The Secret Path

by Karen Swan

  The

  Secret

  Path

  KAREN SWAN

  Contents

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Two

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  For Wallcoot

  No one laughs like we do

  Part One

  Chapter One

  March 2011

  ‘Tell me a secret,’ Tara whispered into the silence.

  ‘A secret?’ Alex echoed, sounding sleepy.

  ‘Yes. Something you’ve never told anyone before.’

  ‘Oh. That type of secret.’

  She smacked his chest. Immediately kissed it. He smelled of her shower gel – jasmine and vanilla.

  ‘Hmm.’ The sound reverberated against her ear, travelling through her and into her. She felt suffused with him – his breath, his smell, his kisses, his love.

  There was a silence, and then his chest inflated, the thought assuming a physical shape. ‘Well, I’ve always wanted a pet goat.’

  She lifted her head and pinned him with a look. ‘That is not what I meant!’

  He grinned back at her. ‘No?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘But I’ve never told anyone that before. I feel very . . . vulnerable to have admitted I love their flicky little tails and hairy chins and little prancy jumps.’

  She smacked him again, laughing. ‘No! That doesn’t count and you know it doesn’t.’

  ‘Huh.’

  She gazed at him, wishing he wasn’t so handsome. Or funny. ‘Tell me what frightens you most in the world.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s easy. What frightens me most in the world is what we’re doing to the world.’

  She groaned. ‘Ugh. Can you just stop being an eco-warrior for one minute? We’re in bed!’

  ‘I’m a biologist,’ he corrected her. ‘And biology never sleeps. Unlike you.’

  He arched an eyebrow; they were beautifully shaped – thick and straight, but finishing in a sharp point – and their very boldness highlighted the paleness of celery-green eyes that sometimes looked grey in weak light.

  ‘What can I say? My body and brain just need a lot of rest and repair.’

  ‘Well, it’s not beauty sleep you need, for sure.’

  ‘Charmer,’ she grinned, nudging him with her shoulders, but pleased. ‘Do you ever think what might have happened if we hadn’t met in the coffee shop that morning?’

  ‘No.’ And before she could protest, he smiled. ‘Because if it hadn’t been there, it’d have been somewhere else.’

  ‘You’re a fatalist?’ she gasped with mock-horror. ‘But how can you say such a thing? You’re a scientist.’

  ‘I say it as a good son. My mom always told me, the people who are meant to be in your life, you’ll meet them twice without trying.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘And you believed that?’

  ‘Of course. I believe everything my mom ever told me.’ A small smile whickered in his eyes, so hers too, and she let the lack of rigorous adherence to scientific principle go. He loved his mum. There was a lot to be said for that.

  ‘Do you . . .’ She thought for a moment. ‘Oh! Do you believe in never going to sleep on a fight?’

  ‘I believe in going to sleep on a mattress.’

  ‘Stop it!’ she laughed. ‘Be serious! I am learning about you!’ She peered at him through narrowed amber eyes. ‘I am studying you! You are my specialist subject.’

  ‘Huh.’ He inhaled deeply, but a smile tickled his lips.

  ‘So do you?’ she prompted. ‘. . . Believe in never going to sleep on a fight?’

  ‘I’ve never thought about it. But I guess . . .’ He lapsed into thought. ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  He seemed surprised by her surprise. ‘What? I don’t think it’s about the speed of how you resolve something. In my experience, talk can be cheap and apologies are meaningless if you’re just rushing to get them in before a deadline. Sometimes, yeah, it’s better to go to sleep on the fight.’

  ‘Said no one ever,’ she protested.

  He shrugged. ‘You’ve got to have conviction if you want to have integrity. All the people I admire most in the world have principles they would die for.’

  She took his hand, which was lying inert over his chest, and distractedly slotted her fingers between his, feeling the size of his palm against hers. There was a tiny moon-shaped scar on the side of his hand from where he’d been hooked by a fishing fly when he was a little boy. She loved stroking it, the ridges satisfying under her thumb. ‘So, like who, then?’

