Molly's Millions

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘It isn’t often,’ Levinson began, ‘that we find a reporter more famous than the story he’s chasing, but this would seem to be the case with you,’ he said, giving Tom an encouraging smile. ‘Have you found the media interest a little strange – as a member of the press, I mean?’

  Tom’s senses were so swamped that he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard the question. Visions of Nicole Kidman’s honeyed thigh and Juliette Binoche’s smile refused to leave his mind’s eye.

  ‘Is it not rather odd being on the receiving end of the press’s interest?’ Levinson prodded again.

  ‘Yes!’ Tom blurted out, feeling more beads of perspiration battling through the make-up. ‘It is,’ he said, feeling himself floundering helplessly. ‘After years of chasing other people, it is a little surreal to be on the front page of the nationals yourself.’ There, he thought, he was pulling through. He was going to be just fine.

  ‘So how does it feel to be a heart-throb?’ Levinson asked with a light smile.

  Tom grinned. ‘Well, what can I say? I don’t think you can really take that kind of adoration seriously, can you?’

  ‘Now,’ Levinson said, leaning forward slightly in his chair and steepling his fingers, ‘a little bird told me that you’re not only a national heart-throb and a great reporter but something of a virtuoso with the guitar?’

  Tom felt himself blushing. ‘Well, one doesn’t like to boast…’

  ‘I’m sure our audience would be delighted to hear you,’ Levinson smiled, motioning to an awaiting band ready to take up the music. There was a ripple of applause, a few women even screamed.

  Tom looked at Levinson who was clapping and nodding towards the stage. Well, Tom thought, there was no point in denying fate, was there, and, with the ease of a superstar, he walked towards the stage.

  The studio lights dimmed and he found himself standing in a cool blue light, his fingers strumming, his throat huskily finding the notes he’d rehearsed so often in the shower. It was a perfect moment and he lost himself to it completely until his three and a half minutes of wonderment was up.

  And then something truly amazing happened. The audience screamed. Tom Mackenzie was a hit! And, from the hysteria of the women in the audience, he was going to become a huge star. Offstage, he could hear phones ringing. Producers, record companies, even Chris Isaak – they all wanted him. The phones wouldn’t stop. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing…

  ‘Da-aaaa-ad!’

  Tom woke, his heart thudding wildly, his breath coming short and sharp. Where was he? What was going on? What had happened to the audience? To Nicole? To Juliette? Where was his guitar?

  And then he saw it: sitting on the floor at the end of the bed – where he’d left it the night before.

  ‘Dad!’ Flora shouted. ‘Your alarm’s been going for ages! And you were singing in your sleep again! It was terrible! You never sing in tune in your sleep.’

  Tom rubbed his eyes at his rude awakening. God almighty. He wasn’t on Levinson at all. It was Wednesday morning, and he’d woken up in a cheap bed and breakfast on the outskirts of Manchester and, what was even worse, he knew that he wasn’t going to be interviewed on Levinson. He wasn’t going to meet Nicole Kidman or Juliette Binoche, he wasn’t going to be asked to sing, and he wasn’t going to be discovered.

  He was going to be interviewed, all right, but it was on Susanna: a chat show which was indistinguishable from all the other chat shows plaguing daytime TV. It aired at two in the afternoon and was notorious for having row upon row of dirty old men leering down the young presenter’s blouse.

  ‘Daddy?’ Flora interrupted.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you think anyone famous will be on Susanna?’

  ‘No,’ Tom said. ‘I bloody well don’t,’ he added under his breath as he headed into the bathroom for a shave.

  Carolyn could think of no worse fate than spending her summer holidays trapped in a car with Marty, Magnus and Old Bailey.

  ‘You should’ve turned left there,’ Old Bailey barked from the back seat. ‘It’s quicker by half a mile.’

  ‘Do you want to drive, Granddad?’

  Old Bailey harrumphed. ‘I’m only saying, if you want to save on petrol—’

  ‘Granddad!’

  ‘I’m only saying.’

