The Perfect Retreat (29 page)

‘Really?’ asked Willow doubtfully.

‘Really. I think the main issue with Lucian is anxiety, as well as a significant development delay,’ said the psychologist.

‘Anxiety?’ asked Willow, her mind racing.

‘Yes, it’s obviously become an issue for him between the ages of two and five; that’s really when he should have had intervention. Children teasing him often makes it worse. How has he coped at school?’ asked the speech therapist.

‘He’s not at school,’ said Willow, looking down. ‘I was going to have him homeschooled.’

‘By you?’ asked the psychologist with interest. How on earth was a celebrity mother planning on homeschooling her child? she wondered.

Willow was silent and then told the truth. ‘By my nanny,’ she said, leaving out the part that her nanny, now ex-, was illiterate. There was no way she wanted to bring that up.

‘If homeschooling is something you want to do still, then I suggest you work with a therapist to ensure he is getting everything he needs. But I think he would do well in school with intensive work,’ said the psychologist, looking to the speech therapist for agreement. The speech therapist nodded.

‘I agree. Children are the best way to get other children talking. He’s only five, so you can hold him back this year. I suggest kindergarten, where he can have a carer. Start him as soon as you can. We can give you a list of names.’

Willow nodded.

The psychologist looked at her and leaned forward. ‘How is Lucian’s relationship with his father?’ she asked.

Willow put her head back, hoping the tears would go back into her tear ducts. She looked at the white ceiling. ‘He doesn’t have one,’ she said. ‘Kerr thinks he’s retarded. I have tried to tell him he’s just special and he’ll find his own way, but Kerr insists that he is stupid.’

‘Has he said this to Lucian?’ asked the psychologist.

‘Yes, many times,’ said Willow, her face reddening. ‘But I knew he wasn’t correct. Lucian definitely understands me. There is intelligence in his eyes, I know it,’ she said passionately.

The psychologist nodded. ‘He’s not stupid, you’re right; he’s a little delayed, but hopefully we can get him working and talking in a much better way for himself and for those around him.’

‘Why did you ask about his father?’ asked Willow suddenly. ‘Did he say something?’

The psychologist looked at the speech therapist and spoke quietly. ‘He seems to freeze when we mention his father. It was a noticeable reaction; enough to worry us. You said he spoke in Bristol, when you were there?’

‘Yes,’ said Willow. ‘I didn’t hear him but he said the name Merritt to a policeman when he was lost. That’s how they managed to get him back to us.’

‘And Merritt is the name of your nanny’s brother?’ asked the speech therapist, looking at her notes.

‘Yes, Merritt. He also waved at him, which I did see; he never seemed to react before to anyone, except maybe Poppy a little.’

‘These are very good signs. Is there any chance that he could spend some more time with Merritt? Maybe we could teach Merritt a few of the exercises to help him in his therapy?’

Willow shook her head. ‘No, I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ she said.

‘That’s a shame,’ said the psychologist, pulling out a picture from the folder. ‘I asked him to draw a picture, and this is what he did,’ she said, putting it in front of Willow on the table.

Willow was shocked; she didn’t even know he could draw.

She looked at the drawing. It was quite good for a five-year-old, she thought proudly as she assessed the picture, and then she saw what he had drawn. Middlemist, albeit crude, was still recognisable.

There was she, with Poppy in her red shoes, Jinty and Lucian with a small dog at his feet with only three stick legs. At the back was a stick drawing of a man, holding a spade.

‘When I asked if that was his father, he shook his head,’ said the speech therapist. ‘And then when I asked if it was Merritt, he smiled. He loves that man very much, it seems.’ And Willow picked up the drawing and held it to her chest, trying to breathe through the pain. So do I, Lucian; so do I, she thought.

Ivo settled into Middlemist House nicely. He was used to big houses with their draughts and peculiarities. While Merritt stayed outside in the gardens, Ivo explored and read the journals and the letters of Clementina and George.

‘She was quite a fiery one,’ said Ivo one rainy day to Merritt, who was absorbed in his seed catalogue.

‘Who?’ asked Merritt, looking up.

‘Your great-great-great-grandmother, Clementina,’ said Ivo. ‘When George left, she says she destroyed all his paintings in this letter.’

