The bar was busy but Nick had found a table. Nick was always the type to find a table. He gave a tense smile as they approached, as well he might after their last confrontation in Hyde Park, and Abby had to fight every instinct not to run away.
She was glad to see he had dressed up, even if there was a series of creases in the arms of his suit. Abby imagined him pressing it on the creaky ironing board they kept in the airing cupboard. The old Abby would have done it for him, tutting a little perhaps, but doing it anyway, because that was what a wife did, wasn’t it? But that was the old Abby. Not the one who flew to St Petersburg alone and got secrets out of former Soviet spies.
‘What are you drinking?’ said Ginny, her breeziness an attempt to hide the awkwardness of the situation.
‘Just a lime and soda,’ said Abby. She could have done with a stiff vodka or two, but she knew she needed to keep her head straight.
‘Yes, the same,’ said Nick cordially.
What are we doing? thought Abby with a sinking feeling. They were already talking like complete strangers after a matter of weeks. She wanted to grab him and yell, ‘It’s me! Your wife!’ But it wasn’t that simple.
‘Ginny told me about your job,’ said Nick, when she had gone to the bar. ‘I called you and left a message. Twice.’
‘To commiserate?’
‘Well it’s pretty shitty. I can’t believe Stephen would do that to you. You keep that place together.’
‘I haven’t lost my job,’ she said with as much dignity as she could manage. ‘I’ve only had my hours cut. Besides, I’m making them up with some freelance work.’
They fell into silence and were saved by Ginny arriving with two glasses, which she put down in front of them.
‘Well, you both know why you’re here. I’ll make myself scarce,’ she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
‘You’re leaving?’ said Abby and Nick simultaneously.
Ginny smiled. ‘See? You still think the same way. No point me getting in the middle of it, is there?’ She reached out and squeezed their hands. ‘For God’s sake, sort something out. You love each other too much to let this get the better of you.’
Abby grabbed her drink and took a gulp, wishing she had gone for the vodka after all.
Ginny handed them both an appointment card.
‘Before I go, you’re booked in here. Dr Naylor. Six thirty on the twenty-fifth. She’s in Clapham, so it’s convenient for both of you.’
‘Who is Dr Naylor?’
‘Nick will explain. Now I have to go.’
They watched her leave, watched her browse the book stalls under the bridge, turning to look back at them before she faded away.
‘Dr Naylor. Is she putting us up for psychiatric evaluation?’
‘She’s a marriage counsellor.’
‘An overqualified one,’ smiled Abby, looking at the long list of initials after her name.
‘Ginny says she’s the best, but I bet she’s just got her name out of the back of Tatler.’
‘Nothing but the best for Ginny,’ Abby replied.
‘So was your trip to St Petersburg the freelance work?’
Abby didn’t doubt that Ginny had told him every single detail she had revealed on the morning she had gone to the airport.
‘Sort of,’ she said, searching his expression for any suspicion. ‘Interest has picked up in the archive after the exhibition the other week. I needed to do some more research on one of the photos.’
‘Did you go on your own?’
‘Yes,’ she said with another stab of guilt. She felt sick at the ease with which the lies started. A little fib at first that snowballed until you didn’t even know the correct version of the truth. A voice in her head pointed out that she had travelled to St Petersburg alone, even if she was met at the airport by the man she had gone on to have sex with three times in one night. But it only made her feel a tiny bit better.
Nick smiled. ‘I have to admit, I had visions of you on a romantic break with Stephen.’
‘Can you imagine?’ she said, laughing nervously.
There was a brief silence, and Abby felt herself soften, not so much from relief as an unwillingness to have another confrontation.
She knew that couples could have the same arguments again and again – sometimes for the entire duration of a marriage – but she didn’t want a rerun of their angry, accusatory confrontation in Hyde Park. Not only was the thought of it exhausting, she wasn’t entirely sure she could continue avoiding the truth about St Petersburg.
