A Family Concern (6 page)

They both turned. Since the speaker's eyes were riveted on her companion, Rona was able to examine him at leisure. Probably in his late thirties, he was slightly above middle height, had mid-brown hair that fell over his brow, a long, straight nose and intent grey eyes. He was carrying a sheaf of papers.

She felt Coralie tense, but her voice was steady enough as she replied, ‘Hello, Chris.'

‘What are you …? I mean …'

‘We've just had tea in the lounge,' Rona put in smoothly, and his eyes switched to her.

‘Rona Parish,' she introduced herself, since Coralie gave no sign of doing so.

He held out his free hand. ‘Chris Fairfax. Good afternoon. I'm sorry, I must have sounded abrupt. It's just that I was – taken by surprise.'

‘Oh, I'm still around,' Coralie said, with a brilliant smile. ‘Nice to see you,' she added carelessly, and pushed her way through the swing doors, leaving Rona to smile a farewell and follow her.

Outside, Coralie allowed no time for questions. ‘I'll be in touch,' she said quickly. ‘Thanks for the tea.' And she set off briskly along the pavement in the direction of Alban Road, her high heels clicking on the pavement.

Rona turned and started to walk thoughtfully in the opposite direction. That had been a curious exchange between an ex-waitress and the son of the owner. There was obviously a story there, too, but Rona doubted that she would ever hear it.

Gerald Fairfax, Chris's younger brother, had also seen the exchange, and been disturbed by it. He hoped to God that Coralie wasn't going to stage a reappearance. Though nothing had been said, he knew her dismissal had been softened by a generous sum in lieu of notice – surely on the understanding that she'd stay away from the hotel? Yet what could they do if she chose to visit it? She could hardly be barred. And that young woman with her: her name had sounded familiar. Wasn't she the journalist who was making a name for herself settling old scores? If so, there was even more cause for worry.

And Gerald was used to worry. Slight of build and looking considerably less than his thirty-four years, he was a reserved young man who'd never been able to discuss his problems, and had years ago resigned himself to sleepless nights as a consequence. Principal among those worries was the ever-present fear that he'd lose his position as head chef, that his ideas would dry up and his father would lose patience with him – something, Gerald reflected ruefully, that in any case happened fairly regularly. Cooking was his one passion, his
raison d'être
, and life wouldn't be worth living without it. Consequently he spent all his free time pouring over recipe books and biographies of past
cuisiniers
from Escoffier onwards, and when not on duty, closeted himself in his little kitchen at home, experimenting with new dishes.

But Coralie, along with his other anxieties, would have to be put on hold. Shrugging on his white coat and hat, he made his way to the kitchens to begin his evening shift.

‘Do you know anything about the people at the Clarendon?' Rona asked Max that evening as he prepared their meal.

‘The owners, you mean? I met Stephen, that time I held an exhibition there. He's known as an awkward customer but I got on with him all right.'

‘Is he the boss?'

‘Officially, but I hear his mother still has an input, even though she's well into her eighties. Why the sudden interest?'

‘I had tea there today, with that girl I told you about. She used to work there as a waitress, and as we were leaving we met Chris, one of the sons, and there was quite an atmosphere between them. I was curious, that's all.'

Max gave a short laugh. ‘Nose twitching, my love?'

‘Well, I wondered how it fitted in. Kate Tarlton said Lewis's first wife is married to Chris Fairfax. By the way, did you know the Tarltons and Fairfaxes are related?'

‘Can't say I did, but it's not surprising. They're both old Marsborough families.'

Rona sipped her drink reflectively. ‘Actually, I was getting quite nostalgic, thinking over the part the Clarendon's played in my life: childhood parties, our first date, our wedding reception. Come to think of it, the same applies to Tarlton's, which the family's been going to for years. Even Netherby's has hardly changed since we were taken to the grotto each year. In this day and age, when so many towns are clones of each other, Marsborough's lucky to have so many long-established firms.'

‘Why don't you write about them?' Max suggested carelessly. ‘Those that have been here since, say, the 1920s or longer? It might be quite interesting.'

