The telephone rang just as Zoe had finished mopping the floor.
‘Damn!’ She sprinted across the kitchen, her footprints appearing on the damp tiles, and reached the phone just before the answering machine clicked on.
‘I’m here,’ she said breathlessly, hopefully.
‘It’s me.’
‘Oh, hi, Marcus.’
‘Don’t sound so pleased to hear from me, will you?’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’m only returning your call, anyway,’ he pointed out.
‘Yes. Do you want to pop round this evening for a drink?’
‘Sure. Have you spoken to Dad?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘Tell you later,’ she replied distractedly.
‘Okay. See you around seven.’
Zoe slammed the receiver down and let out a howl of frustration. Time was running short. Next week she was off on location to Norfolk to begin shooting Tess. He only had the Welbeck Street landline number – neither of them had had mobile phones all those years ago – and if her grandfather had answered the phone, he’d called himself ‘Sid’; she couldn’t remember exactly why, but they’d both giggled about it.
The fact that she wasn’t going to be in London to answer it, coupled with the fact that she’d be in a small Norfolk village where he’d be so horribly noticeable, meant he wouldn’t come to visit her anyway. And then it would drift and the moment would be gone. Zoe didn’t think she could stand it.
‘Please, please ring,’ she begged the telephone.
She glanced at her reflection in the corner of a mirror and sighed. She looked pale and drained. She’d done what she always did in times of high tension and crisis: she’d cleaned and scrubbed and polished and dusted manically, trying to wear herself out to keep herself from dwelling on the situation.
And . . . she had begun to realise she was totally unused to being alone, which wasn’t helping either. Up until two months ago, there’d always been James to talk to. God, she missed him. And Jamie. She was only grateful that she had done as James had asked and accepted the part of Tess, especially as the call she so longed for looked more and more unlikely as each day passed.
Marcus rang the doorbell at half past seven that evening and Zoe greeted him at the door.
‘’Lo, Zo.’
She eyed him. ‘You been drinking?’
‘Only a couple, honest.’
‘A couple of bottles from the looks of you.’ Zoe led Marcus into the sitting room. ‘Coffee to sober you up?’
‘Whisky if you’ve got it.’
‘Fine.’ Too weary to argue, Zoe went to the drinks cabinet, an ugly antique walnut thing, with heavy cabriole legs that she was always tripping over – and probably worth a fortune. She must remember to call an assessor and update the inventory of the house contents for insurance, now that James was gone. Maybe she could sell some of the finer pieces to aid the house renovation. Finding the whisky, she filled a tumbler a quarter full and handed it to her brother.
‘Come on, sis. That’s a bit of a stingy measure.’
‘Help yourself then,’ Zoe said, handing him the whisky bottle and pouring herself a gin and tonic. ‘I’ll just go and get some ice. Want some?’
‘No thanks.’ He topped up the tumbler and waited for Zoe to return.
‘Making yourself at home, then?’ He motioned to the different art pieces on the wall.
‘I just moved a couple of pictures down here from my bedroom to brighten the room up.’
‘Nice to have a legacy like this,’ he muttered.
‘Not that again! Marcus, I hate to remind you, but Dad did give you enough money to rent your very nice flat in Notting Hill a few years ago. On top of funding your many film projects.’
‘Fair point,’ Marcus agreed. ‘So, tell me what you and he discussed the other night.’
‘Well –’ Zoe curled up on the sofa – ‘even though you’ve been totally ungracious over the business of the will, I can understand how you’ve felt.’
‘That’s very perceptive of you, sister dear.’
‘Don’t patronise me, Marcus. I’m only trying to help.’
‘I would have said you’re the one doing the patronising, sweetheart.’
‘Christ! You are so bloody impossible! Now, just shut up for five minutes, while I explain how I might be able to help.’
‘All right, all right. Go on, then.’
‘To be fair, I think the deal has always been that you were looked after financially by Dad, while Jamie and I were taken care of by James. And because I’m raising Jamie by myself, I think James wanted to make absolutely sure that whatever happened, we’d both be okay.’
‘Maybe,’ Marcus grunted.
‘So –’ Zoe took a sip of her gin – ‘given all the money’s in trust for Jamie, there’s only one area of the will from which I can legally and honestly extract some dosh for you.’
