Page 12 of The Love Letter

‘But this is different, it’s going to turn everything around, Zoe, I swear.’

She paused and held his gaze. He’d really unravelled in the past few weeks, and she was becoming seriously worried about his drinking.

‘I have no cash, Marcus, you know that.’

‘Come on, Zoe! Surely, you could easily remortgage this house, or even get a bank loan out for me just for a few weeks until probate’s through.’

‘Stop!’ She slapped her hand down on the arm of the sofa. ‘Enough is enough! Listen to yourself! Are you really surprised James didn’t leave you his house when he knew you’d almost certainly sell it immediately? And you hardly visited him when he was ill. I was the one who cared for him, who loved him—’ Zoe broke off, swallowing the sob that was threatening to escape her.

‘No, well . . .’ Marcus had the grace to look ashamed. He lowered his eyes and took a sip of his whisky. ‘You were always his special girl, weren’t you? I hardly got a look-in.’

‘Marcus, what’s happening to you?’ she said quietly. ‘I care about you, and I really want to help you, but—’

‘You don’t trust me. Just like Dad and Sir Jim. That’s the real reason, isn’t it?’

‘Oh Marcus, it’s hardly surprising, the way you’ve been acting recently. I haven’t seen you sober in God knows how long . . .’

‘Don’t you “oh Marcus” me! After Mum died, everyone was in bits over who would take care of precious Zoe! And who gave a toss about me, huh?’

‘If you’re going to drag up ancient history, then you can do it on your own time, I’m too exhausted for this.’ She stood up and gestured to the door. ‘Call me when you’ve sobered up, but I won’t speak to you when you’re like this.’

‘Zoe . . .’

‘I mean it. Marcus, I love you, but you have to pull yourself together.’

He stood up heavily, leaving his whisky glass on the carpet, and walked out of the room.

‘Remember, you’re taking me to that premiere early next week,’ she called.

There was no reply and she heard the front door slam behind him.

Zoe wandered into the kitchen to make herself a cup of soothing chamomile tea, then surveyed the empty cupboards. A bag of crisps would have to suffice as supper. She searched through the heap of unanswered mail by the telephone for the invitation to the premiere for the film she had finished just before James became really sick. As she checked the details so she could text Marcus to remind him, the name at the top of the card suddenly came into sharp focus.

‘Oh my God,’ she muttered.

She sank into a chair as her stomach did a 360-degree turn.

4

Marcus Harrison walked down the dank alley behind the twenty-four-hour betting shop on North End Road, and unlocked the door to the entrance of his flat. He retrieved a pile of letters from his pigeonhole in the hall – each one no doubt threatening to pull out all his pubic hairs individually with tweezers if he did not pay the enclosed amount immediately – and climbed the stairs. He winced at the foul smell of drains, unlocked the door to his flat, then closed it behind him and leant against it.

He had a raging hangover, which had still not cleared, even though it was almost six the following evening. Dumping the bills on the worktop to gather dust with the rest, Marcus headed for the sitting room and the half-empty whisky bottle. Pouring a hefty amount into a used glass, he sat down, knocked it back and felt its comforting warmth flow through him. And wondered miserably where it had all gone wrong.

Here he was, eldest son of a successful, wealthy father, and grandson of the most lauded actor in the country. In other words, the heir to a kingdom.

Besides that, he was relatively handsome, ethical, kind – well, as kind as he could be to his geeky, weird nephew – and generally the type of person with whom success should walk hand in hand. And yet, it didn’t. And it never had.

What was it his father had said to him after the memorial service, when Marcus had begged him to loan him the hundred thousand until probate came through? That he was a ‘lazy inebriate’ who expected everyone else to sort out his problems. God, that had hurt, really bloody hurt.

Whatever his father thought of him, Marcus knew he had always done his best. He’d missed his mum so much after she’d died that for the following two years her loss had felt like an acute physical pain. He’d been unable to express his grief – even the word ‘Mum’ had brought a lump to his throat – and the harsh world of an all-male British boarding school was not a place anyone could afford to look like a cissy. So he’d closed up and worked hard – forher.Yet, had anyone ever noticed? No, they were too busy worrying about his little sister. And when he’d decided to try his luck as a fledgling producer in LA, choosing projects he knew his mother would have liked because they ‘said something about the world’, his films had bombed over and over again.

At the time, Charles, his father, had been understanding. ‘Go back to London, Marcus. The LA scene isn’t right for you. The UK is much more receptive to the kind of low-budget art-house films you want to make.’

To be fair, Charles had given him a decent amount to rent a place in London and live comfortably. Marcus had moved into an airy flat in Notting Hill and begun Marc One Films.

Then . . . he’d fallen in love with Harriet, a long-legged blonde Sloane – he’d always had a penchant for pretty blondes – whom he’d met at one of Zoe’s screenings. An aspiring actress herself, she’d been thrilled to be linked to ‘Marcus Harrison – film producer and grandson of Sir James Harrison’, as the tabloids had quoted under their pictures in the gossip columns. He’d spent all his father’s money on Harriet’s expensive lifestyle, but once she had realised he was a ‘loser trading on his family name’, she’d left him for an Italian prince. Marcus had had to crawl back to his father, who’d bailed him out of the heavy debt she’d left in her wake.

‘This is the very last time I’m saving your hide,’ Charles had barked down the line from LA. ‘Get your life together, Marcus. Find a proper job.’