Your Secret's Safe With Me Page 2

  Had Jack Robshaw, former champion, fallen onto such hard times that he could no longer afford his own boat? No wonder he had jumped at the chance of ingratiating himself with my mother. On the other hand, if he was that broke, what was he doing on an eight-week South American cruise, apart from using it as an opportunity to hook a wealthy widow or divorcee?

  I trawled through the internet in an attempt to discover what I could about my mother’s new home. According to Wikipedia, Kerridge was situated on the eastern bank of the River Deane, historically famous for its boat-building industries, although – as my mother had hinted – now more renowned as a south coast sailing centre. I located Jack’s marina on Google Earth and learned that Robshaw Marine Holdings handled new and used boat sales as well as offering berthing and storage facilities. It was a world away from our life in London.

  Pearl explained she was not going to make a public announcement of her engagement just yet. Jack, she confided, was a private man who had no wish to become caught up in the inevitable ‘celebrity whirlwind’ once the press got hold of her story.

  Although I was relieved at my mother’s uncharacteristic discretion, I felt Jack’s reluctance to make a public announcement probably stemmed not from wish to remain out of the limelight, but from a desire to avoid pressure from Pearl’s friends who would inevitably try and talk her out of another disastrous marriage. From his point of view, the less people who knew about the engagement, the better.

  I highly doubted Pearl’s nuptials would carry an awful lot of credence in the newspapers. However, her inimitable observations on popular fiction and literary classics had made her a popular guest speaker at various public events, and led to a regular slot on local radio and the occasional guest spot on daytime TV chat shows. It was possible the story could fill a few inside page spaces. She had friends in the media and colleagues in high places who she wanted to invite to the wedding.

  ‘But only after I’ve talked over my plans with you,’ she promised.

  Despite my efforts to cajole, Freddy refused to join me on the trip down to Hampshire. An all-night rave in Lambeth took priority over sibling solidarity. I half-hoped if Jumpin’ Jack Flash met his stepson-to-be, he might think twice about taking Pearl on.

  The sat nav did indeed take me on a wild goose chase along the road with the ford, but as the weather had been dry for several days, the route was passable. I decided not to mention the technological error. Pearl would be beside herself with glee.

  Rivermede was situated on a twisting country lane, bordered by hedgerows just coming into bloom. I drew up outside the imposing wooden gates that heralded the entrance and pressed the visitors’ button on the keypad as directed. The gates swung open to reveal a sweeping gravel drive across an expanse of green lawn, dotted with ornamental fir trees and early spring blossoms.

  Pearl had referred to the house style as ‘Palladian’. I didn’t know an awful lot about architecture, but it was grand as opposed to imposing, and not particularly vast. I pulled up outside a stone-front portico bearing classical ancient Roman and Greek influences. There were outbuildings to the side – a more modern addition of a garage, possibly converted from a former stable block. The lawn sloped down to the river, the vista only broken by a long straight hedge. It looked remarkably well-maintained for the home of a man who had fallen on hard times.

  Had I Googled the wrong Jack Robshaw? Before I had time to re-assimilate, my mother emerged to greet me at the top of a magnificent set of stone steps. It was a relief to see she was alone.

  ‘Darling, you’re here.’ She was dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a positively subdued grey jumper. Her hair, which she’d had re-touched into her favourite shade of honey blonde for her cruise and usually framed her head like a well-coiffured helmet, was just starting to reveal its grey roots. The less manicured look softened her features.

  My mother was a diminutive woman; I’d been taller than her since the age of eleven and had always struggled to emulate her sense of style. Instead, I opted for the clean business-like approach and dressed predominately in standard issue black trousers and a selection of muted coloured tops, much to her – and, in truth, my own – despair. I’d given up even trying to do something with my hair and kept it to a manageable shoulder-length bob. Unadventurous and unstylish. Pearl was always quick to voice her disapproval. Today, she looked positively relieved and very pleased to see me, casting barely a glance at my sensible attire.

  ‘Let me get Neville to help with the cases,’ she gushed. ‘Can you believe it, Jack has staff? I have a housekeeper and a butler-cum-handyman.’

