Thicker Than Water Read online

  She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. A quarter to three. They’d agreed she should postpone her arrival until the afternoon, giving him time to break the news to his fiancée. Abigail felt a passing wave of sympathy for the girl, whoever she was. James had said little about her, and she’d not asked, thankful that at least they weren’t living together.

  The road stretched ahead of her, with little to hold her interest, and her thoughts began to wander. It was a blessing, she reflected, that, working from home, she could do so as easily in Inchampton as in Pimlico. James had told her that though his flat wasn’t large, the loft had been converted at some stage, and while he used it only for storage, it could easily be made into a comfortable work room, the additional windows offering plenty of light. The possibility of moving to somewhere larger didn’t appear to be an option.

  The CD ended and she inserted another, though she must be nearly there. Excitement began to build in her, anticipation at seeing James, and the prospect of their being alone together for twenty-four hours. Her turn-off was signalled, and as she left the motorway, she fumbled for the directions he’d given her and spread them out on the steering wheel. Then, as instructed, she switched on her hands-free mobile.

  He picked up immediately. ‘Abigail?’

  ‘Hi. Just to let you know I’ve left the motorway.’

  ‘Great. You should be here in fifteen minutes. Pull into the pub car park I told you about – the White Bull. I’ll meet you there.’

  Abigail followed the signs along quieter, narrower roads, lined by farms and cottages built of the local honey-coloured stone, with fields stretching on either side where cows and sheep grazed. She’d known Inchampton was a market town, but she’d not expected its surroundings to be quite so bucolic. A culture shock indeed, after the frenetic life she was used to.

  And here, on her right, was the White Bull public house. She turned into the gateway, following directions to the car park behind the building. And there, leaning against the wall, James awaited her. She switched off the engine, and as their eyes met through the windscreen, was aware of a sudden awkward shyness. Then he was opening the door, helping her out, and enfolding her in his arms.

  ‘I wasn’t entirely sure you’d come,’ he said against her hair.

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Once back home, it all seemed like a dream.’

  ‘I know; I felt the same.’ She searched his face. ‘You haven’t changed your mind?’

  ‘Do you have to ask?’

  ‘And your fiancée? How did she take it?’

  His face sobered. ‘I think stunned is the word, but I didn’t hang around. Still –’ he straightened his shoulders – ‘the job’s done, so let’s forget it. Now, I’ll get in the car with you, and show you where to leave it. There’s no parking on the square, but we have an access road behind, with parking bays. They’re supposed to be for delivery vehicles, but a blind eye is turned for residents.’

  ‘I’m not a resident – yet.’

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek. ‘You soon will be.’

  Under his direction, she drove out of the pub car park and turned right to continue into town. It was more built-up now, houses, a filling station and a parade of shops lining the road. Then, ahead of her, it widened into a square, and just before they reached it, James indicated a turning to the right, and she obediently slipped into it. The access road was narrow and cobbled, but as he’d said, parking bays lined it on both sides, most of them empty this Saturday afternoon.

  ‘Go in this one,’ James instructed, ‘next to my car. It’s almost directly behind the flat, but there’s no rear access, so we have to go round the front.’

  He took her case from the boot, and they walked together in the warm autumn sunshine round the corner and into the market square. It was an attractive setting, with a small open-sided building in the centre, topped with a clock. Scattered around it, market stallholders were engaged in packing up and reloading their vans, while a few last-minute shoppers poked among the remaining wares. A selection of interesting-looking buildings surrounded the square; several accommodated shops, one was a pub, and a tall, gabled building looked like the Town Hall.

  ‘This is the oldest part,’ James said, with proprietary pride. ‘As you can see, there’s a T-junction at the far side. The right-hand leg leads to the new shopping centre, cinema, supermarket, and so on, and the left to the church, railway and bus stations. The town’s expanded a lot in the last few years, but thankfully the planners tried to harmonize with the original buildings.’

