The Many Colours of Us Page 16

  Forgiveness frees you. It doesn’t mean you should condone the thing that was done to you, but unless you forgive and walk away, you’ll never be free.

  Allow yourself to be free, my love.

  Happy Birthday, Princess.

  Your Father

  Chapter 24

  My mobile is ringing and I reach out from under the duvet to answer it. It’s my mother and for a moment I debate not picking up, but she’ll only keep ringing until I do.

  ‘Hello, Mum? This is very early for the morning after your wedding.’ It’s not even 7 a.m.

  ‘I couldn’t wait any longer; I wanted to hear all the gossip.’

  ‘What gossip?’ I ask. What has she heard?

  ‘You and Edwin of course! We all noticed you leaving early.’

  Edwin.

  ‘Julia?’ My mother isn’t going to give up. ‘Is he there with you now?’ she stage-whispers.

  ‘No, Mum,’ I reply, pulling myself up to sitting, trying to ignore the feeling of sadness that he isn’t here with me now. ‘Sorry to disappoint you but he’s not here. I’m presuming he’s at home.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mum sounds terribly disappointed.

  ‘He had to go home,’ I say. ‘His brother’s nurse was on holiday and the agency let them down.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Julia,’ Mum says. ‘But this is what life’s like for him. If you want to be with him you have to accept that.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, thinking about my conversation with Edwin last night. ‘Anyway who says I want to be with him?’

  ‘Oh come on, Julia, I’m your mother. I’ve seen the way you look at him. And the way he looks at you.’

  While she’s talking, I hear the beep of another call coming through but I let it go through to voicemail. I change the subject of our conversation and we chat a little about the wedding, about how wonderful it was. I hear the landline ringing downstairs but again I leave it to ring out. I’m not ready to get out of bed yet. I wish Mum and Johnny well as they set off for a few days in Paris, tell them I’ll see them when they get back. Then I turn over and go back to sleep.

  *

  I’m woken by a loud hammering on the front door. I reluctantly get out of bed to go and see who it is. As I come down into the hall I hear Edwin’s voice but, before I have a chance to get excited that he’s here so early or distressed that I’m still in my pyjamas, I realise I can hear him talking to someone. There is a scuffling on the front doorstep and I see figures through the frosted glass.

  ‘Julia, are you there?’ Edwin shouts. ‘Can you answer the door, please?’

  As I go to answer it I hear Edwin telling whoever is in front of my house to leave us alone, and then the noise from outside dies down a little. Edwin has a way of controlling situations, a way of making people do what he says.

  Confused and curious in equal measures I open the door a crack. It’s just enough for him to come into the house, pushing me out of the way. As the door closes I hear someone shout ‘Are you Miss Simmonds’s partner? How do you feel about…?’

  I look at Edwin. He’s holding what appears to be every single Sunday paper known to man. I feel a flutter of fear in my chest.

  ‘What…’ I begin.

  ‘I’m sorry to just barge in on you like this. I tried to phone.’ He seems annoyed, probably because I haven’t answered the phone again, and the tenderness of the previous evening has gone. I hope it wasn’t just the champagne talking.

  ‘I was asleep,’ I lie.

  ‘I think you’d better come and sit down.’

  Edwin leads us into the living room and drops himself down onto the couch, still clutching the newspapers as though he doesn’t want me to see them. I sit down opposite him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask, although I have a horrible feeling I already know.

  ‘I was awake early this morning and I went out to get a paper,’ he begins. I don’t comment on the number of papers he appears to have bought. ‘You know how probate works don’t you?’

  ‘I think so,’ I say, casting my mind back to our earliest meetings and to my old job, which seems a lifetime ago.

  ‘When a person dies and their affairs have been sorted out the will eventually goes on the public record,’ he says. ‘Which means anyone can see it.’

  The last piece of the jigsaw puzzle in my head is put in place.

  ‘Bruce Baldwin’s will went on the public record last week. I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming.’ Edwin stops and carefully places the pile of Sunday papers on the table between us.

