A Summer of Secrets (3 page)

Momentarily deserting her tea-making duties, she wandered along the hall and pulled open the front door to find Joe, the window cleaner, on the step, come to collect payment for services rendered earlier that day.

‘Evening, Miss Rutter. How are you?’ he asked, with a smile that instantly lifted Jenny’s spirits.

‘Very well, thank you, Joe,’ she lied, forcing the corners of her own lips upwards. Jenny liked Joe. He had what she termed “a sunny personality”, and he did a brilliant job cleaning the windows. She’d never had to so much as rub a sill down since he’d taken over the round a year or so ago. ‘How’re things with you?’ she asked, reaching for her purse on the hall table. ‘Keeping busy?’

‘Snowed under,’ replied the young man, accepting the ten-pound note Jenny handed him. ‘The round’s going from strength to strength.’

‘That’s because you do such a good job,’ Jenny replied. ‘No wonder your services are so in demand.’

A strange sound came from Joe’s throat, which he quickly turned into a cough. ‘Er, thanks,’ he muttered, a flush spreading over his cheeks. ‘Well, I’d best be off. You take care and I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.’

Jenny’s smile widened as she stood in the open doorway, watching Joe lope down the lane. She’d heard a bit of tittle-tattle around the village about his window-cleaning exploits – or should that be
sexploits –
and she couldn’t say she was surprised. He was a good-looking, likeable lad. He should be making the most of his youth; enjoying himself. Savouring every minute of his life because, as Jenny could vouch with authority, it passed you by in the blink of an eye. That depressing thought whirring about her head, she closed the door and headed back into the kitchen to the biscuit barrel.

***

‘You cannot be serious.’ Echoing the words of an ageing tennis player, Jasper Pinkington-Smythe’s plummy voice raged across the North Atlantic at his sister. ‘I thought Dad was minted.’

Portia sighed wearily. Despite his advancing years, her brother still acted like a sulky, spoilt adolescent. And although he hadn’t actually said it, his actions had made it blatantly obvious that he viewed their father’s death as nothing more than a minor inconvenience, which had rudely interrupted his long sojourn at a friend’s villa in Cuba. Appearing fleetingly for the funeral, he’d stayed two nights, then flitted off again, leaving Portia to tie up all the loose ends. Of which, she had since discovered, there were many threadbare ones.

‘None of us thought money was an issue,’ she explained. ‘But we never gave any consideration to where it came from. A combination of poor investment decisions, low interest rates and excessive spending means lots has been going out, and nothing’s been coming in.’

‘Bloody hell,’ seethed Jasper. ‘Well, what am I supposed to do now, with no allowance?’

The question ignited a dart of red-hot fury in Portia’s gut. ‘For God’s sake, Jasper, you’re forty years old. You’ve milked Dad your entire life. And I hate to say it, but you have to take some responsibility for this state of affairs. Isn’t it about time you got off your backside and went out and found a job? Did something useful for a change? Like normal people.’

‘But I’m not normal,’ he whinged. ‘And I can’t do anything. Who’s going to give me a job? No, there’s nothing else for it. We’ll have to sell Buttersley Manor.’

Portia’s fury intensified. ‘Over my dead body! There is no way we’re selling the manor,’ she spat. Before jabbing the end call button.

Shaking with rage, tears rolling down her cheeks, she wandered out onto the balcony of her Canary Wharf apartment. Despite it being June, the afternoon was dull, the grey sky heavy with the threat of rain. Dressed in only a T-shirt and cotton skirt, her long legs bare, she shivered as she sucked in the cool air.

Of course she really shouldn’t have called Jasper until she’d felt stronger. She’d known exactly how he’d react to the news of their unexpected penury; had predicted his response with startling accuracy: Me. Me. Me. Typical Jasper. Throughout his entire life her brother had never considered anyone but himself. Shunning adult responsibilities, he was like a child, completely ill-equipped to deal with real life. God, if he’d witnessed the things she had during her career –

Portia flicked a mental switch, efficiently summoning an impenetrable barrier which abruptly shut down that avenue of thought. She had enough to deal with in the present, never mind reliving events of the past.

She’d given the dire financial situation a great deal of consideration since her meeting with Dillon, concluding that it wasn’t just the pitiful state of their inheritance that was so depressing, but the fact that centuries of Pinkington-Smythe history were now at an end. Everything her ancestors had fought and worked for over the last few hundred years, everything they’d striven to preserve, now amounted to nothing more than a house – and a fairly decrepit one at that. Selling it would be tantamount to zipping up a body bag.

