The Attic Room: A psychological thriller - Huber Linda - Страница 8
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She had almost no memory of her father. They’d been on trips to the seaside, she knew, and the zoo, when she was a toddler, but – she remembered nothing of these. He wasn’t quite faceless because Claire had an album with photos of Nina’s baby years and of course her father was on some of these. Some, but not many, she thought suddenly, clenching her fists to stop her fingers shaking. Claire had included very few photos of Robert Moore, and when you thought about that it was difficult to understand why.
And now this face on John Moore’s passport photo, rejuvenated by however many years, could easily have been her father on one of those old baby photos. The same chin, the same flat nose, the heavy eyebrows, the receding hairline. Shit, oh shit. Of course passport photos were always terrible, and there could well have been a strong family resemblance between Robert and John Moore, but…
Nina stared at the date of the passport. It had expired last year, so this photo was over ten years old. A horrible churning sensation started in her gut. Was it even remotely possible that John Robert Moore had been her father? That Claire had lied all those years?
For a second Nina felt as if she’d been slapped across the face, and she raised cold hands to her mouth, feeling her fingers tremble against her lips. No. That couldn’t be… such a huge lie, all those years… Impossible.
Dazed, she poured a generous glass of wine and took it upstairs to the bath. She needed warmth; she was shivering. Lying in fragrant, soapy water, she tried to think calmly. A horrible, logical progression to the entire scenario was seeping into her head.
She knew very little about her father because Claire had told her very little. As a young girl she’d asked about Robert Moore’s family and was told they were all dead. End of conversation. Nina’s stomach churned uncomfortably as she realised that Claire had made the Moore family taboo long before little Nina was old enough to know what was happening. That was why she’d never asked much about her father; that was why she wasn’t sure about her own grandparents’ names. As a topic, the Moore family had been very strictly off-limits. And in all the years she’d never challenged the boundaries Claire had set.
And now – what if her father wasn’t – hadn’t been – dead? What if John Moore… but no, no, Claire wouldn’t have invented Robert Moore’s death, because that would have been cruel, and her mother hadn’t been a cruel person. John Moore must have been Robert’s brother, or cousin… Even cousins could look very alike. Like Tim and his cousin Angus, who was best man at Beth and Tim’s wedding. Everyone joked that Bethany should check very carefully to make sure she was marrying the right man… The thought wasn’t comforting for long.
If Claire had lied, she must have had a very compelling reason…
Nina stood in the bathroom drying her hair with one of John Moore’s towels and thinking about her mother. She and Claire had been close; they lived together and worked together – and fought as mothers and daughters do, but the bond had been a strong one. Nina bit her lip. Their life on the island had been far away, both physically and chronologically, from their old life in England. Claire might not have shared a long-ago secret. But dear God, what possible reason was there to lie about a rich relation? And what relation?
Nina reached for her make-up bag. There was no way she could puzzle all this out for herself; she would have to wait until Sam got the information from whichever authorities on Monday.
Sam’s restaurant was by the river, in a tall conservatory full of greenery. Water bubbled up from a little fountain in the middle of the room and trickled down a series of small pools into a shallow stone basin. Nina gazed round, feeling the tension leave her shoulders. The walls were sponge-painted orange at floor level and faded gradually to yellow up at the ceiling. It wasn’t quite like being in Tuscany, but it must be the next best thing – exactly what she needed after John Moore’s house. She smiled at Sam over the menu.
‘This is a lovely place! What do you recommend?’
He opened his menu. ‘Okay, my favourite starter is the one with Parma ham and melon, and the one beneath it with olives and shaved parmesan is great too. You get garlic bread with the olive one. For the main course I often have one of the tortellini dishes. The mixed fungi one is fantastic, and so is the ‘Tortellini alla Roma’.’
Nina chose the olive and garlic starter and Tortellini alla Roma and sat back, sipping her wine. She hadn’t told Sam about finding the passport yet, but it didn’t seem polite to launch into business straightaway. She glanced up to see him gazing across at her.
‘Spit it out,’ he said.
Nina put her glass down. ‘I was wondering if it would be rude to talk business and say I’ve found John Moore’s birth certificate and his passport, and unfortunately they don’t take us any further, except for the interesting detail that he could have been my father’s twin.’
‘Ah,’ he said, frowning. ‘Of course it’s not rude. I wouldn’t worry till you know the facts, Nina. Brothers can look very alike.’ He sat fiddling with a piece of bread, and she waited.
He looked up again. ‘You know, I can identify with your problem. I don’t remember either of my birth parents. My mother was only seventeen when I was born, and she died a year later after a drugs overdose. I don’t think she knew who my father was, so for all I know he could be alive. I was adopted by an amazing couple from Allerton, and they’re the ones I call Mum and Dad.’
‘They must be very proud of you,’ said Nina, leaning back as the waiter appeared with the starters, glad of the short interruption. The evening had taken a slightly disturbing turn – Sam had trusted her with an intimate part of his past. Of course, he knew a lot about her, things she wouldn’t normally tell strangers. He’d balanced that out now and it somehow removed them from the situation of lawyer-and-client-out-to-dinner – so maybe he did want to be more than her lawyer. Help. She would have to be careful; there was no space in her head for a lovesick lawyer, even if he was ‘nice’.
She gave him a quick smile and lifted her fork. ‘Tell me more about the arrangements.’ Business was definitely the safest option.
She listened attentively as he told her what John Moore had organised. ‘As you know I’m executor of the will. That means it’s up to me to settle the estate and make sure it’s given over to the heirs. That’s you. I also have to organise a cremation, but John Moore didn’t want a funeral service and he didn’t leave any special instructions about the ashes, so you can have a think if you have any preferences about that. And on Monday morning we should hear back from the General Register Office; then we’ll know who’s who.’
Nina heaved a sigh, relief making her feel quite light-hearted. Not so complicated after all, brilliant. The horrible uncertainty would soon be over.
‘It’s great to know I’m in such efficient hands. You have an interesting job, don’t you?’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Not really. You’re the most interesting thing that’s happened in the last three years. All I do most of the time is draw up contracts, and I’m the most junior partner with no real hope of becoming more senior in the foreseeable future. I’ve been mulling over a change of direction for a while now.’
‘What would you do?’
He shrugged. ‘Look for something business-related, I guess. Maybe do a course. It’s all a bit up in the air at the moment. Tell me about you. What do you on your west coast island?’
Nina talked for a few moments about the B&B, telling him how they’d started with one room and then added five more as time went on.
‘We get loads of business from Easter till about October, but very little the rest of the year. So balancing the books can be tricky, but it’s worth it. Arran’s a fantastic place to live,’ she finished.
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