Rumor Has It (33 page)

    Did Stella know she was dying? Or, if she hadn't before, had he just given the game away?'

    She slid her skinny arm across the bed and clasped his hand in hers. Her skin was dry and papery and too big for the bones beneath it.

    'It's all right; I know why you're crying.' With a ghost of a smile Stella said, 'You've just realized you're stuck with Erin now. And you wish you were still with me.'

    And, being Stella, it was impossible to know whether this was a joke or if she meant it.

    Fergus, who had no intention of finding out, checked his watch again and said, 'She'll be here in a minute. I'll go and find someone to help, then we'll get you into a chair.'

    Between them, he and the cheerful nurse managed to transfer Stella from the bed into a wheelchair. She grimaced and winced with pain but didn't complain. Finally, with the bag from her intra venous drip swinging from its hook above her head, she was ready to go.

    This, another of Erin's ideas, was the highlight of Stella's day. Fergus wheeled her out of the ward and down the long corridor until they reached the main entrance. Outside the building, smokers congregated in the sunshine. Seated on a bench opposite, beneath a chestnut tree, Erin was waiting for them.

    This time it was Stella's eyes that filled with tears. Fergus parked her in front of the bench and Erin opened the front of the carrying case next to her. Bing snaked out, yowling impatiently, and stepped across on to Stella's bony, blanket-covered lap.

    'Oh Bing, my baby.' Stella lovingly stroked him and Bing, re garding her with his usual baleful expression, submitted himself to her kisses. He tolerated the attention like a truculent teenager being forced to visit his whiskery incontinent granny.

    At least he stayed put, didn't try to run off. Erin watched as Stella cradled her cat and murmured endearments into his ear. Bringing Bing along to see her had really lifted Stella's spirits and given her something to look forward to each day, even if persuading Bing into his carrying case and having to endure his outraged com mentary of meows and yowls during the car journeys were enough to test anyone's patience.

    'It's all right, baby, Mummy'll be home soon.' Stella kissed his front paws. 'Are you missing me, hmm?'

    'He had a tin of salmon last night.' Well,
had
was putting it optimistically. When Erin had put the bowl on the floor, Bing had given her his most disdainful Gordon-Ramsay-served-rank-food-by some-useless-amateur look and stalked off. Still, most of it had gone by this morning.

    'He prefers smoked salmon, chopped up into pieces an inch square. Oh sweetheart, did they try and make you eat nasty old tinned? My poor baby, they're so
mean
to you.'

    Erin didn't take offense; gratitude would have been too much to hope for. She sat back and idly watched the comings and goings outside the entrance to the hospital, then turned to follow the prog ress of a boy on crutches making his way towards the gates.

    Hang on. Who was that, heading up the road past him?

    Wasn't that…?

    Crikey, it
was.

    'Stella.'

    'Oh, look at your beautiful whiskers, they're so
silky
.'

    'Stella.' Erin gave the side of the wheelchair a gentle nudge. 'Looks like you've got another visitor.'

'What?'

    'Someone's come to see you.'
At last
, but better late than never. Pleased for Stella, Erin pointed the visitor out to her. Amy, wearing a daffodil-yellow V-necked top, cream jeans, and high-heeled sandals, was making her way up the road towards them.

    Stella smiled, visibly relieved to see her friend at long last.

    Amy grew closer. Recognizing first Erin, then Fergus, she nodded briefly in acknowledgement.

    Then carried on walking by.

    Boggling, they stared after her as she click-clacked past and ap proached the glass sliding doors of the building's main entrance.

    '
Amy
,' Fergus called out, stopping her in her tracks. When she turned, he said redundantly, 'We're over here!'

    Mystified, Amy looked at him, then at Erin. Finally, her gaze went to Stella in the wheelchair and her expression altered, changed to one of horror as recognition dawned. Belatedly, Erin realized that Amy hadn't come here to visit Stella; the thought that she might bump into her today hadn't so much as crossed her mind.

