Victoria glanced over at Joel, who was deep in conversation with a dark-haired man in a blue and white shirt.
‘Well, I must say he’s completely divine. I wish I’d seen him first.’
‘You’re not his type, darling.’
‘He would be by the time I’d finished with him,’ Victoria twinkled, and wound an arm round Justin’s scrawny neck. ‘Truce?’
Justin kissed her cheek.
‘Truce.’
Victoria looked thoughtfully back over to Joel.
Who’s he talking to?’
‘That’s the legendary Bruno Thorne,’ said Justin. ‘But I’m not worried. He’s a hundred per cent heterosexual.’
‘Good,’ replied Victoria.
She plucked two full glasses of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter and glided across the room until she reached Bruno and Joel.
‘Justin’s looking for you, darling,’ she purred to Joel, then turned to Bruno with a dazzling smile. ‘And I’d like to introduce myself. I’m Victoria Snow.’
And with that, she handed him a glass of champagne.
Molly unlocked the door to her flat cautiously, almost bracing herself to be pounced on by uniformed officers. Inside it was eerily silent. Perhaps they’d taken Alfie to the park? But no . . .
She spotted Siobhan immediately, crashed out on the floor. Zen was sprawled on the sofa. For an awful moment she thought they were dead. But then the acrid scent reached her nostrils and she realized they were just out of it. God knows what they’d been doing. Molly wasn’t interested in drugs, but she sensed this wasn’t just a recreational mid-afternoon spliff. The air hung heavy with not just decadence but desperation. These two had reached the end of the line.
Hot fear pooled in her stomach as she ran past them, to be replaced by sweet relief as she saw Alfie fast asleep in his cot. How the hell could her own sister do this? Be more worried about her own gratification than the welfare of her nephew? Molly knew Siobhan was a waster, but she’d thought she could trust her to look after Alfie. But then, under the influence of Zen and whatever it was they’d been smoking . . . Molly knew enough about drugs to know they induced self-absorption and a total disregard for anyone else’s needs.
She picked Alfie up carefully so as not to wake him, and cuddled him to her. He snuggled into her shoulder sleepily. Her heart contracted simultaneously with love and fear. What the hell was she supposed to do now? She knew she had to get out because of Cal’s warning – she couldn’t risk it being an empty threat or a false alarm.
The only person she could think of to turn to was Hannah. Hannah had always been kind to her; Hannah had common sense too. And although it would be risky bringing Alfie to the hotel, Molly was desperate. She’d think of a good cover-up. No one would suspect the truth, after all, as it was too far-fetched.
Swiftly she packed up their things: nappies and babygros and a packet of wipes, jeans, underwear and a couple of tops – stuffing them all into a big carrier bag with sturdy handles.
Then she stood in the middle of her room, her heart hammering. Should she wake up Siobhan and Zen, warn them? Siobhan was her sister. She didn’t want to see her banged up. Then she remembered that Siobhan had been quite happy to neglect Alfie. The fact that Molly had been able to sneak in the way she had proved that anything could have happened and the two of them would have been oblivious. If they got done, that was their problem. She had to look after herself first.
She pulled Alfie’s blanket out of the cot and wrapped it round him. It was a warm evening, but she didn’t want to disturb him by going out into the fresh air. If she kept him wrapped up, he would stay asleep. As she tiptoed out of the flat, she saw Zen’s denim jacket slung over the arm of the settee. His wallet was poking out of the pocket.
Should she?
Molly had never stolen anything ever in her life. But as she stood there, she reasoned that whatever lay in Zen’s wallet was ill-gotten gains. And she thought of all the times she’d cooked them tea, or gone to get chips, without any thanks or ever being repaid. Carefully she laid down her bag, pulled out the wallet, whipped out the wad of cash and hastily replaced it – a difficult manoeuvre with a heavy toddler in her arms, but she was used to doing things with one hand.
Shit – Alfie was waking up, disturbed by the movement.
‘Mumma?’
Please don’t let them wake
, she thought desperately. She rammed the cash in her pocket, picked up the bag and left. By some miracle, the cab driver who had dropped her off earlier was making his way back down the other side of the street. She waved at him frantically.