  I stare at the papers in front of me, seeing words like ‘Lovechild’ and ‘Million-Pound Fortune’ blaring out at me. I see my father’s name and a picture of him that I don’t recognise. He looks old and ill. I’m barely able to comprehend that the story they are telling is mine.

  ‘Well at least the Observer went with a different headline,’ I say, trying to look on the bright side.

  ‘Page two.’

  ‘And that’s members of our esteemed press outside is it?’ I ask.

  Edwin nods. ‘They want an exclusive interview with you.’

  ‘So basically I’m trapped in my own house?’

  He shrugs. ‘For now. They’ll get bored and go away in the end. There’ll be another story along next week.’

  ‘I honestly didn’t realise how famous my parents were.’

  ‘I did try to tell you,’ Edwin says. His tone softens, his shoulders relaxing now he’s broken the news. ‘To be fair though,’ he continues, ‘it’s August Bank Holiday weekend. The slowest news weekend of the year. The press tends to latch on to anything in August.’

  Our eyes meet and I suddenly feel furious. How could he let this happen? He’s supposed to be looking after me. I thought that’s what my father wanted. I’m about to say something when the phone starts ringing.

  It doesn’t stop ringing all morning. Edwin deals with it, referring everyone to his office, telling them he’ll contact them on Tuesday. In between calls I keep trying to say something to him, to tell him how I’m feeling, to try to get him to stop taking over but there isn’t a chance. My mobile starts ringing.

  ‘Don’t answer it!’ Edwin shouts.

  But I can already see it’s my mother.

  ‘I’m on the Eurostar.’

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ I say, knowing what’s coming.

  ‘Have you seen the Sunday Times?’

  ‘Yes. And the Sun and the Mail on Sunday. I’m even on page two of the Observer.’

  ‘Have you seen the photo of me on page 4 of the Times?’

  Typical.

  ‘No, I haven’t actually opened any of the papers yet, let alone read the crap written in them. Are there any pictures of me?’

  ‘I look awful. It’s taken on the High Street but I can’t for the life of me imagine when. Do I really look that old?’

  ‘Mum,’ I say firmly. ‘This isn’t about you.’

  She stops for a moment and I hear her take a breath.

  ‘No, I’m sorry. Are you all right?’

  ‘I…’ I’m about to say that I’m fine. I always say I’m fine, no matter what. I’ve been telling everyone I’m fine for weeks but the truth is I’m not. How could anyone be fine in this situation?

  ‘Julia?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mum. I really don’t know.’

  ‘Shall I come home? I’ll get off the Eurostar right now if you like?’

  I’m assuming the Eurostar is still at St Pancras and not currently in motion.

  ‘No, Mum, go to Paris. Edwin and I have got this.’ While I understand that her heart is in the right place, I’m not sure her presence is really going to help.

  ‘Edwin’s there? How is he?’

  ‘Angry,’ I say. ‘Shouting at everyone.’

  ‘How did this happen?’

  I explain to her about Bruce’s will going on the public record.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘no wonder he’s
angry. He probably blames himself.’

  ‘Right now I blame him too. And you and Bruce bloody Baldwin.’

  ‘Julia, please…’

  ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t know how to deal with this.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come home?’

  ‘Go to Paris. Enjoy your honeymoon. I’ll see you at the end of the week. This will all have blown over by then.’ I hope it will have done anyway.

  I hang up and close my eyes, resting my head against the back of the sofa. I’m still in my pyjamas and I haven’t eaten since the wedding reception. I’m starving and a little bit hung-over. I can hear Edwin in the hallway talking to whatever reporter is phoning now. But in the end all I can do is summon up the energy to have a shower.

  *

  Around noon Edwin finally unplugs the phone at the wall. An hour later the last straggling reporters have disappeared from the front steps as I, hopefully, become yesterday’s news and I finally have a chance to make some food and talk to Edwin.

