cross with him. There was something so child-like about him. He didn’t mean to cause trouble; he just couldn’t help himself. It was as natural as breathing for him.
She closed her eyes and settled back into the comfy leather seat, letting the endless stopping and starting of the car journey lull her into a more relaxed frame of mind.
Later, after they’d bundled Dad into the house and up to his room, and Jake had made his excuses and left, she sat at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of tea between her hands and wondered if she’d ever see him again.
She thought perhaps not.
SERENA stared out across the London skyline in an effort to distract herself from the fact that very soon her bottom was going to be frozen to the wooden slats of the park bench. The bench’s position on the brow of a hill offered little protection from the wind, even though it circled a towering sycamore.
‘It’s lovely here. What a view.’
Jake smiled and offered her a plate full of goodies from the picnic basket balancing between them. ‘A favourite haunt of mine when I was younger.’
‘Did you live close by?’
‘Not too far.’
She could imagine him living in Blackheath, the exclusive area south of where they now sat in Greenwich Park. Blackheath itself was a mile-wide expanse of flat grass, its only vertical feature the razor-sharp spire of All Saints’ church. Along the fringes of the heath were creamy Georgian villas, and she could easily imagine a young Jake bounding out of one of them each morning—grey shorts, school cap, laces undone.
‘You can see it from here, actually,’ he said.
She stared hard, but couldn’t work out where he was pointing. The houses were too blurry and indistinct at this distance.
‘You’re looking in the wrong place.’ He put an arm round her shoulder and nudged her so she faced more to the west.
‘You can’t miss it. See the three tower blocks?’
‘Beyond them?’
‘No, in them. I used to live in the one on the far right. Fourteenth floor.’
She turned to look him in the eye. ‘Really?’
‘I could see this park from my bedroom window. A beautiful patch of green surrounded by pollution and concrete.’
She laughed. ‘Very poetic.’
‘Shh! You’ll ruin my tough businessman image.’
‘I’m not sure you’re as tough as you look, Charlie.’
He gave her a sideways look. ‘Why do you keep calling me that?’
‘I don’t know. It just seems to pop out of my mouth. It must suit you.’
His jaw hardened. ‘I prefer Jake.’
‘But it’s not your real name.’
‘Ah! So I get to use your given name as well, do I?’
‘Good point. Jake it is.’ She leaned back and looked up into the leafless branches above. ‘Didn’t you have a garden where you lived? Not even a shared one?’
She could hear him fiddling with the strap of the picnic basket. ‘Do we have to do the childhood memories bit?’
‘It’s only fair. Even though I’m not famous myself, I’m related to someone who is, and that’s good enough for the celebrity-hungry media. You could probably type my name into a search engine and find out what I had for breakfast last Wednesday.’
‘I can think of better ways of finding out what you like for breakfast.’ The edge in his voice was pure wickedness.
She rolled the back of her head against the tree trunk until she could see him. ‘Nice try, but you’re not going to throw me off track. I just want to know a little more about you. It’s hardly a crime.’
‘I normally get away with that kind of tactic.’ He grinned, willing her to take the diversion he offered.
‘I bet you do.’
His expression grew more serious. ‘You’re right. It’s not a crime. I’m used to fluffing over the details my childhood. Some of my clients would faint if they thought a council estate yob was looking after their millions.’
Serena looked him up and down. How anyone could ever think of him as a yob was beyond her. Six-foot-something of pure elegance was standing right in front of her, from his cashmere coat to his hand-made shoes.
‘There were hardly any trees on the estate, so I used to come here on the weekends—on days when the prospect of school was just too bleak.’
She picked up her plate—china, no less—and pinched a stuffed vine leaf between thumb and forefinger. Jake was staring at his old home, his eyes glazed with memories.
‘I’d sit on this very bench and plot and plan my escape from the tower blocks. I’d watch the rest of the city going about its business and dream I could become a part of it one day.’
‘Is that why you got into accounting?’ She gave him a lazy smile. ‘All that rabid excitement?’
‘Ha, ha. Don’t bother going down the all-accountants-are-boring route. I’ve heard all the jokes a million times. Anyway, at first I didn’t want to be an accountant. I knew I needed money to get away from the estate, so I decided I’d better learn how to look after it properly. I got a job at a local accounting firm when I left school and it grew from there. Pretty soon I knew I’d found my niche, so I took the tests and worked hard until I qualified.’
‘It sounds like you were very dedicated.’
‘I wanted to get my mum away from there. She deserved something more than that.’
‘I’ve heard those accounting exams are really difficult.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve never stuck at anything like that. We were always moving around too much. Dad was either on tour, or recording in some far-flung place.’
‘What did you do about school?’
‘Well, up until I was eleven or so my mum home-schooled me. My primary education was unconventional, to say the very least. By the time I was ten I knew all about trees and crystals and the constellations, but I was a little lacking in the maths and science department.’ She struck a pose. ‘But I was very good at improvisational dance and mime.’
Jake gave her another one of his heart-melting smiles.
‘What happened after that?’
‘Mum got ill and I was sent away to boarding school.’
His eyebrows lifted. ‘I can’t really see you in a starched school uniform, having midnight feasts with Lady Cynthia.’
‘If only! Have you heard of Foster’s Educational Centre in the West Country?’
He shook his head.
‘One of the Sunday magazines did a feature on it a few months ago—I thought you might have seen it. Anyway, it’s one of those so-called progressive schools, all fashionable psychology and no common sense. Complete nuthouse, if you ask me.’ She winked at him. ‘Needless to say, I didn’t fit in.’
‘No! Of course not. The thought never crossed my mind.’
‘Actually, I’m not joking. The other kids laughed at me because