In the Blood by Steve Robinson Page B

view, hands clasped in an anxious knot behind her, aware that time was ticking away.
    Everything about Celia Fairborne belied her fifty-eight years.   She was stylishly dressed in a close fitted, abstract floral print dress that hugged her regularly exercised frame.   Her shoes were raspberry suede and had a slight heel to them, and her hair was artificially ash-blond and short in length, cut into the sides and feathered in a style that cost a fortune.   Money had taken at least ten years off her.   A rose cashmere cardigan rested across the arm of one of a pair of pale yellow settees that mirrored one another across an Aubusson rug before the fireplace.   She was about to go and look for Warwick herself when he walked in.
    Warwick’s casual attire was as contentious as ever; pale threadbare jeans and a navy merino sweater that he practically lived in.   As he crossed the room, his expression was neutral, bordering resentment, like concentration interrupted.   He slipped across the arm of the first settee he came to and left a worn-out tan leather deck-shoe hanging from a bare foot.
    His mother sat opposite him and shot him a disdainful glare.   “If you’re going to sit down, Wicky dear, sit properly will you.”   Celia’s urge was to go across and flick his leg around for him, and put a comb through his unkempt almond hair while she was at it, but what was the point?   After thirty years of trying she had finally conceded that it was too late to effect any lasting change.
    The deck-shoe slid into place beside its twin and Warwick’s knees fell apart as though in argument.   He appeared relaxed, but Celia sensed an undercurrent of tension in the way his lower lip hung without purpose, and how his cyan eyes bored into her.
    “Look, what is it, mother?   I’m in the middle of something.”
    Celia’s face silently mocked him.   “Another girl?”
    “Not before lunch,” Warwick said through the hint of a smile at last.   “So what’s up?”
    “I’ve had a call from your father.”
    Warwick’s smiled dropped.   “Where is the old man?   I’ve hardly seen him all week.”
    “He’s in London, Warwick.   You know very well where he is.   He’ll be back on Friday.”
    “Yes, of course.   He’s there so often lately, his poor constituents must think he’s deserted them.”
    “It’s an important week for him, Wicky.”
    “That’s right.   It’s a life peerage this time, isn’t it?   Warwick scoffed.   “Old Dicky really is doing well for himself, isn’t he?”
    “Don’t call him that, Warwick.   You know he doesn’t like it and neither do I.”
    Warwick crossed his arms then unfolded them again and started tapping the cushions.   “Well you’d think any man would be content with inheriting a Baronetcy, but not my father.   He has to earn his own.   First he gets an OBE for sticking with it and milking the last drop of tin out of a collapsing mining industry.   Then when most people would be happy to retire with their lolly and take it easy under a palm tree somewhere, my father starts a career in politics.   Twenty years later he’s still not had enough!”
    Celia heaved a frustrated sigh.   She could guess well enough where all this bitterness was coming from.   She’d seen it too many times before.   His latest venture was in trouble.
    “I thought the Internet was going to be your golden ticket.”
    “I don’t want to talk about it.”
    “You know your father can help you, Wicky.”
    Warwick scoffed again.   “Can he give me another loan?   That’s the only kind of help I need.”
    “You know how he feels about that,” Celia said.   “I meant that he can help you in other ways.   He knows how hard you try, even if he doesn’t show it.   He can still find you a position.   You only have to ask.”
    “Only!” Warwick said.   He turned away, squinting from the glare at the windows.   “I’ll open my own doors, thanks.”
    “Headstrong as a