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He was aware of the slight hunch to her shoulders and the short delay before she replied. ‘Quite possibly.’ Then, ‘You know, you really don’t need to wait with me.’
‘It’s not a problem.’
‘I’m sure—’ She broke off with a swift frown. ‘Bob, was it?’
Daniel nodded.
‘Well, I’m sure Bob will manage to find the driver of that thing,’ she said, pointing at the white van, ‘and get it moved some time before lunch. You go on doing whatever it is you need to do.’
Daniel stretched out his legs. ‘Pete’s on his break, so you’re going to need me to reverse it. Unless…you’re happy to do it yourself?’
‘I’ve no problem with that.’
He fought down an unexpected desire to laugh. She’d do it. A vehicle she didn’t know, and a tight bend out on to a narrow road…
He’d kind of like to see that. It was a shame Bob would refuse to hand over the keys. Pete would have him lynched if there was even the slightest scratch put on his baby.
‘Pete might have a problem with it. That’s his pride and joy.’
‘Then why make the suggestion?’
Fair question. Why had he? Daniel studied her face for a moment.
Because he liked to see the challenging tilt of her chin, the determination in a face that otherwise looked as if it could be the model for a porcelain doll…
Freya Anthony had the darkest lashes of any woman he’d ever seen. Though maybe they looked like that because her skin was so fair. Purple smudges beneath blue eyes. Intelligent eyes. Guarded.
Hurt.
He recognised that because he’d felt it. There was always an unspoken connection between people who knew what it was to suffer.
Daniel shook his head. An affinity between two souls who knew life wasn’t perfect. Could never be perfect. And for some reason he knew this carefully packaged blonde understood that. She knew it with the same bone-deep certainty he did.
‘If we’re going to be sitting here a while, shall I bring us out a couple of coffees?’
‘No.’ Then, as though some semblance of politeness was dragged out of her, ‘I’m not thirsty, but that’s no reason for you not to go and get one for yourself if you’re determined to babysit me.’ She stood up and tapped her foot against the tarmac.
Daniel’s eyes travelled to the caramel suede of her boot, the impatient movement of her foot. ‘No problem. I’ll just sit here and wait with you.’
‘How long have you known my grandmother?’
The question surprised him. Or rather the antagonistic tone of it did. He shrugged. ‘A few years—’
‘How come?’
His eyes moved back up to her face, taking in the pinched look. Daniel sat back as far as the wall would allow. What exactly was her problem? Something had really got under her skin. And that something appeared to be him.
Maybe she was the possessive sort? Perhaps she wasn’t happy to discover Margaret had filled the void left by her family, if not well at least adequately?
‘Margaret takes an interest in other people’s lives,’ he said slowly. ‘People like her for it.’ He watched her process that—make some kind of judgement. Her foot moved again, and she spun round so he couldn’t see her face.
‘How much longer is this Bob going to be? This is completely stupid.’
‘That’ll depend on how difficult Pete’s been to find.’
Her head snapped round, her long earrings swinging. ‘I’ve got things I need to be doing.’
Daniel felt a smile twitch at the side of his mouth. Unreasonable and spoilt was the only way to describe Freya Anthony’s behaviour.
Very similar, in fact, to the way his daughter behaved when he vetoed something or other ‘everyone else’ was doing. Only Mia was fifteen, and had considerably more excuse for behaving like a brat than a woman in her late twenties…however beautiful.
Oh, hell! The thought of his daughter had him reaching inside his coat pocket for his phone. He’d forgotten to turn it back on, which meant her school wouldn’t have been able to contact him if…
What did he mean if they tried to call? Given the morning they’d had, it was an inevitability. It was a little over three years since Anna had died, and he’d never missed his wife as much as he did right now.
Anna would have known what to do. She’d have had one of those mother/daughter chats the ‘How to Deal with your Teenager’ books suggested.
But Mia might not have been behaving the way she was if Anna hadn’t died… Daniel closed his eyes against the thought. Things were the way they were. They just had to be got through in the best way possible.
It wasn’t what he’d have chosen. None of it was as he’d chosen—
A bleep alerted him to a missed call. Damn it!
