Having propped Charlie against the wall, she locked up. The locks were stiff and by the time she pulled him to standing his clothes were soaked. If they were lucky he wouldn’t develop a nasty cold. Or flu. Or some other harmless but disgusting, grotty illness.
Her lips twitched as she put a hand around his waist to steady him and began to edge across the sodden lawn.
Clouds covered the moon, making the trek back to the house more treacherous. Becky’s glasses were rendered useless by the cold raindrops sheeting towards them, forcing her to squint in the direction of the kitchen lights.
Every dragged footstep sprayed sucking, slippery mud over her feet and legs. Meanwhile, Charlie got heavier as more of his torso relaxed against her shoulder.
His mouth was only inches from her ear, allowing her to hear him over the patter of the rain as he chuckled quietly and said, ‘You are strong. I noticed that before. Sturdy.’
Becky dug her nails into his waist and hoped it hurt. Either the alcohol had rendered him oblivious to her fury or he had a death wish.
When they arrived at the house, she gritted her teeth and made no effort to prevent him falling as she shoved him through the kitchen door. But, with the rolling balance of a lucky drunk, Charlie steadied himself on the table and dropped into a chair.
Phoebe was waiting for them with the coffee and a large towel. Becky acknowledged this display of forward thinking with a nod, draped the towel around Charlie and told the startled teenager to go to bed.
She took the chair opposite Charlie, fixed him with her hardest stare and spoke slowly. ‘Mr Handren, I need you to listen to me.’
Charlie stared at her vacantly over the top of his coffee cup. He was steady and followed her hand movements as she calmed down to her normal, benign bossiness.
‘You’ve done a good job raising your daughter. It can’t have been easy to suddenly find yourself in charge of an eleven-year-old girl, but you rolled up your sleeves and did what had to be done. Without complaining and without a team of hired help to pick up the slack.’
Charlie didn’t move other than to blink, and with each blink his eyes stayed closed a little longer. It was time to get to the point.
‘But. Being a good parent isn’t just about the cooking and cleaning and ferrying them to after-school activities. It’s not only about how much you do or how much you care; it’s also about who you are. And at this point you are a black hole sucking the happiness out of this home. This is where your daughter lives. Make it a place she wants to stay and come back to.’
She ran her hands behind her water-smeared glasses and rubbed her eyes. It wasn’t the best motivational speech ever given, but it would have to do.
The rest of her instructions were practical: he was going to drink a glass of water and eat toast, followed by another glass of water and two painkillers. Tomorrow he would get up at seven, shower, brush his teeth thoroughly, dress, come downstairs, eat more toast and drink more water. He would make Phoebe breakfast. He would apologise to her and tell her he would never be drinking alone at home again. And he would mean it.
‘Finally, and this is very important.’ She reached across the table, pinched Charlie’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, and tilted his head back until their eyes met. ‘You are going to quit feeling sorry for yourself and count your blessings instead.’
Becky released him and pushed to standing. Sighing heavily, she skirted round the table and put her hand on Charlie’s shoulder. As she helped him stand, cool raindrops dripped from his hair onto her hand and the surge of adrenaline which had been carrying her dried up. She closed her eyes. Nothing more could be done tonight. Or undone. She would just have to go home, scape off the dirt and wait to find out how much damage being a goodish Samaritan had done to her career.
Chapter 6
A weekend fighting fiascos had one significant upside: it didn’t give Becky much time to think about whether she had scuppered her chances of working with Charlie.
After Thursday night’s washout, it had stayed mercifully dry all Friday, and Saturday turned out to be another glorious day. Becky doubted she was the only one giving thanks for the unspoiled blue sky. The bride was so highly strung, a single wisp of cloud could have sent her into meltdown and it was Becky’s job to do anything and everything to prevent that happening.
Fortunately, her task was made easier by being on familiar turf. South Compton Country Club’s grand driveway, rose gardens, manicured lawns and large banqueting hall made it a popular wedding venue and Becky knew the grounds and building inside out. By South Compton standards, the Rose–Hartley reception was an average-sized affair with merely two hundred and fifty guests. They were easily accommodated in the shade of the terrace and the sunshine of the lawns, where the sound of croquet mallets connecting mingled with the strains of a string quartet, the clinking of crystalware and the hum of conversation.
Scanning the crowd, Becky wondered at the most expensive display of millinery outside Royal Ascot. Every female head was adorned with feathers, lace or flowers. The riot of colour was distracting, although this was to her advantage, making it easier for her to blend into the shadows and observe Amber Hartley, née Rose, as she flounced about in her ivory dress, bossing her friends and family and bullying the staff. Her treatment of one of her bridesmaids was particularly harsh. Clarice Barry, the bride’s cousin, was expected to respond cheerfully to commands issued as if she were an unloved dog and laugh at insults. Becky fumed in silence as Amber—an emaciated matchstick with a sharp, joyless face—told her petite cousin, with gorgeous blonde curls and a rosebud mouth, that she was chubby, unattractive and could do with skipping her helping of wedding cake. The other bridesmaids tittered at Amber’s jokes, confident of their appearance in elegant blush, rose and coral sheaths. Clarice’s dress was an unflattering fuchsia tent and Becky was sure the bride had taken extra trouble when choosing it.
At the wedding breakfast, Clarice was exiled to the very end of the top table and had to listen to speeches which included hilarious tales of Amber’s childhood pranks, including the time the scamp had shaved off Clarice’s eyebrows. Apparently the school photos that year were simply a hoot!
How Clarice was sticking it out was beyond Becky, particularly as she didn’t appear to be drinking. At the centre of the table, the new Mrs Hartley cackled and quaffed champagne. As she lowered her drink, the bride winked at Clarice, then twisted to haul the groom into a sloppy kiss. The bridesmaid blinked and gripped the edge of the table. From Clarice’s reaction, Becky guessed this was yet another piece of spiteful provocation.
Without taking her eyes off the bridesmaid, Becky pulled her phone from her pocket. It was only the tenth time she’d looked at it that afternoon, and she was pleased with how she had restrained her irrational need to check for missed calls from her parents. Dylan was fine. She was worrying about nothing. The worst call she could expect would be from Ronnie, ranting at her for not being in the car park at six o’clock on the dot.
Shaking her head, she dialled a number and glanced towards the best man as she listened to the tone. After far too long a wait, the chinless idiot retrieved his phone from his suit jacket. His eyebrows shot up and he leapt out of his seat, gesturing to one of his equally clueless friends.