The Independent Bride Read online

  ‘Courtney’s a bloodsucker,’ Mrs Underwood had said, clear-sighted but despairing. ‘I’d kick her out, but Windflower is my grandchild, poor baby. You’re the only one of Tom’s friends I can talk to. You’re the child’s godfather, for heaven’s sake. I need help, Steven.’

  So Steven had helped. After Courtney took off again—with one of her shady escorts—it had not been easy. But over the years he had set up schools, holidays, medical programmes and once even an emergency flight out of a war zone.

  Mrs Underwood told him he was a saint. Steven himself had the uneasy feeling that he was throwing money at a problem when he ought to be doing something a bit more hands-on.

  Now he said, ‘What about Windflower?’

  Courtney put her haloed head on one side and looked winsome. He wanted to slap her.

  ‘I need to leave her with you.’

  He was so totally braced for a request for money that for a moment he did not register what she was saying.

  ‘What?’

  She repeated it.

  ‘But—’ He could not get his head round it. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m going to a healing centre. Adults only. I can’t take her with me.’

  Steven was even more taken aback. ‘A healing centre? What’s wrong with you?’

  Again there was a flutter of annoyance. ‘Spiritual healing,’ said Courtney, with something of a snap.

  Steven was momentarily speechless.

  She tossed her head, defiant. ‘My counsellor says I need calm.’

  He found his voice. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘My inner child needs nurturing.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Steven awfully. ‘And what does your outer child need? Your real child, I mean. The poor little soul you’ve dragged around over half Europe for the last several years.’

  ‘If you think I’m such a bad parent, you try it,’ flashed Courtney, suddenly a lot less ineffable. ‘Fine godfather you are. When did you last spend time with her?’

  ‘When was she last in the country?’ he retorted.

  ‘You could have had her to stay with you. But, oh, no. That would get in the way of your glamorous bachelor lifestyle,’ said Courtney resentfully.

  Steven drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘You were the one who told me a child needed to stay with her mother,’ he reminded her. ‘Rosemary Underwood would have loved to adopt her.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not talking about adoption. I’m talking about time out,’ she said flatly. ‘Windflower needs to build a relationship with a father figure. You. Now.’

  It was just the same as it always had been. Why hadn’t he remembered that arguing never worked with Courtney? She was too armoured in her own self-will. Common sense didn’t stand a chance.

  Even so, he said reasonably, ‘But I don’t know anything about children.’

  Courtney shrugged. ‘Then employ a nanny. You can afford it. Or take a course. Marry. Whatever.’ She flung her hands up in the air. ‘It’s your turn for a bit.’

  ‘My turn!’

  The telephone on his desk rang. He picked it up. ‘What?’ he said curtly.

  ‘Sorry, Master. Didn’t mean to interrupt.’ It was Valerie. She sounded shaken. ‘Jackson’s on the phone. He says is it all right if he takes the child to the buttery for a bun?’

  Steven froze. ‘Child?’ he said with dangerous quietness.

  Courtney was looking out of the window, unconcerned.

  ‘Apparently a little girl has come into the porter’s lodge. She says she’s with Mrs Underwood.’

  Steven saw red. ‘You mean my visitor dumped her nine-year-old daughter somewhere in Oxford.’

  ‘Er—’

  Courtney looked round.

  ‘Leave it with me.’ Steven put the phone down. He said with deadly quiet, ‘You brought the child with you, then?’

  ‘Of course.’ She was surprised. ‘I haven’t got anyone to leave her with.’

  ‘And left her precisely where?’

  Courtney shifted her shoulders pettishly. ‘Outside in the street. I told her I’d only be a moment—’

  ‘A moment?’

  Yet only minutes ago she had been telling him to send the car away and…How long did she think it would take her to seduce him, for God’s sake? Steven’s anger flamed so hot that he could barely see.

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you bring her in with you?’

  But he knew why, didn’t he? Courtney had wanted the nine-year-old out of the way while she batted her eyelashes at susceptible Steven Konig. Stupid Steven Konig, with his low flashpoint and his old-fashioned chivalry.

