Victoria was first at the restaurant and watching Nattie weave her way over to the table, she felt moved to tears. She wanted to hug the breath out of her daughter, smother her in a storm of maternal love. She’d always felt overprotective; Nattie’s beautiful open face made her too vulnerable, defenceless as a sleeping child. Men had taken advantage in the past. Not Hugo, though. With his patience and steadfastness, he was a truly decent young man.
Nattie was making slow progress, held up by a chic woman with steel-grey hair swept up in ivory combs. She was talking to Nattie, using her hands expressively, but detaining her for too long. There were a few other women dotted about, but the Grill with its sleek black furniture and glass, watermark-effect crimson walls, was a largely male domain. Bullish-looking businessmen in broad-shouldered, hand-tailored suits were leaning forward over the tables, busily pursuing and probably clinching their various deals. They looked up as Nattie went by, easily distracted, though she appeared oblivious to the interested stares.
Nattie came up, smiling. ‘Hi, Mum, sorry. I tried to hurry up that woman who called me over. She’s a literary agent, very excited about a new author – she wouldn’t stop! It’s great this, way above my pay grade.’ She glanced around as she pulled out a chair. Her smile was as sweet as birdsong and she’d never looked more glowing. Sexy too, in a discreet navy button-through dress with short sleeves. Victoria eyed the dip of cleavage as Nattie leaned over with a kiss, feeling, as always, ever so slightly envious.
She reached out and touched Nattie’s arm. ‘It’s lovely to have you all to myself for once. It gets harder, but we must try to do it when we can.’
‘Sure thing, Mum. Best sometime when I’m looking after Tubsy and I need to fill his day. It will have to be a pizza place, though. He does love munching his way through bits of pizza with his splendid new teeth.’
An elderly waiter came to take their order. They chose a hake dish and agreed to have just one course. The waiter hesitated before going, then addressed Victoria: ‘I was sad when you left Parliament,’ he said. ‘You were a great Home Secretary. When I think of this lot . . .’
Victoria thanked him and said ‘this lot’ were doing a good job in tough times.
Nattie was grinning. ‘Still got your fans, eh, Mum? I remember William once said there was always a right time to go, but then when you did, he tried to stop you.’
‘Much better to go before you’re pushed. How’s work, darling? I loved the September issue. You had a really good spread.’
‘It’s a frantic time with the Christmas book pages. I suppose it’s as well, though, that we work quite far in advance and I’m not doing all the extra along with Christmas shopping.’
‘So what should I be reading? The last book you recommended was a triumph. I couldn’t imagine a novel tackling dementia being such a good witty read. I’ve seen rave reviews for a book called Help Me to Flee – by Sadia Umar, I think. Have you read it?’
‘Yes, I’ve done an interview with the author. The book is piercing, very poignant, but extremely depressing in its way. I’m not sure if it’s quite your thing.’
‘I don’t see why not. It’s basically about a forced marriage, isn’t it? Why are you blushing, Nattie? Because of the connection with Pakistan?’
‘Possibly – I don’t know, Mum. I wish I didn’t blush so easily. It’s so mean! Let me tell you about the children, how well Lily’s doing at school. Her reading’s way ahead, so her teacher told Jasmine yesterday. Hugo thinks she gets it from you.’
Nattie was looking like a hedgehog in the middle of a motorway, prickly and bristling, and at the mercy of fate. She seemed to be on her guard, anxious not to discuss Sadia Umar’s novel. Since it was fairly obvious why, Victoria decided to go with William’s advice.
‘That Pakistani author, she’s not related to Ahmed, is she? From your reaction I wondered if she could be connected in some way.’
‘I’m sure she’s not related,’ Nattie said, fingering her bread roll. ‘She certainly didn’t say anything when we had lunch. Don’t get at me like this, Mum. I blushed, that’s all – we can talk about the book as much as you like.’
‘I just wondered. You seem on edge and I can’t help worrying. You must still really want to know what happened, I’m sure.’
‘Mum, do you have to go on? You know I hate being made to talk about Ahmed. It hurts more than anything.’
‘Everything’s okay with Hugo? All good with you both?’
