he said, but she didn’t turn around.
‘You don’t need to be sorry. I’ve said what I came to say. As far as you’re concerned, this is over.’
‘When did you arrive?’
‘Yesterday.’ Jab, jab.
‘And when are you going home?’
‘Monday.’ Jab, jab, jab.
He leaned forward and covered her hand with his, stopping her touching the buttons. His touch seemed to burn.
What was wrong with the stupid elevator? ‘You own this building,’ she snapped. ‘Put in more lifts.’
‘Let me take you to lunch.’
‘No.’
‘That’s not very gracious.’
‘No!’
‘Mary—’
‘I’ve said what I came to say. Let me go.’
‘Can I tell you why I reacted...as I did?’
And finally the elevator arrived. All she needed to do was step inside and head for the ground floor. Then catch a cab, collect her gear, head to the airport and go home.
‘There’s a reason,’ he said.
The elevator door closed again and it slid silently away. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her so she was facing him.
‘Tell me.’ She felt weary beyond belief. Jet-lag? Early pregnancy? She’d been feeling the effects of both these things but the look on Ben’s face had made them ten times worse.
‘I can’t...’ he said.
‘Tell me,’ she repeated, and she thought tears weren’t far off. But why should she cry now? She’d had this sorted, or she’d thought she had.
Until she’d seen the fear.
‘I don’t do families,’ he said.
This was a dumb place to have such a conversation, she thought inconsequentially. Outside the elevators. Public.
And then she glanced over Ben’s shoulder and realised the palatial reception area was designed for one secretary and Elsbeth was nowhere to be seen. This whole floor was Ben’s.
This was Ben’s world and she had no place here. But...was this his refuge as Hideaway Island had been hers?
A storm had destroyed her refuge. Was she threatening his?
She wasn’t. He didn’t do families? She wasn’t asking that of him.
But it seemed he intended to tell.
‘Mary, my father, his father and his father before him practically owned Manhattan,’ he said. ‘My father was a womanising megalomaniac. My mother was a talented, beautiful, fragile screen star. Rita Marlene. You may have heard of her. She needed support and love and appreciation to thrive and with my father she got nothing.
‘After Jake and I were born she retreated into her stage world, where her only reality was her acting. It reached the point where even when she was upset, we never knew what was real or make-believe. Ophelia, Lady Macbeth, Anna Karenina, Jake and I had them all. Plus isolation and nannies. The only time Jake and I were noticed by our parents was when we did something outrageous and, believe me, we made outrageous a life skill.
‘I don’t think we realised...how much worse it made everything. That every time we hit trouble our father blamed Rita. Rita.’ He gave a harsh, short laugh. ‘She was always Rita. Stage Rita. Never Mom. And my father was Sir.’
‘Ben—’
‘I know, this is self-indulgent history,’ he said harshly. ‘But hear me out. When we were fourteen Jake and I stole a car. Not just any car either,’ he said, and once again there was an attempt at a smile. ‘My father was trying to stitch up a deal with a spoiled brat son-of-a-sheikh. An oil magnate. He had him to stay in our family mansion and pulled out all stops to impress.
‘You can imagine the scene. Servants everywhere, my mother dressed up in the most beautiful ballgown, almost ethereal, playing the subservient wife to a T. I believe...’ He hesitated. ‘I think now she was heavily into drugs. All the signs were there only, of course, no one wanted to see.’
‘Oh, Ben...’
But he wasn’t stopping. He knew she’d seen the horror, and maybe he had to explain.
‘And so my father was barking orders, desperate to impress, bullying the servants, bullying Rita. And Jake and I were ordered to dress in suits we hated and present ourselves in the drawing room to be introduced as his sons. It did his street cred good,’ he added. ‘To have fine sons who obeyed every order.’
She didn’t know where this was going. She thought she didn’t want to.
‘Only then my mother spilled her drink,’ he said. ‘She was sitting right beside the son-of-sheikh. He was looking at her in a way Jake and I hated, and she spilled it. And my father walked over, wrenched her to her feet and told her to get out. Apologies, apologies, apologies. And then I called him a....’ And he said a word that made her cringe.
‘Ben...’
‘So that was it. We were propelled out, too. My father’s pride was to be protected at all costs. The last thing we heard was my father apologising for his stupid family, and the son-of-a-sheikh agreeing that women and children were an eternal problem.’
She could hardly breathe. She didn’t want to know, and yet... ‘And so?’ she managed.
‘So Jake and I went out and hot-wired the son-of-a-sheikh’s Lamborghini. Jake drove it all the way to Soho and then crashed it into the rear of a stationary bus. Jake swears the bus jumped out to greet us. Jake was concussed and taken to hospital and I spent the night in jail, not knowing if Jake was alive or dead. There was no way my father would bail me out that night. My father’s assistant finally came to get me. I returned home the next morning to find my father apoplectic and my mother with a black eye and hysterical.’
‘Oh, Ben...’
‘His pride had been hurt—of course it had—so he’d taken it out on her. And she kept crying and crying, and saying, “Sorry, Ben, sorry. My babies... Ben, you take care of Jake. He’s your responsibility now.” I thought she was talking about the crash, about Jake getting hurt. She was so melodramatic. To my never-ending regret I remember thinking, Who are you playing now?
‘The hysterics went on and on. It was so real it terrified me but finally there was silence. My father went out. Jake was still in hospital. I was scared for Rita, but I was still scared for Jake. I lay in bed that night and told myself of course she was acting. I was angry, too. Jail had been shocking. I’d been terrified. Why hadn’t Rita stood up to him? Why wasn’t she stronger? Why wouldn’t she tell me how Jake was? So I should have gone to her and I didn’t. But she wasn’t acting. She overdosed and was dead before morning.’
Mary didn’t move. She couldn’t. She thought of her own lonely childhood and she thought...how could it possibly compare? What had been placed on this man’s shoulders... His mother’s death.
‘You were fourteen,’ she said gently. ‘You didn’t know.’
‘I should have.’
‘And Jake...’
‘You think I told him any of this? The black eye? The blame? He thought Mom died of an accidental overdose. How could I lay any more on him?’
‘He still doesn’t know?’
‘The last minutes in the yacht,’ he said heavily, ‘I threw it at him. He was playing the martyr, telling me to go first. He has a weak leg, courtesy of the Afghanistan injury. I told him to get into the harness or he’d be suiciding, just like Rita. It shocked him enough to get into the harness,