"HAS the post come?"
Fleur paused to scoop up the bills, catalogues and other
mail scattered over the doormat, then called up the
stairs, "Tom, if you're not down here in two minutes I'm
taking you to school just as you are."
"Slow down, girl. The world isn't going to end if the boy
is a minute or two late for school."
She dumped the mail on the kitchen table beside her
father. "Maybe not, but it's a distinct possibility if I'm
late for my appointment with the new bank manager. We need
her on-side if we're really going to take this stand at
the Chelsea Flower Show."
He must have caught the uncertainty in her voice, the un-
asked question, because he stopped sorting through the
mail and, with a certainty she hadn't heard from him in a
very long time, he said, "Yes, Fleur, we really are."
Then, whatever it took, she'd have to make it happen.
Taking a deep breath, she said, "Right."
Which made today's appointment even more important. The
retirement of a sympathetic bank manager couldn't have
come at a worse time for them. Brian had understood the
difficulties of their business, had celebrated their
successes with them and had patiently seen them through
the last difficult six years, giving them breathing space,
a chance to recover.
She wished she'd been able to do more than fill the bank's
window-boxes to reward his faith in them. Even with every
single thing running on oiled wheels until Chelsea, it was
going to be a huge gamble. She wasn't convinced that her
father's health would stand up to the stress of producing
show plants at the peak of condition on a given day in
May, but nothing she could say or do to dissuade him had
had any effect. All she could do was try and shield him
from financial worries. Unfortunately, Ms Delia Johnson,
the new person at the bank, had wasted precious little
time in writing to invite them into the office for
a 'chat'.
It was concern that their luck was about to run out —
actually a cast-iron certainty that the new manager
planned to stamp her own mark on the branch by weeding out
accounts that weren't flourishing — that made her so
snappy this morning.
She was going to have to be in top form to 'sell' the
business, convince Ms Johnson that it would be in the
bank's interest to see them through the additional expense
entailed in mounting an exhibit at the premier
horticultural show of the season.
"Don't fret," her father said comfortingly, "you'll be
fine. You might have inherited my green fingers and your
mother's beauty, but thankfully you missed out on our
business brains." He smiled as he took in the effort she'd
made with her appearance. "You look lovely."
She knew how she looked. She had to live with her
reflection in the mirror; there was nothing she could do
about that — although with no time and less money for
visits to the hairdresser or expensive cosmetics, the
likeness to her mother was less obvious than it might have
been — but she'd had to learn to manage the business the
hard way when she'd been tossed in at the deep end. Sink
or swim. She was still floundering. It had never been
possible to make up the ground lost during that terrible
year when her world — all their worlds — had fallen apart.
Her father's lack of interest in the finances of the
company, and the discovery that her mother was in the
habit of using their capital resources as her own personal
piggy bank, had left her out of her depth and swimming
against the current.
Even now her father, having said what he thought she
wanted to hear, had lost interest, returning to the
perusal of the mail. He'd picked up an envelope that, in
her rush, she hadn't noticed and her heart sank as she saw
the Hanover logo on the envelope.
"Don't they ever give up?" she demanded, glad of a
legitimate focus for her anger.
Any other morning she'd have sorted through the post and
weeded it out, protecting him from harassment by a hate-
filled woman whose sole ambition appeared to be driving
them out of business. Out of the village. Off the face of
the earth.
"I'd sell out to a developer, let someone build houses on
this land, before I'd let Katherine Hanover have it," she
said.
"Chance would be a fine thing. With Katherine on the
Parish Council no one is ever going to get planning
permission to build on Gilbert land," her father replied,
as calm as she was angry, but then he'd never once got
angry.
She wished he would. Rage. Shout. Give vent to his
feelings. But he never would say anything bad about the
woman. If he still felt sorry for her, she thought, his
feelings were seriously misplaced.
"Not when she wants it for herself," Fleur said bitterly.
There was a wonderful old barn on the edge of their land
that hadn't been used for anything but storage in years.
It was perfect for conversion into one of those upmarket
country homes she'd seen featured in the glossy magazines;
selling it would have solved a great many of their
problems.
The Parish Council, egged on by Katherine Hanover, had
decided it was a historic building. They'd not only
refused planning permission for conversion, but had warned
them that if they allowed it to fall into disrepair they
could be fined.
"Maybe I should get involved in local politics," Fleur
said. "I could at least cancel out the Hanover vote."
"That would be in your spare time, I suppose,'he said,
with a rare smile.
"I could give up doing the ironing," she said, glad to
have amused him. "It would be a sacrifice, but I could do
it."
"That's better. I thought you were going wobbly on me
there for a minute."
"Who, me? Never."
As he returned to the letter he was holding, his smile
faded as if he didn't have the strength to sustain it.
Like his body, it had been worn away under a continual
onslaught of betrayal, grief and financial worries, giving
her reason — if she needed it — to hate the Hanovers just
that bit more.
"Don't open it," she said. "Throw it in the bin. I'll
shred it and add it to the compost with the rest of them."
"There have been others?"
Caught out, she shrugged. "A few. Nothing worth
reading." 'I see. Well, you can do whatever you like with
this one since it's addressed to you,'he said, offering
her the envelope. "It appears to have been delivered by
hand."
