The One You Really Want (50 page)

‘I owe you one.' Eager to make amends, Connor said, ‘Tell you what, why don't I treat you to dinner tonight, to make up for all this? How does that sound?'

There was an odd look in Nancy's eyes, one he was completely unable to read. Finally she said, ‘It sounds as if you've forgotten you're seeing Tabitha tonight.'

Bugger, he had too. Having left a message with Tabitha's answering service earlier, letting her know what was happening, Connor reached automatically for his mobile. ‘Look, Tab won't mind. I'll just give her a ring and—'

‘The three of us can go out together?' said Nancy.

What? That wasn't what he'd meant at all. Connor opened his mouth to say so, then abruptly closed it again. Nancy wasn't remotely interested in him and the thought of the two of them having dinner together was, quite clearly, a chore. Plus, she thought he was trying to chat her up - which he
was
, of course - and resented the fact that he was being unfair to Tabitha. Friendly, cheerful Tabitha whom she had introduced to him in the first place.

‘Of course,' Connor feigned delight in a last-ditch effort to redeem himself. ‘Fine! Great idea.'

Nancy shook her head. ‘No thanks.'

‘Oh. Why not?'

‘You don't have to do that.' She shivered and took another gulp of coffee.

‘But I'd like to,' Connor protested.

‘Really, you don't need to thank me.' Nancy sounded either upset or irritated, he couldn't tell which. ‘Anyway, I'm busy tonight.' Balancing her coffee on a window ledge, she rubbed her arms.

‘Here, put this on.' Removing his black suede jacket, Connor draped it round her shoulders. Standing in front of her, holding the lapels, he watched Nancy avoid his gaze.

His phone chose that moment to start ringing. Nancy fished the mobile from the pocket of his jacket and handed it over.

‘Hi, it's me,' sang Tabitha. ‘I've just got your message! How's Mia?'

‘Unglued at last. We're at the station now.'

‘Don't worry, I hear Holloway's fab these days, better than any five-star hotel! Joking,' Tabitha said brightly. ‘She'll be fine. Crikey, at least she had the body for it. Wouldn't catch me cavorting naked in public! So, are we still on for tonight?'

Connor raised his eyebrows enquiringly and mouthed
Sure?
at Nancy, who was close enough to hear every word.

Shaking her head, Nancy turned and walked over to the waste bin to dispose of her empty polystyrene cup. As he watched her, Mia emerged from the police station fully clothed and minus her banner. Spotting Nancy, Mia raced over and flung her arms round her.

‘Hello?' Tabitha sounded concerned. ‘Are you still there?'

‘Yes, great. I'll pick you up at eight thirty. I'd better go now,' said Connor. ‘Mia's just come out.'

‘No problem, we're busy here too,' Tabitha said cheerily. ‘See you later. And give Mia my love.'

‘They dropped the charges.' Mia was triumphant. ‘Let me off with a caution.'

Relieved, Connor eyed the raw patch on the palm of her hand and said, ‘They probably thought you'd suffered enough punishment.'

‘Ha, that's nothing. You should see the ones on my—'

‘Thanks very much,' Connor swiftly interjected, ‘but I'd rather not.'

‘Were you scared?' Nancy indicated the police station behind them. ‘When they were questioning you in there?'

‘Nooo.' Mia looked scornful, then broke into a tiny grin and said, ‘Well, maybe just a bit.'

Reaching for his car keys, Connor said, ‘Serve you right.'

‘But I did it for a reason. I had a point to make and I made it.' Mia's silver-grey eyes shone with pride. ‘And I tell you something, if I have to do it again I will.'

‘Let
me
tell
you
something.' The note of paternal warning in Connor's voice prompted Mia and Nancy to exchange amused glances. ‘You're my daughter, you're sixteen years old and you
bloody well will not
.'

Rose was sitting on her favourite bench in the square when she saw Marjorie Brough-Badham hurrying towards her. Putting down her knitting and shielding her eyes from the sun, she saw that Marjorie was carrying an armful of glossy magazines.

‘Marjorie, how nice to see you,' said Rose. ‘You're looking . . . well.'

If a bit wild-eyed, to be honest.

