One Christmas Eve, page 18
Eve giggled at the memory. They’d escaped and overtaken Gran’s house and she’d only realised it when she’d opened the breadbin and one of them was sitting there quite happily chowing down on a Hovis loaf. ‘That wasn’t my fault. The guy in the pet shop told me they were both male.’
‘And he was telling porkies just like you are now, Eve Quinn. So go on. Don’t make me guess, because I’ve been watching serial killer documentaries all week and my mind can go to scary places.’
It was like being cornered by a crack squad of snipers. The only way out was to surrender with her hands up.
‘Fine. But I warn you now, Gran, this has to be between me and you. I’m not raising it with my mother yet, because I need to do it when I’m ready.’
‘Okay.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise. But I’ve got my fingers crossed, so it might not count.’
Eve shook her head, well aware that she was dealing with a master in the ways of both gossip and crisis management. The thing was, she was desperate to share this. And now that she realised her gran wasn’t traumatised by the move, or losing herself in sadness because she’d closed a chapter of her life, there was no one else she wanted to tell more.
‘Okay, but it’s shocking, so I don’t want you keel over when you hear, and then it’ll be on my conscience for ever.’
‘Right then, I’ll brace myself. Shoot.’
There was only one way to rip the plaster off. ‘Bruce Quinn isn’t my dad.’
Eve saw that her gran was still staring at her, waiting for the punchline, so she felt the need to back up that statement.
‘That’s it. I did one of those DNA tests. It’s a long story. Angus was doing one because he’s studying genetics at university, and we thought it would be interesting to compare, and also, I thought it would be cool to learn if I had any other close relatives. We’re such a small family on our side. Thought maybe I’d find some cousins I didn’t know about. Anyway, it all backfired, because the thing I discovered was that Bruce isn’t my dad. There’s no connection to him, his family or my brothers in my DNA whatsoever.’
Her gran, for possibly the first time in Eve’s living memory, was struck speechless. ‘I warned you,’ Eve added.
‘Hang on, I’m just… what is it you young ones say now? Processing. That’s it. I’m processing.’ Another pause. ‘Okay, I’ve processed it and that must be a load of bollocks, ma love, because Bruce is many things – mainly a smarmy tosser who is way too fond of himself – but he’s definitely your dad. The test must be wrong, Eve.’
‘It isn’t, Gran, because your side of the family showed up. It’s just the paternal line that wasn’t what I expected. There’s no doubt about it. It’s not Bruce.’
Flabbergasted, her gran exhaled and slumped back in her chair. ‘Bloody hell. So did it tell you who your dad was?’
‘No. The only close relative on that side was a woman who lives here in Glasgow called Bethany Muldoon. Does that mean anything to you? She owns a café just off Byres Road.’
Eve crossed her fingers, made a wish, said a prayer, but…
‘No,’ her gran answered, brow furrowed, ‘Nothing at all. Sorry, love, I know that doesn’t help.’
‘I only found out about her this morning and I was thinking about going to see her today, but we had enough going on. I’ll track her down after Christmas and hopefully learn more.’
Her gran was still open-jawed and staring at her in shock.
‘I can’t believe this. I really can’t. But…’ A visible realisation dawned. ‘That’s why you were asking her all those questions this morning about her love life. It was putting me right off my pancakes, I have to tell you.’
‘Guilty. And it was totally confusing when you said that Bruce asked Grandad if he could propose to her on the Christmas Eve before I was born. That means they were definitely together then and that’s roughly when I must have been conceived. I don’t get it. None of it makes sense. My mum isn’t the type to have an affair, so I don’t think she’d cheat.’
‘Jesus, no. She’s my lassie and I love her dearly, but she’s not one for frivolous hedonism or making bad decisions. I used to joke with her that I was affronted because she hadn’t done a single thing wrong since the day she was born. I don’t think that’s changed.’
