PENNY JORDAN - Scandals

‘When’s Dad due back?’ Nick asked, changing the subject.

‘He said he’d be home in time for dinner, but you know how these sessions with the advertising people run on.’

Out of the success of his original hairdressing salon Josh had built up his business, mainly by lending his name to hair-care products and merchandising, and these days he was more of an entrepreneur and businessman than a hands-on hairdresser, although he still insisted on cutting Rose’s hair himself.

‘Black gold, that hair of yours was,’ he often told her. ‘That style I cut for you and the photographs Ollie took of it were where it all began for me, Rosie. You’re my good luck.’

‘Why don’t you stay and have dinner with your dad and me?’ Rose suggested.

Nick shook his head. ‘I’ve got a client to see this evening, and I need to sort myself out with a decent flat before Christmas.’

‘I can’t give you your Christmas present yet because it hasn’t arrived,’ Rose told him.

Nick had come to them with no possessions, and when Rose and Josh had gone round to the house where he and his mother had been living, they’d found a handful of photographs of Nick as a baby with his mother. Recently Rose had sent the best of these photographs to Oliver in New York, and he had promised to produce some new photographs from them, to be framed and given to Nick as his Christmas present. They were Rose’s way of saying to him that neither she nor anyone else had the right to exclude his mother from his life, nor to ignore all that she had done for him, and Rose knew that when Nick saw them he would understand that, just as she knew that beneath his sharp-edged exterior he could be both vulnerable and sentimental.

Christmas presents…Nick looked away from his stepmother. He hadn’t had time to go with Sarah when she’d taken the boys to Hamleys and Harrods at the beginning of December. He’d stopped going Christmas shopping for the boys with her after he’d bought them both battery-driven child-size cars. He’d been thrilled with the cars. As a child he hadn’t even been able to dream of things like that. He’d raced home from work the day they were due to be delivered, only to find that Sarah had sent them back.

‘But, Nick, that kind of thing is so dreadfully vulgar,’ she had told him.

‘Like me, you mean?’ he had fired back, and she hadn’t denied it, simply turning away from him, saying quietly, ‘Daddy says that we really ought to be thinking about getting the boys used to riding. He’s sorting out a couple of ponies he thinks will suit them.’

‘Ponies? They are my sons, not some ruddy little Lord Fauntleroys,’ he’d told her before he’d stormed out of the house.

‘Hurry up, you two, otherwise Katie is going to miss her train.’

The sound of her best friend’s brother’s voice from the bottom of the stairs had Katie making a grab for her case whilst Zoë put her finger to her lips and mouthed, ‘Let’s pretend we aren’t here. He’ll have a heart attack. You know what he’s like about being on time for things.’

Katie could have said that since, on this occasion, what he wanted to be on time for was the train she needed to catch for London, teasing him didn’t seem very fair. But long experience of Zoë had her shaking her head instead, whilst downstairs Tom swore audibly. Zoë burst out laughing and called out, ‘Ooooh, Tom, fancy you using such naughty words.’

Well pleased with her joke, Zoë turned back to Katie, tossing a parcel towards her. ‘Catch! Happy Christmas, and don’t you dare open it until Christmas morning.’

‘Yours is in your suitcase,’ Katie responded. ‘I sneaked it in last night.’

‘What is it? Tell me. Is it a naked poster of that gorgeous boy who serves in the uni bar? The one who looks like he could be a modern-day Earl of Rochester?’ Zoë was mad about the seventeenth-century notorious rake and poet, and Katie wasn’t surprised when she struck a pose, grasping two handfuls of her top as though it were a lecturer’s gown, and quoted,’“… with an avowed contempt of all decency and order, a total disregard to every moral, and a resolute denial of every religious observation, he lived worthless and useless, and blazed out his youth and health in lavish voluptuousness”. He must have been the most deliciously wickedly dangerous man, far more so than Lord Byron,’ she sighed. ‘I would love to meet a man like that, a reincarnation of him, wouldn’t you, Katie?’

‘Who, Dr Johnson?’ Katie teased, referring to the author Zoë had just quoted.

‘No, silly, John Wilmot, of course. Just imagine how exciting it must have been to be with him.’

‘He was a womaniser and a rake,’ Katie reminded her.

Zoë gave a small ecstatic sigh. ‘Exactly,’ and then demanded, ‘Tell me what my present is.’

Katie shook her head.

‘Please…’

‘No.’

‘Katie, do you want to catch this train or not?’ Tom bellowed.

Zoë ran to lean over the banister. ‘Katie does, but I don’t want her to. Why do you have to go home for Christmas when you could have come with us to Klosters? I thought you were my best friend.’ Zoë adopted a tragic pose. ‘You don’t love me any more, do you?’

‘Zoë, stop fooling around for once, will you? Of course Katie wants to spend Christmas with her family.’

Katie blew Zoë a kiss and dragged her case down the stairs, giving Tom a look that was both grateful and apologetic.

It was funny how things could jog along in the same way for so long and then suddenly change overnight or in her case, over a lager in an Oxford pub when she and Zoë had met up with Tom, newly returned to the UK, having completed his Master’s in America. She’d known him virtually all her life, but sitting there in the pub, listening to him talk about America, watching the way he smiled and pushed his dark hair out of his eyes, Katie had realised that the excitement she suddenly felt had nothing to do with the fact that he was Zoë’s brother. And then he’d smiled at her as though he guessed what she was thinking and she’d smiled back. Now it wasn’t just because of Zoë that she was looking forward to going skiing after Christmas.

Katie and Zoë had been best friends from the first term at the small exclusive junior school they’d attended in Kensington, and then all through their time at St Paul’s Girls’ School, before coming to Oxford. Katie, used to the bossiness of an older sister with an overdeveloped sense of responsibility about such things as properly tied shoelaces, neatly brushed hair, and not dragging one’s feet in puddles, had been fascinated and bewitched by Zoë, with her mop of red curls, and her delight in challenging authority, from the moment they had met. It had been Katie who had giggled when, that first break-time, Zoë had held a wriggling worm up to her mouth, pretending that she was eating it, whilst the other girls had fallen back in shocked horror, one of them actually bursting into tears, and that had sealed their friendship.

‘See you in Klosters,’ Zoë called now from the upstairs window of the pretty house her parents had bought for her whilst she was at Oxford, and which the two girls shared.

‘Honestly! Girls! Why do you have to cut things so fine?’ Tom mock-grumbled as he pulled away from the kerb.

Katie had never known a brother and sister who were such opposites as Tom and Zoë. Where Zoë thrived on taking risks, Tom preferred caution; where Zoë was tiny, and had a mass of dark red curls, Tom was tall, with the physique of a keen sportsman, and his hair was straight and black.

Zoë claimed that it was the wild Irish blood she had inherited from her mother’s family that was responsible for her sometimes reckless nature, while Tom took after their father’s family, conservative bankers whose small private bank, in which Tom worked, was still family owned.