She wasn’t sure how long she’d been crouching there, trance like, when the cold suddenly hit her. Her limbs ached, and it was hard to stand up. Glancing at the screen on her phone, she saw that it was past ten o’clock. She’d better get home.
Walking quickly up the lane towards Furlings, it took her less than ten minutes to reach the entrance to the drive. Once there she did have to be careful, as the trees arched above her, blocking out what little moonlight had been guiding her thus far, and making it hard to pick her way along the rough, icy track. Her phone made an inadequate torch as she picked her way over the potholes, and it took another ten minutes before she rounded the corner and the lights of the house hove into view.
Slipping her phone back into her coat pocket, Tati had started to walk faster towards the lawn when something made her stop and slink back into the shadows. It was a figure, a man, heavyset and silent, his black coat and hat silhouetted in the moonlight. He was standing about twenty feet back from the drawing room, stock still in the darkness, watching the figures within. Not like a burglar, casing the joint. More like a friend or a visitor. It was as if he were considering going inside, but was afraid to.
For a brief moment, Tati wondered whether he might be a ghost. It seemed the right sort of night for it somehow. She wasn’t afraid, just curious, half expecting him to walk a few steps forward then evaporate into the winter air like a wisp of smoke. But instead he moved his arm slightly and shifted position, triggering one of the garden lights to switch on and glare up at him. There must be some sort of motion sensor. In that instant, Tati knew that this was no spirit. This was a man, as human and alive as she was, and just as lost and sad on this snowy Christmas Eve.
The light only fell across his face for a moment before switching off, plunging him back into darkness. But it was long enough for Tatiana to see the abject misery in Brett Cranley’s eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Tatiana smoothed down her skirt and checked her make-up in the mirrored doors of the lift. Perfect. She was heading up to the eighteenth floor of Number One Angel Court in the City of London, to Hamilton Hall’s new business offices, for an important board meeting, and she felt terrific.
The morning had begun well, with a negative pregnancy test. Sitting on the loo in her master bathroom, with Jason still asleep next door, it was all she could do not to weep with relief when the single blue line appeared in the little plastic window. She knew she wasn’t handling the whole baby thing well. She ought to sit down with Jason and tell him she’d changed her mind; that she categorically wasn’t ready for motherhood. But some sixth sense told her that such a declaration would mark the beginning of a conversation about their marriage that neither of them had the strength for. Too guilty to go back on the pill in secret, Tati spent each month playing a ridiculous game of Russian roulette. Each time the test was negative, she experienced a wave of euphoria and renewed energy, like a condemned prisoner awarded a last-minute reprieve.
Today’s result couldn’t have come at a better time. This morning’s board meeting was going to be a battle of wills. Tatiana’s key opponent on the board, the infuriating Lady Arabella Boscombe, was implacably opposed to opening a New York school, and was spitting teeth that Tati had already verbally agreed a deal on a prime piece of Manhattan real estate without board approval. Lady Arabella used to be deputy editor of the Times Educational Supplement, and considered herself to be a grandee of the educational establishment. Her sense of entitlement wasn’t hindered by the fact that her family owned half of Chelsea, with property holdings second only to the Duke of Westminster A little bird told Tati that Lady Arabella had been ringing round her fellow board members, trying to whip up support for a vote of no confidence in their CEO and foundress.
Tati, however, felt invincible. Not only was she not pregnant, but the figures had come in late last night for the new Clapham School. They were already at full headcount and running at a thumping profit. Meanwhile, the original Sloane Square School had just been nominated Private Co-Ed Prep of the Year by the Times Educational Supplement. Hamilton Hall Ltd’s coffers were awash with cash like never before. Even the exchange rate was in Tati’s favour. No one, not even that old battle-axe Lady Arabella, could argue that this wasn’t an auspicious time for British companies to be buying up US assets. Expansion was the future and the key to Tatiana’s next fortune. She wasn’t about to let her lily-livered board of directors hold her back.
The lift doors opened and Tatiana strutted down the corridor to the Hamilton Hall reception.
‘Good morning, Mrs Cranley.’
The receptionist looked nervous. Clearly the tension surrounding this morning’s meeting was contagious.