He looked up, and Freya waved an impatient hand towards him. A fatalistic sense of foreboding settled on him as he pushed the button that would let him hear the message. It was brief, and very much to the point. Daniel pulled a hand across the back of his neck.
‘Trouble?’
He turned. ‘I need to make a call.’ Cold wind whipped at the fine blonde hair she’d loosely clipped up. He shouldn’t really leave her sitting here alone, waiting for goodness only knew how long. Daniel hesitated before his priorities slipped into their habitual pattern. ‘I’m sorry, I really do—’
‘It’s fine.’
His hand bounced his phone. ‘It’s my daughter’s school—’
‘It’s fine,’ she repeated, and for the first time her eyes lost their hard, combative edge.
It was so dramatic a change that it cut through his preoccupation.
‘If I have to wait for Pete to finish his break, then that’s what I’ll have to do.’
Daniel studied her eyes, looking for some kind of explanation for such an abrupt change of manner. ‘I’ll—’
‘See you at five,’ she finished for him, returning to sit uncomfortably on the wall.
‘Thank you. I really appreciate that.’
Freya climbed into the driver’s seat and leant across to reach into the glove compartment of her car, pulling out some lip balm.
She hadn’t done that well. Any of it. Not only had she not really been able to gauge what sort of man Daniel Ramsay was, she’d probably done more harm than good. After witnessing her behaviour today, he probably thought her grandmother needed protection from her.
Nothing about this visit was going as she’d planned. She unclipped the twisted silver barrette, throwing it on the passenger seat, and ran her fingers through her hair. What exactly was she so cross about anyway?
For all she knew Daniel Ramsay was a genuinely kind man, trying to make a go of a small country auction house. He’d seemed kind. After all, how many men in her London circle would drop everything to go running when their daughter’s school rang?
That didn’t take very much thinking about. None. She didn’t know anyone like that.
She shut the glove compartment with a hard shove. It was the fault of this wretched place. She couldn’t seem to stop herself from behaving badly. Maybe because that was what everyone was expecting from her? Who knew what the psychology was? Whatever it was, she was certainly living down to their expectations.
Steve, the driver of the white van, walked past her car, sparing her only the briefest of glances. No doubt this morning’s performance would be added to the canon of her supposed misdemeanours. Only in this case she was more than a little guilty.
Freya bit her lip. Why had she ever thought coming back here was a good idea? Okay, so she’d thought her physical presence might deter her dad more effectively than the knowledge she was watching from a distance, but there was more to it than that.
So many complex reasons bound up together. The fact was, this whole approaching thirty thing had taken on a life of itself. It felt almost like a life crisis. At least it would if she didn’t hope to live considerably longer than sixty years.
Now she had something to prove—to herself if no one else. She would not run back to London like a dog with its tail between its legs simply because other people didn’t like her. Been there, done that, had the battle scars to prove it.
But being back in Fellingham did make her feel as judged as before. And after twelve years she honestly hadn’t expected it to feel like that. She could feel everything unravelling. All her hard-won peace of mind.
Statements like It’s so important to feel no residual anger towards anyone or anything no longer seemed to make sense. What did it mean when you actually unpicked it?
She was angry—really angry. How about One’s past must not be allowed to determine one’s future? Wasn’t that what her therapist had said?
It was all total rubbish. Freya turned the key in the ignition. Clearly Dr Stefanie Coxan had no first-hand knowledge of what it was like to live in a gossipy little place like Fellingham.
Of course one’s past shaped one’s future. Even if you managed to draw a black line under the grotty bits, pieces of it still steeped through and stained whatever came after.
She reversed out into the narrow country lane and, without stopping to analyse why, turned her car towards Kilbury. Post-war bungalows still lined the entrance to the village, followed by a rash of 1930s semis, many carefully extended beyond recognition.
She took the left-hand turn towards Church Lane, the second right into Wood End Road, and bit down a wave of pure loathing as Kilbury Comprehensive School appeared from behind a row of Leylandi.
Squat. Ugly. Built of breeze blocks some time in the 1970s, when it had seemed a good idea to make everything square and functional. She slowed her car down to a stop as large droplets of rain spotted the windscreen.
