The Winter Secret Page 10

  A clapperboard snapped, a voice shouted, and everything was focused on the room. A door opened and Mama came in, her head high, a half smile on her lips, the picture of elegance in a black dress with a white bow at the neck and black high heels. She seemed quite different: arrogant, provocative, fearless.

  ‘Well, Sam, I think you’re being ridiculous,’ she said crisply in a perfect American accent. ‘I can’t think why you’re getting so upset.’

  A broad-shouldered man in a pin-striped suit followed her into the room. ‘Come on, Delilah, don’t act the fool. You know perfectly well why! You’ve been leading me on, and all along you’ve been involved with that phoney, Masterson! What’s going on? You’d better tell me right this minute.’

  Mama gave a tinkling laugh and walked smartly to the side table, where she started to pour liquid from a bottle into a cocktail shaker. She was relaxed and yet too poised to be natural, her eyes bright, her chin held just in such a way to tilt her face towards the camera. Her expressions, though, were barely noticeable – tiny movements of her eyes and a tightening of the lips or a small smile – and her voice was low and mellifluous.

  Is this acting? Xenia thought. It’s not like in the theatre. There, voices boomed, faces contorted, gestures were huge.

  Mama turned to the man, holding out the drink. ‘You’re overreacting, Sam. There’s no need for all of this.’

  Sam took the drink and put it on the side, then grabbed her by the arm. ‘Don’t fob me off, Delilah, I’m warning you. I’ve had about enough of it. I’m crazy about you and you know that! Why . . . there’s something about you that drives me mad.’

  ‘And is that my fault? I never asked you to feel that way.’

  ‘You know you did. Right from the start, you’ve always known your power over me. You can’t just expect me to stop feeling when it’s not convenient for you any more.’

  ‘I’ve never wanted that. I’m telling you, you’ve got it wrong! I . . .’ Mama stared at him insolently, her chin high, her green eyes flashing, her body tense and then, suddenly, all the fight went out of her and she wilted. When she spoke, it wasn’t in Delilah’s strong, confident voice but in her own, soft, English tones. ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten my line!’

  ‘Cut!’

  Everyone around the set came back to life, dashing about to reset the scene, powder Mama’s nose, adjust the cameras and chatter among themselves. Archibald Thomas strode over, towering over Mama, and began talking to her in low, urgent tones.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Xenia whispered to her father. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘She made a mistake,’ Papa said. He sounded tense, his voice wound up and his teeth gritted. ‘They’ll have to do it all again.’

  Five minutes later, they were ready to go again. Once more, Mama strode confidently into the room, and talked to Sam in her haughty yet flirtatious way. They carried on past the point where Mama had flagged last time.

  ‘I’m not seeing Masterson, except as a friend. He’s helping me with my career. It’s good to have someone who does. Someone who cares about what I’m going to do with my life.’

  Sam’s eyes flashed. ‘There’s more to it than that, I know it! You’ll not treat me like this and get away with it.’

  ‘Let go of me.’ She pushed Sam’s arm off her, her face scornful. ‘What are you going to do about it? I’m not your . . . your . . . your . . . thing . . . oh no, that’s not right. Oh, I’m so sorry!’

  ‘Cut!’

  They did the scene over and over, until Xenia felt she knew all the lines herself. Her lips moved along in the darkness as the little vignette repeated itself, always the same until at some point, Mama would forget her line, sometimes one she had delivered perfectly in the previous take, then she would wilt and apologise. The tension around the set grew stronger and fiercer, until Xenia herself wanted to burst into tears when Mama made yet another mistake, and she could feel Papa’s frustration.

  ‘Cut, cut!’ yelled the director. ‘Let’s take a break for lunch.’

  Mama turned and ran for her trailer, her hands over her face.

  Papa got up and followed her, leaving Xenia alone in the dark.

  ‘Natalie, what on earth was wrong with you today? You’ve never been like that before, never! You’re always word perfect, you pride yourself on it.’

