‘Very. You couldn’t get better parents than I had.’
‘It’s a comfort to me to know that, at least.’
Hell, her voice was wobbling and her eyes were bright with tears. He didn’t like upsetting people and wished Edward were here to help him get rid of her gently. He looked resentfully towards the door then back at her. ‘You’ve chosen a bad time, I’m afraid. I’m very busy today and—’
‘Can you not spare me even an hour?’
‘Won’t that make things worse?’
‘For you, perhaps. Not for me. It’ll give me a few memories at least.’
If she was speaking the truth, she really didn’t want money, which was good. But that didn’t mean he wanted to spend time with her, stirring up things best forgotten. He realized he was looming over her and pulled up a chair, straddling it and leaning forward against its back. He surprised himself by saying, ‘It’d have been better if you’d never found me.’
‘No, it wouldn’t. Believe me, it’s far better for me to know you’re not dead and have had a good life.’
Her eyes made him feel uncomfortable. They were both penetrating and yet understanding. She was nothing like he’d expected. At one stage since his discovery of the kidnapping he’d wondered if she or her husband had sold their own son. He’d bet his life this woman hadn’t. He was reserving judgement on his birth father.
‘I’ve been lucky,’ he admitted. ‘Things have fallen nicely into place.’
‘I’m glad for you.’
He moved his shoulders helplessly. ‘I don’t want things to change.’
‘Things always change, Greg – I mean, Pete. Even grief passes. Did you realize that your sister had nearly as bad a time of it as I did after you disappeared? I was too distraught to care for her and she was passed round our relatives like an unwanted parcel. After I got back from hospital,
she
was the one supporting me for a few years, young as she was.’
It was out before he could stop himself. ‘What about my father?’
‘He moved out after a year or so, remarried, has other children now. You’ll have to ask him yourself how he feels about you.’
‘If he doesn’t thrust himself upon me, I’m certainly not going to contact him.’
She stared at him incredulously. ‘Is that what I’ve done?
Thrust myself upon you?
’
He flushed slightly. ‘It feels like that, the way my sister came to see me uninvited, then you barged your way in here. I’ve said I don’t want to . . . to go back. Why can’t you both leave me alone?’
Her heart twisted with anguish – and with recognition. He’d been spoiled, had had things too easy, was weak, just like his father.
I’ve spent half my life mourning for him and he regards that as an intrusion! He wasn’t worth all that pain.
She stood up, not feeling like weeping now, letting her anger carry her out with dignity intact. ‘If that’s what you want, so be it. Don’t worry. I won’t
thrust myself upon you
again.’
She walked out without looking to left or right. Even so, to her shame, she kept listening for footsteps running after her, a voice calling her back.
But the corridor stayed quiet behind her and her son, the child she’d mourned the loss of every day of her life, simply let her walk away. Someone closed the office door with a sharp click before she’d taken even half a dozen steps.
Nat got up from a seat further along the corridor. He didn’t say a word, just folded her in his arms and said, ‘I’m taking you home, love.’
She leaned against his shoulder for a moment or two then straightened up and walked out with him. She was relieved that he didn’t ask her what had happened, because she’d have burst into tears if she’d tried to speak.
It’s over,
she thought.
All those years of grieving and wondering. It’s over, just like that.
Edward watched Linda Harding walk out. Her face was white and set, her head held high. It was obvious how badly she’d been hurt.
When Ilsa went to close the outer door, he nearly pushed past her, but Pete came and beckoned him into the office.
‘What happened? What the hell did you say to her?’
Pete shook his head very slightly and sat down at his desk as if his legs wouldn’t hold him upright. ‘Get me a whisky, would you?’
‘No. That’s not the answer and you’ll become an alcoholic if you keep turning to the bottle every time there’s trouble.’
‘Then I’ll damned well get one myself.’ He lurched across the room and poured himself two fingers of whisky, spilling some. Picking up the glass he tossed the amber liquid down like water, then poured some more before taking the glass back to his desk.
