He glanced anxiously about him and she suddenly saw that he looked more than worried. He looked awful, as though he was strained to the point of collapse. ‘Which one and why?’ he asked absently. ‘Has she done something wrong?’
Cecily dismissed his question with a wave of her hand. ‘Find the pretty red-haired waitress and ask her what her name is. Ask her how old she is and why she’s here. And then later, when everyone has gone, you must tell me exactly where Neil is.’
Stirling had no idea what Cecily was talking about, but one thing he did know was that he couldn’t keep up the pretence any longer.
Only the faintest of hopes that the police had jumped to the wrong conclusion, that it hadn’t been Neil’s body found in the river, had given him the strength to carry on with his mother’s birthday party. But just as he had known that Rosco’s revelations about the missing client money were true, his instinct was – that sixth sense – telling him that Neil was indeed dead. He knew it with absolute certainty. He knew too that life was never going to be the same again. It wasn’t just a brother he had lost; he had lost his oldest and closest friend. So why then was he trying to compartmentalize Neil’s death for the sake of appearances? What sort of unthinking bastard did that?
‘Stirling? Whatever is the matter? You look quite ill.’
He swallowed the painful lump in his throat and held firm. He would not let himself become unglued. ‘Let’s go inside the house,’ he murmured, putting a hand to his mother’s elbow. He concentrated on walking. One step. Then another. And then another.
He closed the door of his study and led Cecily to the two comfortable armchairs either side of the empty fireplace, steeling himself for one of the hardest, if not the hardest thing he’d ever have to do in his life. Cecily had never had favourites when it came to him and his brother, but Neil had always had a special place in her heart, just as Lloyd did.
He told her first about Rosco’s discovery in the office. She made no reaction, merely listened attentively, sitting bolt upright, her hands on her lap, as if knowing there was worse to come. Then he told her about the police and the reason for their visit. He heard the quiet catch of her breath and she closed her eyes for a very long time. Stirling watched her carefully.
‘I knew,’ she said, when finally she looked at him again. ‘I knew something was wrong. He wasn’t happy. When I last saw him I sensed he was at odds with himself. I asked him if everything was all right, but he wouldn’t open up to me. I should have tried harder. If only I had. If only . . .’ She closed her eyes once more.
‘If anyone should be saying that, it’s me,’ Stirling said. He knelt at her side, covered her hands with his. ‘I should have realized he was going through some kind of hell. I just don’t understand why he didn’t turn to me. Didn’t he trust me? Didn’t he think I’d help . . .’ He broke off, unable to continue. The lump in his throat had returned; it was made of anger and bewilderment. Why? Why hadn’t Neil come to him? It hurt him acutely that his brother hadn’t confided in him. Then he did what he hadn’t done since he’d been a small boy. He rested his head in his mother’s lap and wept. For a while he wasn’t conscious of anything other than the feeling that he would never recover from this. He thought he knew what it was like to feel real sorrow – he’d experienced that when his father died more than ten years ago – but this was different. The desolation was all-consuming. It was unbearable.
Gradually he became aware of Cecily’s hands on his head and neck, gently stroking him as she had when he’d been a boy. He was shocked how easily he had reverted to being that child in need; shocked also at his selfishness. He should be the one soothing and consoling her; she had lost a son. He pulled himself together, dug out a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, blew his nose, wiped his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice a rasp.
‘What for? For being human? Don’t ever apologize for that. Where’s Pen?’
‘She wanted to go home, but I insisted she stayed here. She’s upstairs lying down.’
‘We must go to her. She mustn’t be alone. Have you telephoned Lloyd?’
His mother’s composure and clear thinking shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. But maybe she was doing what he had done earlier when he had slammed the door shut on his emotions by throwing himself into being practical. Perhaps he should be firm and say that she must stay the night here, too, so that when her grief hit her she wouldn’t be on her own. ‘I haven’t called Lloyd, not yet. I just wanted to get through this party for your sake. I didn’t want anything to spoil your evening.’
She shook her head. ‘How many times have I told you, Stirling, you don’t have to carry the world on your shoulders. Not everything is down to you. Who else knows about Neil?’
