Summer of Love (9 page)

‘That would be kind. This shirt has expired, really.’

‘Let me find them for you—’ Fiona was about to lead James upstairs when Sian stopped her.

Sian was firm. ‘No, Fiona, point us in the right direction and we’ll find the shirts. You go and have a drink and prepare to greet your guests. There’s a bottle of champagne open. James didn’t think you’d want to do it just when you’re greeting your first visitor.’

Obedient and grateful, Fiona went out to the garden where Sian had arranged candles and fairy lights round the paving in such a way that a performance of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
would have seemed appropriate. Perhaps it was just a little over the top for a dinner party – even a large, al fresco one – but there was an atmosphere of expectancy, as if magic was indeed about to happen, and Fiona was thrilled.

Honeysuckle perfumed the air and the jasmine in the conservatory wafted its contribution. A discerning sniff and Fiona detected roses. They were so lucky with the weather! Later in the summer this heat would seem oppressive and desert-like, now it was just wonderful.

As she sipped the glass of champagne that James had poured her before he and Sian went upstairs she decided she was glad Robert hadn’t been able to come early. Now he could see everything perfect without having had to take part in the mechanics of getting it right. Then she remembered how many times he’d mentioned the house and hoped he didn’t think it was all for his benefit. The other guests would appreciate it too.

The Francombes and Robert were both fashionably late. Sian insisted on acting as butler and letting guests in. Fiona wasn’t at all happy about this until Sian said she found it quite easy to open a door and show people through, but not at all easy to make conversation with virtual strangers.

Sian had finished clearing up the kitchen (despite Fiona insisting she shouldn’t and she didn’t want her to ruin her own outfit) and was wondering if she should go and join the others in the garden when the bell rang.

‘Oh! Where’s Fiona?’ said a large, well-dressed woman with a massive scarf wrapped round her. ‘Are you the help?’

‘Of course she’s not the help, darling,’ said a good-looking if slightly plump man who followed his wife. ‘She’s a helpful guest.’

‘That’s right,’ said Sian, remembering that the ‘how to entertain’ booklet had referred to hiring the daughters of friends to be waitresses. They must be the Francombes. ‘Now, is there anything you want to leave? Or shall I show you through?’

The bell jangled again, swinging to and fro on its coil.

‘We’ll find our own way, thank you, dear,’ said the woman, whom Sian found herself warming to, although the word ‘smug’ had obviously been invented for her. She was so confident: a self-made woman completely satisfied with her creation.

Sian opened the door to a man who was tallish, quite good-looking with a decent amount of hair. She was sure this must be Robert and she could see perfectly why Fiona had said he couldn’t be ‘the one’.

‘Hello?’ he said, putting his hand in hers and squeezing it hard. ‘I’m Robert Warren. Are you Fiona’s daughter?’

‘No, just her friend. Do come in. Everyone’s in the garden.’

Robert Warren stepped over the threshold, looking about him. ‘Good Lord! This place must be worth a few bob!’

Sian flinched but continued to smile. ‘Follow me to the garden.’

‘Do you know if it’s mortgaged?’ he asked in an undertone.

‘I have no idea!’ said Sian. ‘Do come this way.’

Sian watched Fiona at the head of the table and felt proud of her. Everything was going brilliantly. There was enough room in the conservatory now half the plants had been removed, the table looked lovely and the Francombes were unable to hide their amazement at the elegance of the occasion. The food was delicious. Sian felt grateful that she’d talked Fiona out of parcelling up her green beans and just added crispy bits of bacon to them to make them special. She and James had helped clear away the asparagus and then James had carved one leg of lamb (perfectly pink) while Fiona did the other one. Robert, to Sian’s private annoyance, just made slightly disparaging comments about the quality of the wine. If he’d actually been rude she’d have said something, but he was just dismissive. Fortunately Fiona didn’t hear. Sian found she was enjoying herself. She didn’t go to many dinner parties – when her parents held them she usually found herself out with friends for the evening – and despite the fact that she knew Fiona’s wouldn’t be a stuffy affair she had been concerned she might feel somewhat overwhelmed, but she didn’t. And although her dress was a little frayed round the hem, she knew it suited her and she didn’t feel too out of place amongst the peacock display of outfits around her. She’d had a long conversation with Margaret Tomlin who owned the boutique and whom she’d promised to visit with examples of her work. She even found herself able to converse with Melissa without wanting to wince.

