Huntsford Castle looked spectacular, a bright twinkling light in the black winter sky. Flaming torches lined the drive, the long windows of the house glowed amber like jack-o’-lanterns and tea-lights floated gently around the moat like an angelic collar. It was eight o’clock on Christmas Eve. Guests were still streaming in, some carrying extravagantly wrapped presents, others just an air of privilege and sophistication. Even though it was always held on Christmas Eve, everybody always made the effort to go to Lord Balcon’s Huntsford Ball. Ex-Cabinet ministers, Mayfair players, locals from the estate, socialites, artists, even a smattering of Maria’s opera crowd: anybody who’d been sent a ticket made the effort to come, however foul Oswald’s behaviour had been throughout the rest of the year. And they were all rewarded by a spectacle the moment they stepped through the door. The fire roared in the Great Hall, jazz flowed through air that smelt of spices and pine trees, the staircase was polished so brightly it shone like a conker, the muskets on the oak-panelled walls gleamed. Huntsford was on parade, and it had never looked so good.
Upstairs, in her old bedroom, Venetia was not in the party spirit. The sound of laughter, music and conversation floated up the stairs, but it wasn’t nearly enough to get her in the mood. Since she’d returned from New York she’d been eaten up by rage, made worse by not knowing what to do about it.
The easiest thing to do would be to cut Oswald out of her life completely. Not turn up to the ball. Not come running every time he picked up the phone. Not pretend that his bullying was acceptable behaviour. But it was not as simple as all that, was it? Now he was part of her business, she couldn’t just block out his existence. Some sort of confrontation was necessary, inevitable. So she’d turned up to the ball without any exact plan of action about what she was going to say or do, just a resolve that she had to do something.
Her eyes moved to a stack of presents peeping out from her Mulberry leather holdall on the bed. Gifts for Cate, Serena, Camilla, Mr and Mrs Collins. But nothing for Oswald. It was a small mark of her defiance, but a step forward. She had never fought with her father before, but the prospect of confrontation filled her with a strangely perverse power. Staring at herself in the long mirror of her dressing table, she decided to have a last-minute change of outfit, swapping her elegant cream organza shift-dress for an altogether much stronger look. She took it off and squeezed herself into a fitted, pewter-grey Prada cocktail dress, adding her highest thin pointed heels. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon, a diamond tennis bracelet dangled confidently on her wrist. She felt armour-plated, strong, in control. She exhaled slowly, looking at the reflection. For a moment she half expected to see Jonathon behind her, sitting on the bed, adjusting his cuffs or pulling on a brogue with a shoehorn. Closing her eyes, she listened to her breathing for a moment, then turned out the light and went to join the party.
‘There you are,’ said Cate, appearing on the landing just outside Venetia’s room. ‘I was just coming to find you. The party’s beginning to fill up and Daddy’s been asking where we all are.’
A look of slight embarrassment flashed across Cate’s face. ‘And there’s one other thing,’ she said hesitantly.
‘What?’ said Venetia, walking towards the top of the staircase.
Cate took a moment before answering. ‘I hope you’re not going to be angry with me, but –’ there was a guilty pause – ‘I’ve invited Jack Kidman.’
Cate saw her sister’s face light up at the mention of Jack’s name, then turn suddenly angry and flustered. ‘You’ve done what?’
Venetia felt her pulse race. She hadn’t seen Jack since Jonathon’s death. No matter how much she had wanted to see him over the past three months, to be held in his arms, to be reassured and encouraged by him, she couldn’t bring herself to contact him, constantly reminding herself of the promise she’d made when she had seen Jonathon’s burnt, lifeless body in the mortuary. Jonathon might not have been the love of her life, but she had still mourned, and she knew she could not cope with the guilt of continuing the affair with Jack on top of those feelings of grief and loneliness. She had lost Luke, Jonathon, the chance to have a baby, and then she had lost Jack too. All at once, the year flashed in front of her, unfolding like a macabre slideshow. It had one overriding theme: it was all about loss. She didn’t want to see Jack and be reminded.
‘How dare you?’ said Venetia, almost choking on her words. The two women moved back into the shadows of the west wing so that they could not be seen and their raised voices could not be heard by the rest of the party.
Cate shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, but …’
Actually, Cate wasn’t sorry. She knew her sister needed something to stop the guilt that was slowly beginning to crush her. She grabbed her by her shoulders and glared at her. ‘Van, will you stop being such a martyr and see him? You need him.’
‘I don’t need anyone, Cate. I certainly don’t need your interfering.’
‘Just see him.’
Venetia turned away, shaking her head, already realizing that she was excited at the prospect of Jack Kidman being just downstairs.
‘Where is he then?’ she said icily.
‘He’s outside. I don’t think he’ll come in unless you invite him in yourself. Go on, go.’
Venetia nodded her head so gently that it was barely a movement. She made her way down the staircase, her delicate hand gripping the polished banister so tightly her knuckles went pale.
People were still filing in through the vast front doors, handing their invitations to black-tied security guards and accepting a flute of champagne from one of the many white-tailed serving staff. As she weaved through the crowd, people called out to greet her, some kissing her on the cheek, others offering awkward condolences. The chilly night air hit her as she looked out into the darkness; the line of blazing torches stretched off down the drive, fading to specks of orange light. The heels of her peacock-blue-satin shoes crunched along the gravel and she lost her footing, turning her ankle slightly. She wobbled slightly again on the loose stones, holding her champagne flute aloft, and looked around. Flanking both sides of the house were long lines of expensive cars that had brought the guests here. Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, BMWs, Range Rovers. Nearest to the house, she could see a familiar shape propped up against the bumper of Oswald’s 1922 Rolls-Royce, the man’s face lit up by the glow from one of the guttering torches. Her heart flipped as she realized it was Jack. He was in a black tailored dinner jacket, his hair had been cut slightly. His chin was lowered, but his eyes looked up, sexy and twinkling in the light of the flame. She took a quick sip of champagne to steady herself. She had come here tonight to be strong, not to be weak. Jack Kidman represented weakness.
‘Happy Christmas, Van,’ he said softly, his voice almost getting lost in the hum of noise in the background. She remained motionless, trying to stare coolly at him.
‘I nearly didn’t come,’ he continued.
‘So did I,’ said Venetia.
Silence. They could hear the crackle of the torch at Jack’s side.
‘What are you doing here, Jack?’ asked Venetia finally.
‘Cate invited me.’
‘No, what are you really doing here?’
He laughed softly to himself. ‘This really isn’t my usual style,’ he said, trying to lighten the atmosphere between them. ‘If I’m told to stay away, I usually get the message.’
