Sarah's Secret

SARAH was reading when her grandmother called in to report on the play. Margaret Parker’s eyebrows rose when she heard about the unexpected visitor.

‘Hogan? I’m sure I’ve heard that name somewhere quite recently.’

‘You probably read his success story in the local paper. He’s the brains behind Pentiles.’

‘The tiles we used in your bathroom? How impressive.’

‘He called this morning, too, while I was out. You were probably in the garden and didn’t hear the bell.’ Sarah gave her grandmother a challenging little smile. ‘Actually, I’m glad I was out. It meant I enjoyed a pleasant interlude in the garden with a very attractive stranger. Spiced up my Saturday evening no end.’

‘You’ve changed your tune since last night,’ said Margaret tartly. ‘Although you should be grateful to this Mr Hogan for making you miss the play.’ She looked down her nose. ‘The ex-soap star may have drawn the crowds in, but Oscar Wilde was probably spinning in his Paris grave at her interpretation of Lady Windermere.’

‘Oh, dear. You think Brian disapproved?’

‘Her costumes displayed so much cleavage I’m sure the male half of the audience were very happy.’

Sarah chuckled. ‘Brian’s not that sort.’

Margaret’s mouth tightened. ‘All men are that sort. As you very well know.’

Sarah took a while to get to sleep that night, trying to remember exactly what she’d read about Pentiles. She knew that Jacob Hogan had taken over the family business when quite young, and eventually turned it into its present success story. But to her annoyance she couldn’t remember if a wife had been mentioned in the article.

She sighed despondently. Not that it mattered. Men tended to lose interest in her once they found she came as a package with Davy. One look at her child’s photograph had probably killed all personal interest on Jake Hogan’s part. Brian, to his credit, had insisted that Sarah’s responsibilities as a single parent made no difference to their relationship. And in principle, she conceded, they probably hadn’t. Not that this had ever worried Sarah much because she had known from the beginning that, no matter how much her grandmother stressed Brian’s eligibility, there was no future in the relationship. Quite apart from the problem with Davy, he just didn’t appeal to Sarah in the normal male-female way.

Jake Hogan, on the other hand, appealed to her a lot. In every way. A fright and a graze or two were a small price to pay for meeting the most attractive man to enter her life to date, even if it was just a one-off experience.

Next morning Sarah drove out of town for a couple of miles to make for the Rogers home, where screams of laughter could be heard coming from the depths of its vast, wild garden when she arrived. Alison Rogers welcomed her into the house and took her straight to a big, comfortably untidy kitchen, where it was pleasant to sit for a while and chat over coffee while Don Rogers went to collect Polly and Davina.

‘Thank you so much for having Davy,’ Sarah said gratefully. ‘This was quite a big step for her. She’s never wanted a sleepover before, let alone a whole extra day away from home.’

‘She told me that,’ said Alison, pleased. ‘We’re flattered. And as far as we’re concerned Davy can make a return visit any time. It was far less trouble for us than keeping Polly entertained on her own. Now she’s a weekly boarder our daughter demands our undivided attention every minute of the day at weekends. I expect it’s the same with Davy.’

‘Absolutely!’

‘But you have to cope on your own, which must be hard.’ Alison bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah. I didn’t mean to get personal. But Davy told us she’s never had a daddy.’

‘That’s right,’ said Sarah cheerfully. ‘Men don’t feature in Davy’s life, so I hope your husband didn’t find her too much of a nuisance.’

‘Don took to her on sight—as you can see.’ Alison got up to point through the window, where her large husband was tearing towards the house in mock terror, with two little girls chasing after him, screaming in delight.

Sarah laughed as she watched Don Rogers capture a little girl under each arm and run with them into the house.

‘Right,’ he panted as he set them down. ‘Which one would you like, Sarah?’

‘Mummy!’ Davy launched herself at Sarah to hug her, looking flushed and grubby and thoroughly pleased with herself. ‘We went bowling and had pizzas and we talked all night.’

‘Most of it, anyway,’ said Alison indulgently.

‘You’ve obviously had a marvellous time,’ said Sarah, ruffling Davy’s hair.