Her gran fell silent again, deep in contemplation, sipping her brandy, and Eve wondered for a second if her mind had gone somewhere else, somewhere dark. There was no escaping the thought, and Eve had nudged it away a couple of times since the results had dropped into her inbox – what if Mum had sex with someone against her will? Had she been attacked? Assaulted? Raped? This could be a whole horror story and Eve suddenly wasn’t sure she wanted to hear how it unfolded.
‘Hang on a minute,’ Gran said suddenly, sitting forward, eyes glinting like someone on Antiques Roadshow who’d just been told that their great-auntie’s ancient vase was worth more than a Ferrari.
‘She didn’t get engaged on Christmas Eve…’
‘But this morning you said—’
‘No, he was supposed to propose that night, but he didn’t, because he was sick and didn’t show up. They got engaged a month later. And Helena lied to us that night… I knew it at the time, of course, but I didn’t say anything. Figured that they’d had a fight about something and he just hadn’t shown up. Besides, that was the same night I was telling you about, when I bumped into Richie Clark and his family and it’s fair to say that distracted me and put me off my game. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.’
Eve was putting this together at the same time as her gran, but repeated a couple of facts to make sure she had it right. ‘So hang on, the night you were in the swanky hotel here and Mum was flashing her legs – that was when Bruce was meant to propose? And he didn’t show up because they had an argument? So do you think the fight was because he found out Mum was cheating on him?’ Eve asked, trying to follow the train of thought. Maybe there was something in that.
‘I can’t say for sure why he wasn’t there. That was a bit of guess work on my part. But I know who can set us straight on it all.’
Gran picked up her mobile phone and dialled a number. ‘Helena, it’s me. Listen, love, I just want to check if you’re going to pop in tonight.’
A pause while Gran listened to the voice on the other end, and Eve’s stomach flipped over. Bugger. Gran wasn’t going to let this go. Eve should have known that her gran wouldn’t take the subtle, non-confrontational approach and she chided herself for bringing this up. If Christmas was ruined it would be all her fault. Actually, technically it would be the fault of her mother’s younger self, but that was just semantics. Meanwhile, as usual, her gran wasn’t letting any kind of resistance get in the way of what she wanted. Her tone was firmer as she countered whatever argument her mother was putting up on the other end of the line.
‘Yes, I know you’ll be tired. But it would mean such a lot to me if you still came.’
Another pause. There were clearly objections coming back the way.
‘Well, Helena, at my age I might not be here tomorrow.’
Eve had to suppress a giggle at her gran’s shameless hustle. Another pause.
‘Yes, she’s still here. And we’d love you to come back over and have a special moment at midnight to celebrate your birthday.’
A pause.
‘Well, like I said, I’m seventy-five. It’s my job to milk every celebration like it’s my last.’
Pause.
‘Okay, well that’s smashing. We’ll see you soon.’
Her gran hung up the phone, victorious. Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. This was happening. Cathy The Bull was in the china shop, and she wasn’t leaving until she’d wrecked the joint.
‘She’s still at the office, but she’s going to stop in on her way home. I can’t give you any answers, but yer mother won’t be leaving here until we know exactly how this all happened.’
20
HELENA
Christmas Eve 1993
Helena caught his eye again and her face flushed the same colour as her dress. For the last two hours, they’d been playing an intoxicating game of seduction, and she’d never felt anything even close to the thrill of it.
The first time she’d gone outside, he’d been standing against the stone balustrade that bordered the front wall on each side of the main doors, creating a narrow terrace on the top step of the entrance, smoking a cigarette. She’d walked past the doormen and casually approached him, not sure if she felt sick, stupid, or both.
‘Can I steal one of those cigarettes off you?’ she’d asked, trying to sound more friendly than ‘sexy spy in a honeytrap’.
He’d given her a casual shrug/grin combination that was, she had to admit, pretty sexy and spy-like. If Timothy Dalton gave up being James Bond, this bloke could definitely fill his tuxedo. ‘Steal away.’
Helena had reached over and taken one, then let him light it for her, all the while thinking this was crazy. Not her at all. She didn’t approach strangers in the street. She didn’t flirt. She rarely smoked. She should put this cigarette out right now and go back inside before she froze to death in this stupid bloody baby-doll dress. She was going to burn the fucking thing when she got home.
