Читать книгу The Traveller’s Daughter - Michelle Vernal - Страница 11

It had all been surprisingly easy once Kitty had made her mind up. Sitting in Baintree & Co.’s that afternoon she’d disconnected her call to Yasmin and rang the number Christian Beauvau had provided before she got cold feet. A woman called Simone Cazal had answered. Introducing herself as his P.A., she’d told Kitty that Monsieur Beauvau would be very pleased to hear she was coming. If she left matters in her hands, she would organize everything. She’d ended the call by telling her she would phone back within the hour to give Kitty her flight details and to discuss payment.

Payment? She hadn’t even thought about that. As Kitty hung up, she caught Texting Queen’s, who had finally put her phone down, curious gaze and the butterflies set in. Was she doing the right thing? What if she was opening a can of worms she had no business opening?

There had been no more time to dwell on it though because with a blast of cold air Mr Baintree himself opened the door. He stood in front of her in his greatcoat that, in Kitty’s opinion, was a bit over the top given they were in April. She tried not to focus on his hair and concentrated instead on what he was saying, but her eyes had kept straying upwards. It was like a grey bird’s nest she concluded. It even had a little hollow in the middle for the eggs. She managed to drag her eyes away from his hair as he informed her in his plummy tones that the finances would soon be on hand and that her solicitors would take care of his company’s commission. Clapping his hands together, he added that all that was left for her to do to complete the sale was to give him the house keys.

She thanked him for a job well done and handed over the keys without ceremony, not feeling much of anything because she couldn’t say that she was sad to see the house go. The thought of her impending trip to France was filling her mind, and there wasn’t room for practical thoughts like the fact that she was now in a position financially to make her café a reality. She’d shelve all thoughts of running her own business until she was able to give them her full attention. She quashed the little voice that taunted, excuses, excuses at her. Shaking the hand Mr Baintree was proffering, she said goodbye to him and the Texting Queen, who was now industriously shifting papers around on her desk.

Kitty shivered as she left the warmth of the office, the temperature had dropped another degree in the time she had been sitting in the toasty reception area. She made her way the short distance to Wigan’s town square, her wheelie case banging over the cobbles behind her. At least it had stopped drizzling, she thought, gazing at the late afternoon sky with its patches of blue trying to break through the omnipresent grey.

She’d told that Simone woman that she’d fly from Manchester in the morning, so she needed to find a place to stay for the night. She’d try her luck down past the train station at the bottom of the hill. It made sense to find somewhere near the station because she would be in for an early start to get to the airport in the morning.

The road she set off down was filling up with bag-laden Saturday shoppers rushing to catch their train home. She picked up her pace so as not to feel left out, keeping a tight hold of her case, and that was when she saw him, well actually she felt him before she saw him. She just knew with a sudden sick lurch of her stomach that he was there and looking up she saw she was right. He was walking against the crowd in her direction a bit like Moses parting the red sea. “Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered under her breath, oblivious to the pursed-lipped look a woman herding her teenage daughter who was toting a Dorothy Perkins bag shot her as they strode past. She thought about ducking into the Post Office but knew it was too late; he’d seen her. A split-second later he was standing in front of her with that smile of his that always made her knees go to jelly.

“I don’t believe it. Kitty, wow! Is it you?”

“Hello, Damien.” She paused knowing she should keep walking, but a lifetime of having good manners instilled in her prevented her from doing so. The throngs of people either side of them seemed to vanish as Damien lunged forward, his lips grazing her cheek and leaving her feeling like she’d just been branded.

“Whoa I can’t believe this, it’s so good to see you. What are you doing here? I’ve just had lunch with Sam and thought I’d race up to the WH Smith before they close. The latest Lee Child is out.”

She’d forgotten his younger brother lived in Wigan, but she remembered how much of a Lee Child fan he was. Unbidden, a memory of them both on a wet Saturday afternoon curled up at opposite ends of the couch lost in their books sprang to mind. What had she been reading? She couldn’t remember now and what did it matter? Gosh, he looked good she thought, wishing he had acquired a beer belly, gone bald and been afflicted by a case of adult acne in the last six months. If anything though he looked better than ever. He was dressed for the weekend, and she’d always liked him best when he was casually rumpled. His brown hair was shorter these days, and it suited him. She unconsciously raised a hand to her hair hoping the damp air hadn’t caused the irreparable fringe curl.

“Hey,” he said reaching out and touching her arm. “I was sorry to hear about Rosa. I mean I knew she was sick and everything, but it was very quick in the end wasn’t it?”

