Folly's Child Read online

  ‘Well!’ she said, setting down her mug and wondering if he would be able to see she was trembling. This is a surprise!’

  ‘I know. I should have let you know I was coming, I suppose, but I was afraid you might say you didn’t want to see me.’

  ‘Now why should I do that?’

  ‘Well, it has been rather a long time … How have you been, Theresa?’ He was the only one, apart from her mother, who called her Theresa rather than Terri. She had always rather liked it, now it made her heart miss a beat.

  ‘Surviving – just. And you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Now he was here he scarcely knew what to say. ‘I wondered if I might buy you lunch – or have you already eaten?’ She laughed ruefully.

  ‘I don’t eat at midday. I can’t afford to. I’ve just had a coffee.’

  ‘Then how about it?’

  ‘Now wait a minute,’ she said. Her heart might be beating a little too fast, there might be a bubble of excitement sending shivers and quivers to every nerve ending, but she was not about to be made a fool of again. ‘ You walked out on me, Mark, without a word of explanation and no goodbye. What makes you think I’d have lunch with you now just because you see fit to breeze up those stairs and ask me?’

  His face fell.

  ‘I know it must have seemed to you I behaved very badly,’ he said apologetically, ‘but I did have a very good reason.’

  ‘Such as?’

  He hesitated. This would have been difficult enough if he had been in full control of his emotions. As it was, looking at her and wanting to kiss her, it was impossible.

  ‘Theresa, if I hurt you I’m truly sorry. You must believe it was the last thing I wanted to do. In fact I left when I did to try to avoid you being hurt more.’

  ‘Don’t they all say that?’ she enquired archly. ‘I did it for your own good? I loved you, Mark, and you buzzed off – just like that.’ She tried to snap her fingers together, but cold as they always were, and trembling as they were now, she couldn’t quite manage it.

  He looked at her warily. ‘ Loved,’ she had said – past tense. Did it mean she no longer loved him?

  ‘Is there someone else?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘ but if there was it would be none of your business.’ He winced. There was going to be no easy way to do this. ‘Theresa, please have lunch with me. I have to talk to you.’ Her mouth set in a stubborn line.

  ‘If you want to talk to me, talk here. Then when I’ve heard what you have to say I’ll decide if I want to have lunch with you.’ A corner of his mouth lifted in a shadow of his old carefree grin.

  ‘It doesn’t seem I have much choice.’

  ‘You don’t, Buster, you don’t.’

  ‘The trouble is I don’t know where the hell to start.’

  ‘At the beginning?’

  ‘I’m not certain where that is. And I’m sure as hell I don’t know the end. I only know what I hope it will be.’

  His eyes met and held hers for a moment before she tore them away.

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Are you sure we won’t be interrupted?’

  ‘No, I can’t even promise that. But for the moment, Mark, you have my undivided attention.’

  ‘So,’ he said when he had finished. ‘ Now you know.’

  She was sitting, head bent, turning a pencil over and over between those mittened fingers. She had remained silent while he talked, stunned into silence by the revelations. Now she looked up at him and her eyes were moist.

  ‘My God,’ she said. ‘Are you sure about all this?’

  ‘As sure as I can be. Hugo Varna was your father.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘He died last week. Didn’t you read about it in the papers?’

  She shook her head. She had been too busy to so much as glance at a paper or catch a news bulletin all week.

  ‘He died of a heart attack, possibly brought on by all this, though no one can say that for sure. He certainly worked very hard, pushing himself to the limits.’ He paused. ‘I’d have liked to have been able to come over and tell you all this in time for you to come to the funeral – if you wanted to, that is. But my mother has been in a terrible state. I didn’t feel I could leave her.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘She blames herself, of course. And so did I at first but I am beginning to come to terms with it and understand why she did … what she did.’

  Theresa nodded.

  ‘Poor Sally. She must have been through hell.’

  ‘Yes.’ Love for Theresa warmed him; after all this she could still find it in her to feel compassion for Sally.

  ‘I wish you could have been there,’ he said. ‘ You were, after all, his daughter.’

  She stared down at her hands again.

  ‘Yes. It explains so much. Where my talent comes from for one thing. It just goes to show – heredity is important. I never saw him, never even knew, and yet… I never wanted to do anything but design fashion. But my mother … oh God’, she shivered. ‘My poor mother! I only hope I haven’t inherited her traits.’

  ‘You are not to worry about that,’ Mark said swiftly. ‘I’m sure it was a combination of circumstances that sent her on the path to … what she became. And Harriet is fine, you know. She’s your sister, full blood, and you couldn’t wish to meet anyone saner than Harriet.’

  ‘Harriet Varna,’ she said wonderingly. ‘I’ve heard of her, you know. She’s a photographer, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. A very good one. And she can’t wait to meet you.’

  ‘Oh …’ Theresa bit her lip, afraid suddenly. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready for any of this, Mark.’

  ‘I hope you are,’ he said, ‘ because I have a suggestion to make, Theresa. You are a very talented designer and with Hugo dead that is exactly what the House of Varna needs – new blood. Especially his blood. Come to the States. Work for Varna.’

