Marion Lennox - The Billionaire's Christmas Baby

His son, however, seemed to disagree with much of what the old man had done. The media gossip of clashes between the two was legion.

‘So what will you say about your father tomorrow?’ she asked into the silence and thought, Whoa, did I just ask that? Cleaner asking tycoon what his eulogy would be? But the man had said he’d woken to write the eulogy. Maybe she could be helpful.

She tucked her arms around her knees, looked interested and prepared to be helpful.

‘I don’t know,’ Max said shortly.

‘You don’t know.’ Phoebe was steadily sucking. The near dark lent a weird kind of intimacy to the setting. It was like a pyjama party, Sunny thought. But different. She watched him for a while, his big hands cradling his little sister, the bottle being slowly but steadily sucked. Okay, not a pyjama party, she conceded. Like...like...

Like two parents. Like the dad taking his share.

What did she know of either? Pyjama parties? Not in her world. And parents sharing?

Ha.

But now wasn’t the time for going there; indeed she hardly ever did. Now was the time to focus on the man before her and his immediate problems.

Actually, his immediate problem was sorted for now. But his dad... She’d read the newspapers. The funeral would be huge. Every cashed-up developer, every politician on the make, even the Honourables would be there, because even with the old man gone the Grayland influence was huge.

And this man was doing the eulogy. In less than seven hours.

‘I’d be so scared I’d be running a mile,’ she told him. ‘But then public speaking’s not my thing. Are you thinking you’ll wing it?’

‘What, decide what I’ll say in front of the microphone?’

‘The way you’re going, you’ll need to.’

‘Says the woman who won’t give me time to think, who won’t feed my baby.’

My baby. They were loaded words. She saw his shock when he realised he’d said them. She saw his horror.

‘Hey, I’m happy to help with the speech,’ she told him hurriedly. ‘How hard can it be?’

And she watched his face and saw...what? A determination to steer the conversation away from the baby he was holding? Because he couldn’t face what he was feeling? ‘To say my father and I didn’t get on is an understatement,’ he told her. ‘Look how little I knew of his personal life.’

‘Because?’ She said it tentatively. She had no right to ask, and no need, but he didn’t have to answer if he didn’t want to, and something told her that he wanted to talk. About anything but the baby.

‘My parents were pretty much absent all my life,’ he told her. ‘I was an only child, with nannies from the start. My parents divorced when I was two and went their separate ways. I lived with whoever’s current partner didn’t mind a kid and a nanny tagging along, or the nanny and I had separate quarters if it didn’t suit. But I was raised to take over the financial empire. It was only when I developed a mind of my own—and a social conscience—that I saw my father often. Our meetings have never been pretty. Maybe I should have walked away but I’ve been given enough autonomy to realise I can eventually make a difference. As he’s grown older and more frail I’ve been able to stop the worst of his excesses. But now...to give a eulogy...’

She heard his bleakness and something inside her twisted. She thought of her own childhood, itself bleak. But she’d always had her siblings. She’d always felt part of a family.

But this was a man in charge of his destiny, as well as the destiny of the thousands of people he employed. She refused to feel sorry for him.

‘Hey, reality doesn’t matter at funerals,’ she told him. ‘No one’s there for a bare-all exposé. You want my advice? Tell them a funny story to start with, a personal touch, like how he wouldn’t buy you an ice cream when you were six because you hadn’t saved up for it. There must have been something you can think of, something like that’ll make them all laugh and put them onside with you. Then give his achievement spiel. Look him up on Mr Google. That’ll list all his glories. Finally, choke up a little, say he’ll be sadly missed and walk off. Job done.’

He sent her a curious look. ‘You want to do it for me?’

‘I would,’ she told him agreeably. ‘But I’m working tomorrow. Eleven o’clock will see you at the lectern, and I’ll be scrubbing bathrooms.’

‘You can’t take the day off?’

‘To give your father’s eulogy? I don’t think so.’

He smiled. She sensed it rather than saw it. Nice, she thought, and hugged her knees a bit more.

It really was weirdly intimate, sitting in the moonlight in her almost-PJs, talking to this...stranger.

‘I’m guessing here,’ he ventured, sounding cautious. ‘But am I hearing the voice of experience? You’ve worked out a eulogy for someone you didn’t like?’

That was enough to destroy any hint of intimacy. She hugged her knees a bit tighter, needing the comfort.

‘I might have.’

‘These kids you looked after...were they your brothers and sisters?’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘It’s not,’ he agreed. ‘But you know a lot about me now. It’s dark, we’re both tired and this is a weird space. I wouldn’t mind pretending I’m not alone in it.’

And she got it.

He was sitting in an impersonal hotel half a world away from where he lived. He was holding a baby he hadn’t known existed and later that morning he’d have to stand in a vast cathedral and speak about a father it sounded as if he’d loathed.

He felt alone? He felt as if he needed some sort of reassurance that he wasn’t the only one who’d ended up in a mess up to their neck?

After tomorrow she’d never see this man again. Why not give it to him?

‘I gave my mother’s eulogy when I was fourteen,’ she said and she felt rather than saw the shock her words caused.

‘At fourteen...’

‘There was no one else. Mum died of an overdose after she’d alienated everyone. I never knew my father. She had me a couple of years after she’d run away from home, and then there was a gap. Who knows why? Maybe she was responsible enough to use birth control for a while, but it didn’t last. The next four babies came in quick succession and for some reason she kept us. But kept is a loose description. We were raised...well, we weren’t raised. We lurched from one crisis to the next. Finally she died. The social worker said we didn’t need to go to the funeral, but they hadn’t found Gran and Pa then, so there was only us. And they’d already split us up. Daisy and Sam had gone to one set of foster parents, Chloe and Tom to another. It’s hard to find foster parents for a fourteen-year-old, so I was placed in a home for...troubled adolescents and I was going nuts, wanting to see them. So when the coroner released the body for burial I made a king-sized fuss and said we all had to be at the funeral. Our case worker said she had reservations but she arranged it anyway. Then I figured I had to say something the kids could remember.’

‘You did?’ he demanded, sounding awed.

‘I did,’ she said proudly. ‘I made them laugh by telling them about Mum’s awful cooking. I reminded them of the way she could never get her toenails perfect and the way she had funny names for all of us, even if sometimes she couldn’t quite remember which one of us she was talking to. They were sort of sad stories but I made them smile. Then, when we came out, the social worker had organised morning tea. I still remember the sausage rolls! And then she sat us down, very serious, and told us they’d found Gran and Pa. Apparently, they hadn’t even known we existed! Mum had robbed them blind when she was young and then, when she knew they had no more money, she cut off all contact. But they’re just...wonderful. I can’t tell you how wonderful. They had somewhere we could live and they loved us straight away. So then we all lived happily ever after. Isn’t that nice? So it’s worth thinking of something good, even if it kills you to say it.’