The Last Kiss Goodbye

by Tasmina Perry

  Elliot poured a martini into the empty glass on the table.

  ‘So your mate Suze is seeing Will tonight, so I hear.’ He looked up and grinned. ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘She just looks as if she might eat him for dinner. I’m simply looking after the emotional well-being of my colleague.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ she smiled. ‘You men are just as much gossips as women.’

  ‘I’m a journalist. I’m nosy. Besides, I like to think I played Cupid.’

  ‘Actually, she says she’s approaching this one differently.’

  ‘You mean they’ve not had sex yet.’

  Abby fumbled the water jug and spilt liquid over the tablecloth, which she quickly mopped up with a napkin. Clearing her throat, she took a long swig of her cocktail. As she tipped her head back, she could feel Elliot’s legs, stretched out under the table, resting ever so gently against hers. His toe grazed the back of her calf, and she wondered if she should shift position, whether he would shift his. Seconds ticked by, and she predicted that if he hadn’t moved his feet away by the count of ten, they were going to end up in bed together. The idea both excited and bothered her. So far, their night in St Petersburg had been a one-off. She could put it down to a moment of madness, but tonight was crossing a line. If they had sex, if she slept with him in that big, expensive-looking bed behind her, they would be in a relationship and that made her different to Nick.

  Eight, nine, ten . . .

  ‘I saw Ros today,’ she said, changing the subject and the position of her legs under the table. She had expected Elliot to mention the Dominic Blake debacle, expected a few more apologies perhaps, but his silence on the matter suggested that it was over and done with. But she couldn’t let it go. She was here for a reason, even if the bedroom looked tempting.

  ‘Ah. I wondered when you were going to bring this up again.’

  ‘Of course I’m going to bring it up, Elliot. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Not the only reason, I hope.’

  ‘I’m still pissed off,’ she said, not entirely honestly.

  ‘You’re very beautiful when you’re angry,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and watching her.

  ‘And sometimes you sound like a total sleazeball.’

  ‘You bring out the best in me,’ he replied, his mouth curling roguishly. ‘Look, Abs, I explained all this on the phone. I had to file the story, but I didn’t want to upset you. I was going to tell you in person. I thought they were going to run with the story next week, but things just didn’t work out. I’m sorry if Rosamund Bailey gave you a hard time about it. She should have taken it up with me, but she didn’t, and I think that says a lot about her, don’t you? I wouldn’t go feeling too sorry for her. She’s a tricky customer.’

  ‘She’s an old woman, Elliot, who found out that the love of her life was a Soviet spy simply by reading her weekend newspaper. You should have let her know.’

  ‘You know what you need?’ he said, topping up her wine glass.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A holiday.’

  It wasn’t what she had expected him to suggest.

  ‘I know we’ve just got back from Russia, but that was work. My father has a house in France. It’s lovely. In the Luberon, Ménerbes, the village from A Year in Provence. There’s a pool, and the air smells of lemons and lavender, and we don’t even have to get out of bed if we don’t want to. I think it’s what you need to unwind.’

  She laughed nervously. Elliot wasn’t just asking her to go to France; he was asking her to take their fledgling relationship to the next step, a step far beyond just spending another night together. She had to admit that it was more than she’d expected from him, but whilst she was flattered by the offer, it didn’t seem the most important issue on the table.

  ‘Ros doesn’t believe that Dominic was a spy,’ she said, deflecting the conversation away from mini-breaks.

  ‘Of course she doesn’t,’ replied Elliot, smiling. ‘She loved him.’

  ‘I met her today and she showed me a postcard she had received. It said, “Trust Dominic.”’

  ‘And what does that prove?’ He said it with a laugh, but there was a note of scorn in his voice.

  ‘Maybe nothing, but don’t you think it’s strange? It was anonymous. “Trust Dominic.” As if someone knows something and wants to reassure Ros that what she read in the paper isn’t true.’