‘Well, why haven’t you then?’ she said curtly. What was her problem? She missed him. She might have told him not to contact her any more, but a part of her had been desperate for him to turn up on her doorstep.
‘Sometimes I can’t help myself,’ he said quietly.
She looked at his face. It was earnest, hopeful. ‘I’ve spent the last three months trying to work out how we ended up like this,’ he added.
She must be strong. But her aristocratic stiff upper lip didn’t feel particularly stiff right now. She bit it so hard she could feel a rush of blood to the skin.
‘What isn’t clear, Jack?’ asked Venetia, straightening her back. ‘We were having an affair, I betrayed my husband.
He’s dead now. Maybe you can’t work out how that changed things, but for me it’s patently obvious.’
‘Van, why are you doing this to yourself?’ asked Jack suddenly, looking her directly in the eye. ‘You’re miserable, you feel guilty, OK, I give you that. But why can’t you let yourself be happy?’
‘Don’t come here to judge me,’ she snapped, jerking her hand for emphasis and spilling her champagne.
‘Listen to yourself! That’s not you!’ said Jack, pushing himself upright. ‘You’re behaving like the person I first met back in Seville. Angry, suppressed, wound up like a little toy, not letting yourself be the real you. You’re not that person, Van. Let yourself out!’
Deep down, she knew he was right, but she couldn’t accept it – not now, not when she had steeled herself to be so strong with her father. Crippled with bitterness, she wasn’t going to let herself be talked into anything or be manipulated by any man ever again.
‘Let me say it again, Jack,’ she said coolly. ‘My husband died. That changed things. That changed everything. I’m not the same person.’
‘You never really loved him.’ Jack’s voice was quiet, daring, unsure of whether he had pushed one boundary too many.
‘I never, ever, said I didn’t love him,’ said Venetia, her voice trembling, loose teardrops beginning to fall onto her cold cheek.
Jack took a moment to watch her standing there, champagne dripping out of her angled flute, like a fragile, broken Hitchcock blonde. He began to move towards her, his arms still by his sides, walking slowly, cautiously, like a man venturing out into the sea to rescue a bobbing dinghy. Venetia didn’t move, just staring at some unfocused point, letting the teardrops fall. When he was inches away, his hands reached out, pulling her in gently towards his body. As if she were floating, Venetia allowed herself to drift towards him. His grip tightened around her slender body and she let the weight of her head fall on his shoulder. She was sobbing now, leaving a dampness on the black fabric of his jacket shoulder.
‘I love you, I miss you, I want to be with you. Let it go, let everything go,’ he said, whispering into the paleness of her hair.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Venetia, pulling her head back so she could look into his eyes. ‘I don’t want to feel like this, I don’t want to be like this, but he’s made me like this.’
‘Who? Jonathon?’ asked Jack.
‘My father. My father.’
Jack’s eyes narrowed in anger.
‘He’s trying to ruin my business, control me, manipulate me. He wants to take everything I want away.’ She was crying hard now, in big, gulping sobs.
‘Tell me what’s happened,’ said Jack softly, leading her back to the bonnet of the car. Sitting huddled in the warm crook of Jack’s arm, Venetia told him what she had found out in New York. How Oswald had betrayed her, paid Luke to stay away from her.
‘I have to find out why,’ said Venetia, spinning around to look at him, suddenly ready to confront her father again.
‘I have to ask him; I have to find out the truth.’
‘What good is the truth if it’s only going to make you more miserable?’ replied Jack slowly. ‘We’re going to go into the party, we’re going to have a great time, and tomorrow I’m going to take you back to London and we’re going to make ourselves happy.’
‘But I have to,’ said Venetia softly.
‘You don’t have to do anything,’ said Jack, pulling her close, ‘except kiss me.’
Even at eight months pregnant, Serena was still beautiful. Towering over most guests, her billowing scarlet dress flowed from her ample breasts in an Empire line. A huge aquamarine cocktail ring sat on her middle finger like a duck’s egg, twinkling in the low light. Even her chopped hair had been sorted out with a few subtle extensions, so it now framed her face beautifully, flowing past her shoulders like shiny drapes of gold. She took a deep breath as she swept down the staircase above the Great Hall, realizing it was the first time in five years that she had been at the party alone. She rubbed her tummy wistfully – no, she wasn’t on her own.
‘Serena. There you are.’
Serena took a breath as she saw the tall figure of Roman LeFey standing in the hallway smiling awkwardly at his old friend.
‘Roman. You came,’ she replied, her megawatt smile lighting up her face.
She walked towards him, feeling a conflicting sense of relief and embarrassment. She hadn’t seen him since the Met Gala, when she had not worn the gown he had specially made for her and their friendship had deteriorated because of it. At the time she’d dismissed him. A queen having a hissy-fit, she remembered telling Michael. But when she’d received the scarlet poinsettia from him, it was another reminder of how she had let pettiness come in between her and the things that mattered. Cate had been right that afternoon in the square of The Boltons. It was never too late to make things right. She had reciprocated Roman’s gift with a huge holly wreath sent to his atelier in Rue Cambon, along with an invitation to the Balcon Christmas Ball.
‘Of course I came,’ grinned Roman. ‘Patric and I were going to spend Christmas in London anyway. And Patric was dying to see Huntsford.’
Roman looked her up and down appreciatively. ‘Still not wearing one of my dresses.’
For a second she winced with embarrassment until she realized her friend was joking. ‘Well, I didn’t know you made maternity wear. Hardly anything fits any more. I’m a whale.’
‘Hardly,’ said Roman. ‘When is it due?’
‘Officially in three weeks’ time. Elected C-section. Too posh to push, you know me.’
‘But it could come at any time!’ he said, in mock horror. ‘We’ll have to airlift you to the Portland!’
‘Don’t say that.’
They laughed and hugged, the friendship coming back to life with each gesture, sentence, expression.
‘I’m sorry. I was stupid,’ said Serena softly.
Roman took her hand and shook his head, smiling slowly. ‘You don’t need to say it.’
In the ballroom, where the Tempest Jazz Band were halfway through a Cole Porter medley, Cate Balcon floated happily around the dance floor, unaware that she looked as if she’d been lit from within. Her pale pink Chloé dress skimmed off her curves and the large scoop neck showed off her round cleavage. Her hair had been fastened back, tendrils falling around her face, lips dabbed with a rouge gloss on a smile that was as wide as the Thames. She was thoroughly enjoying being on the arm of Nick Douglas, who had been charming and lovely and attentive all evening.
It was the first time that Cate had ever brought anyone to one of her father’s balls. Cate being single at Christmas was her own cruel and personal standing joke, as she thought back to the number of times she’d been dumped in December. Her mind skipped back to the dull conversations she’d had at this annual ordeal, talking trade deficits with the men or society gossip with the women, when actually she was aching with loneliness and resolving to get somebody by her side the following Christmas Eve. No wonder the Huntsford Ball had always seemed like a chore that had to be suffered.
