Conditional Love Read online

  Marc’s eyes widened. ‘Really?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I’m impressed.’ He squeezed my shoulder and I tried not to wince. He didn’t know his own strength sometimes. ‘My little mouse! Property developing, eh?’

  He gave me a noisy kiss on the cheek.

  OK, so mouse wasn’t the most promising of endearments. But my mouse – I could live with that.

  ‘Well, it’s hardly that, only –’

  His eyes were totally locked on mine. I hadn’t seen him this focussed since we’d had to find his lost season ticket an hour before a big football match.

  ‘Big place is it? Plenty of potential?’ He scanned my face. I revelled in being the object of his attention.

  His arm was getting really heavy on my neck and I could feel my spine curving under the pressure. I felt like a milk maid with a yoke across her shoulders. All I needed was two swinging buckets.

  ‘We could go and look at it if you like?’ I took a sip of wine. I’d hardly touched it and it tasted sour and too warm.

  ‘Great idea.’ He drained his pint and pulled me up from the bench.

  ‘Now? Oh. OK.’

  I filled my cheeks with wine as Marc grabbed my hand and pulled me across the patio. Help! I couldn’t swallow and trot at the same time in these shoes. I had a face like a pufferfish as I passed the elegant mother. She smiled. I smiled back and squirted a jet of warm wine at her child’s pushchair. I shot her a look of panicky apology but she was too busy mopping up to notice, a look of disgust on her face.

  I was right; we were only ten minutes from Woodby. But it was half an hour before we pulled into Lilac Lane.

  Marc hadn’t spoken to me for the last twenty minutes. When I tried to hold the hand that was on the gear stick, he had moved it to tweak the volume on the stereo. I was sensing an atmosphere. In my defence, I hadn’t been planning on coming to Woodby, or else I’d have brought a map with me. And the keys.

  ‘This is it,’ I said brightly, pointing to the driveway of number eight.

  I realised with a pang of guilt that I hadn’t been here since showing the architect round back in March. But strictly speaking, it wasn’t my property yet and I shouldn’t even be here.

  The little bungalow looked a lot more inviting now it was summer, more cheerful somehow. The bay windows seemed less prison-like, the grass was neat and the side border was brimming with purple and white flowers. Even the thorny branches looked friendlier now that they were green and leafy. Mr Whelan must have employed a gardener.

  This would be my garden next summer. I couldn’t tell a dandelion from a dahlia. How much would a gardener cost, I wondered.

  Marc looked a lot more cheerful too now we were finally here. He stood in the front garden, hands on hips, shaking his head. He turned in a slow circle until he was facing me.

  ‘Wow. Princess! I like it.’

  A chorus of angels gathered round my head singing ‘Hallelujah’. I was his princess again!

  I took his hand and pulled him towards the side gate. ‘Come on, I’ll show you the back.’

  We sat on the mossy bench in the back garden, arms wrapped round each other, and chatted. He shook his head and tutted when I told him that my father had delayed everything by not arriving until next month.

  ‘He sounds like a right character.’

  ‘I’m dreading it, to be honest,’ I admitted. I hardly dared think about it. August was only a couple of weeks away and I felt sick with fear.

  ‘Would you like me to be there?’ asked Marc. ‘If he gives you a hard time or anything, I’ll give him a pasting!’

  Out of all comments from my friends and mother, that was the nicest, most supportive thing I had heard in months. I felt tears prick at my eyes. It was a comforting thought. On the other hand, turning up with a boyfriend with fists like breeze blocks might not be the wisest move.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, diplomatically, ‘but this is something I need to do alone.’

  Marc nodded solemnly and sighed. ‘You are lucky, you know. What I wouldn’t give for a leg up like this. You’re sitting on a gold mine here!’

  ‘Oh no, I don’t think so.’ I laughed, amused by the look of disbelief on his face. ‘All I want is a little house, nothing fancy.’

  A shadow passed across his face.