  He came out from behind the oak desk. No need to stay in the bunker now. He was so angry he could barely remember that he had ever desired her.

  ‘We are going to get her,’ he said grimly.

  ‘You go. It’s wet out there—’

  ‘Now, Courtney.’

  Rational argument might not work. But sheer rage did, apparently. She came without a word, though as soon as they were outside she shivered ostentatiously in her fashionable scarlet coat. Steven refused to notice.

  At the porter’s lodge, Steven skirted ten battered bicycles and steamed into the warmly lit room. It had filled up. A couple of undergraduates were having a cheerful argument with Jackson, and a girl staggered under the weight of a parcel she was retrieving from about the old wooden pigeonholes. Almost invisible among the damp jeans and armfuls of books, a small girl was standing in front of the untidy noticeboard. She was attentively reading a flyer for a Hallowe’en party in the junior common room.

  Steven stopped dead.

  The small girl turned round. In contrast to her mother’s, her clothes were not only unfashionable, they looked inadequate. It was warm enough in the porter’s lodge, but her pale face was pinched with cold. She was clutching the sort of pack he was vaguely aware of seeing children wear on their backs to school. Her fingers were blue.

  She gave him a long level look. He thought, Tom.

  There was a click of stiletto heels behind him. ‘There you are, Windflower,’ said Courtney, putting her arm through Steven’s. ‘You remember your godfather?’

  ‘Hello,’ said the small girl, neutral.

  ‘Hello,’ said Steven.

  ‘He’s going to take care of you for a bit,’ said Courtney firmly.

  Steven ignored her. He hunkered down in front of Windflower. ‘Do you know who I am, Windflower? Really?’

  ‘One of Mummy’s old boyfriends?’ said Windflower dispassionately. But she swallowed as if she was scared.

  Steven curbed his fury. This was not the child’s fault.

  ‘Do you want to stay with me?’

  Windflower’s expression was a study in amazement. ‘Mummy says I’m going to.’

  Clearly she didn’t often get asked her opinion. Steven’s heart twisted.

  He stood up. ‘I’ll need her papers,’ he said, icily practical all of a sudden. ‘Birth certificate, medical records, school attendance.’

  ‘Windflower’s got all that in her school bag,’ said Courtney, demonstrating more planning than he would have expected.

  ‘And her things?’

  She waved a hand at a battered suitcase under the notice-board. It was not, thought Steven, very big to hold all the child’s worldly possessions.

  He took one of his famed lightning decisions.

  ‘Right. You want me to look after her.’ He was in the grip of a cold fury the like of which he could not remember. ‘I’ll look after her. Jackson, I need your keyboard.’

  His voice was very quiet and courteous, but Jackson nearly fell over the furniture to open the door of his little office to admit him. The undergraduates stopped joshing, startled.

  Steven got into the word processing program and typed a page very fast. While it was printing, he swung round.

  ‘You two,’ he said to the two young men, ‘I shall want you as witnesses.’ He flung two sheets of paper at Courtney. ‘The
re you are. You assign the care of your daughter to me absolutely. You put your forwarding address there—’ His forefinger stabbed the paper so hard it nearly broke it. ‘And you sign.’

  She quailed. ‘But I don’t have an address.’

  ‘Then write down that you have no address.’ Steven was still quiet. Still reasonable. And quite deadly. ‘On both sheets. And sign at the bottom.’

  She did. At last she looked shaken. He brought a dark fountain pen out of his breast pocket and did the same. His signature was a great dark slash, like a dagger-tear in fabric.

  ‘Witness,’ he said to the undergraduates. ‘Name, address, date. Both pages.’

  Soberly, they did what they were told.

  Jackson came back. ‘The car from Indigo Television has arrived, Master.’

  ‘Find him a parking place and tell him I’ll be ten minutes,’ said Steven, still icy.

  He flung one of the signed copies at Courtney as if he could not bear to touch her. Then he folded the other carefully and put it in his inside pocket with his pen.

  ‘Look after the suitcase for me, will you, Jackson. I’ll pick it up later.’

  He held out his hand to the child. ‘Would you like to come to a television studio? See the cameras?’