‘You’d like Russia,’ she said eventually. ‘I was apprehensive about going, but it was pretty amazing. The architecture is incredible: all these fading baroque facades and peeling gold leaf. I’m not sure it was real gold leaf, but it looked beautiful and shiny and majestic. It’s a city for princesses. And the Metro! Some of the stations even had chandeliers.’
‘They were designed as palaces for the people, so they’re full of marble and glass. They look old and elegant, but the network only opened in the 1950s.’
She looked at him in surprise, though she wasn’t sure why. Nick had always been able to teach her things. His general knowledge was vast, but he was never pompous with his information. She couldn’t help comparing him to Elliot, who sometimes seemed to assume that he was there to educate her.
‘I’ve always wanted to go to St Petersburg. We should have gone,’ said Nick, looking at her.
‘Nick, we never used to go anywhere other than Cornwall.’
‘I thought that was what we both wanted.’
‘Clearly not. I never knew you had this burning desire to go to Russia.’
‘Well, perhaps we stopped communicating a long time before we separated,’ he said, not unkindly.
‘You know I love Cornwall,’ she said, remembering the beach barbecues they used to have: the little metal tins, the Lincolnshire sausages bought from the Co-op, the banana ketchup that made them laugh every time they bought it but which they both found secretly delicious.
She saw him glance down at her ring finger and notice that her wedding band was no longer there. Without thinking, she put her left hand on her knee under the table.
‘We got into a rut, didn’t we?’ she said, feeling a knot of nostalgia. ‘I mean, look at us now. A few weeks ago we’d never have done this, would we?’
‘Done what?’
Abby gestured around the bar.
‘This. Met for a drink by the river. Most of the time you were working in town, and I’m only a couple of tube stops away. Why did we never do this? We could have had lunch, gone to the Tate. I’m a bloody art history graduate and how many times have I been to the Tate?’
‘I bought you membership for your birthday last year.’
‘Yes, you did.’
She looked at him and their eyes locked, and suddenly she wanted to make sense of everything that had happened.
‘When was the last time we came into a bar just to talk? That was all we used to do before we were married.’
‘Things change, Abby. Priorities change.’
‘What do you mean?’
Nick shrugged. ‘Well, you stopped drinking for one thing.’
The comment hung in the air between them. To an outsider, it would have seemed innocuous, but within their private language it said everything.
‘It wasn’t all about getting pregnant, Nick. You changed too.’
He’d become quieter, more serious. The quirky, spontaneous side of him, that had made him jump off a cliff in Turkey or buy that horrible lime-green VW beetle, that part of Nick had silently slipped away. She looked across at the man she had promised to spend her life with and saw a stranger. Perhaps he saw the same thing too.
‘Abby, I’ve worked twelve-hour days for the past six years. Spontaneity tends to go out of the window.’
‘It doesn’t have to. I flew to Russia with forty-eight hours’ notice; I got a fast-tracked visa and everything. And do you know what? It felt brilliant.’
He looked at her with a chink of hope, like a Monopoly player just handed a get-out-of-jail-free card, and pushed his hand into his pocket, pulling out a piece of paper. Abby recognised the name of the Cornish estate agency immediately, because she’d been on this website a hundred times, dreaming of their little cottage, their business, their shabby-chic hotel.
‘Remember that old B and B we always used to walk past in St Agnes?’ he said, his green eyes shining. ‘It’s for sale.’
The price was there for all to see at the top of the page.
‘I’ve spoken to a financial adviser, and we can afford it. Someone is interested in buying my business. They want to tie me in for three years as a consultant, but I could work remotely, one day in London, four in Cornwall, until my contract is over.’
Abby looked at him, not believing what he was suggesting.
‘It just seems like the time is right, Abs. With your job being downsized at the RCI, and me selling the business, it could be a fresh start for us both.’