She nodded, not meeting his eye and not trusting herself to reply. So he did know then, she had checked the post for a sympathy card from him every day after the hospice had rung to say her mother was gone, but one never came. In the end, she had given him the benefit of the doubt thinking that perhaps he hadn’t heard the news or didn’t know where to find her.

“I heard through one of the old gang, and I was going to send a card but, well to be honest, I wasn’t sure you’d want to receive one from me.” He shrugged. “You look well, I mean despite what’s happened, er you know losing your mum and everything, you still look wonderful. I have to say London obviously suits you.”

Speak Kitty, speak, she willed herself. “Uh yes, it does thank you. I’ve settled in.”

“I heard you had a stall at one of the big markets down there selling your cupcakes. I guess it’s a step in the right direction towards owning your café. Good for you.”

Kitty frowned, he seemed to have heard a lot. “Yes it is thanks, and well, now I’ve got some money behind me thanks to mum there’s no reason I can’t make it a reality.” Too much information, Kitty my girl, don’t tell the bastard anything. She mentally kicked herself before deciding to turn the tables. “How’s everything with you and er–” She realized she didn’t know the name of the girl he had spent three months bonking behind her back. No doubt it had come up in the explosive row they’d had when she had caught him out. It was thanks to a stonker of a headache and the strangest feeling that something was amiss that she had left work early one afternoon. She’d come home and stumbled on them post-coital lying in their bed and had turned and walked straight back out of the flat. Wandering around the Manchester streets, she’d been in complete shock at the collapse of her world as she knew it. It was growing dark when the numbness gave way to anger, and common sense told her it wasn’t a good idea to be walking around unfamiliar streets on her own, so she’d gone home. Damien had been sitting at the dining room table waiting for her, and all hell had let loose. It was hard to believe they were now standing opposite one another on the Wigan pavement exchanging banal pleasantries. She doubted since they were being nice to one another that he’d appreciate her asking how ‘The Bitch’ was as she’d come to think of her either.

“Leanne, her name was Leanne.”

She watched him run his fingers through his hair.

“She was a mistake, Kitty. There’s not a day gone by since you left that I haven’t regretted what I did to you, to us. It just sounds so trite to say I am sorry, but truly I don’t know what else to say because I am.”

He rested his hand on her arm once more, as though frightened she would walk away. Fat chance of that though; her legs were rooted to the spot.

“We broke up a few weeks after you left. I wanted to call you so badly, but after the way I’d treated you I didn’t think you would want to hear from me ever again.”

He looked at her as though expecting her to contradict him. When she didn’t, she could tell by the little boy lost look on his face that he was as thrown by her presence as she was by his.

“I went round to see your friend Gemma once not long after you left. I asked her not to say anything to you, but I needed to know how you were doing.”

Kitty didn’t know, but then she hadn’t heard from Gemma for a few months. Mind you, it was a two-way thing; there was nothing stopping her from having contacted her old pal. How did he think she was doing? You didn’t have to be Einstein to figure out that when your fiancé does the dirty on you it stands to reason you’ll be left feeling like shite.

“She wasn’t exactly pleased to see me and she didn’t want to tell me whereabouts you had moved to. I can’t say I blame her.”

What was she supposed to say to that? She stared up into his familiar blue eyes. For a while after she had arrived in London she had kept seeing him everywhere she went, only for him to vanish when she reached out to touch him. She’d have given anything for him to turn up on her doorstep and tell her that he had made a mistake. She’d missed him so much that any shred of pride or self-respect she’d had left when she’d walked out of the apartment they had shared together for three years would have disintegrated. She didn’t know if she could have forgiven him for what he’d done to her, but she did know she was a long way from being over him. Gemma might have thought she was being a good friend and protecting her, but she should have told her Damien had called round. She should have let her make her mind up as to whether she wanted to see him or not.

“Have you got time for a quick drink?” He raised an eyebrow, and his expression was hopeful.

Kitty became aware of the people rushing past them then. For a moment, there had been no one else on that busy street leading to the train station other than him and her. She knew a ‘quick drink’ was a bad idea, just as she knew it would be anything but. For some reason, even though the word ‘no’ had formed itself on the tip of her tongue, as she opened her traitorous mouth the words, “Okay, a quick one then,” tumbled out unbidden instead and she followed his gaze to the pub across the road. A moment later, he steered her through a break in the traffic and as he opened the tavern’s door a warm glow and the smell of ale greeted them. She followed him inside, barely registering the split-level layout and the low beams that lent the buzzing room an air of cosiness.

“A glass of Sauvignon?” He raised a questioning eyebrow remembering her tipple as he pushed his way through to the crowded bar.

“Hmm, yes please.”

“How about I order while you grab a table?”