  He stopped in front of a smartly painted door with a brass knocker, sandwiched between what looked like an office, closed for the weekend, and a bakery-cum-café, from which enticing aromas emanated.

  James, turning the key in the lock, saw her appreciative sniff, and grinned. ‘That’s where my breakfast comes from – croissants, hot rolls, warm bread, even Danish if you can stomach it.’

  ‘My breakfast consists of yogurt and black coffee,’ Abigail told him.

  ‘What’s the betting I’ll convert you? Now, welcome to Markham Towers.’

  He flung open the door, which gave on to a flight of linoleumed stairs, and stood back for her to enter. She went slowly up them, and, emerging from the stairwell, found herself on a small landing. The door to her left stood open, displaying a wide room flooded with sunshine, through the windows of which lay a panorama of the square they’d just left.

  James deposited her case on the landing and took her elbow. ‘In you go.’

  Abigail, allowing herself to be led forward, looked about her with pleasure. The floor was polished wood, adorned with a couple of vibrantly coloured rugs, the walls pale and for the most part bare, but a striking abstract over the fireplace echoed the rugs’ vivid shades. Sofa and armchairs were in soft, honey leather, and on a low table was a tray bearing two champagne flutes. The general ambience was of comfort and welcome.

  James was watching her anxiously. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s – great. Just great.’

  He breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Really? I’ve been wondering how my humble abode would appeal to an interior designer.’

  She laughed. ‘Now you know. And what a fabulous view.’

  She walked to the window, noting that beyond the busy little town lay encircling hills, gilded now by the late afternoon sun.

  James followed her, slipping an arm round her waist. ‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it? I often stand here, just people-watching. I love being the centre of things – a residue, perhaps, of two years in New York.’ His arm tightened. ‘Oh, Abigail, it’s so wonderful to have you here.’

  She turned her head to him, surrendering to his searching kiss before giving a little laugh. ‘We’re right in front of the window, remember! You might not be the only one who people-watches!’

  ‘True! Come on, I’ll show the rest of my domain. It’s just two large rooms, this and the bedroom, and what estate agents call “the usual offices” – a minute galley-kitchen, which I confess I use as little as possible, and an en suite off the bedroom.’

  ‘You mentioned a loft conversion?’ Abigail said tentatively.

  ‘That’s right.’ He gestured at a trap door in the hall ceiling. ‘We’ll have to organize some sort of ladder if you want to use it; I just stand on a chair and haul myself up.’

  The bedroom décor was similarly understated, and Abigail, noting the large and comfortable-looking bed, felt a shaft of jealousy as she pictured James there with his fiancée. This, too, was a new emotion, and not one she relished.

  ‘There’s champagne in the fridge,’ he said. ‘It’s a little early, perhaps, but this is a special occasion.’

  ‘Never too early for champagne!’

  He retrieved the bottle en route to the living room. Yes, she thought; once that loft ladder is in place, I could happily live here. There was a satisfying pop as the cork was removed, and James poured the foaming liquid into the flutes.

&nbs
p; ‘Here’s to us, my darling,’ he said, handing her one. ‘For ever and ever, amen!’

  ‘Amen!’ she echoed, and, holding each other’s eyes, they drank.

  And in the same minute a buzzer sounded in the hall, making them both jump.

  James swore. ‘Who the devil can that be?’ He left the room and Abigail, the glass still in her hand, felt a frisson of unease. Could the jilted fiancée, recovering from being ‘stunned’, have arrived to make a scene?

  ‘Yes?’ James said abruptly into the entry phone.

  ‘Oh good, darling, you are back,’ came his mother’s voice. ‘Could I come up for a minute? I’ve something rather exciting to tell you.’

  Abigail, watching him, saw him stiffen, and her apprehension increased. He glanced back at her and said carefully into the phone, ‘It’s not – terribly convenient just at the moment.’

  ‘I shan’t keep you, if you’re on your way out. Admittedly it could wait till tomorrow, but you mightn’t want everyone to know.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ he repeated blankly.

