“Tiffany,” said Max sternly. “Yes, he is, very happy. I spoke to him myself, as a matter of fact. Yesterday.”
It was a pointed enough remark that even Caroline was forced to take the hint: Max spoke to Hunter more frequently than to his own mother.
“You think I was a lousy mother, don’t you?” she said quietly.
He sighed. He hadn’t wanted to get into all this, and he was late for rehearsals as it was. But he supposed he’d brought it on himself.
“You weren’t there,” he said, softening his tone to match hers. “You didn’t see how bad things got for him. I did. Even before Duke died, you were never there for Hunter.”
She looked at him thoughtfully and gave an imperceptible nod, silent and awkward between the cereal boxes and the breakfast spreads. Then she said cheerfully: “We might pop in and see Muffy and Henry later. Would you mention it to them if you see them?”
The Hunter subject had apparently been closed.
“Of course,” he said, hastily grabbing a paper and throwing it into his own basket. “But you’ll probably see them before me. I’m expecting to be in Stratford all day working.”
They moved together toward the cash register, Max with his Times and his cigarettes, Caroline with her cookies, neither of them speaking until they emerged onto the narrow lane that passed for Batcombe’s High Street.
“He’s happy now, though, you say?” asked Caroline, seemingly out of nowhere.
“Hunter?” Max was surprised. He hadn’t thought she’d bring the subject up again. “Absolutely. He’s blessed.”
“Good,” said Caroline. “Everything turned out all right in the end then, didn’t it? Even with a terrible mother like me?”
And with that, she scurried into Christopher’s old Range Rover before Max could think of anything else to say to her.
Later that same night, Max sat in his brown leather director’s chair, a present from Henry, and ran his hands through his hair in exhaustion.
It was past nine-thirty and he was still at the theater, going through a couple of scenes with Rhys Bamber, the charming and very hardworking young Welsh actor who played the lead role of Jaspar. But they were both very tired and weren’t getting anywhere fast.
“Why don’t you come down to the White Hart and have a drink with me?” Max suggested, yawning as he put down the script. “I could use a pint or two, even if you can’t.”
“All right then,” said Rhys. He was sick of the bloody scene anyway. “You’ve twisted my arm. Just a quick one.”
Every female head turned when, fifteen minutes later, the two of them walked into the pub on the High Street, but neither Max nor Rhys seemed aware of what an attractive duo they were. Max was looking unusually brown after a series of weekends spent in the baking sunshine at Batcombe. Rhys was smaller, slighter, and darker, very good-looking in a chiseled, almost Hollywood way, but with the added secret weapon of a divinely lyrical Welsh accent. Girls would walk across broken glass just to hear Rhys say hello. He was Ivor the Engine with sex appeal.
“Thanks for this.” He raised his pint to Max and took a long, refreshing gulp of lager. “I feel better already.”
“Good,” said Max. “To be honest, I was glad you had time for a drink. It’s a bit sad, really, but I’m rather dreading going home.”
He briefly explained the current situation at Batcombe and the strain it was putting on everybody. Rhys listened and nodded sympathetically.
“That’s terrible,” he said when Max had finished. “I know what it’s like to lose a farm. My uncle Tommy, back in Wales, had to sell up a few years ago, after mad cow and all that. It really broke him up. Happened to a lot of the poorer farmers in Wales.”
“And the richer ones in the Cotswolds, I’m afraid,” said Max. “At least in our case, the family gets to stay on living there.”
“With their foxy French au pair,” added Rhys with a naughty wink. “I think she’s lovely, your girlfriend. I love French girls.” He grinned broadly.
Max imagined that French girls probably loved Rhys right back.
“She is,” said Max. “She is lovely.” He forced a smile.
But inside he felt a creeping unhappiness that he couldn’t quite define.
It was still lurking somewhere in his chest as he drove home an hour later in the rather souped-up Beetle that the play’s producers had loaned him for the duration of his stay in England.
