Hidden
Barbara Taylor Bradford

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Harper 2014

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2014

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014

Barbara Taylor Bradford 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: 9780007550197

Ebook Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9780007503407

Version: 2017-10-25

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

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

Keep Reading – Treacherous

About the Author

Also by Barbara Taylor Bradford

About the Publisher

One

Claire dressed in a hurry. If she was late there would be questions, and she couldn’t risk that today.

She pulled on black leggings, a black cashmere turtleneck jumper and tall, butter-soft boots. She had the sort of body that was easy to dress: tall, lean, flexible. She looped a scarf around her neck and secured it with a vintage brooch. A chunky bracelet, gold earrings and a basic black uniform was turned into something special and uniquely hers.

It was a gift, she knew, this different way of seeing fashion; one that had propelled her from sales assistant to head of the famous personal shopping department at Gilda, the most exclusive store in New York. It was said that she dressed everyone from the First Lady to Lady Gaga, but Claire would never confirm that.

She was a woman who knew how to keep secrets.

Claire examined her reflection in the mirror. Her skin was still flawless at forty-two. The wide-set sea-blue eyes were steady as she studied herself. She knew, from hard experience, that the reddish tint spreading over half her face would soon turn a bluish purple, then green, and finally a sickly yellowish brown.

With grim determination, and a skilled hand, Claire set to work trying to cover the still tender bruises. A mixture of yellow and white cover-up first, the green, colour-correcting primer, then a coating of foundation, thick but subtle. She rarely wore makeup of any sort, and if the coverage was too obvious, a friend would notice. She added a bit of carefully placed blusher, and a bright lipstick to focus the attention. As an afterthought, she pulled out a pair of oversized sunglasses with pink lenses from the drawer, and put them on. People wore sunglasses inside all the time.

You don’t, she reminded herself, and reluctantly removed the glasses, shook her mane of rich auburn hair loose from its clip and inspected her handiwork.

A sob caught in her throat. This time her skill had failed her. The carefully covered bruises looked like what they were – battle scars. She hit speed-dial on her mobile.

‘It’s just a slight fever,’ she told Sasha, praying that her friend wouldn’t sense that she was lying. ‘I’m going to crawl into bed and watch reruns of Downton Abbey.’

‘Sounds decadent! Maybe I’ll stop by after lunch and join you?’

‘No!’ Claire did her best to sound lighthearted. ‘I’m a germ factory. Toxic.’

‘If you recall, I have the immune system of a dinosaur!’ Sasha laughed. ‘I haven’t been sick since your daughter shared her chicken pox with me fourteen years ago.’

Claire couldn’t help smiling. Sasha always had that effect on her, even in the worst of times. They had been best friends since meeting on the train in 1992. Twenty years ago. Then they had been young brides filled with hope and excitement, and dreams of happily ever after.

Soon there were four of them who met every weekday on the 8:27 Westport to Grand Central express train. Julia and Paulina got on the train in Fairfield, and saved the four-seater in the third carriage back. Claire and Sasha got on in Westport, with coffee and croissants. On that train to Manhattan the four of them had shared their lives: the triumphs as well as the struggles to balance the careers they loved with family life. More recently, they admitted their mixed feelings now that the children they practically raised together had left for college. Most discussed their marital troubles.

Not Claire.

Her husband, Mark, had long held important positions in the US government. Currently he was special advisor to the President on Middle Eastern affairs. Even a whiff of scandal would wreck everything he had spent his life working towards.

At least that’s what he was always telling Claire.

So she kept her problems to herself, except where Sasha was concerned. You just couldn’t lie to Sasha. The other women, too, sensed something was amiss in the seemingly perfect marriage of Claire and Mark Saunders. They said nothing out of love for their friend, but they worried.

‘May I remind you, Sasha, that the dinosaurs are extinct? Go to lunch. Tell Julia and Paulie I’ll be there next Saturday without fail.’ She tried to keep her voice light. ‘Same time, same place.’

