Chapter 27

Ialways wanted a sibling – I dreamed we'd team up together against my parents. It never occurred to me that they might be used against me. As I sip the tea that Tom's mother has made for us all, I watch warily as the family circle round each other like a pride of lions waiting for the weakest prey to fall behind.

I'm wearing Rosie's dress, an expensive brand that I wouldn't normally look at, let alone wear. I'm being very careful not to spill anything down it because it's dry clean only. I really do feel like Cinderella at the ball.

People are due to start arriving in the next twenty minutes. I wish I could go outside as I'm having some sort of hot flush, every bit of me feels overheated – actually my leg is on fire – and it feels as though there's a little man with a very big hammer dancing about in my head. Probably just a stress hangover. It's been a hell of a few days.

Barbara and Nigel Dereborn are standing together, a united front, both immaculate in their smart, co-ordinating clothes. I wonder if this is by accident or design and then decide that Tom's mother wouldn't let anything in this house be coloured by accident. Everything is far too tasteful.

‘So Tom, how's the new job going?' asks his father.

‘Good. I went to Barcelona the other week.'

‘Ah yes, the Consa-Calida fire. I hear you saved BHCA quite a packet.' Mr Dereborn senior really does have his finger on the pulse, even though he hasn't quite got his facts right. Tom and I saved BHCA from making a ridiculously inflated pay-out. ‘Jeff Truman is leaving. I assume you'll be applying for his job.'

‘I've only been there five minutes. I'm sure there are better candidates.' Tom looks at me and the corner of his mouth turns up. Is it chagrin or sharing the joke that I'm likely to be one of the other candidates, if not the sole candidate?

‘Nonsense. I'll have a word.'

‘Dad, you don't need to.'

‘I don't need to,' Dereborn senior says with unnecessary sarcasm, ‘but why the hell wouldn't I? Where's your ambition, Tom? William's on the board at Turnball's. We've got a reputation to keep up. You're my son. You should be aiming high, not resting on your fucking laurels.'

Barbara purses her lips. She clearly doesn't like the language, but she's right in there backing dear old Nigel up. ‘He's right, Tom. You should let your father help. It's not as if you're not qualified or anything.'

‘Yeah, Tom,' says William, that malicious glint back in his eye. I can't help scowling at him. He's a complete arse. I've warmed slightly to Rosie after she apologised to Tom earlier but seriously, this family is toxic. The whole environment feels worse than the one I grew up in. My parents were too out-of-it to know any different. Their neglect wasn't deliberate – just a by-product of their chaotic, disorganised, addiction-fuelled lives. These people should know better.

‘And while we're on the subject –' Dereborn senior is back at it, like a battering ram, bullish and self-satisfied ‘– where's your mother's birthday present? Too busy to get her one, were you? Or was it that you just couldn't be bothered? It's a poor show, Tom, turning up empty-handed.' Tom's father's face is disappointment personified.

This is more than I can take.

‘Actually, he's not.' Indignation makes my voice loud and a little shrill, which does nothing for the pounding in my head. But how dare they? How do they not see what a decent human being Tom is? I could go on and on about his virtues. My outburst is followed by the sort of silence that they have in films before the identity of the killer is revealed. ‘He's a really good person,' I say, which sounds a bit lame, but he has so many good qualities I'm not sure where to start with them. ‘You don't deserve a son like Tom.' Okay, possibly a bit strong but I need to make a point.

There's a gasp from Rosie and an indrawn breath from his mother but I can't stop now.

‘The reason he wasn't around last week was because we were stuck in the middle of nowhere with no phones or access to money. Although you didn't stop long enough to let Tom tell you that. As I told you before, I had a bad accident. Tom could have left me but he didn't.' My rage has made me mildly inarticulate and repetitive. I wanted to say things in a much more erudite and cutting way, putting Mr Dereborn in his place, but I'm too choked up and emotional.

‘He's kind, thoughtful, caring, supportive, loyal and kind.' I'm stumbling over my words and need an example. I'm not sure that Tom's dad has the sensitivity to appreciate a chipped sheep magnet, but Tom needs to know it counted. ‘He bought me a birthday present, even though we had limited funds, because he's thoughtful. I know if he was at home and not stranded with a sick colleague, that he would have phoned his mum, bought her a present and been here, but he wasn't because he couldn't.'

Dear God, I'm putting up a woefully pathetic defence. I'm probably making things worse.

‘I thought you said this woman was a work colleague.' Mr Dereborn turns his back on me and addresses Tom as if I'm of absolutely no consequence at all. What he doesn't realise is that I'm used to this, it doesn't faze me at all. What pisses me off is the fact that Tom doesn't say a word. Not one. He might as well be wearing one of those white featureless masks – there isn't a speck of emotion or feeling on his face. It's as shuttered and blank as the Sunday night at his flat he asked me to leave.

It finally dawns on me why Tom can't be emotionally available. Is it any bloody wonder, if these people were his example growing up? My fingers curl into fists at my sides, my tendons white with tension. A visceral desire to do physical harm to his dad spikes through me, raw and vicious. I've never felt anything like it before. I can understand why Tom has perfected indifferent implacability. He's had to.

