The rest of the day passed in a whirl of socializing. Molly kept bumping into people she hadn’t seen in ages, people to whom she could boast about going out with Marcus Blackwell, about how happy she was, about her fabulous renovations at The Standlings. It was wonderful. Finally, Molly and Marcus left the grounds in Marcus’s convertible, taking a quick exit out of the park to avoid the traffic jams. With the sweet summer evening breeze ruffling through her hair, and Marcus’s hand reassuringly on her knee, Molly was filled with a glorious molten happiness. It had been a perfect day. They were only ten minutes from home when her mobile phone rang. She sighed; there was always something.
She snapped open the phone, but didn’t recognize the voice at the other end. ‘Who is this?’ she said, frowning.
‘It’s Patsy Jones, Donna’s sister,’ said the voice. ‘Forgive me calling, but I needed to speak to you.’
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Molly, noting the crack in the woman’s voice.
‘It’s Donna. Daniel’s left her and, well, Donna’s taken an overdose.’
50
The following evening, Molly drew up to Delemere Manor in Marcus’s chauffeur-driven car. There was the inevitable pack of paparazzi by the gates, of course, but as the house was buried in a thousand acres of parkland, there was an eerie quiet around the house itself. What Molly found even more disquieting was that she had heard no word from Alex. She had met him on the previous Friday evening in the arrivals lounge at Heathrow to arrange full payment to Sharif Kahlid. Alex was due to fly out to Spain that evening, wisely putting himself beyond the reach of reporters when the story broke, but he hadn’t been in touch since; he clearly hadn’t heard about Donna’s overdose. She had thought about trying to contact him but decided it was better to visit Donna and find what had really happened first.
Donna’s sister Patsy answered the door of Delemere Manor; Molly instantly remembered her from Evie’s christening. In her late thirties, she had dark blonde hair that straggled to her shoulders, and a once-pretty face that looked permanently tired. She looked completely out of place in the hallway of the manor with its marble busts and Old Masters on the walls. Molly idly imagined them in some nineteenth-century period drama, with Patsy cast as the galley cook and Molly the lady of the manor, ruling everyone with her iron fist.
‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ said Patsy in a small voice, as she led Molly into a small drawing room. ‘It’s been awful. Photographers trying to scale the walls, reporters phoning all morning. I can’t get in touch with Daniel at all and Alex and Vivienne are in Spain. Donna doesn’t want to tell him until she has spoken to Daniel, but when we couldn’t track him down …’ Patsy tailed off, her voice wobbling. ‘… Well, anyway, Donna said you would be the best person to call.’
Molly took off her jacket and threw it over a Hepplewhite chair and nodded sympathetically. ‘I take it she’s back from hospital?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Patsy. ‘It was only an overnight stay. She took paracetamol but not enough to do any real damage. The Delemeres’ family doctor has been wonderful; sorted out for Donna to see a psychiatrist. One of the best, apparently.’
Molly smiled, her face a mask of concern, secretly wondering why she over all of Donna’s other friends had been requested. The least of all evils, she thought; Karin and Christina would scare the bejesus out of the likes of Patsy.
‘Well, let’s go and see her,’ said Molly decisively. ‘I can’t imagine how awful this whole episode has been for her.’
Molly followed Patsy up the sweeping mahogany staircase, down a corridor and into the master bedroom, where Donna was lying like a thin child in a heavily swagged four-poster bed. She was propped up on a thick wedge of white pillows, trying to read a magazine in the early evening light pouring in from the long Georgian windows. Lucky bitch, thought Molly.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she said with a weak smile as Molly sat on the bed beside her. ‘Sorry for dragging you all the way out here.’
‘I’m a country girl myself now, remember,’ said Molly, squeezing her hand. ‘It didn’t take long and, anyway, I would have come at whatever time of day or night, you know that.’ She looked around the bedroom. ‘Where’s Evie?’ she asked.
‘With the nanny. She’s fine.’
There was an awkward pause before Molly asked the obvious question. ‘Oh Donna, why? I know you’re in a bad place, but you’ve got a little daughter to think of now.’
Donna turned away and gazed blankly out of the window. There was a long silence before she spoke, her voice even and measured.
‘It doesn’t feel great when everyone you know – and everyone you don’t know – is judging you and talking about you. When you know they are calling you a slut and a slag and a whore.’
She turned back to look at Molly. ‘And yes, when you know that it’s going to haunt your child in the playground for the next fifteen years. And you know that it’s your fault for once being foolish and short-sighted when you should have been old enough to know better.’
Donna shifted uncomfortably on her pillow and reached for a glass of water.
‘Your friends aren’t saying anything of the sort,’ said Molly, not sounding entirely convinced. ‘And people you don’t know will have something better to gossip about tomorrow.’
Donna shrugged. ‘The doctors said I might have had some undiagnosed postnatal depression.’
‘And what do you think?’ asked Molly.
‘I think I should have gone to see a doctor a while ago.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
‘Because postnatal depression is not the sort of thing you are supposed to have in the Delemere family,’ said Donna.
Molly looked at her, pale and fragile between the sheets and silently agreed. Donna was weak. Burying her problems like her precious bloody organic vegetables beneath the soil, only to have them rot and fester. She didn’t belong in a family like the Delemeres’, which had prospered over the generations through strength of character and resilience. It made Molly angry. She was glad Donna hadn’t actually topped herself, of course, but, hearing her sad, pathetic story had only convinced Molly that she was doing the right thing; she was helping the Delemeres.
‘What can I do, Donna?’ she said. ‘Just tell me.’