‘As long as it’s in my arms, I don’t care.’ There was a pause on the line. Then, ‘God, Zoe, just now I wish I was anyone else.’
‘I don’t. I’m glad you’re you,’ she soothed. ‘Only a couple more days and we’ll be together. Are you sure it’s safe?’
‘Absolutely. Those who have to know are aware of the delicacy of the situation. And remember, discretionistheir job. Don’t worry, darling, please.’
‘It’s not me, Art, it’s Jamie I’m concerned for.’
‘Of course, but trust me, will you? I’ll have my driver wait for you outside the hotel from one onwards on Friday. I’ve got York Cottage in the grounds for the weekend, told the rest of the family I want some privacy. They understand. They won’t disturb us.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m counting the hours, darling. Goodnight.’
‘Night.’
Zoe clicked the phone off and lay on the bed staring at the cracked ceiling of her hotel bedroom, a smile drifting across her face. A whole weekend with Art was more than she’d ever enjoyed before.
And even for Jamie’s sake, she could not refuse.
Having taken a hot bath, Zoe went downstairs for supper. Most of the cast and crew had driven to the nearby town of Holt to try an apparently excellent Indian restaurant, so the small dining room, with its dark wooden cottage-style tables and chairs, was blissfully empty. She sat down in the corner near the fire and ordered the local pork casserole from the young waitress, realising she was starving.
Just as her food arrived, William Fielding, the old actor playing her father, appeared, swaying slightly, at the entrance to the restaurant.
‘Hello, m’dear. All alone?’ He smiled, his gentle eyes creasing at the corners.
‘Yes.’ Then, a trifle reluctantly, Zoe said, ‘Why don’t you join me?’
‘I’d like that very much indeed.’ William shuffled towards her, pulled out a chair and eased himself into it. ‘This darned arthritis is eating away at my bones. And the cold here isn’t helping.’ He leant in so near that Zoe could smell the alcohol on his breath. ‘Still, should be happy I’m working, and playing a man a good few years younger than myself. I feel like your grandfather, not your dad, m’dear.’
‘Nonsense. Age is how you feel inside, and you skipped up those stairs during filming today like a spring chicken,’ Zoe comforted him.
‘Yes, and it nearly bloody well killed me,’ he chuckled. ‘Still, can’t let our revered director think I’m past it.’
The waitress was hovering by the table with a menu.
‘Thank you, m’dear.’ William put on his glasses and perused it. ‘Now, what do we have here? I’ll have the soup, the roast of the day and a double whisky on the rocks to wash it down.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Would have a nice glass of claret, but the stuff they serve here is no better than vinegar,’ William remarked as he removed his glasses. ‘Enjoying the lunches, though. Location catering is always one of the treats of filming, don’t you think?’
‘Absolutely. I’ve put on almost four pounds since the beginning of the shoot,’ Zoe admitted.
‘Looks like you could do with it too, if you don’t mind me saying. Suppose you’re still getting over the death of dear Sir James.’
‘Actually, I don’t think I’ll ever really get over it. He was more of a father to me than my real dad. I miss him every day, and the pain doesn’t seem to get any less,’ Zoe admitted.
‘It will, m’dear. I can say that because I’m old and I know. Ah, thank you.’ William took the whisky from the waitress and drank a large gulp. ‘I lost my wife ten years ago to cancer. Didn’t think I could live without her. But I’m still here, surviving. I miss her, but at least I’ve accepted that she’s gone now. Lonely old life, though. Don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have the work.’
‘A lot of actors seem to live to grand old ages. I’ve often wondered if that’s because they never really retire, just carry on until they—’
‘Drop down dead. Quite.’ He drained his whisky and signalled for another. ‘Your grandfather lived until ninety-five, didn’t he? A good innings if I may say so. It inspires me to think I could have another thirteen years or so still to go.’
‘Are you really eighty-two?’ she said with genuine surprise.
‘To you, my dear, this very year. To the rest of the business, I hover around sixty-seven.’ William put a finger to his lips. ‘I only ever remembered precisely how old I was because I knew Sir James was exactly thirteen years older, to the day. We shared a birth date. Once celebrated it with him, many, many years ago. Aha! Soup, and it smells delicious. Excuse me while I plunder my bowl.’
‘Not at all.’ Zoe watched as William rather messily slurped the soup into his mouth with a shaking hand.
