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  She loved hearing the story, because it showed a vulnerable side of her mother that she had never got to see. Unlike Raoul, who’d regaled the family with tales of his life back home, Dominique had never really talked about her upbringing. She’d been born on the French-speaking island of Réunion, a beautiful but poverty-stricken place in the Indian Ocean. Her parents had been killed in a car crash when she was a baby, and Dominique had been brought up by her strict grandmother. As she got older herself, Vanessa often wondered if the early tragedy in her mother’s life had contributed to her inability to reach out to her own daughter.

  Dominique had stayed at home to bring up Vanessa, while Raoul Jardine had run his own carpet-fitting business. He’d worked hard to make sure his daughter received the education he’d never had. His proudest achievement had been sending her to Vespers, a renowned private school in Holland Park.

  It had been the darkest time of Vanessa’s life. A dumpy, shy teenager, she had stuck out painfully among her leggy, worldly contemporaries. She was bullied about her rough accent and terraced house, excluded from weekend plans and boy talk. The other mums shunned Dominique at the school gates, jealous and intimidated by her beauty. No matter how hard Vanessa tried to fit in, she was still ‘Gippy Jardine’, the girl with a moustache whose dad was a lowly carpet fitter.

  The miracle intervention had come at eighteen. She discovered Jolene for the first time and then, overnight, her puppy fat had literally melted. Suddenly she had become beautiful. Ten years later, she was richer and prettier than any of those bullies at school. That was why having money was so important. Every pound Vanessa made, she made to show them.

  A brown speckled bird landed on the lawn, beak stabbing the grass in a hunt for worms. When she’d met Conrad he’d promised to take care of her, but Vanessa felt it was increasingly the other way round now. She ran the house and paid their staff, took the conference calls with PR brands and sponsorship people. If she let herself think about it, the amount of responsibility she had would overwhelm her.

  Dominique was another constant worry. Vanessa knew she missed her husband desperately, but Vanessa had lost her father as well. When had anyone sat her down to ask if she was OK?

  Her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. She wished so much her dad were here. He’d always known how to make her feel better. He’d be able to stop her mother crying at night in her bedroom, and end the yawning emptiness Vanessa was starting to feel these days, no matter what she’d achieved. Her father would know how to stop her marriage unravelling and turn Conrad back into the man she’d married …

  She was crying so much she couldn’t see. At first she thought she had a false lash in her eye, but then the dark shape outside the window moved again. Her despair was immediately replaced by a new emotion. Fear.

  There was a scruffy, wild-eyed man in the garden. And he was looking straight at her.

  Vanessa dropped to the floor in a panic. How had he got in? The Porsche was in the garage and there were no cars parked out the front. He must have thought the place was empty and decided to try his chances …

  She always thought she’d be completely capable in a situation like this, but she found herself frozen with fear. A shadow fell on the white carpet. Oh God, he was outside the window …

  ‘My jewellery’s upstairs!’ she screamed. ‘Just take it and get out!’ She thought of the story in the papers recently about an actress who’d been held at knifepoint in her own home. Something brushed against her face, making her shriek again. It was Sukie, with one of her ornamental silk cushions in her mouth. Aghast, she watched as the dog trotted into the middle of the room with the cushion and started to grind in an unladylike fashion against it.

  ‘Sukie!’ she whispered hysterically, but the dog took no notice.

  There was no noise from outside. ‘What do you want?’ she screamed. Was this unknown assailant getting off seeing her cower like a frightened animal?

  Mustering up the courage, Vanessa peeked up from under the windowsill. There was no one there. She got up, shooting fearful glances everywhere. Where had he gone? Was he in the house? An icy fist clenched in the pit of her stomach. She’d left the utility door open.

  A man’s voice sounded. ‘Hello, anyone in?’

  She clutched her chest and tried to still her frantic heart. Burglars didn’t call out a greeting, did they? Picking up the paperweight from the desk just in case, she crept out into the hall. ‘Hello?’

  Then Vanessa nearly had her second heart attack of the day. The intruder was standing right there, in her kitchen!

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded hysterically. ‘My husband is here, you know!’