But tonight was different. For once she was not jealous that Nick was attracting a lot of attention; she was simply proud that they all saw him with her. At the back of her mind was the cautious expectation that something might happen between them tonight. They were friends, yes, and that friendship was wonderful, but surely not every friendship was like this, she’d asked herself time and time again. They didn’t kiss, make love, wake up in each other’s arms; but the past few weeks they’d felt too close, too intimate, as if their friendship had become so swollen and full that it had spilled over. But into what?
She looked up at him, holding onto her arms and trying to keep up with the fast beat of the music. It was love, she thought suddenly, the idea popping into her head like a light bulb coming on. Away from the hard work, the worry and the stress of running a business, away from all that, wrapped in a bubble of happiness on the dance floor, she could admit it to herself now. She loved him. The song ended. Nick took two drinks from a passing waiter and they both collapsed onto a chaise longue on one side of the room.
‘I haven’t seen Venetia and Jack come in yet,’ said Nick, looking through the ballroom doors into the hallway, which was crowded with people.
‘Hmm, I hope I haven’t goofed up there,’ said Cate, looking worried and brushing a strand of hair back from her cheek.
‘Oh, you’re just spreading a bit of Christmas love,’ laughed Nick. ‘Don’t worry, you did the right thing, definitely.’ He grabbed a sun-dried tomato sitting on a disc of bruschetta and popped it in his mouth. ‘I don’t know why you were so dreading coming. This is such a great party. I thought your old man was skint.’
‘I thought so too,’ mumbled Cate. She had to admit however that tonight’s party was bigger and better than ever, and that wasn’t just to do with her buoyant mood. She picked up a spiky green holly leaf, part of a wreath decorating a small table, and pricked Nick playfully. ‘Anyway, you,’ she said, looking at him sipping a Diet Coke while she drank her flute of Krug, ‘why are you not drinking?’
‘I’m driving,’ said Nick, looking surprised. ‘I thought you knew that.’
Cate was feeling a little brave tonight. ‘But I said you could stay,’ she said, feeling her cheeks flush lightly, hoping that it was camouflaged by the peach blush. ‘No one comes to the Huntsford Christmas Ball and doesn’t drink.’
‘So what are all these people going to do?’ asked Nick, looking around the room. ‘It’s Christmas Day tomorrow. Everyone’s going to want to get back to London or wherever after the party, aren’t they?’
‘Darling,’ said Cate, making her voice as plummy as she could, ‘simply everyone here has a driver.’
‘Ah, of course!’ smiled Nick.
‘Go on, what are you going to do?’ pressed Cate. ‘We have seventeen bedrooms. I’m sure there’s room for one more person.’
Shit, had she sounded too pushy? She was sick of being so crap with men, sick of waiting to be seduced when she could do something about it. Suddenly she thought back to their night in Milan and winced.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Nick. Cate breathed a sigh of relief. No rejection just yet. ‘I mean, wouldn’t your dad be pretty furious to find me here on Christmas morning?’
‘Oh yes, I forgot,’ said Cate good-naturedly. ‘He’d probably skin you alive with the turkey carving knife.’
‘Well, in that case, I’ll stay, so long as I can make a quick getaway in the morning.’
Cate felt a little arrow of hope shoot into her heart. ‘Brilliant! Well, I’d better go and get us two glasses of champagne to celebrate.’
‘You have no idea, have you?’ scolded Oswald, waving his finger at the head waiter, who was visibly trembling. ‘At this rate we’re going to be out of champagne by ten o’clock. You’ll have noticed that my guests are like gannets when it comes to alcohol, so you need to show a little initiative.’
Oswald looked at the dark-haired, middle-aged man standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchens, sweating in his black tails, and stabbed a finger at the twenty white boxes stacked up at the end of the room labelled ‘Cava’. ‘I want you to fill up those empty bottles of Moët with that stuff there. Everybody will be too pissed to notice anyway. Put them in the flutes on the trays, too. Go on, man, what are you waiting for?’ he shouted.
All of the serving staff looked at Oswald nervously and upped their work-rate by fifty per cent. Oswald turned to leave the kitchen, tugging down his white silk waistcoat and allowing himself a self-satisfied smile. What a night, what a party, he thought to himself, what a turnout! Two High Court judges, twelve members of the House of Lords, a handful of important American buyers from the art world; he hoped Mark Robertson was charming them sufficiently. No doubt he would have to intervene at some point: he couldn’t trust anybody to do anything properly, certainly not Robertson. Still, it was quite a night.
As he strode out into the corridor, he collided with Venetia coming the other way. Venetia panicked. She’d been studiously avoiding her father all evening, especially since she had come back into the party with Jack. She had only ventured down into the kitchens to see if she could find Mrs Collins to let her know that she had a present for her and Mr Collins. And now here he was, face to face with her.
‘Come down to help the staff?’ asked Oswald sarcastically.
‘No,’ replied Venetia coolly, trying to back away from him. She had left Jack in the ballroom talking to Cate, Nick and Camilla, and wished she had him by her side to strengthen her resolve.
‘So who’s your little friend?’ asked her father mockingly. ‘Didn’t take you very long, did it?’
‘What do you mean, “Didn’t take you very long”?’
‘Well, Jonathon’s hardly cold in the ground, is he?’ said Oswald callously. ‘And you’ve clearly got the next one lined up. What is he this time? Writer? Waiter? Wastrel?’
Venetia could feel something snap inside her like a rubber band wound too tight. ‘Why?’ asked Venetia, taking a deep breath, ‘are you going to try to pay him off, too?’
A cloud drifted across Oswald’s face. ‘Pay him? Why? Is he an escort? That wouldn’t surprise me either.’
‘I was actually referring to Luke Bainbridge,’ said Venetia, trying to sound as composed as possible.
‘What are you talking about?’ said Oswald arrogantly.
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about,’ hissed Venetia. ‘I met Luke in New York and he told me everything.’
For a second, Oswald actually looked flustered.
‘I know everything, Daddy,’ she hissed, willing herself to be strong and resolute. ‘I know you paid him to stay away from me. I know you – or someone you paid – ransacked his flat, that you threatened him, that you lied to him and said that I didn’t think he was good enough for me.’
Oswald grabbed her by the arm and then dropped it contemptuously, as if he had had some sudden change of heart. ‘And you choose to believe him?’ he sneered. ‘Your stupidity and gullibility surprises even me sometimes.’