‘And that is?’
Zoe sighed. ‘I don’t think you’re going to like this, but it really is the best I can do.’
‘Come on then, shoot.’
‘Do you remember at the reading of the will, the bit at the end about the memorial fund?’
‘Vaguely – although by then I was about to blow a gasket.’
‘Well, it’s basically an amount held in trust to provide fees for drama school each year for one talented male and one female actor.’
‘Oh. You’re going to suggest I use that and go back to college, are you?’ Marcus quipped.
Zoe ignored him. ‘What Dad and I are suggesting is that we put you in charge of the trust and pay you a good salary to organise and administer it.’
Marcus stared at her. ‘Is that it?’
‘Yes. Oh Marcus!’ Zoe shook her head in frustration. ‘I knew you’d react like this! We’re offering you something that will only take up a couple of months a year, maximum, but will at least give you a regular income whilst you try to get your film going. Yes, you’ll need to do the initial promotion and get the media interested in it to help encourage applications. Then there’ll have to be a week or so of auditions in front of a panel of your choice – I’m happy to come – and some administration, but really, it’s money for old rope. You could do it standing on your head.’
There was silence from Marcus, so Zoe decided to play her trump card. ‘It’ll also make those that have doubted you in the film business stand up and take notice, help your reputation and the young future of British theatre. There’s no reason why you can’t use the media coverage to raise your own profile and that of your production company.’
Marcus raised his head and looked at her. ‘How much?’
‘Dad and I thought thirty thousand a year. I know it’s not the amount you need,’ she added hastily, ‘but it’s not bad for a few weeks’ work. And you can have the first year’s salary upfront if you want.’ Zoe pointed at the folder on the table. ‘All the details on the trust and the amount we have to invest in it are explained in there. Take it home and have a look at it. You don’t have to decide now.’
He leant forward and fingered the folder. ‘That’s awfully kind of you, Zoe. I thank you for your generosity.’
‘That’s okay.’ Zoe didn’t know whether Marcus was being grateful or sarcastic. ‘I’ve really tried to sort something out for you. I know it’s not the hundred grand you wanted, but you know that will come eventually.’
Marcus stood up, sudden rage pounding through him as he glared at his sister’s smooth, smug face. ‘Tell me, Zoe, where do you get off?’
‘What?’
‘You sit there and look down on me: the poor sinner who’s lost his way but can be rescued with a bit of time and patience. And yet, and yet –’ Marcus threw up his hands in disbelief – ‘it’s you who’s messed up, you who got pregnant at eighteen! So unless it really was the bloody immaculate conception, I’d reckon you know more about sin than I do.’
Zoe’s face drained of colour. She stood up, shaking with anger.
‘How dare you insult me and Jamie like that! I know you’re angry, and desperate, and almost certainly depressed too, but I really have tried to do everything I can to help. Well, this is where I get off. I’ve had it up to here with your pathetic self-pity. Now get lost!’
‘Don’t worry, I’m going.’ He headed for the door. ‘And you can stick your sodding memorial fund where the sun don’t shine!’
Zoe heard the door slam behind him, and burst into tears. She was crying so hard that she only just heard the sound of the telephone ringing. The answering machine took the call.
‘Er, hello, Zoe. It’s me. I . . .’
She virtually vaulted off the sofa and sprinted into the kitchen to pick up the receiver. ‘I’m here, Art.’ His nickname was out of her mouth before she could stop herself.
‘How are you?’
Zoe looked at her tear-stained reflection in the glass kitchen cabinets and said, ‘I’m well, very well.’
‘Good, good. Er, I was wondering, would it be too rude to invite myself to your place for a drink? You know how it is with me and I’d love to see you, Zoe, I really would.’
‘Of course. When would you like to come?’
‘Friday evening, maybe?’
‘Perfect.’
‘Around eight?’
‘Suits me.’
‘Right then. I look forward to it. Goodnight, Zoe. Sleep well.’
‘Night.’ She put down the receiver slowly, not sure whether to carry on crying or to whoop for joy.
She chose the latter. Doing an Irish jig round the kitchen, she made mental plans to spend tomorrow beautifying herself. Hairdressers’ and clothes shops were most definitely on the agenda.
Contemplating her complete and utter shit of a brother was not.