They were on the cheese course, prior to the puddings, and Sian was just thinking how lovely Fiona looked when she heard a noise. Some sort of engine. It sounded terribly near, as if a vehicle was actually in the gravel drive, when usually people parked round the back.

She caught Fiona’s eye. She had heard it too and obviously wanted to investigate. The noise got louder and more worrying. Sian was about to offer to go when there was a screech of brakes and the noise of metal against stone.

Sian would have run to check, but she was hampered by the chairs on either side of her. Fiona looked worried and then her expression changed as she saw the man standing outside the conservatory.

‘Fuckity fuck fuck’, said a male voice from across the lawn. ‘Who put that bloody cherub there?’

There was a pause. Nobody spoke. Everyone looked expectantly towards the sound of the blasphemer. An intruder wouldn’t have sworn so loudly, and would have probably done his research and known about the cherub. So who was it?

A tall dishevelled-looking man appeared in the doorway. ‘Oh sod it. It’s a dinner party. Hi, Mum!’

Sian, who had been trying to shift her chair to allow a bit of movement away from the table, hadn’t seen the man who’d spoken. Now her view of him was obscured as people got up to make way for Fiona as she squeezed through to reach him.

She saw him wrap his arms round his mother and bend to embrace her. And then he looked up.

She thought she was going to faint. She thought she was dreaming. And then she realised she wasn’t, and she wanted to run away.

A sip of wine gave her some thinking time. No one had noticed her reaction, they were all greeting the Prodigal, but Sian knew any second Fiona would start on introductions.

Fortunately, Melissa got up. ‘Angus!’ she squealed delightedly. ‘Do you remember me? The last time you saw me, you pushed me in to the nettles!’

The commotion went on. Melissa was now hanging on to Angus, giving everyone the impression they had been childhood sweethearts, and his pushing her in the nettles was what boys did to girls they liked. For all Sian knew, this was true. Carefully, she pushed her chair back and was halfway out of it when Fiona called her name.

‘Sian! Darling! This is Angus! Angus, this is Sian, my neighbour and helper. I don’t know how I’d have managed without her, in fact.’

Sian forced herself to look up. Gus, the father of her child, looked back at her. He’d hardly charged. Tall, sun-streaked, dark-blond hair and a wicked, crooked smile.

‘Sian?’ he said, staring at her as if she was a statue come to life or something equally bizarre. ‘Sian! What the hell are you doing here?’

Sian found that all the saliva in her mouth had dried up and her head was swimming. She felt a physical jolt. All the desire she had felt for him the first time round came back in a rush. How could her body betray her like this? She was in trouble. She took another sip of wine, hoping it might make it possible for her to speak.

‘I …’ was all she managed. She just couldn’t believe he was here, in real life, the man who had taken her heart, her passion, her dreams, and run away with them, leaving her only with her much-loved son. Come on, brain, she implored it. Think of something to say! If only he’d got less attractive in the past five years, but he hadn’t, he was the same, only more – of everything!

‘Have you met before?’ said Fiona. ‘What an extraordinary coincidence! Why didn’t you say you knew my son?’

‘I didn’t know!’ Sian managed to speak at last. The wine had helped. ‘I had no idea Gus was your son. You talked about Angus.’ She frowned. ‘And your surname is Matcham!’ Just in time she stopped herself adding, ‘Not Berresford.’ His name shouldn’t be engraved in her memory and the fact it was must remain a secret.

‘So you two
have
met before?’ asked Melissa, sounding proprietorial.

‘Oh yes we have,’ said Gus emphatically. ‘We very much have. Although it’s been a long time since we saw each other.’

The way he looked at her made it very clear he was remembering their time together in detail and Sian blushed as she remembered too. She was extremely embarrassed to be having such memories in a room full of people, all of whom seemed to be staring at her.

‘How did you meet?’ asked Melissa.

‘At a party,’ said Gus, ‘just before I went away.’

