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‘Maybe I do, but I have a right to have it confirmed. Apparently the gossip in the village is that you don’t know who Tom’s father is.’
‘You know better than to listen to gossip.’ Then, because this wasn’t about her, ‘He’s so little, Matt. He won’t understand. I don’t want him to be frightened.’
‘You should have thought of that before. You’ve had it your way for five years. Now I’m dictating the terms.’
‘Please…’ She heard herself begging and didn’t care. ‘I’ll do anything.’
There was another seemingly endless silence before he said, very softly, ‘Anything?’
It was just as well that Matt gave her no chance to confirm or deny it.
‘Very well. Meet me tonight at the barn,’ he said briskly, as businesslike as if he were making an appointment to clear up some unfinished business—and maybe he did see it that way. ‘We can discuss exactly what “anything” means then.’
The barn? She covered her mouth with her hand, shutting in the cry of pain. Had he chosen the location, their special place, deliberately to hurt her?
But then, where else would they meet? In the village pub? That would certainly give the gossips a field day. The alternative was driving halfway across the county to find somewhere where there was no risk of them being recognised. If he’d been making enquiries about them, he must know that she didn’t have the time for that.
She breathed in and out once, very slowly, then said, ‘I won’t be able to get out until late.’
‘Nothing has changed, then.’ There was the faintest sound, a sigh of resignation perhaps. ‘Come when you can. I’ll wait.’
Matt pressed the disconnect button.
Please…
If he closed his eyes he could still see her, eighteen years old, lying back on a bed of straw in the old hayloft, her green eyes soft, her mouth warm and inviting. ‘Please…’
Even now, after all that had happened, he still responded like a horny teenager to the sound of her voice. Had to work to remember his anger.
‘Did I hear the phone?’
His mother paused in the doorway as if careful of invading his space, apparently unaware that checking up on his phone calls was even more intrusive.
‘Yes,’ he said and, taking that as an invitation, she joined him, setting her bag down on what she was already referring to as ‘his’ desk, and he glanced up. ‘I’ve been offered a cottage in Upper Haughton,’ he said. True enough. But not the answer to her question. Nothing, it seemed, had changed.
He and Fleur were both still locked in by nearly two centuries of hatred. They were both still lying to their parents, creeping out to meet in secret. But, while playing Romeo and Juliet had had a certain illicit appeal when they’d been too young to recognise the dangers, he’d had his fill of subterfuge.
‘You’re not staying here?’ she asked, trying hard to disguise her disappointment.
‘I’ve arranged to pick up the keys from the owner this evening.’
‘Renting a cottage in Upper Haughton will cost a pretty penny.’
‘It’s just as well I’ve inherited your business acumen, then.’
The compliment brought a smile to her face, as he’d known it would. But she wasn’t happy and, unable to stop herself, she said, ‘Why on earth waste good money, when there’s all the room you need here? You’ve been away for so long. I’d like the chance to spend some time with you. Cosset you a little.’
Yes, well, he’d been angry with her too, and cruel, as only the young, with time on their side, can be. He regretted that, but not enough to live under the same roof as her. But he reached out, briefly touching her arm, to soften the rejection as he said, ‘It isn’t far.’ Just far enough to avoid prying eyes. ‘If I decide to stay, I’ll look around for somewhere permanent to buy.’
‘Of course,’ she agreed, immediately retreating, as if walking on eggs. ‘I still can’t quite think of you as…well, an adult. Clearly the last thing a grown man of means wants is to live at home with his mother.’ Then, ‘What about the office?’ She did a good job of keeping the need, the fear that he’d leave again, from her voice as she gestured around her at the office she’d placed at his disposal. ‘Will this do you for the moment, or will you need more room?’ she asked, quickly recovering and giving him the opportunity for a graceful exit. Demonstrating that, no matter how desperate she was to cling to him, she wasn’t going to make a fool of herself.
He hadn’t discussed his plans with her, but only because he didn’t yet know what they were. He could work from the cottage, but an office at Hanovers gave him an excuse to come into the village whenever he wanted, so he said, ‘The use of a spare desk is welcome until I decide what I’m going to do.’
‘For as long as you like.’
‘No, for as long as you don’t try to drag me into your war with the Gilberts.’ If it hadn’t been for that nonsense…
‘I’m not at war with them, Matt,’ she said, and laughed as if the very idea were ridiculous. ‘I’m just doing my best to make a living.’