There’d been nowhere on earth she’d been more unhappy. Nothing to do with the school, of course. Now, with hindsight, she could see that. Everything that had tortured her had been from within. But at the time it had been just another thing to kick against. Something else to resent.
Freya glanced down at her watch and restarted the engine. There was no point in sitting here remembering how unhappy she’d been. If she’d hoped seeing it again would lay some ghosts to rest she’d been kidding herself. If anything it felt as if she’d stirred a few up.
Freya turned the car round in a lay-by and headed back along the main road towards Fellingham. She set her windscreen wipers going and flicked on her headlights to compensate for the overall gloom.
It was strange to be driving along this road. It was all so familiar, and yet not. The red telephone box had been replaced by one of those see-through boxes. The pub at the end of the lane had changed from the Pheasant to the Plough.
But most things were the same.
Presumably the school bus still took this route. Still left at 7:25 a.m. from the bus stop opposite the garage, still took a lengthy detour through Westbury and Levingham before looping round to Kilbury.
She slowed at the crossroads and glanced over at the brick-built bus shelter which had been her escape route. It hadn’t taken too much ingenuity to slip out through the changing rooms, cross behind the bike sheds and then walk down the main road to this bus stop. From there it had been a twenty-minute ride into Olban and all the diversions of a big town.
And it seemed times hadn’t changed much. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a teenage girl in school uniform, turning away from the wind to light a cigarette.
As she pulled away from Pelham Forest it crossed her mind to wonder whether she should have stopped. But then what would she have done? Or said?
You couldn’t just pick up stray adolescents. There were laws against that type of thing. And if that girl was anything like she’d been at the same age she’d have given her a mouthful for interfering in what didn’t concern her.
But…
Freya glanced in her rearview mirror, softly biting her lip. Maybe she ought to ring the school? She debated with herself for all of thirty seconds. She couldn’t do it. It would feel like a betrayal. Honour among thieves, and all that.
From the distance she heard the slow rumble of thunder. Moments later there was a crack of lightning.
Freya glanced again in her rearview mirror but she’d driven on too far to be able to see what the teenager’s reaction to the storm was. It was one hell of a day to have picked to bunk off school.
It was all too easy for her to imagine how that girl must be feeling. And how cold. Freya swore softly and steeled herself to go back and check the teenager was at least okay.
At the next junction she performed an illegal U-turn and drove back up the other way. It was one thing not to want to deliberately get someone into trouble, quite another to drive off leaving them wet and miserable.
The light from her headlights picked up the rain, now coming down like stair-rods. Despite it, the girl stepped straight out and lifted her thumb—which certainly made it all much easier. Freya gave quiet thanks that she didn’t have to get out of the car. She slowed and came to a stop.
‘You in trouble?’ she asked, opening the window with the push of a button.
‘The bus is late and I’ve got an appointment in Olban.’ The girl took a drag on her cigarette. ‘Are you going that way? I could use a lift.’
Rain slipped in through the opened window, darkening the suede of Freya’s jacket. One glance at the teenager showed she was faring much worse. Her khaki coat was sodden, and her hair, dragged back in a tight ponytail, hung limply down the back of her neck.
‘What time’s your appointment?’ Freya asked, mentally reviewing her options. Now she was here she wasn’t at all sure what she was going to do.
‘Twelve-fifteen. I’m meeting my mum at McDonalds.’
And she believed that just about as much as she wanted a hole in the head. ‘Can I ring her? To check she doesn’t mind me giving you a lift?’
‘She won’t mind.’
‘I’d like to ring her anyway.’
‘My phone’s died,’ she said, with a jut to her chin, then brushed a long strand of sodden hair off her cheek.
‘We can use mine.’
‘I can’t remember her number.’
Freya’s hands moved over the steering wheel. Hell, this kind of thing never happened to her in London. For one thing she was always too busy to notice if anyone was out of place.
Damn it! She really should have just rung the school. They could have checked their records and she could have driven back to Fellingham guilt free.