  He gave her the side-eye. ‘Do you know the artist Peter Beard?’

  ‘Sure. Did all the Africa collages. Smeared them with his blood.’

  ‘Right. He was one of the first to recognize species decline in the wild and really do something about it. Back in the sixties and seventies, this was. He’s a pioneer, even though everyone just thinks of him as a playboy.’

  ‘Like Attenborough, but with sex appeal?’

  ‘Yeah, he had a lot of that back in the day.’

  ‘So you admire him because he’s a conservationist?’

  ‘Not just that – I admire him because he has the power of conviction and if he believes in something, he backs it up, a hundred per cent.’ He looked at her. ‘Whenever he’s done the wrong thing, it’s always been for the right reasons.’

  ‘Like what? Give me an example.’

  ‘Okay then.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Okay. There was this one time he caught a poacher on his land – and do you know what he did?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nope, not a clue.’

  ‘He put the guy in his own snare.’

  She stared at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Yep. Left him there for hours. Didn’t kill him, but . . . he made him think twice about ever doing it again, let’s put it that way.’ His voice had become velvet – thick, soft, like a big cat’s purr. ‘When I read that, I thought he was fucking A! He became my hero there and then. Finally, here was someone actually doing something!’

  ‘But he put the guy in a snare.’

  ‘The guy was putting lions in snares. Is that any better?’ He blinked back at her, his eyes shining with their own fierce light. ‘Sometimes talk isn’t enough, Ta. You have to act. Be prepared to cross the line to get things done.’

  ‘Well,’ she said finally. ‘That’s good to know. Remind me not to fall out with you,’ she teased, her arm brushing over him in long, languid strokes. She loved the feeling of their skin-on-skin.

  ‘It’s not looking especially likely at the moment.’

  ‘I’m hoping for a lot longer than a moment,’ she said, hoisting herself up onto her elbows so that she was able to look at him clearly, at the beautiful face that had captured her even before their first hello. She felt the attraction zip between them, his fingertips pressing a little more firmly against her flesh. She tapped her index finger against his chest, one of her nervous tics he fou
nd endearing. ‘So. Don’t you want to ask me if I’ve got a secret too?’

  He looked back at her, a flicker of bemusement in his eyes. ‘I don’t know. Do I?’

  ‘Well, I thought you would. Now I’m not sure.’ Her tone sounded tart in the face of his seeming indifference. What if he wasn’t as curious about her as she was about him? Did he feel the same need to possess her – body, soul, every last memory?

  ‘So, you’re not sure if I’m sure I want to hear your secret,’ he murmured drily, sinking back into quietness again.

  The silence in the room deepened. ‘What are you thinking?’ she whispered, when he offered nothing further. No curiosity, no wonderings.

  ‘I’m thinking I’m not sure we should be having this conversation.’

  She pulled away, stung by the comment, but his hands clasped her and held her firmly. ‘I’m teasing,’ he grinned. ‘Of course I want to hear your secret.’

  ‘I don’t think you do,’ she mumbled, feeling thrown.

  He flipped her onto her back in a fluid motion. ‘Twig, I do,’ he said, leaning on his elbows and kissing her lightly on the tip of her nose. ‘I do. Tell me your most secret secret. The one thing you’ve never told anyone else.’

  She stared up into those green eyes, her mouth parted for the words to come. But the moment had gone, and her big secret with them. ‘. . . I hate mushrooms.’

  He deflated, looking visibly underwhelmed. ‘That’s it? You hate mushrooms?’

  ‘Mm-hmm. Detest them,’ she nodded. ‘But I’ve never told anyone. So I always eat them when they’re served up. To be polite.’

  ‘You Brits and your politeness,’ he tutted, looking baffled. ‘Why can’t you just say when you don’t like something?’

