When she reached the sitting room she stopped, panting, and clutched a chair back for support. How had her father's brooch got from a German barn to an auction house in South Kensington? And why did it matter so much, after all this time? That had been another life, and she had been a different person, a phantom of a girl held to her now by the most tenuous of threads.
Erika looked round the sitting room, at the beautiful cocoon she had made for herself, and saw it for a hollow shell, a facade created to hold the past at bay.
But yesterday her life had cracked open and there could be no putting it back. She owed the truth to that long-ago girl, and that meant she would have to accept the help she had enlisted, no matter how difficult either of them found it.
"Drink up." Kincaid set a cup of hot tea on the kitchen table. Gemma seemed to hesitate for a moment, then sank into a chair and wrapped her hands round the mug. Bringing his own mug to the table, Kincaid sat down opposite and studied her.
She still wore her clothes from the night before, a filmy spring skirt in a soft green print, with a matching green-and-cream beaded cardigan over a lacy camisole. But her makeup had long since rubbed off, the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks standing out starkly against skin translucently pale, while the combination of exhaustion and last night's mascara had left dark smudges beneath her eyes.
Absently, she reached up to pull her thick copper hair, recently cut, into the plait she could no longer make. Frowning, she settled for tucking disheveled strands behind one ear and returned her hands to her cup.
Geordie settled himself against her feet with a gusty, doggy sigh, and her face relaxed a bit. "Are the boys up?" she asked, sipping her tea.
"No, but they will be soon. So talk." It was unlike her not to have rung him from hospital, and when he'd tried her mobile it had been switched off. He'd finally drifted off to sleep at the presage of dawn, awaking to find it full light and Gemma still gone, still not answering her mobile.
He'd showered and dressed and was pacing the kitchen by the time she came in. She'd given him a quick hug, her face turned away, murmuring, "Sorry, sorry. I should have rung. But it was hospital regs, and then when I left, I wasn't sure you'd be up." It was a fragile excuse, merely confirming that she hadn't wanted to talk on the phone, and that meant the news was bad.
Reaching across to free one of her hands from the cup, Kincaid squeezed it encouragingly. "Gemma, what's happened? Your mum-"
"Leukemia." She met his eyes for the first time. "The consultant says they think she has leukemia."
He sat back, his grip loosening. "What? But-how could she-"
"She'd been complaining about being tired. For my mum, that meant exhausted. All the symptoms were there, the bruising, the breathlessness, if anyone had noticed." Her voice was bitter.
"Surely you're not blaming yourself, Gem? There's no way you could have known."
"If I'd seen her more often, I might have-And Dad, he should have seen-If he'd told me-" Her eyes glazed with unshed tears.
"You'd have been a bit worried, maybe. You'd have tried to convince her to see a doctor. She'd have refused. So don't go there. The important thing is what happens now."
After a moment, she nodded. "They're moving her this morning to St. Barts, to the cancer specialty ward. The consultant said they would do more tests. And then…He said they'd see."
"He doesn't know your mum," Kincaid said briskly, covering his own dismay. In his experience, doctors were usually encouraging past all reasonable hope. He grasped Gemma's hand again. "What will we tell the boys?"
"I hate to worry Kit, but he'll have to know the truth. And Toby…for now, let's just say Gran's not feeling well. I don't think they'll be able to see her. Her immune system is vulnerable." She looked at him, stricken. "That means…She could…Anything could-"
"You need to get some sleep," Kincaid interrupted gently. "Things won't seem so insurmountable when you've had some rest. I'll talk to the boys, if you want-"
"No." She was already shaking her head. "I should do it. And this afternoon, when she's settled, I'll go to St. Barts-"
"What about Cynthia?"
"Oh, Cyn will be there, with bells on." One corner of Gemma's mouth quirked into a reluctant smile. "If she can rope Gerry into minding the kids." She made no secret of the fact that she thought her sister's husband was a lout.
"And your dad?"
Gemma's face went still. "I don't know. I tried to ring him this morning, but he didn't answer. Cyn said she'd talk to him. Better her than me, anyway."
Kincaid thought back to her father's abrupt visit the night before. "I never realized your dad disliked me quite so much."
"Oh, it's not you, specifically. It's everything. This"-her gesture encompassed the house-"my job. He thinks I've got above my station."
"And he's not comfortable with things being out of order on his patch?" Kincaid could see that, he supposed. "But your mum-why didn't he stay with her, last night?"
"Because he wouldn't have known what to do."
In the end, Kristin hadn't gone home with the bloke from the dance floor. Partly caution had kicked in through the haze of music and alcohol, partly guilt, and very largely embarrassment. She hadn't wanted to admit that she still lived at home, that her parents were expecting her. Silly, really, as no one young with an ordinary job could afford to live on her own in central London these days, and it wasn't as if she had a curfew or anything. It was just that she knew her mum would wake in the night, and if Kristin hadn't come in, her mum wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. Hardwired, the worrying, her mum told her apologetically. Just because your kids were grown didn't mean you automatically stopped.
She'd been tempted, though. He-she'd never learned his name-had nuzzled and stroked her while they danced, until she was breathless and wobbly kneed. But when the lights came up for last call, she'd excused herself to the loo and fled up the stairs into the cool night air. Then, her feet pinching in her impossibly high heels, shivering in her flimsy dress, she'd cursed Dominic Scott all the way up the hill to her bus stop.
There were no messages on her phone-voice or text-nor were there any when she woke late that morning, her head throbbing. She groaned, shielding her eyes from the sun spilling in through her bedroom window. Then she rolled over and lobbed her mobile at the far wall in a fit of pique. Damn Dominic. If he thought she was going to take being treated like this, he was bloody well wrong.
She threw on jeans and hoodie and laced up trainers, then, staggering to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face and swallowed a couple of paracetamol. For a moment, she contemplated makeup, then decided she didn't care and settled for running a brush through her short hair.
Her parents had gone out to Sunday lunch, saving her having to explain her intentions. She let herself out of the flat and started east on the King's Road. Walking made her feel better, gave her a chance to sort out her thoughts. At Edith Grove she turned towards the river, only absently aware of the Sunday walkers and the pewter glint of sun on the Thames. This way she avoided passing the World's End, the pub where she had met Dom Scott, a junction point between her world and his. It had seemed bridgeable, then, the gap between her parents' council flat and his mum's great house on Cheyne Walk.
Of course, she hadn't met Ellen Miller-Scott. Nor had she known that Dom didn't actually work, only put on expensive suits and made the occasional command appearance at his mother's board meetings. The family business, referred to with the hushed reverence accorded a religious institution. It was not, she had learned, Dom's father's business, but his grandfather's, Ellen's father's. And although he was expected to take it over, Ellen seemed little inclined to let Dom do anything. It was only lately that Kristin had begun to wonder if Dom was actually capable of holding down a real job.