Kitty nodded and went to turn away, but he stopped her. She could feel the heat of his hand on her shoulder as with twinkling eyes he asked, “Are you still a prawn cocktail girl?”

Her mouth curled into a small smile at his reference to her favourite crisps. It had been one of those silly couple jokes between them, her love of the prawn cocktail crisp and the fact she’d never share her packet with him. “Of course,” she replied, knowing that her churning stomach wouldn’t let her touch them even if he were to buy a bag.

Leaving him waving a tenner trying to attract the barman, she weaved her way through the tables. There was a soccer match blaring from the television bracketed to the wall at the far end of the room. The pub was heaving, but she managed to spot a table near the loos, empty for obvious reasons. She didn’t care, though; she needed to sit down because she was frightened that if she didn’t her legs might give way.

Leaning her case against the wall, she pulled the chair out and sank gratefully down on the seat before resting her elbows on the table. Lowering her head she massaged her temples, in an attempt to still the throbbing. What are you doing, Kitty? She knew if Yasmin were to walk into the pub right now she’d drag her out by her hair. At the very least she’d tell her she was a bloody fool. She’d be right too. Raising her head, she tucked her hair behind her ears and inhaled slowly. She needed to get out of here before she did something she knew she’d regret and getting to her feet, she slung her handbag back over her shoulder. She had just grabbed the handle of her case intent on leaving when Damien materialized through the group of lads standing in a huddle staring up at the telly.

He stopped in front of her, a drink in each hand. “They sold out of prawn cocktail, but that’s no reason to leave.” He didn’t smile despite his attempt at humour. “Please don’t go, Kitty.” His eyes pleaded. Eyes that were so familiar to her with their flecks of dark blue around the irises, and as she hesitated, she knew she was lost even as she tried to be strong.

“Damien, this isn’t a good idea.”

“I’m so sorry for everything.” He put the drinks down on the table and pulled her chair back out for her. “Please just give me five minutes to talk to you. I miss you. I miss us.”

With every fibre of her being telling her not to, she sat down again and watched warily as he sat down opposite her. “Thank you, I know you have every right to walk away. It’s just that it’s so good to see you. I’ve missed you so bloody much.”

Don’t say that! She picked up her glass taking a large swallow, not wanting to meet his gaze over its rim. To look anywhere other than at him, she put her glass down and fished around in her handbag for her phone. The French women had said she would confirm her travel arrangements within the hour and hoping for the distraction her call would bring, she placed her phone down on the table.

She caught Damien’s raised eyebrow and launched into her reasons for being back in the North and why this time tomorrow she would be in the small Provencal town of Uzés.

When she’d finished, Damien stared at her, his pint glass paused halfway to his mouth.

“That’s pretty much it in a nutshell.” It sounded mental saying it all out loud, and it was all down to her mother and her bloody secrets.

“Life’s never dull when you’re around Kitty, that’s for sure.”

She bit back the retort that it wasn’t exactly dull when he was around either, and for all the wrong reasons but he didn’t miss the look that flashed across her face.

“Believe me, I have had plenty of time to think about what I did, how I ruined everything.”

“Why did you do it?” she asked softly.

“I was scared.” He shrugged.

“Of what? I thought we were doing okay?” She was clutching the stem of her glass so tightly she was surprised it didn’t snap. It was a conversation she’d never expected to have.

“We were. We were better than okay; we were great. I wanted to marry you more than anything, and believe me I have thought about what went wrong. I’ve thought about nothing else, and the only explanation I can come up with is that I was frightened of making that final commitment and Leanne was my subconscious way of sabotaging our relationship.”

Kitty drained her glass, in her opinion, there wasn’t anything subconscious about shagging someone else, you either were or you weren’t, simple. “So you were a commitment-phobe, is that what you are trying to say?”

He had the grace to look sheepish. “It sounds stupid I know, but that’s what it boils down to. You know the crap Sam and I went through with our parents when they split up.”

She nodded, she had known his parents’ ugly divorce had left its scars, but then nobody got through life without accumulating baggage along the way, it was just the way of the world. She’d had to deal with her mother’s past being a closed book all her life. The scenarios she had conjured up to fill in the blanks had been endless. On top of that, she’d found herself orphaned at thirty-one years of age. So yes, she knew better than most that life sucked sometimes, but that didn’t mean you had to go around bonking someone behind your fiancée’s back.

Her phone shrilled, and she was grateful for the interruption, but her hand hovered over the phone not wanting to be rude. Damien leaned back into his chair and waved his hand toward it. “You’d better take it.”

