by CE Rose
His kisses were warm and my body responded, but in a familiar and pleasant way rather than urgent lust. Had it ever been like that with Miles, though? The sizzling passion I’d imagined as a girl? But I had to stop analysing and engage in the moment.
With a smile, I sat up, slipped off my bra, then kissed my husband’s chest and slowly inched towards his undies.
‘Are you sure about the open curtains?’ I asked him after a moment.
‘Yes, don’t stop.’ His eyes were half shut; he was enjoying the build-up. Then, with a groan, ‘Actually, maybe you should close them.’
Hopping to the window, I reached out an arm, but I immediately jumped back.
‘Ali?’ Miles asked.
‘Someone’s out there.’
‘What? Who?’
‘I don’t know. Someone was on the terrace.’
He sat up. ‘What did they look like?’
‘I don’t know. It was so quick. A white face at the glass and—’
‘A white face… For fuck’s sake, Ali.’ Miles flopped back against the mattress. ‘Tell me this isn’t happening again.’
‘What isn’t…?’
‘Phantoms, visions, bloody hallucinations. Or whatever else your crazy imagination came up with.’
I took a deep breath. ‘There was someone out there, Miles. I saw them.’
‘Like there was the last time? Only then they were inside the bedroom.’
‘That was just work stress. I wasn’t suited to representing and defending criminal clients, Miles. I let some of them get under my skin. You know this.’
‘Stress, right.’ He snorted. ‘Waking the whole avenue with your screaming? Completely freaking me out with your jabbering? They don’t put you on a psychiatric ward and dole out fucking anti-psychotics for stress, Ali.’
I tried to swallow the hurt. My psychotic break wasn’t something to be mocked. I had put it behind me and Miles knew full well I hated talking about it.
‘That was seven years ago,’ I said steadily. ‘It isn’t something I’m proud of, but I did what you and Madeleine asked of me. I had a short stay in the Priory, took my pills, had my therapy and got better. It’s in the past and has nothing to do with now.’
His jaw tight, he glared silently, but eventually his temper got the better of him. ‘Well, maybe tonight’s someone’s outside was just another excuse to get out of sex, eh?’ He stomped from the bed and turned at the door. ‘I’ll sleep with my son. What are you good for, Ali? Because, quite honestly, I can no longer remember.’
Chapter Forty-Four
Sunday
Miles looked like a guilty schoolboy when he finally stumbled into the kitchen.
‘God, Ali, I’m so sorry about the time. I must have needed the sleep…’ Then, lifting his arms hopelessly, ‘And last night… I don’t know what the hell got into me. All I’ve wanted for weeks is… you.’
I stiffly accepted his embrace. There was no point arguing. It wasn’t the first time Miles had turned on a sixpence after having too much to drink. When love was young I’d gently put my palm over his tumbler to stop him having a last ‘top-up’ of brandy, but even then it hadn’t gone down well. And in fairness, sometimes I’d joined him, welcoming the instant anaesthetic, the blocking out of my ‘criminal’ clients’ faces. Of course they weren’t all murdering, knife-welding psychopaths; some were even innocent, and I enjoyed getting justice for them, but it was a huge relief to switch from the dark side after my break. My psychotic break; bloody hell. Had that really been me? I shuddered. Was it still?
Miles continued to hold me. ‘I don’t know why I do it, why I push you away. I need you so much,’ he muttered into my hair. ‘And now I have to leave in an hour.’ He looked at me pleadingly. ‘Forgive me? Please?’
His words reminded me of Dad’s one-line note. Perhaps it had been easier for him to write it rather than just ask her. Please find it in your heart to forgive me. I wondered if Mum ever had.
* * *
Sitting in the back seat of my car with Joe like royalty, I watched the arid Norfolk countryside fly by. Miles was silent as he drove, but from time to time I glimpsed his rigid expression in the wing mirror. Even before he’d made his apology, I’d taken pity on him and held back Joe’s baby rice feed so he could have the pleasure. And it had been lovely, too. Though Miles hadn’t needed to convince our son to open his little beak, he’d done all the ‘Choo choo coming into the station’ routine, making Joe chortle and even me laugh. But he’d now switched over from daddy to lawyer mode. He was thinking about work, the afternoon conference with the client and the intricacies of the case.
