The Last Kiss Goodbye

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘It’s why it has such a smoky taste. The ground around Skye is very peaty.’

  ‘I like this one,’ said Shah with a wink. ‘A girl who knows her whisky.’

  He turned his attention to his son.

  ‘Nice piece about the RCI exhibition, by the way. I never knew Rosamund Bailey had such an interesting past.’

  ‘Abby works at the RCI. She found the Last Goodbye image in the archive.’

  ‘You get even better.’

  ‘So you know Rosamund?’ asked Abby.

  ‘Know her?’ huffed Shah, his dark eyes narrowing. ‘Bloody woman made my life a misery for the best part of a decade. That column of hers, that left-wing soapbox, well, I was her favourite whipping boy just because I’d made some money and acquired a voice. She tried to trash me. I needed a stable of my own newspapers just to keep my reputation intact.’

  Abby knew all about Lord Shah, enough to know that his wasn’t exactly a rags-to-riches story. His father had owned a successful advertising company in the 1950s, and although Andrew had started off at the bottom of the Fleet Street pole – obits, quizzes, researching, fact-checking – he’d been able to buy a small chain of local newspapers when his father died and bequeathed him a large windfall.

  Family money had given Andrew Shah that first break, but ruthless business smarts helped him convert his initial media portfolio into an empire. When the ailing Chronicle came up for sale in the early 1970s, he quickly bought it, turning it around and launching its tabloid sister paper The Post five years later.

  ‘Right-wing buffoon, capitalist pig,’ said Shah, still muttering to himself. ‘They were just some of the things she called me. One week, I’ll never forget, she said I’d done more damage to democracy in this country than Mussolini in thirties Italy.’

  ‘Did you sue her?’ asked Elliot defensively.

  ‘Only makes a situation worse,’ said Shah, shaking his head. ‘What I should have done was repeat some of the rumours that were flying around about her in the sixties.’

  ‘Rumours?’ asked Abby quickly.

  ‘A whole raft of Fleet Street journalists were under suspicion of being Soviet assets and spies. Rosamund Bailey was one of them.’

  Abby looked at him wide-eyed. ‘Surely not?’

  ‘Don’t be naïve, Abby,’ smiled the older man. ‘Just because you’ve met her and liked her doesn’t mean to say she’s a saint. In my time I’ve met dictators, criminals, and CEOs who would crush entire companies before breakfast without blinking, and believe me, most of them were perfectly charming company. That’s generally how they got to where they were in life.’

  He focused his attention back on his son. ‘Now then, Elliot. I was just telling Paul that we need more images like that Last Goodbye picture in the Chronicle. Tug-at-the-heartstrings stuff. I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of reading about bad news in the broadsheets. All these so-called news websites are making a killing peddling pictures of cute kittens. See what you can come up with, all right? You too, Miss Gordon. You’ve clearly got a nose for a story. And persuade my son to crack open the Talisker and we’ll see what else we can do to further your career.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  The thin line of sunlight crept slowly across the floor, up over the bedspread and finally, inch by inch, onto Abby’s face. When it reached her eyes, she twitched, flinched, then rolled over, groaning. She tried to block the glare with her pillow, but it was too late: she was awake. Well, conscious anyway. ‘Awake’ suggested being alert, bright-eyed, ready to meet the day, none of which described Abby at that moment.

  ‘Urrssh,’ she hissed through her teeth, pressing the heel of one hand to her temple as she tried to sit up and focus on the room. As she did so, her heart jumped. This was not her bedroom. Not even her house.

  ‘Oh no . . .’ she whispered, as a series of images leapt into her mind. Endless cocktails, the fifty-year-old whisky, laughing with Suze, dancing with Elliot, dancing with Andrew Shah. God, dancing on a sofa. And then . . . nothing.

  Heart bumping now, Abby quickly examined herself: no, she was fully clothed and there was no sign of Elliot or any other man. In fact, this was a single bed in a cramped space, the classic spare room. Elliot’s spare room? The decor seemed to fit with the rest of the house – expensive and elegant-looking – but she couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t be sure of anything.