‘It might indeed,' Rona agreed, ideas beginning to form. ‘Offhand, how many can you think of that would qualify?'

‘Well, the Clarendon and Tarlton's for starters, and, of course, Netherby's. This was their original store, though they've now spread throughout the county. And Willows' Furniture on the corner has been going for years.'

He stirred the pan and tasted the contents on a wooden spoon. ‘Then there's that speciality grocers at the far end of Guild Street – what's it called? Anyway, they have a framed display of their shopfronts going back to the early 1900s.'

‘It would really be as much about the families who own them as the shops themselves,' Rona put in, her interest quickening. ‘I don't know if it's true, but I heard that John Willow started as a barrow boy, and worked his way up.'

‘There you are, then,' Max said enigmatically. ‘A complete series, ready and waiting for you.'

‘If they all agree.'

‘You're joking! Refuse free publicity? Not on your life!'

‘If Barnie would, then.'

‘Well, he's pleased with the way the Buckford articles are going. You could have a pull-out section of these too, and a binder to put them in. A different slant on what you did for Buckford.'

‘It's certainly worth thinking about,' Rona agreed, and, at his signal, moved to the kitchen table for supper.

‘Tom?'

‘Hello, my love.'

‘I've a favour to ask.'

‘Ask away.'

‘Would you mind very much if we postponed our plans for the weekend?'

His heart sank. They'd arranged to drive into the country for a pub lunch, followed by a walk if the weather was good enough, before going on to the early evening showing at the cinema. He'd been looking forward to it.

‘Of course not, if something else has come up,' he lied.

‘Actually, it has. I've just had Daniel on the phone. As you know, they've been busy most weekends, then he was away on a couple of courses, so I still haven't had a chance to tell them our news.' She gave an apologetic little laugh. ‘It's not something you can come out with on the phone.'

‘He wants to see you?'

‘Yes; they've invited me over for the weekend. It seems the ideal opportunity to put them in the picture; to be honest, I've been getting a little panicky about how far things were progressing without them knowing anything about it.'

‘As you say, the perfect opportunity.'

‘You don't mind?'

‘My darling, we'll soon have every weekend together. Of course you must go.'

‘I knew you'd understand,' Catherine said gratefully.

Max settled back in his seat, glanced out of the window at the rain-swept runway, and opened his newspaper. He was not looking forward to the next twenty-four hours. Deep down, he admitted he was fond enough of his family; it was just that he preferred them at a distance. His mother had died when he was thirteen, and Cynthia, five years his senior, had acted as stand-in till he left for art college. She had been, then as now, well intentioned but bossy, and he knew he'd not made things easy for her. And Father had always been an awkward so-and-so. Rona, with her own close-knit family, could never understand his keeping them at arm's length.

Suppose the old man really was ill, though? In the manner of most offspring, Max had subconsciously expected him to go on for ever. That there might come a time – sooner rather than later – when he wouldn't be there, to contact or not as Max chose, was unsettling. Cynthia and Rona were right: he should make an effort to establish more regular contact. Though how his father would react to such an approach was, he acknowledged wryly, anyone's guess.

Cynthia was waiting at the airport, and as Max caught sight of her short, rounded figure, he felt a surge of affection for her. He put an arm round her and pulled her against him.

‘Good to see you, Cyn.'

‘You too, you old reprobate.' As always her tone was brisk, but he felt the tightening of her arm as she returned his hug.

‘How's the old fella?' Max asked, as he followed her to the car park.

‘A bit wheezy, and still not eating enough to keep a sparrow alive.'

‘He knows I'm coming?'

‘Oh yes. He might have had a heart attack if you'd walked in unannounced.'

Max grinned. ‘OK, don't rub it in. So when are we seeing him?'

‘I'll drive you over after lunch.' Cynthia stopped at a small Peugeot, opened the boot, and Max tossed his overnight bag inside.

‘It's not a question of “we”, though,' she continued as they got into the car. ‘I'll drop you off, but I'm not coming in. You two need time alone together.'