  ‘I know that, Paul. Do you think I don’t?’

  They were in the car, being driven home from the studio, Xenia tucked between her parents who were talking over her head. Papa was still tense, not angry but indignant, almost bewildered. Mama sounded tired, as though everything had been drained from her.

  ‘Why are you drinking on set? That can’t possibly help.’

  ‘Paul, it’s fine!’ Mama sounded agonised but it was impossible to see her face. She wore huge dark sunglasses and the collar of her fur coat hid her mouth and nose. ‘Please. It relaxes me. That’s all. I don’t get drunk, if that’s what you’re saying.’

  ‘You can’t jeopardise this chance, Natalie. It won’t come your way again.’ Her father leaned back in the seat. ‘They’ll sack you if you go on like this, then where will we be?’

  ‘It’s the pressure, Paul, sometimes it’s unbearable . . .’ Mama’s voice was shaking. ‘I find it so hard. I didn’t realise . . . Everything, this whole film, all these people’s hopes and expectations, their jobs, their futures . . . all on me.’

  Xenia snuggled close to her, wanting to push some of her own strength into her mother’s body. It was fearful to see Mama like this but she trusted her eyes: Mama might have made mistakes today, but she had also been sublime. Even with all the pretence, the make-up, the flimsy walls and boiling lights, the stopping and starting of scenes, the endless repetitions, Xenia had believed in Delilah and all her machinations.

  Papa said softly, ‘Don’t doubt yourself, Natalie. You can do this. We’ll stay until the film is finished and make sure of it.’

  Mama said nothing but looked out of the window of the car into the evening twilight. Xenia saw her fist was clenched and her knuckles were white with the force of it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Thanks so much for the other night! We had a great time. We can’t wait to move in to the village and get going, I’ll let you know when we have a date. Love Cathy xxx

  Buttercup read the text over as Milky walked slowly along the lane, hoping the Tranters hadn’t thought Charles rude, even though he had made it so obvious that he didn’t want them there. Perhaps they felt it was understandable, when he’d just returned from a business trip.

  I hope so. It would be nice to have a friend in the village.

  So far the wives of Charles’s hearty country friends had kept their distance, no doubt feeling a loyalty to Ingrid. They probably thought Charles was a fool and she, Buttercup, was a gold-digger. But what did it matter? They weren’t her friends, and never would be – they were older than she was, for one thing, most of them at different stage in their lives, with children growing up and the end of school years in sight. Cathy was different: a newcomer, a woman around her own age with a young family. She was, by natural justice, in Buttercup’s territory. It was only right that she should be her friend.

  ‘Put that phone away!’ called out Phil from behind her. ‘Don’t think I can’t see what you’re doing!’ He was riding Topper, the large bay hunter Charles had bought when he’d planned to learn how to ride in the field, but he’d never had the time.

  ‘Sorry!’ Buttercup put the phone into her waistcoat pocket.

  ‘You come out here for a reason – to get away from all that. So don’t spoil it.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ She made a mock salute.

  He came up and rode abreast of her. ‘You’re bored. You wouldn’t be looking at that phone all the time if you weren’t.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh.’ She laughed.

  ‘I mean it. What are you going to do with yourself down here? You’re too young to mope about that house all day long. What did you do with
yourself when you lived in London?’

  ‘I was assistant to a kitchen designer. I helped very rich ladies choose incredibly expensive appliances and calmed them down when they got upset about finishes, and cabinet handles, and the wrong shade of white.’ She laughed. ‘They drove me mad, but I enjoyed it.’

  ‘Lots of people like that down here,’ Phil remarked. ‘Lots. Everyone’s always doing a new kitchen, it seems to me. Mr Redmain knows people with big houses. You should ask around, maybe.’

  ‘Maybe I will. I thought that I might be busy with other things, you see. A family.’ She felt her throat tighten and forced herself to breath out slowly. Milky swayed underneath her and she noticed that the hedges were full of sloe berries.