‘Of course, why ever not?’ Nattie snapped, flushing again and sounding defensive. ‘He’s got a few work problems; he looks likely to lose an account, SleepSweet, the bed people, and he’s as fed up as ever with that nightmare woman at Palmers, Christine, the Head of Communications. I do worry about him; he’s surprisingly lacking in confidence for someone in that job. Sorry if I wasn’t at my best on Sunday.’
Victoria had always thought Hugo was in the wrong job. He was nobody’s fool, but not a natural for the communications world, too charmingly reticent. It was hard to know where he’d flourish best. Nattie had spoken warmly of him, though. Wouldn’t she have sounded more spiky if they were falling out? Interviewing a Pakistani author had probably put Ahmed in the front of her mind, but it was a tenuous link to have caused such edginess.
Victoria sighed inwardly and tried to move things on. ‘We had supper with Uncle Robert, Katie and the boys last night,’ she said. ‘Joe’s following in your footsteps and off to Durham next week and he was lording it over his brothers. Pity you don’t see a bit more of your cousins, darling, they’re good fun.’
‘Mum, they’re ten years younger! Tell me about Granny and Grandpa, how are they? I’d love to see them and take the children, if it weren’t so busy between now and Christmas.’
‘They’re actually coming to London this weekend, staying with Uncle Robert. I heard last night. They want to see Joe before he goes. I know they’d love to see you all. Saturday would be best. They’ll want to leave straight after Sunday lunch to be back before it’s completely dark.’
Nattie stared, looking intensely frustrated. ‘That’s such sod’s law!’ she exclaimed. ‘We’re at Hugo’s parents this weekend. He’s taken Friday afternoon off and keeps saying how much they’re looking forward to it. But I’d really hate not to see Granny and Grandpa the one time they’re here.’ She hesitated and seemed to be giving it a lot of thought. She adored her grandparents; she’d often stayed with them when Victoria had been up against it, and was especially close to her grandfather, John. He’d been someone she could turn to, through her difficult teens, her parents’ divorce, and he’d taken to Ahmed wholeheartedly. For that reason if no other he could do no wrong in Nattie’s eyes.
‘I could come back Sunday morning,’ she said, ‘and see them then. I’ll talk to Hugo about it. I’m sure his parents wouldn’t mind, as long as he and the children stay on for lunch.’
‘Let’s try for that. Look, I’ll have to go in a minute. I’ve got a board meeting with Haverstock, which is bound to be fraught. It’s all the fault of your stepfather too, and the wretched Post. They’re trying to lay something on a drugs company whose record I know to be as unsullied as snowdrops. I sometimes think William starts poking around simply to wind me up.’
‘Mum! You can’t seriously think that.’
‘Whose side are you on?’ Victoria laughed, catching a waiter’s eye. Then she stared at her daughter, her heart reaching out. ‘I’m sure nothing’s wrong, love, but don’t ever feel you can’t turn to me, even with the smallest niggles. It can sometimes help. We’ve always been able to talk. Don’t let’s lose that.’
Nattie gave one of her glorious smiles. ‘You’ve got to go. I have too. Thanks for saying what you did, it means a lot.’
William called. Newspapers being what they were he seldom got away much before ten, but he and Victoria spoke often during the evening. ‘How was it at lunch?’ he asked. ‘Did Nattie open up? Are you any the wiser?’
‘No,’ Victoria replie
d. ‘And feeling no less concerned. Something’s definitely up, but whatever it is she couldn’t have been less keen to tell me. What was slightly odd was that she seemed on a high; maybe there’d been some turn of events she wasn’t expecting, something she’d wanted to happen. Who knows? And despite all the edginess she was looking terrific, that way she has of looking lit from within.’
‘It could be to do with Ahmed, but I’d be surprised if he’s back in the country,’ William said. ‘I’m sure we’d have had a sniff of it at the paper; my guys are pretty much on the ball. By the way, I guess I have to eat humble pie over Haverstock. They’re not so easy to pin down. I still don’t approve of these dubious drugs companies one little bit; “ethical” in their book always seems a very elastic word.’
