The Last Kiss Goodbye

by Tasmina Perry

‘We should go back to mine, it’s only round the corner. We’ll have a look at it, clean it up. You might even need a stitch in there.’

  ‘I’m not going to hospital.’ She flinched.

  ‘You might not have to,’ he said, putting his arm tenderly around her shoulder.

  His flat on Tavistock Square was just a few minutes’ drive away.

  It had a red front door, and they went up a flight of stairs to the first-floor apartment.

  She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but it was a small space. A thin hall led to a square living room with a long window that looked on to the square. As Dominic switched on a lamp, she looked around, absorbing the details of the room, the details of the way he lived his life. There was a bookcase stuffed with novels, an olive-green sofa, pictures of far-flung places – deserts, jungle and mountains – lining the walls. The largest piece of furniture was a desk that stretched the length of the window.

  There was a typewriter on the desk, together with a stack of Capital magazines and a pen pot. The place was sparse and ordered, a home that did not feel very lived in.

  A small drinks trolley sat in the corner of the room. Dominic poured them each a whisky, then disappeared to the bathroom, returning with a wet flannel and a bottle of iodine.

  ‘Stay still,’ he said quietly as he stood behind her.

  She could feel his breath on her neck, then the cold flannel on her crown and the iodine starting to sting.

  ‘Who were those men?’ she asked after a moment. ‘The men that came to the office. Who were they if they weren’t the police?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘I do.’ She winced as Dominic applied more iodine.

  ‘They deal with problems.’

  ‘Legally?’ asked Ros with a jolt of concern.

  ‘Yes, legally.’

  ‘So they’re Special Branch?’ she said, feeling curious.

  ‘Not exactly, but they’re friends of mine and I trust them. They will know how to deal with Brian.’

  ‘It was a good job you came up to the office,’ she said finally.

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘Why did you come?’

  ‘I didn’t want the night to end as it did,’ he said, and she felt herself shiver.

  ‘What am I going to tell Sam?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘I still can’t believe it. I still can’t believe Brian would want to do a thing like that.’

  ‘I guess you never really know someone. Not truly.’

  ‘I’m not the person you think either,’ she said, turning round.

  Dominic put the flannel on the desk.

  ‘Oh yes?’ he said, moving closer.

  ‘You’ve been so nice to me, and yet sometimes I’m a bitch to you.’

  He gave a low, slow laugh. She liked his laugh. It was one of the many things she loved about him.

  ‘I don’t know why I do it. I don’t blame you for wanting to have nothing to do with me.’

  He took another step towards her. They were so close now they were sharing the same air.

  ‘Ros, I knew you were trouble from the moment I heard the words “fire Dominic Blake” drifting through my office window. I’ve given this a great deal of thought, and to be honest, I think there’s only one way to shut you up . . .’

  He tipped her chin up with his fingertips and then he kissed her, and it wasn’t the bump on her head or the trauma of the evening that made her feel weak and delirious. And as she kissed him back, tasting him, feeling his soft lips against hers, Ros knew with absolute certainty that Dominic Blake was the love of her life.

  Chapter Twelve

  London, present day

  The days after the exhibition went past in a blur. The press reviews had been sensational, not least Elliot Hall’s piece in the Chronicle entitled ‘The Last Goodbye: why the new RCI exhibition restores your faith in humanity’, and Abby had been fielding calls asking for tickets, prints, even private views ever since. Just the day before, Christine Vey herself had called with the news that RCI membership had tripled literally overnight, and in return, Abby had told her that the limited-edition print run of The Last Goodbye, as she was now calling the photograph of Ros and Dominic, had entirely sold out.

  She clicked on an email – another request for a copy of The Last Goodbye – and was just typing back her regrets when her phone started to ring.

  She looked at it, forcing herself to wait before she picked it up. She had been anticipating a call from Nick since the exhibition, as she knew he read the Chronicle – at least he had done, when they were still together.

  ‘Abby. It’s Stephen. Can you just pop through a minute?’

