Paula was having a good day. She’d just shown a very keen couple around an extremely nice townhouse a stone’s throw from the Minster and was confident they’d be after a second viewing, if not making an offer, within forty-eight hours. The property was one of those rare unicorn-like beasts in York – a Georgian property that had been beautifully restored, with no ongoing chain – the sort that you could move into immediately and feel completely at home in. The keys still jangling in her pocket (she’d take them back to the office tomorrow), she was now following a white-uniformed waitress and her mother downstairs to the lower lounge at Betty’s, where they had arranged to meet for tea and a catch-up. Yes, she was sloping of work an hour early, again. No, she didn’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt about this transgression.
‘Well, I cannot believe what your brother’s been up to,’ Jeanie said, the moment they’d ordered, cosily ensconced at a table for two, amidst the wood panelling and softly glowing wall-lamps. They were seated next to a boisterous family with three young children, who had just been to the Viking museum and were insistent on wearing their helmets at the table. ‘John, I mean – obviously. The shame of it! The brass neck of him! Phoning me from Edinburgh last night, telling me he’s in love with this . . . this girl! “For goodness’ sake,” I told him, “will you get over yourself and stop being such a complete and utter nitwit?” ’
‘Is that what you said?’ Paula asked, trying not to snigger at the thought of John having to contend with one of Jeanie’s legendary dressing-downs over the phone. Even when you were in your forties, there was something kind of satisfying about your parents slagging off one of your siblings so reproachfully, especially when this particular brother had always been the self-professed Golden Boy. She was reminded of her own sons, who always loved it when the other one got in trouble. ‘Am I being good, Mum?’ the smug cry would go up. It was on the tip of her tongue to say the same words now, but she managed to restrain herself.
‘Yes, I jolly well did say that to him. Worse, actually, because I’d had a sherry and I was a bit emotional. What does he think he’s playing at, though? A dirty old man, that’s what he is, going off with a young girl like that. It’s disgusting!’ Her lips trembled suddenly. ‘And how dare he jeopardize things with my grandchildren? I mean, he’s my son, my eldest child, and of course I love the absolute bones of him, but for him to do this . . . to behave in such a way . . . This is not how your father and I brought him up. “I’m ashamed of you,” I told him. “You’re not the son I thought you were.” ’
Jeanie was looking quite distressed and Paula felt bad for having smirked moments earlier. ‘It’s grim,’ she agreed. ‘It’s not just the fact of her being so young, it’s that John could treat Robyn and the kids so shabbily. What’s he playing at?’
‘I know. Poor Robyn!’ cried Jeanie. ‘I don’t know what to do, whether to go round there or not. Robyn might not want anything more to do with our family.’
‘I think she does,’ Paula replied. ‘I think she’d appreciate it, if you popped round. In fact she was worried that we would all cut her off, or something – you know, drop her, just like John did.’
‘She said that? No!’ Jeanie said, looking aghast. ‘Where did she get that idea from? Oh – thank you,’ she said, as the waitress appeared just then with their tea tray. ‘Lovely. Gosh, I did miss my tea while I was away. It’s not the same, is it, tea on holiday? Not as good as the real thing.’
They busied themselves pouring drinks and adding milk, then Paula braced herself to wheel out the big question. ‘How’s it going with you and Dad, then?’ she asked, picking an almond off the top of her warm Fat Rascal scone and posting it into her mouth. ‘How are you finding the return back to normal life? Tell me he’s done the dishes a few times. Made you another cheese omelette, even?’
Jeanie gave a small smile as she buttered her teacake. ‘Breakfast in bed, the other morning,’ she replied. ‘Honestly, I don’t know what you said to him, but he’s become very helpful around the place. As for the two of us . . . well, we’re getting there. We’ve talked about –’ she hesitated, as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to say the words – ‘his affair, and this woman who claims to be his daughter . . .’
‘I’m pretty sure she is, Mum,’ Paula said gently.
