Tom watched as, swept up in the sheer fun of it, she clapped her hands over her mouth like a child wanting to hold it in, savour every minute of it.
‘You like it?’ he asked.
‘Like it!’ She turned and, anger forgotten, she flung her arms around him, hugging him in her excitement. ‘You’re brilliant. I don’t suppose you’re looking for a job?’ Then, before he could answer, ‘Sorry, sorry…Genius billionaire. Why would you want to work for me? Damn, I wish it wasn’t all such a rush.’
‘Is it even possible in the time?’
‘Oh, yes.’
He must have looked doubtful because she said, ‘Piece of cake. Honestly.’
Of course it was. The Steam Museum had been created by Lord Hillyer. All she had to do was ask and it would be hers for the day.
‘Now I know what I want it’ll all just fall into place, although I could have done with Josie to sort out the marquee. That’s going to be the biggest job.’
‘If it helps, you’ve got me.’
They were on her bed and she had her arms around him and he was telling her what was in his heart, but only he knew that. Only he would ever know that she’d got him—totally, completely, in ways that had nothing to do with sex but everything to do with a word that he didn’t even begin to understand, but knew with every fibre of his being that this was it. The real deal.
Giving without hope of ever receiving back.
Sylvie’s mother would have understood. Would know how he was feeling.
Sylvie…Sylvie was nearly there. Maybe his true gift to her would be to help her make that final leap…
‘You’d be willing to help?’ she asked, leaning back, a tiny frown puckering her brow.
He shrugged, pulled a face. ‘You said it. The sooner you’re done, the sooner you’re out of here.’
‘That’s it?’ She drew back as if his answer shocked her. As if she’d expected something more.
But that was it.
More was beyond him.
‘I want my house back and, to get it, I’m prepared to put all my resources at your disposal,’ he said with all the carelessness he could muster.
Maybe just one thing more…
‘There’s just one condition.’ Then, as the colour flooded into her cheeks, he said, ‘No!’
Yes…
‘No,’ he repeated. ‘All I want from you is that you write to your father.’
‘No…’ The word came out as a whisper.
‘Yes! Ask him to share the day with you. Let him into your little girl’s life.’
‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why do you care about him?’
More and more and more…
‘Because…Because I know what it’s like to have letters returned unopened. Because one day when I was four years old people came and took my mother away. I hung on to her and that was the only time I saw her cry. As she pulled away, leaving me to the waiting social workers. “I’ll be all right,” she said. “I have to go. These people will look after you until I come home…”’ Then, helplessly, ‘You said you’d have my story.’
‘Where was your father, Tom?’
‘Dead. She’d killed him. A battered woman who’d finally struck back, using the first thing that came to hand. A kitchen knife.’ Then, more urgently, because this was what he had to do to make sure she understood, ‘They took her away, put me in care. I didn’t understand. I wrote to her, begging her to come and get me. Week after week. And week after week the letters just came back…’
She said nothing, just held him, as if she could make it all better. And maybe she had. Her need had dragged the story out of him. Had made him say the words. Had made him see that it wasn’t his fault that his mother had died too.
‘I’m sure she thought it was for the best that I forgot her, moved on, found a new family.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘She was my mother, Sylvie. She might not have been the greatest mother in the world, but she was the only one I ever wanted.’
Sylvie thought her heart might break at the thought of a little boy writing his desperate letters, having them returned unopened. Understood his empathy for her own father.
‘What happened to her, Tom?’
‘She never stood trial. By the time her case eventually came up she was beyond the law, in some dark place in her mind. She should have been in hospital, not prison. Maybe there she’d have got help instead of taking her own life.’
She reached out a hand to him. Almost, but not quite, touched his cheek. Then said, ‘Are you sure you haven’t been visiting with the Duchamp ghosts?’
He’d had no way of knowing how she’d react to the fact that he was the son of a wife-batterer, a husband-killer. A suggestion that he’d been communing with her ancestors hadn’t even made the list and, at something of a loss, he said, ‘Why would you think that?’