She wandered back inside, flopped down on the Italian leather sofa, and surveyed her surroundings. She’d owned the flat for five years but, due to her hectic work schedule, had never spent more than a couple of weeks at a time in it. It was bright, trendy, equipped with every desirable gadget, and in a good location – exactly what every young, fun-loving city-dweller desired.

But, Portia suddenly realised, it was no longer what she desired. Nor did she want dirty, crowded streets, or neighbours she didn’t even recognise, never mind talked to.

She wanted peace and quiet, fresh air, and her best friend, Annie O’Donnell.

And the one place she could have all of that was … Buttersley.

***

Sitting on the bed, fresh from the shower, with only a towel around his waist, Rich stared at the number on his mobile phone. He’d saved it under “Chlorine Supplier”. Because somehow “The daughter I didn’t know I had” didn’t seem quite right. Nor did simply inputting her name. Candi. What sort of name was that? Certainly not one Rich would have chosen. But given he hadn’t even known of her existence until a couple of days ago, he wasn’t exactly in a position to criticise.

Alison had been out visiting potential clients when Candi turned up. Rich had been in the showroom arranging a display of chlorine tablets. So engrossed in his task had he been, that he hadn’t heard her come in.

‘Morning,’ she said shyly.

A startled Rich dropped the box he’d been holding.

‘Here. Let me help.’ She bent down and retrieved it.

‘Thanks.’ Rich accepted it from her. ‘Sorry. I didn’t hear you come in. Can I help you with anything?’

The girl diverted her gaze to her scruffy trainers and cleared her throat. ‘I’m, er, looking for Richard Stevens.’

Rich’s mouth broke into a wide smile. ‘Well, congratulations. You’ve found him.’

Rather than the revelation proving pleasant, the girl’s already sallow cheeks paled further, and behind her spectacles her blue eyes widened.

As Rich waited for her to say something, he appraised her appearance. She wasn’t an attractive girl. Plain would more aptly describe her. Lank, mousy hair curtained her face, round John Lennon-type specs rested on her narrow nose, and her boyish frame was clad in a shapeless pink sweatshirt and ill-fitting jeans. With not a scrap of make-up evident, she looked about twelve. What on earth could she want with him? His brow lifted a tad higher.

‘I, um, think you know my mum. Bernice Wilson?’ she said at length, raising her eyes to him.

Rich screwed up his nose. Bernice Wilson? The name rang a distant bell. But quite where from, he couldn’t recall. ‘Has she bought a tub from us in the past?’ he asked.

The girl snorted with ironic laughter. ‘No. Nothing like that. You knew her when she was younger. A lot younger. In Leeds.’

Rich caught his bottom lip between his teeth as his brain-racking continued. Nope. Still no recollection.

‘You went out with her for a while.’

Ah! The penny dropped. With considerable force. Bernice Wilson. A feisty, party-loving brunette with a penchant for vodka. Oh, yes, he remembered her now.

‘Right. Er, how is she?’ he asked, now even more baffled.

The girl didn’t reply at first, her gaze returning to the floor. ‘I’m, um, not sure if you knew, but … but at the time you broke up, she was … pregnant.’

‘
Pregnant?
’ Rich’s jaw dropped. ‘But she never … I mean I didn’t really see her after we split … We only went out for a few months then we …’

‘It was nineteen years ago.
I’ve
just had my nineteenth birthday.’

For a brief second time stopped. Rich’s heart stuttered, his throat went dry and his vision blurred. Surely she couldn’t mean …

‘Are … are you trying to tell me that you’re my … my …?’

The girl nodded. ‘Your daughter. Candi.’

Neither of them spoke after that. Not for a good three minutes. Which seemed more like three hours to Rich. His brain flicked to overdrive. Bernice Wilson. Mother of his child. Bloody hell. Talk about a bolt from the blue. Suffused by a barrage of memories, he recalled that he hadn’t even liked Bernice much. She’d been spoilt. Stroppy. Far too fond of getting off her head on booze – or worse.

‘I can tell you’re a bit … shocked,’ Candi eventually muttered. ‘Maybe I should go now. Let the news sink in.’

Unable to speak, Rich merely nodded.

