‘The miscarriage is nothing to do with it.’
Apart from Marc and Terri, nobody else knew about her miscarriage. Oh, and Daniel, she’d mentioned it to him in a moment of weakness. But she hadn’t made a big deal of it, and he’d probably forgotten. Might Terri be right? From day one, she’d tried not to dwell on her loss, but once or twice it had featured in bad dreams. Invariably she awoke in a cold sweat of fear and self-loathing, for the inadequacy of her mourning for the child that never was. Would she ever have a baby of her own? Time kept moving, the odds against lengthened with every year that slipped by.
‘OK, OK, keep your hair on.’ Terri adopted a confidential tone. ‘Anyway, Marc isn’t the only show in town. Stefan, that hunky Polish bloke behind the bar, was telling me about Krakow, where he comes from. Sounds fabulous. Maybe he’s hoping to whisk me off for a mini-break.’
Hannah let her friend’s chatter slosh over her as the folk singers made their way back through the crowd. Was she being too harsh on Marc? They’d been together a long time, it might be a mistake to throw away all those shared memories. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Stefan the Pole emerge from inside, carrying a tray of drinks to a table of his fellow countrymen. He cast Terri’s bare legs a very frank glance, and Terri treated him to a coquettish smile without pausing for breath in the midst of an account of the latest idiocy of the girl she’d just hired at her makeup studio.
Chances were, Terri might find a reason to cancel her taxi home tonight. Oh well, good luck to her.
The singer who looked a little like Marc cleared his throat and tapped the microphone.
‘And now we’d like to do one of our favourite songs from the Fifties, “Bye, Bye Love”. Maybe it’s one of your favourites too.’
Yeah, Hannah thought, you’re singing my song. And I didn’t even need to put in a request.
The early hours, and Aslan staggered off the pavement and on to the road that led to his bedsit. At last, he’d shaken off Sham; he wasn’t in the mood to take her back, and they’d both had so much to drink that they’d probably have fallen fast asleep the moment they climbed into bed.
A car hooted from behind and he ducked out of the way. Once again, he thought how easy it would be to stumble into the path of a passing vehicle. But suppose you didn’t die? Some people were maimed for life, and he didn’t fancy that. Sham had talked endlessly about her family; she wanted him to be impressed that on one side she was descended from the landed gentry, on the other from successful business executives. Money turned her on; she said her father always said that money was power. But famously, it didn’t bring happiness, and it gave Aslan a rush of pleasure — much more than when she let her legs brush against his while they were drinking — to hear that even the Madsens were not as content as they seemed. He’d never figured out what he really wanted from life — apart from loads of money and no-strings sex, obviously — and it made him feel better that other people hit the same snag. He’d hate to think of himself as some kind of sad loser.
According to his daughter, Gareth Madsen felt twinges of envy, because his brother had control of the family company. Bryan resented the fact that he’d never made a mark in national politics, while Fleur was, in her niece’s eyes, an older woman who flirted shamelessly with younger men, but never got up the nerve to do anything about it. Sham was right there; during his fleeting encounters with the chair of St Herbert’s, he’d felt conscious of her appraising stare, and when they talked, she never allowed him enough personal space. But she gave the impression she was just amusing herself. Perhaps she guessed that he didn’t fancy shagging someone old enough to be his mother.
Weird though it was, Purdey appealed to him more than the other Madsens, something he’d had the tact to conceal when Sham persisted in running her sister down. Maybe it was just Purdey’s ruthless determination to succeed that he envied; she must have inherited it from their dad, as their mother, an ex-model, was apparently no Einstein. Sham was better-looking, but she was jealous of Purdey. Not a bit like Orla, who idolised Callum, even though he’d treated her with disdain.
Aslan found himself on the doorstep of the whitewashed cottage converted into bedsits and fumbled with his key in the lock. He meant to get up early tomorrow when his head had cleared, and follow through on what he’d gleaned from Sham. In the end, it had been just as well he’d agreed to go out with her. Orla had made no sense with her drunken hints about Castor and Pollux, but tonight Sham had unwittingly given him a glimpse of the truth. He’d have kissed her, but she’d only have got the wrong idea.
CHAPTER NINE
Ugliness was in the eye of the beholder, but Hannah had to admit that Mike Hinds had not been too unfair to the man who had taken away his first wife. Kit Payne’s face and body seemed lopsided, as if the result of inexpert do-it-yourself. Tall, with an egg-shaped head and hunched shoulders, he had a large nose, a receding chin, and teeth as crooked as Chesterfield’s church spire. There was a mournful light in his grey eyes, and the corners of his mouth drooped, as if apologising for his lack of photogenic appeal. Whatever Niamh Hinds once saw in him, it wasn’t good looks.
His office, on the first floor of Madsen High Command, was airy and spacious, reminiscent of an upmarket hotel room, with a leather sofa, plush chairs, and a balcony overlooking the park’s lovingly tended gardens. A shelf next to his desk was crammed with awards and certificates bestowed upon the park by tourism and environmental bodies. Half a dozen photographs showed a woman with dyed red hair, a toothy smile and lots of bronzed flesh. In one picture, she’d posed on the deck of a yacht in a tiny pink bikini. Niamh’s successor, no doubt, someone else able to see past Kit’s lugubrious appearance to the man beyond. Or at least as far as his bank balance.
Once his secretary had supplied bottles of water, he led Hannah and Greg on to the balcony and waved them into wooden chairs. When Hannah expressed her condolences, the egg-head bowed.
‘Poor Orla.’ Kit chewed at a fingernail. ‘I’m not sure she was ever truly happy.’
‘You’ve known her all her life?’
‘Pretty much. I started work here before she was born, although I began in the offices, assisting the operations director. When he retired, I was promoted, and I became friendly with Bryan and Gareth. In those days, the old man was still in charge — Joseph Madsen, I mean. Gareth and I are much the same age, and he’s always been good to me. He was friendly with Mike Hinds, and through him I met Niamh. That was when Orla was a baby.’
‘So, before you began your relationship with her?’
‘Of course.’ Kit’s sallow cheeks suffused with colour. ‘At that time, we were acquaintances, nothing more.’
‘How come Gareth and Mike Hinds were chums?’ Greg asked. ‘They don’t have much in common, do they?’
Kit raised his eyebrows. ‘You’ve met Mike, then?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Hard work, isn’t he? But Gareth is brilliant with people. Like Mike and Niamh, he and Sally both had young children, it was a bond. Besides, Gareth always believed it is vital to have good relations with the local community. It’s the secret of our success.’
And Bryan Madsen married the lady who inherited the stately home next door, Hannah thought. No wonder the brothers were rich; even their social life was a masterclass in strategic planning.
‘When did you become involved with Niamh Hinds?’
‘Gareth told me their marriage was on the rocks. It saddened him. He liked Niamh, as well as Mike, but it was a match made in Hell. Mike was a womaniser, who had a string of affairs with local girls he picked up in the bars of Keswick, while everyone saw that Niamh wasn’t cut out to be a farmer’s wife. She was lovely and vivacious, but making sure the cows were milked was never a priority for her. I understand why Mike found her frustrating. She was never the easiest woman.’