Making Your Mind Up (30 page)

Lottie looked at him. Evenly she said, “Did I?”

Tyler smiled his “I win” smile and pinged a rubber band across the office at her. “Everyone else had jumped out at us. Remember? But you stayed hidden behind the wall.”

“Aunt Cress? It's me.”

Only Jojo called her that, otherwise Cressida wouldn't have recognized the voice on the other end of the phone. The words sounded as if they were being scraped across coarse-grade sandpaper.

“Jojo? Sweetheart, what's wrong?” Oh no, please don't say what I think you're going to say.

“I'm not very well,” Jojo croaked, “but you mustn't worry, OK? My teacher's just rung Dad and he's on his way to pick me up and take me home. I think it's the flu.”

Cressida blinked. Of course it was the flu. What else could come along to so comprehensively decimate their plans for the weekend? It was the afternoon of Friday, November 5, and she had splashed out on two return easyJet flights from Bristol to Newcastle. Tom, in turn, had bought four tickets for the biggest firework extravaganza Newcastle had to offer. How could they not have guessed that something like this would happen? It would be a miracle if it didn't.

“Oh, sweetheart. Poor you.”
Poor
me
, thought Cressida, appalled by her own selfishness.

“I know. I've been feeling worse and worse all morning. But the thing is, you can still go to Newcastle without me.”

Could she? Heavens, could she really? Her spirits lifting, Cressida said automatically, “Sweetheart, it wouldn't be the same. Really, you mustn't worry about—”

“Aunt Cress, I have to go. My dad's here.” Jojo coughed and spluttered for a few seconds, then rasped, “I still don't think you should cancel. I know it wouldn't be the same without me, but it might still be good.”

Feeling terrible and shameless and as guiltily excited as a teenager, Cressida phoned Tom at work and explained about Jojo being ill. Then she paused.

Tom sounded gratifyingly disappointed. “We must have done something really bad in a previous life to have this much bad luck.”

Was she doing something really bad now? Taking a deep breath, Cressida said, “Or I could come up on my own.”

This offer was greeted by a nerve-racking silence.

Then Tom said, “Would you?” and there was an unmistakable note of delight in his voice.

Like the brazen hussy she evidently was, Cressida said breathlessly, “Of course I would. I mean, we can still go to the firework thing, can't we? It won't be so much fun for Donny, but—”

“Don't worry about Donny, he'll be fine. So I'll meet you at the airport as planned? Minus your chaperone.”

“Minus my chaperone.” Cressida clapped a hand over her wildly beating heart and felt naughtier than ever. It was confirmed now; she was officially a selfish and self-centered person. Oh, but this could turn into the kind of weekend she hadn't even dared to dream about.

Sounding happy and relieved, Tom said, “Can't wait.”

* * *

According to a piece in last week's
Phew!
magazine, shaving your legs was, like,
sooo
last century. The only way to get your legs silky smooth these days, evidently, was with Veet. Jojo, yet to enter the traumatic world of surplus hair removal but passionately interested in the subject nonetheless, had frowned and said, “Aunt Cress, which do you think's best?”

Cressida had then realized that in all her years she had never once tried any method of leg depilation other than with her trusty razor. Was that some kind of world record? She had always shaved. Waxing hurt, surely. And plucking was downright ridiculous—just one leg had to be the equivalent of five hundred eyebrows' worth of pain. As for dissolving the hair away with cream, someone had brought a tube of Immac into school once when she was fourteen and they had all had a go at rubbing the stuff onto their forearms, wrinkling their noses at the peculiar smell, and declaring that it made them feel sick.

But that had been over twenty-five years ago and Immac wasn't Immac anymore; it was Veet. The chances were that it no longer smelled funny. Looking forward to the weekend ahead and deciding that the time had come to climb out of her rut and be adventurous, Cressida had treated herself to an aerosol can of Veet mousse. It even described itself on the packaging as pleasantly fragranced. And guess what? It actually was.

She was sitting on the edge of the bath with her legs covered in white foam like Santa's beard when the doorbell rang.

Honestly, were there hidden cameras in this house? Did people do it on purpose? If it was Ted from the shop calling to offer her a second chance with him she might have to attack his beard with pleasantly fragranced Veet.

