‘You seem to have a grandmother when you withdraw your allowance every month.’ He sent her a sharp look from under bushy brows. ‘I should know, I deal with the paperwork.’
Helen glared at him. ‘For your information, Aggie has threatened to cut that off many times. I don’t know why she doesn’t just do it. I couldn’t care less.’
It was pure bravado. The money was useful. Besides, she knew Aggie would never stop sending it, because Aggie had abandoned Helen to the ‘care’ of social services and a children’s home at the age of five and was still atoning for it. As she would for the rest of her life if Helen had anything to do with it.
Probably Mr Sweetman was aware of this too, for his expression softened a little. ‘Step-grandmother, then,’ he said mildly. ‘She wants you to come home.’
‘She does, huh? Fat chance.’ Joe touched her briefly on the shoulder. Mr Sweetman noticed and probably made his own assumptions about their relationship. Let him. He’d be wrong. ‘This is … where I’ve chosen to live. There’s nothing for me in England. Nothing.’
‘Mrs Ransome needs you.’
‘Needs me?’ Helen scoffed. ‘Aggie’s never needed anyone in her entire life, and she certainly doesn’t need me. That’s just bullshit.’ Her voice rose, and the few customers in the shack turned to look at her. She sometimes wondered what drove her to keep fuelling this inextinguishable rage she carried around inside her, but it had become as natural to her as breathing. She could never stop feeling that way. Couldn’t and wouldn’t. Ever.
Mr Sweetman eyed her for a moment the same way a lazy, fat cat might look at a mouse, deciding whether it was worth the bother, then he shrugged and got down from the bar stool. ‘Well, if that’s your final word …’
The rest, if there was more, was drowned out by a flash of lightning and a tremendous boom. A vicious gust of wind sent needle-sharp drops of rain up under the awning and in through the open door where they bounced off the wooden floor. The few lighted tea candles extinguished, and the electricity fizzed and cut out, then returned unsteadily.
In the flickering light the solicitor’s eyes were bright and hard like polished granite. Shivering, Helen felt her nerve failing. ‘It is,’ she said in a tired voice. ‘Please just tell her I’m not coming back.’
‘I see,’ he said and returned the photograph to his pocket. ‘It looks like I’ve had a wasted journey, then. Sorry to have troubled you.’ He left a few coins on the bar for Joe, nodded to Helen, and turned towards the door.
His comment was probably designed to make her feel guilty, and it might have worked if it wasn’t for an overwhelming sense of relief. This was another person she’d never see again, and all the painful memories could go back in the box where they belonged. Memories of her mother and of Aggie’s betrayal.
One day when she had the strength, she might take them out again.
As Mr Sweetman paused in the doorway for the rain to ease up, it suddenly seemed odd to Helen that Aggie had chosen to send her minion all this way when she must have known what Helen would say. A pointless wasted journey indeed. Aggie could be accused of many things, but doing something on a whim wasn’t one of them.
The solicitor turned around as if he sensed her thoughts.
‘There was one other thing Mrs Ransome asked me to tell you,’ he said. ‘Fay is out of prison.’
Chapter Two
Looking around his father’s London office, Jason Moody stretched his long legs out in front of him and regretted wearing a T-shirt and jeans. This was the kind of place where deals were made, and who you were and how you presented yourself counted for everything. Appearing too casual made him feel inferior when he’d prefer to be the one in charge of the situation.
The converted warehouse was a very familiar environment to him, with its sanded oak floor, raw bricks painted white, and a large floor-to-ceiling window giving him an expensive view of Tower Bridge. The furniture complemented the décor: a sleek Scandinavian oak desk, minimalist floating shelves, and two brown leather sofas forming an L around a coffee table made from smoke-coloured glass. In the far corner stood a life-sized bronze statue of a naked Adonis with, incongruously, an owl in the place where the head should have been.
Jason’s lips twitched. It would be so tempting to dress that statue in a canary-yellow Borat-style mankini, but somehow he didn’t think his father would see the funny side. Derek collected ornaments and curiosities, antique as well as modern, and was very proud of his collection. Like a magpie he’d never been able to resist anything shiny, no matter how tacky, although Jason had to admit that the statue in the office was one of his better pieces, if a little unnerving.