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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Kathy Jay 2018

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Kathy Jay asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008122782

Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780008122751

Version:2017-12-19

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Also by Kathy Jay

About the Author

About the Publisher

For Elisabeth

Prologue
Cornwall, September

H ow is it possible to miss this place before I’ve left?

Layla Rivers pushed open the door to the fish and chip shop, a one-time fisherman’s cottage, quaint, bygone and painted pastel blue, in the pretty harbour of Porthkara. Behind her, a collection of boats bobbed at anchor, fenders tied to their hulls. The pier reached out into the calm glassy sea and the lighthouse stretched up to the sky, a vigilant seagull perched on top keeping a lookout for stray chips dropped by butterfingers. A bell jingled as she stepped inside to the welcome of a familiar face behind the counter.

‘Hey, Layla. All set for your trip?’

‘Yep, I’m good to go. I’ll miss Porthkara.’

‘Six months will fly by. You’ll have a wonderful time, you lucky thing. What can I get you?’

‘A portion of chips please.’

‘Coming up.’ Rosie, an old school friend, beamed and tipped a batch of freshly chipped potatoes into the sizzling fryer. A blast of familiar cooking smells filled the small shop as she took a kitchen cloth and emerged from behind the wall of brightly-lit glass and stainless steel to wipe the steamed-up window. ‘Joe not with you?’

Layla tensed. Rosie was married to the man of her dreams, a gorgeous rugged trawler-man. They had two children already. And hopes for a third.

‘We had planned to watch the sun go down together. A perfect beginning to our trip around the world.’

Her friend frowned. ‘So where is he?’

‘He cried off with excuses about sinking a pint of real ale with the lads.’ She shrugged. ‘He’s at the pub.’

While she waited for the chips to cook she walked over to the window and gazed out across the harbour to the lighthouse and, close by it, the centuries-old seafarers’ chapel built in a hollow at the base of a cliff. ‘You have a great view of Saint Elisabeth’s.’

‘That’s one of the best things about working here. It’s the perfect vantage point for wedding watchers.’

Layla laughed. ‘There’s been a spate this summer.’

‘I get to see it all. The dresses, the guests, the glitches!’

‘Glitches?’

‘Nothing too serious. You heard about the usher who tripped over a bollard on the pier and fell into the sea?’

‘Yep.’ Layla giggled. ‘Poor guy! I gather somebody saved the day and found him a change of clothes.’

‘Someone also videoed the shenanigans. It went viral. The chip shop was in the background.’

‘Free publicity.’

Returning to her post Rosie checked the fryer and wiped the counter with her cloth. ‘A couple of weeks back, there was the cutest pageboy. His mum got him an ice cream and a flipping seagull only went and dive-bombed him! He spilt ice cream all down his little outfit. She brought him in to mop up the mess and I got all the goss. The bride was pregnant! Nobody was supposed to know, but everybody did. And the bride’s parents were getting a divorce right after the wedding. It was the elephant in the room.’

‘Crikey.’

‘No one was allowed to mention it because the bride was so touchy. Heaven knows why, pregnancy hormones maybe.’

‘Or she was afraid talking about it might spoil the day?’

Rosie pulled an awkward face like she was sorry she’d brought it up. ‘You know what that feels like, right?’

‘I guess.’

‘How long have you and Joe been together?’

‘Twelve years.’

‘So when will it be your turn to walk down the aisle? When you get back from your travels? Or will we be hearing that you’ve rocked a romantic wedding for two somewhere fabulous, like Bali or Barbados?’

Layla bristled. The conversation had taken a very unwelcome turn.

‘Nothing’s been discussed. We’ve not made plans or anything.’

The door jingled and a couple more customers barged in loudly, cutting the interrogation dead, to Layla’s relief. Weddings weren’t Joe’s favorite subject. He liked things the way they were. By the time the newcomers had made up their minds on what to have and Rosie had taken their orders, Layla’s chips were ready. She shoveled out a generous portion, balanced a teeny pot of ketchup on top, and neatly wrapped them in paper. Layla paid quickly and escaped without further questioning.

‘Have fun,’ Rosie shouted over the jingle of the doorbell. ‘Post loads of photos on your timeline, I want to know everything.’

