A Wild Affair (31 page)

I started to walk around, trying to clear my head. All of these things would have perfectly rational explanations. Slips of tongues, genuine mistakes. But as I walked around, I didn't feel better; I felt worse as more and more questions flooded into my head. Like Hugh's new car. Where did he get the money from for a car like that? If it was a payoff, why was the car already sitting outside his office when he'd only just gotten the money?

Chester reappeared by my side. “Jess, this is going to be spectacular. It's everything you said it would be and more. And the guest list looks second to none.”

“Bea said she'd come back specially,” Caroline said, appearing at my side, a huge smile on her face. “And everyone else has RSVP'd, too.”

“In no time at all.” Chester grinned. “Amazing.”

“Giles is the one who's amazing,” I said warmly, pulling him into the group. “He is the best event planner in the whole wide world.”

“Oh, stop!” he protested, then grinned. “No, don't stop. Carry on. Talk me up. I can't get enough!”

“You're fabulous,” I assured him as Chester's phone started to ring. He flipped it open and strode away, talking loudly into it.

“You know Hugh Barter's got a new car,” I said to Caroline, shaking my head in disbelief. “Bloody Mercedes, too.”

“Hugh Barter?” Giles asked curiously.

“The one I thought I'd … the bastard who leaked the … You know,” I shrugged.

“That was Hugh
Barter?”
Giles asked incredulously. “Blond-hair-blue-eyes Hugh Barter? Wears-Prada-suits Hugh Barter?”

“I guess.” I shrugged uncertainly. I hadn't realized Hugh was quite so well known.

“But you said you slept with him.”

“No,” I said patiently. “I thought I had. But I hadn't really. He slept with my mother.”

“He what?” Giles wrinkled his nose.

“I know.” I sighed. “She leaked the information, too.”

“But that's impossible,” Giles said, still looking utterly confused.

“No, Chester told her, she told Hugh …”

“Not that,” Giles said. “Hugh Barter is gay.”

“Gay?” I stared at him. “No he isn't.”

“Yes, he is,” Giles said, folding his arms.

“You think everyone's gay,” I said sternly. “Well, anyone who's vaguely good-looking, anyway …”

“No,” Giles said firmly. “Hugh Barter is gay. The one I know, anyway. Gay as gay can be.”

“And you know this because …”

Giles sighed and took out his phone. “This your Hugh Barter?” he asked, flashing up a photograph. I stared at it.

“But he's …”

“Naked,” Caroline said, grabbing the phone. “So this is Hugh Barter! And how exactly did you get this, Giles?”

“A friend sent it to me. A gay friend,” Giles said triumphantly. “A gay friend who slept with him.” He frowned briefly. “Beat me to it, actually,” he said, then shrugged. “And now I'm glad he did. The point is, he's gay. Gay, gay, gay.”

Caroline handed the phone to me. “He does look kind of gay,” she said. “I mean, look at his six-pack.”

“Bi?” I asked, baffled.

“Gay,” Giles said, taking the phone back. “Trust me, ladies.”

“So then …” I frowned, my mind racing. “No, but that would mean …”

“Why didn't you tell me his full name before,” Giles was asking, shaking his head. “I could have cleared this all up weeks ago. I can't believe it's the same …”

“Jess? Where are you going?” I heard Caroline call after me as I sped out of the hotel, but I didn't answer. I wasn't even sure where I was going myself; I just knew I had to find my mother, and I had to find her right away.

I GOT TO MY MOTHER'S apartment in no time at all and immediately pressed the buzzer. There was no answer. Urgently, I pressed it again, then fell back against the wall in frustration. She wasn't answering her phone, she wasn't in her apartment—what the hell was she doing? Where was she?

“You all right, dear?” I looked up to see a man looking at me curiously. He looked to be in his seventies, wearing a tweed jacket.

I nodded. “I'm fine,” I said, hanging my head.

“You don't look fine,” he pointed out. “Locked out, are you? You know there's a locksmith lives around the corner. Might be able to help you.”

