with the future. Would the company go on? Would they have their jobs at the end of the month? Survival was the name of the game. For them, just as much as those two tactless imbeciles who undoubtedly wanted to know when their bills would be paid.
Questions to which she had no answers.
It occurred to her that she was now the owner of a business that she knew next to nothing about. She’d talked about going back to work once she’d had Toby, but Steven had insisted that she had enough to do running their home, being Toby’s mother. That it was his job to take care of them.
Even while he was dying he’d insisted that he’d got it sorted…that he was going to take care of them all.
She choked back a sob as she sank on to the saggy old sofa that filled one corner of the kitchen, curling up into it for comfort. For endless days she’d been holding on, knowing that once the funeral was over she would have to confront the future. But not now. Not today.
Guy shut the door on the last of the mourners, then went through to the kitchen to find Francesca. He had no illusions about his reception, but he had to convince her that she must call him if she had any problems. That he’d be there for her. He doubted that she’d ask him for help, but he’d leave his number with Matty anyway. She was sharp enough to call him if…
A ball bounced at his feet and he turned to confront a small boy who was standing on the half-landing. There was no mistaking who he was. He had something of Steve about him, a nose that was a gift from his grandfather, his mother’s corn-gold hair.
The wrench at his heartstrings was so unexpected, so painful, that for a moment he clutched his fist to his chest as if to hold his heart in place. When he’d read that Francesca and Steve had a son he had been bombarded with such a mixture of emotions that he hadn’t known what to do with himself. The truth was that there was nothing to do. Only endure.
He bent to pick up the ball but for a moment couldn’t speak, just stood there, holding it.
The child bounced down the stairs one step at a time, then, suddenly shy, stopped about halfway. Guy swallowed, tried to form the words, finally managed, ‘Hello, Toby.’
‘Who are you?’ he said, hanging on to the banister rail as he hopped down another step. ‘How do you know my name?’
He’d read it in a newspaper clipping sent to him by his secretary.
Francesca Lang and Steven Dymoke are pleased to announce the birth of their son Tobias Lang Dymoke.
He’d sent the antique silver rattle, a family heir-loom that should have been passed to his own first-born. A gesture that was meant to say to Steve that he was valued. That they were equals. He’d hoped that with a woman like Francesca at his side, with the birth of his son, Steve might have discovered an inner strength, self-confidence to finally realise that. Maybe he had, but his gift had been returned. The message was clear. Keep away.
‘I’m your Uncle Guy.’ He offered the child the ball and he descended another couple of steps until they were at the same eye level. Then, as he made a grab for the ball, he lost his balance and Guy found himself with an armful of small boy.
‘What are you doing?’
Francesca’s anxious voice startled Toby and he began to cry.
‘Give him to me!’ She didn’t wait, but wrenched the child from his arms, making things worse as she hugged him tight, frightening him. ‘What is it with you? You think just because Steven’s dead you can walk into his home as if you own the place, pick up his son—’
‘The boy overbalanced, Francesca. I caught him before he fell.’ About to add that he was fine until she’d shouted, he thought better of it. She’d just suffered one terrible loss and it was only natural that she’d be protective. ‘I was looking for you to let you know I’m leaving.’
‘You’ve said it. Now will you please just go.’
Distraught, grieving, she wasn’t about to listen to him and he wasn’t about to try and justify his absence from their lives. ‘I simply wanted to let you know that you don’t have to worry about the paperwork, Steve’s business. I’ll handle it, and if there’s anything you need—’
‘You won’t,’ she declared, lifting her chin a little. ‘It’s my concern, not yours. And I don’t. Need anything.’
Her rejection felt as physical as a slap. He took a breath. ‘All you have to do is call my office. Speak to my secretary—’
‘Your secretary? Well, thanks. It’s good to know where I stand in your priorities.’
‘I thought…’ He’d thought that dealing through an intermediary would be easier for her, but the truth was that in the face of her complete refusal to see him as anything other than her enemy he felt utterly helpless.
Matty appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘I’ve made a pot of tea if anyone fancies a cup,’ she said, then glanced from him to Francesca and back again. ‘I can make that Scotch if you’d prefer?’
‘Another time. I have to go.’ He crossed to her, bent to take her hand, then taking the opportunity to slip her the card with his mobile number on it, the one he’d been planning to give Francesca. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Matty.’
‘Well, don’t say it as if was the first and last time.’
‘I’m sure Guy has more pressing demands on his time, Matty. A potential oil field or three needing his expertise.’
‘I’ll be staying in London for a week or two.’
‘That long?’ The scorn in Francesca’s voice would have withered crab grass. ‘Oh, well, then we’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about, have we…?’
She was near the edge of hysteria, he thought, and his presence wasn’t helping. Maybe Matty realised that too because she caught his eye and said, ‘I’ll see you out.’
‘It’s all right. He knows the way. This used to be his house until he sold it to Steven at the top of the property boom.’ He looked up and, seeing the shock on his face, she said, ‘What’s the matter? Did you think I didn’t know how much he paid you?’
What could he say? Tell her that she was wrong? That the man she loved, nursed, cared for, had lied to her?
‘He adored you, Guy,’ she said, as he turned to leave. ‘Worshipped you. He was always making excuses for you. In his eyes you could do no wrong…’
How he wished that was true, but wishing helped no one. Instead, he smiled at the child who had stopped crying and was peering up at him from beneath long wet lashes.
‘Goodbye, Toby,’ he said, through what felt like a rock in his throat, and the child thrust the ball he was still holding towards him.
He didn’t know what was expected of him and he got no help from Francesca. Feeling helpless was becoming repetitive. He wasn’t used to it. He didn’t like it. Choosing action, he took the ball and said, ‘Thank you, Toby.’ The child buried his head in his mother’s shoulder.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow, Francesca.’
‘Don’t