‘That must be why there are none around,’ said Merritt, returning to his catalogue. ‘It was the bane of my father’s existence, especially when the prices for George’s work went up,’ he said. ‘All that’s left is Clementina’s work, which I wouldn’t get more than a few hundred pounds for. It’s awful stuff,’ said Merritt, shaking his head.

‘I’d love to see it,’ said Ivo excitedly.

‘You’re welcome to it. Top of the stairs, open the small door and then keep going. Wonderful view though. The studio looks out over the entire county, almost.’

Ivo jumped up and took the stairs to the attic. Upwards he climbed, thankful he had stopped smoking since he met Kitty, as the ascent was hard work.

At the top of the stairs, he found the studio.

As predicted by Merritt, the paintings were hideous. Angry works of men being castrated, crucified and stoned by Roman women, being burnt at the stake and lost at sea; the themes of revenge went on, and Ivo reminded himself never to cross a Middlemist woman again. Holding one of the smaller pieces, he walked to the window and held it to the light.

Putting it down, he picked up another larger canvas and held this one up too. He went through each piece, and then taking a few he walked downstairs again, his face puzzled.

‘Don’t tell me you want to put them up on the walls, I couldn’t bear it,’ said Merritt when he saw the works in Ivo’s hands.

‘No, I think I’ve found something. Would you mind if I take these to a mate of mine in London who works at Christie’s? I promise I’ll return them,’ said Ivo.

‘Sure,’ said Merritt easily. ‘Take as many as you like. I hate to disappoint you but they’re not worth anything,’ he said, laughing at Ivo’s enthusiasm.

Ivo said nothing. Instead he asked to borrow Merritt’s car, which he agreed to. Merritt liked Ivo the more he spent time with him. He was funny, self-deprecating, wicked and clearly in love with Kitty. He knew little about him as he spoke in circles when he mentioned his family, except to mention he was a huge disappointment to his father. Merritt understood that, remembering his own father’s anger at his divorce from Eliza.

Ivo was well read and well bred, thought Merritt, but he didn’t wear it like a badge of honour. He genuinely liked learning new things and he was clever, Merritt noticed. He had a gift for languages; he spoke three apart from English: French, Italian and a smattering of Russian.

‘It’s how I used to order my hookers,’ he explained to Merritt when he asked why he learned Russian.

‘What about Italian?’ asked Merritt, shocked.

‘I use it for the ladies only; and I like to order in French just to piss the waiters off in Paris,’ he said, and Merritt laughed. There was so much about Ivo he didn’t know, but he figured it was none of his business. At least not while he was the dumped boyfriend of his sister.

Ivo piled up the car with as many paintings as he could fit into the back seat and the boot, and he drove off towards London with a toot of Merritt’s car’s horn.

Dialling his phone, he pressed it up to his ear as he drove.

‘Henry? Ivo. No I don’t want to stay, relax mate. Listen, you sitting down? I think I’ve found a ghost. I’ve found the ghost of George Middlemist.’

Willow sat with her lawyer in the mediation rooms. Kerr’s lawyer sat opposite.

‘I’m not prepared to wait any longer,’ the mediator said. ‘Since Kerr Bannerman has missed this second appointment, I will give temporary custody to the children’s mother, Willow Carruthers. If your client deems it fit to grace us with his presence and argue for his existence in the children’s lives, then please do keep us informed,’ said the mediator, standing up. A formidable woman. Willow felt afraid for Kerr’s sake, if he did ever front up.

Kerr’s lawyer sat down wearily in the chair after the mediator had left. ‘Do you know where he is?’ she asked Willow.

‘No idea,’ she said honestly. Kerr’s disappearance was not unusual, and she knew he was fine. He was too arrogant not to be. Even though the banks were pursuing him and his record label kept calling Willow for his whereabouts, he refused to show his face. She wondered where he was. He clearly didn’t need the money from her now, she thought, as her lawyer turned to speak to her.

‘So you’re a single mother in the eyes of the law now.’ She smiled at her client.

‘I always have been, in my own eyes,’ she said, and this time it was really true. She was up early every morning now, caring for her children, tending to the scrapes and the
struggles
; but mostly she was getting to know them.