I bit my lip. “The trouble is, I don't actually live here. I mean, not officially My mother lives here. I was meant to be staying with her tonight. She promised she'd be in.”

“She did?”

I nodded, trying to look like someone who'd been locked out of her mother's apartment. Which was what I was, I realized, pretty much, give or take a few supposed promises.

“Esther Short,” I said. “She's my mother. Number 23.”

“Oh, Esther!” The man's face lit up. “Oh, lovely Esther. What a
lady. And you're the daughter, are you? She talked about you a lot.”

“She did?” I smiled. Then frowned. “What do you mean
talked?”

“Well, she's gone away,” the man said. “Can't think why she didn't tell you.”

“Away?” I felt myself going white. “Where?”

“Where …” The man scratched his chin. “Hmmm. She did tell me. I was helping her with her bags, just a couple of hours ago. And she said she was going to … now let me see …”

“Yes?” I urged him.

“Spain. Yes, Spain, that's right.”

“Spain?” My face crumpled in disappointment. “She's really gone to Spain?”

“Or America,” the man said. “One or the other.”

“Spain or America.” I sighed. “Well, thanks.”

“You're welcome. So, you still want to go in? I'm sure I can twist the concierge's arm if you want. She's got the apartment for another week, after all.”

I started to shake my head, then changed my mind. If I'd lost my mother again, I at least wanted to see where she had lived. How she had lived. “Yes please,” I said. “Thank you.”

The man, who turned out to be called Henry Darlington, charmed the concierge into letting me into my mother's apartment with no trouble at all. After thanking him (and the concierge) profusely, I slipped in and closed the door behind me.

The place was small, but functional—the sort of place that businessmen stay in when they want something a bit more personal than a hotel. One bedroom, a small sitting room with kitchenette, a compact bathroom. All of it had been cleared out—the rooms were empty, impersonal, waiting for their next incumbent, their next story. I don't know what I'd hoped for—something, a clue to her whereabouts, a message of some sort—but whatever it
was, it wasn't there. There was nothing in the place about my mother at all, except perhaps for a faint, lingering perfume—and even that could have been imagined.

I sat down on one of the upholstered chairs in the living area and let my head fall into my hands. She'd gone.

Then I got annoyed. She'd just gone? Just like that? Without saying goodbye, without letting me know where she was going? What was she thinking? How dare she? She might have been able to do that when I was little, when I wasn't big enough to argue, but not now.

Irritated, I stood up and started to pace around the room. Spain or America. So she was flying. But where from? If it was the United States, that ruled out any of the small airports. But if it was Spain … She could be anywhere. North, south, east, west; there were airports in all directions. I could call the airlines but they wouldn't tell me anything. It was hopeless. It was infuriating.

And then I saw something. Just a piece of paper crumpled in the garbage bin, but it was more than I'd seen anywhere else in the apartment. Dashing over, I took it out and opened it carefully. And then I punched the air. It still didn't tell me her eventual destination, but it did confirm the purchase of one ticket on the Heathrow Express. Which meant she would be at Paddington Station. I looked at my watch—her train left in twenty minutes.

Jumping up, I ran from the apartment, taking the stairs two at a time and diving out of the front door into a passing cab.

“Paddington,” I gasped. “As quickly as you can.”

“Late for a train, are you?” the cabbie asked jovially, turning around to wink at me.

“Something like that,” I smiled tightly. “If you wouldn't mind, you know, putting your foot down a bit.”

“Less haste, more speed,” the cabbie said sagely. “You've heard the story about the hare and the tortoise, I suppose?”

“Please,” I begged. “I really need to see my mum. She's going to be on a train in about ten minutes and …”

“And you want to see her off?” the cabbie asked. “Well, that's nice. In that case, let's get you there a bit quicker, shall we?”

I nodded gratefully; as I did so the car lurched forward then veered to the left and down a side road.

“You're … sure you know where you're going?” I asked tentatively.

“Just you wait and see.” The cabbie's eyes twinkled. “So which platform's she on then?”

