the back doorstep, trying awkwardly to remove my shoes. Claws skitter and then Wilf, her dog, appears, tongue lolling, tail thumping the door and wall. He’d jump, but he’s too old and arthritic, so he contents himself with hopping and leaning against my legs. I bury my head in his ears.
My mother emerges from the hallway, cheeks reddened. I give her the flowers and can’t help but laugh as she engulfs me in a hug. For the next few minutes I’m inundated with news from the past month. She has been on the phone to my dad recently, she tells me. He’s going to call later, from America where he’s covering a story. I answer non-committally; he is the last person I want to speak to.
‘Gin and tonic?’ Mum asks, already getting down the glasses. ‘I was about to make Simon one when you arrived, but I suppose he’ll want to be off in a minute.’
I remember the phone call earlier, Mum laughing with someone as she answered.
‘Who’s Simon?’
‘Simon Hall. He’s writing Jim’s biography. Your father told him about those papers you took from the study, and said that he could take a look. Simon’s been sifting through them for a few weeks now. You’d know this if you called more often.’
The hint of reproach is unmistakable. I grit my teeth, trying to stay calm, even though she’s just confirmed the very thing I was afraid of.
‘Anyway, Simon says they’re an absolute treasure trove,’ continues my mum, oblivious to my rage. ‘It’s a good job you cleared them out, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, well, I need to look through them now.’
‘What for?’ She tops up the glasses with tonic water. ‘Come and meet Simon. He’s really very friendly.’
Of course, she doesn’t know about Hall’s talk at the university. I’m simmering with anger as she gives me the drinks, but there’s nothing I can do except shuffle behind her through the house. Sure enough, Hall is sat in the dining room, at one end of the long table, my grandfather’s papers spilled out before him.
He smiles as we walk in. Today, he is wearing a colourful tank top and a tightly buttoned shirt.
‘Simon,’ my mum says, ‘this is Petra. She’s home for a night from university.’
Hall is grinning as I juggle the glasses in order to shake his hand. It is clammy from holding a pen.
‘I believe we spoke briefly a few weeks ago,’ he says, ‘at my talk. I would have introduced myself then, but you were in rather a hurry to leave.’
‘I had a tutorial,’ I shoot back. My mum laughs, hurrying off to the kitchen to fetch some nibbles.
I put the drink down in front of him and look at the papers. I want nothing more than to snatch them up and hide them away. Hall takes a sip and smacks his lips in appreciation.
‘I understand it’s you I have to thank for saving these from your grandfather’s house.’ He reclines in his chair. ‘I could never have hoped for such an extensive personal collection. It’s proving fascinating.’
‘What are you hoping to find? Dirt?’ I can feel my face burning.
‘My readers certainly aren’t interested in plain facts,’ he is still smiling, ‘there are already plenty of those about your grandfather.’
‘You can’t—’
‘Petra,’ he interrupts, looking up at me with a degree of compassion that I almost believe, ‘I realize that this must be difficult for you, but I’m only expanding upon things that are already there. The formative experiences of your grandfather’s life, good and bad.’
‘You mean this so-called scandal you’ve found?’
‘Nothing “so-called” about it. If you were listening in my talk you would’ve heard me say that I have proof.’ He taps a pile of papers before him. ‘Thanks to you.’
I stare at him. I’ve had an idea, although I suspect it might be a very stupid one.
‘You’re talking about Pâtisserie Clermont,’ I say slowly.
Hall’s face tightens.
‘Pâtisserie Clermont?’ He is trying to keep the interest out of his voice, but I can
My mother emerges from the hallway, cheeks reddened. I give her the flowers and can’t help but laugh as she engulfs me in a hug. For the next few minutes I’m inundated with news from the past month. She has been on the phone to my dad recently, she tells me. He’s going to call later, from America where he’s covering a story. I answer non-committally; he is the last person I want to speak to.
‘Gin and tonic?’ Mum asks, already getting down the glasses. ‘I was about to make Simon one when you arrived, but I suppose he’ll want to be off in a minute.’
I remember the phone call earlier, Mum laughing with someone as she answered.
‘Who’s Simon?’
‘Simon Hall. He’s writing Jim’s biography. Your father told him about those papers you took from the study, and said that he could take a look. Simon’s been sifting through them for a few weeks now. You’d know this if you called more often.’
The hint of reproach is unmistakable. I grit my teeth, trying to stay calm, even though she’s just confirmed the very thing I was afraid of.
‘Anyway, Simon says they’re an absolute treasure trove,’ continues my mum, oblivious to my rage. ‘It’s a good job you cleared them out, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, well, I need to look through them now.’
‘What for?’ She tops up the glasses with tonic water. ‘Come and meet Simon. He’s really very friendly.’
Of course, she doesn’t know about Hall’s talk at the university. I’m simmering with anger as she gives me the drinks, but there’s nothing I can do except shuffle behind her through the house. Sure enough, Hall is sat in the dining room, at one end of the long table, my grandfather’s papers spilled out before him.
He smiles as we walk in. Today, he is wearing a colourful tank top and a tightly buttoned shirt.
‘Simon,’ my mum says, ‘this is Petra. She’s home for a night from university.’
Hall is grinning as I juggle the glasses in order to shake his hand. It is clammy from holding a pen.
‘I believe we spoke briefly a few weeks ago,’ he says, ‘at my talk. I would have introduced myself then, but you were in rather a hurry to leave.’
‘I had a tutorial,’ I shoot back. My mum laughs, hurrying off to the kitchen to fetch some nibbles.
I put the drink down in front of him and look at the papers. I want nothing more than to snatch them up and hide them away. Hall takes a sip and smacks his lips in appreciation.
‘I understand it’s you I have to thank for saving these from your grandfather’s house.’ He reclines in his chair. ‘I could never have hoped for such an extensive personal collection. It’s proving fascinating.’
‘What are you hoping to find? Dirt?’ I can feel my face burning.
‘My readers certainly aren’t interested in plain facts,’ he is still smiling, ‘there are already plenty of those about your grandfather.’
‘You can’t—’
‘Petra,’ he interrupts, looking up at me with a degree of compassion that I almost believe, ‘I realize that this must be difficult for you, but I’m only expanding upon things that are already there. The formative experiences of your grandfather’s life, good and bad.’
‘You mean this so-called scandal you’ve found?’
‘Nothing “so-called” about it. If you were listening in my talk you would’ve heard me say that I have proof.’ He taps a pile of papers before him. ‘Thanks to you.’
I stare at him. I’ve had an idea, although I suspect it might be a very stupid one.
‘You’re talking about Pâtisserie Clermont,’ I say slowly.
Hall’s face tightens.
‘Pâtisserie Clermont?’ He is trying to keep the interest out of his voice, but I can
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