Mansfield Lark. Katie Oliver

Chapter Forty-Eight

       Chapter Forty-Nine

       Epilogue

       Extract

       Endpages

       About the Publisher

       Prologue

      ‘Great show, Dominic!’

      ‘You kicked arse, mate!’

      ‘Is it true you and the Destroyers are breaking up?’

      ‘Give us an autograph, Dominic? It’s not for me – it’s for my daughter.’

      Dominic Heath paused long enough to scrawl a few undecipherable signatures on some out-thrust concert programs and ticket stubs. Acknowledging their thanks with a tired nod, he grabbed the towel his manager handed him and worked his way through the crowd of magazine writers, newspaper stringers, photographers, groupies and assorted backstage hangers-on, mopping at the sweat on his face as he made his way to the dressing room. He stopped a couple of times to shake a hand or field a few quick questions.

      When at last they reached the dressing room and Max shut the door behind them, Dominic flung himself into a chair.

      ‘I’m fucking exhausted,’ he grumbled as the older man tossed him a bottle of Evian. He drank it in one go and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’m not nineteen any more, Max. I can’t keep on leaping around and smashing up guitars forever. You’ve booked us into so many venues on this tour, I’ve barely had time to scratch my balls. And some of the venues are pretty crappy, too.’

      Unperturbed, Max tapped out a number on his mobile phone. ‘Are you done complaining? Playing all these venues is what keeps you in Bentleys and blow, mind.’

      ‘Oh, please. I gave up the nose candy a long time ago.’ Dominic leaned forward and regarded himself critically in the dressing room mirror. ‘I like my nose. I won’t end up looking like that Lord Voldemort bloke.’

      It wasn’t a bad face, he decided as he studied his reflection. Nose was a bit long, but straight; dark eyes and hair; recently whitened teeth, and a strong (one might even say, a chiselled) jawline.

      ‘Speaking of venues,’ Max began, ‘that’s something we need to talk about, you and I—’

      ‘Where’re the boys?’ Dominic asked suddenly. He hadn’t seen his band mates since they took their final encore.

      ‘Didn’t they tell you? They went to the after party at Annabel’s with Pammy and Lara and a couple of chaps from NME.’

      ‘No, they didn’t tell me.’ Dominic scowled and pulled off his sweat-soaked T-shirt and threw it in the corner, followed in rapid succession by his skin-tight trousers. ‘Typical – they skive off and leave me to deal with the journos, paps and contest winners. Fucking bastards.’

      ‘Gemma said she’ll see you there.’

      Dominic headed, naked, to the shower. The last place he wanted to go tonight was a heaving, thumping, celebrity-and-aristo-infested nightclub, but it looked once again as though he had no choice. Gem liked that sort of thing. And it wasn’t often she got a chance to rub elbows with celebs.

      Nevertheless, the novelty of rubbing shoulders (or any other body parts) with A- and B-list celebrities had long since lost its allure for Dominic. Celebrities, he knew all too well, were just as fucked up and dysfunctional as anyone else.

      They just did a better job of hiding it. And why not? he thought darkly as he lathered himself up under the pounding spray of the shower head. They had plenty of help, what with handlers, trainers, personal chefs, nannies, accountants, makeup artists, stylists, and publicists…

      … not to mention an entire team of minders, assistants, and professional arse-lickers always ready to cover up, manage, or explain away whatever fix their famous employer had got into.

      He ought to know. He had his own team – except for a nanny, because there was no need for that yet, thank God – and they’d managed his every waking moment for the last ten years.

      As he emerged from the shower, Dominic heard a commotion just outside the dressing-room door. ‘But I’m desperate to see him!’ a young woman demanded. ‘He’ll want to see me. I’ll make Dominic very, very happy—’

      ‘I’m sure you would,’ Max told her, ‘if he was the least bit interested…which he’s not. Now run along before I have one of those nasty bouncers throw you out on your pretty little arse.’

      He slammed the door and turned to face Dominic. ‘Get dressed. You’ve three more interviews to do before you leave. But before I let them in–’ he paused ‘–you have a visitor.’

      As he stepped into a pair of jeans and zipped up the fly, Dominic let out an exasperated breath. ‘Unless it’s Gem, or Kate Middleton, or the bloody queen herself, I’m not seeing anyone tonight. And that’s final.’

      ‘She said you’d say that. And she said I was to tell you “bollocks”. Now, if you’re decent, I’ll let her in.’

      ‘Damn it, Max, I told you, no visitors tonight—’

      But his manager was already opening the door and ushering someone inside. Dominic looked up with a glare, ready to blast whatever journo or B-list celebrity had blagged their way into his precious inner sanctum; but upon seeing the slim, dark-haired woman in the Chanel suit and kitten heels standing there, the words dried up in his throat.

      ‘Hello, darling,’ she said, and arched an eyebrow. ‘Haven’t you anything to say to me?’

      Dominic blinked, unsure if he could trust his own eyes. ‘Mum!’ He reached out to take his mother in his arms, crushing her against him in a fierce hug. She smelled exactly as he remembered, like L’Heure Bleue and the almondy-sweet scent of marzipan. ‘I can’t believe you’re really here. God, it’s been too long.’

      ‘Two years, to be exact,’ she informed him tartly as she drew back. ‘Don’t you remember? You invited me to spend Christmas at that draughty Scottish estate of yours. Charles was down with the flu. We had dinner at that enormous table with your band and a couple of groupies. It was the strangest dinner, your father would’ve certainly disapproved, but I adored every minute.’ She raised a brow. ‘Do you ever go up there?’

      ‘No. Too busy. I let it out for grouse-hunting and weddings.’

      ‘Let me look at you.’ Her gaze swept from his bare feet to the top of his trendily cut hair. ‘You’re looking quite handsome,’ she allowed, ‘but you’re too thin. Not doing the drugs, are you?’

      ‘No,’ he grumbled. ‘I don’t do drugs, only coffee, and a smoke now and then. Cigarettes,’ he added pointedly. ‘Come and sit down.’ He led her to a rump-sprung sofa in the corner and cleared a space for her to sit. ‘What brings you here? Is everything all right?’ His face clouded. ‘You’re not ill, or anything, are you?’

      She waved a manicured hand in dismissal. ‘No, darling, nothing like that,’ she said as she sat down.

      ‘What, then?’

      She fiddled with the clasp of the clutch on her lap. ‘It’s Mansfield Hall. It’s literally falling down around our ears,’ she added, her expression troubled, ‘and your father refuses to swallow his pride and ask for your help.’

      Dominic stared at her, perplexed. ‘My help? But what can I do? You know he and I don’t get along. We haven’t spoken in eleven years.’

      ‘Yes, and that’s eleven years too long, in my opinion.’ Her words were firm. ‘It’s time you and your father