But since she was mentally incapable of leaving the door unanswered, Cressida clambered out of the bath and gingerly wrapped herself in her full-length robe so as not to scare whoever might be on the doorstep and send them screaming off down the street.

“Cressida.” If her ex-husband was taken aback by the sight of her in her robe at three o'clock in the afternoon he didn't show it. Looking her straight in the eye, Robert said, “Favor.”

It was a tone of voice Cressida knew well: announcing, rather than asking, that the favor be granted.

“Robert, I'm—”

“Sacha and I have an important meeting in Paris. And I do mean important. Can you take care of Jojo?”

Cressida gripped the lapels of her toweling robe. “Robert, I'm sorry, I can't. You see—”

“No,
you
have to see.” Firmly, Robert shook his head. “You
asked
us if you could have Jojo for the weekend. We generously said you could. And now we've made other arrangements. Just because Jojo's ill doesn't give you the right to change your mind and decide you don't want her anymore. We have people flying into Paris to meet us at the Four Seasons. Can you comprehend how vital this is?”

“But—”

“Cressida, believe me. It's not the kind of appointment you can cancel.”

Anger welled up in her throat. For years Robert and Sacha had treated Jojo like an inconvenient pet. Well, this time they'd gone too far.

“No, I'm sorry, I can't do it,” Cressida said bravely. “Jojo's your daughter. She's sick and she needs
you
. Besides, I've made other…other…” Her voice trailed away as she detected movement on the backseat of Robert's car, glimpsed a chalk-white face and disheveled hair. “Who's that?”

“Who do you think?” Robert looked at her as if she were a moron. “Jojo, of course.”

“What's she doing in the car if she's ill?” Cressida knew the answer to this before the words were even out of her mouth. It was Robert's version of a fait accompli.

“I brought her over here. What was I supposed to do, make her walk?”

“How ill is she?” Cressida looked at Jojo in the back of the car, hollow-eyed and miserable.

“The doctor says it's the flu. She's pretty rough.” Blithely unaware of the irony, Robert said, “All she needs is some TLC.”

Oh, the temptation to slap his horrid self-important face. But Jojo was watching them, and Robert clearly had no intention of backing down. Imagine having to witness two adults arguing because neither of them wanted you. Overwhelmed with shame and remorse, Cressida said, “Bring her in then. You can't leave her out there.”

“I'm so sorry,” Jojo whispered when Robert had carried her into the house wrapped in a blue, white-flowered duvet. He went back out to fetch her overnight bag from the trunk.

“Don't be silly. You can't help being ill.” Kneeling down next to the sofa, Cressida stroked Jojo's sweat-soaked bangs away from her forehead.

“But I've spoiled everything now. You could have gone up to Newcastle and had a nice time with Tom and Donny.” Jojo began to cough helplessly again, her thin shoulders heaving and arms trembling with the effort. “It's such a waste of plane tickets.”

Robert reappeared in the living room, dumping Jojo's bag by the door. He stared at Cressida. “Good grief, what's happened to your legs?”

Cressida had forgotten all about the Veet. White foam was trickling down to her ankles and puddling on the floor.

“It's hair remover,” Jojo croaked, peering over the edge of the sofa.

Robert snorted. “You always used to shave your legs when you were married to me. I remember the stubble.”

“I remember yours,” Cressida retorted, stung.

When Robert had left, Jojo said weakly, “I really am sorry, Aunt Cress.”

“Oh, just ignore him. I do. Men can't help saying rude things.”

“Not that. I meant about the trip to Newcastle.” Hot and shivering beneath her duvet, Jojo rested her head on Cressida's arm. “And it's the firework thing. Tom bought the tickets for it, remember? I couldn't have picked a worse time to be ill.”

“Don't say that. I wouldn't have gone without you.” Stroking Jojo's burning forehead, Cressida realized that she would have to sneak upstairs and phone Tom without being overheard. “Who wants to go to a silly fireworks party anyway?”

Freddie was sitting in front of the fire when Lottie burst into the drawing room of Hestacombe House and greeted him with a kiss on the cheek.

It was like being nuzzled by a big, boisterous dog.

“You're cold,” Freddie protested.