‘At the moment, only you, Pen and me. All Gina, Rosco and Scarlet and Charlie know is that something has happened that I’ll tell them about after the party.’
‘Does Pen know about the missing client money?’
‘No. And I don’t want her to. She doesn’t need to know any of that.’
She gave him a severe look. ‘That might not be your decision to make.’ She rose stiffly from the chair. ‘Let’s go up and see Pen. Then perhaps you should get Gina to tell the guests the party’s over, that I’m not feeling well. And while you’re doing that, I shall call Lloyd. That’s if Pen hasn’t done so already.’
It felt all wrong, his mother taking command of the situation, but once more he should have known better, that she would be the strong one. She always had been.
The net was closing in on Katie. Any minute and the whole crazy charade was going to blow up in her face. Merrill had just taken an apologetic call from the girl who was supposed to have filled in for the original waitress; apparently she’d been involved in a car shunt in Marlow and had spent the evening at A & E. Fortunately she hadn’t been badly hurt, but it had left Merrill and Sue wondering how Katie had ended up here. Thinking fast, Katie had suggested that the agency had got itself in a muddle and booked two girls by accident. The lie seemed to have satisfied them, however Katie didn’t think she could fool Cecily Nightingale so easily. But then part of her hadn’t wanted to fool the old lady; that was why she had given her real name when pushed. She had thought there was little likelihood of the name meaning anything to Cecily Nightingale – after all, what were the chances of her knowing that her son had had an affair with Fay Lavender all those years ago? – but the expression on her face had left Katie in no doubt whatsoever that it had.
So where did that leave Katie? Should she sneak away whilst no one was looking? Not easy given that Merrill was outside loading boxes of dirty crockery and cutlery into the van, which was parked directly in front of Katie’s car.
But to stay was to risk the consequences of the old lady’s reaction to her name. Was her reticence to take flight based on a desire to be found out? Was that it? Did she want Stirling Nightingale to acknowledge she was his daughter? She really hadn’t come here to pick a fight or to hurt anyone. It was lucidity she had been seeking, a light thrown on to this newly revealed dark corner of herself.
That aside, it would be nice to stick it to that Rosco character by announcing she was his half-sister. She imagined his horror and her saying, ‘Yeah, I thought that would wipe the arrogant sneer off your face.’
As satisfying as the thought was, there was a more altruistic side to her reluctance to leave at once. The grief that the family would go through tugged at her heart; it made her want to know that Pen Nightingale would be all right. The poor woman had been so nice to Katie this afternoon, little knowing that she was being lied to. Katie didn’t feel good about that. Not good at all.
There had been no sign of the woman during the cutting of the cake, and Katie wondered where she was. Had she gone home? Wherever she was, Katie hoped she had someone with her. She remembered how she had been alone at the hospital when the medical staff had decided to take her mother off the life-support machine. It had been the right thing to do, to leave her with her mother in those last moments, but to be alone, entirely alone, at a time like that was brutal; it wasn’t something you could ever forget.
She had watched her mother die. She had held Fay’s hand, part hoping her mother could feel her last touch, but terrified that she could because that would mean it had been wrong to switch off the machine that had kept her alive. She had lain on the bed alongside her mother’s still body and stroked her cheek, tears running down her own. Later the nurses had found her like that and had gently pulled her away.
No, that wasn’t something you could forget.
With a heavy heart, she carried on with the task she’d been assigned, that of making coffee while Dee was passing round plates of birthday cake. Over by the draining board a large electric urn was hissing and bubbling.
Coming into the kitchen with a tray of dirty glasses, Sue said, ‘I’ve just been informed that the party’s over, so I wouldn’t bother putting any more cups out; just keep enough for the family. Apparently Cecily Nightingale isn’t feeling so good and guests have been asked to go home. Where’s Merrill?’
‘She’s outside loading stuff into the van. What’s wrong with Mrs Nightingale? It’s not anything serious, is it?’
The woman shrugged. ‘I don’t think so.’
