‘I’m afraid I’m wearing the only dress I brought.’
He eyed her up and down with a comical expression, ‘It’ll do admirably. I don’t think I could get you out of that if I tried. Whoops, sorry.’
He gave her his arm formally and led her into the sitting room.
There was a soft glow of lamplight in the room. It played over the pinks and dusky rose, the burgundies and clarets and smoky blues of the chairs and rugs. For a moment the scene of her arrival yesterday flashed through her mind, the thought of Max, the spilled wine. She banished it, said instead as he handed her a glass, ‘I saw the Officer in charge.’
‘Oh? Learn anything you didn’t know?’ He sat down in the armchair on the other side of the hearth.
Helena watched him carefully. ‘No, only that they hadn’t found a suicide note. And about the Chalet where he had been staying. I’m going to go there tomorrow.’
He sipped his champagne.
‘I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet, but Bergmann came here while I was away.’
Helena tensed, moved to the edge of her chair. ‘What for?’
He glanced down at the carpet for a moment, then reached in his pocket for a cigarette. ‘It’s not clear. The decorators were here. Apparently they showed him into the library. The only room that didn’t have wet paint in it. Elsa found him in there.’ He lit up and blew a smoke ring into the air. ‘He was looking through Bahr’s canvases. They were all stacked in there. I assume he wasn’t planning to walk off with one.’
Helena baulked at that. ‘He wouldn’t.’
‘No, of course not. Did he ever mention Bahr to you?’
Helena shook her head.
‘Well, in any case, it seems he told her he wanted to have a last look before he moved on. So she left him in there.’
‘Is that all?’ Helena tried not to scrutinize him too openly.
‘That’s all. Elsa as you know is not the most forthcoming of speech makers. Now if it had been you…,’ he changed the subject rapidly. ‘I’ve been reading your articles, you know. They’re good. Well written. Well researched, I imagine. You could try your hand at a book.’
‘I enjoyed your lecture, too.’
‘I wasn’t being patronizing, Helena,’ there was a flicker of anger in those hazel eyes, ‘But I’d forgotten, you don’t approve of dusty books.’
‘That’s nonsense.’
‘Only of my dusty books, then,’ he laughed, but there was no malice in it.
‘That’s not true either. I haven’t read them yet.’
‘Well that’s honest enough,’ he refilled her glass. ‘Will you keep me company, while I put dinner up?’
‘I’ll even help,’ she stood, followed him through the door. ‘It’s probably about time I did.’
‘You can chat to me. It won’t take long.’
Everything in the kitchen seemed to be ready. There was a plate of cold asparagus on the table, a salad, bright with an assortment of leaves, a dish of hollandaise. He simply lit the gas beneath the saucepan of new potatoes, and lifted the salmon into the fish kettle.
‘There,’ he turned to her.
‘You knew I’d stay,’ she glanced at him with accusing eyes.
‘No I didn’t. I hoped. It’s not the same. And I thought to myself that if the beautiful Ms Latimer fled my presence yet again, I’d settle for the young woman in the village round the corner.’
Helena felt her heart skip a beat. She smoothed her skirt. ‘It’s not too late, you know. If her favours are…’
‘Don’t be silly,’ he cut her off. ‘I’m teasing. Don’t you know about teasing?’
‘Perhaps not,’ tears suddenly gripped her eyes. She turned away from him.
‘I thought we might eat in the conservatory. Special evening. Table’s all set.’
She walked in front of him, too aware of his presence behind her. She felt herself growing confused again. She had been so sure this afternoon, so certain that there was something suspicious about him, some complicity in Max’s death. And now…
Helena gasped audibly as she looked into the conservatory. There was a lamp flooding the garden beyond and the room seemed to stretch and stretch directly into it, the two trees which served as columns marking a false point of entry to the outside. These, too, were illuminated somewhere at their base, as was the mural of Anna. The table complete with an ornate silver candelabrum was set beyond the columns, so that it seemed to be outdoors, yet in.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said softly.