The party. They met in the kitchen. Sian had gone in for some water and Gus had been there. He’d found a glass for her and filled it. When he handed it to her their eyes had met. Sian remembered the bolt of electricity that passed between them; it was seared on her brain. Sian had taken the water but didn’t go back to the group she’d left. Gus had taken her hand and drawn her into the corner next to the table and then stood in front of her, as if cutting her off from the rest of the party. She remembered that she should have felt trapped but instead felt guarded, protected. And they talked. For hours. Eventually he said, ‘Shall we get out of here?’ and she’d nodded. Without saying goodbye to anyone they’d left the flat and got a taxi to his place. It was completely out of character for her, but she couldn’t stop herself. They’d kissed in the taxi and could hardly tear themselves apart to get out of it. Gus had handed the driver a wodge of notes, probably to apologise for their behaviour and because he didn’t want to waste time finding out how much he owed and counting the money.

Sian remembered tripping over some packed boxes as they got to the bedroom but she only found out he was leaving for a long, long trip the next day. By then it was too late, she was hopelessly in love, in lust, in thrall, whatever it was. Reluctantly she’d agreed that it was more sensible for them to part without promises to keep in touch, to remember this wonderful night as just that, with no regrets. After all, Gus didn’t know when he’d be back.

‘And you haven’t seen each other since?’ asked Fiona.

‘No,’ said Sian, dragging herself back to the present.

‘I went away the next day,’ said Angus. ‘I mean, the day after we met.’ He was looking at her just as he had then. When they parted, the Sunday morning, he had looked down at her with such sadness. He had cupped her cheek with his hand and held it. She knew then she would never regret that night of heavenly sex and she never had, even when she very first discovered she was pregnant. Now she cleared her throat, trying to think of something to say that would stop him looking at her like that, as if he might rush her upstairs to bed that very minute, ignoring the five years since they’d seen each other and his mother’s dinner party.

At last reason took over. She’d grown up a lot since then and she had responsibilities. Much as her body would like that to happen, her head told her that she couldn’t behave like the mad girl she’d been then. She had too much to lose. Her sanity for one thing. Her feelings were in turmoil, and she wished she could just run away, but she owed it to Fiona to try to carry on as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn’t met a man she never expected to meet again, a man who still seemed every bit as dashing and carefree as he had been. She couldn’t afford to admit – even to herself – how strong the attraction still was.

To Sian’s huge relief, Fiona fell into mother-mode. ‘Have you eaten, darling?’ she said.

Gus turned to his mother. ‘Um – no. I’m starving.’ Then his gaze went back to Sian. She turned away quickly and busied herself with her napkin. His gaze was too piercing.

‘Let’s find him a chair,’ Melissa said. ‘Here, there’s space by me.’ She patted the seat beside her alluringly.

‘Let the boy sit next to his mother,’ said Margaret Tomlin firmly.

A chair was found, space made and Gus sat down.

‘So, darling,’ said Fiona. ‘What took you so long to come home?’ Then she put an anxious hand on his arm. ‘Unless it’s private …?’

‘Yes,’ said Melissa, ‘do tell. Have you got a wife and six children somewhere in Outer Mongolia?’

‘Not that I know about,’ said Gus, with a grin. He turned his head towards Melissa and while Sian couldn’t see his expression, she could tell he was flirting.

Sian, who was still desperately trying to get her emotions under control, smothered a sigh. He was still able to charm the birds off the trees, she realised with a flash of jealousy, and admonished herself for such a thought. He could behave how he liked with anyone he wanted to. He wasn’t hers, he never had been. And what on earth was she going to do about Rory? Gus was the best lover she’d ever had, or would ever have, she was sure of that, but was he father material? That was the important point. From what Fiona had said about her son (much as she loved him dearly) and from what Sian had gleaned about him herself, she knew that he liked to take risks, he flirted with danger and he didn’t like anything that might constrain him or take him away from doing what he loved best: taking off at a moment’s notice to discovered and undiscovered lands alike. She’d have to make sure he wasn’t going to take off again before she even thought about telling him he had a son. She couldn’t put Rory through anything that might potentially hurt him; she couldn’t put
herself
through that.

‘So, if it isn’t a deep dark secret, what have you been doing?’ Melissa persisted. ‘We’ve missed you!’