Victoria snorted. ‘But it isn’t an elastic word in my book. Remember that cartoon of me you once printed in the Post, “The Schoolgirl Who Always Did Her Homework”? I think you can trust me to know the good guys from the bad.’
She ended the call smiling, enjoying having won that small battle. William had only momentarily taken her mind off Nattie, though. Instinct told her that her daughter had something going on in her life that was difficult to resolve. As well as the aura of tension about her, she seemed high on adrenalin, which gave conflicting signals. One thing Nattie couldn’t have made clearer, though, was that whatever the problem, it wasn’t one she was prepared to share with her mother.
9
A Second Meeting
Nattie had urgent copy to finish. She was trying to clear the decks before leaving to keep a date that she knew now, more than ever, was a terrible mistake. It was impossible to concentrate, and she cringed to think of her mother’s shrewdly penetrating questions at lunch. Fending them off had been both painful and embarrassing. Had it simply been intuition, she asked herself, or had William’s sleuth reporters got wind of Ahmed’s return and were busy tracking him down? If so, his detractors could be doing the same. Was he safe? And was she at risk too, going to meet him? Would she be seen?
If only she’d been calmer and more together with her mother. It was one thing, managing not to tell a bald lie, but wasn’t deliberate omission just as bad? Nattie knew she wasn’t built for liaisons and evasion; she felt incapable of not giving herself away. Yet here she was, dementedly impatient to run to another illicit meeting with the man she loved – and nothing, barring breaking both legs, was going to stop her.
She needn’t have kept his return a secret. She could have told her mother, William, Hugo, and it would have gone no further, put Ahmed at no extra risk. He’d have been safe with his new identity that she still didn’t know. Nattie had felt justified in seeing him alone the first time, given the pain it would cause Hugo, but now, with the floodgates reopened on her longing, it was another matter.
She couldn’t focus on her work. Her fingers were poised over the keyboard while her mind raced. She was disapproving of Ahmed’s tactics, holding back from telling her a single thing, but wouldn’t it be inhuman not to need to know? And then? What then?
Her world was tilting, but her copy was overdue. It had to be handed in that day. She was almost grateful to have the deadline; it screened out the question that overrode all others, that pressed down on her like the lid of a coffin; that scared her to death. How was she going to find the will, whatever his story, whatever the truth of it, to wave a cheery goodbye then and never see Ahmed again?
‘Leaving early?’ Ian looked up over his screen with raised gingery eyebrows.
Nattie gave him a huge wide smile. ‘It’s one of the few perks of being a part-timer. I’ve just banged off my copy too. Good feeling!’ She filled her bag with reading and rose, wobbly at the knees with anticipation. ‘God, this lot are heavy, they’ll sort me out over the weekend. Have a good one, Ian – see you next week.’
It was no distance to the Millennium Bridge, but Nattie had left it late. She’d held back slightly for appearances’ sake, usually doing a full day, but it helped to be in a rush and have no time to think. She couldn’t call her emotions to order like troops on parade. Nor could she control them. She felt faint with need.
Hurrying away from the building and down the street, her head was full of Ahmed’s emails of the last few days. His words were living passion, the past in the present, yet she was married now. He’d talked of constancy, of love’s ability to ride fear, partings, failings, misery and now, at last, its reward of reunion and rediscovery. Words couldn’t bear the burden, though, he said, not any more. Nothing he’d written to Nattie had ever jarred, neither these nor his words in the distant past; they’d always leached into her heart.
She quickened her step with the bridge in sight. Ahmed was there, in T-shirt and jeans, hair lifting in the warm September breeze. He was mingling with the milling tourists who were out enjoying London and the pale afternoon sun, but he stood out for Nattie and her stomach contracted as he saw her and came swiftly to her side.
‘You had me worried,’ he said, touching her cheek and reaching for her bag. ‘God, this is heavy! You shouldn’t be carrying this much weight around. Let’s go and find a taxi quick.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Jake’s house – it’s where I’m staying.’
‘Oh, I see. You didn’t say . . .’