Though his ‘what are you good for?’ words still hurt, I tried to look for the positives: he clearly loved his boy, he’d bought me the lavender water and it had been good of him to trek all the way here for a night when he was under so much pressure.
Reaching another set of traffic lights, Miles groaned again. ‘Bloody hell, not more roadworks,’ he muttered. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘The last flaming lot added ten minutes.’
There was nothing I could say. His face through the mirror was pale with anxiety. I could feel his sheer panic. At this rate he’d only catch his train by a whisker; he might even miss it.
Finally screeching to a halt in the car park, he grabbed his bag and bolted without even closing the door.
‘Good luck with the trial,’ I called after him, watching until he’d disappeared through the arches.
Sad that he’d gone, I didn’t move for a while. Now there was nothing to distract me from the reason I was here. It was time to sort Mum’s belongings, fish out the paperwork, instruct a solicitor and estate agent. I had to draw a firm line under Norfolk.
My son gazed at me with round blue eyes. ‘What now, Joe?’ I asked.
He didn’t answer. I wasn’t surprised, I didn’t know either.
* * *
My jaw aching from resolve by the time I was back, I immediately strode to the phone and called Tom Hague.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ I began.
‘You’re never a bother. How can I help you, Alice?’
That was something I liked about Tom; he didn’t prattle on but seemed to instinctively know when I needed something. I sniffed back the image of his teary face yesterday. My ‘breath of fresh air’ dad. Yes, they had that same kind intuition.
I yanked back my mind to the issue at hand. ‘Could you recommend a local probate solicitor, please? I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘Roger Bakewell,’ he immediately answered. ‘I’ve used him for my company and commercial needs for years. Norwich-based and senior partner these days, but he’s your man. He’ll sort you out.’
‘Brilliant, thank you. I just need a pen. Could you—’
‘No need, love. I’ll ask him to call you.’
Before I had time to take stock, the solicitor himself was on the line. Probate was probably a comedown from his usual work, but his soft accent was warm. ‘I was very sorry to hear about your loss. I met your father, of course, but never your mother. Leave everything with me. Tom Hague’s an old friend. I’m always glad to do him a favour.’
‘Thank you. That’s so helpful. Remind me, what will you need?’
‘Tom says he’ll let me have what he’s got—’
‘Like what?’
Roger cleared his throat. ‘Well, the death certificate for starters—’
‘Sorry, yes, of course.’
‘A will, if there is one. Then anything legal or financial. You know, official-looking paperwork. If in doubt, send it in.’ His tone was a little patronising; I doubt he realised I was a lawyer. But then again, I had been a pathetic sap asking Tom to be my police ‘liaison’ and I was effectively passing the buck again now.
‘Great. Thanks again.’
‘Righto. You’ll find all our contact details on the BRB Solicitors’ website. Call anytime.’
Relieved Roger had given me the ‘if in doubt, send it in’
carte blanche, I put Joe on his mat, knelt at the sideboard and pulled out the right bottom drawer. The almond-like smell of parchment breathed back. Bingo. Various certificates for marriage, birth and death. Then underneath, a buff envelope labelled ‘The Last Will and Testament of Evelyn Marie Baker’. Holding my breath, I slipped it out and quickly scanned the two pages, but there were no surprises. Laura and I were executors, and after payment of funeral expenses, debts and so on, the residue of her estate was to be split equally between us.
A separate ‘letter of wishes’ listed particular items of jewellery she’d earmarked for her sisters, sisters-in-law and nieces, but there were no monetary bequests to her siblings as I’d expected. Frowning, I sat back. And nothing for baby Oliver. I sighed. She’d made no effort to contact him for nearly forty-three years, so perhaps it was not surprising. But shouldn’t he inherit something? He was her flesh and blood; they’d become friendly over the past year. She was only sixty-five and had had no reason to believe she’d die. She’d given him the gold watch, she’d pulled out the baby drawing; perhaps she’d been planning to include provision for him. I shook my head. He was no longer my business – indeed, he never had been.
