chair while the kettle boiled. If so, there might have been a friendly cuddle for her now.
Ginny sighed wistfully. It was so sad that her own mother had been unable to care for her. Her mother had developed a serious phobia about cleanliness which had meant that when Ginny was born her mother had become hysterical at all the mess a baby brought. Or so the McKenzies, her adoptive parents, had told her. They would never reveal her mother’s whereabouts and Ginny was wary of discovering that her mother cared nothing for her.
Sarah Temple. That was all she knew of her mother—besides a few memories, dim but unpleasant. Vague recollections of being held grimly to a starched apron-front, a woman screaming, and a feeling of terrified guilt at the mess she’d made once when she’d had a tummy upset. Had her mother cried on and on for hours, or was that a faulty memory?
She thought with compassion of what must have been a tense, uptight woman who’d apparently been eager to give her away when she was four to a strict Scottish couple.
The McKenzies were well off. Andrew was a respected politician. That was how she’d met Leo—their fathers were both in politics and she’d reluctantly gone along with her adoptive parents to a country weekend at Castlestowe when she was nearly eighteen. Hated it. Loved Leo. Fool.
Hadn’t she seen the different worlds they moved in? Butlers, maids, cut-glass crystal, banners of long-forgotten battles and grim oil paintings of even grimmer ancestors?
Ginny wearily uncoiled her long, long legs from the chair and made the tea, carrying a mug in to Chas.
‘I’ve got some thinking to do,’ she told him, her face wan and strained. ‘I’ll be in the study. Use the TV in the drawing room if you want. It won’t bother me. And would you lock up later? I’ll probably be pacing the floor for a while. I have to get my head together. You understand?’ she asked in a hesitant plea.
‘Sure, Ginny,’ he said gently. ‘Let me know if you want anything. I’m here and I’ve got waterproof skin if necessary.’
Her pathetic attempt at a smile quivered on her lips and then she turned, almost broken by the tenderness of his expression. Because she had wanted Leo to look like that. And he hadn’t given a damn.
Despairing, she tucked herself in the little office, fixed with all the latest technology to enable her to keep in contact with designers and agents around the world. Everyone seemed to be doing things for her. Few were, in reality.
Ginny switched on the answering machine and halfheartedly listened to the messages. Business. Nothing personal or affectionate. And suddenly she was filled with an overwhelming feeling of need. If only she knew who her father was! The McKenzies had refused to speak of her mother’s situation and Ginny had no idea whether she was illegitimate or if her real father had died early on in her life.
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