Jaime forced a smile. ‘Don’t be silly, Felix,’ she declaimed, closing the filing-cabinet drawer with careful precision. ‘Where any member of that family chooses to live is no concern of mine.’
‘No, but—–’
‘Honestly. It’s OK.’ Jaime made a play of examining the remaining documents in her hands. ‘Have a good weekend, Felix. And don’t overdo the exercise. Remember the old adage: moderation in all things.’
Jaime suspected she ought to take her own advice later that afternoon, as she drove home through the fading light of a chilly November day. A brief stop at the supermarket had done little to ease her tension, and after fighting her way through the maze of shopping trolleys she was in no mood to face the delays caused by the roadworks in Gloucester Road. Why did they always start digging up the road at weekends? she wondered uncharitably, ignoring the fact that a burst water-main earlier in the day had flooded the road during the morning rush-hour. All she could think was that Tom would be home and waiting for his evening meal, while she was stuck here wasting valuable time—and petrol.
It was half-past five when she reached Dorset Road, and the small terrace house she shared with her fourteen-year-old son. Parking the car in the road, she got out and locked the doors, then collected the bag of groceries from the boot before letting herself into the house.
‘Tom!’ she called, as she slammed the front door behind her. ‘Tom? Where are you?’
‘I’m up here, Mum.’ Her son’s voice came from the top of the stairs and, looking up, Jaime saw him silhouetted against the light streaming out of his bedroom behind him. ‘Angie’s helping me with my homework.’ He paused, and then added innocently, ‘Did you have a good day?’
Jaime beat back the retort that sprang to her lips, and grimaced. ‘It was OK,’ she acknowledged tautly, aware that Tom’s question had more to do with her reaction to finding Angie Santini in the house than any real interest in her occupation. He knew her feelings about his friendship with the Italian girl, and he was effectively blocking any protest she might be about to make.
‘Your meal will be on the table in fifteen minutes,’ Jaime said now, continuing down the hall. It was a tacit request that Angie be out of the house in the same length of time, and Tom turned back into his room, evidently understanding her unvoiced command.
Unpacking the things she had bought on to the table in the kitchen, Jaime endeavoured not to allow her own feelings of anger and resentment to exaggerate the importance of finding Angie Santini in Tom’s bedroom. It wasn’t as if they were doing anything wrong, she argued to herself. She trusted Tom, and it was true he was having some trouble understanding the complicated problems the maths masters were presently giving them. It was also true that Angie, for all her promiscuity, was good at maths. And, if it had been anyone else, even another girl, she doubted she would have given it a second thought. But it wasn’t. It was Angie Santini, and Jaime didn’t like it.
She sighed. Angie—or Angela, to give her her proper name—always seemed so much older than Tom. Even though they were both in the same year at the local comprehensive, Angie never acted like Jaime’s idea of a fourteen-year-old. Perhaps Italian girls matured that much sooner, Jaime reflected, turning on the grill, and spreading two thick slices of gammon on the tray. And Tom, who was so young and immature in some ways, was tall for his age. He was the natural choice for someone with Angie’s undoubted sensuality: thin, and athletic, and physically attractive. He had always inspired interest, even when he was younger. Like his father, thought Jaime bitterly, viciously jabbing a fork into the skins of the potatoes she was putting into the microwave oven. He had his father’s unique air of individuality, his lazy charm, and physical grace. But thankfully not his colouring, Jaime appended grimly. In fact, Tom didn’t even look like his father. His silky blond hair and sensitive features were peculiarly Jaime’s, a circumstance for which she never ceased to be grateful. Because of that, she had been able to return to Kingsmere secure in the knowledge that no one could point a finger at either of them.
‘Angie’s leaving now, Mum.’
Lost in thought, Jaime had been unaware of the two young people descending the stairs, but now Tom’s voice alerted her to the fact. ‘What—oh, yes. Goodbye, Angie,’ she said, fighting her dislike. And added, for Tom’s sake, ‘Nice to see you again.’
‘Nice to see you, too, Mrs Russell.’ Angie’s English was perfect, due to the fact that her parents had moved to England soon after she was born. ‘You look tired. Did you have a hard day?’
Jaime’s smile was thin, but determined. ‘Something like that,’ she murmured, immediately convinced she must look as harassed as she felt. Angie, on the other hand, looked as fresh and exotic as an orchid, the dark hair tumbling about her shoulders accentuating her alien beauty. The jeans and jacket she was wearing only added to her voluptuous appearance, and Jaime was reluctantly aware of how flattered Tom must feel to be the object of her attentions.
‘I thought you said it was OK,’ Tom put in now, and it took Jaime a minute to realise he was talking about her day.
‘Oh—you know me,’ she demurred, smelling the gammon and using it as an excuse to turn back to the grill. ‘Hurry home, Angie.’
‘I’ve said I’ll walk her to the corner,’ said Tom, lifting his parka from the row of hooks behind the front door, and sliding his arms into the sleeves.
Jaime bit her tongue on the protest she wanted to make, and merely nodded. You were young once, she reminded herself severely, taking a pack of frozen peas out of the freezer. You were only eighteen when you married Philip Russell, and no one could stop you. But all the same, fourteen still seemed awfully young, and she had hoped that Tom wouldn’t make her mistakes.
By the time Tom got back Jaime had the meal on the table. They usually ate in the kitchen when they were alone, and in winter it was a definite advantage. The central heating boiler was in the kitchen, and although Jaime turned off the radiators while she and Tom were out of the house the kitchen always retained its heat. Tom was generally home first, and he turned the radiators on again when he came in. Consequently, by the time they had eaten, the rest of the house was comfortably warm.
‘What did you mean when you said you’d had a hard day?’ Tom asked, smothering his baked potato with melted butter, and Jaime, who had hoped to avoid this particular discussion, considered a moment before answering him.
‘Oh—my day was all right,’ she declared at last. ‘It—it was just something Felix said that—well, annoyed me, that’s all.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t speak with your mouth full!’ Jaime used the reproof to reconsider her options. ‘It wasn’t important. Get on with your meal.’
‘Well, if it wasn’t important, why did you get angry?’ asked Tom reasonably, wiping a smear of butter from his chin, and Jaime decided there was no point in prevaricating. Tom would find out soon enough. Someone was bound to tell him that his uncle was moving to Kingsmere.
‘Apparently Ben Russell is negotiating to buy the old Priory,’ she said, her offhand tone a warning not to pursue the subject, but Tom was too surprised to be perceptive.
‘Uncle Ben?’ he exclaimed, his jaw dropping, and Jaime wished she had just let him find out after all.
Now, she adopted an indifferent air. ‘How many Ben Russells do you know?’ she asked, avoiding a direct answer. ‘Tom—eat your meal. It’s getting cold.’
Tom frowned, but he wasn’t diverted. ‘Why is Uncle Ben coming to live in Kingsmere?’ he demanded. ‘I thought you said he lived in Africa, or somewhere like that.’
‘Yes—well, he did.’ Jaime endeavoured to speak casually. ‘I don’t know why he’s coming to live at the Priory. Perhaps he’s not. Perhaps he’s just buying it as an investment.’
‘The old Priory?’ Tom looked sceptical. ‘Mum, it’s falling to bits. No one