by Susan Lewis
‘Or that he thinks there’s no more to say. That it’ll just drag everything out, make it even more painful and difficult, if we keep discussing it.’
‘Even if you’re right,’ Sherry said, clicking her mouse to send an email, ‘there are still things to sort out. I take it the flat is in both your names.’
‘Yes, it is, but don’t let’s go there. I can’t bear to think about having to pack it up and divide …’ After collecting herself she said, ‘Sorry, I … This isn’t getting any easier.’
‘Don’t apologize,’ Sherry told her softly. ‘It’s still very early days. How are your parents dealing with it?’
‘Much better than I expected. You were right to involve them, being here reassures them I’m not going to do the same as Lysette. My dad left a message for Elliot yesterday, but he hasn’t heard back either.’
‘What about going round there?’
There was a spark in Laurie’s voice as she said, ‘I’m not chasing him. He’s the one who did this. If he wants to talk he knows where I am.’
Knowing there was no point getting into the contradiction, or the pride that was probably already falling apart, Sherry said, ‘Do you want me to go, see if he’ll talk to me?’
‘Thanks, but no. Chris is going to try. It’s more likely he’ll talk to him.’ There was another pause, and her voice became strained again as she said, ‘It’s hard to imagine what’s going through his mind, whether he cares about what he’s done, if he’s just managed to cut off completely …’
‘Men have different ways of dealing with things,’ Sherry reminded her. ‘We all do. Just give him a little more time.’
‘That’s what my mother says. I wanted to send out the cancellation notices today, which I suppose was a kind of F you gesture to him, but she thinks we should wait another week.’
‘I agree. There’s no rush, it’s been in half the papers anyway, so it’s not as if people don’t already know. And if he does change his mind … Oh hang on, I’m waiting for a call from Barry Davidson, I’d better see if that’s him.’ Quickly she switched lines. ‘Hi, Sherry MacElvoy.’
‘Sherry, it’s Nick.’
Her heart jumped. Nick. It seemed like a dream, even a trick. ‘Hi,’ she responded warmly, though it had taken a mere split second for her to start bracing herself for the let-down she just knew was the reason for this call. ‘How are you?’
‘Great. Looking forward to seeing you. Can we make it eight fifteen instead of eight? I’m running a bit late.’
‘That’s perfect for me,’ she replied, almost unravelling with relief. ‘Eight fifteen. I’m on the other line, so I’ll see you then.’ She switched back to Laurie. ‘Sorry about that. Are you still there?’
‘Yes. Was it Barry?’
‘No. Actually … it was Nick.’ She waited a beat. ‘I’m seeing him tonight.’
‘Are you serious? Why didn’t you say something before? I’ve been rattling on about myself …’
‘There’s nothing to tell – yet,’ Sherry cut in. ‘I’ll fill you in tomorrow. I should go now though, to start getting ready.’
‘All right, but before you do, what news on the women?’
‘There’s still no indication of where they might be now,’ Sherry answered, ‘but we’re working on it.’ It would take too long to get into that right now, and, with everything else she had going on, Laurie’s attention span wouldn’t cope. Nor, come to that, would hers.
‘What about Barry?’ Laurie said. ‘Has …’
‘Listen,’ Sherry interrupted, ‘you can’t deal with any of this right now, so just let it go. I’m on the case, Stan and Barry are too, so you go to Hydra, get some sun on your skin and Rhona wisdom in your heart, and I’ll fill you in on it all when you come back.’
‘What about Rose and the crew?’
‘I’ll keep in touch with them and deal with whatever comes up, if anything does. Now, I’m really, really sorry, but I have to go.’
Though she felt bad for cutting Laurie off, the phone was hardly down before she was grabbing her purse and dashing out to the wine shop to pick up an expensive Pinot Noir, then on to Waitrose for a smoked salmon roulade, Earl Grey tea and crispy croissants (just in case). Next stop was the florist for a lavish bundle of lilies, the dry cleaners for the three outfits she’d selected to choose from, then a quick stop-off at Hilda’s to buy scented candles. If anyone was following her she caught no sight of them, and though she was still unnerved by the prospect she’d decided, for the moment at least, to take the attitude that she’d been through enough in her life to withstand a little stalking.