‘That dress might be the most gorgeous thing I’ve seen tonight,’ he’d said.
Okay, maybe she wouldn’t burn it.
She hadn’t been sure where to go after that. How did this casual flirting thing work? Other people did it. She’d seen plenty of hook-ups at work parties. That was how she’d first got together with Bruce, but their flirting that night consisted mostly of double entendres, legal jargon and complimenting each other on their work, their cases, their ambitions… The very thought of work reminded her of Bree Halston. Bree and Bruce probably had a brilliant flirt every time they saw each other. Clearly, they’d been flirting their way in and out of each other’s beds for bloody months. The thought emboldened her and wiped out any notion she had of abandoning this guy who was drop-dead gorgeous, impeccably dressed and paying her compliments.
‘Thank you.’ Okay, flirt. Flirt. Say something. Nope, she had nothing. Put her in a courtroom or a boardroom and she could talk her way in and out of anything, but this was a whole different playground.
‘Are you cold? I’m happy to give you my jacket. As long as you don’t steal it,’ he’d teased. ‘I’ll never get another one that’s a perfect match for these trousers.’
For the first time, Helena had smiled. Okay, so he was light-hearted. Funny. It wasn’t normally her lane, but her mother had spent her whole life wisecracking, so Helena had learnt from the best and could pull off wit and guile when she needed to. ‘I promise I won’t steal it. I mean, under normal circumstances I definitely would, but I can’t run in these shoes.’
His grin was back, wider this time. ‘Good to know. Maybe I should take your name, just in case.’
He’d waited expectantly for her to answer and Helena had got a case of the jitters. She didn’t want him to know her name. Or what she did. Or who she was. Because none of this was her. This wasn’t how she behaved. Tonight, she just wanted to be reckless and be anyone else other than the fool who had let her boyfriend use her. And she wanted to do all that with no comeback or worry of potential consequences.
‘Definitely not,’ she’d purred, in a voice she didn’t even recognise. ‘I don’t give out my name on the first cigarette. Or the second.’
‘Okay,’ he’d laughed. ‘So how about the third?’
‘I think you’ll just have to wait and see.’
With that, she’d stamped out the cigarette, and gone back inside, feeling his eyes on her every step of the way. Damn, it felt good. Sexy. Powerful. A complete contrast to the foolishness and helplessness she’d been feeling all day.
That had been the first time. The second time he’d caught her eye and made a subtle ‘let’s go outside’ gesture, she’d made her excuses and followed him, and they’d flirted up a storm. Helena had well and truly found her provocative, seductive groove, yet she could barely remember a single thing they’d talked about. All she remembered was how it felt. Intoxicating. Sexy. Freeing.
The third time, emboldened by a couple of glasses of champagne, and merry on the festive atmosphere of joy and celebration in the lavish restaurant, she’d initiated the move and he’d responded. Outside, he hadn’t even asked this time, just slipped off his jacket and put it around her shoulders to protect her from the dropping temperature.
‘I never usually do this,’ she’d said, his thoughtfulness suddenly giving her an urge to explain.
‘Do what? Smoke a stranger’s cigarettes instead of buying your own?’
‘Yep, definitely that. But the rest of it too. I don’t generally speak to people I don’t know, I don’t flirt with strangers and I definitely don’t wear their jacket and stand this close to them.’ She took a step forward, so that she was almost touching him, their faces close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath.
‘So why are you doing that now then?’ He’d regarded her thoughtfully, and she’d wondered if she’d ever seen eyes as piercing or a face that made her want to reach out and touch it so badly.
‘Because I’ve had a really, really bad day and I was feeling really, really awful. And now I’m not feeling anything other than happy and warm in this jacket that I’ve changed my mind about stealing.’
‘This jacket?’ he’d asked, placing his free hand on one of the lapels and gently pulling her just an inch more towards him, until their bodies were touching, and she felt every part of her respond to him in a way that she couldn’t ever remember experiencing, not even with Bruce.
