Читать книгу A Summer Of Secrets - Alice Ross - Страница 14

Chapter Five

Rich couldn’t wait to escape the house that morning. Alison had worked herself into a lather about Bethany’s costume for yet another of the school’s – far-too-frequent, in Rich’s opinion – dressing-up days. “Something from the garden” this time. Did Rich have any ideas?

No, he bloody didn’t. At least not, apparently, any decent ones. His suggestions of a worm, cabbage or shed had been instantly rejected by the household’s female contingent.

‘I suppose I’ll have to think of something, as usual,’ Alison huffed.

Rich didn’t know why she huffed. Alison’s abundant creative streak never ceased to amaze him. When all the other kids turned up as Robin Hood or Harry Potter for World Book Day, Alison dressed Bethany as an encyclopaedia – complete with pull-out reference section. And when they failed to find any decent modern art to brighten the walls of their new Buttersley home, Alison, despite never having previously brandished a paintbrush, effortlessly produced an impressive set of abstracts.

In fact, Rich couldn’t think of anything Alison didn’t excel at. Despite his pride in his wife, though, her unfailing competence sometimes made him feel more than a little inadequate. Perhaps that was why, he pondered, as he drove his BMW along the country lanes to work, he hadn’t yet mentioned Candi to her. To do so would be admitting he’d cocked up. Literally! Got a transient teenage girlfriend he hadn’t even liked that much up the duff. And his wavering confidence was not helped by Bernice’s evidently low opinion of him. She hadn’t even bothered to tell him about the pregnancy; hadn’t wanted him to play any part in their child’s life, preferring to bring up Candi alone than accept any support he might have offered.

Of course, Rich knew that any passive observer would immediately categorise him as the archetypal wide boy: a ducker-and-diver; a stereotypical salesman. Precisely the image he set out to portray many years ago. And it had worked. Whatever product he’d been tasked with, he’d never once failed to exceed his targets; never once witnessed his name anything other than top of the leader board; never settled for anything other than first prize in incentive competitions. But Rich’s true personality lay a million miles from the cocky salesman. Contrary to the confident persona that greeted the world every day, Rich never felt good enough, always imagining he should be doing something better with his life, something with more credibility, more class. Something that would make his parents proud …

With only thirteen months between Rich and his older sister, Hilary, the two of them had been close as children. Apart from the rare, inescapable sibling spat over something ridiculously trivial, on the whole they played well together, shared without demur, and formed an impenetrable wall of solidarity when faced with unsavoury issues like eating vegetables or having their hair washed. One day, during the school summer holidays, their mother whisked them along to a ‘Musical Taster Day’ at the local theatre. Five-year-old Rich put up a fierce fight, making his preference for a morning at the swimming pool crystal-clear. But once at the theatre, he’d loved it. It seemed like every instrument ever invented had been available for the children to trial. And Rich trialled them all – bonging the bongos, blasting the bassoon and hammering the harp. Hilary, meanwhile, made an immediate beeline for the piano. And there she remained for the entire three hours, various members of staff hovering about her, their mother’s face growing increasingly pink.

‘Oh, Harry, you’ll never guess what’s happened,’ their by now scarlet parent had gushed to their father the moment they arrived home. ‘Hilary apparently has “a very strong aptitude” for the piano. That’s what they said, Harry, “a very strong aptitude”.’

Their bemused father stroked his beard. ‘Hmm. So what does that mean, exactly?’

Their mother tutted. ‘It means, Harry, that we have to buy a piano. Forthwith.’

“Forthwith”, in this instance, meant the following week. The toys in the tiny room that had constituted the children’s playroom were boxed up and shipped off to the charity shop, a second-hand, upright piano wedged into the freed-up space.

Next came the piano teacher – the formidable Miss Rundfahrt– or Bumfart, as Rich called her. A scary German lady with a helmet of slick black hair that looked as if it had been painted onto her bulbous head.

Shortly after these new arrivals, all invitations to parties, or other fun and “normal” children’s activities, began to be rejected. Rich ceased to ask why, the standard response being: ‘Hilary has to practise.’

Indeed, it seemed to Rich that all Hilary did was practice – for hour upon hour – preparing for yet another exam, or yet another recital. He scarcely saw his sister any more and, not surprisingly, their once-strong bond began to weaken.

When Hilary sailed through her final exam with a double distinction aged just thirteen, the ante upped still further, the entire dining room being cleared to make room for a grand piano. Mealtimes, the only time they’d sat down together, were reduced to trays on laps in the lounge.

Needless to say, their mother’s pride, ebullient from that fateful Musical Taster Day, had surged with every exam certificate and every glowing review. And their father, whose sole purpose in life had been to appease his wife, meekly followed suit.

As in-depth discussions of music colleges and conservatoires began to dominate every conversation, Rich found himself increasingly estranged from his family.

‘Do you mind if I stay at Si’s tonight?’ he asked one day.

His mother didn’t bother to lift her head from the pile of music she’d been sifting. ‘Whatever you like, darling,’ came the reply, leaving Rich in little doubt that, had he asked if he could have a one-way ticket to Bangkok to join the Ladyboys, the response would have been much the same.

