Conditional Love (5 page)

‘Marc’s on his way,’ I yelled, careering into the living room. ‘What shall I wear?’

Jess jumped out of her seat, sending her books flying, and clapped her hands over her mouth.

‘Too late for that,’ said Emma, peering out of the window. ‘He’s here!’

Jess and I squealed and followed Emma’s finger to where Marc was unfolding himself from the passenger side of a red sports car, parked outside the flat. I was no Jeremy Clarkson, but even I recognised an MX5 when I saw one. We didn’t know anyone who owned one of those. Marc certainly didn’t. I also knew enough to recognise that the flash of a red sleeve in the driver’s seat belonged to a woman.

‘There’s someone else!’ I squeaked.

A second tidal wave hit me, this time of disappointment. I felt tears pushing at the back of my eyes and had a sudden urge to sit down. I wrapped the towel around me more tightly. There could be an explanation. The woman could be just a friend. Perhaps he was feeling too emotional to drive and needed a lift?

Even to my easily-deluded ears, it sounded unlikely.

‘You are well out of it, Sophie,’ said Emma sternly. ‘Just wait there.’

She darted from the room. I could hear her banging about with glasses in the kitchen.

‘But I’m not even dressed!’ I wailed.

‘I don’t think he’ll have any complaints,’ said Jess with a wink.

I glanced at my reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. My eyes looked huge, my cheeks were pink from the steam of the bath and some of my curls had escaped from their bath-time bun to cling seductively to my neck. Even in my distressed state, I could see it wasn’t a bad look.

‘What do you think he wants?’ I hissed.

She shrugged and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Do you really want him back, babes?’

I sighed; Emma would kill me for saying it, but I missed his manly, comforting presence so much. OK, so Marc wasn’t perfect, but then neither was I. Look how unsupportive I had been when he had told me about his latest money-making scheme. I could have kicked myself about that now.

If we got back together, maybe he could help me decide what to do about Great Aunt Jane’s will?

‘I do. But Emma will go mad.’

‘Ignore her. She hasn’t got a romantic bone in her body. Not like us.’

Emma returned with a bottle of pink Cava and three glasses just as the door buzzer sounded.

‘Shall I let him in then?’ asked Jess.

I nodded and accepted a drink from Emma. I chugged half of it straight down and perched on the arm of the chair, knees together, wishing I’d chosen a bigger towel.

Emma and I listened as Jess opened the door. We didn’t have to strain our ears; it was only a tiny flat. There was no such thing as a private conversation here. We had to text each other if we wanted to keep something a secret.

‘Looking radiant as ever, Jess. Pink to make the boys wink, eh?’ said Marc, referring to Jess’s voluminous Pineapple sweatshirt. She wore this to plan her PE lessons, said it made her feel more sporty.

Jess giggled. Good old Jess. She never let something as flimsy as female solidarity stand in the way of a bit of old-fashioned flirting. I didn’t blame her; Marc had that effect on women. I glanced at Emma. Well, most women. Emma’s mouth moved from gaping to scowling and back again in rapid succession.

OK, steel yourself. This man broke your heart, remember? Putting aside the issue of the red-sleeved taxi driver for a moment, if he wants you back, he must work for it. You must not cave in as soon as you see him, repeat, you must not…

Oh God! Jess ushered Marc into the room and my resolve went the way of a Lindor chocolate. All melty and soft-centred. So much for the steel. There was no escaping it; Marc Felton looked like an extra from
Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels
: fit, stubbly, a bit villainy, but in a totally forgivable come-over-here-and-ravish-me sort of way.

A little moan escaped from my throat. Emma took a protective step towards me and muttered ‘Tosser’ under her breath.

Marc’s eyes roamed over my body and he broke into a sexy grin. ‘Like the outfit.’

The brass neck of the man! All of a sudden I understood the expression ‘blushing to the roots of my hair’. I felt totally exposed, both emotionally and physically. My skin was still damp and I shivered.

Say something, Sophie. Not like ‘Ooh, I’ve missed you so much, give me another chance and I promise I won’t be boring, pretty please’; something to dazzle him and prove that your life is just as dynamic as his.

‘I was in the bath.’

Terrific.

If that didn’t have him on his knees begging to go back out with me, nothing would.

