by Daphne Clair
‘I’m very sorry,’ Tara said quietly.
‘Are you?’
It sounded like a challenge, as though he didn’t believe her. ‘Of course!’ she said, shocked. ‘Averil was too young to die, and I know you must be feeling—’
‘You know nothing about my feelings.’
Tara swallowed a fleeting anger. ‘It’s been very sudden. I suppose you’re still trying to accept—’
Sholto gave a harsh, satirical groan. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, spare me the conventional sympathy!’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I know sympathy is inadequate, and maybe you specially don’t want mine. But if there is anything I can do for you, Sholto—anything—I wish you’d tell me.’
His face changed. ‘Anything? What are you offering me?’ he enquired softly.
Tara recoiled, disbelieving, even as his gaze seared her body, leaving her in no doubt what he meant. ‘Not that!’ she said, her voice whiplash sharp. ‘What the hell do you think I am, Sholto? I wasn’t suggesting I should be a stand-in for your fiancée!’
‘Weren’t you?’ His voice taunted.
Tara stood up. ‘I thought you might need someone. If you’d really rather be left alone, I’ll go,’ she said tightly. ‘I can see this was a mistake.’
As she made to brush past him his hand on her arm stopped her, turning her to him. ‘Wait, Tara.’
She resisted but he didn’t let go. Forcing the words out, he said, ‘I... apologise. I hardly know what I’m saying.’
Tara said immediately, ‘It’s all right. I understand.’
He dropped his hand, and then raised it to the back of his neck, briefly massaging it. ‘You’re trying to be kind, I know. It’s just that—at the moment everything rubs me the wrong way, and I spent a hell of a morning with Averil’s people. I’ve been wanting to snap and snarl ever since we heard yesterday, but I can’t—not at them. You were the first target that presented itself.’
‘Grief... does strange things to people. I wanted to be with you because I—well, I’m still grateful for the way you stood by me when my father died.’ Hastily, she added, ‘I know it’s not the same thing. But you don’t have anyone else, do you? Averil’s family will be wrapped in their own grief. I didn’t want you to have to bear it alone.’
He gave her a searching look, as if she’d surprised him. ‘It was a generous impulse,’ he said. ‘But the last thing I need right now is you, Tara. In fact, I don’t think I could stand it.’
She clamped her teeth together and held her head high. ‘I see. I shouldn’t have come. But... if you change your mind... if I could help with...’
‘I know.’ He had both hands in his pockets now. He looked tense, impatient, as if he couldn’t wait for her to be gone. ‘I’ll see you out.’
At the door, as he opened it, she turned to him. ‘I suppose you’d prefer me not to come to the funeral?’ she asked in brittle tones.
His eyes flickered closed for an instant. His jaw tightened. ‘God, no!’ he said. ‘Not that. Stay away!’
Tara bit her lip. ‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll be thinking of you.’
His frowning glance seemed almost to be one of loathing, so that she shook inwardly, stepping past him. She’d hardly cleared the doorway before he shut the door with a snap behind her.
He hates me, she thought blankly. Why should he hate me so much?
In the lift on the way to the ground floor, the answer came to her. Because he’d loved Averil and Averil was dead, while Tara was still alive. She shuddered. He’d been wishing it was she who had died.
She saw the funeral notice in the newspaper the following day, and decided against sending flowers. Instead, she dispatched a card to Averil’s family. They might not even know who she was, but she felt that some mark of recognition was required.
She wondered how Sholto was. Whatever anguish he suffered, she was sure he’d hide it from everyone. His grief would be expressed in private, if he allowed it any expression at all.
Her heart ached for him.
About a week after the funeral she’d locked up the shop and was walking through the mall with Tod at her side when she paused by Chantelle’s florist shop. The door was still open and Chantelle was carrying in the buckets of roses and carnations that stood outside it, tempting customers to come and buy. On impulse, Tara said, ‘See you tomorrow, Tod. I’m going to buy some flowers.’
‘Yeah, okay.’ He went off, quickening his pace. Briefly Tara looked after him with something like affection. She’d been closing up dead on time lately, because since the robbery Tod would never leave until she did. His protective attitude both touched and exasperated her.