Outside, in the long shadow of the lighthouse, Layla paused for a few seconds to take it all in; the general store, the church, the chippy. The police station had been moved and the old building sold. The new owner had transformed it into an Italian-style ice cream parlour with a cheerful striped awning. Other old buildings had been repurposed too, housing a small gallery showcasing local artists, a gift shop, and a place selling an array of vintage, with a ship in a bottle, an antiquated teapot and a starburst clock in the window. On the end of the terraced row a former cottage with a ‘sold’ sign outside was reported to be opening soon, reinvented as an old-fashioned sweet shop doing homemade Cornish fudge in every flavour imaginable from traditional to chocolate orange, marshmallow and banoffee. Rumours abounded about a secret recipe and a luxury specialty fudge made with locally-sourced clotted cream and laced with ‘ye olde smugglers’ rum’. She’d have to wait until spring to try some.

Having well and truly memorized Porthkara harbour, Layla headed to the beach. At the top of the stone steps she kicked off her flip-flops and inhaled the salty air. She loved everything about the Cornish fishing village she’d grown up in, especially its own brand of ozone. She stared out to sea watching the gentle even breakers roll in, feeling the wind on her face, the sand powder-soft beneath the soles of her feet. Overhead the gulls soared, glided and swooped. A blazing circle of red, the sun cast a beautiful light all around and turned the white clouds pink.

For a second Layla’s heart wobbled and she wondered why she’d agreed to go travelling with Joe. She loved him here at home; but could she rely on him when it was just the two of them on the other side of the world?

Warmth seeped into her hands. She sat down, unwrapped the hot, golden chips and waited for them to cool enough to eat. Cross-legged she balanced her food in her lap and opened the ketchup, trying not to get sand on her fingers and replaying the conversation from the chippy in her head.

She closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath of sea air in an effort to shake off her apprehension. She’d spent all afternoon finalizing her packing, obsessively putting things in her rucksack, taking them out again, and then putting them back in. Mentally she went through her checklist, knowing she’d double and triple ticked off everything on the to-do list.

‘Layla!’

Just as she dipped the first chip in ketchup and popped it into her mouth a deep voice she recognized startled her.

She turned her head in the direction of her name. ‘Dad!’

‘Hello, stranger.’

She’d been avoiding him. Things had been difficult before her parents had divorced, but since the split had been finalized a new awkwardness had settled in. ‘I had a feeling I’d find you here. I just wanted to wish you and Joe well.’ He looked up and down the beach, and cleared his throat, failing to disguise his surprise at finding her alone. ‘Say bon voyage and safe travels and all that for me. First stop Paris, eh?’

He’d touched a nerve. She’d been expecting Paris to be the first stop on the itinerary. It had been part of the original plan except Joe had contrived to veto it in favor of places he’d rather see.

‘We’re skipping Europe, flying to Australia first. I thought I told you.’

He shook his head. ‘Shame.’

‘I know. I’d have liked to visit art galleries and stroll along the Seine.’ She felt a bit peculiar. When Joe’s plan to travel had been suggested she’d made no secret of the fact that she’d love a romantic proposal in Paris and a bohemian beach wedding just for two on an island. With palm trees. Joe had other ideas.

‘Amazing sky.’ Her dad sat down beside her, stole a chip and dunked it in ketchup. ‘A sky so stunning has to be a good omen.’

‘What was it Granny Rivers used to say?’ She offered him the chips.

‘Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.’

She shivered. ‘That’s it. Night. Delight. Morning. Warning.’

He nodded. ‘I love Porthkara. Haven’t ever wanted to leave.’ Falling into a pattern of sharing the chips they looked at the sea, not each other. ‘I regret not fulfilling your grandmother’s ambitions – for her, not for me. The things she wanted weren’t the same things I wanted.’ Layla didn’t really know what to say. Her dad filled the silence. ‘Things are better between me and your mum since the divorce. It can’t be easy for you – what with all of us living in the village and me getting together with Jasmine. At the end of the day I want you to know that I’m happy with my lot in life, and, well, I hope you – and your mum – will be too.’

