by Kate Mosse
Saturday, 9.07 a.m.
After some faffing around, she has ‘requested’ that I drag a chair over from the dining table in the bay of the window and place it in the middle of the room. That way she can sit on the sofa and watch to see if I make any sudden movements or attempts to escape. She almost collapses onto the sofa, so I’m assuming she has driven all the way down from her lavish country pile up in Yorkshire to confront me.
‘Mrs Shibden, what are you doing?’ I ask her.
She sits with the knife beside her, her grey-blonde hair a wiry, unruly mess around her head, her eyes out on fierce stalks, her thin lips pressed together in barely contained rage. ‘I am doing, Zillah, what I should have done years ago – ridding myself of you once and for all.’
Eleven years ago
I tore off the brown wrapping paper with all the excitement of a woman receiving a first anniversary present from the man she loves. The flowers, our wildflowers, were hidden behind the brown paper.
‘Oh my—’ I covered my mouth with my hand. I couldn’t believe he had done this. Fabian came from an extremely wealthy family, there was no escaping that, but this was too much.
‘I couldn’t give it to my mother, not when I saw how much you loved it. I promised myself I’d buy it for you if we were still together in a year. It reminds me of the flowers near where my parents live.’
‘It’s absolutely beautiful,’ I said.
‘I’ve been dying to tell you this, Zillah: when I was telling my grandfather about the picture and how I was going to buy it for you for our anniversary, he kept asking about your name and saying how striking it is.’
‘That’s nice of him.’
‘He’s brought it up more than once.’
‘Maybe he knew someone who had the same name or something?’ I replied not making too big a deal of it. Clearly Fabian had no idea about my name (and he hadn’t looked it up), but his grandfather did.
‘Maybe,’ Fabian said.
I hadn’t taken my eyes off the picture. Beautiful seemed such an insignificant word for it. And … ‘I can’t accept the picture,’ I said to Fabian. ‘It cost thousands of pounds. I just can’t accept it.’
‘All right,’ he said, slipping his arms around me, not fazed by my discomfort. ‘How about we keep it here, at your flat, but officially, it stays mine? Will you accept it then?’
‘Yes, I will accept it then.’ I stood on tiptoes and kissed him. ‘I love you.’
His eyes lit up at hearing those words for the first time. ‘I love you, too,’ he replied.
‘Let’s hang it in the bedroom so we can sleep each night in a field of wildflowers.’
‘And make love there, too.’
Saturday, 9.15 a.m.
Mrs Shibden is glaring at me as though there is not much stopping her from doing me serious harm. No one would believe it if they knew. Mrs Shibden is a ‘good egg’. She is involved in her local community: she makes jam for local fairs, she ferries elderly people to and from hospital, she sits on the boards of several charities. She has been in the papers, on the radio, and many television shows, fighting for her largest charity. It empowers girls and women in developing and third-world countries – helping brown-skinned girls to understand that they matter; they can be whoever they want, they can learn whatever they choose, they can love whoever they wish. Unless, of course, one of them happens to be sleeping with her son.
Ten years, six months ago
Fabian’s parents’ house in the Yorkshire countryside had a long driveway that allowed you to drink in the full, stately magnificence of it during the approach. My car seemed very small as I drove up to the front door. After the sixth request from Mr and Mrs Shibden to visit them without Fabian, I’d finally arranged a business meeting in Leeds so I could drive over to the Shibdens’ afterwards.
When they first met me, their faces had become frozen caricatures of the people I’d seen in the photographs around Fabian’s flat – horror was painted over with a rictus smile; shock was secreted away behind air kisses. I’d met them twice in two years, so I had a suspicion about why they wanted to see me alone – I was the problem that was not going away.
In the drawing room, Fabian’s father stood by the fireplace, his mother sat beside me on the most uncomfortable sofa in the world, and his grandfather sat in a large leather seat between the sofa and the fireplace.
‘It is so good of you to come along to visit us,’ Mrs Shibden said pleasantly. ‘Tell me, how are you getting on with your new clients, Thrushcross Endeavours? I hope they are not being too difficult.’
A creeping sensation wended up my spine, then spiralled down again. I did not talk about my work to anyone outside of the company – I had not told Fabian about Thrushcross Endeavours. The only way she could know was if they had been checking up on me. This was going to be worse than I thought.
‘We both know George Gimmerton, the current CEO of Thrushcross, very well. We maintain a lot of social as well as business contact with him.’
I managed to form a smile and forced myself to nod.
‘But we’re not here to talk about that,’ she said with a genuine, warm smile. ‘We’re here to talk about when you will remove yourself from our son’s life.’
‘I’m not planning on finishing with him. I love him,’ I replied. Those last three words sounded flimsy, weak. ‘I love him,’ I repeated to emphasise that my feelings were anything but feeble.
‘And what of Douglas Carr, did you love him too?’ Mrs Shibden asked.
They had been checking up on me. They had been digging through every area of my life if they were bringing up Douglas.
‘And what of Kaiden Fincher? You married that one, so I assume you “loved” him also?’