  ‘There’s not much in the fridge,’ I say, peering inside. ‘Some leftover smoked salmon…’

  ‘Anything’s fine,’ he interrupts. He still sounds annoyed. ‘A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss if you don’t mind.’

  He’s not the only one who’s annoyed. He knows where the kettle is doesn’t he? He’s been here often enough playing happy families with my mother.

  ‘Julia, what’s the matter?’ I realise I’m banging the plates and cups around in a disgruntled fashion.

  ‘How did you not see this coming?’ I say quietly. ‘You promised to look after me. You promised my father you’d look after me and look what you’ve done. Now the whole world knows the one thing Bruce Baldwin never wanted anyone to know.’

  ‘You think any of this is my fault?’ His voice is as cold as ice and it cuts through me. I can’t believe this is the same person who nearly kissed me last night. ‘How is any of this my fault?’

  ‘You were the executor of Dad’s will…you…’

  ‘I did what was required of me by law.’ God, he can be pompous sometimes.

  ‘Then why doesn’t this happen more often? Famous people’s posthumous secrets?’

  ‘It does, but it’s rarely newsworthy. It gets buried on page eleven or on some godforsaken internet gossip page.’ I can hear him softening again. ‘This is just bad timing.’

  I finish making the lunch in silence and take his plate and mug over to him. As I do, Edwin stands up and puts his arms around me. As soon as I feel the warmth of his body against me again I burst into tears.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I tried to get them to tell you. I tried to get this out in the open before Bruce died.’

  ‘I know you did,’ I reply, pulling away from him and rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands. ‘I’m sorry too. I know this isn’t your fault.’

  ‘Come and sit down, have some lunch. Forget about it all for a few minutes if you can.’

  I sit down next to him and as I do my phone starts ringing again.

  ‘Don’t answer it,’ he warns.

  I look at the display. ‘It’s Pen.’

  He holds his hands up as though to tell me to go ahead and goes back to his lunch.

  ‘Hi Pen,’ I say.

  ‘Jesus, Julia, have you seen the Sunday papers?’

  ‘Funnily enough, yes I have.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Nothing, Edwin’s dealing with it.’ I look at him and catch his eye and he grins at me through a mouthful of food.

  ‘How’s it going?’ she says, changing tack at the mention of Edwin’s name.

  ‘How’s Graeme?’ I respond.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Hypocrite.’

  ‘Look, Julia, can I come down to London? I miss you.’

  ‘I miss you too,’ I reply. ‘Come down tomorrow.’

  ‘You sure? I won’t be interrupting love’s young dream?’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I say, ignoring her. Tomorrow will be fun if today’s conversation is anything to go by.

  As I put the phone back on the table Edwin reaches over and squeezes my hand. ‘It’s all going to be OK,’ he says.

  But it isn’t of course. Everything just gets worse.

  Chapter 25

  Bank Holiday Monday is cloudy and muggy. I sleep badly and get up early feeling jittery and anxious. I decide to skip coffee – it’ll only make me feel worse – and go for a long run. I double up on my usual route around Kensington Palace Gardens and Hyde Park, looping a figure of eight around the Serpentine. I try not to think about sitting here with Edwin after Mum’s wedding, about what might have been. How was that less than two days ago?

  As I run back down the High Street towards home I pass the newspaper stand. I slow down to see who’s making the headlines today.

  Christ!

  Three tabloids have the same shot on the front of them with different versions of the same headline. But it’s the grainy picture that catches my interest. I pull the hood of my hoodie over my head and step a bit closer. It’s blurred but it’s very obviously a picture of Edwin on my front doorstep. It must have been taken yesterday.

  Pulling the hood further over my head in the hope that nobody recognises me, I take the emergency pound coin out of the pocket of my running tights and buy the cheapest of the three tabloids. Although I’m desperate to know what the papers are saying today, I make myself take some deep breaths and walk over towards Kensington Palace Gardens before I read the story.

