‘That’s okay.’ Zoe didn’t know whether Marcus was being grateful or sarcastic. ‘I’ve really tried to sort something out for you. I know it’s not the hundred grand you wanted, but you know that will come eventually.’
Marcus stood up, sudden rage pounding through him as he glared at his sister’s smooth, smug face. ‘Tell me, Zoe, where do you get off?’
‘What?’
‘You sit there and lookdownon me: the poor sinner who’s lost his way but can be rescued with a bit of time and patience. And yet,and yet –’ Marcus threw up his hands in disbelief – ‘it’syouwho’s messed up,youwho got pregnant at eighteen! So unless it really was the bloody immaculate conception, I’d reckon you know more about sin than I do.’
Zoe’s face drained of colour. She stood up, shaking with anger.
‘How dare you insult me and Jamie like that! I know you’re angry, and desperate, and almost certainly depressed too, but I really have tried to do everything I can to help. Well, this is where I get off. I’ve had it up to here with your pathetic self-pity. Nowget lost!’
‘Don’t worry, I’m going.’ He headed for the door. ‘And you can stick your sodding memorial fund where the sun don’t shine!’
Zoe heard the door slam behind him, and burst into tears. She was crying so hard that she only just heard the sound of the telephone ringing. The answering machine took the call.
‘Er, hello, Zoe. It’s me. I . . .’
She virtually vaulted off the sofa and sprinted into the kitchen to pick up the receiver. ‘I’m here, Art.’ His nickname was out of her mouth before she could stop herself.
‘How are you?’
Zoe looked at her tear-stained reflection in the glass kitchen cabinets and said, ‘I’m well, very well.’
‘Good, good. Er, I was wondering, would it be too rude to invite myself to your place for a drink? You know how it is with me and I’d love to see you, Zoe, I really would.’
‘Of course. When would you like to come?’
‘Friday evening, maybe?’
‘Perfect.’
‘Around eight?’
‘Suits me.’
‘Right then. I look forward to it. Goodnight, Zoe. Sleep well.’
‘Night.’ She put down the receiver slowly, not sure whether to carry on crying or to whoop for joy.
She chose the latter. Doing an Irish jig round the kitchen, she made mental plans to spend tomorrow beautifying herself. Hairdressers’ and clothes shops were most definitely on the agenda.
Contemplating her complete and uttershitof a brother was not.
8
Marcus had fallen out of Zoe’s house in Welbeck Street and ended up in some seedy Oxford Street nightclub, where he’d met a girl who – he’d been convinced at the time – was the image of Claudia Schiffer. When he’d woken up the following morning and glanced at the face next to him, he’d realised just how out of his mind he’d been. The bright make-up had slid down her face, and the dark roots of her peroxide hair were prominent against the white pillow she lay on. She’d lisped something in a heavy accent about taking the day off from work to spend it with him.
He’d gone to the bathroom and promptly been very ill indeed. He’d showered, trying to clear the cobwebs from his head, and groaned when he remembered just exactly what he had said to his sister last night. He was a first-class, low-down, rotten pig.
Insisting the woman in his bed refrain from playing truant from her job, he’d bundled her out of the flat, and drunk large amounts of black coffee that burnt in his acidic, complaining stomach. Then he’d decided to take a walk in Holland Park.
It was a crisp, frosty day, and the weathermen were predicting snow. Marcus walked briskly along the hedged footpaths, the ponds murky and still in the cold sunshine. Marcus pulled his jacket around him, glaring at anyone who made eye contact with him. Not so much as a squirrel dared approach him.
He let the lump in his throat turn to tears. He really didn’t like himself any more. Zoe had only been trying to help and he’d treated her appallingly. It had been the booze talking, yet again. And maybe she was right – perhaps hewasdepressed.
In retrospect, was what Zoe had offered him really so awful? As she’d said, it was money for old rope. He had no idea how much was actually in the memorial fund, but he’d bet it was substantial. He then pictured himself in the role of generous benefactor, not only to students, but maybe to struggling theatres and young film makers. He would become known in the business as a man with sensitivity, insight and money to spend. And his mother would have most definitely approved of the project.
There was no doubt he could do with a regular income. Perhaps it would mean he could begin to take better control of his finances, live within a budget, then use his hundred-thousand-pound legacy to put into his film company.