She hadn’t answered his question. Instead, driven by an unfamiliar urge to throw caution to the wind, she had raised her face to his and kissed him, softly at first and then harder, more insistent, until her heart was thudding and her senses were flooding with desire for more. She’d had to wrench herself away before her body stopped answering to her brain and went even further over the line she’d already crossed.
Now she was back in the ballroom and the waiting staff were bringing the after-dinner liqueurs. The fifties-style big band was belting out an instrumental version of ‘Last Christmas’ and people were already on the dance floor. It struck Helena that this was like a scene from a Christmas movie, one of those ones that showed a picture of perfection, where the whole world was a glittering kaleidoscope of happiness.
Although, that didn’t seem to extend to her parents for some reason. Her mother had barely spoken all night and seemed agitated and distracted. Her dad had asked a couple of times what was wrong, but she’d just claimed tiredness. ‘It’s been such a busy week at the salon, Duncan. Why people leave it to the last minute to get their roots done, I’ll never know.’
Laughing, her dad had slipped his hand over her mum’s, and kissed her on the cheek, which just seemed to make her even more jumpy. Helena had no idea what was going on there.
‘Are you alright, Helena?’ Her mother cut right through that thought. ‘Only you’re looking a bit flushed, and you’ve been to the loo an inordinate amount of times.’
For a horrible moment, she wondered if her mother was going to ask her if she was doing coke in the bathroom, but she should have known that her mum’s mind worked in a different way.
‘The amount of urine infections doing the rounds just now is unbelievable. Sandra at work has been off three times this month with them, although she did seem to get all her Christmas shopping done early, so it could have been a well-planned skive. Anyway, pet, leave yourself plenty of time if you need to go to the loo because the queues in the ladies are like ten o’clock at the bakers, when they bring out the fresh pies. Last time I went out there,’ she gestured to the foyer, ‘my dignity was only saved by that wee lassie in the cloakroom who gave me a tip that there was a powder room up on the mezzanine. Just one. Private. It has posh dispensers with soap and hand lotion and thick towels. None of your paper stuff. And there’s a separate little area with a beautiful velvet chair and one of those marble dressers for you to fix your make-up. If they could have brought my pudding up there, I’d still be sitting on that seat with my feet up, enjoying the luxury.’
If it was any consolation, at least when Mum was ranting on, it made her dad smile. It never failed to baffle Helena how a man so brilliant could happily listen to her mother telling stories and joking from morning until night and still look at her in the utterly adoring way he was watching her now.
‘I’m fine, Mum, but I might just heed your warning and head to the loo again before it’s urgent.’ Her mum had unwittingly just given her the perfect excuse to leave the table again, as she’d been desperate to do from the second she’d sat back down.
As she rose from her seat, she caught his eye again and that slow, sexy smile told her he understood.
She sensed him following her out of the restaurant and she put on just a hint of extra sway, her whole body already responding to the prospect of touching him again.
This time, she didn’t even make it outside. When she reached the foyer, she waited for him to come through the doors, then immediately took his hand and guided him upstairs to the mezzanine bar, where a few guests were relaxing with brandies and coffees.
Helena wasn’t interested in joining them for a beverage. Instead, she stopped in the corner, outside a heavy wooden door, out of sight of the other guests and staff.
He got the message immediately, turning his body to hers, his hand softly cupping her neck as he leaned down and kissed her again, with an urgency that shot every sense on to high.
‘You are the most intoxicating woman I’ve ever met,’ he whispered, then grinned again, ‘And the craziest too.’
She kissed him again. ‘You forgot sexy,’ she murmured.
‘Definitely sexy,’ he agreed, before his lips came down hard on hers this time.
In the distance, in a place in her mind that was getting further away with every thud of her heart, she could hear a voice asking what the hell she was doing, reminding her that she wasn’t this person, this wasn’t her style. She didn’t pick up strangers in bars and kiss men she didn’t know in hotels she didn’t frequent. She was Helena McLean. She thought things through. Played it safe. Strategised every move and predicted ten steps ahead. She definitely didn’t…