  Today’s tabloid headline sensation is mostly going over the same old ground as yesterday, just in case anyone missed it. But today we have a new twist.

  Family lawyer Edwin Jones, pictured visiting Miss Simmonds in the early hours of Sunday morning, (even I wouldn’t call 8 a.m. ‘the early hours’ but don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story) is the older brother of the young up-and-coming rugby star Robert Jones, who was paralysed in a match at Harrow School 16 years ago, this paper can exclusively reveal (not that exclusively considering it’s in at least two other papers).

  A source close to the family says that the late artist Bruce Baldwin donated a SIX-FIGURE sum to the rehabilitation unit in which Robert Jones recovered from his accident. ‘It makes you wonder how many other children Bruce might have had,’ said the friend.

  What?

  My phone, which I use as an iPod and a tracker when I run, is attached to my arm. I rip it off the Velcro strap and dial Edwin’s number. He picks up straight away.

  ‘Julia.’ He sounds terrible.

  ‘I just saw the papers.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  I want to tell him I’m in Kensington Palace Gardens. I want to tell him to come here and lie in the grass with me again, to hold my hand and pretend none of this is happening.

  ‘Hyde Park,’ I say instead.

  ‘I’m in the office. Could you come?’

  I hesitate for a minute, aware of how awful I look in my running clothes, my hair scraped back, sweat drying on my skin. But I suspect what I look like will be the last thing on his mind.

  ‘Sure, give me ten minutes.’

  *

  The front door of Jones & Cartwright is unlocked when I arrive and I push it open with my hip as I’m carrying two cups of takeaway coffee. I figured we could both use them. Edwin is sitting in the reception area with his head in his hands. He’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday: jeans, Converse and a polo shirt. He either hasn’t been home or he left in such a hurry this morning he only had time to pull on yesterday’s clothes. I walk up to him, squatting down next to him, putting my hand on his leg.

  ‘Hey,’ I say quietly.

  He looks up, his eyes bloodshot, his hair standing up on end. At least we both look equally rough.

  ‘Oh God, Julia. What am I going to do?’

  I hand him the coffee and sit down on the sofa next
to him. It seems such a long time since I first sat on these sofas, before I knew any of this. We drink our coffee in silence.

  ‘I thought you said this would blow over,’ I say after a while, not looking at him.

  ‘I honestly thought it would. I never thought they’d dig up stuff about Rob. It was a non-story then, unless you went to Harrow. It wasn’t as if Rob had been signed for any teams at that point. He was still…’ He stops, swallows. I realise he’s trying not to cry.

  ‘Who do you think told them?’

  He shrugs. ‘Probably nobody. I don’t think “sources close to the family” actually exist.’

  ‘Then how did this happen? Christ, Edwin, I thought you were going to sort this out.’

  He doesn’t respond. He just stands up and walks away from me, his back to me. I can see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes. I can see the tension in his back.

  I stand up too. ‘Talk to me for God’s sake,’ I shout at his back. ‘Tell me what happened? You told the journalists to call you here on Tuesday. You told me everything would be OK. Now the whole world knows my father’s secrets, the things he didn’t even want me to know. Explain to me how that happened?’

  He turns around slowly. ‘You still think this is my fault don’t you? That I’ve somehow failed to do my job?’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying. I just thought you’d sorted this out.’

  ‘Did you really think that my telling them yesterday to call me on Tuesday would be the end of it?’

  ‘You said it would be, you said…’

  ‘I was trying to calm you down. I was trying to do the right thing.’

  ‘How am I going to launch the business and open the Art Salon with all this bad press going on? What are we going to do about it?’

  ‘Christ, Julia, it’s not always about you!’ he shouts. The urgency in his voice makes me jump and the sound reverberates through the empty office. ‘What about how I feel? What about how Rob feels? What about the insinuations against my mother?’

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. He’s right; this isn’t just about me any more. I walk over to him and reach over to touch him but he steps away from me.