It was hard to forgive him for the years of hurt that her mother had tolerated, for the damage it had done.

‘I’m fine. Mum’s fine.’ The night before she set off for the airport was a funny time for a father-daughter heart to heart. They hadn’t spoken about his relationship with the owner of the Porthkara gift shop before. Rumour had it they’d fallen in love during the shop’s refit. Ralph Rivers was a whizz with all things building related.

‘I know Joe has itchy feet, and you two have to see a bit of the world. It’s natural. But I’d hate you to think I’m pushing you away.’

Did everything always have to be about him? ‘Dad, I don’t think that.’

‘Your mum and I would be gutted if you stayed away for good.’

‘I know that.’

‘I don’t know how we’ll manage without you.’

Her chest tightened. Sometimes her love for Porthkara felt like a stranglehold. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a couple heading for the Lobster Pot Restaurant with its whitewashed walls and blue-painted window frames. She swallowed a chip, biting back her feelings. She and Joe had worked their last shift there at lunch time. All things considered, pitching in and waitressing at the beachside restaurant, away from her parents and their troubles, and loved by Joe’s family, had always been a welcome escape from playing a perpetual game of piggy-in-the-middle.

Her dream to set up a small business painting murals – the thing she liked most and did least – had been on hold while she saved for the trip. When Joe had come up with his travel plan her ambitions had been pushed aside. She’d have to save up again and resurrect them at some point.

‘The season’s winding down. We’ll be back by the time things get busy again in the spring.’

‘You’ll be missed.’

‘I’ll miss … home too.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘you’. After all, they managed to live in the same village and barely ever run into each other. He was respected in the community. He’d do anything to help anybody, fix things that needed mending. He was a great surfer, played guitar in a folk band on Saturday nights at the pub. She’d never spoken her mind, and it seemed like a terrible time to try to explain how she felt but she had a sense that it was now or never. The sadness, disappointment and resentment she’d been keeping in for much too long fulminated. ‘You’re a great dad, but you weren’t a good husband, and the thing you don’t get is that that was the part that hurt me the most.’ Her words spilled out in a jumble and her dad looked confused and sad. She felt bad, immediately wishing she hadn’t said anything.

‘I didn’t realize.’

She looked at her feet and dug her toes into the sand. With all the courage she could muster she said, ‘It’s difficult when one of you is moving forward and the other is staying still.’

‘Don’t I know it?’

The last blink of sun disappeared into the darkening horizon. Perhaps he didn’t understand, or chose not to, but one way or another he had failed to acknowledge the impact that all his years of unfaithfulness to her mother had had on her. He had a frustrating ability to sympathize with friends, neighbours, strangers, all the while blind to her take on things so much closer to home.

They polished off the chips in complicated silence and stood up together to go. Instead of challenging his self-pitying response to her comment she back-pedalled. ‘Look, it’s okay. Forget I said anything.’

‘Give you a lift home?’

‘No thanks. I’ll walk, take the cliff path.’ She smiled tightly and hugged her arms across her chest. ‘Brr. It’s chilly now the sun’s gone.’ He moved a fraction towards her, his internal choreography programmed to hug his daughter, but she flinched, stepped back from him and bent to pick up her flip-flops. ‘Bye Dad. See you in March.’

‘You take care, love. And send me postcards.’

A nervous laugh escaped. ‘Check my social media, you’ll catch up with me there.’

Half an hour later, back home at the cottage she shared with Joe, Layla took the cup of tea she’d made into the sitting room and sat with her legs curled up on the sofa, still uneasy after the tense moment at the beach. Strings of words rattled in her head. Her dad didn’t want to drive her away? Weirdly that’s exactly what he’d done. She craved space, freedom, time out. Hopefully some distance would give her a fresh perspective, soften her attitude.

It hadn’t occurred to her that something might happen while they were away, or that they might stay away longer, or not come back at all. She pushed the thought away, turned up the volume on the music in her earbuds, feeling sorry she hadn’t hugged her dad and sad that no matter how many miles away she went the real distance was right here in the gulf between them.

As she put her mug to her lips the door opened and Joe lolloped in the worse for wear.

‘Crikey! How many pints have you had?’

