he saw his daughter. ‘Amy’s just got back from collecting Rosie from school. They were looking for you.’ His eyes fell on the album and he shook his head slightly, admitting, ‘I can’t think why I wanted to look at that. No good looking into the past—you can’t bring it back. Neither of us can.’
Claudia got to her feet and resolutely stuffed the album back in its former hiding place, aware of her father’s eyes on her, the rough compassion in his voice. Six weeks ago, his wife and her husband had been killed when the car they were in was mown down on a blind bend on a steep hill by an articulated lorry that had lost its brakes.
Just over a week later, they had discovered that Helen and Tony had been lovers. Their affair had been on and off, but mostly on, since before Tony had introduced the glamorous divorcée and suggested that Guy consider her for the post of relief receptionist.
Her father had made that discovery when he had been going through his dead wife’s effects and had happened across diaries and some highly explicit love letters. It had devastated him. Coming on top of the shock of the fatal accident, it had brought about his third heart attack in six years.
It hadn’t been anything like as severe as the one he’d had, right out of the blue, at the end of the summer six years ago but, nevertheless, it had weakened him still further and it would be a long time before she could stop worrying about him.
And how she was going to be able to break the other piece of shattering news she couldn’t imagine. The thought of what it could do to him terrified her.
‘Did you mention the possibility of the loan we need to refurbish the guest suites?’ Guy sat on the chair Claudia had vacated and leaned his cane against the table.
His once strong features were now gaunt and grey and Claudia would have done anything to spare him from this final horror. But the best she could do was prevaricate, just for now, delay the inevitable for as long as she possibly could.
Ask the bank manager for a loan? As if!
Her discussion with the manager this afternoon had been on a different topic entirely. Their business was as good as bankrupt, their financial difficulties severe—so severe that selling up was the only option. It was something her father was going to have to be told about. But not now.
Now she asked, changing the subject, ‘Where’s Rosie?’ As a rule she collected her small daughter from school every day, but because of her appointment at the bank she’d had to ask Amy to do it. She didn’t know what they would do without the grey-haired, rosy-cheeked dumpling who had been at Farthings Hall as long as Claudia could remember. Amy had done her best to do what she could to fill the gap when Claudia, as a ten-year-old, had been left motherless.
‘Amy took her through to the kitchens for some juice. Oh, I forgot to mention it, but Jenny can’t come in this evening—summer flu, or some such excuse.’ Guy Sullivan got slowly to his feet. ‘Look, I can help Amy out round the kitchens—we can take the trickier stuff off the menu—and free you up to take Jenny’s place, wait on tables.’
‘No, Dad.’ Claudia automatically declined the offer. Her father was physically and emotionally frail, and still in need of all the rest he could get. ‘Amy and I can manage.’
Ever since Tony had had a falling-out with Chef six months ago—and Claudia had never got to find out what it had been about—she and Amy, with Jenny’s help, had been keeping the restaurant going on a reduced and simplified menu. Tony had been reluctant to hire a replacement chef and now Claudia knew why. Tomonow she would have to cancel the advertisements for the new and experienced staff she’d decided had to be hired if the hotel and restaurant were to continue. There was no point now. The business, their home, was to be sold over their heads.
‘Why don’t you sit outside, Dad? It’s a glorious day; let’s make the most of it.’ She almost added, While we can, but managed to stop herself in time. ‘I’ll fetch Rosie and we’ll all have tea on the terrace.’
Ten days later, Amy asked rhetorically, ‘I guess you can’t have told your father the bad news yet?’ She filled a mug with strong black coffee and held it out. ‘He looked happy, almost back to his old self, when his friend collected him this morning, so he can’t know that his home’s about to be sold from over his head.’
‘I’m a coward,’ Claudia admitted wearily, taking the mug of steaming coffee. ‘But every day he gets that little bit stronger. And the stronger he gets, the more able he’ll be to cope with yet another blow.’
‘And what about you?’ Amy demanded. ‘The blows fell on your head, too. Your husband died; he’d been playing around with that madam, Helen, his own stepmother-in-law, would you believe? And yes—’ her round face went scarlet ‘—I know we’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead—but really! So you’ve had blows, just the same, so why should you have to carry this other load on your own?’
‘Because I haven’t had three heart attacks in half a dozen years and because I didn’t love Tony, and Dad adored Helen.’ Claudia looked at the mug in her hands, and frowned just slightly. ‘I really haven’t got time to drink this.’
‘Of course you have,’ Amy asserted firmly. ‘This Hallam man won’t be looking under beds for fluff or running his fingers round picture frames looking for dust. You’ve been running around like a scalded cat ever since you got back from taking Rosie to school. So drink your coffee and try to relax. You’ve got time for that before you need to get changed. And, no matter what anyone else believed, where you’re concerned, nobody can pull the wool over my eyes. Like my own daughter, you are. I knew your marriage to Tony Favel wasn’t a love match. When you married him you were still hankering after Adam—and don’t pop your eyes at me—I knew how you were feeling when he just upped and disappeared. But, like I said, you and Tony rubbed along; you didn’t hate him, so what happened must still have been a dreadful shock.’
Claudia eyed her old friend over the rim of her mug as she sipped the hot liquid. What else did Amy suspect? Know?
She didn’t want to think about that. She put her mug down on the work surface, changing the subject. ‘How many tables are booked for this evening?’
‘All of them.’ Amy collected the used mugs and up-ended them in the commercial-size dishwasher. ‘I dare say we do have to keep going as best we can so it can be sold as a going concern. But thank heaven we’re at the end of the season, that’s all I can say.’
Casting her eyes over the spotlessly gleaming kitchen, Claudia nodded her heartfelt agreement. It was early October now and hotel bookings ceased at the end of September, so they didn’t have that aspect to worry about. They didn’t do lunches, either—they wouldn’t start up again until Easter—but evening meals went on right through the year. So yes, that was something they could give thanks for.
And there were other things, too, she admitted as she lay in the warm bath water ten minutes later. Life wasn’t all bad; there were tiny glimmers of good luck if you looked hard enough.
The bank manager wasn’t exactly an ogre. He had shown considerable if understated compassion at that meeting she’d had with him ten days ago. After painting his pitch-black picture and explaining that Farthings Hall would have to be sold, and preferably as a going concern, to cover those terrifying debts, he had advised, ‘Before you have to advertise the property for sale I suggest you contact the Hallam Group—you’ve heard of them?’
Claudia had nodded. Who hadn’t? No one remotely connected to the hotel