‘I’ve got enough money to pay you now.’ She bent in through the driver’s window as he slowed down. ‘Can you take me back to Mariscombe?’
Halfway through the evening, there were groans of delight as 99
S
were handed out; cornets filled with the super-sweet swirl of soft ice cream garnished with a Flake. It was a salutary reminder, thought George, of how clever Victoria was, playing on nostalgia to seduce her audience. He looked for her amongst the crowds, wanting to thank her. The party was a resounding success, and he doubted he could have pulled it off. She had done her homework on the guest list, researching who the local bigwigs were on the council and the tourist board, sniffing out celebrities who had second homes nearby, as well as local artists and musicians. And, of course, the press. Added to which, she’d asked local restaurateurs and hoteliers – anyone who might have felt threatened by their opening – so they could see exactly what they were up against and therefore prevent idle speculation. And Leonard Carrington, the biggest mouth in Mariscombe. It made for an eclectic mix that, had she not been so good at her job, might have been hard to gel. But George had a feeling they weren’t going to get rid of this crowd before midnight.
She was standing by the window, deep in conversation with a striking-looking man with dark curls. From her gesticulations, they seemed to be talking about the hotel, but the way their eyes were locked, the way they each had a smile playing around their lips, there was obviously some subtext going on. George worked out, via a process of elimination, that this must be Bruno Thorne. For some reason, he felt a hideous curdling in his stomach; a sensation that was both icy cold and searingly hot, that bubbled up and hit him in the back of the throat. He thought for a moment that he was about to be sick, then realized that what he was feeling was jealousy, that the liquid in his gullet was deep green and poisonous.
They looked fabulous together. She was shimmering and golden and delicate; he was dark and strong and magnetic. Of course they would make a fairy-tale couple. He had wealth and standing; she talent and beauty. He would be able to give her opportunities. George could just imagine her leaping on to the infamous helicopter, the two of them flying off somewhere. The jetset lifestyle.
George tried to tell himself that at least that would be the end of his problems, that he wouldn’t need to feel guilty any more. Then he plucked another Sea Breeze from the tray of a passing waitress and knocked it back.
Lisa came through into the drawing room from the hall, then stopped in her tracks. Framed against the setting sun were Bruno’s dark head and Victoria’s golden one, as he whispered something in her ear. She laughed in response, and a flash of complicity sparked between them. No one who saw them could fail to notice the attraction. The air round them was pulsating with sexual tension.
Lisa felt her throat tighten inexplicably. Her mouth felt dry; she couldn’t swallow. What was the matter with her? She grabbed a glass from a passing waiter and gulped thirstily.
Hannah had just finished packing her suitcase. She’d only packed comfy clothes, because she planned to go and stay on her parents’ farm after the operation in order to recuperate. She’d thought about it long and hard. She could have checked in somewhere, put herself in isolation for a week while the bruises faded. But she didn’t see the point in forking out when she had a perfectly good bedroom at home, and fresh air and her mum’s home cooking.
Her parents would be shocked at first, she knew that. She’d decided not to tell them about the operation before-hand, because she was afraid they would be upset, and would ask her so many bewildered questions that she might bottle out. After all, she knew that they loved her unconditionally, that when they looked at her they saw a loving daughter, and didn’t notice her nose. And if they knew the truth about the misery she’d learned to hide, the anguish, they would be devastated. And guilty.
Her mother was the least vain person she knew. She had been forty-two when she had Hannah, and thus well into her fifties by the time Hannah became aware of her own looks. By which time her mother’s hair was thick, wiry and iron grey, her complexion ruddy from being outside, her figure bulky from a lifetime of cooked breakfasts, meat and two veg and proper puddings, full-fat milk and clotted cream. Hannah didn’t think she bothered to look in a mirror from one day to the next, which was why she would be so perplexed, so horrified, at the thought of her own daughter having plastic surgery.
If she turned up with it as a fait accompli, she would still have to explain her motives, but the deed would be done. And she hoped they would understand, especially when they saw the transformation. Her stomach gave a flutter as she remembered the computerized image of herself with her new nose. Not Kate Moss obviously. But not a beaky freak.
