Becky sidled over to the large oak desk under the window and whipped a tissue from the box. ‘Here,’ she said, offering the tissue to Phoebe as the first tears fell onto the girl’s freckled cheeks.
Becky perched on the arm of the sofa and tried to appear reassuring as Phoebe mumbled a thank you and blotted away her tears. She was doing her best to keep her confident façade in place, but sitting up straight and fighting the urge to chew her bottom lip were becoming painful. As much as she needed the work, perhaps this was finally the job that was too much for her. And letting this girl think she could solve all her problems was unfair.
Right. It was definitely time for Plan A: wait until Phoebe stopped crying and remind her Charlie hadn’t shown any interest in hiring her yet and the teenager shouldn’t pin all her hopes on Becky’s only human powers of persuasion.
Phoebe finished drying her face and brought the last of her tears under control with an almighty sniff. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Ms Watson.’ Phoebe beamed, her eyes shining with hope rather than tears. ‘We so need your help.’
‘Er, yes. About that—’
‘Seriously, I know you can sort this out.’ Phoebe grabbed Becky’s hand and gazed up at her, blinking her long lashes stuck together with tears. ‘You’re our last hope, Ms Watson. You can fix everything and take care of Dad, can’t you?’
Becky squeezed Phoebe’s hand and forced her lips into a smile. ‘Of course. Don’t worry. We’re in this together now, everything will be fine.’
Back in her car, Becky slumped forward and let her head thud against the steering wheel. So much for Plan A: time for Plan B. Whatever the hell that was.
JULY
Chapter 4
Becky didn’t have the money to take Dylan to the baby yoga-signing-music classes on offer in South Compton. But Wednesday mornings were reserved for a trip to the local leisure centre pool. Dylan wasn’t yet two years old, so the excursions involved less swimming and more splashing, but the walk there and back was excellent exercise. Or that was what Becky told herself as she pushed the buggy up the steep hill on the other side of the river. A few minutes from the town centre, she paused to catch her breath, swear and kick the back tyre of a car parked across the pavement. It was the fourth one that morning and, once again, she would be forced to take the buggy and its precious cargo into the road to continue her journey. She kicked the tyre again for good measure; after all, physical expressions of pavement rage counted as exercise too.
Their route home usually included a stop at Sweet’s Cakes, where Becky would reward herself and Dylan for their hard work. The bakery and cake shop was on a busy street in the town centre and popular with tourist parties. When Becky approached—red-faced, drained and longing for a sugar fix—a large group of foreign visitors was gathered around the glass frontage, blocking access to the door. Becky shoved the buggy through the first two rows, bashing them and their Compton Hall gift bags with her hips until she could see the window and what had them so entranced. The latest display featured a cake castle with turrets, drawbridge and moat. The windows in its highest tower contained sugary stained glass. Delicious gargoyles perched on the ramparts, gurning down at a verdant field of fondant where a knight on his white steed was facing a dragon with spun-sugar wings.
The displays inside were equally impressive. A high shelf ran around the interior, decorated with the owner’s creations. Flowers were this month’s theme. Multi-tiered confections dripping in fondant roses, lilies and hydrangea covered the shelf and, if it weren’t for the large glass display case bursting with cakes, biscuits and muffins by the till and the racks of bread covering the wall behind it, a first-time visitor could have believed they had inadvertently wandered into a florist’s. The smell was also a giveaway; permanent background scents of chocolate and vanilla were accompanied by a rotation of coffee, cinnamon and freshly baked bread.
The owner of the shop was behind the counter stacking vanilla cupcakes onto a blue-and-white porcelain stand. A short, stout woman in her mid-thirties, she glanced up as Becky entered and gasped. ‘Dear God Almighty. That’s a woman who needs cake if I ever saw one.’
Becky didn’t have the energy to smile. ‘Thanks, Ronnie. I love you too.’
Ronnie grinned and gestured to the far corner of the room. ‘Take a seat. I’ll bring it over in a minute.’
Becky had barely parked the buggy and made sure the now-snoozing Dylan was comfortable when Ronnie reappeared, carrying two large pieces of chocolate fudge cake.
‘Your favourite.’ She set the cake on the table quickly, making the dessert forks rattle against the china. ‘The interns are in charge and tea’s on its way. Now,’ she said, taking a seat next to Becky, ‘what the hell’s happened to you? Why are you all red and sweaty?’
Becky bit her tongue. It would be nice if, just once, her best friend could be as sweet and flowery as her cakes. Anyway, Ronnie dyed her hair crimson. Who was she to describe anyone else as ‘red’? ‘It’s Wednesday. We’ve been swimming.’
‘Huh.’ Ronnie raised a thin eyebrow. The pencil line was dark brown, almost black. Becky sometimes wondered if she’d considered using red to match her hair. ‘A load of hassle if you ask me. But I suppose it knackered him out,’ Ronnie said, pointing at Dylan who had started to snore. ‘And you won’t have to share your cake.’
‘Only you would begrudge a toddler some of your cake.’
‘Don’t you believe it.’ Ronnie grinned. ‘Not having to share cake is the only excuse my mother will accept for me not having popped out a grandsprog yet.’
‘How is your mum? And Mike? And his mother?’
‘Ugh.’ Ronnie shook her head. ‘Don’t get me started.’
Ronnie had recently moved in with her boyfriend, Mike, and their relationship was going through a number of inevitable adjustments. They had been together for three years and Ronnie had yet to see eye-to-eye with Mike’s mother. He now refused to take sides in their disagreements, a policy of strict neutrality adopted after he had made the mistake of defending his mother’s point of view, and Ronnie retaliated by dumping him.
‘Anyway,’ said Ronnie. ‘You’ll be more interested to hear I have the gossip you were after.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Rachel Stone: forty-five, single, never married, no kids. There are some rumours she’s been involved with the new gallery owner. Apparently he’s fit as you like, but I can’t find anyone to confirm that. Yet.’
‘And she’s definitely Stone as in—’
‘Only child of Barbara Stone. Does that make things worse or better?’
Becky sighed. ‘Probably a bit of both.’
The Stone family had been in the art trade for over a hundred and fifty years and owned four establishments on two continents. They had the means to open many more, but the clan’s current matriarch, Barbara Stone, had declared four galleries to be enough. Any more would have meant skirting perilously close to the vulgar status of a chain.
The family were entrenched in the higher levels of Compton society. When not supervising the business, Barbara Stone busied herself running the region’s art society. Her presidential duties included managing the organisation of the society’s New Year charity ball, which was held in the grandeur of the nearby stately home: Compton Hall. It was notoriously difficult to get a ticket for the annual event because Barbara and her minions could not be swayed by wealth alone. If anyone who could afford a one-thousand-pound ticket were able to buy one, they would be up to their antique pearl necklaces in hoi polloi.