‘Because I asked my mother what she’d do. I already knew the answer. Have always known it. Maybe she thought it was time to get someone else on my case…’
And finally her fingers came into contact with his cheek, as if by touching him she was reaching through him to her mother. And, just as they had on the evening when the connection between them had become physical, silent tears were pouring down her cheeks, but this time there was no one to interrupt them and she didn’t push him away, but let him draw her close, hold her while he said, over and over, ‘Don’t cry, Sylvie,’ even as his own tears soaked into her hair. ‘Please don’t cry.’
And eventually, when she quieted, drew back, it was she who wiped his cheeks with her fingers.
Comforted him.
‘It’ll be all right,’ she said, holding his face between her hands. Kissing his cheek. ‘I promise you, it’ll be all right.’
‘You’ll write to him? Now?’
‘It won’t wait until morning?’
‘What would your mother say?’
She sniffed and, laughing, swung herself from the bed to grab a tissue. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll do it.’ Then, ‘I’ll have to fetch my bag; I left it downstairs.’
She crossed to the door, then, halfway through it, she paused and looked back. ‘Tom?’
He waited.
‘Don’t make the same mistake your mother did.’ She was cradling the life growing within her in a protective gesture. It was the most powerful instinct on earth. The drive of the mother to protect her young. His mother had done that. Had protected him from his father. Had protected him from herself…
‘You’re more than your genes,’ she said when he didn’t respond. ‘You’ve forged your own character. It’s strong and true and, I promise you, you’re the kind of father any little girl would want.’
There was an urgency in her voice. A touch of desperation. As if she knew that her own baby wouldn’t be that lucky…
He couldn’t help her. If it had been in his power he would have stopped the world and spun it back to give them both a second chance to get things right. But he couldn’t help either of them.
S
YLVIE
finally began to understand what was driving Tom’s inability to make an emotional commitment. How hard it must be for him to trust not just himself, but anyone.
To understand his anger, his pain at Candy’s desertion. He might not have loved her, but she’d still underscored all that early imprinting. That early lesson that no one was to be relied on…
And yet he’d trusted her enough, cared enough to stop her from hurting someone who she knew, deep down, loved her. That was a huge step forward.
She’d done her best to reassure him that he was not his father, or his mother. If she’d hoped that he’d instantly come over all paternal, well, that was unrealistic. He’d had a lifetime to live with the horrors of his early life, for the certainty that he did not want children to become ingrained into his psyche. He couldn’t be expected to switch all that off in a moment.
But the longest journey started with a single step. Tonight they’d made that together.
Tom was using his cellphone when she returned to the bedroom, talking to someone about making the sideshow booths. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement and carried on, while she opened her bag, took out the small folder of notepaper she kept in there and settled at the small escritoire to write her letter. The second most difficult in her life.
It was a deliberate ploy. She wanted him to see her pen gliding across the same heavy cream paper on which she’d written to him. She uncapped her pen and smoothed a hand over her hair, lingering at the damp patch where his tears had soaked in.
And then, pushing all that from her mind, she began.
‘That didn’t take long,’ Tom said, watching as she carefully folded the sheet into four and tucked it into an envelope. Addressed it.
‘No. Sometimes things you think are impossible are nowhere near as difficult as you imagine,’ she said and looked up as he joined her. ‘I just invited Dad and his partner to join the festivities on Sunday. It was as simple as that.’
‘Will it get there in time?’
‘I’ll take it to the post office first thing in the morning and send it express.’
‘You’ll have enough to do,’ he said, holding out his hand for it. ‘Leave it to me.’
‘Thank you,’ she said and placed the envelope in his hands. Would he remember the feel of it? How he’d felt when he’d opened it?
‘I’ve organised a carpenter to build the stalls for the marquee,’ he said. ‘They’ll be here first thing.’
‘Fast work.’ She glanced at her watch. It was barely nine. Still early enough to call some of those people who’d assured her that she could call any time, ask anything.
‘What about the Steam Museum? I imagine you’ll want to sort that out personally?’
‘The sooner the better. I’ll make that call first.’
As she picked up her cellphone Tom headed for the door. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. You can leave this with me.’
He didn’t wait for her to reply but, lifting the letter to indicate what he was referring to, he left her alone.
It was somewhat abrupt but it had been an emotion-charged evening. Maybe he just needed some air.
And she let it go, calling Laura, who knew everyone, and handing her the job of securing the Steam Museum for the photo shoot.