‘Are you going to take me?’ The girl took another drag on her cigarette and then dropped it to the ground, twisting the ball of her foot on it. ‘I won’t smoke in your car. And I’ve got a plastic bag in here,’ she said, lifting her schoolbag forward. ‘I can lay it across the seat if you’re worried about your leather.’
Freya fought the smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth. This girl was only a beginner in delinquency. Way back when, she wouldn’t have said anything like that. She’d have been more inclined to smoke if she thought it would shock, and the idea of protecting a car seat just wouldn’t have occurred to her.
‘I can give you a lift, but I need to ring your school and ask them to contact your mum. I need her permission.’
‘Don’t bother.’ The girl turned back towards the shelter, her shoulders braced against the wind.
‘You know hitch-hiking is dangerous,’ Freya offered, wincing at words she knew would achieve nothing. ‘I might be anyone.’
The girl looked over her shoulder. ‘But you’re not. You’re Freya Anthony. I’ve seen you before.’
‘Have you?’
‘And everyone’s talking about you.’
Ah. Why did that still have the power to surprise her? ‘Do I get to know your name?’
‘Do I get a lift?’ she countered.
It was a little like looking into a mirror. Albeit one that had the ability to turn back time. There was something else, too. Some sense that she’d seen this girl somewhere before. Maybe it was nothing more than the ghosts of her youth haunting her. Reminding her.
‘It’s pouring down out here, and I’m wet.’
‘I…’ Freya was momentarily distracted by a bright light shining in her rearview mirror. She looked up and then over her shoulder as a silver estate car bore done on her.
The girl swore, and Freya turned in time to see her duck out of sight. What the—?
The lights were switched off and a car door slammed behind her. Freya swung round in her seat and she watched, amazed, as Daniel Ramsay stormed over towards the shelter.
Oh…my…goodness. She made the connection surprisingly slowly. Somehow it had never occurred to her that a man the age of Daniel Ramsay would have a daughter as old as this one. But that had to be it. Every line of his body screamed his anger.
His dark eyes met hers briefly, but his attention was on the belligerent teenager. Fascinated, she watched the confident, mouthy girl turn into a sulky, quiet one. Freya deliberately looked away, and carefully re-zipped the inner pocket of her handbag.
She felt a strange pang of envy watching the two of them. No one had ever come looking for her. Certainly not her dad. Not ever. It would have meant a lot if he had. If just once he’d put her first. Freya brushed an irritated hand across her eyes. It had been such a long time since she’d allowed herself to be so affected by thoughts like that. It didn’t matter.
Not any more.
Her parents were her parents. They’d done the best they could and that was that. One’s worth must come from inside oneself. She only wished she could believe that…on some level other than a cerebral one.
‘Ms Anthony?’
Freya looked up.
‘Is that yours or hers?’ he asked abruptly, his voice edged with anger and his eyes on the cigarette butt on the kerb.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The cigarette?’
His voice was like steel…and she instinctively reacted against it. Who did he think he was, to be talking to her like that? She glanced at his daughter, standing sullenly behind him, and caught the appeal for help in her eyes. It was fleeting. Barely there before it was gone. And Freya couldn’t do anything but respond to the sense of kinship she felt.
‘You have a problem with that?’
His brown eyes narrowed infinitesimally. ‘Actually, plenty. But if you want to sabotage your chances of living into old age so be it.’ He turned his head. ‘Mia, get in the car. Now. I said now!’
The teenager allowed herself a quick glance of gratitude towards Freya before doing as she was told. It was amazing how much ‘attitude’ she still managed to exude. Even the slam of the door spoke volumes.
Freya turned back to look at Mia’s father, feeling a little guilty.
He took a moment, seemingly trying to gain some control. ‘That wasn’t helpful. I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but—’
‘I—’
‘—if she’d actually got into your car I’d have seriously considered charging you with abduction.’
‘I—’
‘I suggest, in future, you mind your own business,’ he said, stepping back from her car and heading towards his own.
Freya sat, a little stunned at his attack. She felt as though she’d been verbally cut off at the knees. And people said she had a tongue dipped in vitriol.
She wouldn’t care to be in Mia’s shoes right now, she thought as she caught a glimpse of Daniel’s expression as he drove past. There was a price to being loved, it seemed. Because she didn’t doubt he was motivated by that.
