by Susan Lewis
Rachel’s eyes were shining with laughter. ‘I thought you and Elliot …’ she began.
‘We are, and … I just noticed, that was all.’
‘A lot of married men don’t wear wedding rings,’ Rachel warned, though teasingly.
‘I know. I just … Tell you what, let’s just order, shall we?’ Laurie said, laughing, though wishing she’d never got into this, for she’d actually been thinking about Chris Gallagher as a much-needed friend for Rachel, not her.
‘So back to the money, and the letter,’ Rachel said, after the waitress had taken their order. ‘I’ve been wondering, what do you think might happen if I just don’t make the transfer?’
Laurie’s expression became sober.
Rachel continued. ‘I mean, harming me in any way isn’t going to get them the money, is it?’ she said. ‘It’ll just create some unwelcome press, and police, attention when we make the matter public.’
‘Do you want to do that?’ Laurie said. ‘Make it public?’
‘Not yet. I want to find out what it’s all about first, and while the money’s still there, we’ve still got our bargaining power.’
Laurie waited as the waitress set down a cappuccino for her and a herbal tea for Rachel, with a small plate of home-made biscuits. ‘Would you mind me discussing it with Elliot?’ she said, when the waitress had gone. ‘I’d like to get his opinion.’
‘No, of course, not,’ Rachel assured her. ‘I was hoping you might. Presumably he already knows about the email Max Erwin sent, if he’s with Max now?’
‘Presumably,’ Laurie agreed. ‘But he didn’t mention it when he called. He just wanted to ask me to do a couple of things for him before he comes home, and to know if I was going to be back in London in time to pick him up from the airport.’
‘Will you?’ Rachel asked.
‘Probably. He’s flying in on Tuesday. I was planning to drive back on Monday.’
Rachel’s eyes dropped to her tea. Saying goodbye to Laurie might just prove even harder than saying goodbye to Anna, because once Laurie went, she’d really be on her own. But there was always Beanie, and if this Chris Gallagher really could make it all right with the villagers by tomorrow night, there would be everyone else too. It seemed a very tall order, getting everyone over their embarrassment and prejudice that quickly, but he’d sounded confident enough, so maybe she should just have faith. Yes, why not? Just believe he could do it, if for no other reason than she needed to believe that something was going to go right somewhere in her life, because God knew everything else seemed to be going very disastrously wrong.
Chapter 10
IT WAS NOW thirty-six hours since Anna had arrived back to find the house empty, and a note from Cecily saying she’d taken the girls to their music club. Robert was still on the set, shooting, though he rang immediately they wrapped to check she was home. He’d sounded calm, pleased to hear her voice, and not in the least like the man who’d called, so desperate for her to come. And their reunion, when he’d finally returned from rushes, had been both tender and passionate, with an assurance to his lovemaking that bore no signs of the self-doubt or paranoia that occasionally rendered him impotent.
Afterwards, Anna had fallen almost instantly into a deep and dreamless slumber, only to wake with a start around two in the morning to discover the bed empty beside her. Going downstairs, she’d found, more or less, what she’d expected: a light shining from under his study door, with the occasional laboured breath or grunt that was the general sound of Robert working. Before disturbing him she went to make tea, then without tapping on the door, for he’d surely heard her around by now, she walked into the study and almost jumped as hard as he did when he looked up to find her there.
‘What are you doing?’ she’d asked, smoothing over the surprise with casual interest as she put his tea on the desk. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes seemed guilty, which unnerved her, when there was no apparent reason for the discomfort.
‘Just writing. Brushing up the poems for the exhibition,’ he said.
She glanced down at the pad in front of him. It was covered in his scrawl with lines and crosses and annotations all over it. He never created on the computer – that only came later, when either she, or his assistant, typed it in, in order to present a neat and legible finished product.
‘Can I read anything?’ she asked, perching on the edge of the desk.