It didn’t open until two on Sunday so they had plenty of time. The church was booked for early afternoon. They could finish off in the marquee in the early evening.
Tom closed the door to Sylvie’s bedroom, leaned back against it for a moment while he caught his breath. While she called Jeremy to enthuse him with her excitement. Got him to call the trustees and ask them for the loan of some of his grandfather’s toys for their big day.
He looked down at the letter he was holding. At least he’d managed to save one man from heartache.
His own would have to wait. He’d made her a promise and he’d keep it. But he’d leave as soon as he was sure everything was just as she wanted it. He didn’t intend to be an onlooker when Jeremy Hillyer arrived to claim his bride.
‘It’s beautiful, Geena.’
The dress, a simple A-line shift in rich cream silk, had been appliquéd to the knees in swirling blocks of lavender, purple and green. And, instead of a veil, she’d created a stunningly beautiful loose thigh-length jacket on which the appliqué was repeated around the edge and on wide fold-back cuffs. Embroidery trailed over the silk and tiny beads caught the light as she moved—beads that matched the small Russian-style tiara Geena had commissioned to go with the gown.
‘I just wish it was for real. I really hoped you were going to bring Mr Hot-and-Sexy along to try on the matching waistcoat,’ she said.
‘Me too,’ Sylvie replied, for once letting her mask slip, her feelings show. Then, ‘I meant, I wish it was for real.’
‘I know what you meant, Sylvie. It was written all over your face. He is your baby’s father, isn’t he?’
Sylvie tried to deny it. Couldn’t. Lifted her hands in a helpless gesture that said it all.
‘I thought so. Men are such fools.’
‘We’re all fools,’ she said, shrugging off the beautiful jacket.
The week had been such a roller coaster of emotions that she was almost reeling from it. Or maybe she was just exhausted.
Tom had been such a tower of strength. Organising carpenters to make the food stalls. Rounding up every set of coloured lights in the county and making sure they were fixed for maximum impact so that inside the marquee was like being inside a funfair. Finding old fairground ride cars and adapting them for seating.
And, in the evenings, he was always there, ready to talk through any problems she’d encountered and offer suggestions.
He had such a clear vision, a way of seeing to the core of things.
He only had one blind spot. There was only one subject he never mentioned. It was almost as if he was so locked into his past, his determination never to be a father, that he’d blanked it out.
It couldn’t go on.
She wouldn’t allow it to go on.
‘Is that the dress?’
Tom was working at the kitchen table as she walked in carrying the box containing the tissue-wrapped dress and he pushed back the chair, standing up to take it from her.
‘Yes. I insisted on bringing it with me, just in case.’
‘In case of what?’
‘In case she has a flat tyre. Or her workroom burns to the ground.’ The principle that whatever can go wrong, will go wrong. ‘Believe me, when you’ve been in this business for as long as I have—’
‘Actually, Sylvie, I’m a bit concerned about the traction engines. I know you said Laura had it all in hand, but shouldn’t they—’
‘You don’t have to worry about them. We’ve got all morning,’ she said. ‘Plenty of time.’ Then, ‘I’ll just take this upstairs, then I want to talk to you, Tom.’
‘Can you leave it for a moment?’ he asked, taking the box from her, putting it on the table. ‘I want you to come and see the marquee.’
‘I thought it was finished.’
‘It is now,’ he said with the kind of smile that had become such a familiar sight over the last few days as they’d worked together. And he held out his hand. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’
She laid her hand over his and he wrapped his fingers over hers. For a moment neither of them moved, then, as if jerking himself back from a dream, he headed for the door. Once they were outside, he paused for her to fall in beside him and they walked together, hand in hand, through the dusk to where the huge marquee had been erected by the hire company to display their wares, decorated at
Celebrity
’s expense for her fantasy wedding.
‘Wait,’ he said as they approached the entrance. ‘I want you to get the full effect.’ He kept tight hold of her hand as he switched on the generator. The outside was lit up with white lights along every edge—along the roof ridge, cascading from the finials, circling above the drop cloths.
Inside, the lights—smaller, more decorative, a mirror image of those on the outside—were reflecting on the polished floor. The supports were topped with huge knots of brightly coloured ribbons, the same ribbons that were plaited around them to the floor. In the corners were brightly painted stalls, offering a choice of foods. The fairground seating.