I had made mistakes with the men I’d been involved with, but I wasn’t going to let her shame me. We all made mistakes. ‘I loved them both at different times of my life. What does that have to do with anything?’ I said.
‘We know all about you, Miss Landry,’ Mr Shibden stated. ‘We always conduct thorough background checks on the outsiders with whom our children become entangled.’
‘If you know all about me, then you know that if you try to intimidate me, I will defend myself.’
‘Yes, of course we know that,’ Mr Shibden replied.
‘Your parents, however … Will they be similarly able to defend themselves when scandal after scandal lands on their doorstep?’ Mrs Shibden asked. ‘And, of course, Thrushcross Endeavours have a decency clause associated with anyone working with them. How will they respond when they discover that the person in charge of their prestigious account has an ex-lover in prison for committing grand larceny? And that she met, married, and divorced a man in less than eighteen months?’
‘I guess we’ll find out when you tell them,’ I replied. I sounded strong and fearless, but it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room, and that my heart would beat itself out in less than five minutes. I’d had nothing to do with Douglas’s crime or conviction; my thing with Kaiden was crazy-fun while it lasted, but they were parts of my past that I could not undo and would not want to undo. None of that had anything to do with Fabian.
‘We love our son,’ Fabian’s father said. ‘But we will not stand by any longer as he continues with you. I am grateful to you, Zillah, believe me. You encouraged our son to undertake his Masters degree. No one has been able to do that, except you. But that does not mean we approve or could ever approve of having you in his life.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘We are saying …’ Mrs Shibden’s look around the room encompassed not only her husband, the serious-looking ancestors watching from picture frames on the wall, but also Fabian’s grandfather, ‘we are saying that should you continue to be involved with our son, we will have no choice but to cut all contact with him.
‘His siblings will be warned that if they see him we will cut them off without any financial support, and we will not have him at any of our family gathe
rings. Until you are out of his life, he will no longer be a part of our lives.’
‘You would do that? To your own son?’
‘For his own good.’
‘For his own good,’ Mr Shibden echoed.
Fabian would be devastated by this. He could survive without his family, but it would break his heart to know what they were truly like. He saw the world through rose-tinted glasses, and knowing this about the people he loved would destroy him. And our relationship would never be the same – instead of fun and laughter and joy and sharing, we would be forever ignoring the reality of what our togetherness had done to the people around him. I didn’t want him or us to suffer like that.
Fabian’s grandfather suddenly shifted forwards in his chair, as though finally ready to impart a great secret. His lips parted and he said something.
‘Pardon, Father?’ Mrs Shibden said loudly. ‘What was that?’
I had heard what he said, and it sounded like, ‘I am Heathcliff.’
‘He doesn’t know what he’s saying,’ Mr Shibden stated dismissively.
Grandfather Fabian flopped back in his seat. ‘I am Heathcliff,’ he mumbled again before shutting his eyes and seeming to fall asleep straight away. He must have remembered my name and its connection to Wuthering Heights. Probably all he recalled about me from what his grandson had told him.
‘Please cooperate,’ Fabian’s mother said, not unkindly.
‘Allow our family to move on from this unpleasantness,’ his father continued. ‘End things after he has completed his final examinations.’
‘You want me to string him along for three more months and then finish with him?’ I replied.
‘If you love him, you will want nothing to disrupt his studies,’ his mother replied.
If I didn’t love him, I wouldn’t be here now, would I? I thought.
I left without saying another word to them.
Saturday, 9.35 a.m.
Mrs Shibden springs forward suddenly, brings the knife dangerously close to my throat. I draw back in my seat. Is this it? Is this the moment she will do it? ‘Tell me. Tell me why he did it. Tell me!’
Ten years, three months ago
Fabian smoked the cigarette right down to the edge of the filter, dragging every last molecule of nicotine from its fibres before he stubbed it out on the stone step. ‘Why?’ he asked.
My gaze strayed to the ring of grey-black he had scorched into the stone of the steps leading up to my flat – something to remember him and this moment by.
‘It’s not working,’ I said. I was disgusted with myself. I’d had three months to come up with a proper answer to this question, and that was the best I could do? Pitiful. ‘I mean, if you’re honest with yourself, it isn’t working.’
He gave a small, almost soundless snort through his nose. ‘Not working.’ He reached inside his jacket pocket and when he withdrew his hand, it was clenched around a dark-blue suede cube. Excitement and nausea hit the back of my throat at exactly the same time. He turned his palm towards me, his hand uncurled. The other hand reached over and opened the hinged lid. ‘Not working,’ he repeated.
Inside the box was a platinum band with a line of diamonds interspersed with emeralds – emeralds, the birthstone for May, my birth month.
‘Things aren’t working so much, I had this made. And I planned to propose to you at my granddad’s eightieth birthday party tomorrow night. I’ve been carrying it with me for courage.’ He looked at me then, his eyes hard, his face harder. ‘But you think it’s not working. Right?’
I had to glance away from his accusatory gaze and stare at the houses opposite instead. ‘What happened today, Fabian?’ I asked after a few seconds.
‘Apart from you telling me it was over?’
‘Yes, apart from that.’
‘I had my last exam for my course,’ he replied.