Leaving the certificates behind, I scooped out the remaining documents and briefly scanned jewellery valuations, the receipt for her fur coats and other miscellaneous insurance documents. Then I moved to the other drawer and pulled out the old client file of Dad’s I’d already seen. Absently opening the cover, I thrummed my fingers in thought. To send it to Roger or not? I decided to bugger it – he already thought I was a weak and feeble woman, so there was no harm in including it. I picked up the padded envelope I’d bought at great expense on the way home, bundled everything in and sealed it with gaffer tape. I blew out the trapped air. Well, that had been easy. I’d find the solicitors’ contact details on the internet, then a trip to the post office tomorrow and they’d be poor Roger’s problem, not mine.
It took a while to locate Mums iPad and search for ‘BRB Solicitors’ online, but when I finally put a marker pen to the envelope, I paused. I hadn’t been paying much attention to Dad’s old file, but a letter at the start had been from a firm of solicitors called ‘Bakewell, Roberts and Butcher’. Their offices had been on Meriden Way, same as Roger’s. Were BRB Solicitors and Bakewell, Roberts and Butcher one and the same firm? With the same initials, it seemed likely. And Dad had been Tom’s accountant, which meant all those dusty documents had related to Tom Hague’s business dealings.
Remembering the contents of the old file, I frowned. Writs and statutory demands, company accounts and official receiver correspondence, the copies of the London Gazette… Goodness, that all added up to bankruptcy.
I stared at the envelope. Part of me was intrigued, but did I really want to know? I’d already unearthed one troubling secret this weekend. And besides, everything was signed, sealed and ready to be delivered to Meriden Way tomorrow. I could check that box as done and move on to the next chore. I nodded. Yes; I’d leave it there; it was one step closer to moving on.
Chapter Forty-Five
Once Joe was napping, I made myself a coffee, ambled back to the lounge and vacantly gazed through the window. The mottled, morose sky reflected my mood. Bloody hell, I’d cocked up. If only I had done things differently: if I hadn’t been so damned impulsive I would still have George’s friendship, that warm security of having him around, knowing he was near if I needed him.
With a groan, I pictured the flash at the glass I had seen last night. Someone had been on the terrace, I was sure of it. Wasn’t I?
A cold flurry on my neck made me spin around with a jolt. Nothing was there, not even the cat, but when I automatically turned back to the flowerbeds for reassurance, I spotted George sitting on the bench in the shadow of the poplars. I squinted to catch his expression, but he was too far away. Tensing, I stared. Why was he here? God, to work presumably. He couldn’t just stop, he had a living to earn. Intending to hide, I stepped back, but he abruptly stood.
Half hopeful and half fearful he’d stay, I moved away from the window and listened for the crunch of pebbles. As his footfall came closer, I expected him to head for the sunken garden as usual, but he tapped at the front door. A smile of relief replaced my rattling nerves. He was here, so that was good. We could forget Friday night and go back to how we’d been at the beginning of the week – distant but civilised.
Even as I opened the door, my heart sank. George looked exhausted, ill almost. Dark shadows smudged his eyes, his hair was unkempt, and he had the start of a beard. Though his expression was unreadable, he held out his palm and offered his key.
‘Oh, so you’re leaving, then?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ Then he frowned. ‘No, not yet. I thought you might want this back.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ I blurted. I took a deep breath. ‘Look, I know I’ve made things really awkward and I’m so sorry. But it has been great having you around to keep an eye on me and Joe.’
His face was so dismal, my impulse was to cry, but I scrabbled for humour. ‘You know, making sure I don’t overheat Joe or burn down the bungalow. I’ll only be here for a few more days, so please don’t desert us.’
His jaw was tight. My attempt at banter was having no effect; if anything, his frown deepened.
‘I am truly sorry,’ I said quietly. ‘About everything. Please don’t be angry with me.’