Hilary had subsequently accepted a music scholarship at Oxford – an auspicious start to her glittering career as one of the country’s most prestigious pianists.

Rich, meanwhile, demonstrated none of his sister’s musical prowess. Indeed, demonstrated no prowess of any kind. Until his first Saturday job helping a mate’s uncle with his hardware market stall. The art of persuasion, he soon discovered, was his forte. But no matter how many sales leagues he topped, no matter how many bonuses he received, no matter how many weekends to Barcelona he won, his achievements always seemed tacky compared to those of his sister.

Still, he had – or at least he’d thought he had – moved on; deftly buried these feelings of underachievement under a ton of earth. Until something ignited a fuse that blasted them back to the surface.

Something like Candi’s appearance.

Hitting him with all the impact of an army tank, it had detonated his fragile confidence. Not only because of Bernice’s insulting lack of faith in him, but because he didn’t have a bloody clue how to handle it.

A cornucopia of questions whizzing about his head, he’d concluded – as he lay awake at 3.37 am that morning – that the only way to obtain any answers was to talk to Candi. Precisely why he’d decided to call her. Today. In fact, he should do it right now. Before a bazillion reasons not to trounced his resolution.

Veering the jeep onto the grass verge, he activated the handbrake and fished out his mobile. Normally, when calling from the car, he instigated the snazzy, hands-free system. For this call, though, it didn’t seem appropriate. The notion of Candi’s voice ricocheting around his personal space made him quake. It seemed far too … invasive – as if the sound might somehow seep into the cream-leather seats or velour mats, leaving an indelible stain. In fact, come to think of it, he’d rather not speak to her in the car at all. Opening the door, he slid out and took a few steps along the verge, his finger hovering over “Chlorine Supplier”. All at once, though, a surfeit of nerves whacked into him. He had no idea what to say. Maybe he should firm up his strategy first. Give it more thought. Not blurt out something he might –

At a chorus of mooing from the neighbouring field, Rich dropped the phone. Blimey. He was a wreck. And the group of cows staring accusingly at him did nothing to help his nerves. Maybe he’d be better off in the car, after all.

Resuming his place inside, Rich turned his back to his bovine audience and his attention to the phone. If he didn’t make this call in the next thirty seconds, he probably never would. He sucked in a deep breath. And on the exhale, pressed the call button.

Rich arranged to meet Candi that afternoon.

The conversation to set up the meeting had been, understandably, somewhat stilted. The moment she answered the phone, his mind had flashed blank. As if that one solitary word, ‘Hello’, confirmed her existence; made him realise that, in some ludicrously head-in-sand way, he’d been hoping her appearance had been nothing more than an apparition; that she didn’t really exist at all.

She was already at the venue she’d suggested – a quaint café in Harrogate – when Rich arrived. Sitting at a small table tucked away at the back, she had what looked like a strawberry milkshake in front of her. The café was busy, seemingly overtaken by a busload of pensioners. Due to the bustle of activity, she didn’t see him at first, allowing him another few seconds to appraise her. Her lank, mousy hair was scraped back in a high ponytail, and her yellow hoodie sapped her face of all colour.

Did she bear any resemblance at all to him? He didn’t think so. Or maybe her –

All at once, she turned and caught his eye. Her mouth stretched into a nervous smile.

Rich’s stomach flipped. He attempted a smile of his own, but by the strange look a passing waitress shot him, suspected he looked like he might be in dire need of the loo.

Candi’s smile widened as he approached the table. ‘Hi,’ she said.

‘Hi.’ Rich slipped into the chair opposite. ‘How, er, are you?’

She grimaced. ‘A bit nervous, to be honest. You?’

‘Ever so slightly terrified.’

She nodded. ‘Well, I guess it isn’t every day you discover you have a kid you didn’t know about.’

Rich gave a snort of ironic laughter. ‘No, thank God.’ Then, realising how bad that sounded, immediately added, ‘Not that it wasn’t … I mean, it isn’t … I mean, you aren’t …’

This time her smile was sympathetic. ‘It’s okay. I can imagine it came as a bit of a shock.’

The arrival of the waitress at that point spared Rich having to explain that there was no “bit” about it. He ordered a café latte and sat back in his chair. ‘Well …’ he began. Well, what? He had no idea what to say next.

‘Awkward?’ she suggested with a shy smile.

Rich noticed how it lit up her face, making her appear, if not exactly pretty, then certainly a deal more animated.

‘It took me ages to pluck up the courage to contact you,’ she admitted, her gaze shifting to her drink as she fiddled with the two straws ensconced therein. ‘I didn’t know the best way to do it. If I should send you a letter, or phone, or … Anyway, after much deliberation, I decided it was probably best just to bite the bullet and do it in person.’

Rich nodded. ‘You were right. I think if you had sent me a letter, I probably would’ve thought it was a wind-up.’

‘I’m really glad you called me,’ she confessed, her gaze still on the straws. ‘I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t.’