She picked up a couple of buckets and carried them into the shop.
‘Thanks, Tara.’ Chantelle took them from her and stowed them behind the counter. ‘Can I do something for you, or is this just a friendly visit?’
‘I’d like some flowers. But if you’re in a hurry to lock up—’
‘No hurry,’ Chantelle assured her. ‘I’ve still got some nice red roses left. Special price, as it’s the end of the day, and for you.’
‘Not red roses,’ Tara said unequivocally. ‘I think a mixed bouquet.’
‘Something festive for a special occasion, or just to brighten you up?’
‘No, not festive. They’re... for Sholto.’ Why make a secret of it, after all? There was nothing wrong with sending her ex-husband flowers as a gesture of sympathy.
Chantelle didn’t seem to think there was anything aberrant about it. She said only, ‘What a nice thought. Too many people never consider sending flowers to their male friends. But I don’t know why not. And about now things will start to really hit him, when the flowers sent for the funeral start dying, and the cards are not coming so often, and people stop calling to express their sympathy.’
‘I know,’ Tara said, as Chantelle spread a piece of florist’s paper and began gathering chrysanthemums, carnations, tiger lilies and partially unfurled gold roses.
She arranged them with some ladder fern and sprays of variegated leaves, her experienced fingers ensuring that every bloom was visible and uncrushed.
‘What do you want on the card?’ she asked as she expertly secured the green paper about the bouquet, tying it with a discreet purple bow.
‘Just “Tara”, please.’ She couldn’t think of a suitable message. The flowers themselves would surely tell Sholto that she was thinking of him, in some small way sharing his grief.
‘Are you going to see him?’ Chantelle asked.
‘No, I thought I’d just send the flowers. I suppose you can’t deliver tonight. I’ll get a taxi to take them for me.’
‘I can drop them in to him on my way home if you like. I’d do it for any customer,’ she added as Tara looked doubtful. ‘And I could say hello at the same time.’
‘Well, thanks. How much do I owe you?’
She waited while Chantelle locked up, and they walked to the car park together. Tara asked, ‘Have you or Philip seen Sholto? Do you know how he is?’
‘We saw him at the funeral, of course. He looked a bit grim, naturally, but he doesn’t show his feelings much, does he? He was a tower of strength to the family. It was he who made most of the funeral arrangements—they were too broken up to cope. Averil was the youngest, you know, and the family still thought of her as their baby. Her mother’s distraught.’
‘Poor woman,’ Tara murmured. ‘You haven’t seen Sholto since?’
Chantelle shook her head. ‘Phil went round the next evening but he said Sholto seemed to have closed himself off. He was perfectly polite and all, but he avoided talking about Averil and he gave Phil the impression he just wanted to be left alone.’
That was Sholto all over, Tara thought. No one must be allowed to see his vulnerable side. If, indeed, he had one.
Of course he did. He’d been in love with Averil, and he must be shattered at her unexpected death. For a few seconds, when Tara had been i
n his apartment, he’d seemed almost ready to expose his feelings, jolted by the tragedy that had entered his life. He had even tried to explain himself, a rare thing indeed, and apologised for directing his bad temper at her. But then he’d hustled her out, preferring to be on his own.
Chantelle said, ‘He doesn’t seem to have many friends. There were very few at the funeral, and those who did turn up seemed to be employees. Some of Averil’s airline staff formed a guard of honour in their uniforms. It was nice. Of course, Sholto’s been living abroad for years. I suppose he’s lost touch with his old friends in this country.’
Tara nodded. Sholto had many business acquaintances, but she thought probably the only real friend he’d ever had was Derek, and she’d wrecked that relationship for him.
A piercing regret brought stinging tears to her eyes, and she was glad that a stiff, cold little breeze blowing across the car park gave her an excuse to wipe them with her fingers.
She’d phoned Derek and told him the news, and after a long pause he’d said, ‘The poor bloody sod! If only there was something I could do...’