  Glancing at the clock, she hung up and walked across the basement to Stephen’s little cubicle. If she left in five minutes and caught the first tube, she’d be at Piccadilly in plenty of time. Relax, she told herself, as she tapped on Stephen’s door frame.

  ‘Ah, Abby, come in,’ he said. ‘Take a seat.’

  ‘You do remember I’m on a half-day today?’ she said as she perched on a small fold-up chair; there wasn’t really room for anything more in the cramped cubbyhole.

  ‘Of course, don’t worry,’ said Stephen. ‘This won’t take long.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, sipping his tea. ‘I want you to know that we have been very pleased with your work here.’

  She knew there was little room for promotion at the Institute, but a bonus would be very welcome right now. Nick was still paying money into their joint account, but with an uncertain financial outlook, any sort of cash injection would be appreciated.

  ‘The exhibition has been a roaring success and Christine wanted me to pass on how impressed she was with its execution – and of course you were a part of that success, Abigail.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Abby, feeling genuinely flattered.

  ‘We’re all very excited that the archive is showing it can be a commercial force as well as an important cultural resource,’ continued Stephen, putting down his china cup.

  ‘As you know, Christine is a very modern thinker. Her vision is that the archive should be a global resource available online, like AP or Getty. Genius. Absolute genius. Of course, future exhibitions are vital for marketing such a plan.’

  Abby nodded politely, although she did have some reservations about their director’s vision. Christine Vey had never so much as set foot in the archive, and probably imagined it as some sort of high-tech mechanised warehouse instead of a dingy cellar crammed full of cardboard boxes. Still, she was glad that people had recognised its potential.

  ‘So is she going to allocate more funds to us?’ she asked hopefully. ‘If we had a newer scanner, maybe Photoshop, it would certainly help . . .’

  Stephen dropped his eyes to his desk and the mood suddenly shifted.

  ‘There’s the rub,’ he said finally. ‘Our budgets are finite and we have to look at ways in which we can economise. Economise to expand, as it were.’

  ‘Economise?’ repeated Abby. They had so few tea bags in the kitchen, she had started to bring in her own.

  Stephen shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  ‘Abby, an online archive of saleable prints represents the future of this Institute. But until we can make that work, really work, we don’t need two senior full-time archivists. Christine thinks one person can oversee the archives and handle exhibitions, possibly with the help of someone junior. Then we need someone with real digital experience who can sort out the launch of a website.’

  ‘I can do all of those things,’ said Abby quickly. ‘Okay, I haven’t got much online experience, but the exhibition was a success, I’m a quick learner and I have lots more ideas . . .’

  ‘Abby, you’re keen. We both know that. It’s probably why I gave you so much autonomy with the show. Too much, perhaps. It was naïve to put a limit on the prints. You know we can’t extend the print run after we have sold them as limited editions, and Christine is particularly disappointe
d that we can’t squeeze any more out of The Last Goodbye. The way my phone has been ringing off the hook, we could have sold ten thousand of them. But no. We had a ceiling of seventy-five and that has cost us.’

  ‘But you agreed everything, Stephen,’ said Abby, starting to fret. ‘Numbered prints meant we could charge more for them . . .’

  ‘Abby. I’ve done all I can to protect your position, but Christine insists that I take a more hands-on role, and I agree with her.’

  Abby shook her head. The truth was that he was protecting his own position. She thought of Stephen’s day-to-day work life. Swanning around the library, taking long lunches, hiding in his office reading back issues of the RCI magazine. There was no place for that sort of role any more, and he knew it.

  ‘So I’m fired,’ she said, disguising the panic in her voice.

  ‘Fired? No, no, no. You’re on a freelance contract. We just need to take another look at it. I’ve fought to keep you on for two days a week, and Christine has agreed to it. At least until the digital side is up and running.’

  He looked at her sympathetically.

  ‘Abby, I know this is disappointing for you, but we have to think about the future of the archive.’