  ‘Well, as you just pertinently pointed out, it’s a British thing. We apologize when other people walk into us. We wait for permission to leave when we’ve paid for something with the correct change. I’ll probably end up marrying the first guy who asks me, just to be polite.’

  He arched an eyebrow. ‘Twig, will you marry me?’

  ‘Absolutely. Thank you so much for asking. How kind.’

  They both laughed, Alex burying his face in her neck, his silky dark hair tickling her cheek. She felt his teeth graze her skin lightly, mock-biting her and sending a flush of goosebumps up her body. He sank back again, lying on his side, resting his head in one hand as he began tracing swirls on her stomach. ‘Baby, you have got to learn the power of “no”. I’m going to Americanize you. Repeat after me. No.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bit stronger. No.’

  ‘No.’

  He frowned.

  She tried again. ‘No!’

  ‘Okay, it’s passable. You’re a quick learner,’ he shrugged. ‘Now let’s apply it to some real-life scenarios. Twig, would you like a puppy for your birthday?’

  She laughed. ‘No.’

  He nodded, looking impressed. ‘Twig, let’s go to Kabul for Christmas.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Excellent. Most excellent . . . Twig, you should definitely wear the red shoes in bed, with nothing else.’

  She laughed louder, her body arching off the sheets. ‘No!’

  ‘Damn. Own goal.’ He pulled a face, but his eyes were dancing with merriment. ‘Twig, would you like some garlic mushrooms with your steak?’

  ‘No!’

  He held an arm out in amazement. ‘I believe my work here is done.’

  ‘You’re a truly great teacher, Alex Carter. What a magnificent professor you’re going to be.’

  ‘Thank you. But there’s still one final test.’ He took a slow, deep breath and pinned her with a stare that could have made the stars leap down from the sky. ‘Twig, will you marry me?’

  ‘Absolutely. Thanks so much for asking. How kind.’

  ‘No!’ he wailed, pressing his face into the crook of her neck again, shaking his head as she laughed beneath him, feeling especially ticklish, the midnight hysterics beginning to get her. ‘You were so close. So close.’ He looked back at her. ‘But now look – instead you’re going to be stuck with me for eternity, all because you’re a polite Brit who couldn’t say no. I’m really sorry, baby. That’s some hard cheese right there.’

  Her laughter faded as she looked up at him, seeing past the jokes. ‘. . . Huh?’

  ‘You didn’t say no.’

  ‘No.’

  The eyebrow went up. ‘No, you agree you didn’t say no? Or no, you don’t want to marry me?’

  He was bamboozling her. ‘No, I . . . agree I didn’t say no.’

  His smile widened as he pulled her towards him. ‘So at least now you’ll have the rest of your life to learn.’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, feeling her heart begin to quicken.

  ‘Yes,’ he echoed, his gaze locking with hers. ‘I like that word better.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Twig, will you marry me?’

  ‘Yes—’ His mouth was upon hers, his body weight pushing her deeper into the mattress, all jokes forgotten as they submitted to the chemistry that had shocked them both at their very first meeting, only four months earlier. Glued to their phones during the morning rush, she had inadvertently picked up his soy filter and he had chased her halfway down Queen’s Gate with her caramel macchiato. So much of it had slopped over the sides as he ran that it was half empty by the time he caught up with her and as their eyes had met over his breathless explanations, he’d insisted on buying her another. She’d ended up missing her lecture on pharmacodynamics that morning and he’d missed a meeting with his PhD supervisor. Coffee had become lunch, then they’d met up that evening for dinner and they’d not spent a night apart since.

  Within the space of a week (but really, within that first day), he had become her life system – he was her oxygen, her sunlight, her beating heart. Even just the thought of being without him was insupportable. She’d never known passion, yearning, lust like it and sometimes the strength of their feelings frightened her. It wasn’t healthy, surely, to want another person so entirely? He was a drug she simply could not do without. And now she wouldn’t have to?

