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I can’t talk to Jett.
There’s one person I do need to talk to, though; so, pushing Jett firmly to the back of my mind — although I know he won’t stay there for long — I pick the phone back up and dial her number.
“Hi, Mum,” I say, when she picks up. “Are you sitting down? There’s something I need to tell you…”
Twenty-Four
Mum has surprisingly little to say about the DNA results, which means she’s about as much use to me as a screen door on a submarine.
“Aren’t you surprised it’s not one of them, though?” I say at last, after a series of noncommittal grunts from her, which makes me wonder if she’s even been listening to me for the past few minutes.
“Well, it was always a long shot, Lexie, wasn’t it?” she says vaguely, speaking as if the situation had nothing at all to do with her. “I barely even remember Lochlan, to be honest with you. And that Alan seemed like a bit of a chancer, if you ask me. Did you see how hairy his knuckles were? Never trust a man with hairy knuckles, Lexie. That’s what your grandma always used to say.”
“Mum!” I say, scandalized. “How can you say it was a ‘long shot’? Or that you barely remember them? You didn’t say any of that when they came forward — not even the knuckles thing. Didn’t you think it might be atinybit relevant to maybe let me know all of thisbeforewe started doing DNA tests?”
“I was… confused,” she says, in a tone that usually means she’s lying. She starts to say something else, too, but I’m distracted by the sound of a car door slamming outside the house, so I go over and look out of the front window while she’s talking.
There’s a long, shiny black car parked on my driveway; one with blacked-out windows and a chauffeur climbing out of the driver’s seat to open one of the doors.
There’s only one person I know who travels in a car like that.
“Mum, I have to go,” I say, feeling suddenly breathless. “There’s someone at the door. I’ll call you later, okay?”
Without waiting for an answer, I rush to open the front door, thanking my stars as I go that the usual group of photographers isn’t stationed outside the cottage today. I guess last night’s blackout must have driven them away.
“Thank God you’re here,” I breathe, throwing open the door. “You’ll never guess! Neither of those two men is my dad! And we need to talk about last night.”
And that’s how I finally learn to stop opening my front door without checking who’s on the other side of it first. Because, for the second time this week, I find myself standing in front of a world-famous actor, while wearing a bright yellow Pikachu robe; but this time, the Carter in question isn’t Jett.
It’s his dad.
***
Charles Carter looks absurdly out of place in my little cottage, which somehow contrives to make itself seem both smaller and shabbier than usual, almost as if it’s deliberately trying to show me up.
“Alexandra,” he says, nodding stiffly as the door closes behind him.
“Charles,” I reply, instinctively mimicking his tone. I can tell this annoys him, but he’s clearly desperate to tell me something, so he lets it go.
“I’ll keep this brief,” he says. “I can see you’re busy.”
He looks meaningfully at my dressing gown, which I pull a little tighter around myself.
“Yes,” I reply blandly. “I have a meeting with the board in 5, then lunch at The Ivy; so better make it snappy.”
I click my fingers for emphasis. I can actually see his dislike for me go up a notch.
“I’m here to give you this,” he says, handing me a stiff white envelope. I don’t even have to open it to know it’s the famous restraining order I’ve been threatened with numerous times now, catching up with me at last.
Better late than never, I suppose.
“A little message from Jett and Violet,” says Charles, with the kind of smile that makes me think he was miscast as Bond that time; he’d have been much better as the villain. “I don’t normally play delivery boy, but I made an exception just for you, Alexandra. I wanted to make sure you definitely got this.”
“Great,” I say nonchalantly, chucking the envelope on the hall table as if it’s a piece of junk mail. “It’s nice that you’re finding ways to fill your time, now that you’re not working so much.”
His smile falters slightly. The lack of good roles he’s been offered lately is a sore spot for Ol’ Charlie Boy. That’s why I mentioned it.
“It’s a restraining order,” he says, unnecessarily. “To keep you away from Jett. He doesn’t want you near him or Violet.”