  ‘Oh, darling, you’re coming to lunch, with Tina, Ben and the children. Don’t say you’d forgotten? Look, can you buzz me? My shopping basket’s getting heavier by the minute.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said dully. ‘Sorry.’

  He pressed the entry button, and turned to Abigail. ‘I’m very sorry about this,’ he said rapidly. ‘It’s my mother, and I haven’t had a chance to tell her.’

  ‘Your mother?’ Abigail gazed at him in horror. ‘She lives nearby?’

  ‘The whole family does. Didn’t you realize?’

  Panic fluttered in her throat, all her old doubts and fears resurfacing. She’d not even known he had a mother! she thought hysterically; she’d pictured them living just for each other, cocooned from the world. There was his fiancée, of course, but she was now past tense and, despite Abigail’s initial fear, unlikely to put in an appearance. But a complete family, comprising God knew how many—

  A voice reached them from the stairs. ‘It was pure chance that I bumped into Chloë Bainbridge in Waitrose. She was telling me—’

  Rosemary Markham, having rounded the stairhead, broke off, her eyes going past James to Abigail’s motionless figure, champagne flute in hand.

  James, moistening his lips, said carefully, ‘Ma, this is Abigail. We met in London. Abigail, my mother.’

  His mother – not safely buried in some country churchyard, as she’d subconsciously assumed, but very much alive, and, still more unbelievably, here: slim, attractive, and staring at her in growing bewilderment.

  ‘How do you do?’ Abigail said numbly.

  The older woman nodded acknowledgment. She glanced at the champagne bottle on the table. ‘You’re celebrating something?’

  James looked helplessly from one blank face to the other. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Ma, I’d meant to give you some warning – in fact, I thought Tina – but you’ve – taken us by surprise.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘In which case,’ James continued miserably, ‘I’d better come straight out with it. Abigail and I are going to be married.’

  Two

  Andrew Markham was sitting in a canvas chair on his front veranda, a glass of beer at his side. From here, he had a grandstand view of the cricket match, nearing its close on the green opposite. The village team had earlier declared for two hundred, and the visitors were now on a hundred and seventy-five, with their last man in.

  Impinging on the shout of the umpire came the sound of a car rapidly approaching, followed by a crunch of gravel as it turned into the drive. His wife had returned home. Across the road, the batsman began an ill-considered run, reaching the safety of the crease a breath ahead of the incoming ball. The car door slammed, but instead of garaging it, as she invariably did, Rosemary came hurrying round the corner of the house towards him.

  ‘Andrew! You won’t believe what’s happened!’

  ‘Then you’d better tell me,’ he answered mildly, his eyes still on the match.

  She ran up the veranda steps, her face flushed and her voice breathless. ‘It’s James. He’s dumped Sylvie and become engaged to someone else!’

  A loud shout went up from the green as the batsman was caught out, and Andrew, retuning his attention to his wife, belatedly took in what she had said. He stared at her as she dropped into the vacant chair beside him.

  ‘He’s what?’

  ‘We’ve not received any phone messages, have we? Apparently Tina knows, and I can’t believe she wouldn’t have told us.’

  ‘I didn’t get in till gone three, and came straight out here.’

  ‘Without checking the answerphone?’ It didn’t surprise her; Andrew never checked, believing that if the message was important, the caller would ring back.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘never mind Tina, what’s this about James? Has he taken leave of his senses?’

  ‘I think he must have, and it was pure chance I found out. After the exhibition and lunch, I popped into Waitrose, and Chloë Bainbridge was there. She was asking if we’d fixed a date for the wedding, then she very kindly said they’d be welcome to have her villa in the Maldives for their honeymoon. So I thought I’d tell James straight away. He was most reluctant to let me in, and I soon discovered why: there was this girl, standing in the middle of the living room with a glass of champagne in her hand, and the pair of them looking as guilty as sin.

  ‘James introduced her, said they’d met in London, and were going to be married!’

