In a moment of pity, I nodded. “I have to get back up to Lancaster this afternoon, though,” I said quickly, forestalling her next question.
“Of course,” she said, more brightly. “I’ll just go and check how those rhubarb pies are doing. We’ve had so much of it this year I’ve been baking for the WI market but I’m sure I can spare one for dessert.” She waited until her back was towards me and she was halfway to the kitchen door before she delivered her killer punch. “Your father will be so pleased to have caught you.”
I’d forgotten. I froze in the middle of picking up my rucksack and it bumped against my hip. “Excuse me?”
She paused then, turned to give me an anxious smile. “Oh, didn’t I say?” she said, artfully casual. “He rang earlier to let me know he’s on his way home. If the traffic isn’t too bad we should all be able to sit down together at one o’clock. Now, why don’t you go and wash your face and get changed, darling?” She gave my jeans and rumpled shirt a slightly pained glance. “I’m sure there are still some lovely dresses in your wardrobe.”
***
My father rolled up on the dot of twelve-thirty, as though he’d been waiting in some lay-by down the road in order to arrive at such a neat and precise time.
I heard the crunch of tyres on gravel and crossed to my bedroom window. When I looked down, I could see the roof of his dark green Jaguar XK-8 just disappearing into the garage. After a few moments, the car door thunked shut and he walked out carrying a small overnight bag and a briefcase. The garage door slid smoothly down behind him.
He looked tired, I realised. From this angle I could see the slight drag to his shoulders. As I watched, he paused and seemed to take a deep breath before climbing the two low steps to the front door more briskly.
It was interesting, I thought, to learn that even my father had to brace himself before he could face my mother’s company.
Not to put off the inevitable, I came downstairs straight away to greet him. I reached the half landing just as he was setting his luggage down on the pew in the hall. He heard my footsteps and looked up.
“Charlotte,” he greeted me distantly and his gaze skimmed over my clothing.
I had, as my mother suggested, washed my face and changed – into my bike leather jeans, ready to beat a hasty retreat as soon as lunch was over. Rather childishly, I’d been skulking upstairs until my father arrived, knowing she wouldn’t make a big production about it in front of him.
Now, I thought I saw a fractional smile tug at the corner of his mouth, as though he knew exactly what my motives had been.
My mother appeared out of the kitchen at the end of the hallway and came forwards to welcome him. He put his hand on her arm, almost exactly the way Sean had done with me but, when he bent to kiss her, it was a sterile little peck on the cheek.
She stepped back and caught sight of me descending. Her face registered her disappointment but I didn’t have time to feel ashamed of my petty behaviour.
“I’d like a word with you before lunch, Charlotte,” my father said. He inclined his head politely. “If we have time?”
“Of course,” my mother said. But she would have said that even if she’d been keeping the food warm for an hour already.
My father smiled at her and led the way into his study. I followed. He closed the door behind us. I expected him to cross to the antique rosewood desk and take a position of authority behind it, but instead he moved to the silver tray of drink bottles on the sideboard.
I took one of the wingback leather armchairs standing at right angles to the desk.
“How’s Clare?” I asked, before he had chance to get a shot in.
“Doing as well as can be expected,” he said, professionally neutral. “The last procedure went well. I have one or two things to attend to here, then I’ll be going back up on Thursday.” He caught my expression. “It’s all going to take time, Charlotte,” he went on, gently. “The human body is a remarkable machine when it comes to repairing itself, but it isn’t quick.”
“I know,” I said, “and I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done for her. Without you . . . well, they were talking about amputation.”
He nodded, a regal acceptance of his own brilliance. “Sherry?” he offered.
I calculated the time until I was due to hit the road, and the fact that the mighty lunch my mother would undoubtedly serve would sop up the worst of the alcohol.
“I’d rather have a whisky,” I said, stretching my legs out in front of me, “if you still have any of that rather good single malt?”
He raised an eyebrow but poured a finger of rich golden liquid into a pair of crystal tumblers without comment. As he handed one across he clinked his with mine before perching on the edge of the desk beside me.
“So,” I said, inhaling the smoky earth tones in my glass, “what have I done now?”
“Why should you think you’ve done anything?” he asked, his voice deceptively mild.
“Oh, habit,” I said, not to be deflected. “Why else the cosy chat?”
He took a sip of his whisky, savoured the taste and sidestepped the question. “Your mother said you’ve come to collect your other motorbike – the new one,” he said then. “Can I ask why?”
I shrugged. “The Suzuki got trashed last night,” I said shortly. “I need transport.”
If I’d been hoping to shock him into a reaction, I was to be disappointed. Instead, his eyes tracked over my leathers and I realised, belatedly, that they still bore the scuffs and scars of my Transit encounter.
“I would ask if you are all right, but clearly you are,” he said. “This was in addition to you banging your knee yesterday, I assume?” he added dryly. “You were never so clumsy as a child, Charlotte.”
“Sometimes,” I said with a smile. “But back then it was usually ponies I was falling off.”
“Hmm. Strange that you should suddenly become so accident prone just as Sean Meyer makes a reappearance, don’t you think?”
Ah, so that’s what this was all about. I sat up straighter in my chair, the smile fading.
“No,” I said baldly. “Sean came because I called him after Clare’s accident, because I asked him to. Don’t go blaming him for any of this.”
“Any of what?”
Damn. I glared at him, as though he’d set out to deliberately trick me. Silence was the best card I’d got and I played it with a flourish, taking another mouthful of whisky.
He set his own glass down carefully on the leather blotter, folding his hands together in front of him. “I understand you’ve stopped seeing Dr Yates.”
“Oh, and what happened to patient confidentiality?” I threw back at him. “Or doesn’t that apply when it’s one of your golfing cronies?”
His moment of stillness signified his irritation. “That was unworthy of you, Charlotte,” he said. “Dr Yates agreed to see you as a personal favour to me and he would no more discuss one of his patients with a third party than would I. But, since I’ve been footing the bill for his services, he thought I ought to be aware that your last session was six weeks ago and you have failed to make any further appointments. Would you care to tell me why?”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, flashed with genuine contrition for my lack of gratitude. “Maybe I’m just not the type who responds well to psychotherapy. I didn’t feel it was doing me much good.”
“Perhaps that is precisely why you should have continued.”
“Perhaps I will,” I said, noncommittal. “But if you were hoping he’d talk me out of working in close protection – or working with Sean – you’ll be sadly disappointed.”
He regarded me for a moment longer, then sighed and got to his feet. He went over to the tall sash window and seemed lost in contemplation of the garden. “This wasn’t quite the future we envisaged for you, you know,” he said, without turning round.