Raking a hand through his hair, he turned towards the rose beds. ‘I’m not angry with you, Ali,’ he said. ‘But you now know that your mother… that she… I didn’t think about it until last night, but those trips on the river you’d described; you were clearly very close to your dad, and she…’
‘Betrayed him.’ I sighed. ‘I know, but—’
‘Because a father is important. A huge part of anyone’s life.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’
The conversation wasn’t going as I had expected. What was he trying to say? I watched his long fingers curl around the key. Like a thunderbolt, it struck me. My thoughts about Mum’s will and whether he should benefit had all been very charitable, but it went further than that. It was about identity. Recognition. Acceptance. Did he want to be known as Eve’s son, meet Laura and the family? Go public, effectively? Perhaps he needed to be more than a dirty secret; maybe he wanted to be introduced to the world as my brother.
‘Oh God,’ I said, my thoughts firing out. ‘I hadn’t considered how you must feel about everything. Would you like to, well, come out? Tell everyone your birth mum was Eve? I can phone Laura and break the news to her.’ My mind was in overdrive, thinking ahead. ‘Then there’s money, of course, your fair share of everything. I instructed a solicitor just this afternoon. I can ask him what to do about varying the will and—’
As though I’d slapped him, his head whipped back. ‘For God’s sake!’ The force of his anger made me jump. He thumped his chest. ‘You have no idea,’ he said, turned on his heels and strode away.
* * *
The sky turned to slate grey at five, followed moments later by a heavy squall. The rain assailed the windows but its violence was comforting just then. Passing as quickly as it came, I felt a sense of relief. Fate and the weather were urging me on.
I stared at the heap of stuff I’d amassed. Did Laura and I really need to go through childhood artwork and craft, ballet, violin and piano grades, ‘star of the week’ certificates or even old school reports? I would keep the photographs for posterity, but otherwise black bin liners were the thing. A thought occurred and I smiled thinly. No wonder George had been so interested in the aunties and cousins. Like an idiot, I’d thought him attentively charming, but he had been studying his own family. I’d tried to say the right things about recognition and money, but the bloody man had shouted me down and stalked off. Too like my blinking husband. Though my emotions swung and fought, irritation was definitely among them.
Chatting to Joe as I worked, I added old playing cards, tat
tered board games and childhood annuals to the ‘throw away’ pile. As I stretched my stiff spine, the sound of footsteps filtered through. No guesses who it was; he’d rushed away with the key he’d been so keen to hand over. Opening the door before he knocked, I stepped onto the wet terrace and held out my palm. Clearly not registering my body language nor my frown, he stared at the sky.
He eventually met my gaze. ‘I’m sorry for shouting,’ he said. ‘It was bang out of order.’
‘It was.’
My arms folded, I waited. What now?
He took a shuddery breath. As though having terrible news to impart, his shoulders were tense, his expression bleak. ‘Can I come in?’
Worry took over. ‘Are you alright?’ I asked, standing back. ‘Has something happened?’
He smiled faintly and spread his arms. ‘Apart from this?’ He dropped them to his sides. ‘It isn’t my forte, but I need to talk, I suppose.’
‘Of course…’
Scooping up Joe, I made my way to the kitchen and made tea, my mind buzzing. We hadn’t broached the unmentionable yet. God, I hoped the kiss would be brushed under the carpet. And yet, and yet… the desire to reach out and comfort him was almost overwhelming.
His head down at the table, he didn’t speak until I joined him. ‘The letter. Eve’s letter…’ he started. ‘I’ve read it fifty times and I can’t get an idea out of my head.’
Unsure where he was going, I sat quietly opposite him and propped Joe on my lap.
‘That he, that my real father…’ Abruptly he stood and stared through the side door. ‘This idea, this notion… It makes sense.’ He turned back, his look haunted. ‘I think I was the product of rape.’
I couldn’t hide my surprise; that hadn’t been my interpretation of the letter at all. ‘I didn’t think so. Why did you glean that?’
He clenched his hands into fists, then released them. ‘There was something in me when Ben died. Anger, fury. Nothing resembling… nothing criminal. I didn’t hurt anyone other than myself. But the rage was uncontrollable at times. It scared me. It frightened Emma too.’ His eyes met mine. ‘I think it has always been there, just below the surface. God knows, I’d never do anything like that but… Perhaps I’m my father’s son.’
