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Charles arched an eyebrow. ‘Darling, I thought you’d like to do something a little more constructive with your time than hiding the dirty secrets of the Asgill family.’
Charles looked so downcast. and – frankly – lonely, that Tess couldn’t help herself.
‘Perhaps I can look at it in the new year?’ she sighed.
‘Marvellous,’ he beamed, clapping his manicured hands together. ‘I knew you would be the woman for the job. You’re just going to adore it, I promise you. All the stories I have, the parties, the pictures. I have plenty of pictures, look!’
He flipped through the book to the bound–in photographs in the centre.
‘Here I am at Truman’s black–and–white ball,’ he said, pointing at one snapshot. ‘And this is me at Studio Fifty–four with Warhol,’ he said, jabbing at another. ‘Now, wherever did I put that wonderful dogtooth suit?’
He snapped Simply Divine shut and handed it to Tess. ‘Go away and read it and then we can talk again.’
‘I will,’ she said as enthusiastically as she could.
‘You really are a darling,’ he smiled and picked up the teapot. ‘More tea?’
CHAPTER FIFTY–TWO
Mayflower House, a sprawling red–brick residence in a quiet suburban area of Wilmington, North Carolina, didn’t look particularly scary. In fact, the house was remarkable only in its ordinariness, just another large building in a neighbourhood full of similarly oversized relics from a grander age, yet still Paula found herself shaking as she walked towards it. Of course, it wasn’t the building itself that frightened Paula, but what was inside. Her past and, possibly, her future, both repelling her and drawing her in at the same time. It seemed impossible to believe that only twenty–four hours earlier, the most pressing thing in her life was deciding whether to use the black or white Limoges china at her dinner for Katrina Savoy. Now her life was unravelling so fast she dared not even think about where it might all end.
Tess Garrett had flown down with her to give moral support, but also to deal with Ted Kressler. Meredith had insisted that ‘all loose ends were tied off’ in person. Paula winced at the vivid memory of facing her mother–in–law after Tess had filled her in on the blackmail threat. Sitting behind the mahogany desk, Meredith had been economical with her words.
‘Pay him,’ she had said firmly.
Tess had objected. ‘There must be another way. You can’t start paying people like Kressler; the demands for money will never stop.’
‘We’ll cross that bridge after the wedding,’ replied Meredith. ‘The wedding is only six weeks away. We need to keep him quiet until then, after which his information will be less valuable.’
Then Meredith had turned the full force of her stare on Paula.
‘Now we have to consider your position, Paula,’ she had said coolly. ‘In some strange way, the Billington family might welcome a disabled child in the family, given their plan to push David to the highest levels of politics. Tragedy and heroics are tools commonly used to court media and public sympathy, and I doubt the Billingtons would be above it. Perhaps you might even weather the fact that you put Violet up for adoption. But to have hidden it for so long? To have abandoned your child then to have lied about your past for social acceptance and material gain? That would not be palatable to most people.’
Meredith had been careful to talk about the impact her revelation would have on the Billington family and their standing in society. She had never once referred to the Asgills, but Paula did not miss the implication. Her place in the family was now under threat.
Paula had left the meeting humiliated, feeling cheap and guilty. But most of all she left knowing that Meredith was right. For years, Paula had managed to justify her actions to herself, using her mother’s downward spiral and their slide into poverty to rationalize clawing her own way to the top, no matter the cost. But deep, deep down, Paula felt ashamed of what she had done.
She turned and looked back to the street where Tess was waiting in the car. Tess had offered to come inside, but Paula had refused. It was too private, too raw. She looked back at the entrance and took a deep breath. Just do it, she told herself. She f
ollowed the signs through the main doors and down a long corridor towards a huge conservatory filled with people and noise. It was the nursing home’s Winter Fair, and dotted around the room were stalls selling Christmas decorations, bags of Taffy, and mugs of hot, spiced apple juice. Double doors led to a walled garden. Somehow, it seemed to be sunnier here than on the street outside, and the sky was as blue as a robin’s egg. There must have been at least a hundred people out here – parents, children, and nurses all wandering between the willow trees, smelling the cinnamon and honey and the cool freshness of the Cape Fear river close by. Paula felt a nervous rush of expectation, although she had taken two little yellow pills to calm herself when they’d left the hotel.
Her eyes kept straying towards the children; some walking around, others confined to their wheelchairs, although most looked severely disabled. For a second Paula had to close her eyes and take in a long breath, the weight of her feelings making her chest feel tight.
‘Are you okay?’ asked a voice, and Paula turned to see a middle–aged woman with a concerned expression.
‘I’m looking for Violet?’ stammered Paula. She was going to say ‘Violet Abbott’, but remembered that she would now have changed her name. We’re no longer connected, thought Paula, with a strange lurch of pain.
‘Are you family?’ asked the woman. ‘I don’t think we’ve met? I’m Etta, the admin assistant here. I know Violet’s mum and dad are on vacation this week so they couldn’t come down for this.’
Paula nodded feebly. ‘Family, yes. Although I haven’t seen her in a very long time.’
‘She’s over there,’ said the woman, pointing to the far side of the grounds, where a uniformed nurse was pushing a wheelchair.
Thanking her, Paula moved towards them. Just one step, then another, she told herself. Just one foot in front of another. Closer and closer to the wheelchair, everything else became blocked out and meaningless as Paula stopped in front of her little girl. Although she wasn’t such a little girl any more; she was almost an adult. But her long limbs were thin and twisted, her shoulders hunched, head lolling to one side. Nodding to the nurse, Paula crouched down in front of the wheelchair, her knees trembling.
‘You’re such a big girl now,’ she said, her voice only a whisper, barely registering the tears that ran in hot streams down her cheeks. She reached out and touched Violet’s gnarled fingers. To Paula’s surprise, Violet’s eyes looked up, meeting her gaze. For a moment she seemed more alert. Does she recognize me? thought Paula wildly, covering her mouth to choke back a sob. No, how could she?
But they had the same eyes, thought Paula. She had tried to forget that detail, but now she could see it; the same big, grey eyes that looked back at her from the mirror every morning. And such beautiful, thick, golden hair. Although she had let Violet go, although they were no longer connected by the same name, they were linked by genetics forever. Somehow, that gave Paula comfort. There were so many things she wanted to say as she stared at her daughter’s face, but she knew she couldn’t. Violet’s understanding was limited, but even a childlike mind would understand if she told her she was her mother. But it just wasn’t fair. The truth usually isn’t, thought Paula.