‘Three or four. Or five or six. I lost count. And shots. They all bought me vodka shots.’

‘You didn’t have to drink them.’

‘Rude not to,’ he slurred, staggering into the kitchen.

Only Joe could come back this drunk on such an important night. She closed her eyes and wished she could close her ears to the sound of him throwing up into the washing up bowl. She was too disappointed to be angry. He’d have a hangover and be as cranky as hell for the next day and a half. He lay down in a sorry heap on the sofa. Resigning herself to the task in hand, and making a mental note to bin it in the morning, she went into the kitchen, rinsed the gross plastic bowl, took it into the living room and put it down next to the sofa in case it was needed again.

A firm knock at the front door made her jump. ‘What now?’ She opened up and found herself face to face with one of the village police officers. ‘Hi Mervin. What brings you here?’ New to Cornwall, her mum had invited him to join her Tuesday night pub quiz team, and he was a bit of a genius, it turned out. ‘If you’ve come to remind me to lock the windows while I’m gone, you needn’t worry, it’s all taken care of.’

‘I’m sorry Layla. There’s no easy way to say this I’m afraid.’

His solemn tone went right through her. Outside she glimpsed a police car with another uniformed officer in the driving seat and knew in an instant that this wasn’t a friendly drop-by. Processing the grim look on his face a feeling of dread clenched her stomach and her stab at cheerfulness fell away. In absolutely no doubt that something wasn’t right, she froze. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I need you to come to the hospital straight away. It’s your mum. She’s been in a car accident.’ He threw a glance at Joe collapsed on the sofa and let go a long desperate breath. ‘I’ll be upfront with you. It’s serious. You’ll have to cancel the trip. They’ve got her on life support.’

It was lunchtime the next day when she got home. Her mother was in intensive care, clinging on to life, but stable. Layla checked every room in the house, and called the restaurant. Joe had gone. Without her. She checked her mobile phone. In defiance of the patchy signal there was a text from him. Bleary-eyed, head numb, she read it.

Hi. At airport. Going ahead. No point us both missing out. Think we should be on a break until you can join. Unofficial. No point telling everyone. See you later x

Layla texted back without a second’s hesitation.

Won’t be joining. You and me are finished. Over! Done! Finito! OFFICIAL!

Chapter One
London, the following June

From: francescamatthews@einternet.co.uk

To: NickWells@hotmedia.com

Subject: Urgent

Dear Nick

Hiya. I don’t know quite how to word this so I’ll get to the point. We have a daughter. She’s called Elisabeth. Beth for short actually. She’s eleven. Please contact me. It’s really very urgent.

Love Fran x

PS Photo attached!

No matter how many times actor Nick Wells read and reread the email he couldn’t get it to sink in. It made no sense. He was a dad? Had been for all these years? Without knowing? Detached, confused, deceived – these words barely summed up his shock.

He sat on a white leather sofa as big as a family car, in the lobby of the exclusive London apartment block where his brother Alex and his family were temporarily living in a smart penthouse until they could find a forever home of their own to move into. He’d been looking forward to meeting his new niece and nephew but since he’d seen Fran’s email in the taxi on the way over from St Pancras Station, a state of emotional paralysis had taken him over. Suddenly all he wanted was to get this done and he’d be out of here. The enthusiasm of boarding the Eurostar in Paris for a flying visit during a break in his shoot had evaporated.

He’d have to speak to his girlfriend Toni. They’d hardly spent any time together the past two or three months. The chances of changing that, turning something wild into something solid, a real relationship, seemed increasingly unlikely now.

He scanned the lobby, the wall of glass at the entrance, the shiny marble walls and floor, the light-filled space – it was all very different from the ramshackle old house he and Alex had shared with a bunch of friends in North London when he’d gone straight from school into his first acting role. During that brief time he and his twin had come close to leading normal lives. The memory tied a knot in his gut because that’s when he’d met Fran, working on the television show that had turned out to be his big break.

Agitated, he shoved his phone in a pocket, got up and walked over to the reception desk. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the shiny walnut veneer. He’d brought a gift basket for the babies which was balanced on one arm. He set it down and stepped away as if it was something rather embarrassing, waiting for the militarily-efficient concierge to get the go-ahead from Alex to buzz him through to the elevator.