  ‘Met when?’ Andrew interrupted. ‘He’s never mentioned her before, has he?’

  ‘Met last week, would you believe, while he was on the course. That’s the point! They can’t know each other at all! I can’t imagine what he’s thinking of!’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘When I got my breath back, I asked what he proposed to do about Sylvie. It was most embarrassing, I can tell you, with the girl standing there. And he calmly told me he’d already been to see her, and broken off their engagement.’

  ‘Ye gods.’ Andrew reached for his glass and drank. ‘Sounds as though he’s serious, then.’

  ‘Oh, he’s serious all right. For now. But Andrew, it’s infatuation! It has to be! One day he’ll wake up and realize what he’s done. He can’t just switch his affections like that, in the batting of an eye!’

  Andrew rotated his glass in his fingers. ‘In my opinion,’ he said slowly, ‘they were never very heavily engaged with Sylvie.’

  Rosemary stared at him. ‘But they’ve always been together! We always thought—’

  ‘And that’s just the point: everyone expected them to get married. He held off as long as he could, didn’t he? If he’d loved her, he wouldn’t have gone off to the States for two years, and risk losing her to someone else. Oh, I don’t doubt he’s fond of her, and they’d probably have been happy enough, if he’d not suddenly come face to face with the real thing. If, of course, it is the real thing with this girl. What’s her name, by the way?’

  ‘Abigail something.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Lovely to look at: almost as tall as James, with flawless skin, green eyes, dark hair. As to personality, I’ve no idea. I don’t think I actually spoke to her, or she to me, except for the initial introduction.’ She paused, gazing across the road to where the cricketers were drawing stumps and collecting their belongings. ‘He wanted to bring her to lunch tomorrow.’

  Andrew stiffened. ‘You didn’t agree?’

  ‘No, I did not. We need time to assimilate this, make sure it really is going ahead. Anyway, it would seem like a betrayal of Sylvie. The only reason she’s not coming is because it’s her sister’s birthday.’ She put a hand to her head. ‘Oh God, Andrew, what are we going to do?’

  ‘There’s not much we can do,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I agree we’re not ready to socialize with this girl, but I think we should see James. How long is she here for?’

  ‘I d
idn’t ask, but she’ll probably need to be back by Monday.’

  Behind them in the sitting room, the phone started ringing. Rosemary went to answer it, and her daughter’s voice immediately exclaimed, ‘At last! Why do you never have your mobile switched on?’

  ‘Because it’s the height of bad manners to receive calls when being shown round an exhibition and attending a formal lunch. I presume this is about James?’

  ‘Ah.’ An exhalation of breath. ‘You’ve heard, then.’

  ‘More than heard. I walked in on them.’

  ‘God, Ma, what happened?’

  ‘Embarrassment all round.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Beautiful. That’s all I know. When did you hear about it?’

  ‘He came for supper last night, and sprang it on us at the end of the meal. By the time we’d finished talking it was too late to phone, and when I tried this morning, you’d already left.’ She paused. ‘Sylvie came round.’

  Rosemary caught her breath. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Shattered. It was – awful. God, he’s my brother, but I could willingly strangle him! He’s no right to hurt her like that. She’ll have to face all our friends – and for that matter, so will we. Everyone will be on her side, and who can blame them?’

  ‘Who indeed?’ said Rosemary dully.

  James returned from showing his mother out to find Abigail tense and white-faced.

  He hurried to put his arms round her. ‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. What a way to meet your future mother-in-law!’

  Her fingers gripped his lapels, and he felt her trembling. ‘It’s not only that,’ she said shakily, ‘it’s the whole family thing. James, I don’t do families! I thought there’d be just us, not a whole host of relatives clustering round and dropping in on us all the time!’

  He stroked her hair soothingly. ‘That was a bad first impression, I know, but normally we get along fine. We’re really a very close family—’

  He broke off as she shook her head violently. ‘I don’t want a close family – I want you to myself!’