  He glanced at the paperweight. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  If this was a burglar, he was the best-looking one Vanessa had ever seen. A second improbable thought quickly followed. Of all the days not to put on make-up …

  ‘So shall I ask him about gardening work then?’ the stranger asked.

  She put the paperweight down on the worktop, within reach for safe measure. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’m here about gardening work,’ the man repeated. His voice was mellow, almost musical in its quality. Vanessa couldn’t stop staring at him. His face was framed by a halo of thick, black unruly curls that made him look like a fallen cherub. She put him in his late twenties, with the crinkles and laughter lines of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors.

  ‘Has Tamzin sent you?’ she asked.

  ‘Who’s Tamzin?’

  ‘My PA, she’s recruiting for me at the moment.’ Her earlier fright had made Vanessa’s voice shrill. ‘Why didn’t you use the intercom?’

  ‘The gates were open.’

  ‘They were? Oh.’ She swallowed. ‘My husband must have forgotten to shut them when he left.’

  He surveyed her with a hint of amusement. ‘I thought you said your husband was in?’

  ‘He is. I mean he was. He’s, er, gone out.’ Vanessa trailed off. He really had the most unusual eyes, a silvery, iridescent colour. She wondered if he might be a Romany gypsy.

  The man held his hand out. ‘Dylan Goldhawk.’

  ‘Vanessa Powell.’ She felt the rough calloused palm against hers and snatched her hand back.

  ‘Are you local?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve just moved into the area.’ He looked at her curiously. She realized her eyes must be red. ‘Allergies,’ she said curtly. She jumped as Sukie brushed past her ankles and headed straight for Dylan. He bent down and put a tanned hand on the dog’s tiny head.

  ‘Hello, mouse. My dog would eat you for breakfast.’

  ‘Her name is Sukie,’ Vanessa said pointedly. ‘And I do hope you haven’t brought your dog on to the premises.’

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s in the van.’ Dylan grinned. He seemed to be in no hurry to go anywhere. She felt completely out of her comfort zone.

  ‘As it happens we are looking for someone on a temporary basis. Do you have any references?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘No? So you just turn up at people’s houses and offer your services?’

  ‘If you’re not happy with what I do don’t pay me,’ he said simply. ‘I’ve never had any dissatisfied customers before.’

  The businesswoman in Vanessa winced. ‘You’d better give me your mobile number, then.’

  ‘I don’t have one.’

  Vanessa slept with her BlackBerry virtually clamped on her ear. ‘You don’t have a mobile phone?’

  Dylan gave an easy grin. ‘I’ve obviously caught you at a bad time. Why don’t I come back in a few days when you’ve had a chance to think about it?’

  ‘You can’t just turn up, I could be out!’ Had he never heard of a schedule before?

  ‘So I’ll leave a message.’ He gave her a crooked smile that showed off surprisingly white teeth. ‘Nice to meet you, Vanessa.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Goldhawk,’ she said formally.

  ‘See you, Mrs Powell.’

  Mo
ments later he loped past the kitchen windows. Vanessa raced through the house to peek out the drawing room, but he was nowhere to be seen. It was as if he’d magically melted back into the countryside.

  She flopped on the sofa, out of sorts. What a peculiar man! Who did that, turned up at people’s back doors to try and find work? He definitely had to be some sort of traveller.

  ‘Hopefully we won’t be seeing him again,’ she told Sukie. An image of Dylan’s eyes, a pair of shimmery moons, flashed into her mind.

  Chapter 12

  From Paisley to Plymouth the weather continued its balmy run. A holiday atmosphere descended over Britain and a Tuesday morning on Brighton beach looked like something out of a Thomas Cook holiday brochure, while office workers abandoned soggy sandwiches eaten at their desks and descended on pub gardens with relish. Parks everywhere teemed with life: rollerbladers, mothers with small children and bikini-clad teenagers absconding from GCSE leave to share bottles of cider and the odd mid-afternoon joint.

  Driving back to Beeversham that day in her open-top MG, Catherine was in a great mood. It was one of those spring days where everything was in glorious Technicolor. Engorged verges threatened to burst on to the roads at any moment while apple-green trees were framed perfectly against royal-blue skies.