‘I didn’t want to fill you in too much at lunch. I’m really sad not to see him, but he says it’s good to gain experience elsewhere and he is very focused on his career. I think it’s got a bit to do with Sylvia as well, he says she’s up and down. They’ve gone to Melbourne, where her mother lives. She remarried and settled there apparently, and when the new husband died she stayed and started a nursery school. Jake thinks Sylvia would be happier with her mother nearby and she could help in the school. I hope he’s right. Anyway, I’m keeping the house warm in the meantime, so it’s my gain. I’ve rented it and it’s fine for three months at least.’
‘It’s a great house,’ Nattie said. ‘I love it being so near your old Brixton flat.’
‘Very close to your mother and William, of course. I’m taking good care not to bump into them!’
Her cheeks flamed. Jake’s house suddenly felt risky; Victoria’s meeting could easily be over and, more to the point, Nattie didn’t trust herself one bit. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if we went to a café?’ she said. ‘Some quiet place where we can talk?’
‘Why, Nattie? We won’t see them, I guarantee.’ He smiled, not letting her off the hook, while keeping an eye out for a cab. ‘There’s one.’ He raised his arm and as it drew up alongside, his hand touched hers before he helped her in.
They didn’t speak in the cab, which dropped them right outside the lovely old front wall of Jake’s house. Ahmed clicked open the wrought-iron gate and closed it carefully behind him. Nattie shivered a little as the front door sprang open to his key.
Alone in the house they looked at each other for a whole minute before he kissed her lips lightly, just as he had done saying goodbye after lunch. She knew how he was feeling, everything was there in the look.
‘Come to the kitchen with me while I get us a drink,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’ve spread a bit. I like the place looking less sleek and streamlined – well, that’s my excuse!’
He’d set up a small television on a worktop, left books splayed open on the island unit; there was a huge bowl of fruit, a breadboard with half a loaf and plenty of crumbs. The kitchen, which had looked immaculate even when Jake and Sylvia were cooking and talking to friends, looked more homely now.
Ahmed went to the fridge and took out a pretty pottery jug. ‘Have some home-made lemonade. I even squeezed the lemons – all my own work.’
‘And this is the guy who said his mother never let him lift a finger? That sounds a bit keen. I’m sure there’s a juicer in this state-of-the-art kitchen . . .’
He held the jug to the icemaker and clunked in some cubes. He made room for the jug on a tray that he’d put ready with glasses and a plate of shortbread, picked it u
p and went to the door. ‘Let’s go up to the sitting room and settle in.’
Nattie followed him upstairs. Ahmed rested the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa and sat down. She stayed standing, noticing he’d bought flowers, how they freshened the room, while looking for a chair to pull up. It took an effort of will not to sit down beside him, close, hoping for the brush of his arm, bare in his T-shirt, against hers. She wanted his hand to stray to hers, to feel his physical warmth.
‘I’ll sit in that chair,’ she said, as he patted the sofa and smiled.
‘I’d much rather you were here beside me. I need to be able to reach you – mentally, I mean. Come and sit down! I feel nervous. Don’t make this even harder.’ He rose and steered her carefully to the sofa as though she were blind, kissing her cheek as they sat down. She couldn’t turn to look at him, didn’t trust herself even to turn and smile.
‘Have some lemonade,’ he offered. ‘And the shortbread’s good. Two young girls have set up locally and make all their own stuff.’
He knew she loved shortbread. Nattie sipped from her glass and set it down. She was feeling oddly cocooned from harm and reality, despite her extreme tension as she sat beside him. She was fighting her every instinct to lean into his side, yearning to have his arm round her, his fingers lightly stroking as he talked.
She sensed his own extreme tension. He was struggling to find the words, unsure how to begin, and her heart filled as she shared the strain.
10
Ahmed’s Story
Ahmed felt almost too emotional to speak. His throat was constricted. He was trying to handle Nattie’s nearness, the overwhelming sense of physicality. He was intensely aware also of the fragility of the moment, convinced that she’d react badly, feel miserably let down and disbelieving. He imagined her walking out of his life, leaving him to drown in a well of loss and sadness, while a corner of him dared to hope she’d be forgiving and even understand.
The Consequence of Love Page 9
