Snow Angel Page 9

  “Friends? Ha!” Grace’s face twisted into a wholly unattractive sneer. Beatrice had the urge to slap her.

  “Please, let me finish. Yes, I have been foolish enough to imagine we might be friends. I know it is more realistic for us to continue as we have done for the last forty years, with no contact whatsoever. The one thing I cannot abide is that we should become enemies. Grace, you are my only child and I will do anything I can to avoid a legal battle with you over your father’s estate.”

  “In that case, we can settle this right now.”

  “Yes, I think we can.” A tone of infinite calm entered Rose’s voice, as if she’d arrived at the terminus after a very long journey.

  Grace hesitated, but only for a beat. “All you need do is legally transfer the intellectual property rights to An Empty Vessel to me and our problem is solved.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “No courtrooms, no lawyers’ fees, no publicity. I could certainly see that as a basis for a civilised future relationship.”

  Beatrice ground her teeth. This manipulative piece of work was using a possible future connection with her own mother as a bargaining chip to get the rights to Vaughan’s most famous work. If Rose had any sense, she’d keep as far away from the noxious female as possible. Don’t give in, she willed Rose. Don’t fall for it!

  To her surprise and relief, Rose shook her head. “I can’t do that, Grace. I’m sorry.”

  “The hell you are! You get the biggest slice of pie and you’re sorry? Why are you here? Just to gloat? Yeah, sure, I got his house, his estate and the rest of his trash but Vaughan Mason left his most valuable possession to you. Someone who walked out on him over forty years ago and has made no effort to create a relationship since.”

  Rose gasped, her eyes wide. “No effort? Grace...”

  “Save it, Rose, I’m not interested. I’m his only child and should inherit everything. After all these years, why the fuck would he give that book to you?”

  “Because it’s mine.”

  Something about Rose’s quiet conviction stilled the room. In the silence, the sound of melting snow dripping from the roof counted the seconds like a metronome.

  “What do you mean, yours? You seriously think you have any claim to that work because you spent a couple of years of your miserable marriage grubbing a wage while he created something people still want to read today? Give me a break! You know what I think? I think his drinking took its toll and he lost his mind. There’s no other reason he would leave it you.” Grace’s face scrunched in contempt.

  “He didn’t leave it to me. He returned it. Sad to say, your father made few honourable gestures in his life, but in death, he finally did the decent thing. He gave me back my book.”

  Grace’s expression darkened as if under a thunderhead. Her voice was low and menacing. “For the final time, it is not your book.”

  “Beatrice, I’m afraid I’ve brought you here under false pretences. It wasn’t simply emotional support I needed, although I am grateful you gave your time so freely. The truth is I needed a witness to this conversation. Someone neutral, discreet and with a working knowledge of the law. Who better than a police detective inspector?”

  Beatrice stared, at a loss for something to say.

  Rose turned to Grace, words tumbling from her mouth in a rush. “I started writing An Empty Vessel in 1964, two years before I met your father. In those days, I shared a tiny flat in Putney with two friends and couldn’t afford to go out. So I stayed home and I wrote. When I met Vaughan, I never breathed a word. He was The Writer, the would-be wunderkind poised to take the world by storm. Except all his ideas for books and plays were derivative and only lasted until he realised Kerouac, Orton and Tynan could do Kerouac, Orton and Tynan better than he could. His ego suffered and he sought the company of easily impressed young women while I lay pregnant with you. Bed rest was such a bore, I taught myself to touch type on his machine. My manuscript was perfect practice, even if I did wear out a few ribbons in the process. Once we had you, money became a problem. His occasional article didn’t bring in enough for the gas meter, so I became a temp, working whenever and wherever they paid me. Your father took on the role of house husband which did not suit him. When you were not yet two, I came home one afternoon to find you locked in the bathroom, crying. He was in bed, otherwise engaged with one of our neighbours. After a furious row, I packed a few things for both of us and tried to take you with me. He wouldn’t let you go. He threw me out but insisted you had to stay.”

  “Stop it! I don’t need to hear this. You are trying to mess with my head. My father always put me first.”

