Part-Time Father

Even so, she wondered if he’d follow her. But he didn’t, and she walked home with the steady drizzle slowly soaking the woollen fabric of her suit until it clung to her in a soggy mass. Her hair was dripping; the egg-box was drenched, and the bread was virtually inedible—but her mother hardly noticed; she was bobbing up and down with excitement when Kimberley walked through the door.

‘Should you be hopping around on your bad ankle like that?’ observed Kimberley mildly.

‘Oh—it’s almost better, darling. Dr Getty says I’m as fit as a flea. Listen—they’ve just delivered an invitation from Brockbank. Margaret Nash is throwing a party to celebrate Duncan’s engagement tomorrow night. I’m invited—and so are you!’

Kimberley put the shopping on the kitchen table and eyed the invitation her mother was proffering. ‘I’m not going,’ she said flatly.

Her mother’s face fell. ‘Oh, Kim—why ever not?’

Kimberley sighed. ‘Just think about it, Mum. If I go it’ll just put people’s backs up—especially his new fiancee. I’m sure that if I were her I wouldn’t particularly want his ex-fiancée turning up. People would be bound to make hurtful comparisons—and I don’t expect that Duncan would want to see me either. In fact, I’m surprised that I was included on the invitation.’

But she wouldn’t even admit to herself the real reason why nothing would make her set foot inside Brockbank House again.

‘You go. You’ll have a great time.’ Kimberley picked up a towel and began to rub at her sopping hair. ‘Will you ring up and RSVP for me?’ she asked. ‘Please?’

Mrs Ryan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve a feeling there’s more to this than meets the eye, but, yes, darling— if you’re absolutely adamant.’

‘I am.’ She stared down at her mother’s ankle. ‘And if you’re feeling better now, Mum, then I’ll have to think about getting back to London.’

Mrs Ryan sighed. ‘I can’t say I wasn’t expecting it. Such a pity, though—I could quite get used to having you around the place again.’

Kimberley had planned to leave the following afternoon. She had just finished packing after lunch when there was a knock at the front door. Thinking it might be her mother, who had insisted on hobbling next door to see her neighbour, just to prove she could do it, Kimberley opened the door. Before her stood a young woman in her early twenties— someone Kimberley didn’t recognise.

She had shiny shoulder-length fair hair, which was cut into a bob, and she wore a superbly cut pair of trousers in an immaculate but very unseasonal cream colour, with a matching cashmere jacket. Gold gleamed discreetly at her ears and neck and she exuded a kind of confidence which only money could give you. And lots of it, too.

‘Can I help you?’ asked Kimberley uncertainly.

The girl creased her eyes into a frown. ‘Are you Kimberley Ryan?’ Her voice was American—cultured and direct.

‘Yes, I am—but I’m afraid I don’t——’