with me. We can get hammered on apple Martinis and leer at handsome men?’
‘I think I might just stay here for a while.’
‘Shame. In that dress you’ve caused quite a stir. Everyone’s talking about you.’
‘Are they?’
‘You bet. You look incredible, lady! Like a different woman. You really should take advantage of the situation. There are tons of potential dates here tonight.’
‘I’ll come and find you a little lat
er, okay?’
Rea shrugged. ‘Fine by me. Whatever makes you happy.’
When she was alone again, Anna stood and wandered further away from the party. She followed the path that wound through the formal lawns and beds, feeling the cooling air prickle against her skin. Tonight had promised to be special, but now she was uncertain of what lay ahead.
Turning a corner, the path widened into a small courtyard with a beautiful stone fountain at its centre. The gentle flow of water created music of its own, drops glistening in the light from the moon that had broken through the night clouds. As she neared it, Anna could see silver and copper flashes within the shimmering water. She smiled. There was something irrepressibly hopeful about coins tossed into a fountain – hopes and dreams captured in a moment. She remembered the wishing well in the centre of Polperro and the thrill, as a small child, of hearing the tinkle of the bell suspended over the water within, as she threw in coins given to her by Uncle Jabez.
‘If you hear the bell, your wish’ll be granted,’ he would grin, handing over more coins if her first attempt missed its mark.
Feeling nostalgic, she found a coin in her purse and tossed it into the fountain. One more wish couldn’t hurt . . .
‘They don’t work, you know.’
Juliet Evans gave a cough, the rising cigarette smoke revealing her location, obscured behind the fountain. Anna walked around it to see the Daily Messenger editor sitting on a stone bench.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.’
‘Wishes. Overrated, in my opinion. I never got anything in life by wishing. You make your own luck.’ Two empty champagne glasses were propped in the gravel at her feet, a full whisky tumbler sloshing in her hand as she spoke.
‘Call it insurance,’ Anna smiled. ‘Just in case.’
‘Whatever floats your boat. Never had much time for superstition myself. Although, given recent events, perhaps I should have.’ There was a certain elongation in the way she pronounced her S’s, her head movements exaggerated by liquid fortification.
Anna sat a little way from the editor. ‘I thought your speech was wonderful this evening.’
Genuinely surprised, Juliet stared back. ‘Did you? Funny how one can make falling on one’s sword appear a triumph . . .’ She rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, her heavy eyeliner smudging across her skin. ‘I’m tired.’
‘Organising the party must have been exhausting,’ Anna offered, unsure why she was trying to make conversation with a woman famed for being an ivory tower.
‘Not that,’ Juliet scoffed. ‘I have people to do that. I just give the orders and sign the cheques. Although I don’t even do that any more . . . Everything exhausts me these days. I’ve seen it all and done it all – and none of it satisfies me like it used to. I should’ve seen what was coming months before it arrived. Ten years ago I’d have nipped it in the bud before it amounted to anything. Bloody Damien Kendal and his overfed, shiny-arsed cronies.’
‘It wasn’t your decision to leave? But I thought you said—’
‘I said a lot of things . . . Sure, it was my decision to resign, but they made it impossible to do anything else. It was the condition of the buyout. You think I want to retire?’
The editor’s candour threw Anna and she was unsure of how to answer. ‘I thought it was a brave decision, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Juliet snorted into her whisky.
‘I do. You’ve shown everyone that the newspaper is surviving and has a future – so much so that you feel safe leaving it. I think that’s a brave thing to do. You leave on a high.’
Juliet said nothing, her eyes trained on Anna. Distant music from the party warmed the air around them. Anna didn’t know if she had offended the editor – her expression was impossible to read. The woman clearly wanted to be alone.
‘You’re sweet.’
The compliment was a bolt from the blue and seemed wrong coming from Juliet’s lips.
‘Um, thank you . . .’
‘Not many people are sweet to me. They say what they think I want to hear. I like that you didn’t.’ She downed the remainder of her drink and gazed up at the sky. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Sensing her chance to end the conversation, Anna made to leave. ‘I should probably get back.’
‘Beautiful dress,’ Juliet said, suddenly.
‘Thank you. I love it.’
‘I thought you would.’
Anna looked at the editor, who still wore the same, vague expression. ‘Sorry?’
‘What were you wishing for, just then?’
Thrown by the sudden turn in the conversation, Anna took a while to reply. ‘I . . . um – I can’t tell you. Otherwise it won’t come true.’
‘By the look of you, it already has. People lay far too much store by wishes. As if unfounded hopes are enough. They are not. You have to make things happen. Like I did.’
She was speaking in riddles now. Feeling uncomfortable, Anna pressed her luck. ‘Why did you think I would love the dress?’