‘Sorry for keeping you waiting.’ The concierge eyed Nick curiously.

‘What’s taking so long?’ He felt transparent as if the whole world had read Fran’s email.

‘They’re with magazine people. Taking photos of the new arrivals. You can go up as soon as I get the okay from the other Mr Wells.’

‘So they’re doing a family photo shoot are they? They kept that quiet.’ The reception desk phone rang and the concierge picked up. ‘The okay?’ Nick signaled a hopeful thumbs up.

‘Yes.’

‘Finally!’

He stepped into the glass elevator wishing he’d asked to use the stairs instead. His stomach churned as the ground below got further and further away. He set the beribboned gift basket on the floor, gripped the handrail with both hands and closed his eyes.

Reeling vertigo gave way to relief as he stood outside the polished oak door. When the door opened Alex locked him in a hug. ‘Hey! Great timing! We just finished.’

Close behind, Nick’s sister-in-law Maggie appeared holding Phoebe. ‘Hi.’ With her stylishly casual, blonde hair gathered up in a tufty knot, she swayed the baby and proffered one cheek. ‘Welcome Uncle Nick!’ He bent and gingerly air-kissed Maggie, anxious not to lean too close, scared he might crush her she was so delicate and tiny. He was awed by the baby.

He followed them into the vast living room and his stomach climbed into his throat. Through floor to ceiling glass, London lay spread out before him. He tried not to look. He couldn’t live here. If he stayed well back from the windows he’d be okay-ish. He grabbed onto the nearest surface, a granite counter top in the open plan kitchen. He sucked in a deep breath and let it go slowly.

Fighting his anxiety, he flattened the palm of his hand on the cold granite surface. Avoiding looking at the windows, the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament, the river, he zeroed in on a photo stuck to the fridge with a red magnet the shape of a London bus. It was keeping in place a picture of Alex and Maggie’s wedding. He picked out the figures in the wedding party. The bride and groom looking so happy. And his mother and father. They were shoulder to shoulder, smiling, in the same photo. That was previously unheard of. It was difficult to believe the picture wasn’t photo-shopped. Next to them was Maggie’s mother, the best man, AKA himself, and the bubbly bridesmaid, the girl with the sexy curves, the vivid red hair and the green dress. She jumped right out of the photo. He’d forgotten her name but he remembered her worrying about whether or not it was bad luck to wear green at a wedding. She’d talked about nothing else in the car on the way to the church.

‘Come and meet our son,’ Alex prompted.

Nick forced a tight smile and let go of the kitchen counter, steeling himself to venture closer to the terrifying views.

Over by the windows little Horatio was being fussed over, cradled in the arms of the photographer while her assistant pointed out the London sights to the infant. Alex joined them and took his baby boy in his arms.

Having a lightbulb moment, the photographer waved a small camera. ‘Guys, I have a brilliant idea. How would you feel about a few behind the scenes shots? Casual? The photos behind the photos?’

‘Cool,’ Maggie beamed. ‘What do you say?’ She walked over to stand next to him. ‘The babies meet Uncle Nick?’

She went to hand over Phoebe. He recoiled. ‘Leave me out of it.’

‘But you’ve come specially to see them.’

‘To see them, yes. I don’t want to hold them.’ Maggie’s face clouded. She looked stricken. He felt terrible. All of a sudden he’d developed a new phobia. ‘I don’t know how.’ He made an effort to lighten up, disguise his reaction of horror. ‘I haven’t done it before.’

‘There’s nothing to it.’ Carrying Horatio, Alex joined them. ‘It’s amazing how quickly you get used to them.’

‘Try.’ Maggie held Phoebe out to him. His head pounded. He held out a finger to the baby. She took it in her little fist.

‘Strong grip.’

‘Take her,’ she encouraged.

The tiny fingers uncurled and he reclaimed his finger. ‘I can’t,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to. She’ll ruin my suit.’

Maggie laughed. ‘Nonsense. Take off your jacket and come over here.’ He shuddered as she pushed him towards a sofa. Anchored amongst the cushions he absorbed the knee-knocking view. His reaction to heights, he’d expected. A fear of babies, he hadn’t.