  Rose’s expression was sympathetic as she shook her head. “I spent eighteen months fighting to get you back because I knew Vaughan would never put anyone’s needs above his own. I lost the case, of course I did. He had been your primary care-giver. I’d left our family home; I was sleeping on my friends’ floor and couldn’t provide for you. They granted him custody and he made damn sure you didn’t want to see me. The first few times I visited, you screamed the place down. I couldn’t win. So I left London and moved as far away as I could get.”

  Grace said nothing, her expression blank.

  “It took me a while to realise what he’d done,” Rose continued. “Newspapers in the north of Scotland don’t tend to focus on the antics of the London literary crowd. By the time news of Vaughan Mason’s An Empty Vessel reached my ears, I’d made myself a new life. In any case, I had no desire to see another courtroom for the rest of my days. Sometimes, I was even proud the book did so well and found myself mildly entertained by the interviews. ‘How did you get into the female mind, Mr Mason? How long did the book take you to write? What are you working on next?’ And always, ‘Mr Mason, where did you get the idea?’ Strangely enough, he never gave the correct answer: ‘Well, Michael, I found it in a shoebox under the bed’. Your father stole my book, Grace, and now he’s finally given it back.”

  The three women stood immobile after Rose finished her speech, Grace’s eyes locked with her mother’s. Beatrice recalled monochrome footage of atomic bombs, a mushroom cloud of destruction exploding in silence.

  “NO!” Grace pointed her index finger at Rose’s face. “Get out of here this minute! You dare defile my father’s reputation IN HIS OWN HOUSE? Get out! I am ashamed that we’re related. You are not fit to shine his goddamned shoes. As if you could have written that book. You are a joke! See you in court. Now get out and take your witness with you!”

  Grace’s fury was ugly and violent, her voice hoarse. Beatrice moved to stand beside Rose, who placed a reassuring hand on her arm, still calm and dignified.

  “If you insist on contesting your father’s final wishes, I will demonstrate that the book was and always has been mine. All my notebooks, interviews and research were still in a hatbox in Putney, which I took with me when I moved north. There’s no doubt they are genuine and will prove incontrovertibly that I wrote An Empty Vessel. So not only will you lose the case, but you will destroy your father’s reputation and any value attached to the rest of his work. Your call, Grace.”

  Rose sailed down the passageway to the front door, head held high. It was all Beatrice could do not to applaud.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pamela Harding hit it off with Catinca from the second they met. The Head of Events Management did not even raise an eyebrow at the small dark dynamo in trapper’s hat, faux fur jacket, silver leggings and moonboots taking control of the meeting. Catinca, for her part, pulled from her tomato-red satchel all the numbers, dimensions, timings and precise table dressings required and targeted her questions with pinpoint accuracy. Mrs Harding evidently appreciated her professional approach to wedding planning and stated that Catinca was one of the best prepared organisers she’d met.

  The two women beamed at one another and Adrian caught Will’s look of awed respect at the diminutive Romanian. But Adrian would not be rendered superfluous. After all, it was his day.

  “I wonder, Mrs Harding, wou
ld it be possible to have a look at the honeymoon suite? If it’s not occupied, of course.”

  Pamela Harding gave them an indulgent smile. “Of course you can. It’s rarely occupied during the week. Let me buzz Jason, our porter, and he can show you the way. I already know you are going to love it. Did you see the one at Moor Hall? Let me tell you, ours knocks that into a cocked cat. It has an outdoor hot tub so you can sit in steamy water and drink champagne while catching snowflakes on your tongue.”

  Adrian let out a little moan of bliss and Catinca clapped her hands like a child.

  “You read his mind, Mrs Harding,” said Will, placing an arm around Adrian’s shoulders. “All I have to do is persuade him not to record the moment on video.”

  A young man appeared in the doorway, sporting an eager smile with startlingly white teeth. “Honeymooners? This way.”

  Will and Adrian left Catinca to handle the arrangements and followed the porter upstairs to gush and fawn all over their accommodation. Their first night as a married couple would be spent in an Emperor-size bed under Egyptian linen, with a private balcony, hot tub and gasp-worthy views of snow-capped Dartmoor hills.

