Stretching out, she fumbled for the lamp switch and grabbed her phone. A shiver of excitement rushed through her, making her feel like a teenager. It was him! A short email. Hi Melanie, I can’t wait to see you again. Dinner? Tomorrow night?
She’d a vague idea she should be playing hard to get or something, that he shouldn’t assume that she was available on a Saturday night but, he liked her, she certainly liked him, what was the point? Wasn’t that the best thing about not being a teenager, you didn’t have to play silly games. She tapped out, Yes. Sounds perfect. Then, afraid he might suggest picking her up and she wasn’t stupid enough to give her address to a virtual stranger, she added, I’ll meet you in the same place at eight.
Seconds later, as she sat fighting sleep, another ping told her he’d replied. Perfect, see you then.
She switched off the light and lay back. Well, well, what a wonderful end to a wonderful day. On a sigh of pleasure, she shut her eyes and drifted off on a wave of unusual contentment.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep when she heard the ping again, opening her eyes and looking towards where her phone sat. Hugo again? A frisson of pleasure ran through her, a girlish excitement she hadn’t felt in a long time. With an expectant smile, she switched on the light again and reached for the phone.
The smile faded when she saw the sender wasn’t Hugo as she’d expected. She shuffled closer to the circle of light thrown by the lamp, held the phone up and squinted to read, [email protected]. How very odd.
She should have ignored it or left it until the morning, but curiosity made her open it, her eyes widening when she read what was written – a name that made her gasp and drop the phone. With startled eyes, she looked at it for a moment, unable to move, afraid to pick it up again. She gave a short unconvincing laugh. It had been a stressful few weeks and an exhausting day; she’d fallen asleep and had a bad dream. That’s all it was. A dream or rather, she amended, thinking of the name she thought she’d seen, a nightmare.
The phone was lying face down on the duvet. She reached for it, flipping it over as fear gripped her insides. A low keening sound of despair pushed its way through gritted teeth as she read the words on the screen and she jumped from the bed, the phone flying to land with a dull thump on the carpet. She watched it as she stood naked and shivering, half-expecting it to move as if possessed like an escapee from a Stephen King novel. She held a hand over her mouth and concentrated on breathing slowly, trying to calm down. It had to be wrong, a trick of the light.
She stepped closer to the phone but the email had closed. It took a few seconds to gather the courage to bend, pick it up and turn it on. But it wasn’t a trick of the light, or a very bad dream. There, clear as day, a name she’d hoped never to see again. A name that reminded her that leaving her past behind didn’t mean she was ever going to escape it.
Anne Edwards.
3
Throwing the phone onto the bed, Melanie backed away from it. Fear made her jittery, her eyes flitting from side to side, looking for escape or at least a safe place. With a final glance at the phone she hurried across to the spare bedroom and shut the door behind her, leaning her weight against it as if afraid something would try to follow. But it already had, hadn’t it? Someone knew. Someone knew and wanted her to know they knew. They didn’t have to spell out the consequences; everything she’d worked so hard for would be destroyed if the truth about her past got out.
She shut her eyes on the thought, opening them quickly when she saw her mother’s face, the hard eyes and the embittered screwed-up mouth waiting as always, to criticise. You’ve made a mess of it. You’ll never change. Melanie could hear the cutting words now as she’d heard them so many times growing up, the background music not only to her failures, rare as they were, but to the successes too. The honours exam results, the prizes, the first at university, all were accompanied by her mother’s sour dismissive, All very well but it won’t last, you’ll make a mess of it again, you always do.
As Melanie’s world spun out of control, the floor swayed under her feet. She made it to the bed before the stars that appeared around the edge of her vision winked out. It would have been better to stay there deep in the retreat of oblivion, to hide away from pain, fear, and her mother’s scathing, cutting voice. She would have done so, but hours later the chill of her naked body woke her.
She reached for the duvet that lay folded neatly across the end of the unmade bed and pulled it over her, covering her head, seeking heat and comfort, desperate to return to that unconscious state where she didn’t have to think. Exhausted, she fell into a restless sleep.
