Scarlet Lady (5 page)

She'd been tucked up on the big window-seat in a guest bedroom, horrible racking sobs tearing at her body, when she'd heard a racket in their bedroom. Laughter—squeals of it, and Leo's chuckle. She'd been stunned for a moment, then had stormed in, to find him and Arabella, naked in the huge four-poster bed, romping like eager children. Their bedroom. Their bed. Even now, after two interminable, depressing years, it made her ball her fists in fury.

At the time the shock had driven her out, screaming hysterically, fleeing to the nearest room and locking herself in. And she'd cried rivers of tears till exhaustion had brought sleep where she lay, poignantly, cruelly, on the bed in the nursery where there would be no child of hers now. The irony hadn't been lost on her in the morning when she'd woken.

In a surprising act of generosity, Leo had agreed to keep their divorce a secret from everyone but his family and Chas for a while. It had meant that she wasn't hassled by the Press. The lawyers had been paid well to ensure their secrecy and the divorce had been handled in a small market town where the sleepy court reporter had failed to recognise the woman called Virginia Brandon as Ginny McKenzie.

But then she'd been wearing a Paisley headscarf, an old trench coat, and enormous spectacles. And Leo had turned up in a checked cap and an anorak. They'd nodded coldly and hadn't even laughed at one another's strange attire. Laughter hadn't been something she'd expected to feature much in her life for a while. Her life had been shattered and the only thing she'd felt was cold—a stillness of her body as if the warm blood in her veins had turned to a trickle of ice. And she'd wondered if she'd ever be warm again.

The divorce had been alarmingly quick and straightforward. The lawyers had assured the judge that neither of them wanted or needed maintenance and that was that. Her marriage was at an end.

Despite closing down her emotions after the divorce, despite working every waking hour so that she could forget Leo and maintain her position in the modelling hierarchy and pay back her debt, she'd still felt raw inside. Every day she'd ached for Leo and wished that they could be together because her heart was breaking in the most painful way—slowly dying from disuse.

But she'd never shown those feelings to anyone. Look where it had got her when she'd flung her heart and soul into loving her husband! Ex-husband, she'd continually corrected herself, gritting her teeth with the pain of a chapter in her life that was now ended.

And how much had the humiliation of being rejected damaged her self-confidence? It had taken her a long time to smooth over the nerves she'd felt when facing the public. Hours of almost maniacal preparation, so that her face had been a perfect mask and every gesture had been rehearsed.

Only then had she been able to bear to confront everyone, knowing that they were whispering, gossiping, wondering about the 'perfect lady' who'd turned out to be a tigress in a variety of beds. Head held high, she'd coolly met their eyes with a challenge and they'd always looked away first.

But she'd become lonely, trusting no one but Chas, who rarely left her side and had become father and brother and friend to her. And now she was truly alone because even Chas didn't quite know what was in her heart: an ache for the man she couldn't have because they couldn't live together, their lives having veered away from each other too dramatically ever to meet and link again.

Emerging from Heathrow with Chas and turning the key in her coupe parked in the long-term car park, Ginny suddenly wanted privacy. Divorced, theoretically free but forever a prisoner of Leo's magnetism, she smiled faintly at Chas.

'I'd like to drive myself. Just this once. Would you take a taxi?'

And, driving through the streets of London to her flat in Chelsea, she grimly steeled every bone in her body and held back the tears that had threatened from the moment her solicitor had telephoned her while she was in Paris to say that her decree absolute had come through.

Suddenly she had wanted to be home—and alone with her memories. She'd cancelled everything in her diary,saying that she felt ill. It was the first time she'd ducked her obligations.

Her marriage was dead and buried. Might as well face up to that, she thought. Her lip quivered and she bit it for daring to betray her.

'Oh!' she mumbled unhappily, driving into the mews and bumping over the cobbles to the far end. 'I hate him! I hate him!' And she wished it weren't a lie.

There came the slam of a taxi door and Chas appeared by her window. 'Want a shoulder?' he offered casually.