  The excitement escaped her as a little laugh.

  ‘What?’ he asked, nudging her legs apart with his knee.

  ‘Mushrooms to a marriage proposal. That was . . . un-expected,’ she breathed as he began kissing her neck.

  ‘You’re telling me.’ His voice was muffled.

  ‘So you didn’t plan it?’

  He pulled his head up, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright. ‘No. But now I’ve told you my deepest, darkest secret about my love for goats, I’ll have to keep you close. Can’t have that getting out.’ He winked at her, forever teasing.

  His mouth was on her skin again, her body already crying out for him. She closed her eyes, sinking into the splendour of knowing she would have this for the rest of her life.

  ‘Of course you know what this means,’ he murmured, his voice a hot breath on her tummy.

  ‘What?’ she smiled, eyes still closed.

  ‘You’ll have to introduce me to your parents,’ he said, that signature wry smile on his lips.

  ‘Oh God . . . I guess I will.’

  He looked back up at her with a bemused expression. ‘Well, you don’t have to sound so unhappy about it.’

  ‘I’m not. They’ll love you.’

  ‘But . . .?’ he prompted. ‘What is it? They hate Americans?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well done. Good no. Forceful. Believable. Emphatic.’

  She laughed, exhausted by his verbal games.

  ‘Is it because no one could ever be good enough for their darling daughter? Are they those guys?’

  ‘Maybe a bit,’ she conceded.

  ‘Relax. Parents love me.’

  ‘Oh? Met many of your fiancées’ parents, have you?’ she asked archly.

  It was his turn to laugh. ‘You are the only fiancée I have ever had or ever intend to have.’

  ‘Fiancée,
’ she repeated. ‘It sounds funny even just hearing it.’

  ‘Wait till we swap it for wife.’ He kissed her tummy again, just once, lightly, as though a butterfly was landing on her, resting his head in one hand. ‘Tell me, what are you more worried about – introducing them to me, or me to them?’

  She bit her lip. ‘You to them.’

  He pulled a worried look. ‘They don’t have two heads, do they?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Again, very good application of the no there.’

  She smacked him lightly on the shoulder.

  ‘It’s all gonna be fine. They’re gonna love me and I’m gonna love them. You know why I know?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Because all three of us love you. It’s really that simple.’ He hauled himself up the bed again so that he was nose to nose with her. ‘But I gotta meet your dad so I can do this right.’

  She swallowed, feeling tears prick her eyes, the happiness beginning to overflow. ‘You’re going to ask him for my hand?’

  ‘Ideally the rest of you too. But yeah, we’ll start with the hand.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Anything I should know before I go in?’

  She opened her mouth to tell him her secret – not the one she had never told anyone, just the one she had never told him. But staring into his clear eyes, it didn’t feel like the right time. For weeks now she had been waiting for just the right moment to tell him everything, the whole truth and not just a portion of it. But this moment was so pure, so joyous, she didn’t want to sully it with anything crass, overwhelm him with background details that were nothing to do with the two of them.

  She shook her head. ‘Not really,’ she demurred. ‘Daddy’s a sweetheart.’

  ‘What’s a safe topic to start on? Don’t tell me, he’s a golf man?’

  ‘Actually, he’s big on environmental issues, so I reckon you two will get on like a house on fire.’

  ‘Yeah? Great,’ Alex shrugged, looking pleased. ‘So then, when can I meet him?’

  Chapter Two

  Pigeons pecked and strutted a few steps ahead of them in the sandy avenue of Hyde Park’s North Ride, the early morning sun pale and bright as it streamed through the budding horse chestnut canopies. The first crocuses and primroses were already dotting the park with yellow and purple splashes like Monet brushstrokes, the background hum of London traffic on Bayswater Road superseded every few moments by the heavy, rhythmic breathing of runners overtaking them. The mornings were getting brighter, the frosts not quite so furious as they laced the grass.