‘Not so stupid that I won’t be manipulated by you one last time, Daddy,’ she spat. ‘You’re pathetic. You want to control everybody just to make yourself feel better.’
She could tell Oswald did not know which emotion to feel first: anger or shock. It was the first time Venetia had ever raised her voice to him, let alone spoken back to him in that manner.
‘Whatever did I do to deserve you?’ said Oswald, shaking his head, hands on hips. ‘You really are so ungrateful, aren’t you? Always taking and giving me nothing. Fine, you’re quite right, I got rid of Bainbridge. Because I had met Jonathon and thought he was far more suitable for you.’
Venetia spluttered. Yes, she’d been introduced to her husband by her father, but she hadn’t, for one second, thought it had been so calculated.
‘You would never have amounted to anything if I hadn’t helped you,’ continued Oswald scornfully. ‘I introduce you to someone decent and what does that make me? An ogre?’
‘No, a pimp,’ replied Venetia under her breath.
He looked down on her condescendingly. ‘What’s it like to always make the wrong choices, Venetia? Why can’t you ever get anything right? You really had an opportunity with Jonathon, but you wasted it, didn’t you? Was anybody really surprised he ended up having to sleep with men to fill his life with a little excitement?’
She felt herself tremble with rage. Instinctively she drew her arm back and the glass in her hand tipped back, spilling champagne onto the Persian carpet behind her.
‘What’s going on?’ Jack ran up behind Venetia and grabbed her arm just in time.
‘Is everything OK, Van?’ he asked, gently pulling her hand down to her side. He stared coldly at Oswald. ‘Why don’t you just give your daughter a break?’ he said sternly.
‘Oh calm down, young man,’ laughed Oswald, looking back to see that several waiters had begun to crane their necks around the door to see what the commotion was. ‘Not in front of the servants.’
‘Well,’ said Jack, drawing himself up to his full height, ‘does that mean you’d like to step outside to sort this out?’ He motioned to the stable door at the back of the kitchen.
Oswald snorted at him and looked down patronizingly. ‘I doubt a duel is quite your speed is it, young man? Besides, I haven’t brought my rapier.’
There was a thud as Venetia let the flute fall to the floor, as if she was simply too exhausted to hold it any more.
‘Are you proud of yourself?’ snarled Jack, looking at Oswald. ‘Are you proud that you’ve made your daughter like this?’
‘What? Proud of a daughter that’s just tried to assault her own father? Very proud,’ he mocked.
‘She’s her own worst enemy, Venetia. You’ll find that out soon enough,’ Oswald added with a callous laugh.
‘I don’t need you to tell me anything about her,’ said Jack.
‘No, I imagine you’re right, young man,’ said Oswald, straightening his jacket, ‘I imagine you’ve seen it all already.’
Now it was Venetia’s turn to get between Jack and Oswald, reaching out to grab his wrist before he could form a fist. ‘Jack. Don’t. He’s not worth it.’
‘How dare you try and abuse me in my own house?’ said Oswald coolly, smoothing down his dinner jacket. ‘I don’t know who you are or where you came from, but I do know where I want you to go: out there,’ he said, pointing through the kitchen to the door. ‘Go on. Get out.’
Jack stared coldly back at him and began gently to pull Venetia away. ‘Come on, let’s go,’ he said.
But Venetia simply squeezed his hand, then turned the other way and ran. She ran off down the corridor, away from them both. She turned around, glared at Oswald, and ran up the stairs towards her room.
‘Miss Balcon. Can I have a word?’
Serena looked round to see one of the doormen motioning towards the door. ‘We have someone outside without a ticket,’ he whispered. ‘I can’t let him in without your say-so.’
‘Who is it?’ asked Serena impatiently, wondering if Elmore had decided to come after all.
‘Says his name is Michael Sarkis.’
If she’d been wearing high heels, Serena felt sure she would have fallen over. ‘Are you sure?’ She felt a muddle of emotion: apprehension, excitement, outrage. How dare he come to Huntsford? On this night of all nights? On the other hand, she thought, feeling a thrill shoot down her spine, what did he want with her on Christmas Eve?
Part of her wanted to leave him in the cold for at least an hour – all night, preferably. But her curiosity was too much. She hadn’t seen him since the summer. There’d been the odd terse phone call, but mainly they’d been communicating through lawyers trying to wring out a mutually acceptable level of maintenance payments for the baby. They’d finally approached a level of money Serena considered almost generous, but she wanted to screw him for every penny she could get. Over the last few months, Michael Sarkis had become a folk devil in her mind, the reason for all her failures and problems – the break-up with Tom, her career in freefall. She’d blame him for stubbing her toe, given half the chance.
‘Let him in,’ said Serena. ‘Tell him to come to the study.’
She wanted to keep him out of view of her father who would freak if he saw him here. While Oswald had been furious to find out that Serena had been ‘stupid enough’ to get herself pregnant, the main vent of his wrath had been directed at Sarkis. He’d never been able to attack the man’s success – Serena was convinced that Michael’s immense wealth irked Oswald as much as the pregnancy – but he’d taken every other swipe he could: flash wop, robber baron, whore lover.
Serena took a seat in the study, pretending to study a weighty text, and waited for him to arrive, desperately trying to summon up all the clever put-downs she’d been composing over the past months. The knock on the door was timorous. Having only had a few minutes to prepare herself to meet him, she was taken aback at how quickly her icy composure disappeared once he stood in the doorway. Bloody hell, he looked good, she thought, taking in the way his midnight-blue Armani tux strained over powerful shoulders. His hair was shorter, steel grey at the sides, but it suited him. He had a tan that suggested he’d been in places other than New York. Compared to Oswald’s throng of upright, elegantly English party guests, Sarkis was like a slick cosmopolitan shot of sex appeal. She fixed him with an icy stare.
‘Hello Serena.’
‘Michael,’ she nodded.
He sat down on a leather sofa opposite her, playing with a silver bracelet around his wrist.
There was a silence as their eyes locked, electricity bouncing off the ceiling.
‘I was in London …’ he said finally.
‘No you weren’t,’ she replied curtly. ‘What do you want?’
‘How are you?’
‘Cut the crap, Michael. Why are you here?’
‘Serena, come on. Let’s at least be civil.’
She stared at him silently. ‘Drink?’ she said finally, taking the crystal stopper from a decanter of brandy.
He nodded. ‘Jim Berger said you turned down my last offer of money for the baby?’
Serena could feel his eyes greedily appraising her, his eyes focusing on her deep cleavage. ‘Frankly it was an insult,’ she said tartly.
‘Insult?’ replied Michael, furrowing his brow. ‘I’d have thought it was enough to live in luxury. Even for you.’
‘It depends on your idea of luxury, Michael,’ said Serena, angry at herself for feeling attracted to him.