  ‘Clearly,’ said Abby bleakly.

  ‘Good,’ said Stephen, obviously relieved that it had all gone so smoothly. ‘Then that’s settled. Why don’t you get off early today, hmm?’

  ‘I have the afternoon off anyway.’

  ‘Of course, I was forgetting. Are you going somewhere nice? A long weekend?’

  She stood up slowly.

  ‘I’m going to see a divorce lawyer.’

  Stephen’s face fell.

  ‘I see. Well, I hope it all . . . goes the way you want.’

  ‘I can’t imagine it will,’ said Abby and walked out of the office.

  Donovan’s solicitors was a more modern-looking outfit than she had imagined.

  She had met Anna outside dozens of times, but had never gone into the building. She announced herself at reception, and within a few moments she was introduced to one Graham Kelly. Abby had not had a great deal of experience of solicitors beyond the many legal dramas she had seen on television. She imagined Graham playing rugby and hanging on Jeremy Clarkson’s every word. She didn’t suppose he was more than thirty, which was definitely a good thing. She knew that experienced solicitors meant expensive solicitors. She’d already broached this point gently with Matt, who had reassured her that an associate at the firm would do as good a job as he could.

  ‘Come through,’ said Graham, leading her down the corridor to his office.

  ‘Are Anna or Matt around?’ said Abby, hoping that seeing a friendly face might make her feel less anxious.

  ‘Anna’s in court, I think, and Matt is in a meeting. I’ll give his secretary a call, though, and let him know you’re here. Tea?’

  ‘No. No thank you,’ said Abby, taking a seat in front of his desk.

  There was a buff-coloured file on the desk with the words Gordon/Separation written in bold ink at the top. She’d heard about things staring you in the face in black and white, but seeing the file made everything feel horribly real.

  ‘So. Matt has given me an outline of your situation.’

  ‘I want a divorce,’ said Abby, ditching the mental script she had written for herself on the way here.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, sipping from his glass of water. ‘I believe you are currently separated from your husband.’

  Abby nodded, trying to keep her cool. ‘I asked him to leave. Well, I didn’t actually ask. I just sort of threw him out seven weeks ago. He had an affair. Sex. And now I would like a divorce.’

  She expected him to pass judgement, to try and talk her out of it, but he just sat there writing everything down.

  ‘How long have you been married?’

  ‘Almost six years exactly.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Do you work?’

  ‘Yes. No. Sort of. I lost my job today,’ she said sadly.

  Graham continued writing in his yellow notebook.

  ‘What is your husband’s position?’

  ‘He works. He has an IT consultancy business.’

  ‘Assets?’ asked Graham, beginning to sound like a robot.

  ‘We have a house with a mortgage. It’s in joint names. There’s some savings. Not much, although to be honest, I have no idea how much Nick has in his personal account. His business is doing pretty well, actually, so I imagine he might have quite a bit.’

  ‘How long has he had the business?’

  ‘He set it up a few months after we got married.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Good?’

  Graham looked up from his frantic scribbling. ‘It means you’ll have a strong claim there.’

  She felt a knot of guilt at that one. The business Nick had worked so hard to build up. The business that took him away from home so often. That took him to hotel rooms in the path of temptation . . .

  ‘Once we get the ball rolling, you will have to fill out some paperwork known as the Form E. We can work out the assets from there. Meanwhile, I believe you’re in the family home.’

  Abby nodded. ‘I assume I can stay there.’

  She thought of their Wimbledon terrace. They’d not had the money to kit it out with anything more extravagant than IKEA furniture, but they had made it into a lovely, stylish place and it was tied up with so many memories. Happy memories if you discounted that final, high-octane showdown. An image of a Dune shoe flying – being hurled – down the stairs at her husband sprang instantly to mind, and she tried to blot it out as quickly as it came.

  ‘You can stay there for now,’ Graham said flatly. ‘At some point, matrimonial homes may have to be sold, particularly when there are no children involved. I haven’t established what your husband’s financial position is, but perhaps you could buy out his share . . .’

