A Sudden Change of Heart. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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       6

      Laura had always thought of herself as an observer. She would sit back and watch, saying very little but hearing everything. And there had been a great deal to see and hear, whether she was observing her brother Dylan, the rebel, her father, the composer and conductor; or her mother, the artist.

      Then there was her grandmother Megan, the once-great musical star, and her grandfather Owen, theatrical manager and professional Welshman. And Claire Benson – her heroine, role model, and best friend.

      Each one of them was highly individualistic, a complex personality, and therefore a fascinating study.

      The two people she most enjoyed observing were her grandparents, Owen and Megan Valiant. They were the greatest influence in her life, especially her grandmother; and, because she loved them so much, she saw them through eyes that were not in the least critical. So many of her values had come from them, and it was on her grandparents that she had based her own notions of romantic love.

      Grandfather Owen would boast, ‘Ours is one of the greatest love stories that ever happened. I fell in love with Megan when I first heard her singing in the Chapel at Port Talbot, and I’ve loved her truly ever since.’

      And whenever he said this, which was very frequently, her grandmother would blush prettily and smile at Owen with adoration. ‘It’s true, Laura. The day I set eyes on your grandfather I was kissed by the angels. It was the luckiest day of my life, meeting him.’

      When she was young she was well aware that her parents loved each other, too. But unlike Owen and Megan, who never quarrelled, Richard and Margaret were often engaged in roaring battles.

      ‘It’s a feast or a famine with your parents,’ her grandmother would say. ‘They’re either in each other’s arms or at each other’s throats. Goodness me, I’ve never before seen such goings on in my life.’

      Her parents’ way of making up after one of their regular tempestuous falling outs was to go off on a trip for a week or two. ‘Another honeymoon,’ Claire would say, and she would become a kind of surrogate mother to the two of them, aided and abetted by Mae, the housekeeper, Dylan’s nanny, Cissy, and Grandma Megan, who would swoop down in full force to take charge of the household.

      Claire had been the other important influence in her life, and she had observed her dearest friend through loving eyes and hardly ever found fault.

      ‘Always the observer, Laura,’ her lovely gran had often said in those days, laughing lightly, and then Megan would go on to predict that her favourite grandchild would become a writer. She hadn’t, of course; nonetheless, she continued to be the observer, forever watching everyone, and assessing.

      She was doing exactly that tonight as she sat on the stool in Claire’s kitchen, where Claire and Natasha were preparing dinner. As she looked from mother to daughter she saw the enormous love and friendship flowing between them. It was so potent, such a palpable thing, Laura felt as though she could reach out and touch it. To see them in such harmony made Laura happy. Neither she nor Claire had been close to their own mothers, a situation which had often saddened Laura. But then she’d had Grandma Megan, and so had Claire, for that matter. And they still had her, in fact.

      Everything that Claire had said about Natasha earlier in the week was true. Laura had not seen her goddaughter for almost five months, and in that time she had lost her puppy fat and grown even taller. Like her mother she had bright auburn hair, although hers was full and flowing, unlike Claire’s which was cut short. Her resplendent locks gave her the look of a girl who had stepped out of a Renaissance painting. Her large eyes were a peculiar golden brown, a sort of amber colour, which Laura had always found unusual, and there was a faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her slender nose. Otherwise, her creamy skin was without blemish.

      Natasha had a short torso and long legs, and, as Claire had pointed out, although she was only fourteen, she dwarfed them both these days. She’s growing up to be a real beauty, Laura thought, then turned her attention to Claire.

      Contrary to what Hercule believed, Laura was quite convinced there was nothing wrong with her friend. Tonight she was full of her usual bountiful energy; her face was flushed, her eyes shining brightly, and her short auburn curls were like a burnished halo around her pretty face. No, there was nothing wrong with her, Laura decided, filled with a sudden sense of relief. Her dearest friend was the picture of good health.

      Claire was wearing a red wool tunic over matching leggings, and she was full of laughter and gaiety as she skilfully prepared Navarin of lamb, her famous lamb stew with vegetables. Simultaneously, she was putting finishing touches to another speciality of hers, Strawberries Romanoff.

      Claire had always been a marvellous cook. This was the one thing Laura envied, since she herself had little talent in that direction. Although Claire had been an enormous influence on her in other ways, she had never been able to teach her the simplest rudiments of gourmet cooking.

      On the other hand, Claire had shown her such important things as how to put on make-up, pluck her eyebrows and paint her toenails; it was also from Claire that she had learned how to walk properly in high heels when still too young to wear them, and most importantly, how to flirt with boys.

      Flirt with boys. Laura smiled, thinking that before long Natasha would be doing that. She almost laughed out loud; in all probability, Natasha was flirting already.

      Shifting slightly on the stool, Laura said, ‘Please let me do something to help.’ As she spoke she glanced across at Claire and Natasha, and added, ‘I feel like a spare wheel.’

      Claire laughed. ‘Everything’s under control, I promise you, so just relax and keep us company until Hercule gets here, then you can entertain him while we finish up.’

      ‘All right, that’s a deal. But let me know if you need me to peel a potato, chop something, or whatever.’

      ‘I’ve done all the whatevers for Mom,’ Natasha said, laughing as she looked up. Then she returned to the task of dropping dollops of chocolate-chip-cookie mixture on a metal cookie sheet.

      ‘It certainly smells delicious, Claire,’ Laura remarked. ‘I like your lamb stew better than Dina Zuckerberg’s famous specialities.’

      Claire burst out laughing on hearing this, and Laura started to laugh with her; their peals of laughter rang out, echoed around the kitchen.

      Puzzled by their sudden and unexpected hilarity, not understanding it at all, Natasha asked, ‘Who’s Zina Duckerberg?’

      ‘It’s СКАЧАТЬ