Claire finished the call quickly. She drifted into the long gallery that ran the length of the house, and put a match to one of the fires that Mr Atkins, the caretaker, kept laid in each of the home’s five fireplaces.

It was a large room; the house had been designed by a famous architect and all the rooms were airy and spacious and flooded with light. Claire had decorated the graceful space so that there were cosy corners for one or two, as well as ample space for the grand receptions that were part of Mark’s job.

She curled up next to the crackling fire and studied the vases of roses that seemed to occupy every surface in the large room. So many roses. Too many roses, as always yellow and pink. The doorbell began to ring over and over, pulling her out of her dark thoughts. More roses, she thought, heading for the hall. She was limping a bit now from the falls she had taken last night. She pulled the door open, but instead of the delivery man from Petals there stood Sasha.

Sasha was as petite and blonde as Claire was tall and exotic. She was one of the few female producers working on television commercials. In that world many men had mistaken her Barbie-Doll prettiness for softness or, worse, lack of intelligence. Few made that mistake twice.

‘Chicken soup from Gold’s Deli,’ Sasha announced, waving a shopping bag as she marched inside. ‘Better than Lemsip!’

Claire stood frozen in the doorway.

‘Where are we with Downton?’ Sasha’s words trailed off as she entered the gallery and saw the flowers: vase after vase after vase.

Claire still hadn’t moved.

‘Dear God.’ The words came out in a whisper. ‘So many.’

Sasha turned back to her friend, fearing what she would see but knowing. ‘It must have been bad this time.’ Sasha tenderly examined her friend’s damaged face. ‘Very bad. Oh, Claire.’

‘I told you not to come.’ Claire fought back tears. She hurried past Sasha and into the gallery, trying to escape the worry she saw on her friend’s face.

‘Work again? He still wants you to give up your job, your career?’ Sasha didn’t wait for an answer.

‘He worries about me commuting,’ Claire murmured.

Sasha was following her. ‘Are you limping? Claire, you’re limping!’

‘It’s nothing. It was a small thing.’

‘A small thing? You look like you’ve been through World War Three! What is wrong with him?’

Claire started to defend him, but stopped herself. She knew she was lying to Sasha – and to herself. ‘You can’t tell anyone. Please …’

‘Shhhhh.’ The words were muffled as Sasha sat on the arm of the chair and put her arms around her friend, stroking her hair with tenderness. ‘It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.’

They were both weeping now.

‘We have to find a way to stop him, Claire. We must. It’s getting worse. Each time, it’s worse.’

‘It’s just this Middle East thing he’s working on for the President! Things are out of control over there—’

Sasha cut her off, fighting to hide her frustration. ‘It’s not the Middle East, Claire! It’s him! Mark is the one who is out of control. And if we don’t find a way to stop him, one of these days he’s going to kill you!’

Two

Dusk had its own strange colour in Connecticut during those first days of spring. After the grey winter, a pink haze began to steal over the gardens, promising better things ahead.

The two women sat side by side, trays on laps, watching the light show through the windows of the conservatory, which Claire had turned into a study. A vase, stuffed with two dozen pink and yellow roses, sat on the table that held a flat-screen television.

Claire used the remote to switch off the set. ‘Now that was really good,’ she sighed.

‘Which?’ Sasha asked. ‘Gold’s chicken soup or Lady Edith from Downton Abbey getting what was coming to her for gossiping about her sister?’

‘Both.’ Claire reached for her friend’s hand. ‘Thank you for staying with me.’

‘If you’d allow it, I’d stand guard over you with a shotgun until Mark leaves for Cairo.’

Claire looked out of the windows at the fading sunlight, desperate to change the subject. ‘Today is Deborah’s birthday. Twenty-one. Can you believe it?’

‘How could I forget? I’m her godmother.’ Sasha knew Claire so well, knew she needed a moment now, some space to think, so she didn’t press. But she was far from finished with the problem. ‘Have you spoken with our little musical genius yet?’ she asked.

‘She had classes all day, and then she and a friend have tickets to some big concert at the Albert Hall. I’ll call soon.’