‘I saw you out here. Had to come and tell you.' Straight-shouldered as ever, Marjorie abruptly sat down next to Rose and said, ‘You'll never guess.'

The magazines weren't magazines, Rose realised. They were upmarket travel brochures.

‘Um . . . you're off on holiday?'

‘No! Well, yes,' Marjorie flapped her hand impatiently at the brochures, signalling their unimportance in the great scheme of things, ‘but that's not it. You can't imagine what's happened.'

Was she supposed to try? A trifle despairingly, Rose said, ‘What is it?'

‘Geoffrey's mother died yesterday.'

‘Oh, I'm so sorry.' Heavens, it was hard to imagine Geoffrey
having
a mother. ‘Is he dreadfully upset?'

Marjorie barked with laughter, then abruptly covered her mouth. ‘It's certainly had an effect on him. The matron from the nursing home rang yesterday morning to let him know that Alice had died in her sleep. Passed away peacefully, the best way to go and all that. Well, she was ninety-four, so it was hardly unexpected. Bit of a battleaxe, to be frank. Always ruled her family with a rod of iron. Used to call Margaret Thatcher a wet blanket.'

Carefully Rose said, ‘I see.'

‘We were having breakfast together at the time. When the matron phoned,' Marjorie gabbled on, her fingers agitatedly rolling a corner of one of the travel brochures. ‘Not the kind of having-breakfast-together you see on TV. Geoffrey was reading his
Telegraph
in silence. I was sitting there wondering what it must be like to feel happy. Anyway, he took the call, spoke to the matron, then told me his mother was dead. After that he left the room for twenty minutes. When he returned he sat back down at the breakfast table, poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and asked me to pass him the marmalade.'

‘Right.' Rose wondered where on earth this was going.

‘So by then his toast was stone cold of course - he
hates
it when his toast is cold - but he buttered it anyway and spread it with marmalade. And I said, “Are you all right, Geoffrey?” and he looked across the table at me and said, “Yes thank you, absolutely fine. I'm a homosexual.”'

Rose dropped her knitting. ‘Oh good grief. Just like that? Oh
Marjorie
. . .'

‘I know, I know! Can you believe it? I couldn't move. I said, “What are you talking about?” and Geoffrey said, “I'm sorry, but it's true.” So I said, “You can't tell me that when your mother has just died,” and he said, “Marjorie, I can tell you that
because
my mother has just died.”'

‘You poor thing,' breathed Rose, recalling the moment last week after Doreen's abduction when Zac and William had walked into the kitchen together, Zac's guilty secret from his father no longer a secret. Fear and alarm had initially flickered across the Brigadier's granite features; Rose had glimpsed them there before he had rapidly composed himself.

Maybe Zac's happy outcome had prompted him to try for one of his own.

‘And that was when it all came out,' Marjorie continued. ‘Geoffrey told me everything.'

Everything?
Heavens above.

‘And I can hardly believe I'm saying this, but I actually ended up feeling sorry for him. And relieved.' Marjorie nodded vehemently, her eyes abruptly brimming with tears. ‘Yes,
relieved
. Because I realised it meant I hadn't done anything wrong, and I can't tell you what a weight off my mind that was! You see, it's not that I've been an undesirable wife all these years. Geoffrey simply wasn't able to, well, desire me because I was the wrong sex. Oh, look at me, blubbing again when there's absolutely no need. I know I'm probably still in a state of shock, but I woke up this morning feeling happy! You wouldn't believe how much talking Geoffrey and I did yesterday . . . heavens, more talking than we've done in our whole marriage! He apologised for being so buttoned-up all these years. Basically, he's just been incredibly unhappy, feeling he can never be himself. Poor man, all that shame and guilt takes its toll. And I was never remotely sympathetic because I didn't know
why
he'd distanced himself from me . . . Anyway, that's all behind us now. Last night Geoffrey offered me a divorce . . . damn and blast, where did I put that hankie?' She fumbled clumsily in her skirt pocket.

Rose handed her a clean tissue. ‘Is that what you're going to do?'

