The Accidental Mistress (27 page)

He closed the cover on the tablet, and reached into his pocket for his phone. There was one person whose judgement he trusted. Someone wise, and sorted, who’d come through tough choices and watersheds of his own, and arrived at the other end of an emotional journey intact and comfortable. Despite a good deal of opposition.

The number rang twice, and then was answered by a familiar well-loved voice.

‘Hello, Jonny, you old git, how the devil are you?’

‘Very well thanks, brother. And yourself?’

‘Not too bad … not too bad … same old shit from the usual quarters, but all’s pretty cordial, and I think I’m wearing them down gradually.’ John could hear the wry humour in his brother’s voice. They were both family black sheep in their separate ways, but Tom was perhaps the braver sheep, still living at Montcalm as he did.

‘I should bloody well think so! Montcalm and the estate would be chaos without you. They should be grateful, especially the Old Man.’

‘Well, it’d all probably have crumbled into dust long ago without you, Jonny,’ said Tom Wyngarde Smith, ‘if only
they knew it. I think it’s about time Father knew who’s really funding the place. It’s getting increasingly hard to sustain the fantasy that opening the house a few days a week, and the income from the rare breed sheep, the organic wheat, and the odd bit of Montcalm honey is paying for the annual maintenance and restoration bill.’

‘In time … in time.’ John had a shrewd idea that his father was already fully aware of the situation, yet was choosing to blank it out, the same way he did with the fact that Tom, his youngest son, was gay. ‘Look, can you and I meet for a drink? Neutral territory somewhere? I’m in London for a few days, but there’s something I’d really like to talk over with you when I come back north again. Something that I need to discuss face to face. I’m not quite sure of my movements, but I’ll text you … that OK?’

‘Of course. I’m intrigued now. Just let me know when you’re back.’

He’d have to make his own choices, and those that were best for Lizzie in both the short and the longer run, but Tom was smart, sensible and humane, the perfect sounding board where matters of the heart were concerned.

As he rang off, John smiled. Happily as he would race back north again to be with Lizzie, he couldn’t help but look forward to seeing his brother again too.

And perhaps, afterwards, introducing them to each other? He had a feeling they’d get on famously.

Good grief, man, you’ve really got it bad!

The last time he’d introduced a woman friend to a member of his family, it’d been Caroline … and his father had threatened him with a shotgun and told him to fuck off and never come back again!

He’d
sent her roses! Roses of all things. A huge great posy of white roses, that looked almost like a wedding bouquet. Everybody in New Again had been enormously impressed by the delivery. The shop had been quite full with ladies browsing, and murmurs of ‘How romantic …’ and ‘Ooh,
Jardiniere
… they must have been pricey’ had hummed amongst the gently worn finery.

Roses, though, the flower name of her mysterious ‘rival’, from his organiser.

Don’t be idiotic, Lizzie. If this Rose was some kind of long-time secret love of his that he doesn’t want you to know about, firstly, he wouldn’t have left his organiser open when you were around on your own like that; and secondly, he wouldn’t send
you
roses. Do try to think like a rational grown-up, and not a neurotic teenage emo … and please, please, please don’t start Googling!

But no amount of rationalisation could still the niggling inner voice, the soft, feminine whisper that plagued her when she woke up in the dead of night. Half asleep, she was helpless when the spectre of the unknown Rose plagued her, and there was nothing to do but get up, get a cup of tea, and sip it until common sense returned. The grown-up thing to do would be to ask him outright who the woman was. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t told her to ask him things … But every time they chatted on the phone, even if the question was on the tip of her tongue, she was just too happy to be talking to John, and laughing with John, and sharing fun little incidents from their days. Only an idiot would spoil that, especially when she wasn’t even supposed to have been nosing about in his organiser in the first place.

They discussed Dalethwaite Manor quite a bit too, although Lizzie suspected that John had ulterior motives on that score. He was making it sound far too tempting, with his plans
and enthusiasm, luring her with more talk of that light airy studio room where she could spread out and work on her dressmaking projects. Space to lay things out at St Patrick’s Road was always at a premium, and with thin walls the hum of the sewing machine could be irritating when the others were watching the television. They never complained, but she knew it was a bother.