  I bit my lip. That had come out all wrong. It sounded really selfish. Like the house was just for me, when really I’d be delighted to share it with someone. Poor baby, still living at home with his mum, still trying to scrape enough money together to start a business. My heart went out to him. It didn’t seem fair that he couldn’t chase his dream like I was chasing mine.

  I thought of the meeting I’d had with Maxine, the financial superwoman. What would she do in my situation? I was sure she wouldn’t sit back and allow her boyfriend to suffer when she had money in the bank. She would offer to help, wouldn’t she, perhaps for a stake in the business?

  The combined voices of Jess and Emma warned me to stop and think, but I batted them away and took a deep breath.

  ‘I could loan you the money to start your car business.’

  His eyes lit up and he beamed. He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me with such force that I felt like I was going to lose my tonsils.

  ‘Lovely offer,’ he said a few minutes later when we both came up for air. ‘But I was wrong to have asked for your help before. I want to do this by myself. It’s a matter of honour, you know?’

  I nodded, my heart swelling with pride for him. I nestled against his chest. Oh, happy days! He wanted me, not my money. Emma was wrong. He wanted me!

  ‘Would you like to stay over tonight?’ I asked shyly.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ hissed Emma several hours later when she found me in the kitchen in the early hours of the morning.

  I was tucking into a plate of thickly buttered toast. Cutting down on the carbs would have to wait another day. I was ravenous.

  ‘It just happened… I needed an ego boost,’ I explained, refusing to meet her eye.

  ‘A wolf whistle from a builder is an ego boost. A new bloody haircut is an ego boost. Not a shag with the world’s most uneligible bachelor. Is he still here now?’

  ‘Yes.’ I jutted my chin up at her. Why did she always have to be so negative?

  She gulped at a glass of water, glaring at me over the rim.

  ‘It’s early days, but I think we’re back together.’

  ‘You think?’

  She had never liked Marc, never trusted him, and had always been quick to point out his failings. It suddenly occurred to me why that was: she was jealous. What sort of friend did that make her?

  ‘Yes. He makes me happy, he makes me feel special, and let’s face it, I haven’t had a lot of support from you recently.’

  Emma reeled back from the strength of my attack, shook her head in disgust and stomped back to bed.

  ‘And it’s ineligible,’ I muttered to the empty room.

  twenty-one

  It was my birthday. I had dark shadows under my eyes from lack of sleep, a face full of spots and I hadn’t been able to stray too far from the loo for the past two hours.

  The reason for this lapse in poise and inner calm? Not because I was now closer to thirty-five than thirty. But because somewhere in this fair city, Terry Stone was preparing to meet his estranged child. Right now, my father was probably staring out of the window of a chintzy B & B, waiting for his full English to arrive and pondering what on earth he was letting himself in for.

  ‘Next week,’ Mr Whelan had announced portentously. ‘After the bank holiday. If that suits?’

  Typical. I could have gone to Spain to see Mum as usual and been back in time to meet him and she would have been none the wiser. As it was, she had been emailing me every few days, badgering me to sort my flights out.

  Putting the Costa del Sol out of my mind for the moment, I sorted out a pair of navy shoes from the bottom of my wardrobe and chose the least tatty b
ag to match.

  I should have bought a bag as well as a new outfit. I’d treated myself to a white and navy dress with matching jacket. Very smart. Sort of thing you could wear to a wedding. Meeting my father felt like a very formal occasion. Like a reverse wedding, with my father waiting for me after a thirty-three-year walk down the aisle.

  The shift-style dress was very flattering. It would skim over my curves. Not like the summery one I’d worn to go out with Marc. I didn’t want Terry to get the wrong idea and think he was about to become a granddad.

  I stuck my hand gingerly into the recesses of my handbag to give it a clearout, digging out old receipts and paperclips, being careful not to damage my nails. I’d just had a French manicure and the white tips were squared off like little spades.

  At some point you’ll run out of jobs, Sophie.

  I know, I know.

  And then you’ll have to think about what you’re going to say to your father.

  Yes, I know, but… oh, is that the time? I’m late for the hairdresser’s.

  ‘Just the ends please, Roberto.’ I pinched my thumb and forefinger together, leaving a tiny gap, to reinforce my futile request.