  Carolyn sighed and stared out of the window at the landscape vanishing fast behind them as Marty stepped on it. They were only twenty miles down the M6 from Carlisle and, already, it was mutiny in the Mini. She hadn’t wanted to come on the trip at all but neither had she wanted to stay at home. Firstly, she’d decided that if she stayed close to Marty she could keep Molly informed of his every move. Now that Molly had a mobile phone, it would be easy to keep in touch with her and make sure that she was one step ahead of the Bailey men. Secondly, she hadn’t wanted to stay at home alone after what had happened that morning.

  Marty had been haranguing her about leaving early and had almost hammered the bathroom door down.

  ‘I’ll be out in a minute,’ Carolyn had called back. One minute. Yes – that was all she needed – one minute of quiet pacing, of running her hands through her hair and of picking the browned ends off the spider plant.

  One minute; that was enough. Enough for a little blue line to change her life.

  She was pregnant.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Molly hesitated at the junction, her indicator knocking quietly. Which way? Left or right? For a moment, she gazed at the road in between the two signs but she knew she couldn’t very well drive down it because it was a private driveway. Cedar Lodge, it said. Children’s Home. Private drive.

  Private. Molly hated that word. She always wanted to rebel whenever she saw it. What right did people have to hide behind that word? And what exactly were they hiding?

  Molly switched her indicator off, driving straight across the junction and along the private driveway through an avenue of fine chestnut trees and before she knew it found herself at the end of the driveway and was staring at a very ugly building. Cedar Lodge was a cold, drab-looking Victorian house with tall dark windows and a door like a cavernous mouth. Molly shivered. It looked damp as well as drab, she thought. It also looked rather empty.

  Parking her car on a gravel driveway overrun with weeds, she decided to go in. The door was open and led into a long black and white tiled hallway with coat hooks stacked with mountains of clothes and shoes and boots all over the place. It was cold, despite the warmth of the day, and there wasn’t a single child around.

  ‘Hello?’ Molly tried, her voice echoing up the stairwell. There didn’t seem to be anyone there. Funny that the front door should be open, Molly thought. People were just so trusting.

  There was a large room to the left of the hallway, and Molly stuck her head round the door. It was empty apart from a huge box of toys in the centre of the room and a couple of scruffy sofas. Kneeling down on the floor, Molly rifled through the box. There were three limbless dolls, a couple of stained teddies and a few board games which looked tatty and tired. Not an inspiring lot if you were trapped indoors for the day.

  ‘Can I help you?’ a woman called from the doorway.

  Molly turned around, startled, and was faced with what looked like an army sergeant in an apron. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. I called, but there was no answer.’

  ‘I was upstairs,’ the woman said, her brows hovering low and suspicious over her steel-rimmed glasses. ‘What is it you wanted?’

  Molly stood up to full height. ‘I wanted to enquire how to make a donation.’

  ‘I see,’ the woman said, her voice softening a fraction. ‘What was it? Old toys…?’

  ‘Er, no. I can see you’ve got quite a few of those.’

  ‘Yes,’ the woman said, her lips thin and firm. ‘People don’t tend to give things away until they’re good and used up.’

  Molly smiled. ‘I was thinking of some new toys, actually – brand new.’

  The woman looked puzz
led.

  ‘Would you like to go shopping with me?’ Molly asked.

  Once again, the woman frowned, and then a slow smile began to spread across her face as she nodded. ‘I’ll just get my handbag,’ she said.

  Susanna Lewis’s cleavage was showed off to great advantage by the low-cut black jacket she was wearing. Surely, Tom thought, it should come with a fifteen certificate? It certainly shouldn’t have been on daytime television.

  After a brief session in make-up, which wasn’t half as bad as that of his dream sequence, he was led out into the studio. The audience wasn’t quite as large as Levinson’s, and was stuffed with old people, but it would have to do. The polite applause came to an abrupt end as he sat down on the famous flower-festooned sofa in Susanna’s cottage-style set where everything was a riot of chintz. There were flowers in every conceivable size and colour, candles and glasses in rich reds and gaudy greens and, at the back of the set, a hideously large stained-glass window featuring Susanna herself. Tom was beginning to think that the make-up girl should have provided him with very dark sunglasses.