“That's because it's freezing out there!” Her nose pink and her eyes bright, Lottie peeled off her gloves and unwound the blue glittery knitted scarf from around her neck. “There's ice on the puddles. We're all going to be slipping and sliding down to the beach tonight. Are you sure you won't come?”

“You make it sound irresistible.” Freddie gave her a dry look. “Bloody hell, two broken legs. That's all I need.”

“We could wheel you down, dipstick.”

“No thanks.” Now that his balance was iffy and his left leg increasingly weak, Freddie had acquired a wheelchair for outings, but tonight he was more than happy to leave the intrepid ones to it. “We'll stay in the warm and watch it from here.”

The bonfire and fireworks party down by the lake was an annual event in the village. Freddie and Mary had begun the tradition twenty years ago. There had been so many happy times…

“What are you thinking?” Lottie's gaze searched his face.

“Just wondering about this time next year. Whether Tyler will carry it on.”

“He will. I'll tell him he has to.”

Freddie smiled; he didn't doubt it for a second. “You never know, you might not be here by then either. Seb might have whisked you and the kids away from Hestacombe. You could be living in Dubai.”

From the look Lottie gave him, he gathered the prospect didn't appeal. “I don't know about that. I can't imagine not living here.” Then she relaxed. “But I'm glad you like Seb.”

“Of course I like him.” Lottie had brought Seb over one evening the previous week. He'd seemed a nice enough chap, possibly a bit feckless, but with buckets of charm. And Lottie was clearly keen. Freddie wouldn't put money on it being a happily-ever-after scenario, but then who could ever make that kind of prediction with any confidence? He'd had a pretty rackety past himself, hadn't he? Talk about a lousy track record when it came to relationships. Let's face it, nobody who'd known him forty years ago would have bet tuppence on his marriage to Mary lasting the course.

It just went to show that you never could tell. Love was a lucky dip. Maybe he was wrong now and Lottie would end up being deliriously happy with Sebastian Gill. Just as Tyler might be equally happy with Liana. OK, so things hadn't turned out as he'd secretly hoped they might for Lottie and Tyler, but—

“Lottie love, could you pull that table over a bit?” Barbara came in from the kitchen carrying a tray of whiskey and hot buttered tea cakes. “Brrr. You're going to be cold down by that lake tonight.”

Freddie watched as Lottie jumped up to help. Just as she had needed his approval of Seb, so he had desperately wanted her to get along with Barbara when she had arrived at the house to take care of him. And to his relief she had. Lottie and Barbara had liked each other at once. There had been no eye-narrowing this time, none of the mistrust that had existed between Lottie and Fenella.

“You'll have a great view of the fireworks from up here,” said Lottie. “They'll light up the whole lake. If our feet freeze to the ground you may have to chip us free in the morning.”

“Have a quick scotch before you go,” Barbara urged, “to warm you through. It's only some cheap muck of Freddie's.”

Freddie loved her irreverence; it was actually a Glenfarclas, a thirty-year-old Speyside malt.

“Oh well, in that case. Just a quick one.” The grandfather clock out in the hall chimed seven, reminding Lottie that she had to be on her way. “The main reason I popped in was to say I got through to that guy at the tracing agency. He hasn't had any luck yet.”

Freddie was disappointed but not surprised. If the man had been able to locate Giselle, he would have been on the phone to them at once.

“How about if you try another agency?” Barbara was eager to help. “Maybe they'd have more luck.”

“This chap's doing everything he can,” said Lottie. “It's just that these things, well…”

“Take time.” Freddie supplied the missing words. “It's OK, you can say it.”

“I told him to do his best. He knows we want a result as soon as possible.” Knocking back the scotch in one gulp, Lottie gasped and clutched her throat. “Yeesh, it's like swallowing gas.”

“My darling girl.” Freddie shook his head fondly. “You are so unrefined.”

* * *

Down by the lake the bonfire burned merrily and the party was well under way. Having opened the sash windows just enough to hear the shrieks of the children and the oohs and aahs that accompanied each fresh explosion of fireworks, Freddie and Barbara sat together in the drawing room and watched the display light up the star-spangled sky.

“Could be the last fireworks I see.” Freddie was feeling pleasantly relaxed, thanks to more whiskey than was good for him. If he'd been planning on seeing ninety, he wouldn't have drunk this much. As it was, what the hell. He could drink the whole damn bottle if he liked.