He turned on the local radio station, the embarrassingly monikered Bard-FM, to try to distract himself from his unwanted depression. After a couple of dreary songs by Dido, Max was relieved to be told it was time for the eleven o’clock news.
“Today in Parliament, the prime minister announced that the government has no plans to make any changes to the proposed bill on hunting in response to the massive demonstrations by pro-hunt supporters and other countryside pressure groups last weekend.”
“Twat!” Max shouted at the radio, comforting himself with another square of chocolate from the half-eaten bar on the passenger seat.
More news followed, a whole series of deathly dull items about the findings of the latest rail inquiry and an overhyped piece about a possible link between alcoholism and colon cancer. He was about to switch over to something more soothing on Classic-FM, when he heard the West Country presenter say something that made his heart stop.
“And in the entertainment world tonight,” she burred, “rumors are rife that the producer Randall Stein and his girlfriend, the model and actress Siena McMahon, are soon to be tying the knot.”
Fighting to steady his breathing, Max slowed down and pulled over on the grass verge at the side of the lane. The presenter went on.
“A spokesman for Miss McMahon, who once went to boarding school in England and is the daughter of producer Pete McMahon and granddaughter of Hollywood legend Duke McMahon, has denied there is any truth in the rumors. But Siena was spotted today leaving the set of 1941, Stein’s upcoming World War Two blockbuster, wearing a huge diamond-and-ruby ring on her engagement finger and smiling broadly at the waiting press. Miss McMahon and Mr. Stein have been living together in Los Angeles for the past year.”
Max turned off the radio and sat for a moment in silence, too shocked to move.
Marrying him! She was marrying that lecherous, twisted old monster? Somehow, even in his most tortured nightmares, he had never considered this horrible possibility. He’d always believed that one day Siena would outgrow Randall. Even if only for reasons of ambition, he thought she would eventually grow up and move on, out from under the old man’s wing. But marry him?
The thought was too hideous to contemplate.
Perhaps, he began to comfort himself, it wasn’t true? Her publicist had denied it, after all. Knowing Siena, it was just as likely to be some stunt designed to whip up more interest in their movie, like the shenanigans she pulled with Hunter last year, dragging him to that baseball game to try and make some capital out of Minnie McMahon’s death. Even Max, who avoided information about Siena like the plague, knew that 1941 was running into trouble and could have done with some extra press.
Yes. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. That was what it was. A publicity stunt.
Having steadied his nerves enough to restart the car, he drove the remaining twelve miles to Batcombe with the image of a smiling Siena waving her ring at reporters embedded in his brain like a cancer.
Freddie was running across the yard to meet him before he’d even switched off the engine. It was a bright, moonlit night and Max could make out her features almost as clearly as if it were daylight.
Her low, smooth brow was furrowed in concern, and her auburn hair, usually so immaculate and sleek, looked oddly disheveled, as though she’d been running around in very high winds. The shadows under her eyes, the result of a broken night helping Muffy after Madeleine had wet the bed, heightened the overall impression of an undernourished refugee, as did the baggy pair of overalls and hole-ridden bottle-green sweate
r of Muffy’s that she’d been wearing to help with milking in what was left of the working farm.
It would be fair to say that she wasn’t looking her best.
“Darling.” She pulled open the driver’s door and smothered Max with kisses in a Gallic display of affection that, for once, he could have done without. “I ’eard the news on the radio,” she said. “When you deedn’t come ’ome, I was so worried. I thought you must ’ave ’eard about it and maybe done something stupid. Why didn’t you turn your phone on? You ’ave ’eard, ’aven’t you? Are you okay?”
The volume and the speed of her questions were both too much for Max, who wanted nothing more than a moment’s peace to get inside and have a glass of whiskey. Preferably a big one.
“I’m fine, Freddie, really,” he said, trying not to show his irritation. She was only showing concern for him, after all. He mustn’t snap at her. “If you mean the story about Siena’s engagement, yes, I have heard, and quite frankly, I don’t believe a word of it.”