The photographer buzzed around, picking up a couple more cushions, and arranging them either side of him. Instead of objecting, he slicked on a professional smile.

‘Crook your arms,’ she instructed. ‘There’s a first time for everything.’

His heart lurched as he was forced to cradle not one, but two babies. In an instant the moment had been captured on camera.

Alex sat down next to him. ‘Not freaking you out too much?’

‘The babies? Yes, a lot actually.’

His brother laughed. ‘I meant the apartment.’

‘That’s freaky too. But not half as scary as these.’ He wished he was joking. Alex took Horatio from him. Phoebe squirmed, reached for her foot, grasped a sock and pulled it off, revealing five diminutive toes. He stared, taking in her tiny nails, her soft baby scent. When Maggie took her from him, he faked charmed reluctance, careful not to hand her back too eagerly, aware he’d offended her before. ‘How’s the house-hunting going?’

‘Good. We’ve seen a place we really like, but we want to take another look round before we make an offer.’

‘I bet you’ll be sad to part with your place in Cornwall.’

‘She won’t have to,’ Alex pointed out. ‘We’re keeping it as a holiday home.’

‘You know my friend Layla?’

Layla! That was her name. ‘Sure.’

‘I’ve asked her to revamp the cottage for us, redecorate the whole place.’

‘That’s what she does?’

‘Sort of. Amongst other things. She’s very arty. Anyway, it needs an update, and she’s agreed to turn it into a seaside bolt hole for us, somewhere we can escape to when we need to get out of London.’

‘Great,’ he said distractedly, ‘Sounds awesome.’

His gaze roamed the room wondering how to tell Toni about the email. His throat dried. They’d been dating for less than a year. But he’d started to think that this could be it, he could turn his life around with the socialite.

The powdery fresh smell of the babies lingered in his nose. Seeing Alex and Maggie together, he was struck with doubt. It wasn’t possible to visualize a future like this with Toni, even without Fran’s game-changing news. Could a relationship with a European princess ever be halfway normal? When he was in Paris she was in Rome. She’d been in London last weekend but it hadn’t fit with his schedule and this weekend she was with friends in Vienna. Unnerved, every muscle in his jaw tensed, as if he was bracing himself for a slap in the face.

As soon as the casual photos were done, Alex and Maggie took the babies into the spare bedroom-slash-nursery to settle them in their cots for a nap, while the photographer and her assistant packed up their stuff.

‘Bye Nick. Lovely to meet you. Thanks so much for agreeing to be photographed with the twins.’

‘You’re welcome. Good to meet you too.’ Nick shook her hand.

Still chatting excitedly about the babies, her new line of babywear designs, styling A-listers and the TV contract she’d landed on a popular morning show, Maggie accompanied the two women out into the corridor to wait for the elevator.

While she was away Alex grabbed a couple of cold beers from the fridge. ‘How are things in Paris?’

‘Not so good. The studio scenes were okay, but now we’re on location I’m leaning on the stunt guys much too much. We shot a rooftop chase last week. I nearly had a heart attack. I panicked. I hate relying on stuntmen. If it gets out, I’ll be the biggest joke in Hollywood.’

‘What are you afraid of? That’s what stunt doubles are for.’

He felt the reassuring pressure of his brother’s hand on his shoulder but a shiver ran down his spine. ‘I just wish I could chill about it and do my own stunt work. I’m not a natural action hero. I don’t have a head for heights.’

‘What does the production team say?’

‘I didn’t tell them. Because I wasn’t the casting director’s number one choice for the role in the first place. If the executive producers decide to make a sequel and word about my phobia gets around, they might rule me out, hire someone who’s more cut out for the role than me.’

‘That’s not going to happen. There’s no one better than you for the part. You’ll nail it. But not if you suffer in silence. Tell somebody.’

Nick admired his twin brother. He’d looked up to him since they were kids, but Nick had never been good at taking advice. ‘I can’t.’

‘So you’ll do what? Keep quiet and hope for the best? That’s not much of a plan.’