‘And we’re just trying to get on with things now. There are only so many times you can hear your husband yapping plaintively on about how sorry he is, before it gets right on your wick. So I’ve said okay and never mind, and all the rest of it. But the thing is, Paula . . .’
The children at the next table were now whacking each other on their helmets with plastic Viking swords, and Paula had to lean in closer to hear. ‘Yes?’ she asked apprehensively, cutting her scone in half.
‘The thing is . . .’ Jeanie repeated, putting a hand up to her face suddenly, as if in shame. ‘You’re going to think me a terrible person now. But the truth is, I didn’t behave very well on holiday myself.’
‘STOP THAT THIS MINUTE,’ the woman on the next table hissed just then, snatching swords off her children and shoving them out of reach. (Paula always rather loved seeing unruly children and harassed parents out in public; it never failed to make her feel better about her own mothering skills, or lack of.) Then Jeanie’s words percolated through the clamour.
‘What do you mean?’ Paula asked. ‘What did you do?’ she went on, when no reply came. ‘Mum?’
Jeanie sighed. ‘I had a lot of fun, put it like that,’ she said, sipping her tea. ‘Perhaps . . .’ Her hand trembled as she set the cup down. ‘Perhaps rather too much fun.’
Uh-oh. Paula wasn’t sure she liked the sound of this. Please say that her mum wasn’t about to confess to having indulged in rampant sex all around Madeira. ‘When you say “too much fun”,’ she began delicately, her mind now thoroughly boggled, ‘you’re not saying . . . Mum, you didn’t have a fling yourself, did you?’
There was an awful moment of silence before Jeanie slowly shook her head. ‘No. Not exactly. But I wanted to,’ she admitted, her voice low. ‘And I might have done, if . . .’ She looked agonized. ‘If the man in question hadn’t been too much of a gentleman.’
‘Oh, Mum,’ said Paula, half-appalled, half-enthralled. ‘But you didn’t, so—’
‘I drank too much, I acted like a silly schoolgirl, I had this ridiculous makeover, which doesn’t even suit me,’ Jeanie said despondently, flicking her fingers at the ends of her hair.
‘So what? You were on holiday! Give yourself a break,’ Paula cried. ‘And your hair will grow back anyway, if you’re not keen.’ It was on the tip of her tongue to lean forward conspiratorially, as she would have done with a friend, and ask if the gentleman in question had been hot, until she remembered her dad’s mournful face of recent weeks. ‘I take it Dad doesn’t know about this,’ she said instead.
Jeanie turned pale beneath her tan. ‘Goodness, no, and I’m not planning to tell him either. This is strictly between you and me. I just wanted to get it off my chest – to confess my wickedness. I hope you don’t mind. Honestly, nothing happened, except for me making a fool of myself. Being a silly old woman.’
‘You’re not a silly old woman,’ Paula said. ‘Look, we’ve all done daft things we regret. It’s just part of being human.’ Now she felt sorry for her mum, whose lip was wobbling. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, patting her hand. ‘Honestly, Mum. And you know I can keep a secret.’
‘Thank you, darling. Anyway, this is why I can’t be too angry with your dad any more,’ Jeanie said with a sigh. ‘Because I know what it is to be tempted. And it’s easier than you think.’ She pulled a guilty face and nibbled a small piece of teacake, the very image of the contrite wife. It didn’t last long, though. Because then her eyes glittered and the contrition was gone again. ‘It was really fun, though, flirting with a handsome man who wasn’t your father,’ she confided, leaning forward. ‘Just a little bit anyway.’
‘Mum!’
‘I did feel naughty. Because I’d never done it before! And it made me feel very womanly. Very minxy. My goodness, I was a different person, I can tell you.’
‘Mum!’ Paula cried again, almost choking on her scone. ‘Please! I’m not sure I want to hear this.’ Minxy indeed. What had got into her?