Hesitantly, Tara had said, ‘You don’t think he’d like to see you?’
‘Do you?’ Derek asked sardonically. And as she didn’t answer, he added, ‘The only thing he wants from me now is for me to keep out of his way. No, I’ll send a card. He can always tear it up if it makes him feel better.’
Chantelle said, ‘Are you okay, Tara?’
‘Yes, it’s just the wind.’ Tara smiled at her as they stopped by Chantelle’s car. ‘Thanks for delivering the flowers. Maybe... could you phone me and tell me how you think Sholto is?’ Hastily, she added, ‘I can’t help being... concerned for him.’
‘Yes, I understand. When you’ve been that close to a person, naturally you still feel something, even if you don’t want to be married to them any more. I’ll let you know.’
The trouble was, Tara thought, fumbling with the lock of her own car, she would give anything on earth to be still married to Sholto. Despite her certainty that he had never really loved her, despite her conviction that he had betrayed their marriage vows, even despite the brutal ruthlessness with which he had cut her out of his life without any attempt at reconciliation, rejecting all her efforts to communicate, she still loved him. Nothing, it seemed, could ever change that.
When the phone rang after she’d finished a quick evening meal she ran to answer it. ‘Hello?’ she said breathlessly, expecting to hear Chantelle’s light, pretty voice.
Instead a male voice, deep and slow, said, ‘Tara?’
Uncertainly, she hesitated. The voice was familiar and yet oddly off-key.
‘I want to thank you for the flowers,’ Sholto said. ‘They’re very beautiful. And it’s a kind-hearted thought.’
He still sounded different, his voice muffled as though, perhaps, he had a cold.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
Surprisingly, he laughed. ‘All right?’ he repeated. ‘I’m just fine. Hale and hearty and alive. Averil’s dead. And Averil doesn’t deserve to be. Unlike me, perhaps. There’s no justice in this world, is there?’
‘Sholto—’ This wasn’t like him.
‘Ignore that,’ he said, sounding a shade more like his normal self, but a hint of fuzziness remaining in his voice. ‘I’m just rambling—getting maudlin. Self-pity. There’s nothing worse. Good night, Tara.’
He put down the receiver and left her holding hers, vague alarm bells ringing distantly in her mind. She’d never heard Sholto in that mood before. Self-pity was the last emotion she had ever associated with him.
What did he mean, he didn’t deserve to live? Was he somehow blaming himself for Averil’s death?
People did that. When her mother died Tara had been unable to shake the thought that her teenage traumas had exacerbated the unsuspected heart condition that was responsible. Her adolescence, she realised now, had not been particularly turbulent. But like most of her age group she’d had moments of rebellion and resentment, causing tension between her and her parents as she struggled towards adulthood and a new, more equal relationship with them.
She had never had the chance to reach that phase with her mother, nor any time to express her remorse for causing her pain. It had taken a long time for the guilt to dissipate, and lingering regrets still troubled her at times, even though she now understood and was able forgive her adolescent self.
Guilt was a common reaction to bereavement. Guilt and sometimes anger. Was that what Sholto was going through now? She looked at the telephone, paused for several seconds, then dialled his number, getting the engaged signal.
She replaced the receiver and was standing worriedly with her hand on it when the phone rang again, making her jump.
‘It’s me,’ Chantelle said. ‘I left your flowers at Sholto’s door, but I didn’t see him. Sorry.’
‘He phoned,’ Tara told her, ‘to say thank you.’
‘Oh, he got them, then. Funny,’ Chantelle added thoughtfully, ‘I had the feeling he was home but just not answering the door. I could hear music, but then some people leave a radio on when they’re out, to deter burglars.’
She was probably right, Tara thought. Sholto had been home but not feeling like having company. He was quite capable of ignoring the doorbell if he didn’t want visitors.
Chantelle said, ‘How did he seem when he talked to you?’
‘Different,’ Tara said. ‘Depressed, maybe.’
‘Are you worried? I could ask Phil to go round. He does have a meeting on tonight, but if he hurries he could leave early.’
‘No,’ Tara said. ‘Don’t bother Philip.’