‘I'm the woman who actually gives a fuck about your son,' I snap. Tom's eyes widen. The shock on his face is almost amusing, except I'm too far gone with rage to find anything remotely funny.

‘I don't think you know the first thing about my son,' Mr Dereborn sneers.

‘What's his favourite film franchise?' I ask.

Dereborn looks outraged. ‘I neither know nor care.'

‘How does he drink his coffee?'

Dereborn turns away. Again. Rude.

‘Tom. My study now.' With an imperious lift of his head, commanding Tom to do his bidding, he takes a couple of strides across the kitchen with short jerky steps that make him look like a puffed-up pigeon. Tom spends an agonising couple of seconds looking from me to his father and I see a vulnerability in him that I wasn't aware of.

Guilt comes tripping back in at full force. Tom is going to kill me. I feel like something is gnawing on my intestines. I've really fucked this up. He'll never forgive me.

He's the North Pole, his face glacial.

I panic and open my mouth again. ‘Don't you understand? He put aside his own priorities to help me. He's trying to win the money to make his film and he's not once complained that I've held him back. He waited a day for me to feel better and he came here to your party. You should be proud of him. Really proud. And someone wants to make his film. That's amazing.'

I've said the wrong thing. Tom's eyes flash a dozen warnings but it's too late.

‘His film?' Now I know the true meaning of apoplectic. I've never seen anyone turn bright red or their veins almost burst out of their forehead but Nigel Dereborn suddenly looks possessed.

Rosie giggles not with amusement but with tense anxiety.

‘My study, now,' he repeats.

Without a word, Tom follows him out of the kitchen just as the doorbell rings.

Barbara looks at her watch. ‘I bet it's the Landers, they're always early.' She stomps off towards the front door.

‘Well, that's set a cat among the pigeons,' drawls William, with a canary-eating smile.

‘Fuck off, William,' said Rosie. ‘I need a drink.' She marches off into the garden towards the bar in the gazebo.

‘Welcome to the Dereborns',' says William, with a patronising smirk. ‘Tom's never brought anyone home before. You probably understand why, now.'

I glare at him. ‘He's worth ten of you, that's for sure. You're a real bottom-feeder, aren't you?'

Leaving his mouth flapping like a guppy, I stalk off in the direction I'm facing. I don't want to see him, Barbara or Rosie.

I find myself in a long dark corridor with a dead end but I'm not going back into the kitchen, I might just grab a knife and chop bits off William. I know he's a product of his upbringing but I can't forgive him throwing Tom to the wolves just to keep the heat from himself.

I thought my childhood had been difficult and that having parents who cared would be all sunshine and roses. I realise now it depends on what the parents care about. Tom's obviously only care about their reputation and what people think of them, and their children are an extension of this. No wonder Tom keeps such a tight rein on his emotions. Love is a weapon around here. To be wielded to get what you want. I think he might be more damaged than I am – at least I know my own self-worth.

I lurk in the corridor for a second, not wanting to face anyone and then realise I must be outside Nigel Dereborn's study. He's bellowing at Tom.

‘After everything we've done for you. And you want to turn your back on a solid career. My name will be a laughing stock in the industry. People will think you've had some sort of mental breakdown and can't hack it.'

I hear Tom respond. ‘Don't be ridiculous, Dad. I'll take a year's sabbatical.'

‘Sabbatical,' Nigel roars. ‘I forbid it. Over my dead body.'

‘Dad, calm down. Please.'

‘And, what about that girl? Who the fuck is she? Going to tell me that you've knocked her up?'

‘No,' says Tom.

‘Well, who is she? And who's her family? What do they do?'

I wonder what Tom is going to say to this? A slight smile touches my lips.

‘She's nobody,' says Tom. ‘I barely know her.'

I swear my heart stops dead, the pain stabbing into my chest. I am such an idiot. Tears cloud my eyes and I have to get away. I run down the corridor, sharp flares of heat firing through my leg as I move. Turning into a room with French doors leading into the garden, I make my escape and finally stop on the other side of the expansive lawn in the shade of a large broad-leaved tree. I almost collapse on the spot my leg is hurting so much.

Hanging onto the back of a wooden bench, I stand, my chest heaving with the effort of keeping everything in. I AM NOT going to cry. My teeth are gritted so hard, they might crack at any second. I hiccough as the tears pound at the gate of my defences. I lift my chin higher and swallow the battering ram of a lump in my throat. The purple plant at the end of the garden with butterflies crowding over its buds is my sole focus as I force myself to take deep and even breaths. This is nothing new. I've been here before. What did I expect? It's my own fault for letting my barriers down. Tom's a victim of his parents' conditional love. And I'm not mad at him. It's not his fault. He's grown up having love used against him. I'm sad for him, I hadn't appreciated how damaged he is. It makes me love him just a little bit more.

I was damaged like that once, but I'm not now. I'm inured to hurt other people inflict because I don't have expectations of other people. I'm used to being let down. Except … I sigh to myself … this time is different because I allowed myself to believe. To believe that someone loved me.