‘What time is it in London?’

‘Four hours ahead. So I have time.’

‘Ah …’ Sasha moved so she could look at Claire. ‘I was just wondering. How would you handle it, if I told you someone was hurting Deborah?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Claire exclaimed.

Sasha fixed her with her laser-like gaze. ‘I don’t mean for real. What if someone was hurting her like Mark hurts you? What would you do?’

‘Don’t do this, Sasha. I don’t want to talk about it right now. Okay?’ Claire started to get out of the chair. ‘I just can’t.’

‘Don’t run away. We have to make a plan. Seriously Claire, we can’t do what we’ve been doing. We have to talk about this.’

‘Talk about what?’ The man’s voice was coming from the doorway. Neither woman moved.

Mark Saunders didn’t so much walk as glide into a room, bringing with him a heady mixture of good looks, charm and a certain danger that made him impossible to ignore. At forty-four, he still had the boyish blond looks that women love.

‘Hello, darling.’ He leaned down to kiss Claire, who was trying desperately to control her trembling.

‘Good grief, you look as if someone shot your dog. What’s going on?’ There was a smile on his face, but he was on full alert, taking the measure of the mood in the room. That was what he did for a living.

He turned his smile on Sasha. ‘You look beautiful, as always. How’s Jeff? How are the television ads? Still busy persuading the public to buy things they don’t need?’

Sasha held his blue eyes but did not return the smile. ‘I do what I can.’ She sipped her wine, not taking her gaze off Mark. ‘And Jeff is fine. I’ll tell him you were asking about him.’

Shooting her friend a pleading look, Claire was on her feet. ‘I thought you weren’t coming home till much later. I would have had dinner—’

‘Stop,’ he purred, putting an arm around her, the model of a devoted husband. ‘You’ll make Sasha think I keep you chained to the stove. So, Sasha, what is it you and Claire must talk about? I’m afraid I interrupted you two.’

‘Actually, you did,’ Sasha now returned his mega-smile with one of her own, equally charming and equally false. ‘I’m trying to persuade Claire to have this year’s Near and Far charity fund-raiser at Gilda, but the poor lamb is stuck in the past. She’s afraid people won’t want to drive home from the city late at night.’

Sasha put her wine glass down, and took Claire’s as well, so Mark would not notice that her friend’s hand was trembling. ‘Mark, convince your wife that just because we live in Connecticut, we don’t need a passport to cross the border into New York City.’

‘I wouldn’t try to convince Claire of anything.’ The tension in his jaw began to fade. ‘She’s a woman who knows her own mind.’

‘Oh Mark, I know now why you’re the star of Washington. Always the diplomat! Claire’s a lucky girl.’ She kissed her friend on the cheek gingerly so as not to hurt the bruises. ‘And, for Heaven’s sake, watch where you’re walking from now on. Mark, tell her! She walked into the door of the closet this morning, and look what it did to her face.’ Sasha made sure that Mark looked at each and every mark on Claire’s beautiful face.

‘My dear, how did that happen?’ he asked, sounding puzzled.

‘You know Claire. She has her head in the clouds and doesn’t see the danger around her,’ Sasha replied, keeping her voice even.

‘You know I’m clumsy.’ Claire managed to make her voice sound normal. She didn’t dare show Sasha how grateful she was for this little performance.

Mark put one of his perfectly manicured fingers on her cheek and traced the line of bruises. ‘This looks wicked. Poor girl. Sasha is right. You must take better care of yourself.’

‘I’ll be careful, I promise.’

Sasha looked Claire in the eye. ‘I’m going to hold you to that promise.’

‘So will I,’ Mark said, kissing the bruises ever so gently. ‘Not to worry, Sasha, I will take care of your friend.’

Sasha had to hurry from the room, because she was very close to punching Mark in the face, just as he had done to Claire.

Three

Claire knew Mark was watching: checking her mood, searching her eyes for secrets, judging each sentence that passed her lips.

He had taken his time with the dinner she had hurriedly prepared after Sasha left. ‘Are you sure you won’t have another glass of wine? It’s really excellent.’

