Page 116 of Let’s Make a Scene

“I know.” Cynthie nods. “We hadn’t seen each other for ages, three years maybe?” She squints thoughtfully out the window. “Anyway, I had the house cleared out, and they found this scrapbook, full of clippings all about me.”

She fiddles with her seat belt. “And the worst thing was I had no idea what to make of it. Was he proud of me? Had he been all along? Had he collected it all out of a sense of duty? Mild interest? Had someone else given it to him? If I was performing it—I mean, if I was acting the part of Cynthie Taylor finding that book—then the music would swell and I’d play it tearful, a moment of connection, of forgiveness, but in real life it wasn’t like that. I had the book and it didn’t mean anything at all. Anyway.” She gives a wan smile. “That’s my sad sob story, so at least you have a family to have dramatic relationships with. I’m on my own.”

“Come on, Cynthie,” I say sternly, “don’t give me that bullshit.” She looks up, startled, as we wind through the streets of Kensington.

“You know better than anyone that there’s more than one way to make a family. You, Hannah, Liam and Patty and Arjun and Priya, you’re the tightest unit; you all love each other unconditionally. Every single one of them threatened me with grievous bodily harm if I so much as hurt your feelings… and that includes Priya. She was the scariest of the lot.”

“She inherited her mother’s thirst for violence.” Cynthie laughs, a slightly watery sound.

“She’s a force of nature,” I agree. “And your fridge is covered in her art. You’re not alone. Not even close.”

She looks at me for a long moment. “You’re right,” she says finally. “I have the family I chose and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. They’re the most important thing to me. Most people miss that. Not you though. You pay attention.”

I pull into my parents’ drive, the gate opening to let us through.

“I pay attention to you,” I say.

Chapter 38 CYNTHIE

“Bloody hell,” I say, looking up at the gorgeous villa. “This is where you grew up?”

“Welcome to Mordor,” Jack mutters.

“Sauron is certainly living well.” It’s not like I’m a stranger to luxury homes these days (Ask me about the Clooneys’ place on Lake Como sometime) but the idea of being brought up here still strikes me as bizarre.

The elegant white building in front of us is all understated glamour: deep bay windows, a grand arching doorway flanked by tasteful black iron lampposts, and immaculately manicured privet hedges. Everything about it screams money. Old money. Lots of money.

“Don’t be fooled by the veneer of civility,” Jack warns me. “Hic sunt dracones.” When I look confused, he smirks. “Here there be dragons.”

“Warning me off in Latin?” I sigh. “Poor Little Lord Fauntleroy.”

“Shut up.” He nudges my arm. “This is your last chance to run screaming.”

“I think I’m made of sterner stuff.”

“Please don’t let them scare you off,” he says, softly.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I reply. I can see that he’s nervous, even if he’s trying to hide it. I follow him up the steps to the front door, which he holds open for me.

Taking a deep breath, I try to smooth the creases out of the skirt of my pretty silk sundress, and step into a cool entrance hall, tiled in glossy black and white, like a marble chessboard.

“We’re here,” Jack calls.

“In the drawing room,” a man’s voice shouts back, and it’s the strangest experience, hearing that famous voice, the rich, rolling baritone in real life. I falter.

Of course, Jack picks up on it and lifts his brows. I try to look unmoved, but I know I’m not fooling him one bit.

Jack leads the way through to the drawing room, which turns out to be an enormous, high-ceilinged room, bristling with antique furniture. The tall French doors at the back open onto a terrace overlooking an established leafy green garden—the kind you don’t usually find in the middle of the city.

I take this all in in one swift glance before my attention is pinned to the three people in the room. Max Jones has risen to his feet, and—well into his eighties by now—he is still a tall, rugged mountain of a man with a leonine mane of white hair. Blue eyes—Jack’s eyes—snap in a lined face that remains handsome, though it’s hewn in much rougher lines than his son’s. He’s dressed like Cary Grant in his downtime, a fine-knit gray top with a high neck, tucked into pleated, tan slacks. He observes me like a big cat assessing its next meal.

Beside him, sitting on the beautiful silk sofa, his wife doesn’t even glance in my direction. At sixty-five, Caroline Turner is still lovely, delicate-looking, with dark hair swept back in an elegant chignon.

“Jack,” Max booms, “who have you brought us?”

“This is Cynthie,” Jack says.

I notice he and his parents don’t greet each other at all, but Max comes forward to shake my hand and kiss my cheeks.