is...’ she swallowed ‘...this is Vasilis’s nephew, Anatole Kyrgiakis.’
Immediately Giles’s expression changed. ‘I’m sorry about your uncle,’ he said. ‘We all liked him immensely.’
There was a sincerity in his voice that Christine hoped Anatole would respect. She saw him give a tight nod.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
His glance moved between her and Giles assessingly. She felt her spine stiffen. Then he was speaking again.
‘A puppy sounds like a very good idea,’ he said.
Was he addressing her or Giles? Whichever it was, it was Giles who answered.
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Take the little guy’s mind off...well, you know.’ His glance went back to Christine. ‘I’ll take myself off, then,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We’ll see you on Friday week. Come a bit earlier, so the tinies can have some playtime together and inspect the puppies.’
His glance encompassed Anatole.
‘Dinner with my parents,’ he explained, adding without prompting, ‘You’d be most welcome to join us.’ He smiled with his usual unaffected good humour.
Christine waited for Anatole to make some polite but evasive reply. To her shock, he did the exact opposite. ‘Thank you—that’s very good of you.’
‘Great! Well, see you, then. Cheers, you guys!’ He loped off, waving at Nicky, and disappeared.
Anatole watched him go. He’d wondered who the muddy-wheeled four by four in the parking area behind the house belonged to, and now he knew.
He turned back to Christine. ‘An admirer?’ he said silkily. But beneath the silk was another emotion, one he did not care to name.
Anger flashed in her eyes. Raw, vehement. But she did not deign to honour his jibe with a reply. Instead, she said, ‘What are you doing here Anatole?’
Nearly a fortnight had passed since that second encounter with him in London, and she had hoped that he’d taken himself off again, abandoned his declared intention to have anything more to do with her. With Nicky.
But his next words only confirmed that intention. He looked at her. ‘I told you I wanted to see Nicky again.’
All too conscious of her son’s presence, of the fact that he was tugging at Anatole to get his attention, Christine knew she could not do anything other than reply with, ‘Did you not think to ring first?’
‘To ask permission to see Vasilis’s son?’ His voice was back to being silky. Then he turned his attention back to Nicky. ‘OK, so how about showing me your painting, then?’ he asked.
‘Yes—yes!’ Nicky exclaimed.
Christine took a breath. ‘I’ll take you up. Nanny Ruth is having her break now.’
She led the way indoors. She was trying hard to stay composed, though her heart was hammering. Behind her she could hear Anatole’s deep voice, and Nicky’s piping one. She felt her heart clench.
Inside, she headed up the wide staircase and then along the landing to where another flight of stairs led to the nursery floor beneath the dormer windows.
Nicky’s playroom was lavish—Anatole’s glance took in a rocking horse, a train set, a garage and toy cars, plus a large collection of teddy bears and the like. The walls were covered in colourful educational posters, and the plentiful bookshelves were full of books.
A large table was set by the dormer window, and on a nearby wall there was a wide noticeboard which held a painting of a blue train with red wheels. There were some other paintings pinned up too, and in alphabet letters was spelled out the phrase, Paintings for my pappou. A lot of kisses followed.
Anatole felt his throat close, a choke rising. This was clearly the nursery of a much-loved child.
‘There it is!’ Nicky cried out, and ran to the noticeboard, climbing up on a chair and pointing to the painting.
Then he pointed to the others—a red car, a house with chimneys and a green door, and a trio of stick people with huge faces. Smiling faces. Underneath each of the stick people was a name, painstakingly written out in thick pen around dotted guidelines: Pappou, Mumma and Nicky. The stick people were surrounded by kisses.
‘That’s my pappou,’ Nicky said. ‘He lives in heaven. He got sick. We’ll see him later.’ He cast a quivering look at Christine. ‘Won’t we, Mumma?’
It was Anatole who answered. ‘Yes, we will,’ he said decisively. ‘We all will. We’ll have a big, big party when we see him.’
The quivering look vanished from his little cousin’s eyes. Then they widened excitedly. ‘A party? With balloons? And cakes?’
‘Definitely,’ said Anatole. He sat himself down at the table on the other chair. ‘Now,’ he said to Nicky, ‘how about if we do some more painting. Do you know...’ he looked at Nicky ‘...there isn’t a picture of me here yet, is there?’
‘I’ll do one now,’ Nicky said immediately, and grabbed at the box of paints and some of the drawing paper piled on the table. He looked at Anatole. ‘You do one of me,’ he instructed, and gave some paper and a brush to his big cousin, who took them smilingly.
‘You’ll need some water,’ Christine said.
She went into the bathroom leading off the playroom, which linked through to Nicky’s bedroom next to Nanny Ruth’s quarters. As she filled the jar she swallowed, blinking. But she soon went back, set the filled jar down on the table.
‘Thank you, Mumma,’ said Nicky dutifully.
Nanny Ruth was very keen on manners.
‘You have fun, munchkin,’ she said.
She left the room. She had to get out of there—had to stop seeing her son and Anatole, poring over their labours, their heads bent together—both so dark-haired, dark-eyed. So alike...
She clattered down the stairs to the main landing. How long would Anatole be here? Did he expect to stay the night?
He can’t stay here—he can’t!
Panic rose in her throat, then subsided. No, of course he would not want to stay here. It would not be comme il faut for her to have such a guest, even if he was her late husband’s nephew. Even without anyone knowing their past relationship.
But if he wasn’t heading back to town tonight he’d have to stay at the White Hart in the nearby market town. It was upmarket enough, in this well-heeled part of England, not to repel him, and they should have vacancies this time of year. She realised her mind was rambling, busying itself with practical thoughts so that she didn’t have to let in the thought she most desperately wanted to keep at bay.
Anatole and Nicky...heads together...so alike...so very, very alike.
No! Don’t go there! Just don’t go there! That was a past that never happened. Anatole did not