Max was alarmed. ‘Oh, come on now, sis, that's not fair!'

‘What's not fair,' she retorted, ‘is your cutting yourself off for so long. It's no use arguing, Max, it's all settled. I'll drop you off, as I said, then at five I'll collect you both and bring Father back for dinner with us all.'

‘Does “all” include the boys?'

Cynthia and her husband had two strapping sons, Michael and David, who, in their teens, had rechristened themselves Mike and Dave.

‘They sound like a comic double act,' Cynthia had complained.

‘Yes, they're both living at home at the moment. Paul says we make things too comfortable for them; there's no incentive to find a place of their own, especially since they're both working in Tynecastle.'

‘No sign of wedding bells?'

Cynthia's derisive snort was answer enough.

Lindsey pushed her way through the swing doors of the Clarendon, grateful for its warmth on her wind-chilled face, and made her way down the broad, carpeted stairs to the Grill Room, where François, the maître d', met her with a small bow.

‘Mr Cavendish is already here, madame. If you would come this way?'

Obediently following in his wake, she caught sight of Hugh's red head bent over the menu at a corner table. He stood at their approach, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek as François pulled out her chair for her and took her jacket. For a moment longer she busied herself, taking off her gloves and dropping her bag to the floor, in order to cover the racing pulse that accompanied any meeting with her ex-husband.

‘You're looking gorgeous, as always,' Hugh said quietly.

‘Thank you, kind sir.'

‘Would you like to stick to the grill menu, or go for one of the chef's specials?'

‘I think steak and a salad would be fine.'

‘A starter?'

She shook her head. ‘I've under an hour and a half, Hugh; I'm seeing a client at two thirty.'

‘It would be good to meet without always having an eye on the clock,' he said tightly. ‘Are you as circumscribed when you lunch with your colleague, or is that extendable in the guise of a business lunch?'

She didn't meet his eye. ‘It depends on my schedule; you know that.'

He leaned forward, laying a hand on her wrist. ‘What I know is that I need to see you –
really
see you, Lindsey.'

His hand seemed to burn through her skin and she forced herself to speak lightly. ‘Only in public, Hugh; that was the agreement. And if you were about to suggest your flat, that would be doubly unwise; Pops is renting one in Talbot Road from the end of the month.'

He sat back in his chair, staring at her. ‘My block?'

‘Rona says not. However, it's immaterial as far as we're concerned.'

He leaned forward urgently. ‘When are you going to stop all this nonsense and marry me again?'

‘Don't rush me,' she said.

In truth though, Lindsey reflected, as Hugh relayed their order to the waiter, she had no intention of remarrying him. They'd been at each other's throats before, and would be again. It was only physical attraction that kept them, unwillingly for the most part, still tied to each other.

Roland Allerdyce lived in an old farmhouse on the fringes of a village some five miles from the town. He'd sold off the surrounding land when he bought it thirty years ago, but its barn, large and airy, had been converted into a centrally-heated studio that suited him admirably.

The house was, of course, far too large for him, but he refused point-blank to consider moving, either to somewhere smaller, or to live with his daughter and her family. His devoted housekeeper, Doris Pemberton, who'd been with him from the start, ran the house with quiet efficiency, helped for the last five years by a woman from the village who came in twice a week to do the heavy cleaning. It was thanks to Mrs Pemberton's ministrations that Cynthia was able to worry less about her father than she might otherwise have done.

The old man came out to meet them as they turned into the cobbled yard, the stiff breeze ruffling his still-plentiful hair. As Max quickly got out of the car and went to greet him, he was aware of shock. Though his father stood ramrod straight and was still the same height as Max himself, he seemed to have shrunk inside himself, the skin on his face falling away to leave nose and cheekbones more prominent and his clothes hanging loosely on his frame.

‘Father!' Max clasped the veined hand thrust out at him, wincing at the strength of the grip.

‘So you've put in an appearance at last. Cynthia put the wind up you, did she? She's been clucking round like a mother hen for months.'