The lads who were glued to the match let out a roar and Kitty frowned holding the phone up to her ear. “Can you wait just a moment, please?” she shouted into the mouthpiece before covering it and looking at Damien. “I’m just going to pop into the Ladies. I can’t hear a thing with that lot carrying on.”

Damien nodded, and she felt his eyes on her back like twin laser beams as she walked off. Closing the washroom door, she was grateful for a few moments to compose herself. “Sorry about that I’m in a pub, and it’s very noisy.” She peered into the smeared mirror at her flushed face and dishevelled hair and shook her head. God, she looked a mess.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Kitty, it is Simone Cazal, Monsieur Beauvau’s assistant calling you.”

“Hello, Miss Cazal.”

“It is Simone, please.”

“Er okay, then Simone.” Kitty turned away from her reflection and leaned against the sink. She listened as the woman told her that her tickets for a ten a.m. flight would be waiting for her to collect at the Lufthansa desk at Manchester Airport in the morning. She would be there to meet her upon her arrival in Marseille. Her return flight would be booked at the end of the photo shoot. If Kitty was happy to sign the contract upon her arrival and provide her bank account details the sum of five thousand euros would be deposited into her account. It would be a one-off, full and final payment for her participation in the photo shoot.

Kitty just about dropped her phone “Er pardon me, Simone, did you just say five thousand euros?”

“Yes, this amount is not up for negotiation – you are happy with it, oui?”

“Oui, yes thanks.”

Simone said goodbye, reiterating that she would meet Kitty at Marseille Airport in the morning. Kitty barely heard, she was reeling. All that money, just for posing for a picture! She wondered what this Christian Beauvau chap was being paid by Tres Belle if he could afford to pay her that amount. It was dawning on her ever so slowly that this print her mother had featured in all those years ago was indeed a big deal. She turned back to the mirror and smoothed her hair wishing she’d bought her handbag in with her so she could have at least run a comb through it and put a bit of lippy on. She sighed deeply, what an afternoon this was turning out to be. She needed another drink.

Making her way out of the bathroom, she saw that Damien, as though having read her mind, had purchased another glass of wine and a fresh beer sat in front of him. She sat down and took a big swig of her glass. “Oh, I needed that.”

Damien looked at her concerned. “Kitty, listen I was thinking, are you sure this photo thing is all legit? You know you read about this kind of thing in the papers, young women being lured overseas. You might get there and find yourself part of some French slavery ring.”

“I don’t know what papers you read, but it’s a very elaborate con if it isn’t legit, look.” She pulled the photo up on her phone, and Damien took it from her staring at the picture for a moment. “Gosh! Wow, that’s Rosa? Seeing her young like that’s so weird. She’s just like you if you were in the same outfit with a different hairstyle. I wonder if the bloke’s nephew looks anything like him.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know a thing about him.”

“It’s a bit of a creepy idea if you ask me. Do you know anything about the backstory around the photograph?”

“No, and that’s why I have to go. Simone, that’s the photographer’s assistant, just told me they are paying me a one-off fee of five thousand euros for agreeing to pose for the new photograph.”

Damien spluttered into his beer. “How much?”

She repeated herself and Damien morphed before her very eyes into the business mode that befitted his job in the Share Market. “You should get your solicitor to look over any paperwork you are going to sign, you know. I mean, if they are prepared to fly you over to France and pay you that much it is obviously a pretty lucrative job for this Christian Beauvau fellow. There could be a lot more in it for you in the way of royalties. I’d be interested to know if your mother has received hers over the years too. Do you know how much they are paying the bloke’s nephew?”

Kitty felt her back stiffen; there was no way she was giving a penny more to her mum’s solicitors. “No! Stop. Damien, the money will be nice, but that is not what this is about. You know my mother never talked about where she came from, and this is my chance to find out about a side of her that I never knew.”

Damien knew how Rosa’s refusal to talk about her past had eaten away at her. “You’re right. Sorry, it’s the stockbroker in me, I can’t help myself.”

“It’s okay.” She relaxed and sat back in her chair drinking her wine a little too quickly.

“Watch it; you’ll get tipsy.” He smiled. “So where are you staying tonight?”

“I’m not sure. I was going to find a B&B.”

“You can stay at mine; I can drop you at the airport in the morning.”

Kitty’s eyes widened.

“I’ll behave myself I promise, but I can’t leave you to wander around Wigan looking for a Bed and Breakfast. It will be getting dark soon out there. Besides, you’d have to get up at a ridiculous time to get your flight.”

Kitty knew it wouldn’t be dark for at least another hour. There was nothing to stop him offering to drive her around Manchester looking for a B&B if he was worried about the distance from the airport. For some reason, though, she couldn’t summon either the strength or the willpower to contradict him.