  Suddenly she was seized with a strong desire to get away. She swung her legs out, then stopped as zigzags of light flashed across her vision, accompanied by a pounding at the front of her skull.

  ‘Ouch,’ she whispered.

  How many cocktails did I have exactly? she wondered, silently cursing Marco the barman. They had been so delicious, she hadn’t been able to refuse when they were placed in front of her.

  She pushed herself up, wobbling a little and grabbing for the bedside table. There she noticed a telling detail: someone had put a glass of water next to the bed.

  Well it wasn’t me, I think we can be sure of that, she thought.

  Which suggested someone had been looking after her last night. Had it been Elliot, putting her to bed, coaxing her to drink water to offset her hangover? That was somehow worse: the embarrassment of being treated like an invalid.

  For a moment Abby felt a stab of disappointment that there hadn’t been a drunken lunge – well, none she could remember, anyway. But what if she had thrown herself at Elliot and he had rebuffed her? She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember, but she was met by an inky blackness.

  ‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ she muttered to herself, picking up her shoes and inching towards the door.

  She reached the corridor and looked around as she tiptoed towards the stairs.

  She was definitely at Elliot’s – she could tell that now. She recognised the mouldings, the chandeliers and the black-and-white-checked tiled floor in the hall. But how had she got into the spare room, and more importantly, what had happened in there?

  She felt sick, and it wasn’t just her hangover. Here she was, still a married woman, she reminded herself, creeping around the aftermath of a house party like a randy teenager.

  She grabbed the banister and a floorboard creaked loudly.

  Elliot came out of a nearby door, rubbing his damp hair with a towel. At least he was fully clothed, she thought, noticing his grey T-shirt and dark jeans. Different clothes from yesterday, she realised with relief.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, draping the towel around his neck.

  ‘I was just leaving,’ she replied, pointing her thumb towards the front door. ‘I apologise for whatever I’ve done. Whatever state I managed to get myself in to end up in your spare room.’

  He gave a slow smile. ‘You were a bit the worse for wear.’

  Abby looked away in embarrassment.

  ‘How did I end up . . . you know, staying over?’

  ‘I suggested it, you agreed.’

  ‘I did that?’ she said soberly.

  Elliot laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘You just look so angry with yourself.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘For ending up in my spare room?’

  She couldn’t tell if he was flirting with her. She hoped not, and was determined to get rid of any frisson that might be in the air.

  ‘I’m sure most women would be pretty miffed to end up in your spare room, Elliot, but not for the reasons I am,’ she said, trying to recover some dignity. ‘I should have gone home, I wanted to go home . . . I mean, I came with my friend.’

  She looked at Elliot urgently. ‘Oh no. What happened to Suze?’

  ‘I think Suze can look after herself. If not, she had Will Duncan to help her.’

  ‘The Will you work with?’

  ‘They left together.’

  Abby raised a hand to her mouth.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go downstairs,’ he said, his words sounding intimate. He touched the small of her back to direct her. ‘I’ll make some breakfast.
Full English and a bloody Mary. That might make you feel better.’

  Downstairs, the house had been miraculously transformed back into an elegant living space. Abby wandered through into the conservatory, marvelling at the fact that the dozens of empty bottles had been cleared, the stickiness mopped up from the floor, the cushions on the sofa plumped and put back in place. In fact there was no indication that a party had ever been held there.

  ‘Look at this place,’ she said, coming back into the kitchen. ‘Have you got cleaning fairies?’

  ‘Sandra must have come in early.’

  ‘Sandra?’

  ‘Housekeeper. She has a key. I warned her I was having a party.’

  ‘I thought you had a secret wife.’

  ‘You’d have known about that,’ he said, looking up from the blender.

  Something shimmered in the air between them. Abby knew she shouldn’t be here, but the thought of a delicious breakfast in this incredible kitchen was irresistible.