  She thought about it. Nodded.

  ‘Then say goodbye to your mother and come with me.’

  ‘Goodbye—?’ Courtney was startled. She made another grab for his arm. ‘But we have so much to talk about…’

  ‘My solicitor will be in touch,’ said Steven, unmoved. He removed his arm. ‘I told you I had an appointment.’ And, to the small girl, ‘Say goodbye. I’ve got to hurry.’

  Windflower kissed her mother in a subdued way and then slipped her hand into Steven’s. He had been quite right. Her fingers were freezing.

  He sent Courtney a look of such icy contempt that she took a step back. He did not kiss her. Or wish her goodbye. He did not say anything else at all.

  Instead he said to Windflower, ‘In the car, you can tell me about yourself and what you’d like to do. Come with me while I get my stuff. Jackson, see Mrs Underwood out of college, would you?’

  ‘Certainly, Master.’

  Without another look at Courtney, Steven led the child inside the college walls.

  Behind him, he heard Jackson say, ‘Would you like me to call you a taxi, madam?’

  God bless phlegmatic college servants, he thought. Of course they were used to dealing with brilliant eccentrics. Jackson would take this drama in his stride.

  Now all Steven had to do was take a crash course in the habits and nurture of nine-year-old girls.

  But first he had a television lecture to deliver.

  ‘You know what I really hate about the British?’ said Pepper Calhoun broodingly.

  She glared at her reflection in the mirror. Terry Woods bit back a smile. Terry was British. She had been doing Pepper’s hair for two months now and she knew her client’s occasional tempers very well. It usually meant she was winding herself up to do something she didn’t want to.

  ‘No, Pepper,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Tell me. What do you really hate about the British?’

  ‘They’re so damned good at blackmail.’

  ‘Blackmail!’ Terry was so startled she nearly dropped her scissors. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, recovering. ‘Didn’t scratch you, did I? Have a chocolate to calm your nerves!’

  Pepper glowered at her in the mirror. ‘That’s what I mean. Blackmail.’

  Terry was bewildered. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You fumble your scissors, I’m gonna yell. Got a right to yell. Got a real good yell building, just waiting to be let out. Then you go and spoil it all by offering me chocolate. Blackmail!’

  Terry laughed aloud. ‘That’s not blackmail; that’s insurance.’ She leaned over Pepper’s shoulder and pushed the little dish of chocolate hazelnuts along the counter towards her.

  ‘Help yourself.’

  Pepper hesitated. ‘I shouldn’t.’

  Terry combed the thick wet hair carefully. ‘So, who else is blackmailing you? Izzy?’

  Izzy never went near a hairdresser, but she and Terry met in the newspaper shop in the morning before work. It was Izzy who had sent Pepper along in the first place, having told her cousin crisply that she could not afford uptown salons any more and offered her a brisk recommendation to sample Battersea’s best.

  ‘Not Izzy. Indigo Television,’ said Pepper, even more gloomy.

  ‘Never heard of them.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’

  ‘So who are they?’

  Pepper shrugged. ‘Some bunch who managed to track me down. And I’m being nice to financial journalists this month. So…’

  She narrowed her eyes at her reflection as Terry began to wind brightly coloured worm casts into the damp tresses. Pepper’s hair was thick and naturally curly, but today she had announced that she wanted the full pre-Raphaelite mane.

  ‘I’ll need more than that.’

  ‘Even more curls?’ Terry had said, startled.

  ‘As many as you can squeeze out of that tube.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve got to look cool and happening. And sweet. And a good investment. All at the same time.’

  Terry gagged. ‘I’m a hairdresser, not a magician.’

  ‘Think babe-with-a-heart. That’ll do it.’ Pepper bared her teeth in a terrifying smile.

  Terry quailed. ‘Right you are. Heart it is,’ she said dubiously.

  She combed and twisted and flicked with speed. But she was still intrigued.

  ‘What’s this in aid of? Whojimaflip TV?’