I looked at the piece of paper. “Um, I don't know. It doesn't say. It's the Heathrow Express.”

“Heathrow Express? Oh, that's easy.”

The cab sped down another road then turned left again through what looked like the entrance to a car park. “Are we … are we nearly there?”

“Nearly?” the cabbie asked. “Better than that. We are here.”

The car screeched to a halt; sure enough we were in Paddington Station itself, alongside the platform for the Heathrow Express. Throwing money at the driver and shouting my thanks, I jumped out of the cab and raced to the platform, running along the train, peering into each carriage as I went. I had to find her. She had to be there. She just had to be.

And then, suddenly, I saw her. I didn't recognize her at first—her trademark chignon had been replaced by a ponytail that made her look younger somehow, but also more vulnerable. She was sitting on her own, her case at her side, reading a book.

“Mum?”

She didn't hear me. Clearing my throat, I tried again.

“Mum?”

This time she turned around, then her mouth fell open. “Jessica? Jessica, what on earth are you doing here?”

I got onto the train. “Mum, where are you going?”

She looked down furtively. “Jessica, I'm going away. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but with things as they are I think it's for the best.”

I nodded and sat down opposite her. “About those things,” I said.

“Jessica,” my mother said firmly. “Jessica, you have more important things to worry about than this. Like Max. Go home to him.”

“Why won't you tell me where you're going?”

“I will,” she said. “When I get there, I'll let you know. You can come and visit. We can … spend some time together.”

I nodded again, slowly this time. “You're running away again.”

“Jessica, don't do this. Not now. I don't want to leave you, I really don't, but …”

“But you have to, don't you?” I asked, looking at her intently. “Mum, what happened to the money I gave you?”

Her face blanched slightly. “This is about the money?”

“No. It's not about the money. I just want to know where it is.”

“It's … well I don't have it anymore I'm afraid. You said I could … I mean …” She was looking at me anxiously. “I will pay you back, Jess. You and Max, for your huge generosity. I do appreciate it, so much …”

Her lips were quivering slightly; I took her hand. “Mum, tell me what you did with it, that's all I want.”

“I used it. Like I said I would,” she said, evading my eyes. “I paid off my debts.”

“And yet you're still running.”

“Jessica, you need to get off the train. It's about to leave and you don't have a ticket.”

“So I'll buy one on board,” I said. “Now answer the question.”

“Question?” Mum's voice faltered slightly.

“The money. You didn't pay off your debts, did you?”

“I … I … Yes. I mean, of course. I …” She trailed off, the hint of tears appearing in the corners of her eyes.

I sat back heavily. “You threw away your only chance of happiness for me,” I said quietly. “You could have paid off your debts, married Chester, lived happily ever after.”

“I don't know what you mean,” Mum said. “I didn't leave Chester; he left me.”

“He was hurt. You hurt him. You said you slept with Hugh. Jesus, you even paid him to corroborate it. I mean, that's where he got all his money from, isn't it? I got that right, didn't I?”

My mother's eyes widened. “What?” she asked, then cleared her throat. “I mean, I'm sorry?”

“Please, Mum, enough of the act. I know. I know what you did. You took the blame. You must have read my letter or something, I don't know. And I have no idea how you tracked down Hugh. But I'm right, aren't I? You never slept with him. He had no idea you have a scar on your stomach, and you told Chester he lives in Kensington when he lives in Kennington.”

My mother didn't say anything; she just watched as the doors to the train slowly closed and it pulled out of the platform.

“And he's gay,” I said.

“Gay?” My mother's eyes widened.

“Totally.”

“Ah,” she said. “Ah, I see.”

“Why did you do it?” I persisted. “I don't understand.”

“Don't you?” She smiled, her eyes glistening. “Imagine what it must be like to walk around knowing that you have let your daughter down. That what you've done is unforgivable, that you deserve nothing but her hate or, worse, ambivalence. Then imagine that you get a chance to redeem yourself, just a little bit, a chance to erase some of the hurt. Wouldn't you take it, Jessica? Wouldn't you jump at the chance?”