CHAPTER ONE
UMBRELLA IN HAND, Dora Thorn stopped walking and gazed up at the number on the imposing black door, her heart pounding in time to the raindrops hitting the glistening London pavement.
With fingers that trembled slightly she pulled out her earbuds, her choppy blonde hair flopping in front of her eyes as she turned her head and glanced back down the street.
This must be it.
Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the letter, scanning the address even though she had read it a hundred times already on the bus journey over.
120 Gresham Street
Her eyes darted back up to the number, her pulse beating out of time, and then she saw it. Tucked away, barely visible in the dull March light, was a discreet brass plate that said Capel Muir Fellowes.
This was definitely the place.
She took a breath, pressed the buzzer beneath the nameplate, and waited for a heartbeat as the door clicked open.
Pushing aside a rush of nerves, and the feeling that at any moment she was going to be asked to leave, she walked swiftly across a polished concrete floor towards the two young men sitting behind an elegant reception desk.
As she stopped in front of the one nearest to her, he looked up and smiled. Not quite a come-on—he was clearly too professional for that—but there was a definite glint in his eye—
‘May I help you?’
‘I hope so.’ Dora hesitated, then smiled back.
For the last seven weeks the only male in her life had been one who wore nappies and only had eight teeth, and she had actually forgotten that adult men could look attractive. And clean. Archie was always so sticky, particularly now that he wanted to feed himself.
Before—before everything had changed—she would have flirted. She might even have fallen in love, and then out of love just as quickly. After all, life was for living. Or that was what she’d used to think.
Her shoulders tensed, bracing her against a wave of misery.
‘My name is Dora Thorn and I have a meeting with—’ she frowned and, shifting her umbrella beneath her arm, glanced down at the letter ‘—with Mr Muir.’
She stared at the man in front of her, confused, when his eyes widened with a mixture of shock and panic. Beside him, his colleague glanced up at her furtively.
‘Of course. I’ll get him right away. Would you like to take a seat, Ms Thorn?’
Nodding, she made her way over to a group of expensive-looking armchairs, and sat down, feeling a queasy mix of relief and sadness.
Over the last few weeks there had been so many letters and emails from people she didn’t know or had never met, and then finally, three days ago, there had been a name she’d recognised.
Capel Muir Fellowes were her father’s lawyers—or at least they had been. And she’d had a missed call from him on her phone the evening before the letter had arrived.
Dora felt her chest tighten. She hadn’t seen or heard from her father since Della’s funeral. Given his track record, she hadn’t really expected him to stay in touch, and it was hard to give him credit for reaching out now.
But maybe losing one daughter had reminded David Thorn that he was still the parent of another.
Her mouth twisted. Doubtful.
More likely he felt some kind of responsibility for his grandson. Financial responsibility anyway. He’d opted out of hands-on parenting a long time ago.
Of course it was just a hunch. David, being David
, hadn’t left a message to tell her any of this himself. But getting some third party to deal with her was just his style, and logically it was the only explanation.
She breathed out softly. After all, why else would his lawyers—or any lawyers, for that matter—get in touch?
It wasn’t as if there was anything left to take away from her.
Her throat tightened, and she swallowed against the pain that had not been blunted by the seven weeks that had passed since that appalling morning when two police officers had turned up on her doorstep.
She’d only just gone to bed, and she’d been dazed and stupid with lack of sleep, her head still spinning with one too many tequila shots. She’d assumed that she must have done something stupid the night before.
Because it would have had to be about her, of course.