If she lived at Dalethwaite, it would be easy to work. She’d be mistress of her own space, able to tackle more ambitious projects. She could dream. She could even design. Marie had begun to encourage her; another person tempting her with shining, challenging dreams.

But even if she didn’t technically move in to Dalethwaite for a while yet, perhaps she could still use the space? John would at least feel he’d partially won the skirmish.

I’ll sound him out, see how he feels.

He’d be back tomorrow. She could tackle him in person … In between kissing him and climbing all over his body!

‘Mrs B called this lunchtime, just before I was heading out,’ said Brent as the three house-mates gathered at teatime. ‘She was very excited … but it’s a bit of a bombshell, really.’

Lizzie swung around, alarmed. Their landlady wasn’t a young woman, and for a while now, she’d been hinting that she might sell up in the not-too-distant future, and move down to Devon to live near her sister.

‘What kind of a bombshell?’ demanded Shelley, scratching the head of Mulder, who’d jumped on the table. ‘Not another rent increase? She only put it up last month!’

‘That wasn’t her fault, though … everything’s going up at the moment … electricity, water, council tax … you name it,’ said Lizzie, hoping the others wouldn’t point out – again – that she no longer had to worry about things like that, having
a boyfriend who was loaded. ‘I’m amazed she didn’t put it up sooner.’

‘No, not that,’ said Brent, fiddling with his teaspoon. ‘She’s sold the house.’

‘What?’

‘What the fuck?’ Mulder leapt away at Shelley’s exclamation, then snuck back again.

‘Yes, just like that. To a property company, an outfit called Oldacre Holdings, she said. I’m not surprised; she’s been dropping all sorts of hints about her sister in Devon for ages. I suppose it was only a matter of waiting until she could get a decent price.’

‘But it’s all rather sudden.’ Unease coiled in Lizzie’s mind. Unease and suspicion.

‘Sudden indeed,’ said Brent slowly. ‘Apparently she got an offer yesterday morning, right out of the blue … and it was five times the price she’d been thinking of asking!’ Brent turned towards Lizzie and narrowed his eyes. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you? It seems this Oldacre lot are taking the house on as is, services and taxes included, and say that they’re quite happy to let the existing tenants stay put.’

Lizzie scowled. She took a sip of tea, barely tasting it.

All the existing tenants, but one … Damn you, John Smith, I know what you’re up to! Oldacre Holdings, my arse!

‘No, I don’t know anything about it.’

‘Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?’ Brent persisted, a wry look on his face.

‘It’s him, isn’t it? Your billionaire? He’s a property guy … I hope
he
doesn’t put the rent up. I just can’t afford any more at the moment.’ Shelley frowned.

Brent swung round to her. ‘No, you wouldn’t be able to.
Not with your expensive new tastes on only a temp’s money. Us male escorts don’t run cheap, do we?’

‘Oh, shut up! It’s none of your business.’

‘Oh, but it is … I care about you, and I know him. I’m worried about you.’

‘I can take care of myself … and Sholto is … well, in his own way, he’s very nice. And he’s just as pukka as
you
ever were.’

‘Oh, please stop squabbling!’ cried Lizzie, wincing at the shrill sound of her own voice. ‘Shelley, you need to be careful … and Brent, you need to let her run her own life. And as for fucking Oldacre Holdings, yes, it probably is John, and I suspect he’s just doing it to make sure you two aren’t left in the financial shit if I move in with him … which is what he wants.’ Her whole body felt tight, wound up like a spring. But she couldn’t let fly at her friends. It wasn’t their fault. ‘We’ll probably get a letter to say that the rent’s been reduced to about five quid a month, or something ludicrous like that.’

‘Well, since you mention it …’ Brent pursed his lips, and Lizzie knew she was right, or thereabouts. ‘There was a phone call just before you got home, some geezer … the lettings manager from Oldacre. Our new rent is apparently twenty pounds a month, inclusive of utilities and council tax.’

‘John, you bastard! You fucking, manipulating bastard,’ she hissed, but even cursing and swearing didn’t help. It was as if he’d suddenly invented an innovative form of torture, a way of tearing her two ways at once.

‘What on earth are you complaining about? This is fabulous,’ cried Shelley. ‘We … we’ll all be rolling in it, with no rent to speak of. Please, for God’s sake, don’t tell him he can’t do it, Lizzie! Please don’t cut off your nose to spite
our
faces!’