  Abby didn’t care about the money. She just wanted this to be as painless as possible. She closed her eyes tightly at the thought of losing the house. Then again, she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay somewhere that represented her life with Nick. Their marriage.

  ‘I think we are looking at a fairly straightforward fifty-fifty division of assets. And provided your husband doesn’t contest the divorce, it shouldn’t take too long.’

  ‘How long do you think?’ she gulped.

  ‘To decree nisi? Fifteen, sixteen weeks. Decree absolute another month after that.’

  ‘So I’ll be divorced by Christmas.’

  She felt her hands shake and a wave of nausea pool in her throat.

  ‘Would you like some water?’

  ‘No, no. I’m fine,’ she muttered, wondering if she had let out a moan.

  ‘Divorce can be a very traumatic experience,’ said Graham softly. ‘Especially when you are the, uh, injured party, shall we say?’

  ‘Can be traumatic?’ said Abby, challenging him. ‘Isn’t it always?’

  ‘I think it can be something of a relief in some cases. Not everyone has a good marriage, and sometimes divorce is the first thing a couple have agreed on in years.’

  He sat back in his chair and put down his pen.

  ‘You know, at this stage it’s sometimes helpful to attempt a reconciliation before we get too far down the line.’

  ‘Is that what’s in the file? A key card to Babington House?’

  She regretted her sarcasm when Graham looked confused.

  ‘I assume you’ve spoken to Nick. He thinks we should try counselling.’

  ‘Nick is not my client, Abby. I deal with his solicitor. But regardless of what most people think about lawyers, we’re not out to ruin lives and screw everyone for money. If you can sort this out, get things back on track and that’s what you both genuinely want . . . Well, I certainly think it’s something you should try.’

  ‘Do you mind if we stop there?’ asked Abby, feeling emotional.

  She looked at the
clock behind him and puffed out her cheeks. She knew from Anna that lawyers didn’t just work by the hour. Every ten-minute unit was clocked and billed. Time was money. It had taken her six weeks to decide against any sort of marriage counselling or mediation. She didn’t want it to cost her another hundred quid to confirm that decision to her lawyer.

  ‘How about I call at the end of the week?’ said Graham. ‘Give you a chance to mull everything over. Look, there’s Matt. He’ll want to say hello.’

  She looked behind her and saw a tall, familiar figure waving from the other side of the window.

  She picked up her bag, shook Graham’s hand and left his office.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ said Matt, giving her shoulders a reassuring squeeze. She hoped he hadn’t noticed that she was shaking. ‘Everything okay in there?’

  ‘I think you should maybe offer vodka instead of tea,’ she replied, glad to see his friendly face.

  ‘Temazepam rather than biscuits . . .’

  ‘Bring it up at your next board meeting,’ she smiled, trying to keep the situation light.

  ‘You’ll get through it,’ he said, reminding Abby that Matt wasn’t just a divorce lawyer. He had been divorced too. A messy, emotional affair, according to Anna. A difficult wife who’d had an affair and walked out taking their young son with her. It had almost destroyed him, and yet Matt was now happy and about to marry Anna.

  They were almost at reception when they heard a commotion at the front desk. A woman a little younger than Abby was struggling with a buggy and a small boy.

  ‘Abby, this is an ex-colleague of ours, Sid Travers. She comes back to see us occasionally. Sid, this is Abby, a friend of mine and Anna’s.’

  ‘Matt. Phone,’ called a PA.

  ‘Abby, Sid, I’ll see you later.’ He waved regretfully.

  The young woman was clearly harassed. The toddler in the buggy had started crying and the young boy was tugging desperately at her skirt.

  ‘Can I help?’ asked Abby.

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Sid. ‘He just wants to get out.’

  She unclicked his harness and the toddler wriggled out of the buggy.

  ‘Mummy, I need the toilet.’

  ‘In a minute, Charlie,’ she said to the older child.