‘Here.’ She tugged a scrap of paper from her jeans pocket and handed it to him. ‘This is my number. If you’d like to talk some more, please give me a call.’

Then she left.

And Rich stood beside the unfinished pyramid of chlorine tablets for the next twenty minutes.

Somehow – although he would never know quite how – he managed to pull himself together, acting with some semblance of normality when he arrived home. But what the hell was he supposed to do now?

He could, of course, tell Alison. In fact, he didn’t know why he already hadn’t. During the time they’d been together, he’d never had any secrets from his wife. But he didn’t feel ready to share this one. Not until he’d come to terms with it himself. Which, he suspected, might take quite some time.

‘Dad, hurry up. Tea’s ready.’

As Bethany’s voice hollered up the stairs, Rich leapt off the bed.

‘Be there in a second,’ he called back, tugging on a pair of shorts. He’d try not to think about the Candi situation for the rest of the evening. He’d try to relax; spend an enjoyable couple of hours with his family.
Family
. Oh, God. The stark realisation that it could well now include another member made him want to throw up.

Pulling a T-shirt over his head, he ran his fingers through his damp hair and ran down the stairs. As he crossed the hall the doorbell rang.

It was Joe, the window cleaner.

‘Don’t tell me we owe you more money, Joe,’ joked Rich from the open doorway.

‘‘Fraid so, Mr Stevens. Ten pounds, please,’

Rich fished about in his shorts pocket and pulled out a ten-pound note. ‘Round going well, is it?’

‘Better than could be expected.’

‘Pleased to hear it. A hard-working young lad like you deserves to do well.’

‘Thanks,’ said Joe. ‘Well, I’d best be off. See you in a couple of weeks.’

As Joe sauntered down the path, Rich remained in the open doorway. There was a lad who didn’t have a care in the world, he mused. No worrying about sales figures, no humongous mortgage, and no unexpected daughters popping out of the woodwork.

For a brief moment, Rich experienced an unaccustomed pang of envy.

Chapter Three

‘Oo, Joe, you’ve missed a bit.’

Joe Massam ran his hand a shade further up the silky-smooth thigh. ‘Oh, really. And which bit would that be, then? Here?’

The blonde giggled. ‘Not quite.’

‘How about here?’

‘Mmmm. Close, but not close enough.’

‘Here, then?’ His hand slipped expertly between her thighs and the blonde began moaning with pleasure.

Joe smiled. Missed a bit, indeed! He prided himself on never missing any bits – during his window cleaning, or his “additional services”. Indeed, over the eighteen months he’d been window cleaning and providing his “additional services”, his reputation for never missing a bit had spiralled. And demand for his “additional services” had consequently flourished.

Not that, when Joe had initially taken over the round, he’d ever intended providing anything other than a quick rub down with his shammy. He’d been fortunate to be offered the round in the first place. Before that he’d been labouring on building sites and DJ-ing a few evenings a week. But then, when Gina left and his whole world had fallen apart, so, too, had Joe. Drink – or, more specifically, whisky – had become his new best friend, efficiently obliterating every ounce of self-pity, and every miserable, depressing thought from his head. He didn’t bother turning up for his evening gigs, and on the rare days he’d managed to drag himself to the building site, he’d been as much use as an umbrella in a tsunami. Which didn’t go unnoticed by the management. When his negligence had almost caused a colleague to lose an arm, it proved the wake-up call he needed. Without waiting for the inevitable – and justifiable – disciplinary action, he handed in his notice and left immediately. He had no idea what he was going to do, but he knew he had to get his act together. Stop drinking. Put his house in order. Then, after a month of dossing about, unable to face signing on, his meagre savings dwindling at a rate of knots, his mate, Jacko, tossed him a lifeline.

‘My uncle’s been diagnosed with angina. Can’t carry on with his window cleaning business and is looking for someone to take it over.’

Joe hadn’t needed long to consider the proposition. He’d never cleaned a window in his life, didn’t know a shammy from a sherbert dip, and was as fond of heights as he was of extracting his own nasal hair. But how hard could it be? And after coping with the stress of the last few months, surely he could cope with climbing a ladder. Plus, the idea of being his own boss, of being responsible for no one but himself, really appealed.

So he’d accepted the proposition.

‘You won’t regret it,’ Jacko assured him. ‘There’s loads of potential there. You could even think about expanding the business. Odd jobs, that kind of thing.’