Rich gawped as, for the first time, it occurred to him that he hadn’t given a moment’s thought as to how she must be feeling about all this. He needed to find out more.

‘So how long have you known I was your …?’ What? Dad? Father? Donator of sperm?

‘Just after my A-levels last year,’ she replied, sparing him the trouble of further indecision. ‘We moved house so Mum had to empty all the drawers in the bureau she normally keeps locked. I knew my birth certificate was in there so I managed to have a rummage. Of course, I’d asked her loads of times before, but she just fobbed me off.’

Great, fumed Rich. Not only had Bernice ousted him from playing any part in their daughter’s life, but she’d withheld his very existence. Indignation surged through him. For all he wasn’t over the moon about the discovery, surely he had the right to know he’d fathered a child? Wasn’t there some law about that? Because if there wasn’t, there damned well should be.

‘Does your mum know you’ve contacted me?’ he asked, attempting to banish any hint of venom from his tone.

Behind her spectacles, Candi’s eyes grew wide. ‘God, no. She’d go ballistic.’

Rich caught his bottom lip between his teeth. Recalling many of the tantrums Bernice had thrown in the short time he’d known her, he could well imagine that being the case. ‘How, er, is she?’ he heard himself asking. Crap! Where had that come from? He couldn’t give a toss about Bernice’s state of health.

Candi shrugged. ‘She’s okay, I suppose. Has her moments. She can be a bit …’ – she resumed her straw fiddling – ‘… a bit difficult at times.’

Hmm. Rich suspected there may be a deal more to that than she let on, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to explore that particular avenue just yet.

‘Did you go out with her for long?’

His heart plummeted. Shit. Of course she’d want to know about his relationship with her mother. He should’ve seen that coming. But he’d been so wrapped up in how all this affected him, it hadn’t once occurred to him the kid must have a gazillion questions of her own. Although none he could probably satisfactorily answer. He suspected her conception had resulted from a clumsy, drunken fumble behind Beverley Fitzgerald’s garage after a house party. As tactless as he could sometimes be, though, even he didn’t think she’d want to hear that. Well, at least if Bernice hadn’t said anything about him, he could inject a dash of poetic licence.

‘We went out for a couple of months,’ he replied. ‘We were young. I don’t think either of us really saw any future in it.’

‘What was Mum like back then?’

The waitress appeared at the table with Rich’s coffee. He smiled his thanks, grateful for the few seconds extra thinking time the intervention allowed him. Bernice had been a selfish cow. In fact, if his memory served him correctly, the reason they’d split was because she’d been absolutely plastered but wanted to go on to an all-night rave. Rich had put his foot down, which hadn’t evidently been the response she’d desired.

‘She was, um, a bit of a party girl,’ he said at length.

Candi bit her lip.

‘Do you like parties?’ he asked, wincing at how naff that sounded. Anything to veer the conversation away from him and Bernice, though.

Candi shook her head. ‘Not really. I don’t drink. It makes me throw up.’

Huh. That was weird. Rich was similarly affected after only a couple of glasses of wine. ‘So what do you do with yourself?’ he continued. ‘I presume you’ve left school now.’

She nodded. ‘Last summer.’

‘And are you planning on going to uni?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘No. It’s never appealed, to be honest. I don’t know what I want to do really. I guess you could say I’m having a year out to assess my options. I’m earning a bit of money working in a clothes shop at the moment. But, as corny as it sounds, I feel like I need to find out who I am and what I really want before I trot down some route just for the sake of it.’

Wow. A wise head on young shoulders. Rich liked that. What he wasn’t so enamoured with, though, was the distinct air of sadness that hung about her.

‘So, what about you?’ she enquired. ‘Apart from owning the hot-tub business, I don’t know a thing about you.’

Oh, God. He really didn’t want to talk about himself. He’d keep it brief. ‘Not much to tell, really. I’m married to Alison and have a six-year-old daughter …’ – Bollocks. Should he have said “another daughter”? – ‘Bethany.’

‘What’re they like?’

Despite his reticence, Rich smiled. ‘Bethany is hilarious. Six going on sixteen. And Alison is beautiful and clever, as well as being a superb businesswoman. We started Bubbles together a few years ago.’

‘And it’s going well?’

‘Very well. Much better than we’d ever imagined.’ A sudden unpleasant thought struck him. Was he being particularly dense here? Had she contacted him because she wanted money or –?

‘Sorry,’ she said, as if reading his mind. ‘I only asked out of interest. Please don’t think I want anything. Money, I mean, or anything like that. Because I don’t. I just wanted to meet you. To find out a bit about you. But if you’d rather not –’

Rich reached across the table and squeezed her hand. ‘I would,’ he said.

***

‘I can’t believe it,’ admitted Annie, clearing away the remains of the vegetable lasagne her husband, Jake, had made for dinner. ‘I mean, I thought –’

Portia nodded as she sliced off a sliver of Stilton from the hunk on the board in front of her. ‘That there’d be loads of money left?’

Annie grimaced. ‘Not that it’s any of my business. But I merely assumed –’