‘Of course I don’t know him awfully well,’ Chantelle said, ‘but I can’t somehow see Sholto as the type to do anything stupid. Depression is pretty normal in the circumstances, after all.’
But after hanging up Tara dialled Sholto’s number again, and got the persistent engaged signal.
He had probably taken the phone off the hook so as not to be disturbed. All the same, after her third try twenty minutes later, she became more and more uneasy. Who knew what a man—even as self-sufficient and solitary a man as Sholto—might do in the throes of unaccustomed grief? Friendless and alone, and deprived with cruel suddenness of the woman who had breached the barriers with which he isolated himself, might he even decide that life was no longer worth living?
She couldn’t risk leaving him to it. After dialling one more time, she fetched her bag and a jacket, bundled her hair hastily out of the way with a couple of combs, and grabbed her car keys, almost running as she left the house.
No one answered the bell, which she pushed repeatedly. She knocked a couple of times, then pushed the bell again, keeping her finger on the button. Although she could hear no music, like Chantelle she had the distinct feeling that the flat was not unoccupied. She lowered her head, bringing her lips close to the door jamb, about to call his name, when the door opened so abruptly that she almost fell forward.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Sholto demanded as she straightened and stepped inside.
He hadn’t turned on the light in the vestibule, but even so she could see that he was unshaven, and his white shirt was crumpled and half open, the sleeves carelessly pushed up so that one was folded to below the elbow, the other above.
At first she couldn’t speak for sheer relief. He was here, he was on his feet, and he might look terrible, with hollows about his eyes and a gaunt, pinched appearance, but he didn’t seem like a man on the brink of suicide.
Still, she didn’t think he ought to be alone, either. ‘Shut the door,’ she said. And after a moment, when she wondered if he was going to bodily remove her and leave her on the other side of it, he did as she’d suggested, with an air of sullen resignation.
‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘I’ve already thanked you for the flowers.’
In the confined space of the vestibule she smelled whisky fumes. She wondered how much
he had drunk, and if that accounted for the difference in his voice, the blurred sound of his speech, even more noticeable now than it had been on the phone.
‘Chantelle was worried about you,’ she hedged, not willing to admit that she’d broken the speed limit to reach him, heart pounding and palms sweating with trepidation.
‘Chantelle?’ He might never have heard of her.
‘Philip’s wife—’
‘I know that,’ he said irritably.
‘She delivered the flowers.’
He seemed to be taking a while to comprehend what she was saying, but after a second or two he said, ‘What do you mean, worried? She didn’t even see me, just left them on the doorstep.’
‘That’s what worried her. She was sure you were home, but you didn’t come to the door.’
He stared at her for a minute, then swung away to stride into the lounge, leaving her to follow him or not. There was one lamp alight on a low, square glass table in a corner, leaving the rest of the room in a dim glow. ‘Women,’ he said. ‘They’re incredible.’ It didn’t sound complimentary. He flung himself down on a sofa near the lamp as though he couldn’t stand up much longer, although Tara had been relieved to note that he seemed quite steady on his feet, if a fraction less smoothly coordinated than usual.
As she stood just inside the doorway he made a token effort at levering himself up again. He said grudgingly, waving a hand in the general direction of the chairs, ‘Now you’re here you’d better sit down.’ He cast a glance at the table, and she saw a whisky bottle by the lamp, and a squat crystal glass half filled with amber liquid, but he didn’t pick it up.
Tara lowered herself into a chair that was a wide band of leather slung on a metal frame, and found it surprisingly comfortable.
‘So,’ Sholto said, leaning back, his long legs splayed before him, ‘Chantelle sent you round to check on me because I didn’t answer my doorbell? Didn’t it occur to either of you that I may have just not wanted to be bothered?’
‘It did to me,’ Tara told him steadily. ‘I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, but I thought someone ought to make sure you were all right. If you hadn’t left the phone off the hook,’ she added somewhat tartly as she saw it sitting on another table in a darker corner, the receiver lying beside it, ‘I wouldn’t have had to come round.’
