following Carenza to the door. It wasn’t that easy to be irresponsible. She was going to have to work up to it. ‘And who do I call in the event of an emergency? Have you left your contact address?’
‘I don’t plan on having one for the next three months,’ Carrie said, picking up a heavy rucksack. ‘Don’t worry, nothing disastrous is going to happen.’ Wrong. It already had. ‘See you in three months.’
Three months. Breathing space to find another Taplow Towers. Not so bad. This thing with Bertie was just a temporary situation, after all. Faye was a doting mother; Kevin loved his son to distraction. Even exhausted, they wouldn’t be able to live for more than a few days without him. And they must both know what this was doing to her life.
They would return, shame-faced and horrified at the ramifications of their actions; things would return to normal and within hours her life would be back on an even keel, running like clockwork. The only thing that wouldn’t be the same was Taplow Towers.
If they’d just phoned, explained, she could have moved into their home for a day or two. Instead they’d shipped all Bertie’s belongings to her by express carrier, along with a special delivery of disposal nappies. She knew what the parcel contained, because it was printed in large letters, all over the packaging. The porter hadn’t said a word when he’d brought it up. He hadn’t needed to. His mournful expression had been enough. She was doomed.
Lack of sleep must have been fugging their brains, because if it had been their intention to get her evicted, Faye and Kevin couldn’t have made a better job of it.
None of which was Bertie’s fault. She took a deep breath and dropped a kiss on his dark curls. Gave him a cuddle. She wasn’t sure what it did for Bertie, but it made her feel a lot better.
‘Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m going to have to put you down while I make a cup of tea.’ Bertie, his big round eyes still fixed on the cat, went into his buggy without complaint. The cat yawned. Bertie wriggled delightedly and smiled.
Momentarily astonished by this phenomenon, Jessie paused and, for a heart-aching moment, she realised that her baby nephew was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
Damn Graeme.
The cat, meowing to be let out, distracted her from the yawning pit of self-pity. Bertie watched him as he sauntered down the garden, then whimpered as he disappeared into some bushes. Then howled.
‘Oh…’ She glanced at Bertie and bit back the word that sprang to her lips. ‘Mao!’ she called. But he’d gone. Suppose he never came back? Two hours ago she wouldn’t have cared, but if Bertie liked him she would buy free-range chicken from Fortnum’s and mince it to paste for the precious creature. Maybe there was a picture of a cat somewhere…
Carenza picked up a discarded newspaper, using it to shade her eyes from the glare off the sea.
‘Isn’t that your uncle’s case?’ Sarah said, turning her head upside down to read the headline. “‘FAR EAST FRAUD TRIAL.’’ Yes, look, there’s a picture of him.’ She snatched the paper and grinned. ‘Wow, but he’s sexy!’
‘Oh, puh-lease! He’s old enough to be your father.’
‘Only just.’ She sighed. ‘I remember him coming to speech day, years ago… He looked so lost. So…solitary. I fantasised for weeks about him. Comforting him, bringing him back to life…’ She pulled a face. ‘Well, you know…’
Carenza rolled her eyes heavenward. ‘I know. You and half the women in London according to my mother, silly cows. He’d lost the love of his life and his baby daughter. Getting over that kind of thing…well, I don’t suppose you ever do. It’s only work that keeps him going. Mum says if he doesn’t ease off he’ll probably end up Lord Chief Justice.’
‘What a waste.’ Then Sarah read, “‘Defendant Changes Plea’’? What does that mean?’
Carenza frowned, retrieved the paper from her friend so that she could see for herself, then groaned. ‘What it means, Sarah, is that I’m in big trouble. I’ve let his house to a woman with a howling infant…’ They exchanged a horrified glance. ‘And he’s probably on his way home right now. How on earth could I have been so stupid?’
‘You’ve had a lot of practice?’ her friend offered, helpfully.
There were plenty of pictures. A Dutch still-life over the mantle in the semi-basement dining room next to the kitchen. A series of cartoons of barristers in wig and gown on the stairs, and a Stubbs upstairs in the drawing room. ‘Look at the lovely horse, Bertie,’ she prompted. Bertie was not impressed.
There were prints of famous nineteenth-century cricketers lining the main staircase and landing; she assumed they were famous, or no one would have bothered to frame them.
No cats.
The large bedroom was richly decorated in a warm red, furnished in antique walnut. It didn’t quite go with Carrie’s image; the cargo pants, the stud in her nose and the radical hairdo.
The second bedroom was furnished as a study, with floor-to-ceiling shelves containing law books. She remembered the cartoons and wondered if it was a family thing. Maybe her new landlady had inherited the house and the books. It would explain a lot.
There was a wonderfully large desk with room for her scanner as well as the computer. She hadn’t had time to connect them, yet. Once Bertie was in bed, she promised herself, she’d make a start, try to catch up.
She hadn’t been in the third room. Carrie had whizzed past, muttering something about it being a store room, not used in years. The door was stiff, as if it hadn’t been opened in a while, but beneath the dust the room was painted in cheerful yellow and white so that it would look sunny on even the greyest of days. There were no pictures, though, just some boxes that looked as if they hadn’t been disturbed for years.
She returned to the kitchen in the hope that Mao might have come back. He hadn’t, but Bertie, overcome with exhaustion, finally dozed off in the crook of her arm.
Hungry, but anxious not to disturb the sleeping baby, she found half a packet of chocolate biscuits left by Carenza, settled carefully into a large and very comfortable armchair and tucked in to them.
She must have fallen asleep mid-bite because when Mao, miaowing and clattering his claws against the window, woke her, there were crumbs adhering to the chocolate liberally smeared down the front of her shirt; the remains of the biscuit had succumbed to gravity and were lying, chocolate-side-down on the carpet.
She let in the cat, bathed and fed Bertie and finally put him into his cot. Then she flung her crumby, chocolate-stained shirt into the laundry basket along with everything else she was wearing, pulled on a T-shirt because it was the first thing that came to hand, brushed her teeth and fell into bed.
In that brief moment before sleep claimed her, she had a momentary vision of the chocolate biscuit lying on the Persian rug in the drawing room and knew she should get up and do something about it.
And turn on the burglar alarm.
Then nothing.
Patrick dropped his bag in the hall and crossed to the alarm to punch in the code number. It wasn’t switched on. Carenza had obviously forgotten to set it. He really should have known better than to give in to his sister’s
