It was too late now to try and pretend her father had any real affection for her. From the day she was born—and Morgan could remember that day very well—she had been an unwanted encumbrance to him, a constant reminder of her mother, whose life had been forfeit to secure her own, and for which Andrew Forsyth had never forgiven her.
Morgan had not been Andrew’s assistant then, of course. He had been a new, and very junior, executive, fresh out of university, with a double first in law and economics, and little else. It had been his first day with the company, and the personal affairs of his boss had seemed very distant indeed.
However, twenty years had seen a great number of changes. In time, his shrewdness in business and his capacity for hard work had been recognised, and by the time he joined Andrew’s immediate staff, Holly Forsyth was no longer so remote from him. Not that he knew her well. A series of nannies, followed by a spell at an exclusive preparatory school, had made way for an equally exclusive boarding school, and if there had been problems, he had not been expected to handle them. Indeed, the first time he actually saw Holly in the flesh had been less than five years ago, when Andrew had asked him to pick her up from a friend’s house in Woking and drive her to London airport to catch a plane for Zurich. And then, what with her non-communicativeness and the chauffeur’s watching presence, they had scarcely exchanged more than a few words. He had thought at first that she was shy and, having children of his own now, he had done his utmost to put her at her ease. But the cool indigo eyes, watching his efforts from between narrowed lids, had had more than a touch of scorn in their depths, and he had quickly realised that Holly Forsyth knew exactly what he was trying to do.
Since then, his glimpses of her had been equally brief. Once, in London, soon after her return from the finishing school for which she had been sent to Switzerland, he had encountered her leaving her father’s office, but on that occasion she had looked straight through him. He had suspected at the time that her over-bright eyes and flushed cheeks had mirrored an inner tumult, and certainly Andrew’s temper had been decidedly unpredictable for the rest of the day. But then, he had learned, Andrew was always unpredictable where Holly was concerned, and Morgan doubted that anything she did would find approval with her father.
The last time he had laid eyes on her had been two years ago, just before she left England. He had called at Andrew’s house in Hampstead late one evening to deliver some papers his employer had left at the office, and he had met Holly arriving home with a crowd of noisy young people. They were all high, whether on drink or marijuana, or perhaps a combination of both, Morgan couldn’t be sure, and the row that had ensued when Andrew erupted from his study had not been pleasant.
Morgan had not wanted to get involved, but it was Holly herself who had involved him. With artless provocation, she had slipped her arm through his and compelled him to stay, using his strength to support her when her father’s wrath washed over her. A tall girl, with cropped fair hair and a slim, still adolescently angular body, she had faced her father bravely, unaware that Andrew Forsyth wasn’t even listening to her. Poor Holly, Morgan remembered now, the colour leaving her face so quickly that the expertly used cosmetics became as conspicuous as a clown’s mask. She should have known better than to try and fight Andrew Forsyth. Men with far fewer scruples had tried and failed, and Holly simply did not have the weapons.
If only she had not looked so much like her mother, perhaps then her father might have been able to forget. But, having seen photographs of the first Mrs Forsyth, Morgan knew exactly why his employer found his daughter’s presence so intolerable. Holly’s mother was the only woman he had ever loved, and although there had been three other wives since her death, there had been no other children—not even a son to step into his father’s shoes.
Unfortunately, Morgan had been able to do nothing to help her and, when she realised this, Holly had turned on him, too. As her friends drifted away in twos and threes, unable—or unwilling—to be a party to her humiliation, Andrew had delivered his final ultimatum. If she wanted him to go on supporting her, she would have to give up mixing with that crowd of queers and layabouts, or she could get out.
Six weeks later, Morgan heard that she had left for her mother’s old home on Pulpit Island, one hundred and fifty miles from St Thomas in the Virgin Islands. Sara Gantry, Holly’s mother, had been born in the West Indies, and her family had once owned a thriving sugar plantation there. But, what with the price of sugar falling and labour becoming increasingly expensive, the estate had largely been dismantled, even before Holly’s grandparents died. However, the house was still standing and, according to Andrew, Holly had always been happy there.
‘She used to go out for holidays, when she was younger,’ he told Morgan, with a rare flash of what might have been conscience. ‘She likes swimming and fishing, and messing about with crayons and water colours,’ he added, when his assistant made no immediate comment. ‘Don’t judge me, Morgan. She always has been a thorn in my side.’
And who was he to judge anyway, reflected Morgan drily, resting one booted ankle across his knee. His own sixteen-year-old twins were proving to be just as much of a liability, and how could he blame Andrew for ignoring his daughter when he spent so little time with his sons? According to Alison, his ex-wife, he was totally responsible for their delinquency and, in all honesty, he had been away a lot when they were growing up. Andrew was a demanding employer and, as his empire stretched from one side of the financial world to the other, Morgan had often been in Hong Kong or San Francisco when he should have been at home.
But had he been entirely to blame? To begin with, Alison had been delighted when, soon after their marriage, Morgan had been recruited to Andrew Forsyth’s office. She had even encouraged him to make himself indispensable to his superior, and she had soon found uses for the higher salary his promotion had brought.
She had not wanted the twins, but their arrival less than two years after their marriage had coincided with their removal to a bigger flat, and she had been placated by the chance to prove her home-making abilities. Besides, she had discovered that having twins set her apart from other young mothers, who had only had one child at a time, and for a while she was content to bask in their reflected glory.
By the time the twins were two, however, motherhood had begun to pall, and Alison was clamouring for a garden to get them out of her hair. She didn’t care that, to buy the house in Willesden, Morgan had to work a twelve-hour day. She had chosen it because it was near her mother’s house, and in no time at all Mrs Stevens was caring for the twins while Alison spent her time in boutiques and beauty parlours.
But, eventually, even the novelty of an unlimited supply of money did not satisfy her. Morgan’s promotion to Andrew Forsyth’s personal assistant meant that he and his wife were occasionally invited to dinner in Hampstead, and before long Alison was resentful of their own ‘poky’ domain. She saw no reason why they should not have a large house, and a housekeeper, now that Morgan had a position of authority.
They moved again, this time to a sprawling house in Wimbledon, with every accoutrement Alison could wish for. Five bedrooms, three bathrooms; there was even a sauna in the basement. It was the kind of luxury home anyone would be proud of. Only, now, boredom took the place of envy, and resentment of Morgan’s more exciting lifestyle became the most contentious issue in Alison’s life.
Morgan was unable to appease her. Her constant jibes and recriminations made life pretty difficult at times, and before long the twins began to notice. Salving his conscience with the conviction that the boys would be happier if they were not constantly witness to their parents’ rows, Morgan had suggested boarding school. But for once Alison had demurred from taking the easy option.
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ she had shouted, her fashionably thin features contorted into their habitual expression of dissatisfaction. ‘Then you wouldn’t need to feel any sense of guilt in neglecting your family, would you? You could go off with Andrew bloody Forsyth with a clear conscience!’
Morgan had endeavoured to explain that were he to resign his position as Andrew’s assistant, they could not afford their present standard of