Left on her own again as Sue went out to the van, Katie began stacking the unwanted cups and saucers. What an evening it was turning into for the family.
‘I wonder if I could trouble you for some tea?’
She spun round at the sound of a man’s voice. It was Stirling Nightingale. But he barely resembled the confident and smiling man she had bumped into previously. His eyes were red-rimmed and his expression stricken; a handkerchief was poking out from his trouser pocket. He looked tired and shaken, like a man who had fought to stay in control in the aftermath of receiving bad news but had lost the battle. Katie felt a wave of sympathy for him. More than that, she realized she cared about this stranger. Was it a genetic thing? Was she programmed to feel something for this person she had only just met?
‘Tea,’ she repeated, her heartbeat accelerating wildly. ‘Of course. Any particular type?’ she asked, wondering where on earth the tea was kept.
‘Earl Grey, please. You’ll find it in the cupboard above . . . Here, let me get it for you.’
He came over and stood just a few feet away from her. Close up, she could see the excruciating strain in his eyes. One way or another he was having a hell of an evening. Suddenly her deceit sickened her; the last thing he needed right now was a secret love child turning up on his doorstep. She took the box of tea bags from him.
He was staring at her intently, his brow drawn. ‘I keep getting the feeling that we’ve met before,’ he said. ‘Have we?’
‘No,’ she said, turning her back to him and scanning the kitchen for a teapot. ‘This is my first time here.’
‘Maybe at another party where you’ve waitressed?’
Before she could reply, he said, ‘For some reason my mother said I should speak to you, that I should ask you what your name is.’
‘Really?’
‘She also suggested that I should ask you why you’re here.’
No flies on the birthday girl, then. ‘Um . . . I’m here by accident,’ she said, turning round to face him. She almost cheered herself for her choice of words. If he and her mother hadn’t had an affair, she most certainly wouldn’t be here! ‘Just helping out,’ she added. ‘I stepped in at the last minute for someone else. Can you show me where there’s a teapot?’
He opened another cupboard and handed her a blue and white Spode pot. ‘So what is your name?’
Should she lie to him? One simple lie and this moment would stop. She would make his tea and he would leave her alone. But then all he had to do was speak to his mother and he would know. Lavender wasn’t a common surname. He would hear it and know in a blink of an eye who she was. Stalling, she put two tea bags into the pot and went over to the hot-water urn. ‘How’s your mother?’ she asked. ‘I heard she wasn’t feeling very well.’
‘She’s . . . she’s tired. It’s been a long day for her. Thank you for asking.’
Katie found a tray and put the teapot on it. ‘How many cups do you need?’
‘Three should be enough. You still haven’t answered my question.’
Katie turned her eyes on him. She forced herself to look beyond the strain in his face and saw a striking and distinctive man. Tall, well dressed and giving the impression of leading an active and healthy lifestyle, he probably still had the power to make any woman look twice at him. His silver-grey hair was thick and short and neatly cut. His eyes were brown, and despite the weight of sadness in them, they met her gaze with a compelling potency.
‘You really do look familiar,’ he said, when still she hadn’t answered him.
She thought of the letter her mother had written, and the reason she had done it.
‘My name’s Katie,’ she said at last. ‘Katie Lavender. You knew my mother. Fay Lavender. I’m your daughter.’
Stirling stared and stared at her. What was she doing here? What was she doing in his house working as a waitress? Numb with shock, he didn’t know how to react or what to say. First his brother. Now this. He felt he would stay numb for the rest of his life.
Years ago, he had often thought about this moment, but never had he pictured it quite like this. He had imagined something more carefully planned, a situation – rightly or wrongly – that he would have felt in control of. This wasn’t at all how he’d envisaged their meeting. For a start, he had imagined a boy: a son. The arrangement he’d had with Fay was that she would never tell him what sex of child she gave birth to. ‘It’s better that you never know,’ she had said. Despite his initial refusal to agree to this, he had eventually given in to her wishes and had promised he would never pursue the matter, that he would leave her alone to get on with her life. She had begged him not to renege on his promise, claiming that a clean break was the only way either of them would be able to cope.