“Aren't fireworks beautiful?” Barbara had her feet up and was keeping him company with a glass of Tia Maria. “You know, I heard about a man who asked to be cremated when he died. Then he arranged for his ashes to be packed into a giant firework and set off in his favorite place.”

“Could be tricky,” said Freddie, “if your favorite place happened to be Marks & Spencer.”

“I thought it sounded wonderful. I'd love to be packed into a firework and exploded over Regent's Park. Just like that.” Barbara made a sweeping gesture with her free hand as a series of pink and purple chrysanthemum bursts filled the sky. “Wouldn't that be magnificent? Great fun!”

Freddie took another pleasurable sip of Glenfarclas. “I'll just have mine scattered over the lake, thanks.”

“You're the boss.” Tilting her head, Barbara smiled at him. “Ready for your next lot of pills?”

“Bloody things. I suppose so.” Knowing that they were helping him didn't mean Freddie enjoyed taking them. “D'you know, when I was first diagnosed and my doctor told me I had maybe a year left if I was lucky, I thought I'd kill myself. Not then, not right at that minute,” he added, needing Barbara to understand. “But when…you know, the time came. I found out what I had to look forward to and I made up my mind that I'd rather die before I reached that state. It seemed like a sensible decision. Do many people think that?”

Barbara considered the question. Finally she said, “I think they probably do.”

“I think so too.” Freddie nodded. “But the thing is, when the time does come, do many of them do it? Do they actually go ahead and commit suicide?”

Shaking her head, Barbara said gently, “No, I'd say most of them don't.”

“I guessed that. I wanted to do it, but now I can't. And I don't think it's a matter of being brave or cowardly; I just can't contemplate doing it now.” Looking resigned, Freddie put down his tumbler and rested his head against the back of the chair. “It's fucking annoying, I can tell you. Why does that have to happen?”

“I suppose it's the will to live.” Barbara was sympathetic. “Self-preservation kicks in.”

“But I didn't want it to! I thought I could skip the last few months, because who in their right mind would want to go through them anyway? Except now it seems I'm stuck with them after all. I want to wake up tomorrow morning and the next morning and the morning after that, for as long as I physically can. I want that useless fucking investigator to find Giselle. I want to enjoy Christmas; I want to be able to show you the garden next spring; I want… Oh, fuck it.”

“Here.” Barbara pressed a tissue into his hand.

“Sorry. Sorry.”

“Oh, Freddie. It's allowed.”

Wiping away the tears, Freddie cleared his throat and gazed blindly out of the windows. All of a sudden he was consumed with grief and rage because he didn't want to die, and there was nothing he could do to keep it from happening. What if he'd given up too easily, when the diagnosis had first been made? If he hadn't refused treatment, might he have been on the road to recovery by now? Would his doctor be shaking his head in baffled wonderment, declaring, “I have to say, this is a far better result than we could have hoped for, Freddie. The tumor's practically disappeared!”

What if? Well, he'd never know now. Life had seemed so bleak then, he had been ready for it to be over.

But that was before he'd met Barbara. Enjoying her company during the last few weeks had given him a reason to want to carry on. Here, Freddie knew, was a woman he could have fallen in love with. If he'd met her six months ago…

And if his brain could have remained tumor-free…

Then again, if he hadn't had the tumor he would never have met Barbara in the first place.

There was a lesson in there somewhere, thought Freddie. But he was buggered if he knew what it was.

“OK?” Barbara gave his hand an encouraging squeeze.

“Yes thanks.” Freddie nodded and smiled briefly, the anger behind him now.

Bang, bang, bang—BANG went the fireworks, waterfalls of crimson and electric-blue light streaming out of the sky and meeting their reflections in the silvery-black waters of the lake.

“Actually, forget Regent's Park. When Amy was sixteen we went to Paris for a long weekend. Have you ever been there?”

“Oh yes. With Mary.” Freddie had magical memories of their time together in Paris.

As a spectacular barrage of vibrant purple and emerald-green chrysanthemums crackled and spread across the sky, Barbara said comfortably, “I think I'd rather be fired off the Eiffel Tower instead.”