‘And your best is very good indeed,’ he said, not convinced by her swift denial but, having made his point, happy to change the subject. He got up, crossing to the window. ‘You’ve made an extraordinary success of this. Dad wouldn’t recognise the place.’
‘No.’ There was just a hint of self-satisfaction in her voice, Matt thought, turning to look at her. His father wouldn’t have recognised her, either.
She’d been one of those dull, practically invisible women, never getting involved in the business. Always ready to give a helping hand at village functions, but never, like some mothers—like Fleur’s mother—drawing attention to herself with her clothes or her make-up, something for which he’d been deeply grateful as a boy. Seeing her now, every inch the stylish and successful businesswoman, he wondered about that. About how unhappy she must have been.
‘What made you change your mind about selling up, moving away?’ he asked, keeping his own voice even, emotionless.
‘Time, maybe. I spent the best part of a year trying to sell it, hating every minute that I was forced to stay here. Unfortunately, the only people who showed an interest were housing developers but, much as I’d have enjoyed seeing a rash of nasty little houses on Hanover land, I couldn’t get planning permission.’
He didn’t bother to remind her that he’d pleaded with her to let him run the place for her. That she could have left, settled in comfort wherever she liked on the pension his father had provided. He was sure she’d thought about it many times during the last six years.
‘You must have really hated him.’
‘I wasn’t thinking straight at the time. If I had been, I would have realised that I wasn’t the only person hurting.’
It was as near to an apology as he was going to get, he thought and shrugged. ‘You did me a favour. Prised me out of a rut I’d been stuck in since I was old enough to know that my life was all laid out for me.’
She glanced at him, a frown creasing her forehead, and for a moment he suspected she hadn’t been thinking about him at all. Then she smiled and said, ‘That’s generous of you.’ She turned back to the window. ‘The truth is that I was pretty much at rock bottom when two men turned up full of plans for turning the place into a low-cost pile-’em-high-and-sell-’em-cheap garden centre. They were talking about finance, turnover, suppliers, as if I wasn’t there and I realised that I’d been invisible for most of my life.’
This was so close to what he’d just been thinking that Matt felt more than a touch uncomfortable. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you got your own back on them by nicking all their ideas?’
‘Far from it. Their ideas were rubbish. They were missing the whole point. This business isn’t just about dumping everything in a warehouse and selling the basics at the cheapest price. You have to sell gardening, the garden, as you would an expensive kitchen or good furniture. It’s got to be desirable, a lifestyle.’ And finally she smiled. ‘You’ve got to appeal to the women.’
‘Did you tell them that?’
‘I thought about it.’ She shrugged. ‘They’d have just looked at me in that puzzled way that men do and then carry on as if I hadn’t spoken, but after they’d gone I couldn’t stop thinking about it.’
‘You had no trouble with planning permission? Change of use?’
‘I’d learned my lesson. I had my hair cut, bought a decent suit, turned myself into someone men would take seriously. I put it to the planners that I simply wanted to change the emphasis from growing to selling. Then I went to the bank and showed them my figures, my business plan.’
‘There were no objections from the neighbours?’ he asked, looking across at the solid stone house, the roofs of the Gilbert glasshouses just visible above the fence. ‘Not even from Seth Gilbert?’
‘Not even from him. Maybe he felt sorry for me.’
‘His mistake.’
‘Yes,’ she said. Then, almost to herself, ‘Not his first.’
Even on a Monday morning the car park was busy with people loading trays of plants, bags of compost, all the attractive garden hardware his mother stocked. ‘You could do with more space,’ he said.
‘I’ll have all the space I need soon,’ she said, joining him at the window. ‘You could have the Gilbert house if you wait a few months. It’ll need a lot of work, but it’ll make a lovely family home.’
‘It will?’ He frowned. ‘You’ve been inside? When?’
She started as if caught out in something illicit. ‘Oh, not in decades,’ she said. ‘But Seth’s mother used to throw wonderful parties.’ She flapped her hand across her face as if brushing away a memory that clung like a cobweb.
‘And you were invited to these parties?’ he persisted.
‘I wasn’t always a Hanover.’ Then she arranged her face into a smile and said, ‘Think about the house. It’s time you settled down, thought about getting married. Is there anyone?’ She didn’t wait for his answer, but said, ‘I’m getting broody for grandchildren.’