Ginny shook her head, too upset to speak. She reached out her hand to temper the refusal and withdrew it after Chas's brief pat. 'I'm doing a Garbo,' she said huskily. 'Come in. But I'd like to be alone. I feel I've come to the end of an era. I need to plan the next.' She managed a smile but it was feeble.

'Sure. You must be tired. You've been going like the clappers. Glad you're taking a break. I'll keep everyone at bay.'

Thankful for his tact, Ginny flicked the remote control to open the doors and drove into the garage, leaving all her things in the car to collect later. On entering the flat, she absently picked up the mail on the mat and wandered into the kitchen to make some tea, shrugging off the elegant Ralph Lauren jacket in the soft shade of blue that...

She frowned. That Leo had loved. He would like this, she thought mournfully, indulging in self-pity for a few seconds. The flowing palazzo pants caressed her thighs, hinting at her slenderness, her flat, taut stomach. The sand-coloured camisole drifted elegantly over her breasts to the cinched-in waist. There was no one to appreciate the way she looked now.

She briskly put a stop to this line of thought and got out the tea-things. The healing brew, she thought wryly. When she really needed healing arms around her.

If only she'd been brought up by her real parents! she sighed, curling up in an old comfy chair while the kettle boiled. If so, there might have been a friendly cuddle for her now.

Ginny sighed wistfully. It was so sad that her own mother had been unable to care for her. Her mother had developed a serious phobia about cleanliness which had meant that when Ginny was born her mother had become hysterical at all the mess a baby brought. Or so the McKenzies, her adoptive parents, had told her. They would never reveal her mother's whereabouts and Ginny was wary of discovering that her mother cared nothing for her.

Sarah Temple. That was all she knew of her mother- besides a few memories, dim but unpleasant. Vague recollections of being held grimly to a starched apron-front, a woman screaming, and a feeling of terrified guilt at the mess she'd made once when she'd had a tummy upset. Had her mother cried on and on for hours, or was that a faulty memory?

She thought with compassion of what must have been a tense, uptight woman who'd apparently been eager to give her away when she was four to a strict Scottish couple.

The McKenzies were well off. Andrew was a respected politician. That was how she'd met Leo—their fathers were both in politics and she'd reluctantly gone along with her adoptive parents to a country weekend at Castlestowe when she was nearly eighteen. Hated it. Loved Leo. Fool.

Hadn't she seen the different worlds they moved in? Butlers, maids, cut-glass crystal, banners of long- forgotten battles and grim oil paintings of even grimmer ancestors?

Ginny wearily uncoiled her long, long legs from the chair and made the tea, carrying a mug in to Chas.

'I've got some thinking to do,' she told him, her face wan and strained. 'I'll be in the study. Use the TV in the drawing room if you want. It won't bother me. And would you lock up later? I'll probably be pacing the floor for a while. I have to get my head together. You understand?' she asked in a hesitant plea.

'Sure, Ginny,' he said gently. 'Let me know if you want anything. I'm here and I've got waterproof skin if necessary.'

Her pathetic attempt at a smile quivered on her lips and then she turned, almost broken by the tenderness of his expression. Because she had wanted Leo to look like that. And he hadn't given a damn.

Despairing, she tucked herself in the little office, fixed with all the latest technology to enable her to keep in contact with designers and agents around the world. Everyone seemed to be doing things for her. Few were, in reality.

Ginny switched on the answering machine and half-heartedly listened to the messages. Business. Nothing personal or affectionate. And suddenly she was filled with an overwhelming feeling of need. If only she knew who her father was! The McKenzies had refused to speak of her mother's situation and Ginny had no idea whether she was illegitimate or if her real father had died early on in her life.

Maybe she should ring up the McKenzies and ask. But, knowing what their opinion of her morals would be, she shrank from doing so. They'd never speak to her, never acknowledge that they had anything to do with her.

It was up to her to take hold of her life. To make it her own again. Maybe she'd find happiness. Her mouth turned down in a grimace. It would make a change.

As a child she'd been hated. Thin as a rake, stuttering, bullied every day, she'd spent her school days in constant fear of having her head stuck in the lavatory bowl, or being ambushed on the way home and having to explain her torn and dirty clothes to the perfectionist Ada McKenzie.