‘I don’t think so, Mark.’

But he was already pouring. She dutifully thanked him and took a tiny sip. ‘What time do you leave for Egypt tomorrow?’

‘Early. You know, if you weren’t married to that job of yours, you could come with me. See the world.’

Claire managed a small laugh. ‘See the inside of a hotel room, you mean. You work night and day on these trips.’

‘And what do you do when I’m away?’

Claire knew she needed to be careful. She was silent.

‘Do you think you spend too much time with that gang of yours?’ he asked.

‘Mark, they are my friends; that’s all.’

‘You see them every day on the train. You’d think that would be enough. But then Saturday too. The unmissable Saturday lunches. What on earth do you find to talk about?’

‘You know. The kids, work.’

‘Do you tell them about me? What a monster I am?’

‘Of course I don’t.’

‘The roses look nice. Do you like them?’

It was all Claire could do to keep from screaming. ‘Very much,’ she answered quietly, holding herself still.

‘I’m sorry about last night. I feel terrible. But it’s almost as if you enjoy pushing my buttons.’ He stared at her intently.

Claire remained stock still, looking back at him, trying to keep her face blank. ‘If you had any idea how much pressure I’m under, how important my work is to the country, maybe you wouldn’t push me. Do you think I like hurting you?’

‘No. I don’t think that.’ Carefully, very carefully Claire pushed her chair back, keeping her tone light. ‘Are you about finished with dinner? It’s late in London, and I want to reach Deborah before she goes to bed.’

‘You know college kids. It’s her birthday. She’ll be up all night drinking shots with her friends.’

‘Mark, she won’t. She has to play for the college tomorrow, and she’ll want to be in top form. It’s the Royal Academy of Music, for heaven’s sake.’

‘Plenty of musicians party. Can’t she have a little fun?’ He turned his boyish grin on Claire. ‘You’re only twenty-one once.’

‘You’re right, of course.’ Her smile was cautious. His love for Deborah always touched her and maybe he really was just being sweet tonight. She needed to stop expecting another explosion. She so wanted to believe it wouldn’t happen again. ‘I suppose just because our daughter is studying to be a concert pianist doesn’t mean she can’t be a good-looking party animal like her father.’

‘Was he?’ Mark was staring into his wine, swirling it around and around, staring into the glass.

‘Oh, you still are quite the party boy.’ She took another sip. The wine was calming her. ‘Good looking, too.’ She touched his hand.

‘I was talking about her real father.’

He smiled at her again, but this time a chill began climbing her spine. She carefully removed her hand from his, knowing she must tread carefully now, and not contradict him. Mark was at his most dangerous when he was being charming. ‘You are the only father she has ever known,’ Claire finally said.

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ he shot back, his voice suddenly hard.

Claire got up and started clearing the table.

Mark continued to study his wine. ‘I know nothing about your great love. Was he tall? Skinny? Fat? Did he like music? Is that where Deborah’s talent comes from?’

Claire took the dishes into the kitchen without a word, trying to push back her emotions.

Mark followed her.

‘All I know about Deborah’s long-gone daddy is that he walked out on you before she was born. And never looked back. So I don’t understand why his memory is so sacred that you refuse to speak of him, won’t even tell me his name. Or maybe it’s because he’s not really gone.’

‘When you asked me to marry you, over twenty years ago, when you asked if you could adopt Deborah and raise her as your own, we made an agreement!’ Claire’s turquoise eyes were blazing now, her fear of him forgotten for a moment. ‘I would never tell Deborah you were not her birth father, and you would never ask me about the man who was. I have kept my end of the bargain! All these years, not a word to her, not a hint! You, on the other hand, have been at me constantly in the past few years! What did he look like? Why did he disappear? Does he know he has a daughter?’

‘Does he? Do you talk to him sometimes, tell him about her? About me? Is that why you love your job so much? So you can travel all over to be with him?’

‘Stop it, Mark.’