    'Stella? How
are
you?' Staying where she was, Amy waved across the distance between them as if greeting a casual friend on Ladies' Day at Ascot. 'How nice to see you! You're looking… um…'

    'Stunning,' Stella murmured dryly. 'I know.'

    'Gosh, I'd love to stop and chat, but I'm late for my appoint ment! Having my first scan.' Amy beamed with excitement.

    'Erin mentioned you were pregnant,' said Stella. She paused. 'Congratulations.'

    'Thanks! Well, I'd better rush, don't want to keep the doctor waiting. Wish me luck,' trilled Amy. 'See you around!'

    They watched in silence as Amy teetered in through the glass doors.

    Stella carried on stroking Bing. Finally she spoke. 'That poor baby. Fancy not even knowing who the father is. D'you think the scan will be able to see if it's got Rupert's ears?'

FOR ONCE THE SCHOOL car park was alive with activity at seven in the morning. Max pulled into a space and hauled Lou's turquoise case off the back seat of the car.

    She threw her arms around him, kissed him on both cheeks, and gave him an extra hug for luck, a habit they'd got into when she'd been a toddler and one he hoped she'd never break. When you counted up how many extra hugs he'd had over the years, they prob ably amounted to—God, tens of thousands. And he wouldn't have missed out on them for the world.

    'Thanks for bringing me this early.' Lou's curls tickled his nose. 'Love you. Bye, Dad.'

    'Hang on a sec.' Releasing her, Max strode round to the back of the car and clicked open the boot.

    'Why? What's in there?' Lou's puzzled frown deepened as he pulled out a second case. 'What's going on? Who's that for?'

    The coach was already filling up with pupils and teachers; in ten minutes, it would be setting off on its journey to Paris.

    'Me,' said Max.

    'Why? You're not coming.'

    'I am.'

    'Oh Dad, no!' Lou looked panicky and upset, and Max knew why. His heart went out to her.

    'Hey, it's OK. It'll be fine.'

    'It won't be fine! Eddie Marshall-Hicks is going on the trip, and his friend Baz… they might
say
things…'

    'If they try it, I'll crack their heads together and push them off the Eiffel Tower. Well,' Max amended, 'I would if I was allowed to.'

    Parents and children were swarming around them. Lou was already glancing apprehensively at each arriving car, clearly unhappy with the situation. 'Dad, they're vile. This is going to be awful.'

    Which just went to prove that, contrary to what she might have promised him, the snide remarks
hadn't
stopped.

    'Sweetheart, do you think I can't handle a couple of spoiled brats? Coming along on the trip was my idea, after Mrs Heron and I had our chat. She was all for it.'

    'So you set this up weeks ago, and it didn't even occur to you to tell me?' Lou said plaintively, 'Dad, this is
my
school trip.'

    'That's why we didn't tell you. You'd have begged me not to come along.'

    'I'm begging you
now
.'

    'Too late. We're here. Oh, don't look at me like that.' Max prayed he hadn't made a terrible mistake. 'I'm not doing this to punish you. Mrs Heron thinks it's a great idea.'

    Lou's eyes narrowed. 'Well, she would, wouldn't she? You aren't
her
dad.'

    But there was nothing she was able to do about it; he'd presented her with a fait accompli. Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, forty children and forty-four assorted items of luggage were installed on the coach. Astrid Heron turned up to see everyone off. Finally, she stood at the front of the coach, facing her overexcited pupils, and gave a brief, headmistressy speech.

    'Now, you already know Miss Endell and Mr Lewis, so just let me introduce our two volunteer parent helpers. Mrs Trent, mother of Sophie.'

    Next to Max, a beaming Fenella Trent leapt to her sensibly shod feet, waved enthusiastically and trilled, 'Hello, everyone!'

    'And Louisa's father, Mr Dineen.'

    OK, he definitely wasn't going to beam or wave. Max rose to his feet, gazed at the sea of faces, and said, 'Hi there, you can call me Max.'

    It didn't take a genius to work out where Eddie and his sidekick were sitting. Everyone on the bus heard the sniggers at the back and the loudly whispered, 'Or we could call you Poof.'

    Outraged, Mrs Heron barked, 'Who said that?'