Everyone was standing up except me. I wasn’t sure whether to stand or make them all sit. I stood. The tension on the top of my towel loosened and it took a nosedive. I yelped and grabbed at it, sloshing Cava over my shoulder and dousing Emma’s t-shirt.

Marc, an eye on the prize as usual, strutted forward. ‘Let me help with that,’ he chuckled.

‘Back off, Felton,’ Emma snarled. ‘What did you want anyway?’

Marc stopped in his tracks.

I held my breath. If he was coming to ask forgiveness, he might feel uncomfortable doing it in front of the Piper sisters and it was on the tip of my tongue to ask them to give us a moment.

‘I can’t find my Nickelback CD.’ He looked at me hopefully. ‘Have you got it?’

You know that feeling when you get a helium balloon on a ribbon at McDonalds and then you walk outside and the ribbon slips out of your greasy fingers and you watch helplessly as it floats away out of reach, until it’s a tiny speck and then it disappears from sight?

Well, that.

I nodded and fled from the room. His precious CD was in my bedroom. I threw on my dressing gown, belted it tightly, collected the beloved item and considered scratching it with my nail file as I slipped it into its case.

Me? Instantly forgettable. Crappy album? He can’t live without it.

Sugar puffs.

I examined my face in the mirror. Eyes a bit red round the rims, but I wasn’t going to cry. I was livid. I stomped back in to the room and thrust it at him.

‘Here, take it and blob off.’ I picked up my glass and drained it.

‘Oh great! Thanks.’ Marc grinned, oblivious to my annoyance, annoyingly.

A car horn beeped three times outside.

‘That’s your taxi,’ said Jess peering out of the window.

‘Yeah, who is that by the way?’ demanded Emma, refilling my glass to the brim.

Marc rubbed his nose and shrugged dismissively. ‘Just a girl from work.’

Odd, he was self-employed. He must have meant from the market generally. Anyway, what did I care? Oh, who was I kidding?

‘Well, don’t keep her waiting,’ I said airily, ‘besides, we need to get back to our celebrating.’ I made a show of lifting my glass in a toast, before taking another sip. I was beginning to feel a bit light-headed. Alcohol was already zipping willy-nilly around my bloodstream.

‘That’s right.’ Emma nodded, raising her own glass. ‘To Sophie and her new single life of fun, fun, fun!’

‘Yay!’ Jess skipped forward to clink our glasses, elbowing Marc out of the way. ‘And to her inheritance! Cheers!’

‘Jess!’ hissed Emma.

The car horn sounded again. This time one long continuous honk.

‘On your way,’ said Emma, gesturing towards the door.

‘Inheritance?’ Marc deliberately ignored Emma and locked his eyes on me. He ran his tongue over his lips.

I nodded. Ha, that had sharpened his pencil.

The red-sleeved one started sounding her car horn to a beat not dissimilar to ‘Nelly the Elephant’.

Marc growled, took his phone out of his pocket and punched some numbers. The assault on our collective eardrums ceased. He turned away and murmured into the phone. ‘Sorry Prin…’ His eyes flicked to me. ‘Sorry mate, I’ll just be a minute. How about you nip up to the garage and get me a can of Red Bull?’

In a seamless manoeuvre, he ended the call and pulled me down on the sofa next to him. Emma, steam virtually whistling out of her ears, glared at us all in turn, especially Jess, and squeezed herself next to me on the two-seater sofa.

We all heard the sound of a revving engine, followed by a screech of tyres and the retreating roar of a sports car.

May Simon Cowell strike me down for my stupidity, but I couldn’t help it. I had Marc’s undivided attention and that was what mattered. I gave him a condensed and breathy version of the whole Great Aunt Jane situation. An eleven-year-old wannabe actress at stage school couldn’t have given a better performance.

Marc was captivated, Emma was tutting furiously and Jess was oohing, aahing and sniffing like she did during the royal wedding.

Marc narrowed his eyes. ‘How much are we talking, savings-wise?’

I gave a weak shrug. ‘Too soon to say,’ I lied. Not as daft as I look, me.

‘And to qualify, I mean – thingy – inherit, all you have to do is agree to meet your dad?’

‘
All
!’ squawked Emma. ‘All! You’ve no idea what a big deal this is.’

Hmm, was I detecting a turnaround in Emma’s viewpoint? She wouldn’t want to be on the same side as Marc under any circumstances.