  It was as if she had fallen straight into the pages of one of her novels.

  ‘Staff?’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it fantastic? Leave the bags in the car. Neville can take them straight up to my room. You have brought everything I asked?’

  I assured her I’d fully fitted her out for spring in the countryside. My eyes swept through the magnificent hallway as Pearl’s kitten heels clicked on the black and white checked tiled floor. A stone staircase swept up to a galleried landing. Photographs of racing yachts and motor cruisers adorned the walls – mementoes, no doubt, of Jack’s glory days.

  ‘Jack’s in the drawing room,’ Pearl said. ‘He’s dying to meet you. What do you think of the house?’

  ‘It’s very impressive,’ I remarked, not knowing what I thought at all. So far, the décor and the furnishings I’d seen suggested an occupant far older than a flashy forty-year-old powerboat racer. I wondered if he still lived at home with parents, in which case I had even more reason to be worried. Did he see Pearl as his ‘sugar mummy’? I felt my hackles rise.

  The drawing room was at the front of the house; a beautiful airy room with French windows overlooking the lawn. A handsome silver-haired man sat in a wheelchair admiring the view. He wore grey trousers and a canary yellow sweater.

  ‘Jack darling, she’s here.’ Pearl rushed to his side.

  ‘Becca, how lovely to meet you,’ Jack Robshaw said, manoeuvring his chair to greet me. ‘Pearl’s told me so much about you.’

  I wished I could return the sentiment. I was completely thrown off-guard. This was definitely not the Jack Robshaw I was expecting. He had to be at least seventy. We shook hands.

  ‘Have you asked Heather to bring us tea?’ Pearl asked.

  ‘Of course.’ Jack returned her indulgent smile before turning to me. ‘Pearl’s not used to having people to boss around.’

  ‘Really?’ I remarked. ‘I’m surprised. Pearl is usually very good at bossing people around.’

  ‘I told you she had a way with words,’ Pearl retorted.

  Right on cue, a smart slender woman in her early fifties arrived bearing a tea tray. I was glad of the interruption. Pearl and I sat on one of the three floral sofas and watched while Heather the housekeeper poured out our tea and handed around a plate of biscuits. I realised I’d got this all so wrong, but I still wasn’t convinced Pearl should be rushing into marrying anyone, despite the obvious displays of affection. It was all far too soon.

  She hadn’t mentioned Jack had been confined to a wheelchair. I wondered about the extent of his disabilities. I didn’t want to do Pearl an injustice, but as a young woman she’d been unable to cope with my father’s injuries, and as a consequence he’d remained hospitalized for the rest of his life. Was this some sort of attempt to make amends, to take on another invalid?

  Jack’s grey eyes twinkled, and his conversation was sprinkled with intellect and humour. Yes, he had thoroughly enjoyed his cruise – all the more for having met Pearl, of course. South America had been fascinating, so much to see and do. He agreed eight weeks was a long time to be at sea, but he and Pearl had filled their time with Spanish conversation lessons, Scrabble, and afternoon tea.

  ‘We managed to keep ourselves occupied, didn’t we, dear?’ he chuckled. Pearl blushed like a schoolgirl. It was a relief when he suggested she give me a guided tour of the house and grounds.

 
; The master bedroom was situated on the ground floor – an enormous room with heavy festooned curtains and an entire wall of mirror wardrobes.

  ‘It’s just for Jack, for now, obviously,’ Pearl remarked. I wasn’t sure why she was bothering with the pretence. It was quite apparent from the paraphernalia lying around in the room that they were already sharing.

  The en-suite was furnished like something out of a bad seventies’ porn movie, or one of Pearl’s Hollywood Heroes novels. A large walk-in-shower and a sunken bath, surrounded by yet more mirrors.

  ‘The last thing we want at our age is to be reminded of our wrinkles from every angle,’ Pearl grimaced. ‘Jack’s first wife must have been a complete narcissist. It’s all going to have to go. Jack says we can get an interior designer in.’

