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“Lawrence—”
I end the call.
It takes me a few minutes to calm down. I regret hanging up, because I know he’ll lob it back at me like a hand grenade next time we talk and criticize me for losing control and being rude.
I’ve done my best to stand up for myself over the years, but despite everything, he’s my dad, and I do appreciate his support, his money, and his contacts. Still, how long do you have to put up with abuse because you feel you owe someone? If he’d given me one compliment, or said he was proud of me, just once, I might be prepared to keep overlooking his cruelty, but I’m close to telling my mother about his affair and cutting him out of my life, because I don’t think I can bear much more of this.
It makes me think about Heidi. Huxley has told me that their father had a tighter hand on the reins with her than he did with his other children. For the first time, I wonder whether that had anything to do with why she moved to the UK.
I cock my head, listening, wondering if she’s up. I think I can hear her moving around in the kitchen. Also… I inhale, just managing to catch the aroma of frying bacon. She’s cooking breakfast.
Nothing will get me out of bed as quick as the promise of a fry-up, and I leap out, go into the bathroom and take a fast shower, get dressed in a new tee and a pair of comfy track pants, and head down the funny, winding staircase.
“Morning,” I say, ducking under the oak beam into the kitchen.
“Hey! Sorry, did I wake you?”
“No, not at all. I slept really well.” I lean a hip against the counter. She glances at me and smiles, then returns her gaze to the frying pan. Some more of her delicious, toasted beer bread lies buttered on two plates that are already topped with scrambled egg. As I watch, she lifts the pan and adds a couple slices of bacon, two sausages, a spoon of baked beans, and a heap of fried mushrooms to the plates, then picks them up and places them on the small kitchen table and gestures for me to take a seat while she goes over to fetch two mugs of tea standing on the counter.
I sit, thinking how bizarre the situation is. I drove down last night in a kind of dream, and when I arrived at her village, I felt as if I’d somehow gone through a wormhole into the past somewhere along the A38. The roads are narrow, and the houses are squeezed together, many of them portraying features that announce their origins lie in medieval times or even earlier. The pub by the river even has a thatched roof, and I’m sure I saw a standing stone in its garden, although whether it’s actually prehistoric is another matter.
Heidi’s cottage is miniscule—you could fit the whole house in my living room. But it’s beautiful, with its oak beams, real log fire, coffin hatch, and spiral staircase. The windows in my bedroom were double-glazed, but the walls were bumpy cob, and the ceiling was slanted. I know I’m going to brain myself at least once on the low beams, but it’s a small price to pay to stay somewhere so historic.
Heidi looks fresh as a daisy, and has obviously been up for a while. She’s wearing a bright yellow sleeveless top and denim shorts, and her blonde bob shines golden in the sun slanting through the high kitchen window. She’s slender, with a girlish figure that’s nevertheless still sexy. She’s absolutely stunning.
She’s also Huxley’s kid sister. I can see myself repeating that like a mantra all the time I’m with her.
“This looks amazing,” I say, trying to distract myself.
“Do you cook much?” she asks, sitting opposite me, and sipping her tea.
“Nope. I love eating food. I don’t know the first thing about preparing it.”
“So you live on takeaways?”
“No, I have a housekeeper who makes and freezes meals.”
“Wow,” she says, “you’re a spoiled brat.” I chuckle, and she grins. “HP Sauce?” she asks, showing me the brown bottle. “It’s great with bacon.”
“Mm, sure.” We can get it in New Zealand, but I haven’t had it in years.
“Did you know it stands for Houses of Parliament?” She shows me the drawing on the front, and I realize it’s of Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster.
“I didn’t.” I reach for the bottle and knock it over. “Dammit.”
“You really are clumsy, aren’t you?” With amusement, she stands it back up.
I lift it and add a dollop on the side of my plate. “Did you know that you have a touch of an English accent now?”
“I do not!”
I grin. “It’s faint, but it’s there. It’s nice. Kinda sexy.” I wink at her.
She lowers her gaze to her plate. “Lawrence Oates,” she scolds, “how come you can still make me blush?”
“Skill.”
She laughs and starts cutting up her bacon. “So…” She stops cutting and moves the scrambled egg around her plate. “I’ve got something I need to say.”