Three years ago this would have been her dream. The conversation they’d had every time they walked past this B&B had been an annual ritual; an electric, excited discussion of what they would do with the property if it ever came on the market. There would be an art gallery in the stone outbuilding, an organic café at the front, and an office for the surf school somewhere among their living quarters upstairs.
‘How is it the right time, Nick?’ she said with sadness. ‘We’re here to discuss the breakdown of our marriage. After your affair. We’ve both instructed solicitors. Mine wants me to get the house valued, and not so that we can cash in our chips and buy a Cornish B and B together.’
‘It wasn’t an affair,’ he said, his voice choked. ‘It was one night. One stupid, idiotic night.’
‘It only takes one minute to betray the person you love, to destroy the bond of trust between two people. One minute to break everything.’
Not for the first time, she imagined him in some corporate hotel, his eyes meeting a woman’s across a half-empty bar.
It was a scenario that had played over and over in her head. A Stockholm hotel with smart teak interiors, soft subdued lighting. She wondered how many drinks they had imbibed on expenses. When had their conversation turned flirtatious, and who had initiated that first loaded, intimate touch? Who had said ‘Come back to my room’, in the way that Elliot had taken charge of the sexual tension?
‘Are you at least going to come and see Dr Naylor?’ he asked more soberly.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied, and she honestly didn’t.
He pushed his hand across the table, trying to stretch out and touch her fingers.
‘Abby, please. I will do anything to make this right again.’
It was a gesture so loaded with love and hope that it seemed wrong to accept it under false pretences.
‘Nick, I’ve met someone,’ she said finally.
She expected him to look furious, to accuse her of hypocrisy, at least to come back tartly with ‘That was quick.’ Instead he looked as if his heart was breaking.
‘Is it serious?’
Abby had no idea herself what the answer to this question was. Yes, she enjoyed Elliot’s company, yes, they’d had sex, and yes, they’d eaten breakfast on the balcony like any self-respecting mini-breaking couple the morning after. She didn’t want to dwell on where this was leading back in England, especially since they hadn’t seen each other since they’d parted at Heathrow. Elliot had a hectic work schedule, including a five-day trip to San Francisco to interview the wunderkind founders of the latest billion-dollar Silicon Valley start-up. But he had phoned three times, sent dozens of text messages – inconsequential chat, most of it: a man he had seen with a silly hat at the airport, a great restaurant he had discovered in Pacific Heights, a novel he recommended about the Russian Revolution – and a dinner date was pencilled in for his return to London on Monday. She didn’t know whether this meant nothing, or everything; either way she suspected that she should be economical with the truth before she knew where their relationship was going.
‘No. We’ve just had dinner. A date,’ she replied, willing herself not to blush.
‘But you like him?’
‘I like feeling good about myself,’ she said honestly, realising that that was exactly what had attracted her to Elliot Hall. Not his obvious good looks or his public school charm, but the way he made her feel like the most interesting person in the room, whether he truly believed it or not. ‘I haven’t felt good about myself for quite a long time now.’
Nick folded the B&B particulars carefully into a square and pushed it back into his pocket.
‘I know approximately what the house is worth,’ he said, adopting a more formal tone, the tone she had heard him use with clients when he took calls at home. ‘I’ve done some back-of-the-envelope sums and I don’t think we’ll have to sell it, so I don’t want you to worry about anything like that. And I’ve also put extra money into the joint account, so try not to get too bogged down about your hours being cut at the Institute.’
‘Nick, you didn’t have to . . .’
He drained the dregs of his drink and stood up to leave.
‘Are you going to see Dr Naylor?’ she asked, suddenly not wanting to leave.
He nodded, but didn’t ask her again if she was planning to go too. He left without another word, and it was another minute before Abby realised she was crying.
