Wickham Hall, Part 2 by Cathy Bramley Page B

newsreader. It must be in the genes.’
    She pretended to tap a pile of invisible papers on the edge of the table. ‘News just in,’ she said in a plummy accent, ‘a rather attractive man was spotted in Joop, wearing nothing but—’
    I tried to laugh with her but all of a sudden I found I couldn’t. It wasn’t funny at all. This was my father we were talking about. I’d always accepted that my family was just Mum and me; the identity of my father hadn’t bothered me too much before now. But now it felt very important and I was hurt that my best friend couldn’t see that.
    I stood up and swigged the rest of my wine, which was quite difficult given the lump in my throat.
    â€˜Holster? What are you doing?’
    â€˜I’m going home,’ I said, ignoring the prickling sensation at the back of my eyes. ‘I wish I’d never shown you the picture. You’re not taking this seriously. I’m glad you find my life so amusing, but from where I’m sitting, it’s anything but.’
    â€˜Holly? I didn’t mean anything by it!’
    I left Esme’s jaw flapping and walked out of the flat, my heart racing. She was completely barking up the wrong tree. Mum probably just fell in love with a nice boy her own age and got a little carried away behind the bushes. All this talk and speculation was unhelpful and . . . unsettling. There’d be a very simple explanation, I was sure of it, and I wouldn’t stop digging until I’d found it.

Chapter 6
    It was mid-July, the sky was as blue as a robin’s egg, and the air was so still that not a blade of grass moved nor a willow branch rustled and I was out and about in the gardens. On days like today there was nowhere I would rather be than lost in the grounds of Wickham Hall. I wasn’t lost, of course, not physically anyway. I’d just gone a bit starry-eyed with happiness at the sheer fabulousness of my job. I was so lucky to be outside in the sunshine, wandering around, checking up on the events happening that day, all in the name of work. I opened my diary as I rounded the eastern façade of the hall and ticked off my first completed task.
    I’d just performed my daily circuit of the festival site and had been thrilled to see that most of the marquees were up, including the big demonstration theatre and the indoor arena. The geography of the festival was beginning to take shape. I’d also been quite distracted by the sight of tanned shirtless men in shorts spreading tarmac for the temporary road that would loop around the showground. Muscles on muscles, some of them. Maybe Mum had had her head turned by one of the construction team all those years ago . . .?
    I snapped myself straight out of that thought. It wouldn’t do to go down that road this morning; I had too much on my plate and needed to keep focused.
    The courtyard was busy already and I had to dodge the tourists as I crossed it. The sunshine had brought visitors to Wickham Hall by the coach load, the café was doing a roaring trade in ice cream and Jenny’s special raspberryade, and Andy had been boasting that sales of his Victorian-style parasols would take the gift shop profits to new heights.
    Andy was on my to-do list today. Negotiating with him was always my least favourite task. I decided to get it over with straight away and made a beeline for the gift shop.
    The little shop was still relatively quiet – most visitors tended to save their shopping until the end of the day – and Andy was constructing a teddy-bears’-picnic-themed window display.
    â€˜Morning, Andy,’ I said breezily. He threw me an icy smile and continued setting up a miniature picnic rug complete with three teddy bears in the window. ‘What a lovely display! We’ve got a large party of small children in today, they’ll love it.’
    â€˜I can’t bear having loads of kids in here fiddling with things,’ he