Liz Fielding: The Five-Year Baby Secret

He’d begged her to let him drive her to the hospital, to be with her, at her side. They were a couple now. Married. But she’d just clung to him for a moment before she’d stepped back and, unable to look at him, had turned away. ‘Please, Matt. Not now. My father has enough to cope with.’

And he’d let her go because she was hurting. Because, wrongly, he’d believed it wasn’t the moment to fight that battle. He’d let her go with a kiss, trying not to let it hurt that she’d slipped his ring from her finger, saying, ‘Call me. Let me know what’s happening.’

Then, as if in some dark recess of his mind he’d already sensed the cogs of fate slipping out of sync, he’d gone back to the warm space she’d vacated and had lain in the scent of her body, waiting for her to call.

When his phone had rung half an hour later, though, it hadn’t been Fleur. It had been his mother calling to tell him that his father was dead. That Jennifer Gilbert had killed him.

The front door of the Gilbert house opened and a dog, some kind of cross-breed leaning towards a border collie, bounded towards the Land Rover. Then, suddenly, Fleur was there, every inch the businesswoman in a tailored grey suit, her dark red hair swept up into a smooth coil at the base of her neck.

She stood there for a moment, battered briefcase in her hand, her shoulders slumped as if exhausted by the burden she was carrying, and he was glad. She deserved to suffer.

Then she turned as a sturdy little boy raced past her and instinctively his hands went to the window, pressing against the glass as if he could somehow reach out and touch the boy.

How could she have kept that from him?

Denied him his son?

If some anonymous soul hadn’t sent him a cutting from the local newspaper with a photograph taken at a performance of the school Christmas Nativity play he might never have known.

One look was all it had taken for him to know that Thomas Gilbert was his son, but to see him in the flesh was something else and pain burned through him like acid as Fleur opened the Land Rover door, her hand hovering at the child’s back to give him a boost if he faltered, laughing as he said something to her.

She couldn’t have read his letter yet, or nothing on earth would have brought a smile to her lips.

If he’d come home just once. If he hadn’t changed the subject whenever his mother had begun her customary whine against the Gilberts…

If, if, if…

There was no point in dwelling on the past. It had taken time to extricate himself from his commitments in Hungary, to transfer the day-to-day running of the agri-business he’d founded there to his deputy. Every day of it had seemed like a year.

The temptation to simply walk away, catch the first flight back to England, had been almost unbearable, but everything had to be properly settled. He’d been determined that no urgent calls for help would distract him from what he had to do, drag him back.

He was here now and ready to make her pay for every one of those five years he’d missed.

She closed the Land Rover door, checking that it was securely shut, sent the dog back inside and shut the door. Then, as she walked round to the driver’s side, she paused, turned, as if some faint sound had caught her attention and, spotlit by a weak ray of watery sunlight, she lifted her head and looked up across the boundary fence that divided Gilbert and Hanover land to the window where he was standing. And for a heartbeat he thought she could see him, feel him there, watching her.

But after a moment she turned away and lifted her close-fitting skirt, exposing a yard of leg as she hauled herself up behind the wheel.

‘Now, Fleur,’ he said softly. ‘Now.’

Fleur dropped Tom off at the school gates just as the bell rang, and he tore off without a backward glance to join his classmates, pushing and giggling as they lined up to go in. Then, as he reached the door, he stopped, turned, looked back and her heart turned over as she caught a reminder of his father. It was in the turn of his head, the lift of his hand, as if he’d been going to wave, but stopped himself just in time in case anyone should see.

She saw it more and more, sometimes held her breath as some old village biddy would look thoughtfully at the boy with a frown, sifting through her memory, trying to recall where she’d seen just that look before. Fortunately, he’d got the distinctive Gilbert colouring, pale red hair that would darken as he grew older, green eyes, rather than the cool grey of his father. So far no one had made the connection, but as the softness faded from the childish cheeks the likeness would become more obvious.

If Katherine Hanover ever suspected…

If only she would move!

Fleur glared at the glossy blue and gold sign that had been erected at the far end of the village where it could be seen from the main road.

Hanovers—Everything For Your Garden.

Fine. She had no quarrel with that, but why here? It would have made so much more sense to have moved to the business park on the other side of Maybridge where they’d fit right in with the Sunday-shopping-as-entertainment venue with its DIY superstores, flat-pack furniture warehouses and giant supermarkets. Where there was plenty of room for expansion. It could only feed the woman’s bitterness to live and work next door to a family she seemed to blame for every ill that had ever befallen her.

But then sense had nothing to do with it.

When two families had been rivals in business, and in love, for nearly two centuries, hurting the opposition would always take priority, although it seemed to her that in recent years the Hanovers had caused her family enough grief to satisfy even their capacity for inflicting pain.

She managed to squeeze the Land Rover into a space directly opposite the bank—a good omen, surely—and, having checked her lipstick and tucked a strand of hair in place, she opened the door and crossed the street.

‘Goodness, Fleur, I scarcely recognised you,’ the receptionist said, buzzing her through.

‘Really? Is that good or bad?’ she asked.

She rarely applied anything more exciting than the essential sunblock to her skin, but today she’d made the supreme sacrifice in an attempt to impress the new manager with her businesslike image—had put up her hair, added a little style to the hated grey suit with an old silk scarf.

She fiddled self-consciously with one of her earrings, a small swirl of silver studded with a tiny amethyst—her birthstone. Matt Hanover had given them to her instead of a ring the first time he’d asked her to marry him. The first time she’d said, ‘Wait. Not now.’ Well, she’d been eighteen with three years of college ahead of her. He’d just graduated and was going to the other end of the country to work. Waiting had been the only option. But she’d taken the earrings as a token of his commitment, her promise. And they’d been cheap enough, simple enough to wear openly without her mother cross-questioning her on where they’d come from.

One day, he’d promised her, he’d give her diamonds. She’d laughed, told him she had no need of diamonds when she had him and she’d worn the earrings day and night, certain of his love.

The box, buried in the back of her drawer, had surfaced as she’d searched for a scarf and, unable to help herself, she’d opened it. The stones had perfectly matched the rich purple streaks in the silk and, in a gesture of pure defiance, a promise to herself that neither Hanover—mother or son—had the power to hurt her, she’d fastened them to her ears.

Suddenly, she wasn’t so sure.

‘You look great,’ the receptionist assured her in a whisper as she opened the door. Then, brightly, ‘Miss Gilbert to see you, Ms Johnson.’