He’d assumed that the newspaper cutting had been sent by his mother, that she’d seen the photograph and, spotting some resemblance to him as a child, the kind of thing that only she would notice, she’d suspected the truth, had used it as a lure to bring him home. Nothing in her manner suggested it, however, and her face gave nothing away. But then, it occurred to him, it never had. She’d been not so much dull as blank.
‘I’d rather have the barn,’ he replied.
‘The barn?’
‘I’ve always thought it would make a lovely home. I’ve seen some stunning conversions.’
She turned away abruptly. ‘Sorry, Matt, but I’ve already got the plans drawn up to turn that into a restaurant.’
‘A restaurant?’
‘Customers expect more than a cup of coffee and a bun at garden centres these days,’ she said and opened a cabinet, using the desk to lay out a bundle of drawings, an architect’s sketch of how it would look.
‘Seth Gilbert’s agreed to sell?’ he asked, surprised. His agent hadn’t reported that.
‘I’ve put in a fair offer for the whole site, including the barn and house. I’m still waiting for him to come to his senses and accept.’
Satisfied, he said, ‘Maybe he doesn’t consider your offer as fair as you do.’
‘I’m not a charity,’ she replied, ‘but if he chooses to go bankrupt then there’s nothing I can do about it.’
‘Is that inevitable?’ he asked, as if he didn’t already know to the last penny how much Seth Gilbert owed to the bank. He hadn’t wasted the weeks he’d been forced to delay in Hungary. He’d put the time to good use, acquiring documents, information, legal advice, everything he needed to ensure he got exactly what he wanted.
And it was working.
He’d been home less than twenty-four hours and already Fleur had picked up the telephone and called him. And, in her panic, had told him everything he needed to know.
She’d do anything…
He closed his hand to stop it from shaking and made an effort to tune back in to what his mother was saying.
‘…sooner rather than later. You need to have something no one else has, or be able to work on a much bigger scale these days. No matter. I’ll sit him out and buy from the bank when he goes under.’
‘But in the meantime you’ve somehow managed to obtain a set of drawings of the barn.’
She shrugged. ‘A local builder submitted plans to the local council for converting it into holiday cottages. He was happy to sell them to me when he was turned down.’
‘I’ll bet. So that’s Plan A. What’s Plan B?’
‘Plan B?’
‘The fallback plan. I can see that the semi-rural location has a certain charm, but have you considered that you might do a great deal better if you moved the whole operation to the business park?’
‘I don’t want to move. And to have a fallback plan suggests that I’m prepared to lose.’
So much for her denial that she was at war.
‘Well?’ Her father glanced up from the standard fuchsia he was working on as Fleur placed a cup of tea beside him on the staging.
‘What?’
‘What did this new woman at the bank have to say for herself?’
‘Oh…’
The letter, her brief conversation with Matt, an insidious fear that once Katherine Hanover was involved she’d use her money, influence, the power base she’d built up in the community to snatch her son away from her, had driven everything else from her mind.
She couldn’t even remember the journey home.
‘I, um, left the Chelsea stuff with her to look at in detail.’
‘You didn’t discuss it with her?’
Concentrate, concentrate…
‘She’s more concerned about the overdraft. She wants to talk again next week. To both of us.’ Then, because there was no way to shield him from reality, ‘After we’ve come up with a plan to reduce it.’
‘Tell her she’ll have to wait until the third week in May,’ he said, returning to the task in hand, grooming the plant with the tip of a razor-sharp knife before, satisfied, he offered the pot to her for her to look at. ‘Then she’ll see for herself.’
‘Will she?’ The label bore only a number and a date. ‘Is this it?’
‘It’ll be a show-stopper,’ he said. ‘A Gold Medal certainty.’
‘Always assuming that we’re still in business come the end of May.’
Always assuming her father wasn’t living in cloud-cuckoo-land.
‘There’ll be people who’ll turn their noses up at it, no doubt,’ he said.
‘The ones who think that if you want buttercup-yellow you should grow buttercups?’ she said, thinking of the bank manager. ‘We’d still be picking wild grasses to make flour for bread if they had their way.’
‘It’s going to be primrose, not buttercup.’ He rubbed at one of his eyes, blinked as if to clear his vision. ‘Give me another year…’
‘We can’t wait another year.’ She offered him back the plant but, as he reached for it, he pulled back, shook his hand, flexing it.
‘Are you all right, Dad?’