Though his composure was returning she could tell by the awkward positioning of his hands that he was trying to hide the words on the pad. ‘It’s not quite ready yet,’ he answered, managing to slide the pad under some papers as he reached for his tea. ‘Thanks for coming home,’ he said, smiling up at her.
Her eyes remained on his. ‘What made it so urgent?’ she asked gently.
At that his expression became sheepish. ‘I was missing you,’ he confessed. ‘I always function so much better when you’re here.’
Though she knew that was true, she knew too that there was more, but she didn’t press it; she’d learned that it simply wasn’t the way to get anything out of him. So they drank their tea, talked about the girls, the film, and about Rachel, then returned to bed around three.
Now, here they were on Saturday morning, en famille, at Camden Market, loaded up with knickknacks, as they wandered over to their favourite place for ice-cream and coffee. Some friends who were just back from Sardinia bombarded them with snapshots, and insisted Robert and Anna should try the Costa Smeralda too. They had all the details should the Maxtons be interested, which Robert certainly seemed to be, though it was his way to make everyone feel as if they had something exciting and worthwhile to contribute. Anna’s mobile rang then, with a call welcoming her back to London and inviting her and Robert to dinner that night. Not sure whether it would be a good idea to go out, she said she’d get back to them, then passed the phone to Emily, their eldest, who needed to call a friend. Around noon Robert drove them all home, where they sent emails to Auntie Rachel, before going to play badminton in the rambling, slightly overgrown back garden, while Anna watched from the kitchen as she prepared a chicken salad for lunch.
Though she smiled as Robert looked round to catch her eye and wink, her heart tripped with unease, for that happily married, contented-looking persona he was showing to the world was as transparent to her as if it were a glass bubble he was shutting himself up in. And just like a bubble she knew how easily it could burst, which was why she was so torn about whether to take the girls to their friends’ for the afternoon, or to keep them here. As they hadn’t seen her for almost a week, and were so obviously enjoying having both their parents at home, she really wanted them to stay, but she knew how much it upset and frightened them to see their beloved daddy during his ‘difficult periods’, as they called them. And because she knew all the signs, Anna was very much afraid that one was simmering away beneath that oh so jovial veneer.
In the end, she picked up the phone and spoke to a couple of other parents to make arrangements.
They ate outside, on the stone patio. It concerned but didn’t really surprise her to see how little Robert ate, nor did he put up much of a protest when she announced that she was taking the girls to their friends’.
‘Please be here when I get back,’ she murmured, as Justine hung back from getting into the car. She, more than Emily, always seemed to sense when something was wrong; which was why it made Anna’s heart ache to see her anxious little face glancing back at her daddy, but it was better than having them witness a scene.
‘Of course I’ll be here,’ he said, seeming surprised by her words. ‘Where would I go?’
She didn’t want to remind him of the times he’d run away from her in the past in case it prompted him to do so again, so she merely kissed him and left.
She was gone for almost an hour, but to her relief he was still there when she got home, slouched on a sofa in the TV room, watching cassettes of the rushes.
‘Would you like to see them?’ he offered, as she c
ame to sit beside him.
‘Of course,’ she answered, snuggling into the arm he was holding out.
For several minutes they watched the same scene over and over, shot from different angles, with four or five takes of each. It showed first Anita (Stacey), then Alma (Gloria), walking down the same dark staircase, speaking the same lines. There were full-length shots, mid-shots, then both medium and big close-ups of their faces. The lines were clearly being spoken to the poet (Bryn) who was at the foot of the stairs, though he appeared in none of the shots.
‘“Am I who you want?”’ Anita/Stacey was demanding harshly. ‘“Or is it her? What can she give you, that I can’t? What does she really mean to you, you fool? You have reality and you want to turn it into fantasy. You have fantasy and you turn it into reality. Don’t you understand, you can have both? With me you can have everything. Capture me on canvas, create me with your pen, turn me into a goddess or a demon, but I will never be your wife. I will forever be your wife.”’
‘Do you see how this is going to be put together?’ he said, glancing at Anna.
