A Wife on Paper. Liz Fielding
gathered herself, shook off his support and said, ‘Steven managed without you, so can I.’ Then she walked quickly up the steps to her front door to join the subdued gathering.
Francesca paused on the threshold of her drawing room to catch her breath. She had never felt so alone in her life and, unable to help herself, she glanced back to where Guy was shedding his coat. For a moment their eyes met and she glimpsed his pain. But she buried her guilt. She’d meant to hurt him, wound him for staying away, and not just for Steven. Then someone said her name, put an arm around her, and she allowed herself to be wrapped up in this show of care from virtual strangers, no matter how shallow their sentiments, how empty their words of support.
But the imprint of his fingers still burned into her and she rubbed at her arm, shook her head as if to loosen the image. Forced herself to concentrate. This wasn’t just her tragedy. There were other people here, people who needed reassurance about their jobs, the future of Steven’s business. She’d left it to tick over in the hands of the staff for the last few months. Now she would have to take control, make decisions. But not today.
Today she had to lay Steven to rest in style, ensure that everyone had something to drink. Something to eat. Give his friends time to talk about him.
And avoid Guy Dymoke.
‘Fran?’
She jumped as a voice at her elbow brought her back to the present. This minute. This dreadful hour that she had to get through.
‘Did everything go smoothly?’
She looked down, made an effort to pull herself together. Put on a reassuring smile for her cousin. ‘Yes. It was a beautiful service. Thank you, Matty.’
‘You should have let me come with you.’
‘No. No, really, I needed to know that Toby was with someone he loves and I didn’t want Connie distracted while she was making sandwiches.’ Then, with a little jab of panic, ‘Where is Toby? Is he okay?’
‘He was a bit fractious so Connie took him upstairs and put him down for a nap. With a bit of luck he’ll sleep through this.’
‘I hope so.’ Another hour and it would be over. Just one more hour. She could do it. She’d held herself together for so long. She could manage one more hour. She wasn’t going to break down now. Not in front of Guy Dymoke.
Guy watched her as she took on the role of comforter, taking the hand of a thin young woman confined to a wheelchair as they exchanged a few words, hugging people, allowing them to grieve. She was the perfect hostess, ensuring that everyone had something to eat and drink, all the while managing to keep her distance from him without so much as a glance in his direction. As if she had some sixth sense that warned her when he was getting too close.
He decided to make it easy for her, seeking out those friends of his brother’s that he remembered, catching up with their news. Introducing himself to those he did not. Checking the arrangements for the reading of the will with Tom Palmer, the family lawyer. As executor he would have to be there, welcome or not. More than that, he wanted reassurance that Francesca and her son were indeed ‘all right’.
‘You’re not eating.’
He turned around and found himself confronted by the woman in the wheelchair, offering him a plate of sandwiches.
‘Thank you, but I’m not hungry.’
‘That’s no excuse. It’s part of the ritual,’ she said. ‘Man’s natural reaction to his own mortality. An affirmation that life goes on. You know…eat, drink and be grateful it was someone else who fell under the bus. Metaphorically speaking.’
‘In my case,’ he replied, ‘I suspect it would have caused a great deal less bother all round if it had been me. Falling under the metaphorical bus.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Her eyebrows rose to match her interest. ‘Then you must be Guy Dymoke, the rich, successful older brother who no one ever talks about. You don’t look like Steven,’ she added, without waiting for confirmation.
‘We’re half-brothers. Same father, different mothers. Steve favours—favoured—his. Mother.’
‘Should one speak ill of the dead at his own funeral?’ she enquired, with a refreshing lack of sentimentality. Then, clearly not expecting an answer, ‘I’m Matty Lang,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘Francesca’s cousin. So what’s the mystery? Why haven’t we met?’
‘There’s no mystery. I’m a geologist. I spend a lot of time overseas in remote places.’ Then, because he didn’t want to elaborate on why he didn’t include family visits when he was in London, he said, ‘Francesca must be glad to have you here. Her parents live overseas, I understand.’
‘They do. In separate hemispheres to avoid bloodshed. As for the rest of them, they’re all too busy to waste time at a funeral that won’t benefit them in any way.’ She looked around, rather pointedly, then at him and said, ‘It was one of the things Fran and Steven had in common, apparently.’
‘I’m surprised his mother isn’t here.’ A B-list actress who had been through half a dozen husbands and lovers since his father had paid through the nose to be rid of her, she rarely missed a photo opportunity. ‘She looks good in black.’
‘She sent flowers and her excuses. Apparently she’s filming some lust-in-the-dust mini-series in North Africa. She was sure Fran would understand. Call me cynical, but with Francesca getting top billing I suspect she decided there wasn’t any PR mileage in admitting to having a son old enough to have made her a grandmother.’
‘Not good for the image,’ he agreed, doing his best to keep the bitterness from his voice. ‘She was never cut out for grandmotherhood. Or motherhood, come to that.’ Every time that Steve had got himself into trouble, every time he had sworn that this was the last time he’d dig him out, he had found himself rerunning a long distant memory of his stepmother screaming at his father, furious that she’d had to surrender some film part because she was pregnant. Had found himself remembering the miserable little boy sobbing his heart out when he had finally realised his mother wasn’t coming back.
And he was no better. He’d walked away, too. He’d told himself that Steve didn’t need him any more now he had a family of his own. But that had just been an excuse.
‘I’m glad Francesca had you to give her some support today,’ he said.
‘She was there for me when I had my own close call with death-by-transport.’ Her smile was slightly wry. ‘Not a bus, in my case, but a combination of speed, black ice and a close encounter with a brick wall.’ The sympathetic response that came to his lips on automatic was neatly deflected as she went on, ‘Of course, since I live in the basement I didn’t have to make much of an effort to be here.’
‘The basement?’
She clearly misread his expression. ‘I believe that Lower Ground Floor is the correct “estate agent” term. It’s not as bad as it sounds, I promise you. It’s a basement at the front, where I have my kitchen and bedroom and a front door for visitors who can handle steps, but the land slopes away at the rear. My sitting room and studio is on ground level so that I have direct access to the rear garden, the garage and my car. I can’t walk now, but I can still drive.’
‘I’m familiar with the layout,’ he said, although her reference to a studio puzzled him. ‘My maternal grandmother used to live here,’ he explained when she looked surprised.
‘Did she? I didn’t know that it was a family house. I thought Steven had paid…’ She clearly decided that she was getting into something that was none of her business. ‘What I meant to say is that I’m not dependent. I’m totally self-contained and go for days without seeing either of them.’ She stopped, clearly realising that ‘either’ was no longer a possibility. ‘Fran managed to convince Steven that the conversion was a good idea. That a self-contained granny-stroke-staff flat would increase the value of the house.’
‘I’m