on so she
|
could listen to the Bee Gees. She wasn’t going to like it up at Fairfield. That much he was sure of.
It wasn’t his habit to feel sorry for millionaires, but when he considered what Becky Lancaster was letting herself in for, he almost had a twang of pity.
‘Owen, how far away are we?’
He wished he could break her of that habit. If Mrs Whitlock heard her, he was for the high jump.
‘Only another fifteen minutes, Miss Becky. And if you don’t mind, I prefer Barkin.’
‘Oh. Sure. Thanks.’
Becky sank back into her seat. Tears prickled into her eyes behind her Fendi sunglasses, but she blinked them back. Damn the goddamn English. She was tired still, and nervous, and he couldn’t even let her use his first name? The Ritz had been soothing - a luxurious bath, a soft white towelling robe, perfumed soaps and decent food - but she hadn’t slept at all. Her body clock was totally off-base. There had been thunderstorms all night, too; lightning and rain driving against her
6o
windows. It had been relief, when dawn had finally come as she lay awake tossing and turning, to see that the sun was out.
Her aunt had sent her a telegram. ‘Dear Rebecca, welcome to your home. Barkin will arrive to collect you at two. Please do not be late. We look forward to seeing you shortly.’ She had read it five times straight, and still didn’t know what to make of it. Was this what people talked like over here? Her aunt sent Christmas and birthday cards each year, all simply signed ‘Love Aunt Victoria’. And now they were finally going to meet.
She dressed carefully, a white leather mini-suit by Fiorucci and shoes to match, did her make-up very lightly and repacked. God forbid she should be even a little bit late. She missed her friends back home. They’d have made this fun, an adventure. Instead, it was starting to feel like being packed off to boarding school for the first time. The front desk checked her out with impersonal efficiency, and then there was Barkin, the family chauffeur, grabbing her bags and steering her towards a Jaguar for the long drive north. Becky tried sleeping, but it just didn’t work, and conversation was heavy going. Now even the driver wouldn’t let her use his first name.
Her mom’s relatives had always cooed over Fairfield Court, what an incredible place it was, how lucky she was to own it and live there some day. Becky hoped so. She ached for the hot weather in New York why had she ever complained about the summer heat? Watermelon by the pool, boy-spotting on the golden beaches, her friends taking long drives down the coast, raising hell. Fairfield Court was what she got instead, for the rest of her life. And right now she was wondering if it was worth it. o
Her father’s relatives had approached her about a year ago. When she hit twenty-one, she would become the sole executor of her own trust. The house would be hers, the companies would be hers. But there was no need to uproot herself, her uncle’s lawyers had argued. The Lancaster family would make Rebecca a handsome cash offer. Fairfield would go to Mrs Whitlock, the business to her cousin William, and Rebecca could stay in the United States with more money than she would ever need.
They had been surprised when she turned them down. In fact, she had almost surprised herselŁ But Rebecca couldn’t forget, not quite, that she was actually English. She had never known her father, only seen pictures of him - a young, straight-backed man with dark hair and laughing eyes, his arms linked through her mother’s, a face she saw more clearly in her own mirror each day. Her father had left her the house should her brother die. He had wanted his children to have it. He had
61
wanted her to have it. And she felt that coming here was fulfilling his wishes.
She had booked the ticket for her twenty-first birthday. No matter if England was damp, and cold, plagued by industrial unrest; a country which was actually
|
could listen to the Bee Gees. She wasn’t going to like it up at Fairfield. That much he was sure of.
It wasn’t his habit to feel sorry for millionaires, but when he considered what Becky Lancaster was letting herself in for, he almost had a twang of pity.
‘Owen, how far away are we?’
He wished he could break her of that habit. If Mrs Whitlock heard her, he was for the high jump.
‘Only another fifteen minutes, Miss Becky. And if you don’t mind, I prefer Barkin.’
‘Oh. Sure. Thanks.’
Becky sank back into her seat. Tears prickled into her eyes behind her Fendi sunglasses, but she blinked them back. Damn the goddamn English. She was tired still, and nervous, and he couldn’t even let her use his first name? The Ritz had been soothing - a luxurious bath, a soft white towelling robe, perfumed soaps and decent food - but she hadn’t slept at all. Her body clock was totally off-base. There had been thunderstorms all night, too; lightning and rain driving against her
6o
windows. It had been relief, when dawn had finally come as she lay awake tossing and turning, to see that the sun was out.
Her aunt had sent her a telegram. ‘Dear Rebecca, welcome to your home. Barkin will arrive to collect you at two. Please do not be late. We look forward to seeing you shortly.’ She had read it five times straight, and still didn’t know what to make of it. Was this what people talked like over here? Her aunt sent Christmas and birthday cards each year, all simply signed ‘Love Aunt Victoria’. And now they were finally going to meet.
She dressed carefully, a white leather mini-suit by Fiorucci and shoes to match, did her make-up very lightly and repacked. God forbid she should be even a little bit late. She missed her friends back home. They’d have made this fun, an adventure. Instead, it was starting to feel like being packed off to boarding school for the first time. The front desk checked her out with impersonal efficiency, and then there was Barkin, the family chauffeur, grabbing her bags and steering her towards a Jaguar for the long drive north. Becky tried sleeping, but it just didn’t work, and conversation was heavy going. Now even the driver wouldn’t let her use his first name.
Her mom’s relatives had always cooed over Fairfield Court, what an incredible place it was, how lucky she was to own it and live there some day. Becky hoped so. She ached for the hot weather in New York why had she ever complained about the summer heat? Watermelon by the pool, boy-spotting on the golden beaches, her friends taking long drives down the coast, raising hell. Fairfield Court was what she got instead, for the rest of her life. And right now she was wondering if it was worth it. o
Her father’s relatives had approached her about a year ago. When she hit twenty-one, she would become the sole executor of her own trust. The house would be hers, the companies would be hers. But there was no need to uproot herself, her uncle’s lawyers had argued. The Lancaster family would make Rebecca a handsome cash offer. Fairfield would go to Mrs Whitlock, the business to her cousin William, and Rebecca could stay in the United States with more money than she would ever need.
They had been surprised when she turned them down. In fact, she had almost surprised herselŁ But Rebecca couldn’t forget, not quite, that she was actually English. She had never known her father, only seen pictures of him - a young, straight-backed man with dark hair and laughing eyes, his arms linked through her mother’s, a face she saw more clearly in her own mirror each day. Her father had left her the house should her brother die. He had wanted his children to have it. He had
61
wanted her to have it. And she felt that coming here was fulfilling his wishes.
She had booked the ticket for her twenty-first birthday. No matter if England was damp, and cold, plagued by industrial unrest; a country which was actually
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