One Summer At The Castle. Jules Bennett
to take the call. Yes, she’d asked Liam about the film, she rehearsed silently. But, no, she had no further news to give her mother.
‘Hello, Mum,’ she said, picking up the receiver, injecting a note of optimism into her voice. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear the storm’s over at last. I’ll be leaving the island on Monday at the latest.’
‘Will you, dear?’ Mrs Chantry sounded strangely agitated. ‘Well, that’s good.’ She paused. ‘Will you come straight home?’
Rosa frowned. ‘I thought I might contact an information centre on the mainland and find out if they know—’
‘Sophie’s not in Scotland,’ broke in her mother swiftly. And then, before Rosa could object, she added, ‘She’s been in London, but she’s home now.’
Rosa was stunned. ‘In London?’ she echoed, blankly.
‘Yes.’ Her mother didn’t sound as if she was enjoying this. ‘She’s been with some man she met at the pop festival. Some musician, I believe.’
‘You’re not serious!’
‘I am.’ Mrs Chantry sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Rosa.’
‘But why did she tell Mark she was going to Scotland?’
‘I don’t know.’ Clearly her mother would have preferred not to go on with this. ‘To put us off the scent, I suppose. She knew I’d have worried if I’d known she was with some guitarist with a pop group. What with all the drug-taking that goes on and—’
‘But you were worried, Mum,’ Rosa reminded her. ‘My God, when you rang me last Saturday night you were practically hysterical.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t, Rosa. You’re exaggerating. Good heavens, we all know what Sophie’s like. She’s so impetuous!’
‘So irresponsible,’ muttered Rosa darkly. ‘Is she there? Put her on. I want to speak to her.’
‘You can’t.’ Before Rosa could argue, Mrs Chantry explained her reasons. ‘Mark called a little while ago, and she’s gone round to his house to try and patch things up with him.’
‘Well, he’s a fool if he believes anything she tells him,’ said Rosa irritably. For heaven’s sake, was she the only one in the family with a lick of sense? ‘I can’t believe you’re letting her get away with this. If it had been me at her age, I’d have been grounded for a month!’
‘Well, it’s no good me going on at her, Rosa,’ declared Mrs Chantry unhappily. ‘She’s going away to university soon enough, and if I play the heavy she’s not going to want to come home at all.’
‘Oh, Mum!’ Rosa groaned. ‘You can’t let her blackmail you. She ran off with a musician, a man she’d only just met, who she knew nothing about. He could have been a—a white slaver for all she knew.’
‘Oh, Rosa.’ Mrs Chantry gave a little laugh now. ‘White slaver, indeed!’ She waited a beat, and when Rosa didn’t say anything she added firmly, ‘Anyway, she’s learned her lesson. She says he dumped her when she refused to go to bed with him.’
And believe that if you will, thought Rosa cynically. But all she said was, ‘Did she tell you why she went with him in the first place?’
‘Oh, apparently he said he could introduce her to some people he knew in television,’ said her mother, relaxing a little now that she’d delivered her news. ‘She shouldn’t have believed him. I told her that.’
‘And where did Liam Jameson come in?’ asked Rosa shortly. ‘Or hasn’t she told you that?’
Her mother hesitated. ‘Oh—well, that might have been my fault.’
‘Your fault?’ Rosa was confused. ‘How could it be your fault?’
‘Well…’ Mrs Chantry was obviously searching for words. ‘I evidently jumped to the wrong conclusion.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘No.’ Her mother sighed. ‘No, you wouldn’t.’ There was another pause, and then she said reluctantly, ‘Well, you know how much Sophie likes Liam Jameson’s books?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how she’d said how great it would be to star in one of his films?’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘No. No, I’m not.’ Mrs Chantry spoke indignantly. ‘She has said that. Heaps of times. And—and when Mark rang and said she’d run off to Scotland with some man she’d met at the pop festival—’
Rosa groaned. ‘I don’t believe this!’
‘It—it’s true.’ Her mother sniffed pathetically. ‘Mark did say that she’d told him that this man was going to introduce her to all the right people, and—’
‘And you put two and two together and made fifteen,’ said Rosa shortly. ‘Mum, why didn’t you tell me this before I left?’
‘Would you have gone if I had?’
No!
Rosa blew out a breath. ‘Possibly not.’
‘Probably not,’ declared her mother tersely. ‘I know you, Rosa. If you’d thought I was just clutching at straws, you’d never have approached Liam Jameson.’
And wasn’t that the truth? thought Rosa, an unpleasant little pain making itself felt in her temple. ‘Oh, Mum,’ she said wearily, ‘I wish you’d told me just the same.’
‘And have you tell me what a stupid woman I am?’ demanded Mrs Chantry. ‘I thought you’d be glad to hear your sister was home, safe and sound. Instead all you can do is grumble about both of us!’
Rosa knew it was ridiculous. She was thirty-two, for goodness’ sake. But her eyes filled with tears at her mother’s harsh words. They were so unjustified, so unfair. She hadn’t complained, not really. But Sophie was totally selfish and her mother refused to see it.
‘I’d better go,’ she said, hoping the catch in her voice wasn’t audible to anyone else. ‘Mrs Ferguson’s probably waiting to use the phone.’
Which was unlikely, she conceded. Apart from this call, the phone hadn’t rung at all while she’d been in the guesthouse. Evidently people in Kilfoil tended to do their gossiping face to face.
‘All right.’ If Mrs Chantry suspected that the reason Rosa was ending the call was because she’d been a little unkind, she wasn’t prepared to admit it. ‘I’ll expect you when I see you, then. Take care.’
‘Bye.’
Rosa replaced the handset and scrubbed an impatient hand across her eyes. She was not going to cry, she told herself, even if the day had just gone from bad to worse. She had to focus on the future, on getting home to her little flat in Ripon, which suddenly seemed very far away. School would be starting again in a couple of weeks, and she had lessons to prepare before then.
Liam always stayed at the Moriarty Hotel when he was in London. It was a small, select establishment, known to only a few people, and they, like himself, reserved a suite of rooms year round, so that it was always available whenever it was needed.
It was one of the perks of being successful, he thought, as he drove south on the motorway. He could stay there completely anonymously, which suited him very well.
Not that he intended staying more than a couple of nights there on this visit. He was due to spend a few days at the Erskine Clinic in Knightsbridge, undergoing some further therapy on his leg.
Ever since August, when he’d been caught out in the storm because of the dogs, he’d been having an increasing amount of discomfort in his thigh. The local doctor thought he might have torn a ligament, and rather than wait for it to get better, which might not happen,