He shut the car door firmly behind him and strode into the house, leaving an agitated Freddie trotting along behind like a worried terrier. Marching into the drawing room, he was annoyed to discover that she wasn’t the only one who’d waited up. Henry was sitting at the card table with Caroline and Christopher Wellesley, who all rose to greet him the moment he walked in.
“Hello, old man,” said Henry. “How were rehearsals?”
Thank God his brother at least had the wisdom to stick to neutral subjects.
“Fine,” Max said a little tensely, extending his hand to their guests. “Christopher. Caroline. Nice to see you.”
“Hello again, Max,” said Caroline. She was looking at him, if not quite pityingly, then certainly questioningly.
Max felt his hackles rising. Caroline was probably the very last person he wanted to see right now. She knew Siena, had known her all her life, and he couldn’t stand the thought that this might make her feel involved, connected in some way to his pain. It was hard to explain, but in his mind, at least, he wanted to keep Siena all to himself. It was the only way he could deal with the horror of her being engaged to Randall, the only way he could begin to control his emotions. Caroline’s presence was an intrusion.
“Look,” he said, pointedly moving away from her and addressing them all as a group, “I know you’re all concerned for me about tonight’s news, and I appreciate it, really. But as I was just telling Freddie, I’m sure there’s no truth in the story. And even if there were, it’s nothing to do with me anymore.”
He tried to sound upbeat and confident, but it wasn’t a huge success. Christopher and Henry exchanged worried glances. It didn’t seem to have sunk in yet.
“But Max,” said Henry reasonably, pouring two small whiskeys from the decanter on the side table and handing one of them to his brother, “they showed her on the ten o’clock news, wearing the ring.”
“It all looked quite official,” added Freddie, coming up behind him and slipping a comforting arm around his waist.
“So?” Max challenged her. She could sense a formerly unknown belligerence creeping into his voice and instinctively removed her arm, shrinking back a little. “A ring means nothing at all,” he insisted, once again addressing everyone. “Believe me, I know Siena. This will be some tacky publicity stunt designed to boost interest in their new film. By any account, that movie needs all the help it can get.” He snorted mirthlessly and drained his glass, then walked over to pour himself another one.
“I don’t theenk that’s the answer, do you?” said Freddie, glancing at the whiskey decanter. “It’s late, chéri. Why don’t you come to bed?”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Henry chimed in. “Get some rest, Maxie. We can talk about it all in the morning.”
Their concern was like a red rag to Max’s bull. All the repressed tension of the past hour burst out of him, and poor Freddie took the full brunt of it.
“Who the hell do you think you are, my mother?” he snarled at her. “I’ll have a drink if I damn well want to. And as for its being the answer”—he waved his glass at her aggressively, sloshing a good finger of amber liquid onto Henry’s carpet—“as far as I’m concerned, there isn’t even a fucking question, all right? There’s been some stupid story about Siena, it’s been denied, and that’s it. It’s bullshit. Crap. She would never marry that disgusting old bastard. Never! Can’t you get that through your thick head and stop fussing around me like some melodramatic nursemaid?”
“I say,” said Christopher. “Steady on, old boy. It isn’t Frederique’s fault.”
Freddie, to her credit, had kept her cool admirably in the face of Max’s onslaught and, politely saying good night to Henry and Caroline and smiling gratefully at Christopher, turned on her heel to go. She’d been waiting up all night for Max. She didn’t need this shit.
Max made no move to stop her, but she paused at the door anyway and looked at him pityingly. When she spoke, she sounded calm and collected. There wasn’t a trace of anger in her voice.
“I don’t know ’oo you’re trying to convince, darling,” she said. Max looked at her blankly. “Me or yourself.”
As soon as she’d gone, he turned around to find Henry, Christopher, and Caroline all staring at him, mutely appalled.
He felt bad enough as it was, and certainly didn’t need a guilt trip from them. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” he slurred. Those earlier pints with Rhys, now topped up with whiskey, were starting to catch up with him. “Just leave me alone.”