  ‘What?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Mark – I couldn’t! I’m just a novice. Besides, they wouldn’t want me.’

  ‘They do want you.’

  ‘I couldn’t!’ she repeated, appalled.

  ‘Theresa, I’ve seen your work and I know – it’s Hugo all over again. A new Hugo, of course, young and fresh, but with that indefinable something that makes clothes work. Oh, it would have to be taken steadily, of course. You’d be part of a team to begin with and Laddie would help you make the adjustment. Laddie is Hugo’s assistant – he’s been with him for years and years.’

  ‘So why can’t he take over?’

  ‘Laddie is not an original designer and never will be. He lacks the spark of new ideas. But technically he is as sound as a bell. He would work with you, guide you, nurse you along.’

  ‘How do you know he would be prepared to do that?’

  ‘We have talked to him about it. Oh, it’s quite all right. Laddie is totally loyal. He won’t breathe a word about who you really are unless or until we authorise such a move.’

  She laughed, a shrill, tight sound.

  ‘It sounds as though you have everything worked out.’

  ‘We have talked it through, yes. But of course in the final analysis it is down to you, Theresa. Maybe you want your own label. Of course, if you come to Varna you’d have recognition in time, but if you are already building up your name here and doing well, we shall understand. I know Hugo would – and he would approve.’

  For a long moment Theresa was silent, twisting the pencil back and forth between her fingers. Then she raised her eyes to his.

  ‘The truth is I’m not doing very well. It’s all gone wrong. I don’t even have confidence in myself any more. God knows, I’d be crazy to turn down an opportunity like this. But I’m honestly not sure I could do it. Six months ago – less than that – I was full of confidence. But now … I’m scared I’m just a big fraud and I’ll mess everything up.’

  ‘Theresa!’ He reached for her hand, touching her for the first time since he had walked through the door. ‘I don’t like to hea
r you talk like that. But it won’t last – it’s a temporary loss of faith in yourself, that’s all and it happens to everyone from time to time. You could do it, I know you could. You owe it to yourself to take your courage in both hands and give it a try.’

  She sat silent for a moment. This was more than a wonderful opportunity – it was the answer to a prayer. No more worries about survival in the fashion jungle, no more fears that her mother would lose her home, no more Fergal Hillyard. It was the chance of a lifetime – if only she dared to take it.

  ‘Well?’ Mark pressed her. ‘What do you say?’

  She smiled, a little wanly. ‘It looks as if you’ve talked me into it,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t suppose I have anything to lose.’

  ‘Nothing to lose – and everything to gain.’

  ‘And us?’ she said. It was spoken as a whisper, the most important question of all. ‘What about us?’

  ‘We can start all over again, if you are prepared to do that.

  ‘Oh Mark,’ she said. ‘You know I am.’

  He pulled her into his arms. It was quite a long time before he spoke again.

  ‘I suppose it’s a little late now for lunch,’ he said. ‘ So how about an early supper? With champagne? I think, my love, that we have something to celebrate.’

  She raised her face from the leather of his jacket. It was all too much, she had scarcely taken it in yet, but she knew she was happier already than she had ever been before.

  ‘Oh yes, Mark,’ she said. ‘I do believe we have!’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Sally Varna replaced the telephone and turned to Harriet.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘ So Paula’s daughter is coming to work in New York.’

  Her voice was taut, brittle, her face a beautiful mask. In the past Harriet had sometimes wondered what lay behind it when Sally wore that particular expression – now she knew. A lifetime of guilt, perhaps of regrets. It was a frightening thought.

  ‘She accepted the offer then,’ Harriet said. ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘Yes.’ If Sally was nervous of meeting the girl she had had adopted as a baby she did not say so, but then the time for confidences had come and gone. Her vulnerability was hidden once more, as was her grief, behind that cool manner that she had cultivated over the years. But in a way Harriet could understand that. Everyone needs a facade, she thought. Perhaps Sally needs it more than most.

  It had been a nightmarish week. Harriet could still scarcely believe her father was dead. In spite of the fact that she had been there to see his coffin lowered into the ground and had tossed a single red rose down to lie like an exotic butterfly on the shining brass plate that bore his name, it still seemed unreal somehow. When the end had come she had been curiously unprepared and the suddenness of it had numbed her senses so that she had to repeat it over and over to herself before she could even begin to take it in. Dead, that powerful personality, dead, all that talent and that capacity for loving. Her heart ached with sorrow, yet at the same time she felt almost glad that he had been spared the trauma of learning the truth. There would have been no way they could keep it from him; now they would not need to.

  ‘When is Theresa coming?’ she asked.

  ‘Mark is arranging to bring her over next week.’ Sally hesitated, twisting the rings on her fingers. ‘I think he is in love with her, Harriet.’

  ‘Yes,’ Harriet said. ‘I think he is.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s right,’ Sally said vaguely. ‘After all she is his cousin …’

  ‘But not his sister. Poor Mark, what he must have gone through!’ For an instant she saw the flash of pain on Sally’s face, then it was gone again.

  ‘I suppose the only thing that matters is that he should be happy. That is all I have ever wanted for any of you.’

  Harriet reached out and squeezed her arm.