‘Absolutely,’ agreed Jess. ‘The repercussions of upsetting the status quo vis-à-vis Sophie’s entire family dynamic are not to be underestimated.’

What was she on about?

‘It’s a no-brainer!’ cried Marc, throwing his hands in the air. ‘She should just meet the man and take the money.’

Emma twisted her mouth angrily and bit her cheek. She looked a bit shame-faced. So she should. This had been her exact opinion only a few short days ago.

I stood up with as much dignity as I could muster. Not easy, seeing as I was wedged in snugly between Emma and Marc and the sofa cushions were as supportive as blancmange.

‘I am here, you know.’ I tied my dressing gown more tightly. ‘This is my decision to make and mine alone. I am an independent, intelligent woman, perfectly capable of managing on my own.’

For once in my life, where Marc was concerned, I had the upper hand. It was thrilling. It was a landmark moment in our relationship. It was just a shame it had to come after he had apparently found himself another princess. Nevertheless, I was going to milk it for all it was worth.

The three of them regarded me with expressions ranging from disappointed to doubtful to proud. I finished with a flourish.

‘Marc, please leave now.’

‘But my lift’s just gone,’ he protested.

‘You heard the lady.’ Emma suddenly went all Mafia, hoicked fifteen stone of muscle off the sofa and bundled my ex-boyfriend towards the door.

Marc tried to make eye contact with me over the top of Emma’s red mane. He made the international sign for phone with thumb and little finger. ‘Call me if you need any help, yeah? Princess?’

And I’m back in the game.

seven

The set of keys that Mr Whelan had lent me were like one of those creepy paintings where the eyes seem to follow you. Every time they caught my eye, it was as if they were waving to me, until finally I could take it no more.

I had dragged Jess and Emma away from Saturday morning telly by promising them fresh air, fields of wheat and barley and gambolling lambs. And when that hadn’t worked, I told them I’d buy them a drink on the way home. Ten minutes later we were on our way.

Woodby was one of those little villages far enough out of the city to be able to claim it was in the countryside, but close enough for even the most committed townie to cope without getting panic attacks. The sort of place you might drive out to for a pub lunch.

Maybe it was the time of year; I’m not really up on my countryside life cycle, but the fields were mostly brown squares and the sheep were all massive with straggly wool and not a spring lamb in sight. I kept my fingers crossed for a pub.

If I had to sum up my driving style in three words it would be ‘white knuckle ride’. Hence, the journey to see the bungalow I had no intention of inheriting was largely a silent one, pierced from time to time with shrill screams. Emma, in the front seat, held onto the map, Jess, in the back, attempted to hold onto her partly digested breakfast, and I held onto the steering wheel for grim death.

Jess had offered to drive us, but in a bid to demonstrate the new independent me, I’d cadged a pool car from
The Herald
. The car must have been ancient because the gearbox sounded like an old man with a forty-a-day smoker’s cough and it wheezed its way up even the mildest incline.

The journey was pushing my stress levels to their limits. Whoever had thought to build these country lanes so windy was a fool. My biceps were shaking with the effort of negotiating all the bends and I had to concentrate hard. But focussing on my driving was a relief. Ever since I’d made the decision to come and look at the bungalow, my brain and my stomach had been in turmoil. It wasn’t just my biceps that felt shaky, my whole body was trembling.

All my life I had had no contact with my father or his family. Today, however indirectly, I would be entering into his world. It felt like a massive milestone and, worse than that, a complete betrayal of my mother.

Despite my reservations, as we came into Woodby, my heart lifted at its prettiness: red brick cottages, a village green, a pub and an old-fashioned telephone box – it ticked all the ‘quintessentially English’ boxes! The grass verges were lined with daffodils, like a miniature welcoming committee all blowing their tiny yellow trumpets.

‘Next on the left should be Lilac Lane,’ Emma informed us, tapping the map with her finger.

‘Thank goodness for that!’ groaned Jess from the back, her knees squashed up under her chin. ‘Rigor mortis is beginning to set in. This car is definitely designed for speed and not comfort.’

Emma opened her mouth to speak.

‘I know what you’re going to say, so don’t,’ said Jess, sucking her stomach in.

I turned left. Lilac Lane was on the far side of the village. It was a short, narrow, unmade road with bungalows on one side and trees and bushes on the other, behind which I could just make out a ditch with the trickle of a stream running through it.