‘You’ll be the first to know if I think of a better one.’ He slugged his beer. ‘Alex?’ He clenched his teeth, uncertain whether to share the news in Fran’s email with his twin. He caught his brother’s eyes and knew by his look that he sensed something was wrong.

‘What? What’s up?’

‘Do you remember Francesca Matthews?’

Alex laughed. ‘Of course I remember. You were crazy about her for all of about five weeks. What about her?’

‘I’ve got a problem. Look.’ He tapped at his phone and handed it to Alex so that he could read the email for himself.

‘Is she for real? Why’s she only telling you about this now?’

‘I know, right?’

A muscle in Alex’s jaw twitched. ‘Have you opened the attachment?’

Nick shook his head, too deeply wounded to admit that he hadn’t had the guts to look at the photo.

‘Do you want me to?’

‘No. Give it here.’ He took back his phone and swiped the screen. ‘Okay here goes.’

The picture of a girl, pretty with fair hair and almond brown eyes opened on his phone. His heart froze and he passed the phone to his brother.

‘I’ve got to admit she’s the spitting image of you.’

‘What do you think I should do?’

‘If I were you I’d demand a DNA test. It might sound harsh, but it’s the best way forward. You’ve got to know for sure if she’s yours. Not just for your sake. For hers!’

‘What about what you just said? She looks like me.’

‘Looks can be deceptive. Take us!’

‘True.’ Nick had to agree. They were fraternal twins, and although they were a similar height and facially their bone structure resembled each other, Alex had dark hair and blue eyes whereas he was fair with brown eyes. ‘What I don’t get is why she kept this from me? Why didn’t she tell me eleven years ago?’

‘Exactly. Just because the girl looks like you doesn’t mean she didn’t get those looks from someone else. Arrange a paternity test. And you should hire a good lawyer to act as an intermediary, give you some legal advice.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

Alex shrugged. ‘You might want to think it over before you do anything.’

Nick looked at the photo again. He had a feeling. He didn’t reckon a DNA test would change the fact that was staring him in the face. And Fran said she needed him to make contact urgently. There wasn’t time to go looking for a legal expert. He could do that later if necessary.

‘Listen. Can you keep this to yourself? Just until I’ve had a chance to find out what it’s all about? Don’t say anything to Mum. There’ll only be fallout and histrionics.’

Alex nodded solemnly. ‘You want me to keep it a secret from Maggie?’

‘I wouldn’t ask you to, normally. But it’s my secret, not yours, and as you pointed out I might not be the dad at all.’

‘Fair enough. There’s no sense in getting everyone excited about the idea of a new family member until you know if it’s true.’

‘Right.’

‘Let me see the photo again.’ Alex took the phone from his brother’s hand and studied it carefully. ‘I’ve got a feeling you’re a dad though.’

‘Same.’

‘Let me know as soon as you get the test result. You don’t need me to tell you to be careful how you handle this. The press getting hold of it could give you a lot of grief. I can think of one or two journalists who’d have a field day with a piece on Nick Wells abandoning a baby at birth and refusing to acknowledge that she’s his!’

‘That’s not how it is.’

‘It doesn’t matter. You know that.’

Nick had to physically hold back from face-palming. His reputation in the press was mud. He’d been making a real effort to change. He was tired of the love-rat image which had followed him around for the last ten years. He hadn’t minded when they were acting in hit TV show Mercy of the Vampires in LA. In fact he’d thrived on it – part of the hype that went with heading up the cast with his brother.

‘If it’s true it’s personal. Not for public consumption.’

‘You may not have a choice. You need to tread carefully. Fran didn’t want anything from you for eleven years? And suddenly now she does?’

Coming back into the apartment Maggie made a beeline for the gift basket. She untied the ribbon, and rustled the cellophane wrapping in a flurry of anticipation revealing soft toys and an array of cute presents. ‘This is gorgeous Nick. Thank you.’

‘I have a confession,’ he said, ‘I had a personal shopper pick stuff out. I don’t know the first thing about babies.’

‘Join the club. Funnily enough not many of us do until we have one of our own.’

Alex threw a look of love towards his wife. ‘In our case two.’

Injured by Fran’s email Nick bit back his emotions and buried his fear.

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