‘Anyway. I don’t think it’s necessary … The money, that is,’ he said slowly.
That threw her. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked cautiously.
‘I mean I have been a fool.’
‘You could say that …
Michael let his hands fall between his legs. ‘I was a fool to let all this get out of control, Serena. After what happened in Cannes, I should have tried harder to stop what we had falling apart.’
She took a breath, wrong-footed. ‘But you did. You asked for a paternity test. How was I supposed to feel? Flattered?’
‘You wouldn’t take my calls, you wouldn’t see me …’
‘I was livid! You were a shit, Michael. A total shit.’
Michael downed the brandy in one. ‘How do you think I felt when I found out about the baby from the National Enquirer? I thought, fuck you.’ His dark eyes flashed arrogantly and then immediately softened.
‘Well, I’m so sorry I hurt your feelings,’ she said sarcastically. She could sense a grovelling apology and was determined to enjoy it.
‘Help me out here, Serena. I’m here to say sorry. To say I’ve been a grade-A jerk. I want to make it up to you.’
Her eyes opened dramatically, incredulously. ‘You haven’t so much as picked up the phone to me in months, we’ve been conversing through your lawyer, and now you want to “make it up to me”…?’
‘My mother died three weeks ago.’
She stopped herself spitting more hostility in his direction. ‘I’m sorry.’ She knew they were close.
‘Lung cancer. Diagnosed in September, dead by December. I thought, at least she saw her son become a success. At least she could be proud of me. And you know what she told me?’ Serena shook her head. ‘She told me to get my arse into gear. Sort my life out. I couldn’t believe it.’ He dropped his chin mournfully into his chest.
‘She said “Where’s your base?”,’ he continued, his voice cracking. ‘“Where’s your anchor? What do you come home to?”’
Serena was tempted to reply your whores, but bit her lip just in time.
‘Michael, where is this going?’ She wasn’t sure what to think: whether he deserved her sympathy or whether it was just another piece of brilliant showmanship designed to win her over.
‘I can have a family,’ he said softly. ‘It’s right here. That’s our child,’ he said, standing up to move towards her, pointing a finger at her belly.
Serena took a step away from him. ‘No, Michael it is not your child. You gave up that right when you fucked those whores and then cut me out of your life.’
‘Please, Serena, I know what I’ve done. I know it was wrong. My mom’s death showed me that. I just want to be back in your life. Our child’s life. Give me a chance.’
‘What do you want me to say?’ she asked quietly.
‘Say you’ll be my wife.’
He delved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a ring box, flipping open the lid to reveal an enormous emerald-cut diamond – at least ten carats, thought Serena appreciatively – flanked by two smaller stones. She reached out with her finger to touch it. She longed to slip it on and see the stone dance and twinkle in the soft light of the study. She was mesmerized. It wasn’t just the jewel – she’d worn many beautiful pieces before, it was everything that was attached to it. He was offering her her old life back: private jets, beautiful homes, billions in the bank, a legacy for her child. There were so many reasons to jump at his offer, and so many more to run screaming away from it. She looked at him and her groin ached, her mind thinking about the incredible sex they once had. Then an uncomfortable thought stopped her. Is that what it was all about: sex and money? Didn’t that make her little more than those women in Cannes? She didn’t want to consider it.
‘I need to think about this, Michael. You could say you’ve caught me a little by surprise.’
‘Of course. But please, do think about it.’
She nodded slowly. ‘I should get back to the party.’
Michael Sarkis wasn’t used to giving up that easily. ‘I have the plane at Farnborough Airfield. We could fly to my hotel in Vegas. We should do it on New Year’s Eve. I can fly your sisters over. Your father –’
‘Michael. Slow down.’
‘Can I see you tomorrow?’
‘Michael. Please.’
‘When?’ he urged.
‘I’ll call when I’m ready.’
Oswald stepped outside to get some fresh air, feeling a little bloated from the mix of brandy, champagne and attention that had been lavished on him from grateful party guests. He pulled on his Cohiba and exhaled a ring of dove-grey smoke into the chilly night air, glad to have just a couple of minutes alone to re-energize.
‘I saw that little scene down in the kitchen before.’ A voice came out from a shadow and a face lit up in the glow of a cigarette.
‘Declan O’Connor,’ said Oswald, recognizing his jockey’s brother. ‘I don’t recall inviting you.’
‘I came with Finbar, didn’t I? Of course you did invite Fierce Temper’s prize-winning jockey?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Oswald, angry to be caught out by this foul man. ‘But you could have made an effort,’ he continued, looking at Declan’s scruffy linen jacket and black jeans. ‘This is a ball, not a hoedown. Anyway, what are you talking about? What little scene in the kitchen?’
‘Being so rude to your poor staff who are working so hard.’ Declan pulled on the cigarette cupped in his hand. ‘Oswald Balcon really should learn some manners.’
Rage gripped Oswald’s throat as he thought back to the death threat he’d received on the night of the races at Newmarket.
‘It was you,’ he growled, recognizing quite clearly the mysterious caller’s voice. ‘You little shit, you phoned me up and threatened me.’
Declan threw the half-spent cigarette onto the soil and started to laugh. ‘Don’t be so sensitive,’ he scoffed. ‘Just a bit of fun and games. You shouldn’t have bollocked Finbar that afternoon, should you? Put the wind up you, did we?’
Oswald couldn’t believe the gall of the man, who seemed no more than twenty-five years old.
‘Not only could I have you arrested, I could have you ruined,’ he said haughtily, trying to regain the upper hand.
‘Don’t be like that, Oswald,’ smiled Declan insincerely. ‘You know me and you have a lot in common …
‘Not bloody likely.’
‘You’d be surprised. See, I don’t usually come to parties. Not my scene. But I wanted to talk to you about a little business idea.’
‘Not interested, O’Connor,’ said Oswald, turning to go back into the house.
‘A way we could both make quite a bit of money.’
With party guests starting to mill around them, Declan lowered his voice to tell Oswald his plan.
The older man laughed superiorly when he had finished. ‘Get out of my sight, O’Connor,’ said Oswald. ‘I wouldn’t get my hands dirty with any of your grubby little schemes – not that you’ve a hope in hell with that one.’
He threw his cigar on the floor and deliberately ground it out with his heel. ‘And anyway, when it comes to making money, I have plenty of plans of my own.’
‘Are you all right?’
Camilla had floated through the double doors of the study looking like Helen of Troy. Her hair was swept back from her face and held in place by two Art-Deco clips; her dress, long and floaty and pale lilac, slid off her body so seamlessly it seemed as if the fabric hardly touched her skin. Her turquoise eyes instantly narrowed, however, as she saw Serena sitting on a chair, staring out of the window into the darkness.