Two hours later she was standing in front of her bedroom mirror, feeling even more nervous than she’d expected. Her hands were actually unsteady, and her eyes reflected an anxiousness she was finding hard to disguise. Though she’d told herself a hundred times that this shouldn’t mean so much, she couldn’t help it, it just did. However, she looked lovely. Her skin glowed, her soft crinkly hair cascaded down over her neck, and the miraculously slimming white jeans and sparkly lavender top were, she thought, just right for the occasion – not too dressy, but not too casual either.
Still not quite able to believe this was happening, she dabbed on a little more perfume, then went back to the kitchen to continue preparing the hors d’oeuvres. Ten minutes to go. Her mouth was turning dry and her heart was constantly fluttering, so she poured a small glass of wine in the hope it would help. After taking a mouthful she searched out some matches and went to start lighting the candles. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t dark, candlelight always lent a glow of intimacy to a room. The French doors stood open on to the balcony, allowing the warm evening air to drift in with the scent of the flowers. The sound of a speedboat racing down the river grew, then faded into the distance. In the quiet that followed she heard the murmur of her neighbours’ voices on the balcony below. She gazed out at the sky. It was a clear, pale blue, too early yet for the first glow of a sunset to stain it with pink.
The music she chose was from the Forties and Fifties, classic blues – ballads she and Nick had danced to on moonlit evenings during the short, precious summer they’d shared. Would he want to be reminded? She felt fleetingly unsure, until the opening bars of ‘Misty Blue’ floated from the CD. How could he object to such beautiful songs, or think her sad for trying to recapture something that had been lost a long time ago?
Wandering out onto the balcony she gazed down at the river. She felt so apprehensive, and yet so happy, to know that in less than ten minutes he would be here. Though she was trying hard not to expect too much from tonight, it was impossible to stop imagining a future she’d hardly even dared think about for so long that the dreams should have faded by now. But tonight they seemed more vivid, more alive and maybe even more possible.
With a tremulous smile she turned to the nasturtiums spilling down over the sides of a large clay pot. Next to them were bright pink and lavender fuchsias mingling with tall purple and white delphiniums and orange hibiscus. The scent of a white flowering jasmine, climbing a wooden trellis, mingled with the pungency of fresh herbs.
She adored her little garden, unsophisticated and cramped as it was. It reminded her of the one she’d grown up in, with its agapanthus and birds of paradise, iceberg roses, peonies, palms, yuccas and jade. Her mother had tried so hard to keep it all alive, tying, pruning, planting and feeding, but she’d never really had the knack. Long spells of neglect would turn the garden into a wilderness, until suddenly one day they’d jump in the car and go off to the nursery to buy big, colourful replacements, to start all over again.
Then, for a while, everything in their garden would be beautiful and right, full of sunshine and fragrance, a place where hummingbirds and butterflies flitted and fed. It was as though their garden had been a metaphor for their life, which, Sherry knew, was why she cherished and tended her flowers with such care now. She couldn’t bear anything to die, for it reminded her too much of things she’d rather forget.
At last the doorbell rang.
As she crossed the sitting room she felt almost nauseous with nerves. She had the odd, disconcerting feeling that her paintings were watching her, gathering like ghosts from the past to see what she would do now. Nick knew everything – he was one of the few people who did – which was why she was experiencing this strange sense of being both here in the present, and back there in the past.
After pressing the buzzer to let him in, she quickly checked her reflection in the mirror, felt relieved and surprised to see how calm, and even pretty, she looked, then pulled open the front door. She could hear the lift rising. Her heart was in her throat. She wanted to weep, run, reach for more wine … She stayed where she was, and waited for the lift door to open.