She nodded. ‘You’ll fade in and out of the shots, presumably, transitioning between their faces, so that we can see how the poet doesn’t know which of them is coming towards him. The wife or the mistress.’
‘Do you think it’s going to work?’
‘I think it’ll be very effective.’
‘What about scary?’
‘Well, considering it’s going to look as though they’re almost demonically possessed by each other, I’d say it’ll be a lot more than just scary.’
Pleased by the answer, he stopped the video, then got up to turn off the TV. ‘It’s already giving me nightmares,’ he confessed, jokingly, as he came back to the sofa.
‘Then I suspect we should be grateful that Gloria and I don’t look anything alike,’ she commented wryly.
‘A thought that has crossed my mind more than once,’ he assured her, his eyes still showing only laughter.
As he settled down next to her again, she snuggled back into his embrace, noticing that a few light raindrops were starting to spatter the window. ‘By the way, how did your evening go over at Stacey’s?’ she asked casually, as he pressed a kiss to her hair. ‘You never mentioned it.’
‘Oh, it was fine,’ he answered. ‘It would have been better if you were there.’
‘So what did you talk about, the two of you?’
‘Three of us,’ he corrected, then something suddenly struck him and he leapt to his feet. ‘I have a surprise for you,’ he told her. ‘Wait there. Don’t move.’
He was gone less than a minute, before returning with a small, beautifully carved wooden box, which he put into her hands, saying, with a mischievous twinkle, ‘Not exactly a Pandora’s box, but it could be.’
Anna was frowning curiously as she looked at it. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.
‘It’s from Stacey. A gift, for both of us. Look inside.’
Opening up the lid, she parted the white tissue paper, then her eyes dilated with shock when she saw the cigarettes that half filled the interior. Despite how extremely neatly they were rolled, there was no mistaking what they were. ‘She gave you these as well?’ she said, looking up at him.
He was grinning. ‘Shall we have one? Now?’
Anna looked at them again. It wasn’t that she’d never smoked marijuana, because she had, several times, it was just that she wasn’t sure she wanted to now. ‘Why did she give them to you?’ she asked.
‘Because …’ His eyes darted to one side. ‘Because she thought they would help me to relax.’
‘Were you nervous then?’
‘I always am, you know that,’ he responded, with a laugh.
‘Is that why you want to smoke one now?’ she said, frowning.
He was looking uncomfortable again, which was making her more anxious than ever. ‘When did she give them to you?’ she asked.
‘The other night, when I was over there. She was just being generous,’ he told her, taking the box. ‘If you don’t want to share one, then I’ll smoke it alone.’
‘No, please don’t,’ she said.
His eyes came up, full of surprise, bordering on resentment. ‘You’re creating an issue,’ he said accusingly.
‘No.’
He stared down at her and she could sense the anguish that was making him defensive, so softening her tone she said, ‘Why didn’t you go to Ernesto’s studio today? Isn’t he doing the first portrait?’
Several seconds ticked by during which she could see him growing stiffer and more agitated. It was as though something was trying desperately to break out of him, but he just wouldn’t let it. Finally he said, ‘I didn’t go, because I think her husband was going to be there, and I just wouldn’t feel comfortable looking at another man’s wife with no clothes on, while he was standing there.’
‘Why would she have no clothes on?’
‘Because that’s the way Ernesto wants to do it.’
‘But he’s following your poems.’
‘With his own interpretations. You’re turning this into some kind of inquisition,’ he snapped. ‘What difference does it make whether her clothes are on or off?’
‘To me none, but to you it obviously does.’
‘Yes. While her husband’s there.’
‘What about when he’s not there?’
His face was trembling and white. ‘You’re being disgusting, Anna,’ he said through his teeth.
Startled by the word, she said, ‘How am I being disgusting?’
‘By accusing me of things I’ve never done.’
‘What kind of things?’ she cried. ‘I haven’t accused you of anything.’
‘You think I’ve seen her naked.’
‘I know you have. She appears so in the film. And on the stage.’