He stomped off in the direction of the kitchen. Henry got up to follow him, but Caroline put a hand on his arm.
“Leave it,” she said. “I’ll go.” Henry looked doubtful.
“Women are better at these things,” she explained.
Christopher and Henry caught each other’s eye. They couldn’t argue with that.
Max was sitting in the threadbare armchair beside the stove known as the dogs’ chair, because it was Titus and Boris’s favorite spot in the entire house. He stood up defensively when Caroline walked in.
“Look, Caroline, I’m sorry, but I’m really not in the mood, all right?” he snapped. “I don’t want to be rude, but I’d appreciate it if you’d please just take the hint and bugger off. Okay?”
Caroline sat down at the table and began nibbling at a chocolate biscuit from the open tin. “You can be as rude as you like, Max,” she said. “I don’t care. And if it makes you feel any better, I am just about to bugger off. Biscuit?” Still glowering at her, he took the cookie and sat back down. He hoped she meant it and was going to hurry up and say her piece. “I only came in here to tell you that you need to let that girl go.”
Great. Another lecture, this time from Miss Morality herself. Honestly, where did this woman get off?
“Siena?” He gave a clipped, joyless laugh and chomped into his cookie, demolishing three quarters of it in one bite. “I have let her go, Caroline,” he said. “In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s well and truly gone.” He dropped the last morsel of biscuit into his open mouth and swallowed, as if illustrating the finality of his loss.
The next thing he knew, Caroline had walked over to him and, leaning down, kissed him on the top of his head, like a child. It was such a gentle, compassionate gesture, he didn’t know how to respond.
She put her hand under his chin and slowly lifted his face so that his eyes met hers.
“I wasn’t talking about Siena,” she said.
The next morning, the story was all over the papers. Even the broadsheets were running pictures of the happy couple.
Max came down to breakfast with a pounding head and a guilty conscience—he had slept fitfully and alone in his own room, unable to face apologizing to Freddie—and noticed that the Telegraph and the Mail had already been tactfully cleared away. He didn’t need to look at them; he could imagine the coverage all too well, but sat down and silently poured himself a black coffee from the caffetiere.
The children had already finis
hed eating and were upstairs brushing their teeth and dressing under Freddie’s supervision. Henry and Muffy were still halfway through their eggs and bacon, and they looked at each other rather anxiously upon Max’s arrival.
“Are you hungry?” asked Muffy brightly. “There’s still some bacon and mushrooms in the pan. I could do you an egg if you want one?”
Max smiled. His sister-in-law and Hunter were probably the most wholly good people he had ever known. He wished he could be more like them.
“Not for me, thanks,” he said. “I might do myself a bit of Marmite toast in a minute. I’m feeling a bit ropey.”
“You look it!” said Henry jovially. The more awkward a situation, the more he would try to joke his way out of it.
“I’m sorry about last night,” said Max. “I was unforgivably rude.”
“Nonsense, forget about it,” said Henry. “Had a few too many after work, I expect, eh? Drowning the old sorrows? Ow!” He looked reproachfully at his wife who had just given him a sharp kick on the ankle. “What was that for?”
“I’m sure Max doesn’t want to talk about it,” said Muffy firmly, with what was meant to be a meaningful look at Henry and involved her opening her blue eyes very wide and raising one eyebrow. She looked like Samantha from Bewitched trying to do a Roger Moore impression.
“Honestly.” Max grinned at them both. “It’s all right. You don’t have to tread on eggshells. Siena is getting married. I’m just going to have to deal with it.”
“Oh good,” said Henry. “I’m glad you said that. The lovely Frederique seemed to be worried that you were ‘in denial,’ as she puts it. I told her you were just too smashed to take it all in. Have you been teaching her all this Californian psychobabble, Maxie? I do wish you wouldn’t, you know, the poor child’s here to learn English.”
Muffy’s eyebrow had taken on a frenzied life of its own.
“What?” said Henry, unable to ignore her any longer. “Have you got some sort of tic?”