  Roberto nodded, trawled a wide-toothed comb through my wet hair, scooped up a section from the back and snipped off a good four centimetres. It was a game he liked to play with his clients, I reckoned. How much can I cut off before they cry?

  ‘Straight?’ he asked.

  I nodded.

  ‘That makes one of us!’ he tittered. I rolled my eyes. He always said that too.

  I loved having my hair straightened professionally. I was like the model in the Frizzease commercial, only I was stuck at the ‘before’ stage for three hundred and fifty days a year. My bi-monthly appointment with Roberto afforded me a brief entrée into the ‘after’ world of sleek, smooth and shiny.

  An hour later I stepped out into the drizzle. Clever me for bringing an umbrella! I never left home without it on my birthday.

  ‘You're so lucky having a birthday in the summer – barbeques, parties in the garden…’ my friends always said to me.

  Little known fact: August the twenty-ninth was unofficially the first day of autumn. The sky was invariably grey. Rainclouds would force my birthday barbeques to be manned by some poor frozen soul in a fleece clutching an umbrella, and a chill wind always blew the stack of paper napkins across the wet grass.

  I knew this yet still I wore a thin dress and bare legs. Shivering with cold and nerves, I made my way across the city on two buses to Mr Whelan’s office.

  I hammered on the solicitor’s door, desperate to be inside in the warm and rescue my hair before it returned to its natural texture of bird’s nest.

  After confirming the date – my stomach had churned throughout our conversation and incidentally every moment since – Mr Whelan had asked me where I would like to meet my father.

  Tricky one. Definitely not our flat. I didn’t want him to think I still lived like a student. Even if it was true.

  Not a restaurant. I might need to make a sudden and dramatic exit. I didn’t want my getaway to be impeded by asking for the bill and counting out change for a tip.

  In a park? A bit MI5: spies swapping information in manila envelopes while a long lens poked out of the foliage recording the double-crosser with a whirr of the shutter.

  Mr Whelan had cleared his throat. ‘Might I suggest our meeting room?’

  ‘Yes,’ I had sighed. ‘That would be perfect.’

  I was on time but even so, my father had beaten me to it. I followed the smiley receptionist as she swished her way down the corridor, leading me to the room or doom, I thought, mournfully.

  Cue violins, cue soft lighting, cue two figures flinging themselves into each other’s arms. Their euphoria at being reunited cutting through the decades of their estrangement.

  She left me at the door. My mouth was dry and my throat had almost completely closed up. Just as well, it would help to keep the vomit in. I placed my hands on my hot face and concentrated on my breathing. Remnants of snipped hair tickled my cheeks and I brushed them away. Didn’t want him thinking I was some bearded-lady freak.

  Why didn’t I tell Mum the truth? She could have talked me out of this. Why didn’t I listen to Jess? Why the bobbins didn’t I bring Marc?

  I gripped the cold metal door handle, pushed the door open halfway and held my breath. Sitting at the table was a tall thin man, grey-haired, with bushy beard and an encouraging smile. Mr Whelan. I let my breath out in a high-pitched whistle and forced myself to enter the room.

  Bang smack opposite my trusty solicitor, invisible from my first view of the room, was Terry Stone.

  All of a sudden, my mind started whirring as if someone had put my brain on a fast spin cycle. I saw Mr Whelan stand up, make introductions, his hand outstretched, but all I could hear was whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, and then he left us to it.

  Just the two of us. United by name, divided by everything else.

  Terry was already on his feet. He stumbled towards me, tripping over two chairs in the process.

  From a distance he could be anyone: average height, average build, bit of a tummy. But as he approached me, his face told the real story. Green eyes flecked with brown, short lashes like mine. (So I had him to blame. Mum’s eyelashes were fair but enviably long.) His hairline was a carbon copy of mine, hair growing perpendicular to his forehead. His wavy hair was thick, brushed back off his face, as dark as mine although tinged with grey. I suspected that if he grew it long, it would be just as curly as mine too.