  Susanna began the interview by holding up a couple of copies of Vive!, which Tom thought wouldn’t do him any harm at all, and filled the audience in on the story so far, saying how there weren’t enough ‘heroes and heroines’ in the country.

  ‘But it seems to me that you might actually have found one,’ she said, leaning forward slightly in a cutely conspiratorial way.

  ‘Well,’ Tom began, feeling the first beads of perspiration breaking through his make-up, ‘I’m not so sure. They say there’s no such thing as a selfless act – that we only ever give in the hope of receiving something ourselves, and I have a feeling that this Molly Bailey might be some sort of attention seeker.’

  ‘Really?’ Susanna’s pale eyebrows rose into beautiful arches.

  ‘Yes. I mean, don’t you think it’s a strange thing to do: give money away? I feel that it’s not so much a selfless act as a way of getting attention.’

  ‘So all Molly Bailey is wanting is media publicity?’

  ‘That’s what I believe,’ Tom said.

  ‘You were the first reporter on this story, and I think it’s going to be just huge,’ Susanna began, uncrossing and crossing her legs, ‘but how do you feel now that the other tabloids are chasing the same story?’

  Tom grimaced. He’d been warned that this would happen: that all his hard work would be stolen and reinterpreted by others. ‘That’s the way of the world, I’m afraid. I’m obviously thrilled that I was the one that discovered Molly’s story, and I’m sure that my readers will be loyal and follow its progress through my column in Vive!,’ he said.

  Susanna asked a few more questions and they discussed the possible reasons for Molly’s sudden wealth and her desire to give it all away. And then it was all over. Tom just managed to make a final plea.

  ‘Don’t forget, any sightings of Molly can be reported to me via my email address, which is printed in the paper, and I’ve just been told by Vive! that they’re giving away book vouchers for legitimate leads.’

  The audience applauded and Susanna shook his hand before turning round to introduce the next guest.

  ‘Her name is Dr Ingrid Hoffman and it’s her belief that, in today’s current climate, sex should be a separate GCSE subject in our schools. So please give her a warm welcome as we go over to Susanna’s Study for the educational section of the programme.’

  Tom was off the hook and was led out of the studio. It had all passed so quickly. Perhaps he should have mentioned his talent as a musician. Maybe he’d lost his big chance. He was just about to mention it to someone backstage when he caught sight of Flora.

  ‘How was it?’ he asked, knowing she’d been watching it in the green room.

  She winced. ‘Daddy, you were so mean about Molly.’

  ‘What do you mean, mean?’

  ‘You don’t even know her but you said all those mean things about her.’

  ‘What are you getting so worked up about? This woman’s story is paying our bills at the moment.’

  Flora frowned deeply and looked down at the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry if you don’t agree with what I’m doing but I can’t really stop now, can I? You heard Susanna – this story’s going to be huge.’ He took Flora’s hand and they left the studio. ‘We’ve both got a big stake in this, whether we like it or not.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like it,’ she said.

  Tom sighed. He didn’t liked being reprimanded by his own daughter; it cut him to the quick, but what was he to do? Listen to the moral rantings of a ten-year-old or follow his journalistic instincts and milk his story for all it was worth? Anyway, it was too late to do anything about it now: not only had he spoken his mind on national television but, seconds before he’d gone on air, he’d emailed his latest piece for Vive! saying as much as he had on Susanna.

  They left the studios and Tom opened the car door for Flora who got in without saying a single word to him.

  It wasn’t until they were on the motorway that he realised his face was still covered in thick orange make-up.

  The toy department was irresistible. Molly dived in, her eyes bright as she examined the wealth on display. Mrs Steele, the housekeeper, had told her that the ages of the children at Cedar Lodge ranged from eight to fourteen so, whilst they could have a ball choosing soft and cuddly companions, they should also think about something a little more grown-up for the teenagers – perhaps computer games.

  ‘How many children are there at the home?’ Molly asked.

