One Reckless Night. Sara Craven
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a message,’ Zanna returned.
‘That’s the message I’m leaving. Goodbye, Tessa.’
She put the phone down firmly before any more protests could be formulated. Her father might think highly of Tessa Lloyd’s efficiency but she wasn’t particularly likeable, Zanna thought broodingly. And she guarded her employer like some jealous mother hen.
And now you’ve let her needle you into a forty-eigh-thour break that you don’t need and don’t know what to do with anyway, she chided herself crossly.
She glanced round at her suite, restlessly absorbing the opulently bland furnishings, the forgettable series of prints which adorned the walls, the overly tasteful arrangement of silk flowers on a gilt table against a wall.
Suddenly she felt stifled—almost claustrophobic.
Instead of telephoning she would go down to Reception and tell them she was staying on. This was a city, after all. It had a theatre, restaurants. She would plan herself an evening’s entertainment, make the appropriate reservations. There would be art galleries and museums she could visit during the rest of her stay. It would be fun. Or at least different, she amended, with a wry twist of the lips.
The foyer was busy when she emerged from the lift, and the receptionists standing in line at the long desk were all fully occupied. Zanna picked up one of the complimentary folders intended for tourists, detailing things to see and do in the area, and began to leaf idly through it.
A voice at her shoulder said quietly, ‘Miss Westcott.’
Turning with a start, she saw Henry Walton, the chairman of Zolto Electronics, his lined face tired and defeated.
He said, ‘I wanted to congratulate you, Miss Westcott. You have a bargain—as, of course, you know.’
‘Yes.’ Zanna lifted her chin, her expression challenging. ‘I hope there are no hard feelings.’
He shook his head with a faint smile. ‘No, that is too much to ask.’ He studied her for a moment, his eyes suddenly sharp and shrewd, giving her a glimpse of the man who had built up a company from a dream only to see it ultimately undermined by the recession.
He said, with a sigh, ‘Yes, you’re your father’s own daughter, Miss Westcott. And please don’t think I mean that as a compliment. Instead, I’m almost sorry for you.’ He inclined his head with a kind of remote courtesy and walked away.
Zanna stared after him, as shocked and winded as if he’d actually raised his fist and struck her.
It had been the quietest of exchanges yet she suddenly felt self-conscious, as if everyone in the hotel lobby had turned to look at her. As if she were suddenly naked under their censorious gaze.
Her sense of achievement, her plans for the evening ahead suddenly went by the board. She felt chilled and oddly uncertain.
‘May I help you?’ One of the receptionists was free, her brows raised enquiringly, her smile plastic and professional.
Zanna shook her head, then turned away, the edge of the folder still biting into her hand. Her immediate intention was to go back to her room. Instead, she found herself headed, almost running, for the main exit to the hotel car park.
With the thought, I’ve got to get out of here—I must...beating in her head like a drum.
The motorway service station was like any other. Zanna selected a plate of mixed salad and a pot of coffee and carried them to an empty table.
What an idiot, she thought with vexation, to have allowed that little encounter to push her off-balance like that. Normally she wouldn’t have leapt into the car and driven off without the slightest idea where she was heading.
And why was she so disturbed anyway? Being Gerald Westcott’s daughter—being recognized as such—was something to be proud of. Whereas there was nothing admirable in admitting defeat—in failing. That was a lesson she’d been taught since her earliest years.
Achievement—coming first—was the name of the game. Getting the best results at school. Knowing that less would only provoke some disapproving comment from the man she wanted so desperately to please. Any kind of second-best was unthinkable. Times were hard. You had to be tough. There was no room for sentiment in business.
This was the armour she dressed in each morning. The armour in which Henry Walton had found an unexpected and unwelcome chink.
How dared he feel sorry for her? she thought rawly. She didn’t need anyone’s pity. She had a flat overlooking the Thames, an expense account, a new car every year—and she’d just scored her first major negotiating success. She had everything going for her.
She gave a mental shrug as she sat down. Mr Walton had simply turned out to be a bad loser, which, although something of a surprise, was his problem, and she was a fool to let his remarks get to her. Although they’d certainly taken the edge off her triumph, she thought restively. Soured the day when she had totally justified her place on her father’s top team.
She was half tempted to change her mind and return to London, except it might be seen as a kind of climb-down, and the thought of Tessa Lloyd’s superior smile as she obeyed the tug on the leash cemented her determination to stay away, however briefly.
She still had the hotel’s information folder on the table beside her. She’d stop this aimless pounding up the motorway and find something positive to do for the rest of the day.
As she picked up the folder a pale green leaflet fluttered to the floor. Something about a series of spring art exhibitions in local village halls. Nothing she would normally have noticed. But as she bent to retrieve the paper the name ‘Emplesham’ seemed to leap out at her.
For a moment she was very still, staring down at it. Remembering.
Emplesham, she thought wonderingly. It hadn’t even occurred to her how close it must be.
Yet once she’d have known. And without any prompting either. When she was a child, she’d looked it up almost obsessively on the map, calculating the distance from London, from boarding school—from anywhere, she remembered, wincing—and promising herself that one day she’d go there. See the place where the mother she’d never known had been born. As if that, somehow, would bring her closer.
And now I’m actually in the neightbourhood, and if I hadn’t seen this leaflet I wouldn’t have given it a second thought, she told herself wryly.
It was evidence, she realised, of how far she’d grown away from that lonely, introspective little girl.
And perhaps that was how it should stay. After all, going to look at the outside of a house wouldn’t answer any of the questions which had bewildered and tormented her for so many years. The questions that her father, too racked by the grief of his loss, had always refused even to discuss.
After Susan Westcott’s death he had sold the house they had shared, and its contents, dismissed the domestic staff and moved to a new locality with his baby daughter, Suzannah. From then on, of course, she had been always known as Zanna, as if even the similarities in their names were too painful for him to contemplate.
There were no mementoes, no photographs anywhere, and no one the child could ask about her mother. The only reminder that Sir Gerald seemed able to tolerate was the strangely disturbing portrait of his wife kept in his study.
It had always worried Zanna. Nor was it really a likeness either. Above the vibrant swirl of her crimson blouse Sue Westcott’s face was a pale blur, the features barely suggested, apart from her eyes which seemed to burn with a wild green flame. Desperate eyes, Zanna had decided as she grew up. She’d found herself wondering whether her mother had known, somehow, how little time she had left to live. As a picture, it revealed little more.
And then on her eleventh birthday she’d received a small packet at her boarding school, the accompanying lawyer’s letter stating that her mother’s former nanny, Miss Grace Moss, had