He grabbed her wrist roughly, and instinctively she let out a cry of pain. She was already bruised from last night. ‘Do you two laugh about how afraid I am that one day Deborah will find him, and won’t want anything to do with me?’ he hissed in her face.

‘You know better than that! What is wrong with you, Mark? I have not seen nor heard from him in over twenty years.’ She wrenched her arm from his grasp. ‘And if I had, he would not ask about Deborah, because he doesn’t know she exists!’

Tears of anger and frustration were streaking her cheeks now. ‘Hear me, Mark! This is the last time I will ever, ever discuss this subject with you. I’m going to bed.’

‘Don’t walk out while I’m talking to you!’ He lunged for her, but she sidestepped him and raced, still limping, into the bedroom, slammed the door shut and locked it.

Mark was after her in a flash, kicking at the oak door, hitting it with his shoulder. ‘You open this door! Claire, open it or I swear I’ll knock it down.’

‘If you do that I will call the police.’ Claire was trembling but her voice was calm. ‘They would probably be curious about how I got the bruises all over my body. Did I mention that you cracked a rib this time?’

Mark continued to batter on the door.

‘I’m not bluffing, Mark. I’ll do it. I’m sure the Washington Post would have a field day with the story: President’s special envoy to the Middle East arrested at his home.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’ But he stopped his attempt to break open the door. ‘Too much is at stake.’

‘Don’t test me.’

Mark and Claire stood on either side of the bedroom door, both breathing hard. Finally, Mark took a step away, his face distorted in frustration and rage.

‘Don’t sleep too soundly tonight.’ He spoke softly, almost in a whisper, but every word came through the thick wood. ‘This isn’t over, Claire. Not by a long shot.’

And Claire knew that he spoke the truth.

Four

Claire was fragile but gaining strength each day. With Mark away in the Middle East, she had allowed herself to sleep deeply without the ever-present fear that he would come home and find something to be angry about. She had worked from home all week, to avoid questions about her injuries. She had been relieved this morning when she saw that the bruises, which had stained her face, were mostly gone. The marks on her body were disappearing too.

Her heart? That would take longer to heal.

She pushed herself hard as she jogged along Beachside Avenue, past houses of another era, each one grander than the one before. She ran past the inlets where the tide pushed and frothed as it was pulled out to sea. How long had it been since she felt safe, really safe, she asked herself as she ran. The blare of a car horn jolted her out of her musings.

‘Are you trying to get yourself killed, lady?’

‘Sorry, sorry!’ she called after the car as it swerved around her and sped away. She slowed to a walk, her heart pounding, the good feelings slipping away. A reminder, she thought, determined to stay on her guard from now on. The world can be at its most dangerous when you’re feeling safe.

Martel was a French-style bistro plonked right on the line where Westport met Southport. When you walked through the etched-glass doors, you could imagine you were in Paris.

Marty, the larger-than-life owner, knew his patrons well.

Claire, Sasha, Julia and Paulina had been having lunch there most Saturdays since the doors opened, and always enjoyed being there.

Claire had showered quickly after her run and slipped into cream trousers and a cashmere sweater. A low-slung belt and a cropped leather jacket, the same turquoise colour as her eyes, completed the outfit. It was simple but striking.

‘Where were you last Saturday?’ Marty, the owner, greeted her like a lost love. She was his favourite.

‘I picked up a little bug, but I’m fine now. I missed you too, Marty.’ Her quick kiss on the cheek put the smile back on his face. ‘Am I the first to arrive?’

Marty gestured to the back room. ‘They’ve been back there for an hour with their heads together. Plotting the overthrow of the government is my guess.’

Claire hurried towards the back room and slid into her usual place next to Sasha in the big corner booth. The others were already halfway through a carafe of the special house wine, which Marty kept for his favourites. ‘Did you have breakfast here?’ she asked, air-kissing her three friends.

‘Having it now,’ Paulina said, pouring Claire a hefty glass.

‘Marty tells me you are up to something,’ Claire remarked.

‘We’re celebrating!’ Sasha answered.