She left the lid of her case open and her sponge bag just inside, waiting for her to pop her toothbrush and toothpaste in the next morning. Suddenly there was an urgent knock on the door. She hurried to open it.
Her mouth fell open as she saw Molly standing outside her room, her face streaked with tears, laden with bags and a small boy in her arms.
‘I didn’t know where else to go,’ she sniffed. ‘Let me in quickly, before someone sees.’
Hannah stood to one side as Molly squeezed past her.
‘Molly . . .’ she looked aghast. ‘You haven’t . . . kidnapped him or anything?’
‘Of course not.’ Molly sat the toddler on Hannah’s bed and stood up straight. ‘This is Alfie. He’s my son. My little boy.’
George took up his position by the fireplace and tinged the edge of his glass to call for attention.
Everyone crowded into the drawing room, looking at him expectantly. He looked incredibly debonair. Apart from a couple of men from the council, he was almost the only person wearing a suit, but because it was loose, despite being impeccably tailored, he didn’t look overdressed. His cocktail glass hung between his fingers as he smiled around the room.
‘I just want to say a few words, to mark this evening. Firstly, thanks to all of you for coming. I’m afraid we’ve been up to our necks in dust and paint for the past few weeks, but I’m looking forward to starting a social life, and hope we’ll be seeing more of you over the summer. Secondly, a huge thank you to Victoria Snow, who organized this party. If it had been down to me it would have been lukewarm Sangria and sausages on sticks, but Victoria knows me only too well and thankfully took over. So a big round of applause, please.’
He pointed his glass towards Victoria, who gave a gracious nod in response to the enthusiastic clapping that followed his vote of thanks. He held her gaze for a moment before carrying on.
‘When Lisa first suggested to me that we buy this place, I laughed at her. I told her that everyone in the country dreams of running a hotel by the sea; that it’s the ultimate escapist cliché. But she asked me one very good question. Why should that stop us? For that reason, there is something very important I have to say. Apart, of course, from welcoming all of you to The Rocks.’
He paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the room until he found Lisa, and he smiled.
‘I want to say to Lisa: thank you for helping me realize my dream. There is no way I could have done it without you. You’re the one who squashed all my fears, ignored all my objections, found solutions to every problem. Who got her hands dirty when I was faffing about choosing paint colours and doorknobs. Whose grit and determination is what lies beneath everything you see here. Without her, none of this would be possible.’
He paused to take a breath and a quick slug of his cocktail. His throat felt dry.
‘And that’s why I thought this was the appropriate moment to say not just thank you to Lisa, but . . . will you marry me?’
Lisa felt as if time was standing still. She stood rooted to the spot, conscious of a roomful of eyes upon her.
What on earth was she supposed to say?
Even though she had made a huge commitment to George, and to all intents and purposes they were in it for the duration, she just wasn’t the marrying kind. The idea of it filled her with dread. Maybe it was an irrational fear. A phobia she had developed because of what she had suffered. Marriage was the last thing on earth she wanted. Ever.
But how could she reject him in front of a room full of people who were eagerly anticipating her reply? She couldn’t even begin to explain how she felt. She’d have to accept, at least for the time being, because to refuse would create such consternation. It would turn a hugely successful evening into an unmitigated disaster; everyone was holding their breath waiting for her response.
She would have to let George down later, tell him that on reflection it wasn’t right, it wasn’t what she wanted. After all, he’d been rather unfair, springing a proposal on her in front of an audience, leaving her with little choice but to say yes.
She smiled her widest, most professional, most charming smile.
‘Of course I will,’ she replied, and the room burst into rapturous applause.
‘B
loody hell!’ Hannah gazed at the sleeping child in amazement. They’d tucked him into Hannah’s bed and given him a cup of milk. He’d gone off to sleep quite happily. ‘So this is why you never come out with us. We all thought you were having an affair with a married man or something. You’ve always been such a dark horse.’
‘Well, now you know.’ Molly gave a crooked smile.
Hannah frowned. ‘But why did you keep him a secret? I mean, having a baby’s not a crime, is it? No one would mind. You should have said, Moll. I mean, I’d have helped you out if I’d known. No wonder you were so knackered all the time. No wonder you looked ill. I would have babysat for you—’