  Elliot frowned dismissively.

  ‘You were there with me in St Petersburg. You heard what Gorshkov said. That’s as near as we’re going to get to any official confirmation. Yes, we were wrong not to tip Ros off about the story, but our facts were right. Now, what do you think about Provence?’

  ‘What about Ros and Dominic?’ said Abby, feeling as if all the romance had been sucked off the terrace.

  ‘What about them, Abby?’ he said, putting his fork down in annoyance. ‘What do you want me to do here?’ She could hear a familiar tone in his voice. The fractious souring between couples.

  ‘She thinks Dominic is innocent. She’s convinced he wasn’t working for the Russians and she wants us to find out for sure. She’ll even pay us for any investigation, though I’d feel uncomfortable taking money from her.’

  Elliot gave a small shake of his head.

  ‘You’re connected, Elliot,’ pressed Abby. ‘You know how easily your dad got in touch with Jonathon Soames. He probably has a hotline to the Prime Minister if you ask him. A few calls and we could sort this out, clear Dominic’s name. Then you can write another piece in the Chronicle with the real story.’

  ‘Abby, how do we prove that Blake wasn’t KGB? Send Putin an email and ask him? Break into the Kremlin HR department to have a peek at their records? Besides which, it’s not a story I would want to write even if we found out that he was just a journalist and explorer after all.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Abby, shocked.

  ‘Because I’ve just filed a bloody four-thousand-word article saying he was KGB. How’s it going to look if a couple of weeks later we admit that we were wrong and our original story was completely bogus? How credible is that going to make me look as a journalist?’

  ‘But someone’s reputation is on the line here.’

  ‘Yes, mine,’ he said fiercely.

  Abby wasn’t hungry any more.

  ‘So you don’t want to help me?’

  ‘Abby, stop. Listen to yourself. Think about it. We wanted to find out about Dominic Blake. And we did. Not how and where he died, but we did find out that he was a Russian spy and we had good sources to back that up. The Last Goodbye was a beautiful photo, and Blake was a romantic, charismatic character. Anyone remotely interested in him was going to be disappointed about what we found out – us, the readers, certainly his friends, and especially Rosamund. But it doesn’t mean it’s not true just because you want him to be something else, something different.’

  She found herself thinking about Nick. She’d found out a truth about him and it wasn’t something that she’d wanted to hear.

  ‘I trust Dominic,’ she said with feeling.

  Elliot sighed and threw down his napkin.

  ‘Abby. Grow up.’

  She shook her head with frustration. ‘You really don’t care, do you? It’s job done. Story filed. Glory received. You don’t care about what you’ve left behind in the slipstream. Don’t care who you’ve hurt.’

  Elliot’s voice softened. ‘Maybe you should see someone.’

  ‘Someone who could help us?’ said Abby, perking up.

  ‘A therapist, Abby. I mean a therapist. You know, I think I know what this is. Your marriage has broken down. You’re looking for meaning, for some romantic truth, some vindication that love exists. I think this could be depression.’

  ‘You think I’m depressed?’ she said, trying to control her emotion.

  ‘I’m saying it’s possible. You’ve been under a lot of stress. Hell, this story was a roller-coaster ride. I got quite
an adrenalin rush from it myself.’

  She took a breath to compose herself. She did not want to put herself under the microscope. She had come here to talk about The Last Goodbye, and Elliot was making her feel like some sort of fruitcake. She felt tears welling up in her eyes. It was as if every emotion she had experienced over the past eight weeks was crystallising into this one moment of rejection.

  ‘Abby, don’t get upset. It’s only work.’

  ‘Is it?’ she choked. ‘You know, I thought that what happened in Russia might have meant something.’

  ‘We had a great weekend, and we’re here now, aren’t we, taking it slowly. I’ve just invited you to Provence, for goodness’ sake. I don’t do that with everyone.’

  She could see the panic in his eyes and it actually made her laugh.