She couldn’t do anything. It was a fait accompli. John knew Lizzie couldn’t deny her friends. She had to go along with it for Brent and Shelley. To coin a Mafia cliché, the all-powerful master negotiator who always got all his own way had made them an offer that
she
couldn’t refuse.

She sighed. ‘No, I won’t ask him to change things … but I will give him a piece of my mind. He can be a controlling git sometimes.’ It was meant kindly, she knew, if pragmatically. A generous act towards her friends
and
Mrs B, as well as a means to getting what
he
wanted. ‘I’ve a good mind to say, yes, thanks, that’s very kind of you, John. I’m going to enjoy living
here
virtually rent free for the foreseeable future … just to teach him a lesson.’

‘Are you insane? Don’t you want to move in with him?’ said Shelley gently, reaching across the table to pat her hand. ‘It’s obvious that he’s bonkers about you and wants to be with you. What on earth’s the matter with that? He’s gorgeous and he’s got tons of money, I don’t see what the problem is. And, I mean, it’s for
you
he’s made all these changes you’ve told us about. You should be flattered that someone like him would turn his life upside down for you.’

Lizzie’s eyes watered. She was being an idiot, and ungrateful. Any other woman would be over the moon … But the idea of being manoeuvred and controlled, even by the man she adored, filled her with panic – and an irrational, primitive defiance. John cared about her. He
had
turned his life upside down for her. And yet the way he operated sometimes had sneaky echoes of previous efforts to control her life. The way her father had tried to propel her along the path he’d had mapped out for her.

I’m going to have to grow up and face this. This … and the other stuff. Age, background, bloody Rose, whoever she is …

She knew, deep down, that in his own way John probably loved her, even if he couldn’t come out and say it. But even if he was her dream man, this was real life, with bumps and awkward stuff, and loving someone one minute and wanting to throttle them the next.

Bugger, relationships were hard.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘What do you mean, what’s wrong?’

‘I can tell by the tone of your voice something’s bothering you.’ The tone of John’s voice, over the phone, was frustratingly measured and reasonable, even though it was what she’d been longing to hear all night.

It wasn’t long after her conversation with Brent and Shelley, but they’d both already gone out, destinations suspiciously vague. Lizzie had a feeling that Brent might be on a mission, to ‘have a word’ with the mysterious Sholto Kraft, and she just hoped and prayed that it wouldn’t develop into a three-way slanging match if Shelley was there too.

God, everyone’s in a muddle at the moment!

‘Well, I do have some stuff on my mind, but it’s probably better not to get into it on the phone. Better face to face.’

John made a soft ‘huff’ of almost-laughter. He knew … yes, he knew she knew what he’d done, the bugger! His crafty little stunt with ‘Oldacre Holdings’ …

‘That sounds ominous.’

‘Don’t give me that …
You
know!’

Then he did laugh, and the pendulum swung towards throttling rather than wanting to jump his bones.

‘Oh dear, I take it you’re not pleased.’

Agh, he was the most beautiful man in the world, and he
could be the kindest, too. But he was so confident he sailed dangerously near to smugness sometimes.

‘It’s not that I’m not pleased.’ She drew in a sharp breath, feeling her hackles rise. ‘No … I told you I won’t get into it on the phone, and I won’t. When will you be back?’

She could almost feel him regrouping, setting aside the potential conflict, preparing to prevail at a later time. He’d probably win the argument, but she wasn’t going to let him get away without at least hearing her objections.

‘I’m not sure, love. I intended to be back at Dalethwaite early evening. The plan was to call for a swift drink with my brother on the way, then straight back to you. But there’s been a chemical tanker overturned on the motorway, so I’ve a feeling I won’t be back until very late. I’m sorry, Lizzie … I was so looking forward to us having dinner together … and afters.’ He laughed wryly. ‘It’s at times like these that I really could do with that helicopter.’

‘Don’t be silly. All that fuel, just for an hour or two extra with me. That’s not very green, is it?’ She knew she was being perverse, but it was just another example of him throwing about vast amounts of money in pursuit of getting what he wanted. But then, why wouldn’t he? He had millions and millions …