‘Zoe? Zoeeeeee . . . ??! Okay, you’re not there. Ring me at home. Immediately. I mean it. It’s urgent!’
Zoe winced at the slur in her brother’s voice. She’d been horrified when she’d seen what Marcus had turned up wearing yesterday at the church – not even a tie – and he’d snuck off as soon as he could from the wake afterwards, without even saying goodbye. She knew it was because Marcus was sulking.
Just after James had died, she, Marcus and her father had attended the reading of his will. Sir James Harrison had decided to leave virtually all his money and Haycroft House in trust for Jamie until he was twenty-one. There was also an insurance policy to pay for Jamie’s school fees and university education. Welbeck Street had been bequeathed to Zoe, along with his theatrical memorabilia, which took up most of the attic space at Haycroft House. However, he’d left her no actual cash; Zoe understood that he wanted her to be hungry and continue to pursue her acting career. There was also a lump sum of money in trust to set up the ‘Sir James Harrison Memorial Scholarship’. This was to pay the fees of two talented youngsters who would not normally be able to attend a reputable drama school. He had asked that Charles and Zoe set the scheme up.
James had left Marcus a hundred thousand pounds; a ‘paltry token gesture’, according to Marcus. After the reading of the will, she could feel the disappointment crackling like electricity from her brother.
She switched on the kettle, weighing up whether to call Marcus back, knowing if she didn’t, he was likely to call her at some ungodly hour of the morning, drunk and unintelligible. However excruciatingly self-obsessed he could be, Zoe loved her brother, remembering her childhood with him and how sweet and kind he’d always been with her when she was younger. Whatever his more recent behaviour, she knew that Marcus had a good soul, but equally, his penchant for falling in love with the wrong women and his very bad head for business had subsequently rendered him broke and very low.
When he’d left university, Marcus had gone to LA to stay with their father and had tried to make his mark as a film producer. Zoe had known from what her father and James told her that things weren’t going as he’d planned. Over the ten years Marcus had been in LA, one project after another had crumbled to dust, leaving him and his benefactor father disillusioned. And leaving Marcus virtually penniless.
‘The problem with that young man is that his heart’s in the right place, but he’s a dreamer,’ James had commented when Marcus had returned from LA to England three years ago with his tail between his legs. ‘This new project of his –’ James had flapped the film proposal Marcus had sent him in hope of funding – ‘is full of sound political and moral ethos, but where’s the story?’ Subsequently, James had refused to back it.
Even if her brother had not helped himself, Zoe felt a sense of guilt for the fact that she and her son had been so favoured by James, both in his lifetime, and in the recent will.
Cradling a mug of tea in her hands, she wandered into the sitting room and glanced around at the scuffed mahogany furniture, the worn-out sofa and the old chairs, their undercarriages visibly sagging with age. The heavy damask curtains were faded, with small vertical slits woven through the fragile material, as if an invisible knife had cut through them like butter. As she mounted the stairs towards her bedroom, she thought she’d try removing the threadbare carpets to see if the hardwood floor beneath them could be salvaged . . .
She paused on the landing, outside the door to James’s room. Now all the grim paraphernalia of life and death had been removed, the room felt like a void. She opened the door and stepped inside, picturing him sitting up in bed, a congenial smile on his face.
All her strength left her, and she slid to the floor, curling up by the wall, as all her grief and pain poured out in body-wracking sobs. She hadn’t let herself cry like this up until now, holding everything together for Jamie. But now, here for the first time on her own, she cried for herself, and for the loss of her true father,andher best friend.
The ringing of the doorbell startled her. She stilled, hoping the unwelcome caller would go away and let her lick her wounds in peace.
The doorbell rang again.
‘Zoe!’ a familiar voice shouted through the letter box. ‘I know you’re home, your car’s outside. Let me in!’
‘Damn you, Marcus!’ she cursed under her breath, angrily swiping the last tears from her face. She ran down the stairs, pulled the front door open and saw her brother leaning against the stone portico.
‘Jesus, sis!’ he said as he saw her face. ‘You look as wrecked as I do.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘You’re here now, so you’d better,’ she snapped and stood back to let him through.
Marcus slid past her and headed straight to the drinks cabinet in the sitting room, where he reached for the decanter to pour himself a healthy slug of whisky before she had even closed the front door.
‘I was going to ask you how you were holding up, but I can see it in your face,’ he remarked, falling back into the leather wingback chair.
‘Marcus, just tell me what you want. I’ve got a lot to sort out—’
‘Don’t pretend you’ve got it so hard when good ol’ Jim left you this house.’ Marcus swept his arms around the room, the whisky sloshing perilously close to the rim of the glass.
‘James left you a lot of money,’ Zoe said through gritted teeth. ‘I know you’re angry—’
‘Damn right I am! I’m this close –thisclose – to Ben MacIntyre agreeing to direct my new film project. But he’s got to be sure I have the capital to begin pre-production. All I need is a hundred grand in the company account and I reckon he’ll say yes.’
‘Just be patient. When probate comes through, you’ll get it.’ Zoe sat back on the sofa, massaging her aching temples. ‘Can’t you get a loan?’
‘You know what my personal credit rating is like. And Marc One Films doesn’t have the best financial track record either. Ben’ll move on to something else if I hang about. Honestly, Zo, if you met these guys, you’d want to be involved too – it’s going to bethemost important film of the decade, if not the millennium . . .’
Zoe sighed. She’d heard plenty about Marcus’s new project in the past few weeks.
‘And we need to start applying for permits to film in Brazil soon. If only Dad would loan me the money until probate comes through, but he’s refused.’ Marcus glared at her.
‘You can’t blame Dad for saying no; he’s helped you out so many times before.’