Claire raised her glass. ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘That you’re here, of course.’ Sasha said. ‘Last Saturday was deadly, right ladies?’ The three friends clinked glasses and toasted Claire. ‘Marty sulked. And without you we were so depressed we all ordered healthy meals.’

‘You didn’t!’ Claire felt that warm rush of happiness that always came over her when she was with these women. Friends, especially women friends, gave life something extra. She wondered if men knew what they were missing. ‘Don’t tell me you had salads!’

‘Worse!’ Paulina exclaimed. She had the body of a swimsuit model and the wit of Joan Rivers. She wore her jet-black hair short and spiky, and could be as funny as the writers of the comedy shows she oversaw for a television network. ‘We shared salads!’

‘It was hell! But you’re here now, and all’s right with the world.’ Julia lovingly cut a large slab of rich pâté, plopped it on a plate and pushed it towards Claire. Julia was the chef at Gumbo, the hotspot just off Park Avenue on 83rd Street in Manhattan. She and her partner, Alexa, had opened it five years ago. They specialised in food from Julia’s hometown of New Orleans.

Julia had an ongoing love affair with food. She had been raised in a city where eating was a religion, and not enjoying food was a sin. Gathering her flaming red hair into a ponytail, as though preparing for battle, she tore off a large chunk of bread for Claire and one for herself. ‘I think I’ll torture myself and just sit here and watch you eat that, Claire, and not gain an ounce! It’s very hard being the friend of someone who stays slim whatever she eats.’

Claire ate with gusto, and moaned with delight, ‘It’s perfection!’

Julia did the same. ‘See. I just put on a pound and you look just the same. One day soon I won’t be able to wear clothes, even those fabulous rags you pick out for me at Gilda. I’ll have to be upholstered, like a chair.’

‘Stop it,’ laughed Paulina. ‘You are beautiful, Julia.’

‘And don’t worry,’ Claire said, taking a sip of the wine. ‘Curves are back!’

‘In that case …’ Julia helped herself to another slice of the gourmet pâté.

Claire looked at Sasha who had been somewhat quiet. ‘You all right, Sash?’

‘Of course I am. Just speechless at all this pigging out.’ Sasha signalled for Marty, and continued, ‘We missed you on the train this week, Claire.’

Sasha reached over and gently squeezed Claire’s hand, just as Marty arrived at the table.

‘I see you’re all happy now the band is back together.’ The other women always insisted he had a crush on Claire, which was probably true. ‘Glad to have you back, pretty lady,’ he now murmured, looking at her.

‘Thanks, Marty. The place looks great!’

‘So, ladies, what’s your pleasure?’

Sasha topped up Claire’s wine glass. ‘You know what we like to eat, Marty. You choose. Just bring more wine, please.’

Lunch had lasted until three o’clock. Claire and Sasha lingered over their espressos after the other women had gone off for their usual Saturday activities. The good feelings Claire had felt on her run had begun to return, surrounded as she was by the warmth of her friends. But Sasha, usually the life of the party, had been quiet all through lunch. Claire studied her. ‘So what’s going on with you?’

‘I’m worried about you.’ Sasha added another cube of sugar to her coffee.

‘You didn’t say anything to the others?’

‘Claire, they’re not blind. We’ve all been friends for ever. I would expect that they know. Wouldn’t you know if something was going on with one of them?’

‘I suppose.’

‘They’re just nicer than I am, and keep their mouths shut. But they’re worried too.’ Another cube of sugar went into her cup. Sasha was nervous and trying not to show it. ‘Any word from Mark?’

‘Not a word. He usually calls every morning, whatever time zone he’s in.’ Claire forced a smile. ‘But I know he’s all right. If he so much as sneezed, the press corps would have it on the front page of the Wall Street Journal.’

‘I’m not worried about Mark, and you know it.’

Claire leaned back, staring at her hands. All week she had tried to push Mark’s warning from her mind. ‘Don’t sleep too soundly,’ he had said. ‘This isn’t over.’