As he stepped out she felt almost light-headed. It really was him. After all this time he was actually standing right there, smiling, and holding an enormous and exquisite bunch of wild flowers.
‘Hi,’ she said softly, her own smile starting to grow.
‘Hi yourself,’ he responded. His dark blond hair was pushed back in the same way it had always been, slightly too long, straight, a wayward strand dropping over his brow. There was the odd hint of grey in it now, and more lines around his deep brown eyes. There seemed a harder set to his jaw, yet his smile was as compelling as the warmth and charisma he exuded.
‘You haven’t changed,’ he told her, his eyes almost seeming to touch hers with their gaze.
Irony filled her smile. ‘You have, but for the better,’ she told him.
He laughed and threw out a hand. ‘You always did manage to come up with the better lines.’
As they laughed his eyes remained on hers. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he said softly.
‘You too.’
Holding the flowers aside he stooped to kiss her lightly on the mouth. ‘Sherry MacElvoy,’ he said.
‘Nick van Zant,’ she responded.
His eyebrows went up, and blushing slightly she looked at the flowers. ‘For me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then we should put them in water.’
As she walked back into the flat he closed the front door, and came into the kitchen behind her. She turned to glance at him and loved him just for being there and managing to look as though he belonged.
‘Your favourites, if memory serves me correctly,’ he said, watching her unwrap the flowers.
She smiled. ‘Actually, wild flowers were my mother’s favourite,’ she gently responded.
His eyes closed. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’
After a pause he said, ‘That was stupid of me. I …’
‘Honestly, it doesn’t matter.’ She turned so he could see her smile. ‘Look, I’m not upset,’ she said, her eyes twinkling with humour.
He dashed a hand awkwardly through his hair, then smiled too. ‘A great start, van Zant,’ he muttered.
‘Forget it,’ she chided. ‘Now, would you like some wine? I’ve opened a bottle of red, but there’s white if you prefer.’
‘Red is fine.’ Seeing the bottle next to an empty glass, he picked it up and started to pour.
‘Mine’s in the sitting room,’ she told him.
Carrying the bottle through he topped up her glass and went to stand at the open French doors. ‘This is a great place you’ve got here,’ he declared. ‘A river view. And flowers. Always surrounded by flowers. How long have you been here?’
‘Nine, ten months. I’ve become very attached to it, so I’ll probably stay.’
‘Do you still have the house in LA?’
‘You mean my parents’ house? No. I sold it a few years ago. I couldn’t imagine ever going back, so there seemed no point in keeping it. What about you? Elliot mentioned something about you returning to London.’
He drank some wine and turned back into the room. ‘It’s why I’m here,’ he told her. ‘I’m going to be looking for a place, and I’m talking to a few people. I’ll probably go the freelance route though. I’ve done my time on staff.’
She glanced up from where she was arranging the flowers and said, ‘Could you move those on the coffee table, I want to put the ones you brought there.’
Picking up the vase he breathed in the scent of the lilies and said, ‘Didn’t your father used to call you Lily?’
She looked up. ‘Yes, he did,’ she replied. ‘I’m surprised you remember.’
He also seemed surprised. ‘Sheralyn Lily MacEvilly,’ he said.
‘Now Sheralyn MacElvoy,’ she responded, carrying the fresh vase round to the sitting room and setting it on the table. ‘My friends call me Sherry Mac.’
He watched as she stood back to admire the display, then passing her wine, he clinked her glass with his own. ‘Here’s to Sherry Mac,’ he said.
As they drank their eyes remained on each other’s, and she wondered again how real this was. ‘Shall we sit down?’ she said, gesturing towards the sofa.
As they sat she offered him the plate of hors d’oeuvres.
‘So, tell me about you,’ she said, as he took a slice of smoked salmon roulade. ‘What have you been doing all this time? I was trying to remember when we were last in touch. It must be more than six years.’ Of course she knew exactly when it was, but she wasn’t going to admit it, unless he did.