It didn’t last. She woke again feeling groggy, looking around the spare bedroom with a puzzled frown before it all came back to her and she shut her eyes tightly and gulped.
Anne Edwards.
Melanie never thought to see or hear that name again. With a growl of frustration, she threw the duvet off, swung her feet to the floor and stood, pushing her tangled hair back with an unsteady hand. The vague hope that it had all been some ridiculously crazy nightmare took her to her own bedroom where she stood and glared at her phone as if it were to blame for everything. Holding her breath, she reached for it and tapped the email icon. Her breath was released on a hiss of agitation. The email hadn’t changed, the sender still [email protected]. Her fingers itched to tap out a reply, to demand to know who this was, what they knew. Instead, she dropped it on the bed. Who it was, and what they knew would be helpful, but really what she wanted to know was why?
Anne Edwards. That was almost twenty-five years ago.
Picking up her phone again, Melanie checked the time and swore. She was supposed to be meeting a friend at one and it was twelve thirty. Scrolling through her contacts, she found Caitlin’s number and rang it.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Melanie said, when it was answered, ‘I’m not going to be able to make lunch.’ She barely heard the reply as she worried over the email and it was only when she heard Caitlin call her name on a note of irritation that Melanie realised she’d zoned out. She pulled herself back into the conversation. ‘Sorry, Caitlin, I missed what you said.’
‘I said I was so looking forward to hearing all about your promotion and the celebration dinner.’
‘And I’ll tell you, I promise, only not today. I barely slept and I’m shattered. I’ll be in touch soon and we can meet up for a glass of wine. And…’ Melanie added, knowing it was something her friend would be more than interested to hear, ‘believe it or not, I met someone last night.’ She hung up on a squeal of tell me more and sat unmoving for a long time before getting up, having a shower and dressing in comfy stretch trousers and a sweatshirt.
With the phone clasped in her hand, she made coffee, took it into the living room and sank into the chair near the French windows. This was her place of relaxation; she’d stare out across the small but perfect garden and watch the changing colours of the seasons in the trees and shrubs and feel more in tune with the world. It was a beautiful, magical place and, normally, it worked its power on her. But not today. She stared blankly, her fingers wrapped around the mug of coffee so tightly that they ached, her back rigid and tense, head spinning.
It wasn’t until the coffee was gone that she picked up the phone again to check her emails. Not the one from nobody this time but the ones from Hugo. A quiver of sadness fluttered through her that the excitement of meeting him had been spoilt by dirty fingers reaching from her past. Her mother’s unforgiving voice buzzed in Melanie’s ear, and despair swept through her, fogging her brain, making rational thought impossible.
With the hope that more caffeine might help clear her head, she made another mug and with it cupped between her hands, she took sips and tried to think of who might have sent that email.
There were a few possibilities, of course, people she’d known back then. She tapped her nails on the side of the mug, beating out a reflective tattoo. But why now, after all these years? Anne Edwards. The sadness of regret was a weig
ht in Melanie’s chest that had never really gone away. She sighed, loud and long, the sound floating on the air before fading and taking with it any hopes she had for her meeting with Hugo that night. There was no point. He’d probably felt sorry for her, the clumsy woman who’d dropped her bag. What on earth would a charming, handsome, very attractive man see in her? She wondered if she should strike first, email and say she had to cancel. She growled in frustration and pushed her fingers through her hair. Didn’t she deserve a bit of happiness? Anne Edwards. That was a different time, Melanie had been a different person. Hot tears of self-pity welled and trickled. Would she never be through with paying for what she’d done?
Brushing the tears away, she wrote an email to Hugo to cancel dinner, explaining that something had come up. Her finger hovered over the arrow to send it but she couldn’t bring herself to take that final step and threw the phone down with it unsent. For the rest of the afternoon, it went around and around, the belief that she’d never atone for what she’d done vying with a desperate desire for happiness. She was already tired, and the dilemma exhausted her.
