“And…that’s a wrap. Thanks, everyone.”
Wearily, Marcus took off his apron and tossed it aside. Thank God he wasn’t on the call sheet for tomorrow; the crew was filming an interview with the owner of a local cider press for the next segment of his weekly cookery show. He picked up his mobile and scrolled with his thumb to Valery Beauchamp’s number.
“Marcus!” Pleasure warmed her voice as she answered his call. “I didn’t expect to hear from you until tomorrow at the earliest. Are you done filming?”
“Yes. We wrapped a day early. Miss me?” he asked as he took a diet soda from the set’s refrigerator and took a swallow.
“That goes without saying, my darling.”
He smiled. He loved the plummy richness of her accent, so redolent of Oxford, and so different to his own. “What are you doing? No – let me guess. You’re having a glass of Cab Sauv and making edits to the latest issue, flagging pages with Post-Its and slashing paragraphs with red marker pens.”
Valery’s laugh was low and throaty. “You’re amazing. And exactly right.” She paused. “Oliver just came to pick up Julia – pardon me, Jools. He’s got her for the weekend.”
“Jools, is it? Since when?”
“Since last week. I tell you, that girl…” she sighed. “She wants no part of editorial work or fashion and regards my career with the utmost scorn. But I suppose I can’t complain, really, because she’s exactly like I was at that age. She likes to push me as far as she possibly can. Like she’s doing with this new boyfriend of hers, Adesh Patel.”
“And what does Oliver say about that?”
She snorted. “Oliver? He doesn’t know. If he did, I daresay he’d pack her off to Switzerland post-haste.” Her voice softened. “Are you coming down to London, then? We’ll have the place to ourselves until Sunday evening.”
“I should be there by noon tomorrow. We can have lunch somewhere – I’ll let you choose – and then we can do whatever you like.”
“In that case,” she murmured, “we’ll spend the entire afternoon in bed.”
He laughed. “I can’t think of anyplace – or anything – I’d rather do.”
“Goodnight, darling. Sweet dreams.”
“G’night, love. Until tomorrow.”
Still smiling, Marcus rang off and remembered how he and Valery had met. He’d barged into her office at BritTEEN magazine determined to find his runaway daughter, Poppy.
“All right, Mr Russo,” the editor-in-chief said as she turned to face him, “let’s cut the crap. We both know you’re not here for an interview.” She crossed her arms and added acidly, “We’re a teen magazine. Our readers want to read about boy bands, not Michelin-starred chefs.”
“I don’t care what they want to read,” Marcus growled, his face inches from hers. “I want to find my daughter. Poppy’s only seventeen, and she’s run away from home.”
He’d eventually tracked his daughter down, and after years of neglect spent chasing after those damned Michelin stars he’d scaled back on his business commitments and worked hard to rebuild his relationship with Poppy.
On impulse, he scrolled to her number. “Poppy?”
“Dad? Wasn’t expecting to hear from you today.”
“Hello, darling. Just calling to tell you I love you.”
“I…I love you, too.” Her voice wobbled.
Immediately alerted that something was wrong, Marcus said sharply, “What’s the matter?”
She sniffled. “Nothing, really. Just…today was a really crap day at school, and then,” she drew in a soft, shuddery breath “and then Jez broke up with me.”
“Oh, sweetheart – I’m sorry. I know you really liked Jeremy.”
“I did. He was different to the others. Or at least,” she added bitterly, “I thought he was.” She paused. “His family’s moving house.”
“Are you at school now?”
“Yes. You said you wouldn’t be home at the weekend, so I couldn’t see the point in going back to Aughton to be alone there, when I can just as easily be alone h-here.”
Marcus let out a short breath. “Pack your things. I’m coming up to fetch you.”
There was a beat of silence. “What?” A note of hope was contained in the word. “But - you said you’re filming, you’d be busy—”
“I know I did, but things have changed. We’ve wrapped early. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
“Okay. I’ll get my stuff packed.” Poppy paused. “Thanks, Dad.”
“No worries, love. We’ll spend the weekend together. Have fun. See you soon.”
He rang off and sighed as he scrolled back to Valery’s number. She wouldn’t be happy to learn he wasn’t coming, that much was certain, but it couldn’t be helped. Poppy was heartbroken. She needed her dad. Marcus knew what he was giving up – a weekend spent in bed with Valery, crumb-laden sheets, reading the papers together over coffees on Sunday morning – but he was gaining something more important…
…time with his daughter, precious time; and a chance to make amends.
“Valery,” he began as she answered his call, “it’s me again. Listen, about this weekend…”