‘Serena?’
‘Michael Sarkis has just paid me a visit.’
‘What? At the party?’ said Camilla incredulously. ‘Well, I hope you got him kicked out.’
‘He asked me to marry him,’ she said slowly, still looking out of the window.
Camilla nearly coughed up her cocktail. ‘Bloody hell. That’s a bit out of the blue! What did you say?’ she asked cautiously.
‘I didn’t say anything. I’m not sure how he thinks he can just turn up after months of being an arsehole and expect me to jump at his marriage proposal. After the way he’s treated me.’
Camilla looked at her sister, searching her face. Over the last few months, Serena had changed, mellowed, her hard edges softened: everyone could see that. But she was still the same woman, and a part of her sister would be drawn by the powerful magnet of his wealth and power. Sarkis’s proposal would still be attractive to her, so Camilla knew she had to be careful. Everyone had been glad to see the back of Sarkis – men like that were selfish and damaging – but she knew Serena. The more you joined in with the bad-mouthing of her boyfriends, the more she became drawn to them.
‘So you’re not seriously considering it?’
Serena’s face twinkled enigmatically. ‘But you should have seen the ring.’
‘Has your father given any indication of when the wedding of the year is going to be?’ asked Jennifer.
Jennifer Watchorn had sidled up to Camilla and Serena as soon as they had re-entered the ballroom. She gestured in the direction of Maria Dante, who was parading territorially around the party.
‘I’m not sure it’s any of our business,’ replied Serena, wanting to add that she didn’t really care. She did care, though. She cared a great deal. She had been surprised to learn that the happy couple were due to bring their wedding forward to as soon as February. She really couldn’t think what all the hurry was for, which peeved her more than she cared to admit. Surely it couldn’t be to do with children?
‘How are the two lovely Balcon sisters then?’ said Philip Watchorn good-naturedly, taking the opportunity to kiss both girls on the cheek. ‘I didn’t have much chance to talk to you at the shooting party last week, Camilla, but we’re all very excited about your selection for Esher.’
Philip was a well-known contributor to the Conservative Party coffers and skirted around the edges of politics himself, using his powerful contacts to help further his business empire. Camilla had heard her father talk dismissively about Philip’s connections with the party, saying he was only angling for a life peerage.
‘You must arrange a meeting with my assistant if you would like to discuss your campaign,’ said Philip kindly. Camilla perked up. She could do with having powerful people on her side, particularly with talk of a general election looming within the next eighteen months.
‘I am afraid money talks, young lady,’ he said, patting her on the back. ‘If I were you, I would talk to your father as soon as possible about arranging a fundraiser at Huntsford. I know he lost his seat in the Lords,’ he adopted a wincing expression, ‘but you need to have the family name visibly rallying around – and who wouldn’t want to come to a party here?’ He gestured around the ballroom and downed half a balloon of whisky in one gulp.
‘Yes, actually that is something I’ve been meaning to bring up with Daddy,’ said Camilla. She didn’t know why, but she had a slightly sick feeling in her stomach just talking about it.
Jennifer glanced down at her diamond-encrusted Cartier watch. ‘Don’t forget the fireworks in fifteen minutes,’ she cooed excitedly. ‘Are you going out on the drive or up onto the ramparts to watch them?’
‘Either way, I think I’m going to go and fetch a wrap,’ smiled Camilla. ‘The night is cold and the dress is thin!’
She excused herself and walked up the stairs to her bedroom, where she picked up a fine cream pashmina to put around her shoulders. She was almost back to the door when she heard the distinctive voice of Maria Dante from just outside her room in the corridor. She seemed to be talking to one of her opera friends. Something stopped Camilla from opening the slightly ajar door; instead she stood by the crack to listen to them for a second. ‘Of course the whole place needs gutting,’ said Maria in her singsong Italian accent. Camilla could hear a tapping on her bedroom wall, as if Maria was checking for rot. ‘The English, they do not have the style, n’est-ce pas?’ said a male voice with a French lilt. ‘I think most of the horrible furniture in this house needs to burn with the fireworks.’
‘Obviously, I can’t change everything immediately,’ said Maria, her voice a conspiratorial whisper now, so that Camilla had to lean right up against the door to hear.
‘However, I have a lifetime in which to do what I want with this house,’ she said with a low, gravelly laugh. ‘And this house has got to begin to pay for itself. We could make a fortune hiring it out for these sort of events. Not that Oswald will hear of it at the moment,’ she said, sighing.
‘Why is that?’ asked the Frenchman.
‘He’s so stubborn: it clouds his judgement. The Musical Evening didn’t line his pockets, so now he won’t hear of doing anything commercial with Huntsford.’
‘So how are you going to do it?’
She laughed. It rose in the air as a cackle. ‘I have my ways, cara. I have my ways.’
‘We’d better get going then,’ said Cate to Nick, pulling lightly at the sleeve of his dinner jacket, too afraid to be presumptuous and grab his hand.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Nick, looking around the room. The party didn’t look over.
‘Fireworks at midnight, silly,’ said Cate. ‘Family tradition. Best place to watch them is up on the ramparts of the castle. You might actually enjoy it.’
‘Actually we have a bit of a family tradition,’ said Nick smiling back at her. ‘Not that I go home much, but it’s a tradition I like to keep.’
‘What is it?’
‘Well, we give each other a present on the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve. I’ve got yours here,’ he said, tapping his pocket.
Cate turned to him in surprise. She hadn’t imagined Nick to be the sort to dish out presents, though she based this solely on how careful he was with the company’s money, but she was glad now that she had bought him something. She’d gone late-night shopping the week before and, while she had wanted to buy him something special he’d love like a beautiful Dunhill lighter or a sharp Savile Row suit, she had restrained herself. Extravagant present-giving meant exposing yourself, and there was no way she could open herself to that when he’d barely registered a flicker of interest. Instead she had plumped for a book she knew he’d enjoy: a hardback biography of David Niven, one of his favourite actors. She was pleased with it – she thought she had hit just the right note: a decent gift and yet nothing too personal that might hint at deeper feelings towards him.
‘So do you want me to go and get my present to you?’ she asked, motioning towards the staircase.
‘Well, that’s if you’ve got me anything,’ he said teasingly.
Cate nodded and darted upstairs to fetch the gift, aware that people were starting to move out of the front door or to the stairwell that led up to the ramparts. She quickly grabbed the present, which was wrapped in silver foil paper with a big black bow, tucked it under her arm and went back to Nick.
‘The fireworks? Yes, but let’s go somewhere quieter, just for a few minutes,’ said Nick, shaking his head and guiding her away from the crowds.