By five, still undecided, she was sitting, aimlessly staring out at the garden when she was startled by a loud ping. Another email. She looked at the phone warily and felt a belt of tension tighten around her forehead. Her hand slid across the small table to pick up the phone, then with a quick indrawn breath, she pressed the key. It was from Hugo. Looking forward to seeing you tonight. Her breath released on a sigh as a shiver of anticipation swept through her. It was followed by the first stirring of anger. She wanted this; she wasn’t going to listen to her mother’s poisonous whispers anymore nor was she going to let a stupid email dictate how she was going to live her life.
She spent the next twenty minutes choosing what to wear. When she spent as long picking out the right underwear, she refused to acknowledge the little voice reminding her that sleeping with a man on a first date was not her style. Maybe it was time to change that. She smoothed a hand over the fitted silver-grey dress. She was a mature woman, what was she waiting for? In her experience, men like Hugo Field didn’t appear too often.
It took determination but she put the other email out of her mind and headed out as the taxi she’d ordered arrived. She tried to relax as the driver made the usual small talk, answering automatically as nervous anticipation made her shift restlessly in her seat. Outside Blacks, she paid the fare, got out and took a few steps towards the restaurant, then turned and took a step backwards towards the idling taxi. It was a bad idea, she’d go home. Just as this thought was solidifying, the restaurant door opened and Hugo came striding out, hand extended, smiling warmly.
When she put her hand into his, he pulled her close and planted a kiss on one cheek then the other. It was a common greeting and didn’t mean anything more than hello so why did she feel as if it was the first movement in a complicated dance, the steps of which she wasn’t sure she knew. She wanted to appear sophisticated and chic, she felt gauche and clumsy, afraid to speak in case the words that came out let her down.
He smiled at her. ‘You look lovely,’ he said, very much in control of the situation, his eyes sweeping over her, lingering on her mouth. ‘I wasn’t sure what kind of food you liked but there’s a little Italian restaurant a short walk away if you’d be happy with that.’
‘Perfect,’ she said, relieved he didn’t want to eat in Blacks. She was feeling stupidly overwhelmed by him and his obvious admiration; a walk in the fresh air might be what she needed to cool down. ‘I love Italian,’ she added, falling into step beside him.
They brushed against each other as they walked but she was pleased he didn’t reach for her hand and at the same time a little disappointed. Aware she was behaving like an immature schoolgirl, she reminded herself that she was a partner in a prestigious law firm. An intelligent woman, not one given to going all weak at the knees when a handsome man paid her a bit of attention. She had to bite her lip on the giggle that wanted to escape because like it or not, her knees felt decidedly wobbly.
The restaurant was, as he’d promised, only a five-minute walk. He did most of the talking on the way, telling her of an art exhibition he’d been to earlier. Art wasn’t something that interested her, and talk of technique and artists whose names she’d never heard of went over her head. But she was mesmerised by the sound of his voice, the way he used his hands as he spoke and the enthusiasm and energy he seemed to radiate.
She’d never been comfortable talking about herself and would have been quite happy if he’d continued to dominate the conversation, but over dinner, after a couple of glasses of wine, she found herself relaxing and becoming expansive as she answered his questions, talking about the excitement of her very recent promotion, her hopes to have more high-profile and challenging clients and her work in general.
He seemed sincerely interested, asked her intelligent questions and she found herself opening up more than normal. She stopped on an embarrassed laugh. ‘Now you know all about me, or at least about what I do, so it’s your turn.’
He lifted his glass, swirled the wine and took a sip. ‘I’m an architect.’
An architect. She was impressed; perhaps that explained his interest in art, didn’t they have to be artistic as well as practical? She searched for something knowledgeable to ask, came up blank and settled for asking, ‘Have you designed anything I might have seen?’
He laughed. ‘I wish. No, I mainly work on private commissions. I find it suits me better than working for a big corporation. It does take me away a lot though, which is the downside, especially…’ He reached for her hand and held it. ‘Especially if there is someone I’m interested in seeing again.’