‘What did you do to her?’ Edward repeated.
Pete stared down into his drink, shaking the glass slightly to make the whisky swirl round. ‘It was horrible. I didn’t handle it well, I admit. You should have stayed with us. You deal with these ticklish situations far better than I do.’
Ticklish situation. Is that all it was to him? Edward had seen Beth’s grief about her brother first-hand, and was sure her mother would have been even more harrowed by the kidnapping. Suddenly his anger boiled over and he went across to the desk, grabbing Pete by his expensive shirt and jerking him to his feet.
‘What did you do to that poor woman?’
‘Told her I didn’t want to see her, what else?’
‘There’s more to it than that. A woman wouldn’t walk out with that look on her face unless someone had hurt her very badly.’
Suddenly Pete swept the tumbler of whisky off the desk and everything else with it. ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’
‘So what exactly did you say?’
‘I offered her money. Then I said . . . I said she’d thrust herself upon me.’
‘I always knew you were a selfish sod, but I never realized quite how selfish till now. I don’t know why I’m even wasting my time with you.’ He turned on his heel.
‘Come back! I need you.’
‘Well, too bad. I need some fresh air. There’s something rotten in here and it stinks to high heaven.’ Edward strode out.
As Thursday passed and his head cleared, Gerry kept getting flashbacks to the time he’d spent with Maggie. They got on well and always had a lot to say to one another, but it seemed to him that he’d done most of the talking last night. She was too damned sympathetic – it was what made her a good journalist – and he’d needed to unburden himself about the show.
What exactly had he told her? A chill feeling settled in his belly as more memories fluttered into his mind. He couldn’t have! Surely not? By the end of the day he was pretty certain he’d let the cat out of the bag about Pete’s real mother.
But even if he had told her, Maggie was a friend. She’d keep it quiet, not use something told by a friend. Surely?
Only . . . it’d make a hell of a news story. The famous Pete Newbury kidnapped as a child, the man everyone loved to love treating his real mother badly, refusing even to see her.
Oh, hell! What was he going to do?
Gerry fumbled for his mobile and rang Maggie. Her warm voice said she was out and invited him to leave a message. His mind went blank for a minute then he said, ‘Gerry here. Give me a ring, Mag. It’s important.’
But she didn’t ring back. He checked that his battery hadn’t run down, that his phone was still working. He left another message and sat at home all evening waiting, hoping, but there wasn’t a squeak from Maggie.
Eighteen
On Friday morning the story hit the headlines in one of the leading tabloids as an exclusive. Pete spluttered coffee all over it in shock as he sat at the breakfast table.
Pete Newbury kidnapped as child.
A Mother’s Heartbreak.
How the hell had they found out? Had his birth mother gone to the press out of revenge? No, he couldn’t see her doing that. She wasn’t that sort of person. He didn’t know how he was so certain of that when he’d only met her once, but he was. She’d been gentle, straightforward. And he’d been— He dismissed that thought quickly.
He scanned the article. The reporter, Maggie Quinn, even told how reluctant Pete had been to see Linda Harding.
He’d never met this Maggie, so how could she have found that out? He couldn’t believe what he was reading, how it had been slanted to paint him in the worst possible light. And yet . . . it was all basically true.
Was it Ilsa who’d spilled the beans? She certainly liked money, but he paid her well and . . . No, not Ilsa.
The phone rang and when he picked it up, it was another newspaper offering him money to tell his side of the story. He slammed the phone down, angry at their effrontery, then picked it up to ring his cousin.
He paused. Edward had walked out on him in disgust. He put the phone down, not wanting to be made to feel like a worm again.
What was he going to do? How much credibility would he have with
In Focus,
a people-centred programme, once viewers read this rubbish?
