The Cinderella Moment

The train ride home was very uneventful.

There were five messages on the answer machine when Cass got in. The first was from the madwoman with a dog called Snoops, then one from David, one from the girl who did their ironing and one from the parents of the girl who did their ironing, and the last one – with the number withheld – was something that consisted mostly of sobbing and screaming, interspersed with snarling and possibly some swearing, but it was difficult to pick out because there was a dog barking frantically in the background.

Cass had just got to the end of them when Jake appeared through the front door, pulling on a sweater. ‘Danny’s ready, I’ve put the dog in the Land Rover, and a curry in the oven for when we get back from the b—’ He looked at her. ‘What?’

Cass pressed play, skipped the loony and went straight for David.

‘Hi, Cassandra, it’s David.’ As if she didn’t know. ‘Just a quick call. I think we need to talk. I appreciate that you may feel a little aggrieved at the moment, but, after all, marriage is a game of two halves.’ He laughed at what passed for a joke in his neck of the woods. Jake shook his head as the message continued. ‘So, I wondered if I might pop round one evening…Probably once Danny is in bed would be better, don’t you think? Wednesday would be good for me. After squash.’

‘Amoeba,’ spat Jake, pressing the skip button.

‘Hello, Cass, it’s Abby,’ said an uneven, rather thin, weepy little girl voice. ‘I just wanted to explain…you know, about everything and stuff.’

Jake groaned. ‘Do we have to listen to this?’

‘I don’t want you to be angry or anything,’ Abby interrupted. ‘It just happened, you know. I don’t think that either of us, we – you know, me or David – meant it to. Not really. It was just, you know, like, one of those things, and that, you know.’

‘Fuck, these things should be banned.’ Jake pressed skip again.

‘Er, hello there. This is Abigail’s dad here. We wondered if we could pop round for a bit of a chat one night,’ said a gruff no-nonsense voice. ‘We were hoping for some kind of explanation, really. I mean, me and her mum feel that Abby was in your care, technically. And we didn’t think –’

Jake pressed the button again. ‘Maybe you should arrange it so that they come round the same night as David?’ he said, skipping to the last one, the wailing and the barking. ‘What the hell’s that?’

Cass sat down on the bottom stair. ‘Snoops, possibly. What did you say your friend in Brighton’s name was again?’

Hidden away in his motel room, James Devlin slipped off his jacket, very carefully hung it up in the wardrobe, settled down on the bed with his hands behind his neck, and considered his next move.

2 (#ulink_961c9510-5ba0-5386-a40a-78d91d87c0bd)

A few days later, a Thameslink train slowed to a crawl and pulled into Brighton Station. Cass collected her things together and peered out of the grimy carriage window; she wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it. Brighton didn’t look at all like a seaside town, more like King’s Cross on a bad day, maybe even grimier. There were the sounds of seagulls, but Cass wouldn’t have been surprised if they were a recording being played over the tannoy.

Pulling up the handle on her suitcase, Cass made her way along the platform towards the exit, looking at the sea of faces as she did. Barney, Barney – what the hell did a bad-tempered artist called Barney look like?

Oh, there, that just had to be him: leaning against a pillar was a small plump man with grey skin, bloodshot eyes, a beard like a bird’s nest, and a lot of hair growing out of his ears. He was smoking a roll-up and wearing a nasty oversized well-stained sweater that would have passed muster on any self-respecting artist from eighteen to eighty.

She was about to walk over to him when a cultured voice said, ‘Cassandra?’ She swung round to be greeted by an elderly man who was leaning heavily on a walking stick. His thick silver-grey hair was slicked back and tucked behind his ears, and he was wearing an expensive, beautifully tailored grey suit and a paisley waistcoat. He looked like a well-heeled country squire.

‘Barney?’

The man extended a hand and smiled. ‘Absolutely. Delighted to meet you, my dear. Bartholomew Anthony Hesquith-Morgan-Roberts. Jake sent me a photo of you; it does you no justice at all.’

His deep, dark brown voice came straight out of one of the better public schools, pure top-drawer, clipped and nipped and terribly posh, and Cass – although she smiled and shook his hand – could feel the chip on her shoulder weighing heavy. David was an ex-public schoolboy too and the most terrible snob, and thought some of what he referred to as ‘her funny little habits’ anything but funny.

‘But do feel free to call me Barney,’ the man was saying. ‘Everyone else does, despite my best efforts to stop them. Still, it’s rather nice to give the whole moniker an airing once in a while. So, what did Jake tell you about me?’