  ‘It was a good party. I think,’ she said, sitting at the breakfast bar.

  ‘I had no idea you were such an expert at the limbo.’

  ‘The limbo?’ said Abby awkwardly.

  ‘Yes, don’t you remember?’ replied Elliot. ‘You stretched Will’s tie between the backs of two chairs and organised everyone to join in, shouting “How low can you go?”’

  ‘You’re joking . . .’

  ‘I am,’ he teased. ‘There was no limbo, but there was a spot of Beach Boys-inspired surfing on the couch.’

  He put a Bloody Mary in front of her, and for a second she just looked at it.

  ‘Go on, drink up. Hair of the dog is the best thing for you.’

  ‘I never believed that line.’

  ‘Trust me, I’m a journalist.’

  The room fell silent.

  ‘So what else can’t I remember?’

  ‘Well, my dad was rather taken with you.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mean in a sexual way.’

  ‘So do I. But he liked you.’

  He caught her gaze again and held it. ‘I’m surprised he spilt the beans like that. About Rosamund Bailey.’

  Abby sipped her drink slowly. She had never been much of a fan of Bloody Marys – she’d always thought it was like drinking cold soup – but this was a good one. Her stomach was objecting, but she kept swallowing until the glass was empty.

  ‘You know, I think that’s why I got so drunk,’ she said finally.

  ‘Don’t say my dad tried it on with you. His last secretary left the company because she said he pinched her bum. He swears it was just his cufflink that caught her, but it’s gone legal.’

  ‘No, not your dad,’ said Abby softly. ‘What he said about Rosamund. Being a spy.’

  Elliot went over to the hob and started frying some bacon.

  ‘It’s not a stretch of the imagination, though, is it?’ he said, looking over his shoulder. ‘Have you read her columns? She’s pretty left-wing.’

  ‘But not a commie. Or a spy.’

  ‘Dad didn’t know for sure. I pumped him for info when you were sofa-surfing and he said Clive Desmond would know more about it. It pained him to admit he didn’t actually know much.’

  ‘Who’s Clive Desmond?’

  ‘Editor of the Chronicle in the sixties. He only lives in Kew. I think we should go and see him.’

  Abby let her silence register her disapproval.

  ‘Abby, this is the gig. If we want to find out what happened to Dominic, then we might have to dig up things that aren’t exactly palatable about him and the people around him.’

  She agreed he had a point, even though she hated thinking anything bad about Rosamund. She had found the older woman both smart and inspiring on the two occasions they had met. She didn’t want to be disappointed by another person in her life.

  ‘You should probably get in touch with him then, if only to prove that your dad was talking whisky-fuelled nonsense.’

  ‘Already have,’ replied Elliot, sipping his black coffee. ‘I called him this morning. Says we can pop over at midday if it suits us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Come on, Abby. Next best hangover cure after a Bloody Mary is a brisk walk.’

  ‘Elliot, I’ve got three-inch heels on.’

  He walked over to the kitchen door and picked up a battered pair of green Hunter wellies.

  ‘Sandra’s,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure she won’t mind you borrowing them for a while. I’ll get you one of my jumpers as well. You can put it over your party dress.’ He winked. ‘That is, unless you want people to know you stayed over.’

  ‘So did you enjoy last night?’ asked Elliot as they snaked through the quiet, leafy streets, turning left at Barnes Bridge station and taking the Thames towpath.

  ‘I had fun.’ She smiled, enjoying the warm sun on her face. ‘You’ve got a perfect house for parties.’

  ‘It’s why I bought it. I have to keep reminding myself that otherwise I might as well be living in a studio in Knightsbridge.’

  ‘I remember one of the reasons we bought our house in Wimbledon was because it was a great entertaining house. I mean, it’s tiny compared to your place, but it’s got this big kitchen diner and doors that open on to the garden. But we were there three years and never threw one party. It probably won’t ever happen now.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘I’m not really in the mood for parties.’

  ‘Could have fooled me last night,’ he smiled.