She knew now that Poppy liked boiled eggs but not
scrambled
and that she wanted to be a puppy doctor when she was grown up; she knew her favourite story was
Madeline and the Bad Hat
, because she read it to her every night before bed.

She knew Jinty rubbed her dummies on her face when
she was tired, and liked both her teddies in her cot before
she would sleep. She liked the sound of the birds in the courtyard, and she ate the dog’s dried food at least twice before Willow realised.

But the most special pleasure she had was in watching Lucian emerge from his silent, anxious world.

Willow was diligent with the exercises, and kindergarten had helped. His sounds were coming and his confidence was growing. She didn’t know whether to scold him or praise him when he snatched the crayons off Poppy one morning, causing Poppy to burst into tears with shock at her brother standing up for himself.

Willow had known that Kerr wouldn’t show up to
mediation
. Another month had passed since the first scheduled visit and Kerr had obviously found a source of wealth more valuable than Willow’s paltry stream.

At least, it was paltry compared to what she had once spent; but now she saved. She had a savings account, and it made her laugh to see the statement on screen when she logged in on her phone. She listened when her accountant rang her about her deal for Devon and Squires, and she made decisions that gave her peace of mind.

‘I have to go,’ she said to the lawyer. ‘I have a party to go to.’

The lawyer raised her eyebrows. ‘It’s work,’ protested Willow, and the woman laughed.

It is work, she thought as she walked into Richard’s office that evening. Work, and perhaps a little play. No woman is an island, after all.

‘You look lovely,’ said Richard, as Willow walked into the room. She smiled; she knew he was right. She did look wonderful, in her new Oscar de la Renta coral silk cocktail dress. Strapless with a trail of gold embroidery over the skirt, it showed off her flawless skin and tiny waist. Her hair was straight and long and her makeup, courtesy of the makeup artist that Kelly from Blessings had recommended, was exquisite. It was the best she had felt in a long time, and she reminded herself to write Oscar a note to thank him for lending her the dress for the evening.

Richard stood up from the sofa and placed a string of diamonds around her neck, to match the diamond and coral drop earrings she was wearing.

The first meeting with Richard from Devon and Squires had gone well; very well, in fact, and Willow wondered if she would sleep with him. Not yet. She reminded herself of the danger of falling into bed with a man too quickly, and then she pushed Merritt from her mind.

Richard’s wealth was comfortable, not excessive. It was well rooted in tradition, and the crests of three European Royals on his jewellery boxes gave him class. His family had an apartment in Paris, an apartment in New York and a villa in Anguilla, which Willow liked saying in her head as she ran around St James’s Park.

In some ways, it was nice to be back in the city and in the social circuit. Richard had wined her and dined her in London. She had been careful to keep him away fr
om the h
ouse and from the children. She met him at his office mostly; that way it still felt like business and not romance. Richard, though, had other ideas, and she didn’t mind being wooed. Kerr had been hopeless at wooing, she remembered. She had been bewitched by his rock star lifestyle and his coolness. Now he seemed a bit tryhard and desperate.

Merritt? Well, he was the salt of the earth. The only wooing he did was to coax his flowers into bloom.

Richard was the opposite: flowers, candy, gifts, notes, phone calls. If she wasn’t such a bitter bitch she might have even enjoyed it, she thought.

What she did enjoy was the flights to Paris on his private plane. The suite all to herself at the Crillon for the launch of the campaign starring her. The photo shoot with yards of Dior lace and perfect hair. Yes, it was good to be back, she thought, and the work offers were rolling in.

An independent film with superstar Jack Reynolds was on the table, as was an action franchise playing the love interest. It wasn’t an interesting role, but it offered a percentage of the backend, which would give Willow the financial security she desired.

And so would Richard, she thought, as she felt the diamonds cold against her skin. It was time to be practical after all. Could she really have lived in a ramshackle Gothic house in the middle of nowhere?

In the back of Richard’s Mercedes, as they were driven to the British Fashion Council’s party for Fashion Week, she tried to imagine how Merritt would fare at an event like this. Why did he keep popping back into her mind? she wondered. She had enough going on with Janis and Alan staying at the house; it was chaotic.