  Warning bells sounded again. It was right not become too complacent. Although it was hard to picture the congenial senior I’d just met as a serious threat, did Jack have his eye on Pearl’s money after all? If he thought she had enough to invest in rejuvenating his property, he was very much mistaken.

  We poked our heads around the door of Jack’s study – an untidy, masculine room filled with bookcases and filing cabinets. There was a snug, a cosy room with a large screen TV, a conservatory, and a dining room with a hugely ornate walnut dining table and seating for at least twelve, then a few steps down to the large kitchen, utility and boot-room.

  ‘Heather and Nev’s domain,’ Pearl said. ‘We won’t disturb them.’

  ‘Do they live here, too?’ I enquired.

  ‘Yes, but not in the house. They have a cottage in the grounds.’

  Upstairs, there were several more bedrooms. Apart from the one Pearl had requisitioned for her belongings, and my guest suite, all were either empty or very modestly furnished, complete with jaded out-dated décor. There was a further floor and attics, but Pearl ran out of steam at the thought of yet another staircase.

  ‘Nothing much up there,’ she informed me. ‘Just the old servants’ quarters and the former nursery. I don’t think any of the rooms have been used for years.’

  ‘You said Jack had been married before?’ I ventured. ‘He has children?’

  She nodded and lowered her voice, even though we were well out of hearing of the drawing room. ‘He lost his wife Mary to cancer five years or so ago.’

  ‘And the children?’ I prompted.

  ‘Just the one son, Jack Junior, although everyone refers to him as JJ for short.’

  Jack Junior. Realisation dawned. ‘Does he live nearby?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. He and his wife have their own apartment, the West Wing, here in the house. Hopefully, they’ll be moving out soon. JJ’s having this monstrosity built on some land his mother bequeathed him. You can just see it from one of the side bedrooms. Come and take a look.’

  Presumably Jack Junior was the former powerboat racing champion; an easy mistake to make. Pearl took me to one of the sparsely-furnished rooms on the far side of the house. A shell of a building was just visible through the tree tops, a steel and glass rectangular block, incongruous in its fairy-tale woodland setting.

  ‘He’s having hell with his builders,’ Pearl said. ‘It took him years to get the plans approved. Not that Jack objected, obviously, but apparently there were plenty of others in the village who did. You can see why, can’t you? Talk about out of character with its surroundings.’

  ‘What does JJ think of your engagement?’ I asked.

  ‘Let’s just say he’s not overjoyed,’ Pearl replied.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Secretly I was delighted. If Jack’s son opposed this marriage as much as I did, we could put on a united front and hopefully talk some sense into our parents. ‘It is only natural to have reservations,’ I pointed out. ‘You and Jack have only known each other for a few weeks. I am sure he is just concerned for his father’s welfare.’

  ‘Welfare?’ Pearl pouted. ‘What does he think I am going to do to his father? I don’t know what’s up with you young people. Don’t you want us to be happy?’

  ‘Of course we do,’ I assured her, patting her arm. ‘I do want you to be happy, I just don’t want you getting hurt. You shouldn’t be rushing into something you might regret. Remember what happened with Dieter.’

  ‘Jack is nothing like Dieter,’ Pearl retorted with a snort. She pulled her arm away. ‘Honestly, Becca. Do you think I’m totally stupid?’

  The tour of the house was complete. Pearl had never been a great walker. A twenty-a-day habit which I’d been nagging her to give up for years and which she now appeared to have miraculously kicked overnight, had left her not only with a trademark husky voice, but breathless at any kind of exertion. Our expedition around the grounds was confined to the immediate garden surrounding the house. There were a couple of statues and a broken fountain, a rose arbour, and traditional flower beds. It was obviously well-tended but did not contain any great extravagance. The term functional came to mind. Jack had obviously never been a keen gardener and I again wondered about his lack of mobility. I decided I had to broach the subject.

  ‘Mum…’ The word rolled off my tongue a little awkwardly, but given the delicacy of the situation it seemed the most appropriate term to use. ‘About Jack’s disabilities.’

  ‘I see the man, Becca, not the chair.’