Chapter Twenty
In the dream, Abby was running. She was on a road that looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. And why was she running? She knew she was scared; was something chasing her, or was she late for something – an exam perhaps? Slowly she became aware of a clanging noise; that was it. She was running for a bus, and there it was, bright red in front of her. But wait! Buses didn’t have clanging bells. And suddenly she knew what it was: a fire engine, and it was going to her house. Her house was burning down with everything in it. ‘Nick!’ she cried, sitting up, her fists clutching the bedclothes.
There was no fire. The house was still there, the morning light leaking underneath the bedroom curtains. But the ringing was real. It took her a second to realise it was the doorbell.
She blinked hard to wake herself up and rolled out of bed, glancing at her bedside clock to check the time. Pulling on her dressing gown, she went downstairs, snapping the Sunday papers from the letter box before she opened the door.
‘Rosamund?’ She frowned with confusion as she recognised her visitor.
‘Can I come in?’
Abby registered something clipped and impatient in the tone of her voice.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
It was 8.45 in the morning. A Sunday morning. Abby had no idea how the older woman had tracked her down or what was so important that she had.
Rosamund said nothing as she stepped inside the house. Abby tucked the papers under her arm and ushered her through into the living room.
The two women stood there for a moment without saying anything.
‘How did you know where I lived?’
‘Fifty years as a journalist teaches you a few tricks,’ Rosamund said crisply. She nodded towards the newspaper. ‘I expect you’re going to frame it.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The newspaper.’
Abby put the copy of the Sunday Chronicle down on the table.
‘Why would I want to do that?’ she asked in bemusement.
‘Isn’t your first byline a big thing for any new journalist?’
‘Byline? What?’ She rubbed her face. ‘I’m sorry, Rosamund, I’m not following you.’
She was met with an icy silence.
‘The lead story in the News Review section of today’s Chronicle.’
‘What about it?’ she asked slowly. Rosamund’s expression was making her nervous. She saw a glimmer of steel, the tough patina of a hardened journalist, not the benevolent wise owl she had previously encountered.
‘I take it you didn’t know the story was to be published today.’
‘What story?’ said Abby, now utterly confused.
‘Have a look,’ said Ros.
Abby picked up the paper, tossing aside the various sections until she found the News Review. There, splashed across the front page, was the picture she had found in Bystander magazine of Rosamund and Dominic, alongside a smaller version of The Last Goodbye. The headline above it all read ‘The Playboy Spy – Mystery Explorer Sold Secrets to KGB’. Her wide eyes shot to the top of the page: ‘Reporting, Elliot Hall and Abigail Gordon’.
‘You’re kidding,’ she whispered, opening the paper to see that the story ran to a double-page spread on pages two and three.
‘My thoughts exactly,’ replied Rosamund sharply. ‘I assume the timing of the feature has surprised you, if not its content.’
Abby looked up at her.
‘Honestly, Rosamund, I had no idea about this,’ she said quickly.
‘Abby, please don’t take me for a fool.’
‘You have to believe me,’ she said, trying to catch her breath. ‘Elliot hired me to be his researcher.’
‘So you did know all about it.’
Abby felt caught out, cornered.
‘As you know, after the feedback about the Last Goodbye photograph, Elliot wanted to look into Dominic’s disappearance. I told you that.’
‘And I told you it was against my wishes.’
‘But he thought he could solve it,’ said Abby more passionately. ‘He had a lead and we went to St Petersburg to follow it up. We got back on Monday and I haven’t seen him since. He certainly didn’t mention that he was writing this story.’
‘Enough,’ said Rosamund, raising her hand to stop Abby in full flow. ‘I thought better of you, Miss Gordon. I trusted you. You seemed decent.’ She spoke so softly that Abby could barely hear her. ‘My memories are all I have left of Dominic, and this feature, this feature has just set out to trash them.’
Abby looked at her, at the hurt in her eyes, the bottom lip that quivered with emotion, and had to glance away in shame.
‘I’m going to call him right away,’ she said, her heart pounding.
The Last Kiss Goodbye Page 18