  Phil nodded. ‘It doesn’t have to be one or the other, does it? And you might find it takes your mind off the waiting.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’ After a moment Buttercup said, ‘Are you married, Phil? Any children?’

  ‘Nope. I never found the right girl. But I’m hopeful. And if she has kids, so much the better. I wouldn’t mind a readymade family.’

  ‘That’s what I thought about James and Charlotte. I was looking forward to getting to know them, but we never see them. They haven’t got used to me yet, I think.’

  ‘Give ’em time. Young people never like a newcomer, especially if they feel protective of their mum. They’re good kids, though.’

  Feeling that the personal tone of their talk had given her an opening, she said hesitantly, ‘Phil, can I ask you something? I don’t want to be nosy – and there’s no need to answer if you don’t want to – but . . . what was Ingrid like? Sometimes I feel as though everyone but me has met her. And she lives so close. It’s such a strange situation.’

  Phil said gruffly, ‘I understand. We all liked Mrs Redmain. She’s different from you though – I couldn’t say exactly how, but different. She had quite a job, running this place and bringing up the children more or less single-handed. Mr Redmain was away a lot then, just as he is now. But she was pretty cheerful most of the time. Friendly.’

  ‘I suppose that it must have been a shock to everyone when she ran off like that . . . ?’ She asked casually but there was no disguising the leading nature of her question.

  Phil frowned. ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ he said shortly. ‘And I wouldn’t talk about it if I did.’

  Buttercup flushed, ashamed at herself for asking about Ingrid’s departure when she’d told herself she never would. ‘No. I’m sorry. I won’t mention it again.’

  ‘You’re all right,’ Phil said, then pulled Topper back so that he was riding behind her again, the hunter’s hooves ringing out on the lane as they walked. Buttercup was glad he couldn’t see her embarrassment any longer.

  Back inside, she found Charles in his study, where he was sitting solemnly in front of three giant flat screens, observing the state of his investments around the world.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ he said absently as she came in. ‘What can I do for you?’

  After leaving Phil at the stables, everything they discussed had been whirling round her mind. She sat down and said, ‘I’ve been thinking . . . we haven’t seen James and Charlotte for ages. It’s half-term soon, isn’t it? We could ask Charlotte to stay and see if James wants to come too for a day or so.’

  ‘I’ve seen James recently,’ Charles said, his eyes on one of the screens. His hand moved a computer mouse and he clicked down. ‘In London.’

  ‘Have you?’ She was surprised. ‘You didn’t say . . .’

  ‘We meet sometimes. Now he’s at university, it’s easy enough for him to come into town. We have dinner, chat, he stays the night and goes back the next day.’

  ‘You didn’t mention it.’

  Charles’s gaze slid towards her. ‘Do I need to?’

  ‘No . . . no, I suppose not. But we are all family, aren’t we? I’m not going to get close to your children if I never see them or know what’s going on in their lives.’

  Charles frowned. ‘But they’re almost grown up, they don’t need a stepmother like young children might. They have their own mother, after all. I think they see you more as a friend than a relation.’

  She felt wrong-footed. ‘I see,’ she said lamely. This hadn’t been her vision of what her life with Charles would be like; she’d seen herself growing close to his children, not trying to supplant their mother but bringing an added richness to their lives. She wanted to be a kind and sympathetic listener, there to absorb their teenage angst when they weren’t getting on with their parents or had confessions they were too afraid to make to them.

  A polite friendship was not what she’d expected. Perhaps at first, but not forever.

  When the reality of her relationship with Charles’s children had been different from her rosy fantasies, she’d told herself it was only to be expected; they were still traumatised from their parents’ divorce and bound to see her as an interloper. The first time she had met them at the London flat, they had been stiff, formal and unsmiling, replying to her questions with cool, polite brevity. Charlotte, fourteen years old, looked like Charles with blue eyes and her sandy-coloured hair; James was seventeen and taller than his father, gawky and dark-haired, hazel eyes behind glasses.