  ‘I needed cheering up. It’s probably why I drank so much of your posh whisky.’

  ‘No, that was my dad’s fault.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Is it amicable?’ said Elliot after a moment. ‘The divorce?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘You told me you were separated. At lunch.’ He looked at her as if he had logged every single detail about her.

  Abby felt her cheeks colour.

  ‘I’m trying not to think about it, but it’s hard. I’m just getting on with things, but every now and then, even when – especially when – I’m doing something really mundane like the supermarket shop or walking to work, I just stop and have this sense that things are not the same. That my life isn’t right. It feels like a magician has come along – you know, the ones you used to get on TV variety shows – and whipped off the tablecloth, leaving the plates and cutlery in place, leaving everything the same, but actually it’s all so very, very different.’

  Elliot nodded. ‘It is strange. You have this intense relationship with another person. You share the detail of your life with them, you’re intimate with each other in every conceivable way, and then, boom, you never see them again. They’re gone but you can’t get rid of their imprint.’

  ‘Has it happened to you?’ she asked. His words seemed heartfelt, like an honest expression of an experience they had shared.

  ‘I was engaged a few years back,’ he shrugged. ‘And don’t look so surprised.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was stupid. I was unfaithful.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Abby disapprovingly.

  ‘It was a few weeks before the wedding and I felt trapped. She didn’t forgive me. Moved back to Argentina. And I regret it. I regret my selfishness, which came back to bite me on the arse because I lost the person who really meant something to me. I would never do it again.’

  ‘Men,’ muttered Abby.

  ‘You told me about Nick, last night.’

  ‘He was unfaithful too.’

  ‘I know.’

  She didn’t want to know what else she had told him last night, so instead she kept quiet and concentrated on the path.

  They left Barnes behind and walked through Mortlake towards Kew. Sometimes the path was muddy and overgrown with dandelions and nettles, other times it was smooth and tarmacked. Although she only lived a few miles away, Abby had never done this walk before, and Elliot pointed out some places of interest along the way. The fi
nish point of the Oxford and Cambridge boat race, the National Archives, and Oliver’s Island in the middle of the Thames, where rumour had it Cromwell once hid during the Civil War. She enjoyed his knowledge, liked the way he didn’t patronise her, but threw comments into the air as an equal and made her feel smart and interesting in the process.

  ‘I love London,’ sighed Abby as Kew Gardens came into view.

  ‘Why did you leave Scotland?’ He gave her that look again. As if he was studying her.

  ‘I moved down to London after graduation with Nick.’

  ‘Would you ever go home? Skye’s a beautiful part of the world. I went climbing once in the Cuillin – it was incredible.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like home any more,’ she said, kicking a pebble with her boot. ‘My dad died in a motorbike accident when I was a baby, and my mum became a very heavy drinker from that point on. That’s how I know a lot about whisky,’ she said with a note of irony. ‘She got cirrhosis of the liver and died the summer of my A levels.’

  ‘You were brave going to university after that.’

  ‘There didn’t seem much alternative,’ she shrugged. ‘I went back to Portree in the Christmas holidays of my first year, but it seemed strange. I had no other family in Skye, and with Mum not there, I didn’t feel as if I belonged. I don’t think anywhere feels like home once the people you love have gone.’

  They carried on walking in silence. Abby liked the easy companionship between them. It was nice not feeling lonely on a Sunday. The other days she could cope with. Since her separation, she’d worked late at night during the week, and spent her Saturdays shopping, popping into the West End, Westfield or Wimbledon, either on her own or with friends. But Sunday was the day when she felt Nick’s absence most keenly. It was the day people spent with their families and lovers. It was the day she had got used to spending on her own.

  She glanced at Elliot and felt sure that he was never lonely on Sundays. She wasn’t entirely convinced that these were the housekeeper’s wellies, and she wondered how many other women had borrowed this cashmere jumper to take a walk along the towpath.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Elliot finally, stopping outside a double-fronted villa set back from the river. Clive Desmond’s house too reeked of class and money.