  I touched my own hair automatically, and was shocked to find it so smooth and flat. My visit to the salon felt like weeks ago.

  He was only inches away, staring at me. We both gave an embarrassed laugh, although the situation was anything but funny.

  Awkward. Do we shake hands? Hug? No, definitely not hug.

  I heard a noise escape from his throat. He was about to speak. I knew without doubt that his first words to me would remain in my memory bank forever.

  ‘You could be my daughter, I suppose.’

  What the chuff?

  My mouth dropped open. I gasped. I screwed my face up into an angry gurn. All the pent-up emotion came flying out in his direction, floodgates opened, no holds barred.

  ‘That’s it? That’s all you can say?’ I yelled.

  Fury gripped hold of me and I shoved him. Two hands to the chest. His face paled. He staggered back and landed skewwhiff on a chair, one hand clasped across his body.

  ‘Of course I’m your bloody daughter, you bastard! What do you think this is, a friggin’ identity parade?’

  He turned his head to the side and mumbled something under his breath.

  ‘What?’ I swivelled towards him, hands on hips. ‘What did you say? Spit it out!’

  ‘I said, you’re definitely your mother’s daughter, using language like that.’

  I blushed in spite of myself.

  This is only my second proper swear ever, I wanted to shout. I hate swearing. But I didn’t have time to make excuses for my behaviour, I was in full flow.

  ‘Who else’s am I going to be? Hardly likely to have any of your mannerisms, am I?’

  I scowled and folded my arms. I seemed to have regressed to my teenage self. Even down to the spots.

  ‘Happy birthday, by the way.’

  That shocked me. He knew. Well, of course he knew, but he remembered. Had he thought about me last year on my birthday? The year before that?

  ‘Ooh, thanks.’ I did a teenage-style sarcastic shimmy. ‘Does that cover the last thirty-two birthdays as well?’

  His eyebrows furrowed and met in the middle. That was what mine would look like without a daily tweeze.

  I was looming over him in his slumped position on the chair. My limbs felt all gangly and I wanted to escape his gaze. I chucked myself down onto the seat furthest from him.

  ‘Um, what do you do for a living?’ he asked. His voice was calm, mellow, affable even.
A sharp contrast with my frosty tone.

  Of all the questions! I shrugged, not bothering to impress him. ‘Advertising sales for The Herald.’

  ‘Enjoy it?’

  I growled with frustration. Small talk, small talk. What about big talk? There were so many things we should have been talking about. Like had he loved my mother? How could he have abandoned her? Abandoned me, a newborn baby?

  I took a sideways peek at him. He still had a hand to his chest and his face was a picture of misery. Like Robbie Williams when he found out about Gary’s OBE, I thought inappropriately.

  Why bother to see me now? Why return after all these years? There must be something in it for him, I realised with a jolt. Something more than simply indulging his aunt’s last wishes. I wondered if he got a payout from her estate too, on condition that he agreed to meet me. Or worse, what if he was pretending to be all ‘Henry the mild-mannered janitor’, when really he was planning to contest the will?

  ‘So where have you been all my life?’ Privately, I was very pleased with my line. If I hadn’t been so cross, I would have smiled.

  His mouth twitched, only for a second, until he noticed my glare.

  He sighed. ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Then shorten it. Tea?’

  Someone had left us a tray of tea, coffee and biscuits. I decided to be mother. No use waiting for him to display any parental inclinations.

  ‘Milky, two sugars please.’

  That was how I took mine. I felt ridiculously possessive of my tea preference all of a sudden. I poured myself a weak cup of coffee instead. It didn’t taste anywhere near as nice as the one Nick Cromwell had made me. I blinked furiously. What was I doing thinking of him at a time like this?

  We sipped our drinks in a weighty silence for a minute or so.

  Terry set his cup down and sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked as rough as I felt; he was tanned, but looked far from healthy. There was a yellow pallor to his skin and the bags under his eyes looked big enough to set sail in.

  He nodded. ‘OK. Split up with your mother, Royal Navy for ten years, met an American nurse, married her, left the army, moved to Nevada, had a son –’