  ‘Don’t worry, Elliot. I don’t want a ring on my finger. I just thought you cared. About me. About Ros and the story . . .’

  ‘Why does everything have to be about the bloody story?’ he said, throwing his hands up in frustration.

  ‘It’s about doing the right thing,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘And right now, this doesn’t feel like it.’

  ‘So that’s it?’ His handsome face suddenly looked cold and aloof.

  She’d been talking about the story, about Dominic and Ros, but she realised that Elliot had been asking about their affair. Suddenly she knew the answer to that question too.

  ‘I should go,’ she said softly.

  Elliot sat there shaking his head.

  ‘After everything I’ve done for you.’ His mouth curled into a sneer. The smooth, charming Elliot gone, in his place the petulant rich boy who always got what he wanted. Rosamund had been right about that.

  Abby knew how easy it would be to rise to his bait. For the evening to turn into a confrontation, an embarrassment. But she didn’t want to slink away. She was not that girl any more. She went round to his side of the table and kissed him courteously on the cheek.

  ‘Thank you, Elliot,’ she said as her last goodbye, as he looked at her with complete surprise.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘So what’s going on with your chap?’ asked Rosamund as they turned off the dual carriageway on to a country lane.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about Elliot Hall,’ said Abby, trying to follow the GPS in the car.

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see Rosamund raising an intrigued brow.

  ‘I was actually talking about your husband. You said you were separated.’

  ‘Ah,’ replied Abby, squirming in her seat. She felt herself fall under Ros’s penetrating stare. ‘Honestly, I don’t want to talk about him either.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Rosamund.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ she said finally.

  ‘Relationships always are.’ She paused. ‘Are you getting divorced?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘So you’re not sure you want to.’

  ‘I’m sure I can’t pick up where we left off with our marriage. I’m not sure that I can ever trust Nick again.’

  ‘So I assume he – Nick – had an affair.’

  ‘A one-night stand.’

  ‘I see.’

  Abby glanced across at her.

  ‘You don’t think that’s enough, do you? You don’t think that’s enough of an excuse to get divorced.’

  ‘You don’t have children?’

  ‘No, we don’t.’

  ‘So it should be a fairly clean break.’ It was a statement of fact rather than a question.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it will be.’

  ‘And have you thought about what it would be like never to see him again?’

  ‘Of course. But it’s not like you and Dominic. I know that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘No, Abby. Nick would not be dead, but he’d still be gone, and you have to ask yourself how you’d feel about that. How you’d feel about seeing him across the street one day with another woman, his new wife, children. How you’d feel seeing him live a life that was nothing to do with yours.’

  Please turn right in one hundred metres, said a robotic voice, as Abby’s hands gripped the wheel of her Fiat 500 and she tried to dismiss the image that Ros had planted in her head. An image of the B&B in St Agnes, the shutters painted bright blue, a shabby-chic shack built on to the side of it. She could see Nick, his hair a little longer than it was now, waxing down a surfboard, a woman in a bikini rubbing suncream into a small tanned child, an adorable genetic mix of the two of them. A perfect family living a perfect life by the coast. The life she had always wanted.

  She mounted the kerb, the car shaking as she navigated it back on to the road. Ros jolted in surprise and flashed her a look to say that now was not the time to be thinking about it.

  Appledore was a care home, but unlike any other Abby had seen around London – those huge converted Victorian houses on busy main roads that always struck her as depressing places to see out your final days. This home was as pretty as its name – a large Arts and Crafts building in endless acres of manicured grounds. Driving the Fiat down the long approach, she saw a sign to an orchard, another to a walled garden, and when Ros wound down the window, letting in the scent of freshly cut grass and roses, Abby thought it smelt as good as it looked.

  As they approached the house, she turned her stereo off, as she did when she drove past a church or a cemetery. It was something she had learnt from Nick; a little sign of respect, he used to say.