‘I’m glad you approve. You’re my first guest since the overhaul.’ He placed the asparagus on the table, uncorked a bottle of white wine.
He raised his glass, ‘Shall we toast your Max?’ he asked softly.
She nodded. Her voice had a quiver in it as she murmured, ‘To Max.’ Tears filled her eyes.
He turned towards the window, ‘To Max,’ he echoed.
She told him then what James and the others had said, how it tallied with what he had originally suggested.
‘I’m glad of that. I took the liberty this afternoon of ringing round. I thought you might not have the time, with everything else. And tomorrow is Saturday. I hope you don’t mind. There’s a crematorium in Munich that could do a service on Wednesday. You can arrange the contents of that. I booked it in provisionally. If the inquest is straightforward, then we can confirm.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ she smiled in an attempt to erase her tears. After a moment, she asked, ‘Why are you doing all this, Adam?’ She scanned his face.
He laughed a little edgily, ‘Because I’m a kind-hearted man. Or haven’t you noticed?’
She didn’t respond.
‘Or maybe because I like you,’ he sought out her eyes. ‘And I live and pray that one day you may actually decide you like me, rather than simply resenting the fact that you like making love with me…’ he stopped himself as he saw her face.
‘You’re a fool, Adam,’ she looked away from him.
‘That too. I’ll happily testify to that. You don’t know, may not even remember. But one night during Fasching, you were walking through Munich with a suitcase in your hand, when a lady or was it a man in blond curls…’
‘The jester in motley,’ she stared at him in amazement.’You?’
He nodded.
‘I’m grateful.’ she paused, ‘For everything.’
‘At your service,’ he grinned. ‘And now, if I don’t hurry, that food will be dry as old rubber.’ He raced from the room. ‘Don’t disappear.’
When he came back, she was standing and gazing at a large intricate doll’s house which she had somehow missed in the far corner of the room.
‘Your daughter’s?’ she asked as he disburdened the tray.
He nodded.
‘You must miss her.’
‘I do,’ he looked into the distance.
Helena waited breathlessly. He would say something now. Had to say something. But he didn’t, simply arranged the food attractively on their plates.
‘Now, tell me what you’re working on these days.’
She told him, told him about the windfarm, the attempts to think and put through a new energy policy, the campaign against a nuclear reprocessing plant in Cumbria which far too much public money had gone into. She found herself warming to her subject as he plied her with questions, expounding on it.
‘And when do I get to read all this?’
‘In a few weeks,’ she gasped suddenly. ‘I forgot to ring the office today.’
‘Not even to dictate an Obituary?’
She shook her head in dismay. ‘I didn’t think of that either. Should it be me?’
‘No one better. After all, you knew him well, admired him. And a tribute always helps.’
‘You’re right, of course. I’ll alert the paper tomorrow. And write it. James can help with any missing facts when he arrives.’
‘And when is that?’
‘Sunday morning. I’ll stay over in Munich
tomorrow. So as not to be late for the plane,’ she added lamely.
He was watching her carefully. ‘So that’s that then. You don’t want to stay on here? With me?’
Helena avoided his eyes, ‘I couldn’t,’ she murmured, smiled, ‘Thank you for a delicious and delightful dinner. I’ll wash up.’
He shrugged.
They carried the dishes back to the kitchen together. Helena rolled up her sleeves.
‘Leave it. They’ll wait for the morning.’
He sounded grumpy.
‘Alright.’ She turned to face him. ‘Adam, why are you so certain Max wasn’t my father?’
He looked away, shuffled some plates around on the table. ‘I don’t know. Instinct, I suppose. But believe what you like.’
‘Well goodnight then, thanks again,’ she stood on her toes to kiss him lightly on the cheek, felt that flutter inside herself again.
But he didn’t hold her back.
