Contents (71)
- THE
- DAUGHTER
- MICHELLE FRANCES
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- EPILOGUE
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
TWENTY-EIGHT
2018
‘I totally screwed up,’ said Kate, as she followed Tim under the railway bridge, heading for the South Bank. ‘Wasted an unbelievable opportunity.’
‘You did your best.’
‘I let my emotions get the better of me. I went and got all Erin Brockovich. Started getting on my high horse.’
‘That’s a good thing!’
‘Well, yes, it would have been if I was Erin. But I’m not. I’m me.’ Kate had been kicking herself ever since she arrived back the night before, her whistle-stop trip to Bordeaux a pricey disaster, and she’d been saying as much ever since Tim had met her at the airport.
‘I need to wise up. I need to get this right.’ For Becky as well, she added in her head.
‘And you will.’ Tim took her hand, turned her to face him. ‘Can we talk about something else, just for this evening?’
Kate sighed. He was right: she was being a bit of a broken record. The sound of steel drums warming up drew her gaze to a small stage near the river bank.
‘I thought it would be fun,’ said Tim. He paused. ‘I thought it would cheer you up.’ He took Kate’s other hand and she was compelled to look up into his blue eyes. Eyes that radiated good intention, that urged her to break into a smile. She did.
‘That’s better,’ said Tim.
‘Sorry. Have I been very difficult?’
‘Nah. Well, actually, yes but I get it. I know how much you needed that doctor on side, but you’ll find another.’
She didn’t think it was anywhere near as easy as he made it sound. She’d approached a couple of other medical professionals who’d voiced concerns about the links between herbicides and cancer but had heard nothing back.
He saw her look of despondency. ‘You will. Now, come on.’
Tim led her to where a small crowd was gathering meaningfully near the band and handed over two tickets to a tall Rasta man.
‘What’s that for?’ said Kate warily, eyeing the crowd, who were standing expectantly. She noticed everyone was paired off.
The Rasta guy joined a girl in skin-tight snake-green shimmering hot pants and a crop top, on a small stage. The girl was holding a mike.
‘Everybody ready?’ said the girl in hot pants, gyrating her hips in anticipation.
‘Ready for what?’ said Kate.
Tim was looking very pleased with himself. The steel-drum players started up, the sound of sunshine and the Caribbean cheering the nippy London spring evening.
‘It’s ballroom,’ said Tim.
‘In those clothes?’ said Kate, nodding at the hot pants.
‘With a twist. Come on, shake your tush.’
‘Tush?’
‘You’ve just gotta follow them.’ He nodded at the black couple on stage: fluid, sexy, perfectly matched.
She laughed. ‘No pressure, then.’ But she tentatively mimicked their easy counting and instructions.
Tim held her tight and whispered in her ear. ‘This is nice, eh? Spending time together.’
It was, she realized. It had been too long. ‘Great date,’ she murmured into his ear.