‘Do you have any idea what sets him off? Is it really just that he wants you to quit working?’ Sasha tried not to look at her friend’s wounded arm.

Claire took a sip of her coffee, remembering Mark’s questions about Deborah’s birth father. ‘No,’ she lied. ‘No idea.’

‘When is he back?’

‘Tonight, late. It’s okay. We’ll talk things through.’

Sasha was ready to cry out with frustration. ‘What is the matter with you, Claire? You need to see a lawyer. Get some sort of restraining order.’

‘You know I can’t do that! The newspapers—’

Sasha cut her off, her voice rising. ‘To hell with the newspapers! Your life is at stake.’

‘There’s nothing I can do right now, Sasha. Believe me, I would if I could!’ Claire was crying now. ‘I’m trapped.’

Marty suddenly loomed over the table, a worried look on his face. ‘Everything okay here?’

‘Fine, Marty, thanks. Just, you know, missing Deborah. Her birthday was last week.’ Claire slipped out of the booth and grabbed her bag. ‘I’ve got to get to the cleaners before they close at four. Marty, lunch was more than wonderful.’ She blew Sasha a kiss and headed for the door. ‘I’ll see you on the train Monday.’

It was a full five minutes before Sasha could bring herself to move from the table.

Five

Claire guided her sleek navy blue Audi into a parking space behind Green Earth Cleaners. As usual, hers was the only car in the small car park that was reserved for employees and delivery vans. It meant entering the dry-cleaners through the back door, and making her way through racks of plastic-wrapped garments, but she preferred that to the Saturday bustle of the car park at the front.

‘Mummy, are you still there?’ Deborah’s voice came through the car’s built-in telephone system.

‘Just parking. So tell me more about your performance for the college. Were you nervous?’

‘At first. But once I started to play, I just got lost in the music. I played the Rach, masterfully I might add, and then Mozart, a sonata, and finally I finished off with a little Bach.’

Claire couldn’t help but laugh. ‘A little Bach? Only you would be so at home with that mighty music that you call it little. Are you happy there, my Deborah? Do you really love London?’

‘Soooo much. I miss you and Daddy, of course, but this is where I want to be for now. Is he back from Cairo yet?’

‘Tonight,’ Claire said, trying to keep the dread from her voice. ‘Has he called you?’

‘No call, but he sent me about ten over-the-top birthday presents. You know how he is.’

Claire forced herself to sound casual. ‘Yes. Yes, I do know how he is. So I’ll call you next Saturday?’

‘Yep! Oh, and thanks for all your birthday goodies. The clothes are gorgeous, of course, but that book, the David Dubal, how did you get your hands on that?’

‘I can’t tell you all my secrets.’

‘I read the Horowitz piece three times – my favourite pianist. You always know what will really thrill me.’

‘That’s what we moms do.’

‘You do it better than most. Take care, Mums.’

‘I will, sweetheart. Don’t waste a moment of this wonderful time over there worrying about me.’

‘Same to you! I’m twenty-one now and completely an adult.’

‘Bye, Granny.’ Claire laughed. She was about to ring off, when her daughter stopped her.

‘Wait! Wait! I forgot to tell you. The most amazing thing happened at that concert I went to at the Albert Hall, on my birthday.’

Claire had to smile. She loved her daughter’s passion for life. Everything was amazing to her.

‘Well, first of all, how I got the tickets. They just turned up in my mailbox, inside a birthday card. Two tickets to this concert that was completely sold out for ever!’

‘What a great gift. Who were they from?’

‘I don’t know. There was no name on the card. It was probably Dad though, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. So what happened at the concert? Someone drop a cymbal?’

‘No. The conductor, this Maestro Connelly, introduced a new piece, a rhapsody he had written, and guess what it was called?’

‘I can’t guess. Tell me.’

‘Rhapsody for Claire. It said it right there in the programme.’

‘So I have my own theme song now. Like Gone With the Wind.’

‘It was a pretty awesome piece of music. Kind of sad, kind of romantic. And he played brilliantly. I’m going to learn it, and play it for you when you come visit in July.’