Quieter? Cate gulped to herself, what did that mean? Strangely she found herself becoming anxious. She wished she had made a few adjustments in the mirror when she had been in her room. She was sure her hair was probably looking like a scarecrow’s by now.
‘What about the Orangery?’ said Cate. ‘It’s not far, and Daddy usually closes it off for the party. It’s all glass, too, so we’ll be able to see the fireworks without getting pneumonia.’
They weaved through long hallways until they reached the eastern limit of the house. Finally Cate opened two old double doors with a key she found under a Chinese urn. It wasn’t big, but it had one wall and a ceiling of glass that looked out onto total darkness. In the summer, Cate explained, it was full of plants and climbing vines, but now it looked a little neglected. To the left was some large exotic tropical plant, yellow-edged and drooping, and on the other side was a small indoor pond surrounded by a few empty tubs.
‘So …’ said Cate, aware of her growing nervousness.
‘So, it’s five to twelve,’ smiled Nick. ‘Present time!’
‘I suppose I’d better go first,’ said Cate, pulling the package from under her arm. ‘I hope you haven’t got it already,’ she started gabbling. ‘I know you like him
‘Don’t give the game away,’ said Nick, who was still tugging at the silver wrapping paper. Nick’s face burst into a genuine smile when he saw the book; he started to leaf through the pages. Cate was glad she had resisted the urge to write some schmaltzy message on the opening page.
‘That’s fantastic, thanks,’ he smiled, tapping the book’s cover. ‘Now for Cate’s present,’ he grinned.
Nick’s hand disappeared into his pocket and he pulled out a box. She was convinced she saw Nick’s face cloud over with anxiety and embarrassment as he passed it over. It was remarkably well wrapped for a gift from a man, she thought as she pulled at the red ribbon and the present winked at her from under the crisp white paper. She was left holding an old copy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, its spine slightly cracked, its cover a beautiful black-and-white line drawing. It was a first edition.
‘I remembered you loved it. You told me your mum used to read it to you –’
She stopped him, feeling too emotional. ‘I know,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘I’m embarrassed,’ she continued, looking down at the cheap hardback she had bought him.
He grinned. ‘Don’t be. You deserve it.’
Cate looked up at Nick’s face; there was definitely a look there that she did not recognize. His easy confidence seemed to have evaporated into a shy awkwardness. He stepped forward, another foot closer.
‘Cate, I …’
Cate felt a desire to deflect the tension that had suddenly grown between them. She began to babble inanely as if to diffuse it. Stop it, woman, she cursed herself. Stop it. Isn’t this what you wanted?
Finally she took a deep breath and smiled broadly at Nick. ‘What would this year have been like if we hadn’t met?’ she said slowly, aware that his body was only inches from hers now.
‘Dull,’ replied Nick quietly. Suddenly they were not like two friends exchanging gifts on Christmas Eve, but almost two strangers, unaware of what to say to the other. Slowly, Nick put his hand up to her cheek. He was so close now that Cate could feel the heat exuding off his skin. She could see how long his brown eyelashes were, his dark hazel eyes locked on hers, and suddenly she wanted to kiss his eyelids, his neck, his cheek, the soft curve of his lips.
Then the door clattered open and they turned to see Serena framed in the Orangery entrance.
Nick jumped back suddenly at the interruption and Cate almost tripped on her four-inch heels in her haste to get some distance between them.
‘There you are, you two! I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Daddy wants us all together on the ramparts. Oh, sorry! Is this a bad time?’ Serena smiled, suddenly aware of what she had done. ‘I’ll see you two upstairs in a minute, then?’
Serena closed the door behind her as quickly as she had opened it. She felt cross with herself. She was desperate to ask Cate what she thought about Michael’s proposal, but was also hoping she hadn’t ruined it for Cate. She stopped, surprised at herself. She wanted her sister to be happy, and she really did like Nick Douglas, even though he irritatingly reminded her of Tom. Tom’s voice had been honed by three years at RADA, but the underlying accent was still the same, as was the boisterous, slightly silly sense of humour. Dammit. Michael had just asked her to marry him, so why was she thinking about Tom? Already she could hear the sound of the first firework being sent up, howling like a banshee, and she hurried onwards.
Huntsford was a labyrinth of corridors and passages; it even had a secret tunnel dating from Edwardian times to allow the servants to move silently from one end of the house to the other. Serena and her sisters knew every inch of this house, having often used the passageways to hide from their father, or move about without triggering his anger. She headed towards the library, where she knew there was a door behind a bookcase that led straight up to the ramparts.
‘Serena. I hope you’re heading up to the ramparts now?’ Maria Dante had appeared in the corridor ahead of her.
Serena was taken aback to see her there. ‘Not with Daddy?’ she asked with a hint of accusation. There was still something that unsettled her about Maria Dante.
‘We are not quite joined at the hip,’ she smiled.
‘Well, I’m going this way, would you like to come?’ said Serena, consciously making a gesture of goodwill. Serena reached out and touched a gold handle just beneath a pile of books and a door sprang open.
‘A secret passageway,’ said Maria sarcastically. ‘How cloak and dagger!’
‘It’s hardly Agatha Christie,’ said Serena, mildly irritated. ‘Basically there’s only one corridor that connects the kitchen to the front bedrooms. Apparently my great-great-grandfather installed it to stop the servants from having to talk to the master of the house.’
‘Oh, you quaint English,’ said Maria, following Serena into the thin passageway.
It was hardly a catacomb. Serena had never got over her disappointment as a child to find out that the secret passages in Huntsford weren’t at all like a cave in a Famous Five story; they were simply another corridor, albeit out of sight. Still, it was dimly lit and silent, and the darkness was made all the more oppressive by a row of dark family portraits hung on the stone wall. The pale faces of various Balcon ancestors peered down at Maria and Serena like ghouls. Maria was walking behind Serena, the long velvet of her dress swooshing as she walked.
‘You do know how much I’m looking forward to spending Christmas with the family, don’t you?’ said Maria.
Serena couldn’t put up with the pretence any longer. ‘Really? And what are you going to do at this family gathering? Put more drugs in my suitcase and prowlers in my bedroom? Or are you going to go for something a bit more subtle. Bombs in the bathrooms? Rattlesnakes in the beds, perhaps?’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ said Maria, looking startled.
‘Don’t pretend you don’t remember the Huntsford Musical Evening. Your artist liaison manager, Miles, snooping around my bedroom.’
‘Serena, don’t be so stupid. We were not security conscious and there was an intruder. How can you think such a thing about a member of your own family?’
‘Not quite yet, Maria,’ Serena huffed.