  Flicking through the radio, Catherine came across Katrina and The Waves. Nothing like a bit of cheese on a day like this. Catherine whacked it right up and started singing along tunelessly. ‘Woo yeah yeah …’

  She zoomed down into a tunnel of trees. She’d been thinking a lot about her mum today. Catherine had never known her dad, a travelling salesman who had neglected to tell Annie Fincham he had another family, but Catherine had never felt like she had missed out. There might not have been much money, but she had always felt secure and loved.

  She glanced across at the passenger seat. She suddenly had the strangest sensation that her mother was sitting there, her radiant smile and long auburn hair blowing in the breeze. Cathy, how are you, pet …

  As she came back out into the light again Catherine was filled with the most wonderful warmth. Blinking back the tears, she smiled.

  I love you, Mam. And I’m doing OK.

  John was in the back garden on his iPad. He looked up and greeted her with a smile. ‘All right, gorgeous?’

  ‘All right.’

  He looked mock hurt. ‘I’m not gorgeous?’

  ‘I said you’re all right,’ Catherine laughed, going round to give him a kiss. She caught the headline. TORIES FACE ABYSS AS SUPPORT CRUMBLES.

  ‘Another MP has just defected to Labour,’ he told her.

  ‘God, who’d be a Tory politician at the moment? They’re about as popular as a raging case of herpes.’

  The house phone started ringing. ‘I’ll get it,’ she said.

  It was a cold-caller, trying to sell her a stair lift. Catherine was in such a good mood she patiently endured his waffle, even wishing the man a nice day before putting the phone down. ‘I’ll start on lunch,’ she yelled out the door.

  She had spent a fortune at the deli, including a six-pound bottle of organic sparkling apple juice in a pretty glass bottle. An extravagance, but it was an occasion that should be toasted in style.

  She emptied out a tray of quails’ eggs on to a plate. Normally regular to the hour, her period was a week late. Her breasts were tender and achy and she was off her normal beloved morning cup of coffee. Smells and tastes were sharper and more pungent. She didn’t need to do a pregnancy test: her own body was telling her.

  Catherine went over to the window, where John was at the table engrossed in his iPad. As she looked at his big, dark head bent over, she felt such a rush of emotion. What would their child inherit from each of them? John’s practicality and winning smile, the ability he had to sleep through a gale-force wind? Or her flat feet and stubborn insistence on seeing anything she did through to the bitter end? The thought of him or her with their whole life in front of them: experiences, triumphs, defeats and all made her feel exhilarated and terrified in equal measure.

  Picking up the tray, she went to break the news to her husband.

  Chapter 13

  It was official: Conrad and Vanessa were the hosts of that year’s Silver Box Awards.

  ‘My wife and I are delighted to be presenting such a prestigious occasion,’ Conrad said in the couple’s official statement. ‘It’s every actor’s dream.’

  In private he was equally ebullient. ‘It might just have been a few lines in someone’s office, but we all felt the magic.’ His dark eyes glistened. ‘I’m seriously expecting an Oscar nomination within two years.’

  Vanessa laughed. Conrad shot her a look.

  ‘Don’t take the piss,’ he said sharply. ‘This is a big deal for me.’

  ‘Conrad, I wasn’t …’ God, he was being serious!

  At least Dominique could be counted on to side with her son-in-law. ‘I’m sure you were wonderful, Conrad. There was never any doubt in my mind you’d get the job.’

  ‘What about me, Mother?’ Vanessa asked. ‘Are you pleased for me?’

  Dominique shot her an odd look. ‘Of course I am, Vanessa. It’s just that Conrad is the actor in the family.’

  Silly me, Vanessa thought. As if I’m anyone important.

  They were in the dining room, a vast all-white room dominated by a marbled fireplace at the far end. The greasy remains of the starter lay on the Wedgwood plates in front of them. Tonight’s pan-fried scallops had not been a great success. To make matters worse, Conrad’s wine snobbery was on fire tonight. He’d already sent two perfectly acceptable Burgundies back.

  ‘Vanessa, you’re really going to have to do something about Renata’s cooking skills,’ Dominique said. ‘This simply isn’t good enough.’