  ‘I know, Sally – and so does Mark. I don’t agree with what you did but I think I understand, and so will he, when he’s had a little more time. It takes men longer, you know, to come to terms with things.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sally pulled herself upright, standing there slim and beautiful in her designer black. ‘And what about you? What will you do now? Go back to London?’

  ‘I suppose so. It’s time I got back to work.’

  ‘There’s no need for that, you know. Not that there ever has been. But now you have money in your own right. Your father’s will has left you a rich young woman.’

  ‘I need to – I need it for me,’ Harriet said fiercely.

  What would she have done without work this last week? Though she had been unable to do any actual photography she had been able to make plans for future features and the planning had kept her going. She had airmailed her films to Nick once she realised there would be a delay in Mark’s return to London and Nick had phoned her immediately he received them, full of enthusiasm.

  ‘Harriet, they are wonderful! Without a doubt you’ve found your niche. I know this is a bad time for you, love, and I don’t want to put you under any pressure but the sooner you can get a follow-up story to me the better. Once we’ve established you it won’t matter so much. You can afford to take a few breaks and people will be looking for you rather than forgetting you.’

  ‘I know, I know – I’ve pretty well blown my chances.’

  ‘No, as it happens you haven’t. This Australian stuff is sensational. I’m using it immediately. But I shall need something else – soon. Just keep your camera by you and snap whatever takes your fancy. You have such a good eye for those unusual angles.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can. This week it will be out of the question, of course. You and I both know my camera is a therapy for me – it helps to keep me sane – but other people wouldn’t see it like that. They’d say I was being callous and unfeeling, I dare say – a trait which seems to run in my mother’s side of the family, along with madness, of course.’

  ‘Harriet!’ he admonished. ‘Oh love, this has hit you hard, hasn’t it? You sound very low.’

  ‘I’ll survive.’

  ‘Come back to London soon. Let me spoil you a bit. After all you’ve been through in the last couple of weeks you need some spoiling.’

  ‘You’re very sweet, Nick.’ She couldn’t tell him how hollow the suggestion made her feel, any more than she could tell him that grief for her father and the stress of investigations into the past were only a part of it, and there was yet another reason for her depression, something else she wanted to obliterate with work – but certainly not by a replacement shoulder to cry on.

  Why couldn’t I have fallen for Nick? she had asked herself, replacing the receiver. Why instead did I have to lose my heart – and my senses! – to a man like Tom O’Neill?

  She had not seen him since the day of her father’s death and she did not want to see him. Irrationally her first reaction had been to blame him for what had happened to Hugo, as if Tom personally had been the one to open the can of worms. It wasn’t true, of course. He had only appeared on the scene doing his job after Maria had blown the whistle on Greg Martin. But that didn’t alter the way she felt, so that her resentment at the way he had used her rolled along like a sticky ball collecting more and more garbage as it went.

  Yet ridiculously none of this had the slightest effect on the way she felt about him. This was what obsession was, she presumed, an emotional reaction that reason could not quell. Her body remembered his touch and shrank from the prospect of intimacy with anyone but him. Sharp sweet sadness ached in her constantly and when she stopped to identify its cause the answer was always the same. Tom.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ he had asked that day when she had returned from taking the telephone call telling of her father’s death. And somehow the pain and the hurt and the resentment had all come bubbling up and she had flared: ‘ Don’t you think you’ve done enough?’

  He had left then – at least he had had the decency to respect their need to be alone – but he had written a note of condolence
which had arrived next day. The hypocrisy of it! Harriet had stormed – and thrown the letter in the wastepaper basket.

  ‘Don’t you think you are being a bit hard on the fellow?’ Mark had asked, and she had shaken her head vehemently.

  ‘How would you feel if you’d been used the way he used me?’

  ‘You don’t know he used you, Skeet.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I do and don’t know. He was only here this morning to ask more questions about my movements.’

  ‘He’s probably only doing his job.’

  ‘Exactly! But what a lousy stinking way to do it …’ She broke off, remembering their love-making and knowing that no matter how used she felt nothing on earth would make her explain to Mark. Quite apart from the hurt she was idiotic enough to feel it was so downright humiliating!

  ‘Well, I dare say you have your reasons,’ Mark had said to her. ‘But he didn’t seem that bad a bloke to me.’

  He wouldn’t, Harriet thought wryly. Nothing and nobody appears that bad when you are viewing the world through rose-coloured glasses. Lucky, lucky Mark. For him things had turned out well. She was glad for him, of course. No one deserved to be happy more than Mark did. But she wished just a little of his good fortune could rub off on her all the same.

  Well, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

  The crux of the matter is, thought Harriet, that I am not in the least attracted to men who make themselves available, and the ones I find exciting are incapable of any kind of real commitment. A vicious circle – an insoluble problem. So, face it. Take yourself in hand and forget Tom O’Neill or you will end up like your mother.

  It was a sobering thought.

  In his hotel room across town Tom O’Neill was packing his suitcase.

  For him the case was over. He had set out to discover the truth about what had happened to Greg Martin and Paula Varna and now he knew. Greg Martin was dead – albeit twenty years late – and Paula Varna …