‘Well, I will be soon,’ continued Maria smugly. ‘Although by this time next year Oswald and I may have a family of our own. Not that you girls wouldn’t still be family as well, of course,’ she added, as if that was the last thing she believed.
Serena stopped and turned to face her future stepmother. She was smiling in the dark, so all Serena could see were the shadows of her face and the whiteness of her teeth.
‘Really?’ said Serena cattily, unable to stop herself. ‘You are still able to have children then?’
‘I am only just forty, mia cara,’ said Maria with more than a trace of sarcasm. ‘I know that may seem ancient to you, but we have plenty of time to conceive.’
Serena felt herself unable to respond – unable to breathe, in fact.
‘Are you all right?’ said Maria smugly. ‘You must understand that Oswald wants to try for a son. A son he’s always wanted.’
‘Of course,’ said Serena quietly.
‘You can’t imagine he would want his bastard grandson to inherit Huntsford now, can you?’
Serena felt her back arch like a cat about to spit. ‘I’m sorry?’ hissed Serena.
‘Your illegitimate child. I am merely pointing out the obvious,’ smiled Maria sweetly. ‘A bastard child shall not – cannot – inherit Huntsford. Our child, Oswald’s and mine, will be the heir to the title, the house – everything.’
Oswald looked up to the skies, his arms folded in front of his chest, his feet wide apart, looking like an English bulldog protecting his territory. Ribbons of light were shooting up into the sky and exploding in vast clusters of thin, spidery flames like amber dandelions. Camilla pulled her pashmina tighter around her shoulders. As she walked up to her father, a red bolt screamed into the sky and opened out into fans of red, green and blue light above them.
‘Very impressive this year, Daddy,’ said Camilla, noticing that he did not turn to look at her.
‘Maria has paid for the display,’ he said, smiling slightly. ‘It’s her gift to the family for Christmas.’
‘How generous,’ said Camilla coolly.
About seventy people had collected on the ramparts, over a hundred feet up above the grounds of Huntsford. All necks craned to watch the spectacle.
‘I think it’s gone extremely well tonight,’ continued Camilla as Oswald grunted back at her dismissively.
‘Of course it has,’ he scoffed, still not meeting her gaze. ‘It’s always been one of the highlights of the social calendar. Look around you: everyone’s having a marvellous time.’
‘I was wondering …’ began Camilla, pausing to consider tactics one last time. She knew she was not adept at manipulating her father in the way Serena was, but she knew the trick was to make it look as if she was not really asking for his assistance, rather to flatter him so he would feel powerful and indispensable. ‘… I was wondering, as you’re so fantastic at arranging things like this, if you could help me with a fundraising event I’m doing early next year?’
A smug smile curled at Oswald’s mouth. ‘Fundraising for what exactly?’ he asked.
She took a deep breath. ‘You’ll be aware that I have just been selected for Esher. I’m their prospective parliamentary candidate.’ She was careful to say it in a way that suggested he might not have heard about it. ‘I need to raise funds for the campaign. I thought it might be a good idea to have a little fundraiser here; what do you think?’
Oswald did not answer, instead extending his head further back to watch the fireworks. ‘The Huntsford Ball is not a fundraiser, Camilla,’ he said finally. ‘You must appreciate that, after the Musical Evening, I am a little less inclined to invite complete strangers into my house for any enterprise – commercial, charitable or otherwise.’
Camilla could tell this was going to be an uphill battle. ‘But I’m not a stranger, I’m your daughter.’
‘Yes, when it suits you.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Camilla. ‘I thought you would have been supportive in my attempts to get into politics. To be honest, I’m bloody surprised that you haven’t mentioned it before now. I’ve had congratulations from everybody else except my own father.’
A rocket screamed into the sky and exploded into a starburst. Oswald finally turned his head to look at her. ‘I have neglected to discuss your foray into the political arena, not because I didn’t hear about your little “triumph” –’ he said the word sarcastically – ‘but because it is yet another of this family’s misguided enterprises.’
‘But you were in politics for years,’ replied Camilla. ‘You loved it. Why would it be any different for me? Why is it suddenly “misguided”?’
Oswald turned his head so that he just stared out into the blackness in front of him. ‘The fact is, Camilla dearest, you are not suited to life in Parliament.’
Camilla rounded on him angrily. ‘How can you possibly justify that remark? I have every credential you need –’
‘Oh yes? Really?’ smiled her father malevolently. ‘Including the odd skeleton in your closet?’
Camilla froze. She tightened her arms protectively around her body and stared at the ramparts in front of her, not looking in front of her, but back in time.
Oswald gave a little chuckle. It was cruel and callous and dark. ‘Yes, too many politicians have dark little secrets, don’t they? Except yours is perhaps a little darker than most.’
‘That was a long time ago,’ she said coolly, willing herself to mask the dread that was coursing around her blood.
Oswald tipped his chin back and flared his nostrils arrogantly. ‘Just because it was a long time ago, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Luckily I’m the only person who knows about it. At the moment, anyway.’
‘Daddy. That was all in the past. Please, let’s keep it there,’ said Camilla, trying to control her voice.
‘The past has a habit of coming out,’ said Oswald, his eyes fixed on a burst of flames in the black sky. ‘Now I suggest you stop all these silly fantasies and withdraw yourself from the candidacy.’
A switch in Camilla’s mind clicked as she realized the root of his objections.
‘You’re jealous, aren’t you?’ she said, spinning her body towards him to challenge him. ‘Jealous that I could be the one in the family with the political career. Most fathers would be glad that their children were trying to achieve something. But not you. Nobody can be better than you, can they?’ she said scornfully.
The look on his face told her she’d hit on the truth. ‘Jealous? Of you?’ He looked at his daughter standing contemptuously in the darkness.
‘You are,’ she replied defiantly. ‘You lost your Lords seat and, because of that, I have to give up my chance of a career in politics. My dream. My ambition. Well I really want it and I am not going to give up the opportunity because of you.’
‘Won’t you?’ smiled Oswald cruelly.
Camilla’s voice softened, knowing the steel wills of father and daughter were locking forcibly together. ‘I think I’d be good,’ she said quietly, meeting his gaze so firmly that she could make out the image in his pupils of a firework exploding. ‘I think I can be a really good politician. If I become an MP, think of it as a house-win.’
‘Until you become one of this country’s opinion formers, which, in view of what we both know, isn’t going to happen, I really don’t care what you think, my dear.’
Camilla could feel her face blanch as she understood the power he held over her.
‘Withdraw your candidacy,’ he replied flatly.
‘I will not,’ said Camilla, her feline eyes narrowing towards her father.
‘Oh yes, you will,’ smiled Oswald as another rocket exploded across the sky. ‘And you’ll do it straight after the New Year, unless you want the whole world to know about your dirty little secret.’