Even so…he’d had no business talking to her like that. Slowly she reached down for the ignition to start the engine.
Surely it had been a tad disproportionate? She’d known from his reaction to her name earlier that he’d heard something of her history, but what exactly did he think she’d want with a truanting teenager? Did he honestly imagine she went around the country finding disaffected girls to turn into mini versions of her?
After starting the engine, Freya pulled away from the kerb. The sooner she got out of this spiteful little place the happier she’d be.
CHAPTER THREE
‘IS YOUR granddaughter here?’ Daniel asked, shaking the rain from his coat. ‘I’d like a word with her if I may?’
‘Through there.’ Margaret nodded towards the door to the dining room. ‘I don’t think you’re Freya’s favourite person right now.’
‘I don’t imagine I am. May I—?’
‘Go through,’ she said with a smile, giving every appearance of thoroughly enjoying herself. ‘I’ll put on the kettle. Call if you need rescuing.’
Daniel walked down the hallway, but he didn’t venture further than the doorway. Freya was there. Wrapping china and seemingly absorbed in her task.
He stood with one hand on the doorjamb, searching for the words he knew he needed to say—and trying to whip up some anger towards Mia for having placed him in this embarrassing situation.
But he knew this was about him. He’d spent long enough over the past few months talking about personal responsibility to know he’d no one to blame but himself for the way he’d spoken to Freya.
He’d done it because he could, he supposed. Because he’d needed someone to blame. Someone to take out his anger and frustration on.
Only…
Only—and this was the damnable part—he’d seen the slight widening of her blue eyes and caught the hurt in them. A fleeting expression. Swiftly controlled. But he’d seen it—and it felt as he imagined he would feel if he kicked a puppy.
There were enough people round and about who were ready to stick the knife into Freya Anthony, and he didn’t intend to be one of them. She was here now. That was wonderful, as far as Margaret was concerned, and if she was happy he had no business making it hard for her granddaughter to stay.
Which meant he had to put things right.
Try to. This wasn’t going to be easy. The slight tilt of her head told him Freya knew he was there, but that she’d no intention of meeting him halfway.
And why should she? He thrust his right hand deep in his jeans pocket. ‘I owe you an apology.’
Freya looked up momentarily from the bubble-wrap she was cutting. ‘Yes, you do.’ She reached for the top saucer from a pile to her left and placed it carefully in the centre of the bubble-wrap.
‘What I said to you…’
One perfectly shaped eyebrow flicked upwards.
‘…was…was out of line, and I apologise. I was unfair…and…’
‘Rude?’ she offered, her voice like a shiver.
Yes, damn it! He’d been rude. Completely unreasonable. Daniel pulled his hand out of his pocket and thrust it through his hair. ‘I took my anger out on you and I’m sorry. I had no right to do that.’
He’d done it. Made his apology. The best he could do without going into his relationship with his daughter.
‘No.’
His mind stuttered. No, his apology wasn’t accepted? Or no—
‘No right,’ she clarified, her fingers moving for a second saucer. ‘Would you pass me the sticky tape, please?’
Daniel walked further into the room and picked it up from the far end of the dining table. Stepping closer to her, he caught the waft of her perfume, light and citrus. Saw the pulse beating at the base of her neck…
And suddenly it mattered, really mattered, that she should believe him. He’d hurt her, and he had the uncanny sense that far too many people had done that.
He kept hold of the sticky tape as she reached for it and forced her to look up at him. ‘I’d like to have shouted at Mia, and since I couldn’t I took out my anger on you. Made you my whipping boy, if you like.’ His mouth twisted into a wry smile as he saw the flicker of understanding. ‘I really am sorry for the way I spoke to you.’
There was a moment’s hesitation, then, ‘I know that.’
Just three words, but her voice had lost its hard edge, and the underlying huskiness of it seemed to hold him frozen. A small tug on the roll of sticky tape pulled him back to the present. He swallowed, watching as she ripped off a few centimetres and taped it across the top of the pile.
‘I can understand why you were angry. I just don’t think I deserved—’