‘Seemed the right decision. All of the gifts did.’
And then the full force of the revelation hit Anna. ‘You? You sent the parcels?’
Juliet chuckled and spread her hands wide. ‘Ta-daa!’
‘But why? I hardly know you.’
‘That was the point. You weren’t supposed to know. It was my clever, clever plan.’
Anna remembered what Ben had said about being backed into a corner by his editor. By Juliet Evans – who was sending parcels to the woman he was trying to get to know . . . It was all horribly clear now: the newspaper was in financial trouble and needed a story that would go viral, trumping the competition and re-establishing its name. Anna had been the unwitting victim of it all. So Ben had exploited her, but Juliet had drawn him into it as much as she had Anna – two Daily Messenger puppets made to dance to the editor’s whim. Of course, now it made perfect sense: Juliet didn’t care about the subject of her masterstroke story, only that she needed someone unremarkable and trusting enough to make the story authentic. Anna’s response and transformation were of no importance.
‘How dare you play with my life?’ Anna didn’t care that she was shouting, her voice splitting the peace of the garden. ‘I am worth more than your need to save the newspaper!’
Shocked, Juliet stared blurrily up at her.
‘Why did you choose me? Because I was gullible, or insignificant enough to fall for it? You had the headline written long before you asked Ben . . .’
‘Excuse me? What does Ben McAra have to do with this?’
Anna rounded on her. ‘He has everything to do with this! Did he know your plan from the beginning? Or did you use him like you’ve used me?’
‘Hold on for one minute and listen. It was never about the story. I’ll admit it was useful that McAra became involved, and the publicity went a long way to convincing Kendal and his cronies that the Messenger was worth a punt, but that wasn’t my motivation.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Which you are quite at liberty to do, Ms Browne. The fact remains, however, that the story was immaterial.’
‘Then why?’
‘Because, on the only day that I needed permission to be heartbroken in my life, you were the one who gave it. That impressed me.’
Anna could see the pronounced rise and fall of Juliet’s chest, the only indication of her true feelings in a body trained to give nothing away.
‘I don’t understand. I’ve never given you permission for anything . . .’
‘Sit down, Anna.’
‘I don’t have to do anything you say.’
‘Of course you don’t. But you want an explanation and I’m offering one – if you’re willing to hear it.’
Anna folded her arms, still standing. ‘Fine.’
‘The day I returned to work after losing my mother, I found, to my great surprise, that I had actually loved her all along. I had fought with her for years, never once feeling
her love or approval. But I’m not ashamed to admit that I was assaulted by grief. On that day you and I shared a lift together. You said something I’ll never forget: But still, your mum’s your mum. In all I’d endured with my mother, I’d lost sight of that. What you said made me realise that my grief for her wasn’t an admission that she’d been right about me. It was permissible for a daughter to grieve the passing of her mother. It was about me, not her.’
‘I don’t even remember saying that,’ Anna returned, her voice wavering as her anger subsided.
‘I’m not surprised. For you, it was a kind compliment that came from a good heart. For me, it was gift. I left that conversation and walked straight into a call with Damien Kendal that sealed my fate with the paper. That’s when I decided to send the gifts.’
‘So you made me your little project?’
‘You were hardly a project, Anna.’
‘Then what was I, Juliet? Forgive me, but I’m struggling to understand. You say you’ve always been willing to step over anyone who gets in your way – what’s the difference between that and what you did to me? You used me . . .’
‘I did. But not in the way you imagine. I couldn’t have predicted the story, but when McAra mentioned it, the timing was fortuitous, I’ll admit. I certainly couldn’t have predicted the interest it would attract around the world. Besides, I couldn’t have prevented its publication without revealing my identity.’
‘What right do you have to meddle with other people’s lives? You made sure the parcels arrived at work so that other people saw. Did it give you a thrill watching me being manipulated?’
‘You weren’t manipulated. The gifts made you believe you were worth more than you thought you were. That decision came from yourself. Look at you tonight – unafraid to stand out from the crowd, welcoming the compliments of strangers. The dress isn’t responsible for that, it’s merely a pretty set-dressing for the choices you have made. I’m not trying to make you into the daughter I never had, or absolve my guilty conscience for my selfishness. I stand by everything I’ve done in my life because they were my choices. But I realised that, during my entire adult life, I’d never done anything for anyone other than me.’ She paused, rubbing her hands across her bare arms as if the chill of the air had only just permeated her skin. ‘I’ve had it easy for many years. I’ve never wanted for anything. I simply wanted to pass that on. And I don’t expect anything in return, either. I don’t want to be your best friend or surrogate mother. I’m not looking for a companion in my dotage. I just wanted to do something for someone who wasn’t me.’
A Parcel for Anna Browne Page 36