‘Mummy says Davy can come every weekend,’ said Polly hopefully.

Her father chuckled. ‘We might like that, but I think Sarah would miss her.’

‘How about coming to stay with Davy and me some time, instead, Polly?’ suggested Sarah. ‘Our garden’s not as big as yours, but we could go swimming, and to the cinema, maybe.’

Polly clamoured at once for permission, a date was set for two weeks later, and Alison suggested Sarah drove Polly back afterwards. ‘Join us for Sunday lunch that day. Davy too, of course. We’ll invite some of the neighbours in, make it a party.’

Sarah made no attempt to hide her pleasure. This was the kind of invitation which never came her way. ‘That’s so kind of you, I’d love to.’

On the way home Davy chattered incessantly, giving Sarah every detail of her stay with Polly. ‘Mr Rogers is lovely,’ she said with enthusiasm. ‘Mrs Rogers, too,’ she added hastily, ‘but she couldn’t play with us all the time, because she had to do cooking and stuff.’

‘A woman’s lot,’ said Sarah with a dramatic sigh, and Davy giggled.

‘You don’t cook all the time.’

‘True. Grandma’s making Sunday lunch at this very moment.’

‘What are we having?’ said Davy, eyes sparkling.

‘I know about lots of vegetables, because I did them for her before I came out. And I’m sure Grandma’s rustling up something yummy to go with them.’

When they hurried upstairs in Campden Road, delicious scents of roast chicken came wafting from Margaret’s kitchen. She came down to meet them, smiling with a warmth she never showed Sarah as she opened her arms for Davy to fling herself into them and give a second account of her activities over the weekend.

‘Goodness, what an exciting time you’ve had,’ said Margaret fondly. ‘Now, go and wash in my bathroom, Davina Tracy. Lunch is nearly ready.’ She exchanged a look with Sarah as the little girl raced off. ‘She obviously enjoyed herself.’

‘She certainly did. But brace yourself, because we’ve got Polly on a return visit in a fortnight.’ Sarah’s lips twitched. ‘You could always take off on holiday a few days sooner than scheduled.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Margaret briskly. ‘I shall be here as usual. But the Rogers child will be your responsibility, Sarah, not mine.’

The rest of the day went by in a flash, with only time for the cake Margaret always made for Davy’s tea before Sarah drove the child back to school. This was a task she never looked forward to, though it was easier these days, now Davy had made friends. During her first term Davy had hated going back to school on Sunday evenings, and had been so tearful the journey had been purgatory for Sarah.

Given her own choice of education Sarah would have kept Davy at home and sent her to a local day school. But Margaret Parker had contributed to the money Sarah’s parents had put in trust for school fees at Davy’s birth, and had made sure that when the time came the child was sent to Roedale. And if Sarah suspected that Margaret had chosen the school for its social cachet, rather than its excellent academic record, she kept her thoughts to herself.

So, although Anne and David Tracy had died on holiday when Davina was only five, Sarah had kept her promise and eventually sent the child as a weekly boarder to the girls’ school Margaret Parker had persuaded them to choose. But Sarah had never imagined beforehand how painful it would be to part with Davy every term-time Sunday evening.

When Brian rang after the weekend, with a belated enquiry after Sarah’s health, she agreed readily when he suggested they had dinner together the following evening, glad of the opportunity to tell him it was over between them.

Over dinner at Brian’s favourite restaurant Sarah listened patiently while he gave her a detailed account of the play she’d missed.

‘The actress who played Lady Windermere was particularly good,’ he informed her. ‘Beautiful creature.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ murmured Sarah absently, her mind on the kindest way to tell him it was over between them. In the end Brian gave up on her, openly relieved when she refused pudding and coffee. He walked her back to the car at such a pace she assumed he was in a hurry to get home, then sat silent for a moment, making no move to switch on the ignition.

‘Sarah, there’s something I need to tell you,’ he informed her heavily.

Because he’d taken the exact words out of her mouth she eyed him in surprise. ‘Talk away, then, Brian.’

‘I’m sorry I was poor company tonight,’ he began, staring through the windscreen. ‘Because, well—oh, dammit, there’s no easy way to say this.’