‘But those are the only times I’ve seen her naked.’
She was about to ask why he was defending himself over something that shouldn’t even be an issue, when she realized that it probably wasn’t the best way to go. So, deciding to take another tack, she reached for his hands and pulled him back down on the sofa. ‘Darling, you know how much I love you,’ she said, gazing earnestly into his troubled eyes. ‘You know that I trust you, implicitly, but we both know how confused and upset you can sometimes get over things that turn out to exist only in your head. So if there’s anything you want to tell me, whether you think it’s real or imagined, you know I’ll understand.’
He looked so helpless now, and stripped of his manly pride, that she wanted to gather him up like a child and tell him it didn’t matter. But she knew she couldn’t do that, for he needed to articulate what was happening inside him or it would only grow and fester.
‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he said miserably. ‘I never want to hurt you.’
Her heart groaned with despair, for she recognized the words and the tone immediately. ‘Is this you talking?’ she said. ‘Those are lines from the script.’
‘I know, but they still apply.’
‘So why are you going to hurt me?’
‘I just told you, I never want to. No one means as much to me as you. No one. That’s why I never want to hurt you.’
‘When you say it like that, it makes it seem as though it’s a possibility,’ she said, trying to ignore the stirrings of unease in her heart. ‘Or even imminent.’
‘Of course, it’s always a possibility,’ he snapped, ‘because that’s what we do to those we love – we hurt them.’
‘You’re starting to sound angry again. Why are you angry?’
His hands tightened painfully on hers as his head fell back. ‘Because I don’t want to hurt her,’ he cried to the ceiling, ‘but I know I’m going to. I’m compelled to.’
‘Hurt who? Who are you talking about?’
He seemed confused by the question, then his eyes closed and a moment later his shoulders started to shake. It took her a moment to realize he was laughing. ‘At last,’ h
e declared joyously, ‘I’ve got the scene right. I’ve been trying for days to hit the right note, to find the right words, and we’re due to shoot it on Monday. Anna, my darling, my saviour, do you see what a difference it makes to have you here? Kiss me, and lie here in my arms where I can breathe you in like the true and sublime inspiration you are.’
‘Robert, stop it,’ she cried, laughing too as he tried to pull her down. ‘You’re quoting from the film again, and now I don’t know whether we’re supposed to be dealing with a crisis in confidence, or a lapse of fidelity.’
‘Neither,’ he assured her, burying his face in her neck, ‘because nothing’s ever a problem when you’re here. Now let me ravage you, woman, while the children are out of the way and the urge is upon me.’
Stacey was draped across a white mattress in Ernesto’s studio, a long, diaphanous shawl wound round her body like a loving pet python, and her magnificent hair spread out in glistening crinkles of amber. Later, Ernesto, who was hoisted with his easel and paints on a small platform above and adjacent, would create the strange, Gothic back-drop of beasts described in the poem, who were the temptress’s victims and tormentors, but first he needed her here, as the centrepiece to the verse that was his inspiration.
The remains of the lunch Petey had brought in still cluttered the kitchenette, awaiting his return from the business he was conducting in various other parts of London. He’d taken Stacey’s mobile, since she didn’t really want to talk to anyone right now, not even dear Robert, for as deeply as she adored him, she simply wasn’t in the mood for his passion today. Fortunately, she didn’t have to feel too guilty about that, because Anna was back from Cornwall, so it wasn’t as if he was alone. Her heart did rather go out to Anna, for as devoted as she undoubtedly was to her darling husband, it couldn’t be easy living with the extraordinary ramblings of his writer’s mind. Not that Stacey was sitting in any kind of moral judgement, for heaven knew she had enough sexual idiosyncrasies of her own, but Robert’s, she could see from the very private poems he had begun sending her, had the potential to become more than a little bit disturbing. So no, let Anna resume responsibility for him while she, Stacey, concentrated on the rather frustrating dilemma she seemed to be facing regarding her own beloved spouse.