  ‘So when was the last time you saw Victoria Harbord?’ asked Abby as she slowed the car to park outside the house.

  ‘Over fifty years ago,’ said Rosamund quietly, her eyes trailing out of the window, her thoughts lost in time.

  ‘Were you close?’

  Ros shook her head. Abby had suspected that would be the answer. When they had left the National Archives, Ros had immediately suggested that Dominic’s good friend Victoria Harbord might know the identity of the EZ mentioned in the archive document. Victoria apparently knew everyone in the heady days of the fifties and sixties. But the pinched and cold way in which Rosamund had spoken about the great society hostess had suggested that she did not like her very much.

  Abby turned off the engine and stretched her arms out in front of her. She expected Ros to make a move, but the old woman just sat there with her handbag on her lap, staring out in front of her.

  ‘I think you should probably talk to her,’ said Ros finally.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ frowned Abby, turning to look at her and noticing an unfamiliar look of nervousness in her expression.

  ‘Vee and I never saw eye to eye,’ Ros said quietly. ‘She might be confrontational, obstructive if I’m there. It’s best if you conduct the interview.’

  Abby waved a hand. ‘Come on, Ros. It was all a long time ago. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you.’

  ‘No,’ said Rosamund, shaking her head.

  Abby looked at her with exasperation. She knew that Ros had spent the past twenty-four hours trying to track down Victoria; she couldn’t believe she had cold feet now that they were minutes away from meeting her.

  ‘Ros, we’ve come all the way to Kent to see this woman.’

  ‘Victoria Harbord tried to sabotage my relationship with Dominic. I was convinced she was a little in love with Dominic herself and didn’t like the Jewish interloper making off with the grand prize. I always swore that if I ever saw her again in my life it would be too soon.’

  ‘But she might know who EZ is,’ said Abby, feeling duped and angry. She felt more confident with Ros by her side, in the same way that she had enjoyed the Chronicle investigation working alongside Elliot. Anything else made her feel painfully aware of her position as a novice, a fraud.

  ‘Come on, Ros. If you want to find out the truth about Dominic, you have to come with me now.’ Her stern tone surprised even herself. She had no idea what had happened to the mousy archivist; Abby felt as if she was kicking ass.

  ‘You speak to her,’ s
aid Ros just as firmly. ‘I’ll wait in the car.’

  ‘Ros, please. We’ll only be ten minutes.’

  ‘Just go,’ she said with a look that told Abby she was not going to budge.

  Abby sighed as she got out of the car, and looked back at Ros sitting defiantly in the passenger seat. She knew she might have a point. If there was bad blood between the two women, that might colour the interview. As she studied Ros’s expression – the lines on her face creasing a little deeper, the anxious downturn of her mouth – her reluctance to come face to face with her old rival was clear to see. It made Abby think about what it would be like if she were to confront the woman that Nick had had sex with in Stockholm.

  She walked into the house and announced herself at the nurses’ bay. A woman in a blue uniform introduced herself as Tracey and asked Abby to follow her down the corridor.

  She knocked on a door at the far end of the house.

  ‘Lady Vee, you have a visitor,’ she said, popping her head around the door.

  Abby was glad that she had phoned ahead. Not wanting to turn up at Appledore unannounced, she had rung and arranged an appointment with Victoria Harbord, explaining that she was a journalist friend of Rosamund Bailey’s.

  At first she could see no one in the room. Her eyes moved around the space, taking in long French windows, a small double bed with a floral duvet, a desk covered in a dozen silver-framed photographs. Finally her gaze rested on a wing-backed chair facing the garden, and she could just make out the profile of a tiny woman, so pale that she almost faded into the background.

  ‘Er, Lady Harbord. Hello. My name is Abby Gordon.’

  The old woman appeared to be hard of hearing and took a second to register Abby’s voice.

  ‘Ah, yes. Come and sit. Get a chair and move me around a little.’