cool, however much she shrugged and said, ‘Whatever’.
Of course, Harriet had sneaked a look at Simon’s Facebook page and gawped with increasing crossness at all the photos of him and beautiful Anne-Marie, arms entwined around each other. She
had also seen the photos of their prospective new home: a charming brick farmhouse in the Dordogne with its own vineyard – ‘Chateau Reynolds!’ as all his mates were teasing in the
comments. There were green fields and a stream and proud golden sunflowers, way taller than Harriet had ever managed to grow in their tiny east-facing garden.
However idyllic it looked, though, Simon seemed to have neglected one crucial factor in all of this: he would be living in a different country from his fantastic fifteen-year-old daughter, not
to mention his criminally ignored young son. Did that not bother him? Did he not feel a wrench at the thought of such distance between them? How could it be that he didn’t feel the pull of
his own flesh and blood, anchoring him right here in London? There was no way Harriet would ever uproot and move somewhere miles from her daughter. It would not even occur to her!
Harriet had done her best to be civil about Simon at all times in front of Molly. In fact, so desperate was she not to fall into the trap of slagging him off and making him the scapegoat for
their marriage break-up (even though he was totally to blame), she overcompensated, and was often ridiculously generous about him rather than expressing her true feelings. But there were times
– like now – when it was very hard to think of a single kind thing to say about him. There were times, in fact – also now – when she just wanted to smash his face in for
being such a self-obsessed, daughter-neglecting twat.
Of course, he hadn’t thought to contact Molly and let her know the news himself. He had that little respect or consideration for her feelings, it was a surprise he still remembered she
even existed.
Going to be a daddy!
was one of the captions on his Facebook page, written underneath a photo of him with his hand proudly on Anne-Marie’s swelling belly. It had taken every bit
of self-control for Harriet not to leave a waspish comment underneath.
Going to be? You already are, Si. Or do your other children not count any more?
She turned off the computer instead before she could start typing. It would only make things worse for Molly she reminded herself. With a father like Simon, and all the many disappointments and
let-downs this meant, her daughter already had enough problems, without Harriet adding to the burden.
Chapter Twelve
Over in Oakthorne, Freya had undergone one of the less pleasant afternoons of her career. Melanie Taylor had arrived for their meeting, as arranged by Elizabeth, but was not in
any mood to sit calmly and listen to Freya’s polite lines of self-defence. She was out for a scalp, shrilly listing all the reasons why Freya should be sacked for incompetence, starting with
the big one: that Ava was still poorly in hospital.
‘Perhaps if we all calm down a minute—’ Elizabeth interrupted soothingly.
Melanie didn’t want to be soothed. ‘I’m not the one with a bottle of gin in my handbag!’ she shrieked. Her eyes glittered with venom, the veins in her neck stood out like
cords; she was a lioness prepared to go for the jugular on behalf of her injured cub.
Freya flinched in her chair. Oh Christ. She’d forgotten all about the incriminating Hendrick’s bottle. The unopened, undrunk Hendrick’s bottle, she wanted to protest, but she
didn’t dare. Not when Elizabeth had turned to look at her, a small frown rucking that pale forehead. It took every shred of composure Freya possessed to hold her head up high. ‘I am a
professional,’ she said, even though this didn’t feel strictly true any more either. ‘I wouldn’t dream of drinking alcohol while at work. I certainly don’t have an
alcohol problem.’
‘We both know there was
Of course, Harriet had sneaked a look at Simon’s Facebook page and gawped with increasing crossness at all the photos of him and beautiful Anne-Marie, arms entwined around each other. She
had also seen the photos of their prospective new home: a charming brick farmhouse in the Dordogne with its own vineyard – ‘Chateau Reynolds!’ as all his mates were teasing in the
comments. There were green fields and a stream and proud golden sunflowers, way taller than Harriet had ever managed to grow in their tiny east-facing garden.
However idyllic it looked, though, Simon seemed to have neglected one crucial factor in all of this: he would be living in a different country from his fantastic fifteen-year-old daughter, not
to mention his criminally ignored young son. Did that not bother him? Did he not feel a wrench at the thought of such distance between them? How could it be that he didn’t feel the pull of
his own flesh and blood, anchoring him right here in London? There was no way Harriet would ever uproot and move somewhere miles from her daughter. It would not even occur to her!
Harriet had done her best to be civil about Simon at all times in front of Molly. In fact, so desperate was she not to fall into the trap of slagging him off and making him the scapegoat for
their marriage break-up (even though he was totally to blame), she overcompensated, and was often ridiculously generous about him rather than expressing her true feelings. But there were times
– like now – when it was very hard to think of a single kind thing to say about him. There were times, in fact – also now – when she just wanted to smash his face in for
being such a self-obsessed, daughter-neglecting twat.
Of course, he hadn’t thought to contact Molly and let her know the news himself. He had that little respect or consideration for her feelings, it was a surprise he still remembered she
even existed.
Going to be a daddy!
was one of the captions on his Facebook page, written underneath a photo of him with his hand proudly on Anne-Marie’s swelling belly. It had taken every bit
of self-control for Harriet not to leave a waspish comment underneath.
Going to be? You already are, Si. Or do your other children not count any more?
She turned off the computer instead before she could start typing. It would only make things worse for Molly she reminded herself. With a father like Simon, and all the many disappointments and
let-downs this meant, her daughter already had enough problems, without Harriet adding to the burden.
Chapter Twelve
Over in Oakthorne, Freya had undergone one of the less pleasant afternoons of her career. Melanie Taylor had arrived for their meeting, as arranged by Elizabeth, but was not in
any mood to sit calmly and listen to Freya’s polite lines of self-defence. She was out for a scalp, shrilly listing all the reasons why Freya should be sacked for incompetence, starting with
the big one: that Ava was still poorly in hospital.
‘Perhaps if we all calm down a minute—’ Elizabeth interrupted soothingly.
Melanie didn’t want to be soothed. ‘I’m not the one with a bottle of gin in my handbag!’ she shrieked. Her eyes glittered with venom, the veins in her neck stood out like
cords; she was a lioness prepared to go for the jugular on behalf of her injured cub.
Freya flinched in her chair. Oh Christ. She’d forgotten all about the incriminating Hendrick’s bottle. The unopened, undrunk Hendrick’s bottle, she wanted to protest, but she
didn’t dare. Not when Elizabeth had turned to look at her, a small frown rucking that pale forehead. It took every shred of composure Freya possessed to hold her head up high. ‘I am a
professional,’ she said, even though this didn’t feel strictly true any more either. ‘I wouldn’t dream of drinking alcohol while at work. I certainly don’t have an
alcohol problem.’
‘We both know there was
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