  My mother had a writer’s talent for conveying a great deal with very few words. The message was quite clear. I knew not to press her any further.

  Heather delivered a plate of sandwiches to the conservatory for lunch and Pearl informed her that it would just be the three of us for dinner. JJ and his wife Marguerite would join us on Sunday.

  ‘Jack wants us all to become better acquainted,’ she grimaced. ‘I must admit the only saving grace is that their wing is fully self-contained – separate entrance and everything – so we don’t actually have to see a lot of each other.’

  I looked forward to having the opportunity to test the water with Jack’s son and gauge his views on his father’s marriage. I was pleased to hear that no arrangements had yet been cast in stone for the wedding, so at least I still had time on my side. Towards the end of the afternoon, Pearl acquiesced to cast her eyes over the manuscripts I’d brought with me. She refused to correct her drafts digitally.

  ‘You are getting so much better at this than me,’ she conceded. ‘I seriously think it might be time to quit.’

  ‘You want to quit writing?’

  ‘Well, now I’m here, with Jack, it hardly seems worth the bother, to be honest.’

  ‘It’s hardly any bother. I’ve done all the hard work for you.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but then we’ll have the launches to organise, and the publicity. I’ll have to go up to London and do signings and interviews.’

  ‘I thought you liked giving signings and interviews?’ I argued.

  ‘Well yes, dear, but it has all got rather tedious over the years, and now I’ve got Jack.’ She smiled across the room to where Jack sat at a small table puzzling over a crossword. ‘I’d rather be here with him, to be honest, than having to trail up to London.’

  ‘Jack, what do you think?’ I turned to the man who had seemingly charmed my mother into an unnatural state of domestic docility. ‘Surely you don’t expect Pearl to give up her career just because she’s found you?’

  ‘Pearl has to do what she thinks best,’ Jack replied. He returned Pearl’s soppy smile.

  ‘I think I’ll make these two my last,’ Pearl said, shuffling up the reams of paper having barely lifted her pencil. ‘Can you draft a note to Anita, telling her?’

  I opened my mouth to protest but shut it again. Anita was our agent. I would speak to her personally before I drafted any notes. It was little consolation to know that my concerns for the future were well and truly justified. If Pearl Gates gave up writing novels, what was I going to do for a living?

  Chapter Three

  Saturday evening at Rivermede was uneventful. Heather rustled up a very tasty lasagne and salad, and I retired
early to my guest room for a somewhat surprisingly restful night’s sleep. The following morning, I hoped all thoughts of a resignation letter had slipped Pearl’s mind, but they hadn’t. Straight after breakfast – a full English, served by Heather in the conservatory – she mentioned it again, and then dropped her second bombshell.

  ‘I’ve decided to put Beech Mews on the market,’ she announced.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now, don’t look like that, Becca, it’s not as bad as it seems.’

  Pearl was wearing tweed trousers and a caramel coloured blouse, as effortlessly elegant as always. Heather arrived to clear the table. I’d already discovered Heather and Nev shared an ability to turn up without warning. I found their presence intrusive, but Pearl had slipped into her role as lady of the manor with ease. Jack was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘In what way is it not as bad as it seems?’ I demanded, once we were alone again.

  ‘We don’t need it any more,’ Pearl replied.

  ‘Yes, we do. It’s our home, my home, Freddy’s home. He finishes college this summer. Where is he going to live?’

  ‘Here, of course. He can come here to live with Jack and me. You both can.’

  A far more pressing danger had arisen than literary oblivion. Why did Pearl think either Freddy or I would want to move to the countryside?

  ‘Freddy won’t want to come and live out in the sticks like this,’ I replied. ‘He’s going to be job hunting. He’s going to need to be in London if he wants to get private commissions.’

  ‘Oh, come on, darling. We both know Freddy has about as much chance of winning a private commission as I do of being nominated for the Man Booker prize.’

  I applauded my mother’s sense of realism, but this wasn’t the time I wanted to hear it. I did my utmost to keep my voice rational. I might have felt like a whinging teenager, but I didn’t want to sound like one.