  ‘Do you think they liked me?’ she’d asked anxiously afterwards, when Rich had picked them up to take them back to Dorset.

  ‘Naturally they liked you,’ Charles said, surprised. ‘I love you, so they will too. How could they not?’

  But it seemed to Buttercup highly likely that they could not. What was more surprising was that it didn’t seem to occur to Charles.

  The next time she’d seen them had been at the wedding. She heard much later that James had been violently ill in the lavatories at the hotel after drinking too much champagne but she had been quite unaware of it at the time.

  After the wedding, she had still never been able to get close to either of them, partly because they simply wouldn’t stay in the same room as her for long, and certainly not on their own. Whenever they visited, they skittered away as soon as they could and avoided her. Even riding had not brought her closer to Charlotte, as she hoped it might. Charlotte went out at odd times, gave up on rides when Buttercup offered to join her, and hid in the stables and even the horse boxes when Buttercup came to look for her. It was hard not to feel slighted. How could she be understanding, affectionate and giving if they simply wouldn’t let her?

  And here was Charles, not even trying to bring her and James together.

  Now she thought about it, her dreams of what life would be like had never been reinforced by Charles. She had bubbled and enthused and told him her hopes and dreams. He had listened and nodded, but he had never agreed or disagreed. He would simply embrace her and tell her she was adorable or charming or sweet, as though indulging the fantasies of a child. Not once had he said, ‘Yes, we will make that happen.’ Or: ‘That is what I want too. Let’s plan how to do it.’ He had never confided his feelings. And she had never questioned it. Well, she would start.

  ‘I think we should definitely have Charlotte to stay during the half-term,’ Buttercup said firmly. ‘She and I could go riding together.’

  ‘I can certainly get Elaine or Rose to ask Ingrid how Charlotte feels about it and if it suits their plans. She may be doing something else.’

  Buttercup stared at him, exasperated. ‘Don’t you care if she comes or not?’

  Charles tutted and looked up. ‘Obviously I’d like her here. But it’s not possible simply to dictate to young people, especially when they don’t live with you.’

  Tears sprang to Buttercup’s eyes. ‘I’m only trying to do my best!’ she cried. Gripped suddenly by despair, she turned and ran to their bedroom, throwing herself down on the bed and crying hard, frustration and anxiety coming out in a stream of hot tears. A moment later, Charles was beside her, sitting on the bed and stroking her hair.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently. ‘I didn’t mean to be un
feeling.’

  She mumbled into the pillow, her breath hot against it: ‘I want a baby. I want us to be parents.’ She lifted her head to look at him as he bent over her. She thought of how much she loved him, how dear and inspiring and wonderful she’d found that face, with its strength and determination, and the surprising tenderness that could spring suddenly, meltingly, into the mouth and eyes. ‘Do you want that, Charles?’

  ‘I want you to be happy.’

  ‘Yes – but do you want another child? Do you want to have a baby with me?’

  His blue eyes scanned her face and returned to her gaze. ‘Of course I do.’

  She sat up, sniffing. ‘Do you mean it? Honestly?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘If it’s possible, then I want a baby with you.’

  ‘Not just to make me happy, though. For yourself?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes. For me too.’

  She threw her arms around him, elated. ‘Oh, Charles. I’m so happy you said that. I’ve been worried that you didn’t want another baby.’

  ‘If it’s possible,’ he said, hugging her back, ‘then I do.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Charles was working in his study again when Buttercup settled down at the desk in the drawing room with her computer, a cup of tea steaming gently by her side. It was raining outside, the sky slate-grey and blurred with the downpour. She shivered, feeling the chill despite the radiators going full-blast and the fire burning in the grate. She felt better since the reassurance Charles had given her, sure again that they were united in their hopes for the future, and she’d also come to a decision: she would write that email to Lazlo suggesting she could look into promoting him in the area, perhaps start finding new clients for him.