She burst into tears.
Pushing back against the surge of tiredness swirling around him, Ragnar walked slowly across the room and stopped in front of the window, wondering exactly what had triggered this latest set-to between his mother and half-sister, and whether she had even considered the possibility that he might be sleeping.
Almost certainly not, he thought, gazing up at the sky. It was a clear night, and his brain ticked off the constellations as he waited for her to stop crying. When, finally, she let out a juddering breath he said calmly, ‘Better? Okay, tell me what’s been going on.’
It was a fairly straightforward story from Marta’s point of view. In her telling, she was the innocent victim, her mother and father were twin evil villains, and he, Ragnar, had been drafted in to play the role of rescuer.
‘She’s horrible all the time and I’m sick of her acting like it’s all about her.’
‘It’s not all about her—but she has just lost her husband,’ he said mildly.
His sister’s tears slid into resentful fury. ‘He’s not dead,’ she snapped. ‘He’s just shacked up with that hideous stick insect in Calabasas. And anyway, it’s hypocritical of her to be so upset. It wasn’t as though she cared when she left Frank.’
To a certain extent that was true, Ragnar conceded. Elin had discarded her fourth husband, Frank, without so much as a backward glance, but perhaps she had expected her fifth husband to be her last. Although perhaps not. His mother had the kind of blonde ethereal looks that laid waste to any man who crossed her path, and she was rarely satisfied with anything or anyone for long.
But, putting aside Marta’s tears and rage, what mattered was brokering peace between her and their mother.
‘I think what you both need is a bit of space from one another.’
He hesitated. Lamerton would be empty for three weeks, and in his family three weeks was the equivalent of a decade in terms of drama. Quite possibly the whole thing would have blown over by then, but in the short term getting his sister and mother on different continents would stop them killing one another.
He cleared his throat. ‘Look, if you need somewhere to stay you can use Lamerton. I’m sure you’ll find something to amuse you in London.’ Or more likely someone, he thought dryly. ‘And if you don’t want to see anyone you can just chill out on the estate.’
‘Oh, Ragnar, really? You’re an angel.’
Hearing her squeal of excitement, he nearly changed his mind. An empty house miles from anywhere and an unsupervised and excitable Marta were not a good combination—but, having planted the seed, he knew that it would be impossible to dislodge the idea from her mind. He would just have to hope that her fear of getting on his wrong side would curb her worst instincts.
‘This doesn’t mean I don’t have rules, Marta,’ he said firmly. ‘You will be polite to John and Francesca. They are not there to put up with your mess or your tantrums.’ He paused. ‘Of course ordinarily I’d tell you to treat the place as your own, but in your case—in your case,’ he repeated over her squawk of protest, ‘I would ask that you don’t. And do not—I repeat, do not—even think about having a party. And by “party” I mean any gathering of people numbering more than you and one other person.’
There was a small sulky silence from the other end of the phone, and then he heard her sigh.
‘Okay, fine. I’ll be polite, and I won’t make a mess, and obviously I wouldn’t dream of having a party in your house.’
Catching sight of himself in the window, Ragnar was tempted to roll his eyes at his reflection. Instead he said calmly, ‘I just don’t want there to be any confusion.’ Glancing down at his watch, he grimaced. It was nearly a quarter past one. ‘Right, I’ll leave you to talk to Elin. Just let me know when you’re going over and I’ll send John to pick you up.’
‘Thanks Ragnar.’ Her voice softened and she hesitated. ‘Actually, do you think you could call her? I think she’ll take it better from you.’
After he’d hung up he stood with the phone in his hand, thinking. As usual Marta hadn’t asked him one question about himself, but at no point had it occurred to him to tell his sister that she was an aunt. Nor was he planning on telling her until it was absolutely necessary. He wanted to keep his daughter to himself for a while—keep her from being absorbed by his family.
He’d talk to his mother later. Now he really was going to bed.
He showered quickly, towelled himself dry and then pulled on the loose cotton trousers he wore to sleep in.
As he unfastened his watch, he heard it.
A baby crying.
He paused, his body turning instinctively towards the sound.
The wail faded and, flicking off the light, he closed his eyes and rolled onto his side, his mind sliding smoothly into sleep.
He woke with a start.
Reaching out, he found his watch in the darkness. It was just gone half-two in the morning.
But why had he woken?
And then he heard it—the same unmistakable wail as before. For a few half-seconds he lay in the darkness, listening to his daughter cry. Only this time it didn’t falter. Instead it seemed to be escalating.