‘And instead of being out with your friends, celebrating one of the best days of your life, you’re here, with me.’ I pointed to my dressing gown, my pyjamas underneath. ‘It’s not even nine thirty, and I’m in my nightwear, ready for bed. Compared to your friends, I am old, and I am holding you back. You need to go out, enjoy yourself.’
‘Why are you saying these things? The age difference doesn’t matter, none of the differences between us matter. We love each other, that’s all that counts.’
‘Do you know how young and naïve you sound? The world doesn’t work like that. On the surface most people are tolerant, but scratch a little of that top coating off and things get “complicated”, people “yeah, but” your feelings and situations. I’ve had enough of living with differences.’
‘What if I haven’t?’ he replied.
We rarely talked about this, but it was there. Always. It walked with us every step of the way, it sat with us when we were together, it watched us as we made love. His parents had been more blatant about it than most, but people in his circle often dropped unsubtle hints that they couldn’t see what Fabian and I had in common; people in my circle often acted as though I was betraying myself by choosing someone like him. We lived in the modern world, and people were still hung up on differences, status, wealth, appearance. But for two years, that hadn’t mattered. For nearly twenty-four months we had lived in a glorious bubble, and now it had to burst.
‘Is there someone else?’ he asked.
I stared at him and did not speak. I should say ‘yes’. Yes, there’s someone else, he’s exactly like you, but the world around us is a different place so we can be together without problems. My silence seemed to be confirmation that there was someone else.
Fabian’s hand curled around the ring box, his face crumpled. ‘How long has it been going on for?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Do you love him?’
‘Again, does it matter, if we’re over?’
‘Zillah, I can’t believe—’
He got to his feet, unceremoniously shoved the closed box into his left-hand pocket.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I couldn’t stand how much I’d hurt him. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He was about to leave, and the shock of that winded me. But I had to say something to keep him with me a little longer. ‘Do you want the “Wildflowers” back?’ I asked.
He looked at me, the hurt gushing out of him, and shook his head. He walked stiffly down the stairs and turned towards the sea end of my road.
I sat on the steps for a long time after he had walked out of my life.
Saturday, 9.40 a.m.
‘Has something happened to Fabian?’ I ask Mrs Shibden. That could be the only reason why she would be behaving like this – she has lost something precious and it has broken her. My heart slows down at the thought of something happening to him.
‘No!’ she barks. ‘Because of you, something has happened to me!’
Two weeks ago
My mobile bleeped with a text message from my best friend, Lawrence. He was in his sweats, eating pizza and drinking beer on my sofa, regularly updating me on the evening I could have had if I hadn’t had to sit through the world’s longest awards ceremony. Everyone at my table who’d suffered through the evening with me had gone either to dance or to get more drinks.
‘Hey. I’m thinking of getting a picture for my mother’s birthday …’ a voice said to me.
Fabian? Fabian!
I was half out of my seat, ready to throw my arms around him and greet him like a long-lost friend when I noticed the woman standing beside him. His wife.
She had the biggest, fakest smile I had ever seen on a real-life human. Her eyes were like flint, and she had her fingers clamped through his fingers, staking her claim.
‘Hello, Zillah, it’s good to see you,’ he said. He had aged well. The ten years had made him seem more solid, more comfortable in his body. He wore a beard, he’d grown his hair, he stood with the demeanour of a proper grown-up.
‘You too. What are you doing here?’
‘Alice was up for an award,’ he said. ‘She’s a
young entrepreneur.’
‘Congratulations on the nomination,’ I said to Alice. ‘Sorry you didn’t win.’
‘Thanks,’ she replied with a thin smile. I had seen photos of them on their wedding day in the society pages of a magazine. Fabian Effram Shibden III and his ‘princess’ married less than eighteen months after I broke up with him. Their wedding had been lavish enough to rival a royal affair – celebrities, politicians, top business people were in attendance. The ceremony and reception were held at the Shibden family home. The bride wore an ivory princess gown and a diamond tiara, both designed especially for her; the bridegroom grinned like he had never been happier; the ex-girlfriend sat in her flat in Brighton, knowing their day would have been small and discreet, a registry office, a few friends for drinks afterwards, and absolutely one of the best days of her life.
‘I, um, I was just leaving,’ I said and grabbed my clutch bag and phone. ‘I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.’
‘We will,’ Alice replied. She moved closer to her husband, slipped an arm around his waist, almost automatically he slipped an arm around her shoulders, kissed the top of her head. The gut-wrench of that one little move, their shorthand for saying ‘I love you’ in front of other people, was like being driven through with a pickaxe.
‘Are you driving?’ Fabian asked.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Too long a journey to get a taxi.’
‘You still live in Brighton, then?’
I nod. ‘S—’
‘Drive safe,’ Alice cut in, obviously wanting me gone.
‘Thank you,’ I replied.
I used my dignity to prop me up, to force one leg to move and then the other, to keep my head raised, my shoulders back, and my breathing deep and even. I walked out of the ballroom, my steps picking up pace as I moved across the polished marble floor of the reception area. My heels clacked against the floor; the sound a rat-tat of the past knocking for me, telling me it was time for us to face each other.