‘No, not yet. Maybe not at all.' Shaking her head and noisily blowing her nose, Marjorie said, ‘We've decided to leave it for now. We're used to each other, you see. As companions at least. It'll take a while to become accustomed to living alone, so we're putting this house on the market and buying two more, but we shall share them. A villa in Menorca, we thought. And a cottage in North Wales. That way, sometimes we'll be together and sometimes we won't.' She paused, dabbing at her long nose with the tissue. ‘Does that sound silly?'

Rose said warmly, ‘It sounds like an excellent idea.'

‘So that's something to look forward to. And in the meantime I've decided to take a cruise. I've always wanted to try it, but Geoffrey was never keen on cruising. So I'm going to go alone!'

Clearly, Marjorie's wasn't aware that cruising had other connotations. Rose tactfully didn't mention it.

‘I can't believe I'm sitting here telling you this.' Like a brief shower, Marjorie's tears had passed and she was looking cheerful again. ‘My husband's a homosexual and I'm actually happy about it, because now at last everything makes sense!'

‘That's wonderful. Er, does he know you're over here?' Rose couldn't help glancing across at the glinting windows of number sixty-four, wondering if the Brigadier was aware that he was being publicly outed.

‘He's gone to Hampshire to organise the funeral. Sounds frightful, but I'm rather glad Alice died now. Poor Geoffrey, he could never have done it while she was alive. Men are funny creatures, aren't they?' Pausing to think about it, Marjorie said brightly, ‘Mind you, I suppose if I was a lesbian my mother would have been cross with me too.'

 

Biba's tabloid of choice had been running with the story for the last six days and Rennie was beginning to know how it felt to be a pantomime villain. When he ventured out, women of all ages narrowed their eyes at him in disgust and muttered sneering insults under their breath. One or two had even hissed.

Maybe he should get a T-shirt with
It's not mine
printed across the front.

As he climbed out of the car in leafy Fulham, Rennie looked up at the second-floor apartment and saw Jodie at the window gazing impassively down at him. Following their last encounter at the hospital, the paper had reported that he had caused mayhem in the reception area, turning up and loudly demanding to see Biba and the baby before having to be ejected by security guards. Biba had reportedly been in floods of tears and deeply shaken by the incident.

God, no wonder everyone despised him. If he passed himself in the street he'd hiss too.

‘I'd like to see Biba. Alone,' Rennie said pointedly when Jodie answered the door.

‘Suit yourself.' Jodie showed him through to the living room and left them to it.

Biba, far prettier without make-up and wearing a simple emerald-green velour tracksuit, was sitting on the cream leather couch with her feet up on the sleek chrome and glass coffee table, painstakingly applying clear varnish to her toenails. Looking up at Rennie she waggled her fingers and said, ‘Hi, babes. All right?'

‘I'm not the father.' Rennie had come straight from his lawyer's office. He held out his copy of the official result of the DNA test.

‘I know. My agent just rang. Sorry, babes.' Biba carefully fastened the lid on the nail varnish bottle and gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘Are you disappointed?'

Since there really wasn't any answer to that, Rennie said, ‘You knew it wasn't me. You knew all along.'

Biba pushed back her long ash-blond hair, careful not to get her fingers tangled in the knots attaching the extensions to her scalp.

‘Rennie, don't be cross. You know how this business works, right? If you can sell a story, you sell it. You'd be mad not to. Look at it from my point of view. I'm a single mother with a baby to support. Now, do I take some crappy little office job for five quid an hour and work my fingers to the bone to earn enough money to buy a pram? Or do I go to the papers for twenty grand and let
Hi!
magazine into my lovely home for another thirty?'

Rennie repeated, ‘But I'm not the father.'

‘You slept with me. You could have been.' Biba shrugged, blithely unconcerned. ‘Don't worry, I'll put out a press release announcing it wasn't you. Oh, come on, babes, it's over now. You're off the hook. Don't be grumpy.'

She was right, Rennie realised. There was absolutely no point in losing his temper because Biba genuinely didn't feel she'd done anything wrong. This was, effectively, how she earned her living.

The babes thing was getting on his nerves though - she hadn't called him that when they'd been together in New York. He'd never have slept with her if she had.