  “It’s perfect,” said Will, after Jason had beaten a discreet retreat. “Just perfect. The whole organisation and military planning is important, I know that, but honestly? I cannot wait till it’s all over and it’s just you and me, here, wearing our wedding bands. When all the fuss and celebrations are over, this is what it’s all about. Us two, together.”

  “True. This is where I should say I don’t care where and how it happens, because what matters is you and me. But isn’t this the most blissful place to start our life as a married couple? That bed! That tub! Will, listen to me. You’re under-excited by all the detail, I get that. Catinca and I have it under control and in three days’ time, we say our vows with all our friends and family. Then we get to look back on it for years to come as we grow old and wear cardigans.”

  Will kissed him and shot a glance at the bed. Adrian pulled back and shook his head with some emphasis. “No way. The room, if not the groom, stays a virgin till our wedding night. Come on now, let’s go and make sure Catinca hasn’t given the game away.”

  After two more hours of discussion and poring over alternative menus, Adrian had ticked every item off his list.

  “We’ll go with your suggestion of chestnut and sage soup for the starter, Mrs Harding. It sounds divine and as you say, it’s seasonal. Catinca, is there anything else we need to discuss?”

  “Nope. We done the menu, canapés, timing and decorations already so all we need is fix rehearsal tomorrow. What’s that bloke called, one doing ceremony?”

  “You mean the registrar?” Pamela Harding checked her notes. “That’s Mr Kirkpatrick. In his email, he said he would be available between five and seven tomorrow evening. I generally leave at five-thirty, so can I suggest five o’clock for any final questions and then I’ll leave you to it?”

  “Fine with me,” said Adrian, with a prod at Will who was playing with his phone. “Five o’clock for wedding rehearsal tomorrow afternoon, OK?”

  Will attempted to look engaged. “OK, yes, yup, that sounds perfect.” He gave Mrs Harding a winning smile. “All this talk of food has given me quite an appetite. Is your restaurant open for lunch today?”

  “Unfortunately we have a private function booked in, a Christmas party. Those sorts of affairs can get rather boisterous, if you know what I mean. But there are lots of nice pubs nearby. Which direction are you going?”

  “Upton St Nicholas,” said Adrian, without thinking. Will tensed beside him and Catinca shot a furious glare in his direction.

  “Oh, so close? I’d assumed you were staying in Exeter. Well, on the way there’s The Red Hart, and Upton St Nicholas itself has The Angel and The Star, all of which do good food. To be honest, you don’t want to be eating here today. Don’t look before you peep, save it for a special occasion. Like Sunday.” Her kind face crinkled into a smile and she patted Will’s arm. “Now I’ve got a lot to do to prepare for your big day. You take this poor boy away and feed him. I’ll see you all tomorrow at five.”

  They took their leave and crunched their way across the gravel towards the car, snowflakes falling onto their coats.

  Catinca released a huge sigh. “This is how I imagine England before I got here. Country house romantic, horses, flowers, snow and Mr Darcy. London was nasty shock. Good to know it is real after all.”

  Will unlocked the car. “It’s not real. We just keep a few places for the tourists.”

  “I am tourist! And so are you, mate. Beautiful building, innit? And that lady is proper lovely. Wish we could tell her we know her family. But better play safe. If Adrian don’t put foot in it again, this wedding gonna be perfect.”

  Adrian fastened his seatbelt, ignoring the jibe. “Lunch at the pub or shall we stop on the way?”

  “Let’s try somewhere different,” said Will. “Beautiful as the village might be, I kind of miss the range of choices we have at home. I don’t think I’m cut out for country life. What do you say to The Red Hart?”

  Adrian looked back at Catinca, who shrugged. He turned to Will. “Why not? Let’s give it a go. Matthew’s ex-wife is very nice, I agree. Did either of you notice anything funny about the way she speaks?”

  Will switched on the wipers and shook his head. “Apart from the West Country accent, no.”

  Catinca said nothing, busy taking pictures on her phone.

  “She has that Beatrice tic, mixing up her expressions. You know how we talk about her Bea-lines? Well, Pamela Harding does exactly the same thing.”