The journalist had done her research carefully. She’d even found some old newspaper articles about the kidnapping of Greg Harding, which came complete with photos of him as a child, one of them the photo his sister had showed him. He studied the images grimly. His birth father and mother, looking young and carefree. His sister, looking giggly and girlish. She wasn’t at all like that now. She seemed tight and guarded now. He didn’t understand what Edward saw in her.
What had changed that happy little girl into such a self-contained woman? Losing her brother? Or the break-up of her whole family?
He turned the page to find the image of himself at the age of three from his first
Who Am I?
segment, the image his mother had claimed wasn’t a good match. Only it looked exactly like the photo of the boy who’d vanished. He turned back to the front page and the photo that showed the scar so clearly. He looked down at his arm then back at the photo. He hadn’t needed to force a DNA test on his sister. It had been very clear from the start that he was the missing child.
He shivered, feeling a need for the warmth of the sunlight outside, so carried the newspaper out to the balcony and re-read the article.
Bad. It was really bad.
Star spurns own mother,
a subtitle said.
He’d seen other celebrities suddenly lose their golden touch and with it, their whole careers. He shivered at the thought of that happening to him. If his popularity plummeted, so would his income, then what would he do? He had no other talents, let alone qualifications.
He should have been more careful with his money, as Edward had advised. Clever Edward, always doing better than Pete at school, then going on to university, where he’d got a first-class degree.
He
wouldn’t have made such a mess of things.
Pete buried his head in his hands and groaned.
What the hell was he going to do?
How was he going to save himself from disaster?
Edward didn’t see the newspapers until he’d finished his exercise session in the pool. As he was coming out of the men’s changing room, one of the neighbours he socialized with occasionally said cheerfully, ‘You got out just in time, didn’t you? Was that why you left?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Pete Newbury.’
‘What about him?’
‘Ah. You haven’t seen the newspapers today, then? There’s a big spread in
Best of the News
about your cousin. Seems he was kidnapped as a child. Lurid stuff. But is he really refusing to see his birth mother? Bit thick, that. Poor woman must have gone through hell when he vanished.’
‘Thanks for telling me. I’ve got to go.’ Edward grabbed the rest of his clothes and ran out to the foyer, picking up a newspaper from the stand and hurrying up to his flat.
He flung his damp bathers and towel aside and spread the paper out on the breakfast bar. It didn’t take long to read the article and he closed his eyes for a moment in dismay as he finished it.
This journo had really got it in for Pete.
He reached for the phone, then withdrew his hand. No use ringing his cousin until he’d thought about what to say and do. He went to take a long shower, because that’s where he did his best thinking.
Did he want to be involved in damage limitation? Not really.
Did he have any choice about getting involved? None at all.
Pete might not be his cousin by birth but he was like a brother by upbringing. Aunt Sue and Uncle Donald had taken Edward in when his own parents died and he owed them big time.
No, he couldn’t walk away when Pete was in trouble, when his aunt was getting hurt by the flak. He’d have to try to help. Somehow.
But what would this do to his relationship with Beth?
Beth was on early turn, so was at her office by five-thirty that morning. She managed to get a lot of paperwork done because there were no emergencies, or at least the phone didn’t ring by the designated hour, so she could only assume everyone had turned up for work on time. At seven she nipped down to the café across the road to pick up something to eat and a newspaper, looking forward to a peaceful few minutes’ reading as she ate.
As she walked up to the news-stand, she found herself staring at Pete Newbury’s face on one of the posters. It wasn’t a happy photo, either. What had happened?
She looked at the row of newspapers. Only one seemed to be carrying the story, so she bought that, though it was a paper she didn’t usually bother with. Lower down its front page was one of the old photos showing her mother pleading for news of her missing son. Inside was the TV image from the show. There was also a photo of herself.
Dear heaven, how had that information got out?
She walked slowly back to work, forgetting about food, her stomach churning with anxiety.
As she finished reading the article, she heard footsteps pound along the corridor and Sandy came in, breathless and flushed. She jabbed one finger towards the newspaper. ‘You’ve seen it, then?’