"By hand?" She reached for it and then shivered, curling
her fingers back before they came in contact with the
paper. "Why would Katherine Hanover write to me?" 'Maybe
she thinks that you can persuade me to stop throwing her
letters away. Maybe she's lost trust in the Royal Mail and
that's why she pushed it through the letterbox herself."
Her father seemed to find that as amusing as the thought
of Fleur taking up politics. "It's good to see that she
can still get things wrong." Then he shrugged, dropping
the envelope on the table beside her. "Or perhaps she's
offering you a job."
"Oh, right. That's going to happen." 'If she's expanding
her business she'll need more staff." 'She's got no room
to expand." With roads on three sides she needed the
Gilbert land to extend her empire. "And why would she need
me, anyway? I'm a horticulturist, not a lawn-mower
salesman. Hanovers haven't been cultivating their own
stock since...since —"
Oh, damn! "Since your mother ran off with Phillip
Hanover?" he finished for her. "You can say it, Fleur. It
happened. Nothing can change that."
"No."
In truth, it wasn't the adulterous father but the memory
of his faithless son that had caught her unawares.
Abandonment was apparently inherent in the Hanover genes,
and for a split second she felt a kinship with Katherine.
That was enough to jolt her to her senses.
Katherine Hanover was a vindictive and hateful woman,
something that, despite good reason, Fleur was determined
not to become.
But it was far better that her father believed she was
protecting his feelings than that he should suspect the
truth.
"Katherine Hanover would have no use for me, Dad. Not
since she paved over her husband's land and turned the
business into a gardening hypermarket." 'True. But she has
been advertising for weekend staff for the checkouts in
the local newspaper. Maybe she thinks you could do with
the money."
"Whatever would give her that idea?'The grey suit she was
wearing — again — that she'd bought for her mother's
funeral and had been pressed to within an inch of its
life? Or perhaps her go-anywhere black court shoes that
had only survived so long because she didn't. Go anywhere,
that was.
"Maybe she wants you to see for yourself how much money
she's making."
"You think?" she asked. The new Mercedes, designer
clothes, the kind of shoes that provoked envy in every
female bosom in the village weren't demonstration enough?
"No, Dad, she's not that stupid," she said, reaching for
the letter, irritated that she could be intimidated at
long distance by the woman. "Just imagine the chaos I
could cause in the middle of the weekend rush." Before she
could open it, the clock in the hall began to chime the
three-quarters. "Oh, good grief!" she said, stuffing it
into her jacket pocket. "Tom!"
A five-year-old bundle of energy bounded down the stairs,
dog at his heels, and grinning hugely said, "I'm all
ready!"
Her heart caught in her mouth at the sight of him. He'd
brushed his hair flat, had tried to fix his tie, which was
stuck up almost behind his ear, and his shoes, with their
little Velcro tabs, were on the wrong feet.
"I did it all myself," he said. "Great job, Tom," she
said, her voice catching in her throat as she picked him
up and, despite the need for haste, hugged him until he
squeaked and wriggled to be set down. Her little boy was
growing up much too fast.
One shoe fell off and, laughing, she picked it up, then
sat him on the kitchen table while she straightened him
out, scrunching her fingers through his hair to make the
curls spring back.
"Don't, Mum!" he said, jumping down, flattening it
furiously with both hands. "Curls are stupid."
"Sorry," she said, covering her mouth with her hand, not
sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. Then, "Have you
got everything?"
"Pencil case. Reading book. Indoor shoes. Lunch money." He
went through the daily list, ticking the items off on his
fingers.
"What a genius. Do you want an apple for break?" she
asked, tucking one into his bag so that she could do a
surreptitious check. "Quick now, give Granddad a hug while
I get your coat."
Matthew Hanover stood at his bedroom window, waiting for
Fleur to appear. He hadn't seen her in nearly six years.
Not since their wedding night had been disturbed by the
soft burble of her mobile phone.
He'd grabbed the wretched thing, determined to switch it
off, shut out the world for as long as possible, but she'd
seen the caller ID and they'd both known that a phone call
from her father in the middle of the night could mean only
one thing.
Trouble.
And trouble it had been.
He'd watched, helpless, as the joy, the laughter, had
faded from her eyes at the news that her mother had been
badly hurt in a road accident. That there was no time to
waste.
He'd begged her to let him drive her to the hospital, to
be with her, at her side. They were a couple now. Married.
But she'd just clung to him for a moment before she'd
stepped back and, unable to look at him, had turned
away. "Please, Matt. Not now. My father has enough to cope
with."
And he'd let her go because she was hurting. Because,
wrongly, he'd believed it wasn't the moment to fight that
battle. He'd let her go with a kiss, trying not to let it
hurt that she'd slipped his ring from her finger,
saying, "Call me. Let me know what's happening."
Then, as if in some dark recess of his mind he'd already
sensed the cogs of fate slipping out of sync, he'd gone
back to the warm space she'd vacated and had lain in the
scent of her body, waiting for her to call.
When his phone had rung half an hour later, though, it
hadn't been Fleur. It had been his mother calling to tell
him that his father was dead. That Jennifer Gilbert had
killed him.
The front door of the Gilbert house opened and a dog, some
kind of cross-breed leaning towards a border collie,
bounded towards the Land Rover. Then, suddenly, Fleur was
there, every inch the businesswoman in a tailored grey
suit, her dark red hair swept up into a smooth coil at the
base of her neck.