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‘Not that,’ he snarled. ‘When you fainted.’
‘I’m over it. That won’t happen again.’
‘We’ll see.’ He looked around, settling his gaze on Enid’s empty chair before striding to the lift. ‘Tell Enid I’m going out.’
‘When will you be back?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said as he allowed himself to be swallowed up by the hungry cavern of the lift.
‘I don’t know.’
CHAPTER TEN (#u4f93203d-362b-520d-9d07-6c75ca30ba3e)
HE DIDN’T know where he was heading.
Anywhere.
Nowhere.
It didn’t matter. He drove aimlessly with no sense of direction and less sense of time until something drew him towards the coast. It was sunny, the day was fine, the top of his black BMW convertible was down and his passing drew envious looks from the men in cars around him, wishful glances from the women.
Normally he’d get a buzz out of the experience, a fillip to his ego, the successful businessman out enjoying the spoils of his success.
Success.
How did you measure that? In dollars and cents, in bricks and buildings, corporate takeovers and fast cars? Sure, on that score he was as successful as they came, no question.
Or was success measured in more human terms—in connections built between people, in relationships, in families?
The human factor.
On that score, so far all he’d been successful at was avoiding that very thing. But now he was going to be a father and the one thing he’d evaded for so long was happening.
A father. Why did that change things so much? Why should that suddenly make his business success ring so hollow?
Finally he left the highway and crossed the train lines before pulling alongside the kerb, opposite a battered brick veneer house in a post-war building boom suburb.
What was he doing here? He’d never been here before, he’d just snatched a glimpse of the address in some papers on Enid’s desk one day. Amazing he’d even remembered it.
He studied the house. It had seen better days by the look of the shabby brickwork, the flaking window-frames and the tired garden, its leggy native plants wafting listlessly in the warm breeze. Once he was out of the car he could just smell the sea, the tang of seaweed and salt in the air, though the beach was nothing more than a dull promise across the train tracks and beyond the strip of kiosks and mid-rate hotels lining the highway.
He’d never asked her about her home. He’d never asked her how her mother was. It had never occurred to him. But now it seemed important. He wanted to know more about her, about the woman who was to be his child’s mother, about her family.
He knocked on the door. And waited.
The clang of the crossing barriers started up, loud and insistent, as a train surged along the track, all electric whine and squealing metal before gradually the noise died down and quiet resumed. He thought about leaving but had no idea where he’d go. The train was probably already at the next station when he finally heard a sound inside the house, spotted a blurred shape moving through the panel of misted glass.
The door edged open, a security chain clamping in place. Through the gap he could see her wary gaze, in dark-ringed eyes that looked almost too big in her sunken face.
‘Mrs Summers?’
‘Yes,’ came her voice, brittle and shaky and obviously unused to visitors during the day.
‘My name is Damien DeLuca. Philly works—’
‘Oh, my,’ she said, panic swamping her eyes as she unlatched the door and shoved it open. ‘Is she all right? Has something happened to her?’
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