Cass looked him up and down. Barney was tall and nicely made with broad shoulders, a generous mouth and a big hawkish nose that dominated his large suntanned face. She had no doubt that, in his day, Barney had been a total rogue – and most probably still was when he got the chance. He had bright blue eyes, and when he smiled his whole face concertinaed into pleats like Roman blinds and promised all manner of things.

‘That you’re a miserable old bastard,’ she suggested.

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘You know, it’s such a cliché, but sadly it’s absolutely true. I used to be a miserable young bastard, but it doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it? For years people – mostly women, it has to be said – have been convinced that I’m complex and deep, a wounded soul who needed saving from a cruel and uncomprehending world, but to be perfectly honest I’ve mostly just been in a foul mood for the last sixtyodd years. I was a dour and grumpy child, spent almost all of my twenties being annoyed about something or somebody, my thirties were worse, and I was absolutely unspeakable in my forties. It was such a relief to get into my fifties; people take it for granted that you’re grumpy then. My sixties have been an absolute dream.’ He paused. ‘I think it would be best if we took a cab. Getting a car in and out of here and then finding somewhere to park would very possibly have given me heart failure. Besides, it makes me swear dreadfully at people – who can, it has to be said, be bloody infuriating.’ He tucked the cane under his arm, grabbed hold of the handle of her suitcase and marched off towards the taxi rank at top speed, Cass having to run to keep up.

‘I thought you’d got a bad back?’ she said, scuttling after him.

‘I have,’ he grumbled. ‘I hate the fact it slows me down. Although my mood’s improved tremendously since the pain eased up. I’m bloody awful at being old. Jake told me that you have a son?’

‘Danny.’

Barney nodded gravely. ‘I hate children.’

Cass tried to work out if he was joking.

‘Is he quiet?’

‘Of course he’s not quiet. He’s six.’

Barney looked thoughtful. ‘Right. I see. And you’re expecting me to let you live in my flat with your noisy son, are you?’

Cass ground to a halt and glared at him. ‘Whoa. Hang on a minute there. Is this some kind of trial by ordeal? Because if it is, I’m not interested. Right now my life is about as messy as I ever want it to be. If you expect me to help you out and work in your gallery, that’s fine. But I don’t need to jump through hoops of fire to prove anything – all right? Is that clear? And being rude and then telling me you’ve always been like that doesn’t cut it as an excuse. Capiche?’

Barney stared at her and then nodded appreciatively. ‘I think we’re going to get along just fine,’ he said. ‘You remind me of my mother.’

Cass carried on glaring at him. ‘How do you really feel about children?’

Barney mulled it over for a few moments. ‘I hate them,’ he said cheerfully.

‘I’m sure, given time, Danny will hate you right back.’

Barney nodded. ‘Sounds like a very equitable arrangement. And you’ve got a cat called Bob and a dog –’

‘Called Milo.’

Barney smiled. It lit up his face like a flare. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful. I adore animals. Now, let’s find a cab. I thought we’d go to the flat first, leave your luggage there, and then we’ll come back into town once you’ve got your bearings.’

‘And look at the shop?’

He nodded. ‘Yes. It’s in the Lanes.’

‘Sorry?’ Nothing that Cass had seen of Brighton so far suggested there were anything approaching lanes within miles.

‘Have you never heard of it? It’s a magical little area, very arty – better than the rest of Brighton put together, in my opinion. You’ll love it. It’s between North Street and the seafront. It predates the Regency rush to Brighton; gives you an idea how the whole place must have looked when it was a fishing village.’

‘And your shop is there?’

‘Oh God, yes. It’s wonderful, whole place is like a North European souk – bohemian, busy, bubbling, vibrant. There are designer shops and hippie shops and gem shops and juice bars, all sorts of amazing little treasures nestled together. And, well, you’ll see – my place has an eye on the commercial; beautiful things designed for broader tastes.’ He paused. ‘We’ve got all sorts of wonderful old tut in there.’

Cass looked along the busy concourse. It certainly didn’t seem the kind of place you’d have problems getting staff. ‘And you want me to work there because…?’

Barney considered for a few moments. ‘Because I trust Jake’s judgement, and mine is bloody awful. Good help is still hard to come by, however old the cliché. I need someone who is versatile, enthusiastic and talented, and who won’t keep moaning about what a pain in the arse I am.’