Hot Island Nights. Sarah Mayberry

questions about the manufacturing process and whether it would be possible to order replacement glasses in the future should any breakages occur.

      Elizabeth stood to one side with a small, polite smile on her face. Around her, sales staff glided amongst the displays, talking in hushed, reverential tones. Everywhere she looked there were exquisite, fragile, priceless things, arranged to appeal to even the most fastidious eye.

      Her gaze fell on a nearby table of cut-glass whiskey decanters. She had a vision of herself grabbing the table and upending the whole damn thing, sending the decanters smashing to the ground. It was so real her hands curled as though they were already gripping the table edge, and she could almost hear the crash of breaking glass and the shocked cries of the staff and customers.

      She took a step backward and gripped her hands together.

      Not because she thought there was any danger of her actually upending the display. There was no way she’d ever do such a thing.

      She took another step away.

       It’s just prewedding jitters, she told herself. Nothing to worry about. Every bride feels this way before her wedding.

      Except this wasn’t the only reckless, anarchic impulse she’d had to quell recently. At last week’s Friends of the Royal Academy luncheon she’d had to stifle the urge to throw back her head and scream at the top of her lungs when old Mr. Lewisham had droned on about the quality of the napkins in the Academy’s coffee shop and what it said about “society’s declining standards.” And yesterday she’d found her steps slowing outside a tattoo parlor near King’s Cross station, admiring the tribal rose motif snaking up the arm of the girl behind the counter. She’d actually taken a step inside the store before common sense had reasserted itself and she’d remembered who she was.

      “Elizabeth. Did you hear a word I just said?” her grandmother asked.

      Elizabeth snapped into focus. Both the saleswoman and her grandmother were watching her, waiting for her response.

      “Sorry, Grandmama, I was daydreaming,” she said.

      Her grandmother patted her arm fondly. “Come and have a look at the Wedgwood.”

      Smile fixed firmly in place, Elizabeth allowed herself to be led away.

      IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON by the time she returned to her grandparents’ Georgian town house in Mayfair. Her grandmother had come back after lunch for her afternoon rest, leaving Elizabeth to keep her appointment with the florist on her own. Elizabeth had dropped in to visit her friend Violet’s boutique in Notting Hill on the way home and the hall clock was chiming six as she entered the house. She let her bag slide down her arm and started pulling off her scarf and gloves.

      It was Tuesday, which meant Martin would be arriving any minute. He always ate here on Tuesday night. Just as he always played squash on Wednesdays and took her out for dinner on Fridays. If she hurried, she’d have time to freshen up before he arrived.

      The housekeeper had stacked Elizabeth’s mail neatly on the hall table and she flicked through it quickly as she turned toward the stairs. An official-looking envelope caught her eye and she paused. Martin had asked her to order a copy of her birth certificate so he could apply for their marriage license, since he was unable to request the certificate on her behalf. She tore the envelope open to confirm that it had finally arrived. One more thing to cross off her to-do list.

      She unfolded the single sheet of paper, glancing over it quickly to check everything was in order. Elizabeth Jane Mason, born August 24, 1980, mother’s name Eleanor Mary Whittaker, father’s name—

      Her scarf and gloves slipped from her fingers to the hall floor as she stared at the name beneath the box clearly marked Father’s Given Name and Surname.

      Sam Blackwell.

       Who the hell is Sam Blackwell?

      Her father was John Alexander Mason. Born January 16, 1942, killed in the same light-plane accident as her mother twenty-three years ago.

      This had to be a mistake. It had to be.

      Elizabeth focused on the closed door at the end of the long hallway. She started walking, certificate in hand, an uncomfortable tightness in her belly.

      The sound of low, masculine laughter could be heard from behind the door of her grandfather’s study as she drew closer, but for the first time in her life she didn’t bother to knock.

      “There’s been some kind of mistake,” she said as she barged into the room.

      “Elizabeth. I was wondering when you’d get home,” Martin said.

      Her fiancé stood and approached to kiss her, his gray eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. As usual he was dressed immaculately in a tailored three-piece suit and conservatively striped silk tie, his dark hair parted neatly.

      Instead of offering her mouth for his kiss, she thrust the certificate at him.

      “Look. They’ve made a mistake. They’ve got my father’s name wrong on my birth certificate.”

      For a split second Martin stilled. Then he shot her grandfather a quick, indecipherable look before turning his attention to the birth certificate.

      “I thought you were going to have this delivered to the office so I could take care of the marriage license.” Martin spoke mildly, but there was an undercurrent of tension in his voice.

      Elizabeth looked at him, then at her grandfather’s carefully blank face, and she knew.

      It wasn’t a mistake.

      “What’s going on?” Her voice sounded strange, wobbly and high.

      “Why don’t you have a seat, Elizabeth?” her grandfather suggested.

      She allowed herself to be ushered into one of the buttonback leather chairs facing the formidable mahogany desk. Her grandfather waited until Martin had taken the other seat before speaking.

      “There is no mistake, I’m afraid. The man you know as your father, John Mason, was actually your stepfather. He married your mother when you were two years old.”

      For a moment there was nothing but the sound of the clock ticking. Elizabeth started to speak, then stopped because she had no idea what to say.

      She’d been devastated by her parents’ deaths when she was seven years old. For the first few months she’d lived with her grandparents she’d cried herself to sleep every night. She treasured the small mementos she had of her childhood—the vintage Steiff teddy bear her parents had given her when she was four, the rock fossils they’d found together on a family holiday, the empty perfume bottle that had once held her mother’s favorite scent.

      But now her grandfather was telling her that her parents weren’t both dead, that it was her stepfather who’d died. That her real father—the stranger whose name was listed on her birth certificate—might still be alive and well somewhere in the world.

      “Why has no one ever told me this before?”

      “Because it wasn’t necessary. I won’t go into details, but Sam Blackwell is not someone we want involved in your life. John Mason was your father in every other way, so we didn’t see the point in bringing up something that was best forgotten,” her grandfather said.

      There were so many assumptions in his speech, so many judgments. And all of them made on her behalf, with no consultation with her whatsoever.

      Elizabeth’s hands curled into fists. “Is he alive? My real father?”

      “I believe so, yes.”

      She leaned forward. “Where does he live? What does he do? Is he in London? How can I contact him?”

      “Elizabeth, I know this is a shock for you, but when you’ve had a chance to process I’m sure you’ll agree that it really doesn’t change your life in any substantial way,” Martin said.

      Elizabeth