    'It's OK.' Max stopped her with a brief smile; hadn't they already agreed to let him handle this in his own way? Addressing the back of the bus, he said pleasantly, 'You
could
call me that, but you might not like what I'd call you in return.'

    Astrid Heron was now looking as if she might be regretting her decision. 'Right. Well. Have a wonderful trip, all of you. And remember, you're representing Harleston Hall, so behave yourselves! Do us proud!
À bientôt! Bon chance! Au revoir!'

    They got shot of her at last, and the coach trundled down the tree-lined, sun-dappled driveway. Max sat back and wondered if
behave yourselves
applied to him too. If the ferry crossing was rough and the opportunity presented itself, would it be so very wrong to tip Eddie and his sniggering sidekick over the rail and into the Channel?

    Next to him, Fenella adjusted her pink headband and said gaily, 'Well, we're off! This is going to be fun, isn't it!'

    'Let's hope so.'

    She leaned towards him slightly and lowered her voice. 'What was all that about, just now? I didn't quite catch it.'

    'A couple of the boys were having a dig at me,' said Max. 'Because I'm gay.'

    Fenella's eyebrows nearly collided with her headband. 'Are you joking?'

'No.'

'But… but you're Louisa's father!'

Max shrugged slightly. 'Still gay.'

    Having evidently led an extremely sheltered life, Fenella flushed and shrank away from him. 'Well, I… I had no idea… good grief!'

    'I know. Shocking, isn't it?' said Max.

God, keeping an eye on forty overexcited thirteen- and fourteen year-olds was knackering. Following an afternoon of sightseeing— the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe—they'd all eaten dinner at tables outside a vast pizza restaurant. (Pizza? Mai
s
naturellement!)
Now they were chatting and switching seats and eyeing up other groups of teenagers in the vicinity. Some of the boys were kicking screwed-up balls of foil around, dribbling them between the tables, and showing off their skills.

    Max drank his black coffee and watched Josie Endell's body language as she chatted animatedly to Tom Lewis. On to her second glass of wine now—
quel daring!
—she was leaning forward and arching her back in order to expose another inch of cleavage, using her hands a lot to illustrate whatever she was saying, and being slightly—daringly—flirtatious. To illustrate a point, she touched his arm. Each time she laughed, she flicked back her hair. Oh yes, the classic mating ritual of the bright-eyed, flicky-haired history teacher. No doubt about it, Miss Endell was not-so-secretly smitten with Mr Lewis.

    And she wasn't the only one. Amused, Max observed the scene playing out before him. Adolescent girls flitted around Tom Lewis like moths, asking him questions, making jokey comments, and generally practicing their fledgling flirting skills in the most harmless way: on someone who was attractive but safe.

    'Sir? Could you look after my iPhone for me?'

    The other thing that was interesting was watching the interac tion between the—

    'Sir?'

    'Oh, sorry.' Belatedly Max turned to the left. 'Didn't know you meant me. No one's ever called me sir before. Yes, I'll take care of it.' He slipped the iPhone into his jacket pocket. 'But it might be easier if you called me Max.'

    'OK, sir—Max.' The girl giggled.

    'Now that sounds good. Sir Max. I like it.' He nodded. 'How are you getting on, anyway? Having fun?'

    'Oh yes, Paris is dead cool. I liked seeing the Mona Lisa this afternoon. I saw a TV program about Leonardo da Vinci once and he did so many brilliant things.'

    One of the balls of foil had just been kicked under Max's chair. Eddie Marshall-Hicks, deftly hooking it out with his foot, gave a snort and said with derision, 'Leonardo da Vinci was
gay
.'

    The girl rolled her eyes. 'Eddie, you are such a prat.'

    He feigned innocence. 'But he was! I'm just
saying
.'

    'That's right. He was a genius,' said Max. 'One of the most multi-talented people who ever lived.'

    As Eddie dribbled the makeshift ball back to the game on the pavement, he said under his breath, 'And a shirt-lifter.'

    The girl shook her head in disgust. 'Sorry about him, sir… Max. He's really immature.'