She could feel the heat from his fingers sear her skin. For a few seconds she found it difficult to breathe, then he took his hand away and she felt bereft. ‘Where…’ She stopped as the word came out as a squeak. With an apologetic smile she picked up her water glass and took a mouthful. ‘Sorry. The air is quite dry in here. Where do you work?’
‘Mostly on the continent. My most recent commissions have been in Slovakia and Russia.’
‘Wow, that must be fascinating,’ she said, when what she really wanted to ask was how often he was away, how long for, and when was he away next.
‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘Fascinating and challenging.’ He pushed his empty wine glass away. ‘Would you like something else?’ He waited until she shook her head before holding up a hand for the waiter.
‘We should split it,’ Melanie said when the bill arrived.
He was looking at it, his eyes flicked up to catch hers. ‘If you remember, I asked you to dinner,’ he said. ‘When you invite me, you can pay.’
It seemed fair to her and it also gave her the perfect opening to suggest meeting again. ‘I had a lovely evening,’ she said. Then, the words tripping over themselves in their haste to be said, added, ‘I’d love to do it again and I know a very nice Spanish restaurant I could take you to.’ She waited, her breathing on hold, as he took cash from his wallet for the bill.
‘Spanish? Sounds interesting, I’d like that,’ he said, putting the money on the silver tray.
Her exhale was soft, satisfied, tinged with excitement. ‘Excellent. When would suit you?’ She wanted him to say tomorrow, hoped he would, her initial pleasure dimming as he appeared to give her question more thought than she deemed necessary, trying to keep her smile from wavering when he gave his considered answer.
‘How about next Friday?’
Swallowing her disappointment, she nodded as if that were her preferred day too. ‘Friday suits me perfectly.’
Out on the street, more disillusionment awaited. She thought he’d suggest going somewhere else for a drink, maybe even drop a hint about going back to her apartment but instead he raised his hand to hail a passing taxi.
‘That was lucky,’ he said, looking back to her. ‘I’ll email you during the week and we can firm up arrangements for Friday. Thank you for a very enjoyable evening.’
When the taxi drew up alongside, he bent and kissed her on both cheeks again, then opened the door. Any thought that he was coming with her was quickly dispelled as he closed the door firmly and gave her a casual wave.
She gave the driver her address and sat back, feeling confused and a little numb. Had she misread all the signals? They’d been there, hadn’t they? Shaking her head, she heaved a sad sigh of regret but by the time the taxi pulled up outside her apartment, she was starting to see the funny side of it all and gave a chuckle to think of the time she’d spent choosing sexy lingerie. Amusement was quickly followed by embarrassed annoyance at her childish excitement at his attention, her almost pathetic fawning over him. He was probably married or had a girlfriend in every country he worked in. She’d had a lucky escape she told herself as she climbed from the taxi. But when she opened the door into her quiet, elegant apartment where normally she felt a sense of peace, that night she felt the nagging pang of loneliness.
She’d blamed her job all these years for her single state and, in truth, the long hours didn’t lend themselves to relationships, but other people did it. Her colleague, Jane, for instance, had been married for years. Throwing her coat on a kitchen chair, Melanie filled the kettle, switched it on and stood leaning back against the counter trying to rid herself of the feeling of rejection and the sour taste of disappointment. There had been lovers over the years, of course, but nobody who’d lasted more than a few months and nobody whose departure left her saddened. Maybe, she was one of those women who was destined to remain single.
The click of the kettle broke into her thoughts and automatically she reached for camomile tea. She left the bag in the mug to infuse and took it to the living room where she opened the French windows and stepped outside. It was a cold night but the high walls that surrounded the garden gave it a microclimate of its own and only in the depths of winter was it too cold to sit out. Earlier showers had been heavy, branches were still dripping and there was the scent of wet greenery and soil hanging in the air.
The Deadly Truth Page 2
