‘Go!’ Oliver ordered. ‘Get out of this restaurant and get out of our lives. I don’t want to ever see your face again!’
He held himself steady as Andrew turned to look at Cynthia. The man opened his mouth to speak but, perhaps thinking better of it, he slid himself out of the booth. Oliver watched him collect his coat from the rack on the back wall and walk towards the door.
‘He’s gone,’ Oliver said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
‘Oh, Oliver,’ Cynthia said, the tears flowing freely.
‘It’s OK, Mom,’ Oliver said, sitting down and reaching for her hand once more.
‘I had no idea. You have to believe me. When he did that magazine article, I was furious and—’ Cynthia started.
‘Shh, it’s OK, I know.’ Oliver swallowed. ‘He fooled us all.’
He squeezed his mother’s hand and swallowed back the bile in his throat. This was what happened when you put your faith in someone and took your eye off the ball. He was never going to make the same mistake again.
48
THE CRYSTALLINE HOTEL, MANHATTAN
Hayley hadn’t slept at all and was operating on sugar-infused lattes a waitress was bringing her every hour. She held a tape measure up to the window, popping up on tiptoes to reach the top.
‘I can help!’ Angel exclaimed, leaping up from a chair and slamming shut her special dictionary.
‘It’s OK,’ Hayley said, her spine straining as she stretched.
‘Let me,’ Angel said. She began pulling a chair across the parquet floor, the noise jabbing at every one of Hayley’s irritation senses.
‘It’s fine, Angel. Stop doing that before you scratch the very expensive floor.’ Her eyes went to the sleek, wooden blocks. A scratch about twelve inches long stood out like Rudolph in the reindeer pack.
Hayley put her hands into her hair, preparing to scream. This was all she needed. Her deliveries for the fundraiser hadn’t arrived and now her daughter was intent on wrecking the venue. Did she dare call Rebecca Rogers-Smythe and ask how best to remove a scratch from vintage parquet?
‘I’m really sorry, Mum,’ Angel said, her eyes going from the mark on the floor to Hayley and back again.
This was all Oliver’s fault. She shook her head. No, that wasn’t fair; it wasn’t Oliver’s fault. What he’d done was thoughtful and amazing but that hadn’t stopped the contents of the brown envelope practically searing her skin the entire night. After Oliver had left, Hayley had slunk to her bedroom and stared at the envelope. While screams and shouts came from the living room, where it sounded like Randy was trying to tear down Bruce the Spruce, she’d tore open the seal and taken out what was inside.
There were only three pieces of A4 printer paper. One piece detailed contact information for a Michel Arment. The other was a copy of a driving licence. The third was a photo. Hayley didn’t need to look at the photo for long. There were no doubts. This man was the one she’d spent a night with. Angel’s father.
‘It’s OK,’ she breathed, putting an arm around Angel and pulling her into an embrace. ‘I’ve been cranky since the orchid lady didn’t show up.’ She stroked a hand over Angel’s hair. Did she tell her daughter yet? Should she call Michel first? There was so much riding on what she did next, it was almost too much to cope with.
Angel lifted her head, smiling as she looked up at Hayley. ‘Randy looked so cute in that outfit you bought him, didn’t he?’
Hayley smiled. ‘No fashion alerts needed for that pooch. And I think Uncle Dean was secretly jealous of the waistcoat.’
Angel laughed. ‘That’s what Vernon said.’
Hayley’s eyes went over to the scratch on the wood. ‘Listen, why don’t you go and sweet-talk the waitress into getting me another latte and I’ll see if I can find something to get rid of the mark.’
‘I could see what my special dictionary suggests,’ Angel offered.
‘Good idea.’
The Drummond Residence, Westchester
Oliver opened his eyes, blinking at the unfamiliar surroundings for a moment, until the night before came back to him. He was at home, his family home in Westchester. His old bedroom. There was still a poster of the New York Giants from 1994 on the wall. He sat up and smoothed his hands over the shadow of stubble on his face. He felt like he’d drunk a bottle of Scotch and then been run over by a snowplough.
There was a soft knock on the bedroom door and he pulled the covers up a little. It would be Sophia with coffee.
‘Come in,’ he called.