  ‘Indigo Television,’ announced Pepper, ‘is the reason I’m in here at ten o’clock in the morning, sure. I have to do babe-with-a-heart for someone else. Venture capitalists, the bastards! Superior, British, male venture capitalists. But at least they won’t be scared out of their wits by a crazy grandmother.’

  Venture capitalists bored Terry, and she didn’t understand the bitter reference to crazy grandmothers. ‘What are you doing on telly?’

  ‘Good question,’ said Pepper, depressed.

  Her fingers strayed towards the chocolate hazelnuts. She hauled them back and clamped the hand in her lap.

  ‘A studio debate.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I ought to be sitting with an ice pack on my head, thinking up the marketing line of the century,’ she said bitterly. ‘I’ve got just five hours to come up with it. And I’m fresh out of ideas. So what am I doing? Messing about on Indigent Television talking to a bunch of students. Huh!’

  Terry waved aside the missing marketing line of the century. ‘Great. When can I see it?’

  ‘If you watch lunchtime television.’ Pepper’s tone was not encouraging.

  ‘Ace. There’s a telly in the back. When?’

  ‘Today. It’s live. I must have been out of my mind.’

  Terry whistled. ‘Coo. What’s it about?’

  ‘How to be an entrepreneur.’ Pepper fished around in the bag propped against the leg of the salon’s black and silver chair. She brought out a scrubby piece of paper. “‘In My Experience,”’ she read aloud. “‘This is an educational programme in a new format. Each week we will be inviting two up-and-coming figures from the world of commerce and technology to take questions from an audience of young people about to start their careers.’’ Sexy—not.’

  Terry could not deny it. ‘Never mind,’ she said comfortingly. ‘It’s all publicity.’

  ‘That’s what I keep telling myself. In between intervals of beating my head against the wall.’

  Terry stuck in the last pin and stepped back, eyeing the sci-fi confection in the mirror knowledgeably.

  ‘It can’t be that bad.’

  ‘You’ve missed the three salient facts,’ said Pepper. ‘No advance warning of the questions. No fee for appearing. And no audience figures.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I could well be maki
ng a total idiot of myself in front of the producer’s grandma and his dog walker.’

  ‘Then why do it?’

  ‘That blackmail word. God, I hate the British.’

  Terry found an errant strand of hair. Swiftly she unwhirled one of the worm casts and stuck the hairpin in her mouth. ‘Which blackmail word is that?’ she asked through clenched teeth.

  ‘Education,’ snapped Pepper. ‘If you’re in business in Britain, you’re supposed to do anything for education. Unpaid.’

  For the first time in her life she was living on a tight budget. It was, as she told Terry, a useful experience. But it did not increase her charitable tendencies.

  ‘So why are you doing it?’

  ‘Good PR. At the moment I need all the publicity I can get.’

  Terry stopped primping her client’s hair and stared at her in the mirror. This was a subject on which she had heard Pepper, the daughter of one of the richest families in America, twenty times or more in the last two months.

  ‘But I thought you hated publicity.’

  ‘I do,’ said Pepper, her mouth drying at the thought. ‘But I need it. Or my project does.’

  Her stomach rolled in sympathy. It was too much. She could not resist any longer.

  She reached for her first chocolate hazelnut of the day.

  Steven finished reading Indigo’s briefing and pushed the papers into his briefcase. Beside him, Windflower was as composed as if she travelled in limousines every day of her life. Her feet didn’t touch the floor, though.

  Conscience stirred. Steven said gruffly, ‘This may be a bit boring, I’m afraid.’

  Windflower—poor child; how on earth did she cope with a name like that?—turned wise eyes on him.

  ‘It’s all right. I’m not a nuisance. Mummy says I’m not.’ She did not sound boastful. She sounded resigned.

  Conscience stopped stirring, got up and kicked him on the shins.

  ‘As soon as this blasted programme is over you can be as much nuisance as you like,’ Steven said with fervour. ‘I promise.’

  But at that moment the car turned into what looked like a junkyard. Steven knew that Indigo Television was young and struggling. He had not expected uniformed flunkeys and an atrium. But even he was surprised by the black bags of garbage and an old fireplace leaning drunkenly against the wall of a corrugated iron shed.