  “Whatcha talking about?” Catinca scooted forward to stick her head between the seats.

  “When she was describing the honeymoon suite, she said it knocked the one at Moor Hall into a ‘cocked cat’. Not hat. There was another one later but I can’t remember it now. I’m just used to saving these because of Beatrice, so it jumped out at me. You didn’t hear it?”

  Catinca leant back, evidently bored. “Nah. Wouldn’t notice anyway. Not my mother tongue.”

  Adrian looked to Will. “Do you know what I mean?”

  “Not really. I was concentrating on the honeymoon suite. There’s the pub. Thank God, I’m starving.”

  The Red Hart was a low-ceilinged classic country inn with enticing warm lights and a real fire. Will strode to the bar, ordered drinks and asked for menus while Catinca went off to the ladies. Adrian took in his surroundings and spotted a familiar face at a corner table, in earnest conversation with a man. Tanya. She glanced up and saw him. With an almost imperceptible shake of her head, she turned her attention back to her companion.

  Adrian got the message. Do Not Disturb. He guided Will and Catinca to the other end of the bar and settled them at a table to choose their food.

  He’d already decided. “Monkfish goujons for me, with salad not chips. Listen, Tanya’s over there, talking to a man. She gave me a very clear sign I should not interrupt. So let’s eat our lunch and leave her in peace.”

  “Where?” asked Catinca, her eyes wide. With her trapper’s hat still on, she looked like a bushbaby.

  “To the right of the fire. Don’t stare. Have you decided what you want to eat?”

  “Fish and chips.” She got to her feet. “I’ll get this, it’s my turn. Will, shut up already. Least I can do is pay for pub lunch after all you two done for me. Anyway, I wanna see Tanya’s boyfriend.”

  She went to the bar, gave their order and paid. Then with classic Catinca chutzpah, walked past Tanya without a glance, up to the fire and warmed her silver-clad behind, allowing her a clear view of Tanya’s companion. Her fashion sense and evident ‘otherness’ drew plenty of stares from the clientele, but Catinca was unfazed. She strolled back, smiling vaguely and picked up her glass of cider. She took a swig and indicated the couple by the fire with her glass.

  “She got good taste. He’s hot.”

  Will laughed. “And you are completely uns
ubtle. If the guy missed you checking him out, he’s either short-sighted or fixated on Tanya.”

  “My guess is the latter,” said Adrian. “Look, he’s not even eating, just talking to her while his food goes cold.”

  “Stop staring!” Will whispered. “Poor woman can’t even have lunch without people gawping and gossiping. This is another reason I couldn’t cope with life in a village. No privacy.”

  Catinca faced Will, her eyebrows drawn into a severe frown. “Village life is all some people got. You always go on about London, your choices, nobody knows your name. Good for you. Not everybody can afford it. Some people depend on neighbours. Yes, means they know more of our business. Also means they care. Don’t judge the way other people live.” She pointed a finger at Will, then at Adrian. “You two spend way too much time judging other people. Make your own choices and let them make theirs.”

  Stunned, Adrian stared at a particularly twee watercolour on the wall and assessed his own behaviour. Whatever had they done to give Catinca such an impression?

  Will seemed equally dumbstruck and an awkward silence hung over the table until the barman approached with their food.

  “Two fish and chips, one monkfish. Can I get you anything else?”

  “Yes please,” said Catinca, her eyes not leaving Adrian and Will, her jaw set in defiance. “I would like some ketchup.”

  “Sure.” He fetched a bottle from behind the bar.

  Adrian raised his glass. “I’d like to propose a toast. To choices. May they always be right for us.”

  Catinca cracked a smile. “To choices.” She looked at his plate, back at her own and grinned at him. “Bet you wish you choosed fish and chips now, innit? Cheers!”

  On the drive back to the village, Adrian’s mobile rang. Guilt crept over him. He hadn’t even acknowledged Beatrice’s message. But the name on the screen was Jared, Adrian’s ex-boyfriend and their wedding photographer.

  “Hello, Jared! How’s it going?”