‘Sorry,’ Jeanie said, although she didn’t look that sorry, to be fair. ‘I’ll be doing all my flirting with your dad from now on, don’t worry. But . . . do you think I’m awful? And if so, do you think you can forgive me for it?’
Paula looked at her mahogany-tanned, choppy-haired mother and smiled. ‘You’re not awful,’ she assured her. ‘And as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to forgive.’ Then she tapped her nose. ‘Mum’s the word.’
The conversation turned, thankfully, to more cheering subjects: first, to the fact that Bunny was coming out of hospital later that day and, even better, that she and Dave were going to get married in the spring. ‘A wedding to look forward to, isn’t it lovely?’ Jeanie cried, clapping her hands together happily. Then they discussed the details of Luke’s birthday tea, due to be held in two days’ time, and whether Paula was sure she didn’t mind having it at her house this time. (Yes, Paula was sure. Her mum had been an admirable captain of the Good Ship Mortimer for decades, but now it was Paula’s turn to step up to the wheel.)
All this talk of parties reminded Paula that she still hadn’t got very far with her present-buying for Luke. There was something about working in the city centre and having all the shops on her doorstep that meant she rather took them for granted, always ending up in a panicked last-minute rush before birthdays and Christmas.
Luckily, just as she and her mum parted ways, full of tea and scones, Paula’s phone flashed up a message from Matt: a photo of him posing with an electric guitar in the music shop. Present idea? read the caption.
She smiled to herself. That husband of hers was a mind-reader sometimes. Perfect, she typed back. Then, because her mum’s words about flirting were still echoing around her head, and because she had been struck by a rush of warmth for Matt, she sent another message immediately afterwards. The present idea’s not bad, either, she typed with a winking-face emoji.
Her phone rang in the next second. ‘Shall I buy it, then? I mean . . . it’s a bit more than our budget, but he’ll love it,’ Matt said. Then, with a rather sheepish air, he added, ‘I quite love it as well. Had a little go at “Stairway to Heaven” in the shop, I think the guy was impressed.’
‘I’m amazed he hasn’t asked you to be in his band,’ Paula said, rolling her eyes. The keys to the property she’d viewed earlier jingled in her pocket as she walked along, and suddenly the most outrageous idea popped into her head. Maybe her mum wasn’t the only one who could be a minx. ‘Hey, so you’re in town too,’ she said thoughtfully, remembering the thick, soft carpet in the living room of the gorgeous Georgian townhouse. Shag-pile by name . . . ‘Don’t suppose you fancy doing something a little bit naughty, do you?’
‘With you, always,’ he replied at once. ‘What are we talking?’
‘You buy that guitar,’ she told him, knowing how easily he could be sidetracked, ‘and then come and meet me.’ She gave him the address of the house, her fingers winding around the keys in her pocket. Now who was being awful? She could get sacked for this, if anyone found out. Ah, sod it. Sometimes you had to bend the rules for a bit of fun.
He gave a whistle. ‘Paula Brent, I never thought I’d see the day,’ he said. ‘You want me to serenade you in a posh empty house – is that what you’re saying?’
‘Something way filthier than that,’ she replied. She lowered her voice, making it breathily suggestive. ‘Hurry up now. I’ll be waiting.’ Then she quickened her step, feeling positively devilish. Oh my goodness. Was she really going to do this? Yes, she blooming well was.
Barely had she put the phone back in her bag, however, than it rang again. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, answering it with a laugh in her voice, ‘you’ve gone and bought yourself one as well.’
There was a pause, and then an unfamiliar voice spoke – a voice that wasn’t Matt at all. ‘Um . . . Is that Paula’s phone?’
Shit, and that was probably a client, and now she’d made a right tit of herself, she realized in the next moment. Not very professional. ‘Sorry, yes, this is Paula speaking,’ she said, trying to sound more sensible and businesslike.
‘Paula, hi,’ said the woman on the other end of the line. ‘This is Frankie.’