  ‘Twenty-three,’ Mrs Steele said.

  ‘Most of our girls prefer them to clothes,’ Mrs Steele went on, rolling her eyes. ‘Only problem is, the computer is so old and slow—’

  ‘That’s not a problem,’ Molly said. ‘We’ll replace that whilst we’re at it. We’ll get two. Three!’

  Mrs Steele’s eyes were out on stalks. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Come on,’ Molly said, ‘let’s get to work.’

  Molly hadn’t had so much fun for a long time and, judging by Mrs Steele’s flushed cheeks and broad smile, neither had she. Bag after bag was filled with toys before they headed to the computer department and chose a selection of games. Molly ordered the three computers to be delivered to Cedar Lodge and then, arms weighed down, they headed back to Molly’s car.

  ‘Careful not to squash Fizz!’ Molly warned as they crammed the bags, which wouldn’t fit into the boot, onto the back seat. ‘Will you be OK to sit here for a moment?’

  ‘I think so. Why?’

  ‘I’m just going to nip back and get something. I won’t be long.’

  And she wasn’t. When she got back to the car, she presented a handful of wallets stuffed with gift vouchers: one for each child in Cedar Lodge.

  ‘I used to hate it when adults bought me clothes,’ she explained.

  Mrs Steele’s mouth dropped open. ‘But this is too much!’

  ‘I don’t think so. What are a few gifts? They haven’t got parents to give them any.’

  Mrs Steele nodded. ‘You know, it’s always puzzled me, but it’s not very often that we get a child who wants to find their birth parent. They seem to realise that they’re at Cedar Lodge because things were difficult, and they don’t ask questions.’

  They don’t ask questions, Molly thought. But she had, all the time. Why had their mother left them? Had she simply woken up one day and stopped loving them? Had she and Marty done something to upset her? No. Molly may have thought those things to begin with but the slow realisation of what a nightmare it must have been to live with their father had dawned upon her.

  Mrs Steele chuckled suddenly, pulling Molly out of her dark thoughts. ‘We once had an incident when one of our girls, Alexis, tried to find her birth mother. She even went as far as contacting a private detective. I think she’d just got a bit carried away after watching the repeats of Moonlighting on Sky.’

  ‘But private detectives cost a fortune!’ Molly said. />
  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Steele agreed. ‘I don’t think Alexis had thought that far ahead.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll never forget picking up that envelope from the Marie Celeste Detective Agency.’

  ‘Marie Celeste?’

  ‘Yes! It’s quite reputable. One of the best, I hear. The man who runs it is rather eccentric, though. He turned up one afternoon not realising that Cedar Lodge was a children’s home and that the letter had been written by a fourteen-year-old. Anyway, she forgot about it all when Johnny arrived.’

  ‘Johnny?’

  ‘The Cedar Lodge stud.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Turn left here,’ Mrs Steele said as they left the suburbs behind them and ploughed on into the countryside, ‘and then straight along until you see the line of trees.’

  It was a bit of a rugby scrum getting through the doors with eighteen bags of shopping but they just about managed it. Mrs Steele collapsed into an armchair whilst Molly arranged the bags so that the contents wouldn’t spill out all over the front room carpet.

  ‘I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed today,’ she sighed. ‘I don’t often get away from Cedar Lodge.’

  Molly smiled up from her home on the floor. ‘I’m so glad you came. I don’t think I could’ve managed without you.’

  Mrs Steele’s eyes narrowed a fraction behind her glasses. ‘Oh, I’m sure you would’ve managed. You look like the kind of girl who manages everything perfectly.’

  Molly held her gaze for a moment, knowing that something was coming next but not quite sure what it was.

  ‘Can I ask you what made you do this today?’ Mrs Steele asked.

  Molly smiled. She knew the question had been on the tip of her tongue all day. ‘Let’s just say that there’s a part of me that understands how these children must feel.’

  Mrs Steele nodded. ‘Have you time for a cup of tea? The children won’t be back for another hour or so. It’s not often they get a day out, bless them, but it would be a shame if you missed them.’