She smiled ruefully, remembering how she'd vowed to show those vicious schoolgirls that she was
somebody!

And, strangely, it had been Ada McKenzie who'd given her the way out. Because Ginny had kept dropping things in her clumsy, nervous state, she had been sent to a ruthless ballet mistress who'd taught her grace and control. She'd learnt how to walk and project serenity, composure and elegance. Her eyes had been set on the stars from then on.

Although boys hadn't dated her because she'd towered over them—and had been too skinny in their eyes—she had been discovered and swept into the world of modelling in her mid-teens, suddenly to be dazzled by the power she had over her own life at last. Or had she?

Her fingers idly turned over the letters, already opened by the agency which vetted her mail. Paris, New York, Milan.. .the usual. She flung them to one side and picked up a newspaper. It was a while before she realised that it was a couple of months old. In the act of putting it down, she saw her own name. Her real name. Intrigued, she read the advert in the 'Personal' column.

Virginia Temple. Born 26.8.71, Sunny side Nursing Home, Glasgow, subsequently 47 Barracks Lane. Last heard of at Lee Lane Women's Refuge, 1975, in the care of Sarah Temple.

Please contact the office below where you will learn something to your advantage.

How odd!. Excitement began to make her breathe faster. Sarah Temple! Her mother! Perhaps this would lead her to her mother! The end of her pencil was stabbing at the numbers and she was blurting out who she was.

'I'm Jack Lacey, acting on behalf of Monsieur St Honore,' said the solicitor. 'My client wishes to talk to you. I can vouch for him. He's absolutely above board- but I must tell you that you're not the first to answer St Honore's advert. Still, you have a right to go. I have airline tickets for you to St Lucia. And accommodation is included.'

'St Lucia? Why?' she asked eagerly. 'Is this about my mother's whereabouts?'

'Could be,' said Lacey guardedly. 'Monsieur St Honore has been searching for his daughter for some time—'

'My father?' A warmth wound its way through Ginny's cold heart. Her father. 'My
father
! I don't believe it! Hold on!' she said excitedly. ' Cradling her mobile phone, she punched out the numbers of her travel agency and upgraded the ticket to first class, then changed her mind and decided to travel steerage. On this trip she would be an ordinary passenger.

'Maybe
not
your father,' said the solicitor with a solicitor's caution as she carried on two conversations at the same time. 'Someone else went out a while ago—a young woman born in the same nursing home as you— but I've heard nothing from her so I'm assuming she wasn't St Honore's daughter after all.'

'Maybe I am!' she breathed. 'It would be wonderful! Tell him I'm coming. How do I contact him?'

'You don't. I can give you no information—his instructions, my dear, and I'm afraid I've let on too much as it is. He's wary of imposters, wary of being fleeced. Go out there. He'll contact
you.'

'I'm on the next plane,' she cried, feeling as if she could get there without one at all! 'I want to find my family,' she said wistfully.

It would give her someone of her own to love. Her face was suffused with joy at the thought. Even if St Honore proved not to be her father, the advert suggested that he knew something about her background. And that might lead her to finding out more about her parents.

In any case, this was what she needed right now because she adored St Lucia. And it was somewhere warm. A place to lie and think. To iron out her life. Maybe just for a rest, before she fell into the hurly-burly of running herself ragged every day to finish paying back what she owed to the courts.

Her brow furrowed. There were dangers, of course. Whatever Jack Lacey said, this man could be a kook like the ones whose letters were now held back from her by the agency to save her any worry.

Yet the pleasure of travelling without an entourage appealed; the idea of being able to shape her life instead of running behind everyone else who was organising it for her was suddenly the most desirable thing in the world. Perhaps in a foreign place, on an island she'd worked on before and had loved, she could let herself cry without worrying that photographers might record her misery and splash it all over the features pages.

Almost excitedly she ran to Chas to tell him that he had a few weeks' holiday starting
now
instead of in ten days' time when his wife was due to have her baby. But something stopped her from mentioning that she was going to see a man who might be her father. Saying that out loud would be tempting fate to disappoint her.

And she couldn't take any more knocks. She was too fragile. One more disappointment could tip her over the edge.