In the little yellow room, she couldn’t sleep. Her mind was racing. She tossed in the bed and tried to compose Max’s obituary, but the words jumbled themselves, danced a mad meaningless dance around the image of his dead body. And there was so much she still didn’t know. Why had he disappeared in the first place? Why had he written only to her? Why did she have this sixth sense that Adam - Adam whom she had to admit she more than liked, despite his duplicity - knew something, was behaving suspiciously? Why did that image of Max being pushed from the boat reappear. Why? Why? Why?
And beneath it all that fluttering, that ache, like a double base plucked somewhere inside her, when she heard Adam walk past her room, when the image of him in bed came to her. She decided that must be what people called desire.
After what seemed like hours of tossing she leapt from the bed. She had to do something.
She tied the burgundy robe she had taken from the bathroom tightly round herself and looked out into the hall. Everything was dark. There was no light seeping from under the door of Adam’s room.
Carefully, she crept downstairs, opened the door to the library, switched on the light. If he found her here, she could always say she had come in search of a book.
She looked at the mass of papers on the desk, afraid to disrupt their order even if there didn’t seem to be any. She scanned the page in the typewriter. His manuscript. Next to it sheaves of notes, all in his hand. She read hurriedly, but there was nothing of instant interest here.
There were two letter trays at the far end, half covered with more notes. She lifted them to glance beneath. And then she saw it. Max’s writing, a single sheet, half covered, by a note in another hand. She scanned the note swiftly, her heart thudding.
My Dear Adam,
I’ve answered the enclosed, since you were kind enough to forward it. Obviously the sender finds your presence in the family vault a suspicious one.
There is no return address, but for the name of an inn. If you can find it, send it on. If not…
Helena heard footsteps at the door. She leapt away from the desk and in a flash picked up the telephone.
He looked huge in the doorway. Angry. His eyes whisked across the room, landed on her.
‘You’ve taken up snooping again.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she tried to keep her voice cool. ‘I was just phoning.’
‘At this time of night?’ he was incredulous.
‘There are people who don’t mind the time of night.’
‘Who?’
He was standing directly in front of her now. She could see the muscles taut in his throat.
Helena gestured evasively.
‘Lovers,’ he spat it out.
‘If you like.’
‘You said there wasn’t a lover.’
She shrugged, babbled, ‘Not a lover. But there are always one or two.’
‘So you prefer to perform telephone sex under my roof than engage in the real thing?’ His eyes were savage.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Ridiculous? You make me ridiculous!’
‘Adam, please.’ He had gripped her arm.
‘And if you can have one or two lovers, you can have three. It’s easy enough.’
He pulled her to him, kissed her too hard, so that her lips felt bruised with the resistance of it. She could feel the tension in him through the length of her, the smell of him, and despite herself the lapping started up in her, mounted, flowed. Her mouth opened to his, her arms found their way to his back, stroked, stroked. She no longer knew if he was pinning her to him or she was cleaving.
He moaned against her, lifted her in his arms, so that she sat astride him. He was looking at her with something like hatred in his eyes.
‘So which lover shall it be tonight, Ms. Latimer, the one who does it on the table, on the floor, on the sofa? Perhaps against the dusty bookshelves.’
‘Don’t humiliate me, Adam,’ her voice cracked. She was rocking against him.
‘It seems to me that I’m the only one who gets humiliated around here.’ He dropped her unceremoniously on the sofa.
She felt cold, destitute, ‘Please, Adam,’ she whispered, held out her hand to him. ‘Please.’
He looked at her for a moment. His face was suddenly haggard. Then he dropped to his knees, wrapped his arms round her. She ran her fingers softly through his hair, over his chest, untied his robe. He was kissing her, caressing, her face, her neck, her breasts. She arched against him.
‘Say you want me, Helena. Say it,’ he was whispering in her ear. His hand was on her mound, rubbing, pressing.
‘I want you,’ she was crying suddenly, the tears streaming down her face. ‘I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my life.’ She coiled her fingers round him. Smooth, taut skin. She felt the rush of his breath in her ear.
‘And you hate yourself for it.’ He pulled her head back, looked into her eyes.