  A spark of annoyance flared inside Vanessa. ‘I’ve got an idea; why don’t you cook one night?’ And lift a bloody finger for once, she wanted to add.

  Dominique shot her daughter an icy stare across the table. Vanessa picked up her glass. Conrad was too involved in celebrating his success to notice the drop in temperature. ‘Ah, the Puligny-Montrachet from the Côte de Beaune,’ he exclaimed as Renata shuffled back in with a new bottle. He took it and inspected the label with a flourish. ‘And a fantastic year, 2001.’

  ‘Oh, Conrad,’ Dominique cooed. ‘You are knowledgeable.’ She turned her back on Vanessa, making her annoyance clear. ‘Tell me about the time you worked with Sir Michael Caine again, Conrad, I do love to hear it.’

  As Conrad starting waxing lyrical about his screen presence Vanessa gazed round the imposing dining room. What a beautiful, cold house this was. She found herself thinking again about the mysterious Dylan Goldhawk. It was obvious he wasn’t coming back. Vanessa thought of Dylan’s kind smile and shimmery eyes and was shocked at how disappointed she felt.

  Chapter 14

  Fleur and Robert Blackwater sat in silence at the kitchen table. She’d made them up a simple chicken salad, but neither seemed to have much appetite.

  ‘Come on, Dad, eat your greens or you’ll never grow,’ she said. It was a weak joke, but she was worried about how ill he was looking.

  He reached for his glass of beer instead. ‘Concentrate on your plate and I’ll concentrate on mine.’

  A few painful moments dragged past. Mustering up a smile, she tried again.

  ‘I saw Ginny Chamberlain in town earlier. Loads of people are going to the meeting at county hall.’

  ‘Can’t say I see the point.’

  ‘Dad, if this theme park goes ahead, it’s really going to affect us!’

  ‘We’re fighting a losing battle up here anyway.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  He laughed unhappily. ‘Wish I shared your optimism, lass.’

  She wanted to reach across the table and shake him. She wanted to throw the stupid beer bottle against the wall and tell him she couldn’t do this all by herself. Instead she sat there and held her tongue.

  The dogs s
tarted barking outside, signalling they had visitors. Robert frowned and checked his wristwatch. ‘Who’s this?’ They didn’t get many people dropping in these days.

  A silver Citroën bumped cautiously into the yard. A man in a smart suit was behind the wheel. From the vehicle’s pristine appearance, it was clear the driver wasn’t someone who had much to do with farming.

  Tinker and Bess were still barking, straining at their chains. The man sat behind the wheel looking nervous.

  ‘He must be lost,’ Fleur said. ‘I’ll go and see.’

  ‘He’s not lost.’ Robert’s ruddy cheeks had drained of colour. ‘That’s our bank manager.’

  Herbert Stanley perched awkwardly on the chair looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. His glossy black briefcase was on the seat next to him.

  ‘Robert, you haven’t returned any of my calls.’

  Fleur’s dad crossed his arms and glowered.

  ‘I’ve also written several times,’ Mr Stanley ventured.

  ‘I haven’t got time to go through correspondence!’ Robert growled.

  An embarrassed silence fell over the room. Fleur studied her dirty fingernails. Why had their bank manager driven out here to see them? Whatever the reason, it couldn’t be good.

  Eventually she heard Mr Stanley sigh. ‘Look, Robert, I’ve known your family a long time now. I know how difficult things are, but we have to come to some arrangement. I’ve been prepared to use my discretion on this, but I can only go so far.’ He sat up, and got down to business. ‘You have to start paying the loan back, Robert.’

  Fleur’s head snapped up. ‘What loan?’

  Mr Stanley looked at her uncertainly. ‘The loan you’ve taken out against the farm.’

  What loan? ‘How much for?’ she asked, trying to sound calm.

  ‘With interest, the current amount is,’ Mr Stanley shuffled through his paperwork as a formality, ‘three hundred thousand and twelve pounds and seventy-nine pence.’

  The numbers fluttered meaninglessly in Fleur’s ears, coming to settle like a pinball machine. ‘Three hundred thousand?’ she gasped. ‘We haven’t got that kind of …’