She paused.
‘And?’ prompted Liza when the pause lengthened. Good grief, this was unbelievable. Her own mother ..
‘Oh well, she found out, of course. One of the neighbours saw us together one day in the park, holding hands. The neighbour told Michael’s mother and she turned up on my doorstep that night demanding to know what I thought I was doing to her precious son.’ Without realising it, Margaret Lawson was twisting her narrow wedding ring round and round her finger. ‘So I tried to make her understand. I told her we loved each other and said wasn’t it time she let him live his own life? He was twenty-eight, after all, I argued, hardly a little boy any more. Well, you can guess the next line. She wiped the floor with me, didn’t she? Michael wasn’t twenty eight at all, he was twenty-one.’
‘Oh God,’ gasped Liza.
Her mother’s smile was dry.
‘Quite. And that was that. She called me all the names under the sun, gave me a week to get out of the flat and told me never to speak to Michael again.’
‘And did you?’
Margaret Lawson shook her head.
‘No. I was so ashamed. I was as appalled as she was.’
‘But he ... did Michael try to contact you?’
Another weary shake.
‘He couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. I left London, moved to Bath. And a year later met your father.’
‘Mum!’ Liza was still struggling to take this in. It was like something out of a novel.
Her mother shrugged.
‘It’s in the past. This was forty years ago.’
‘But ... but you’ve been happy with Daddy?’
‘Oh yes. Your father’s a good man; of course I’ve been happy with him.’ Her mother hesitated for a second; only her fingers moved as the wedding ring went on going round and round. She looked suddenly pale and tired. ‘You just – well, I’ve never stopped thinking about ... what happened. Or wondering if I would have been happier with Michael.’
* * *
There was only one Berenger listed in the Bath area, which was handy.
‘Berenger.’
It was the voice of a man in charge. Brisk, brusque and not to be trifled with. He certainly didn’t sound like a twenty-three year-old.
‘Hello. Could I speak to Kit Berenger, please,’ said Margaret calmly.
‘Who’s speaking?’
Next to the phone was her Grattan’s catalogue waiting for her to order a size fourteen ribbed cotton cardigan in shell pink.
‘Margaret Grattan.’
‘Hold on.’
Margaret hung on for what seemed like an hour. It was a good job Liza was in the bath. Finally, at the other end, the phone was picked up again.
‘Kit Berenger speaking.’
A younger voice this time, but well-spoken and self-assured. ‘Hello, Kit, my name’s actually Margaret Lawson. I’m Liza’s mother.’
Margaret glanced out of the sitting room window. In the garden her husband was meticulously dead-heading the gone-over peonies.
‘I see.’
The voice acquired a cool edge. Instantly he was on his guard. Maybe I’m too late, she thought.
Interfering with a lost cause.
‘If you have a couple of minutes,’ said Margaret, ‘I wonder if we could talk.’
‘That’ll be Rose Tresilian from over the• road. I promised to lend her my catalogue,’ said Margaret when the doorbell rang at nine o’clock that evening. ‘Answer it for me, would you, dear?’
Liza’s hand flew to her mouth when she opened the door.It wasn’t Rose Tresilian from over the road.
‘Oh my God.’
‘Sorry I’m late.’ Kit’s hair gleamed in the porch light; his tone was carefully casual. ‘I would have been here sooner, only I couldn’t find my A to Z of Trezale.’
Liza was glad of the door frame, keeping her upright. She leaned against it and stared at Kit, almost afraid to blink. If he was a mirage, fine. Better a mirage, thought Liza shakily, than no Kit at all.
He was wearing a crumpled denim shirt and white jeans. There were dark shadows under his eyes, she noticed. He looked tired, drawn and somehow sexier than ever.
‘Unfair,’ said Liza, desperate to throw herself at him but not quite daring to. ‘How come men can get bags under their eyes and look great? When it happens to women, we end up looking like Clement Freud with a
