She could remember taking Cilla to the salon each day after school, keeping her quiet in the cramped staffroom with crayons and colouring books until it was time to go home.
‘She’s your little sister,’ her mother had told her. ‘It’s your job to look after her.’ And she’d obeyed.
Aunt Joy and her husband, who owned a successful garage chain, were childless, but they were always genuinely delighted to see Rosina and her daughters, although Ginny had noticed that her mother was often quiet—almost brooding—on their return to Lorimer Street, as if she was making comparisons between their differing lifestyles, and finding them odious.
Just as she did when the clients at the salon talked about their villas on the Mediterranean and showed off their new jewellery and designer dresses.
Then one day Rosina was suddenly the one with carrier bags full of clothes from Oxford Street and Knightsbridge.
‘I’ve had a surprise,’ she told them airily. ‘A little windfall.’
Not so little, thought Ginny. Several thousand pounds from the Lottery. Enough to pay for a cruise in the sun and more while she and Cilla stayed with Aunt Joy.
They’d known exactly when their mother was returning by the days crossed off from the kitchen calendar. Ginny watched them mount up, longing to go back to Lorimer Street and their usual life.
But when Rosina returned, it was not to Lorimer Street. Instead she’d taken a short-term rental on an attractive flat in a modern block. And after Aunt Joy had delivered them there, they’d heard the sounds of her quarrelling with their mother and then the distant slamming of a door.
Even then she hadn’t moved, just waited until her mother came, flushed and tight-mouthed, her voice brittle as she said, ‘Let’s explore our new palace.’
Holding Cilla’s hand, she trailed obediently in Rosina’s wake through the spacious sitting room, the beautiful ivory and aqua master bedroom, the sumptuous bathroom with its pink and violet tiles, and the chrome and marble kitchen, and all she could think was how much she hated it.
‘When are we going back to Lorimer Street?’ she’d asked at last.
‘We’re not,’ her mother said shortly. ‘There is no Lorimer Street. I don’t want to hear you talk about it again. Ever.’
And she meant it, thought Ginny, feeling the same little shiver drift down her spine. She made it seem as if that other life had never existed. Just as we never heard from Aunt Joy and Uncle Harry again. And I was not allowed to mention them either.
Then, one afternoon, Rosina had taken them out to tea in a big department store.
Ginny could remember how Rosina had gripped their hands as if she was nervous as they emerged from the lift, until a tall grey-haired man, at a table on his own, stood up smiling, when she’d relaxed and smiled back.
‘Darlings,’ she said. ‘This is a very special friend of mine.’
And that, thought Ginny, was our first meeting with Andrew.
Frowning, she transferred her supper tray to the bedside table and sat up, hugging her knees.
It was clear that Rosina had improved on her employment status and rented the flat to impress the new man in her life.
Not strictly ethical perhaps, she thought defensively, but hardly federal offences. Or enough to make her husband feel cheated, if he’d ever found out.
Besides, to set against all that, Rosina, in her thirties, had been and even now continued to be a beautiful woman, her hair still fair—admittedly with assistance these days—and her skin flawless.
Small wonder that Andrew had been sufficiently attracted to offer marriage.
And even if their life together hadn’t been perfect, it was surely better than a lot of marriages.
So Andre Duchard had no right to imply anything different. No right at all.
The best thing I can do, she told herself resolutely, is put the whole business—especially him—out of my mind. And concentrate instead on whatever the future holds for me.
And tried not to think how bleak that sounded.
CHAPTER FIVE
OVER THE NEXT couple of days, Ginny’s misgivings over her prospects at Miss Finn’s began to multiply, with Iris Potter talking openly about the changes she was planning.
But at least Andre Duchard had not returned, to Ginny’s relief, although she was aware that every time the bell tinkled on the café door to signal a new arrival, her heart seemed to do a kind of somersault, which made no sense at all.
For all she knew, he might be back in Burgundy and good riddance to him. The last person she needed to have around was someone who caught her so consistently off her guard. Who’d forced her to remember things much better forgotten. And, even worse, who’d made her aware of feelings she’d infinitely have preferred to have ignored. He was altogether too disturbing.