Small finishing touches had been added during the afternoon. The candyfloss machine had arrived. Bunches of balloons were straining against their strings.
And then, as she looked around, she saw it.
A fairground organ. The kind that played from printed sheets. He crossed to it, threw a switch and, as if by magic, it began to play, music filling the huge space.
‘Tom! It’s wonderful! The perfect finishing touch.’
Even as Sylvie said the words, she felt her skin rise in goose-bumps. Nothing was ever perfect…
But then Tom said, ‘Would you care to dance, Miss Smith?’ And, before she could protest, he was waltzing her across the floor. And it was. Magic.
About as perfect as it was possible for something to be.
And much too brief. The music stopped. Tom held her for just a moment longer. Then he stepped away.
‘Enough.’
The word had a finality about it but, before she could say anything, he turned away. ‘Go in, Sylvie. It’ll take me a while to shut everything down. Make sure it’s all safe. I’ll leave the lights until last so that you can see your way.’ Then, ‘Take care.’
‘Yes, I will.’
For a moment neither of them moved and then, because the longer she hesitated, the longer it would be before he could join her and she could talk to him about the future, she turned and walked back to the house.
Inside, the hall was now festooned with pink ribbons in preparation for tomorrow’s Fayre. The door to the ballroom stood wide open to reveal the catwalk, the tables with gilt chairs laid out in preparation for the fashion show. Mother of the bride outfits, going-away outfits, honeymoon clothes. Formal hire wear for men, including kilts. Bridesmaids and page-boy outfits. And, finally, Geena’s bridal wear.
The florist had been busy all day putting the finishing touches to her arrangements. Pew-end nosegays that had been hung all along the edge of the catwalk. Table flowers.
In the drawing room all the stalls were laid out like an Aladdin’s cave. Everything sparkling, fresh, lovely.
Laura was right. This was worth it, she thought. Even the weather forecast was good. It was going to be warm and sunny as it had been all week.
So why was she so cold?
She pushed open the library door, eager to get to the fire she knew would be banked up behind the guard.
But the guard was down. The room was not empty. There was someone sitting in Tom’s chair. A man, who stood up as she came to an abrupt halt.
Her father.
Older, with a little less hair, a little thicker around the waist-line. Deeply tanned. Still unbelievably good-looking.
Waiting. Uncertain.
She took a step towards him. He took one towards her and then she reached out, took his hand and carried it to her waist. ‘You’re going to be a grandfather,’ she said.
‘I read about it in
Celebrity.
When I saw the photograph I thought for one awful moment you were back with that piece of…’ he stopped ‘…Jeremy Hillyer. I thought you were back with him.’
‘It’s not Jeremy’s baby.’ She covered his hand with her own. ‘It’s Tom’s baby.’ Then, ‘He knew you were here, didn’t he? That’s why he sent me on ahead of him.’
‘He said he thought we might need some time on our own.’ Then, ‘I’d given up hope. When I read about the baby and you still didn’t get in touch, I knew it would never happen.’
‘I’m sorry. So sorry…’
‘Hush. You’re my little girl, Sylvie. You don’t ever have to say you’re sorry.’ And he put out his arms and gathered her in.
Later—after they’d both cried as they’d talked about her mother, as they’d discovered they could laugh too—she said, ‘Did you bring Michael with you?’
‘We’re staying in Melchester. He’ll come tomorrow. Thank you for asking him.’
‘You love him. He’s part of our lives.’
‘And Tom? Is he going to be part of yours?’
‘I…I don’t know. Just when I think that maybe it’s going to be all right, I realise it isn’t.’ And she shivered again.
‘Maybe you should go and find him, Sylvie. We can talk some more tomorrow.’
‘Tom?’
She’d watched her father’s tail-lights disappear over the brow of the hill and then walked through the house looking for Tom. Not just to thank him, but determined now, as never before, to make him see reason about the baby.
Mrs Kennedy was in the kitchen making a sandwich. ‘Tom asked me to make sure you had something to eat.’
‘I had some soup.’
‘Hours ago. Did you have a visitor?’
‘My father. He’s coming for the Fayre tomorrow. He hopes to see you.’
‘I should think so.’ And she smiled. ‘I’m glad you’ve made up.’