‘Can you believe so much time has gone by?’ he murmured, and sipped his drink. ‘So much has happened. For you too I guess. You’ve got quite a career going, I’m told. The last time I saw you, you were almost ready to give up on London and go back to the States.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Is that what I said? Idle threats, because I’d never have gone back, not then, or now. I was probably just feeling frustrated, wanting it all to happen immediately, not giving it any time to come together. You were a great help to me then, with all the contacts you gave me over here, the doors you opened. I’ve got a lot to thank you for.’
‘It was my pleasure,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘I tried to keep up with what you were doing, but all those aliases …’
She chuckled. ‘They keep me more or less anonymous, which is how I want to be. Unlike you,’ she added, teasingly. ‘Your name is always cropping up somewhere, usually in the most dangerous spot on the globe. Tell me about when you were shot in Afghanistan.’
‘Actually, it was Pakistan,’ he corrected. ‘We were just crossing over the border. I got hit in the wrist. But it only skimmed. I don’t even have a scar there now. I’m amazed it even made the news.’
She looked at the hand he held out and wanted to touch it. ‘I missed your postcards when they stopped coming,’ she said lightly. ‘It used to make me feel important, to get mail from the great Nick van Zant.’
‘Not so great,’ he grimaced. ‘And I never felt good about that, the way I just stopped writing and calling. I shouldn’t have done it like that. I just didn’t know how else to do it.’
For a fleeting moment the warmth drained from her smile. She’d become so used to her own version of events now – how they’d made a pact not to see each other again, because their feelings were too strong and the partings too painful – that she’d actually forgotten how it really was. But he was right, he had just cut her off with no word or warning, and at the time it had totally torn her apart. She looked down at her drink. It seemed strange that she could have forgotten that now, but the mind had many different ways of coping, one of which was creating a less painful reality.
‘Were you OK?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ she said, looking up.
He still looked troubled. ‘But after what you’d been through, to just cut out on you like that …’
Her eyebrows rose playfully. ‘I managed to survive,’ she said lightly.
His head was tilting to one side as he cast his mind back. ‘I’m trying to remember exactly when you left California,’ he said. ‘Was it immediately after that summer?’
She nodded. ‘More or less. After we flew back from Hawaii, and you had to g
o straight on to New York … It was a couple of weeks after that. I closed up the house and came here to England to stay with my aunt.’
‘Of course. Your father’s sister. In Somerset. That’s when you did these paintings.’
She followed his gaze around the walls.
‘I remember now,’ he said, ‘how much they shocked me when I first saw them.’
‘I remember that too,’ she smiled. ‘You helped me to hang them in my first flat, here in London. You were the only one who seemed to see what I saw in them. No-one else has since. People don’t even seem to notice them much. Well, they’re not particularly good, I’m not even sure why I’ve kept them, except I suppose they serve as some kind of reminder that if I could get through that I could get through anything. Or maybe they’re a reminder that nothing could ever be as bad again. Whatever. At the time it was a way of expressing what I had going on inside, getting it all out, like some kind of exorcism. And I needed it back then – a lot.’
‘That’s true,’ he said softly. ‘How are you dealing with it all now?’
‘In many ways it feels like a bad dream,’ she answered, her eyes starting to drift. ‘Something that never really happened. I’ve tried to cut all contact with everyone from that time, though I still get the occasional letter.’
He was watching her closely. ‘So you’ve never seen her since?’
She shook her head, and looked at him again. ‘It’s amazing what we manage to come through, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Eighteen months of pure hell, then along comes you.’ Her eyes were taking on a playful glint. ‘My very own hero.’
There was no answering light in his eyes as he said, ‘Who happened to be married and broke your heart all over again.’
‘It wasn’t intentional,’ she reminded him, ‘and, like I said, I survived. Mainly thanks to Aunt Jude, who put up with me and my nightmare paintings for six months or more, before I finally got myself together enough to start calling the numbers you’d given me in London. You used to call me every week then, to see how I was doing. Do you remember that?’