‘And I hate myself for it,’ she was sobbing. ‘But I don’t hate you. I wish I hated you,’ she buried her face in his chest.
‘Don’t, please don’t,’ he was stroking her hair, suddenly gentle, lifting her, edging her onto him, so they were both on the floor, clutching each other, rocking, their eyes as tightly locked as their bodies. The waves shuddered through her almost instantly, little moans of them, and then great surging cries.
He carried her up the stairs, tucked her into the little bed like a child. He looked at her for a moment, ‘I don’t understand anything, Helena. I told you that before. Perhaps when you’ve stopped wishing you hated me, you can explain to me.’ He kissed her softly. ‘But give it time. Don’t run away.’
Chapter Twenty Three
As it was, Helena didn’t need to run. She simply left. It happened quite easily.
She woke feeling bruised, humiliated, hating herself, hating Adam? wishing Max were there, alive, strong, pure, to point the way to something bigger, greater than this tremulous, vacillating creature she had become.
Adam could turn her into a mass of quivering jelly in seconds. A being without a spine. It had been better before, when she felt nothing. She had invulnerability then, pride, and a clear straight sense of what was right.
How could she have loved him, with Max’s letter there beside them, just a few feet away - a clear indication that he was lying about Max as he had lied about everything else? The treachery of it. And of herself.
She had a longing to speak to Claire, to anyone who would reflect a different sense of herself. Claire had laughingly called her Joan of Arc when she had first set out in search of Max. She should see her now.
Helena went downstairs, her small case determinedly in her hand. She would throw it, she thought, if he stepped near her.
There were voices coming from the living room, Adam’s and someone else. She sighed with relief, poked her head round the door. He was standing with a suited stranger, clipboard in hand
‘Don’t want to disturb you,’ she made her voice light, ‘but I’m off now.’
‘Come in,’ Adam turne
d towards her, ‘Come and meet Andrew Wright. From London. There’s coffee on the table,’ he motioned toward the window, but she could feel him scrutinizing her, looking at the case. ‘Helena Latimer, Andrew Wright.’
Helena shook the man’s hand. He had a certain flamboyance about him, lazy hooded eyes above a prominent nose, a dazzling bow tie against a dark shirt, an indolence of gesture.
‘I believe we’ve met somewhere before,’ he drawled.
‘London’s really just a village,’ Helena smiled. If she hadn’t already met him, she knew his doubles.
Adam handed her a cup of coffee. ‘Andrew is doing a feature on the German art show at the Royal Academy. And I stupidly forgot he was coming to look over Johannes’s pictures this morning.’ He gave her a lopsided grin, passed his hand over unshaven cheeks.
She avoided his eyes, focussed on Andrew, ‘Oh, when is the opening?’
‘End of May. But I wanted to have a better look at these. Don’t know them. They’re something of a revelation. Look,’ he put his hand lightly on her shoulder, guided her towards a canvas and gestured enthusiastically. ‘The brushstrokes…’
Adam watched them, saw the easy camaraderie, the way she clutched her bag firmly in the midst of it. She was going. She wouldn’t come back. He sensed it as a certainty now. He had found her only to lose her again.
A demon had taken him over and he had humiliated her. Humiliated her when she was most vulnerable, made her say things, painful things. He had lost his temper, his control, his heart. Like some stupid, callous yet yearning adolescent. And he had started out wanting to protect her.
Of course she had lovers. So she should. He was hardly the only man in the world. But he had seen red then, been overtaken by a passion he couldn’t counter and he had forced her and tried to force truth from her. As if in love one could grasp at some tidy truth.
What was it Freud had said somewhere? Truth might be a goal of science, but love was a goal of life and had its own logic.
What had drawn him to her from the very first was that fierce impetuosity in her, an integrity which had nothing to do with truth. She had lied to him from the first, easy, obvious lies, which didn’t touch any depths. And the depths were there, vulnerable, accessible - unlike so many people he had known - and he had stamped on them. Like… like a man.
Dreams of Innocence Page 66
