by Fanny Blake
His breathing was in her ear as if the phone was pressed up close to his mouth. Her stomach cartwheeled. She sat on the lid of the loo, shutting her eyes and stretching her legs out in front of her, flexing her feet.
‘I couldn’t wait.’ His pleasure at having reached her was obvious. ‘Simple as that. Just wanted to hear your voice.’
She opened her eyes, only to notice the varicose vein that trailed across her shinbone like a knotted blue worm. She pressed at it with her free hand to make it disappear, but it sprang back, resistant. She bent her knees so she couldn’t see it any longer.
‘But darling, you can’t call me when I’m with Terry. That’s one of our rules.’
‘Rules are for breaking, Evie. Otherwise why have them?’
She heard the chink of ice cubes in his drink and pictured him stretched out on his soft black leather sofa, navy-blue (only) silk-socked feet on one end, his head propped against a cushion at the other, raising his glass. The murmur of music was just audible in the background.
‘Anyway, I couldn’t resist trying. And now I’m glad I did.’
She could feel herself melting under his attention. But she couldn’t talk to him. Not now. She glanced at Terry’s bracelet gleaming on her wrist, at his toothbrush next to hers.
‘I’ve been thinking of all the things we could have been doing if you were here instead.’ His voice reminded her of warm dark treacle. He gave a little groan that all but did for her.
If only she could be with him. Some of the things they had done together only days earlier swam into her mind, making her giddy with longing as she remembered the more intimate detail. She had surprised even herself with a flexibility she didn’t know she still possessed, and she couldn’t help wondering what other positions he had tucked away in his repertoire. At the same time, she knew where she belonged right now. With her family.
‘This isn’t right, Will.’ Yes, she must be firm. ‘I can’t talk to you now.’
‘When can we talk then? I need you here, with me. You belong here.’
Eve peered at herself in the mirror. Instead of the young woman she had once been, the young woman that Will brought out in her, a middle-aged woman stared back. However flirtatious and girlie she felt inside, the outside was never going to change – only age more. She put an elbow on the grey marble counter, knocking her SP20 super-restorative day cream to the floor, and rested her forehead on her fist. This was utter madness, but . . .
‘I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll fix something then. Promise.’ She knew she’d keep that promise, however difficult it would be to find a moment on her own. She couldn’t resist him. ‘I must go. They’ll be wondering where I am.’
‘I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with that then.’ But there was a smile in his voice. She had pacified him. Until the next time.
They said their goodbyes and she sat staring at her BlackBerry, the bringer of good news and bad. She had got herself in far too deep. Whatever she decided to do would hurt one of them: Terry or Will. Choosing between them was impossible.
She got up and ran the tap, to hold a cold flannel to her cheeks, then to the back of her neck. Having repaired the resulting damage to her make-up, she stowed her phone in the pocket of her suitcase, somewhere Terry would never look, with the ringtone off. If she underestimated her husband and he did find it, at least there was no text trail for him to follow. She had made sure of that by only contacting Will through her office email or phone. The BlackBerry was only for emergencies – she thought she’d made that plain.
Locking the door, she stood for a second, head held high, shoulders back and down, stomach in, back straight. Deep breath. Right. She was ready to face the fray.
Back in the marquee, she rejoined her friends at the bar. If anything, the music was louder than before, the dancing more frenzied. Someone pressed another glass into her hand. An ex-colleague of Terry’s engaged her in a paralysingly dull exchange about the benefits of train travel to Cornwall. Behind her, two of her friends were discussing a third at the tops of their voices.
‘Her husband doesn’t suspect a thing,’ yelled one of them.
Eve froze, horrified. How had they found out?
‘When’s she going to tell him?’ said the second, struggling to make herself heard. ‘Surely he’ll guess? You can’t keep something like that secret.’
There was a rushing in Eve’s ears as the cold hand of panic gripped her in a stranglehold.
‘When they get to the airport. Not till then.’
What? She glanced over her shoulder. Annie, an old family friend, overflowing from a tight purple satin sheath that might have graced the wardrobe of Strictly, was shaking her head as her companion, comparatively dowdy in a patterned dress Eve recognised from a mail-order catalogue, caught Eve looking in their direction.
‘Eve,’ she shrieked. ‘We were wondering where you’d got to. I was just telling Jenny that Susie’s planning a surprise holiday for Pete. They’re going when he’s finished this terrible child abuse case he’s involved with.’
‘Isn’t it marvellous? I’d be bound to be found out if I tried anything like that on Charles. He’s far too quick,’ said Annie, her bosom shaking like a milk blancmange as she laughed.
‘Really?’ Eve said weakly as the final chords of Coldplay drew to a close. The dance floor thinned out as a slow number Eve didn’t recognise took over. ‘How lovely.’ She turned back to the conversation.
‘Space on your dance card?’ Terry was at her elbow. She raised her spritzer to her lips. She could see the danger signals: the flushed cheeks, the pinkish rims to his eyes, the wine-stained lips. For all his disapproval of her ‘inappropriate’ drinking, Terry knew how to enjoy himself when the time was right. Earlier, she had spotted him dancing with one of their neighbours, a young blonde woman who’d lived alone with her young son since her husband went off with the local hairdresser. Drink might make him flirtatious but Terry was a one-woman man. Of that she was confident. Just as confident as Rose had been in Daniel, it occurred to her. But he was waiting.
‘I do seem to be free,’ she said, taking his hand and following his lead. To begin with they danced separately, and out of synch. A sense of rhythm was not one of the blessings gifted to Terry at birth, though his enthusiasm made up for it. She caught sight of Charlie saying something to Anna, who nodded towards them and giggled. Now that they were one of only five or six couples left on the dance floor, but the only one not in a clinch, Eve began to feel self-conscious. As if reading her thoughts, Terry reached for her and pulled her into his embrace. She shut her eyes and tried not to think of Will.
‘What a party.’ The smell of red wine on his breath made her turn her head away. ‘You’ve done it all brilliantly, darling.’
She was about to explain how Jess was really the guiding force when he tightened his grip.
‘We need to talk.’ The urgency in his voice made her pull back to look at him. His earnest expression gave her a sense of foreboding. Their young blonde neighbour. Could the bracelet have been more of a farewell than a celebration? Had she completely misjudged him? Could he be going to pip her to the post and announce he was leaving her? Being so wrapped up in her own affair had made her ignore what must have been going on under her nose. She felt oddly panicky despite knowing how ridiculous the idea was. Guilt was making her imagine things.
‘Not now, though?’ She gestured at the party around them. ‘We’ve got the rest of the weekend.’
But the drink had given him courage. She could see it in his eyes. He had chosen his moment and he was determined to have it.
‘Come into the garden, somewhere quiet – just for a minute.’ He took her hand and guided her out of the marquee.
‘Terry! What are you doing? We can’t leave the party now.’
‘It won’t take long, and anyway no one will notice. This way.’ He led her through the bushes towards the secluded stone folly on the opposite side of the hotel. A mini Graeco-Roman temple, bui
lt many years ago on a whim of his grandfather, its fluted pillars and domed roof coupled with the palm trees now silhouettes at its side giving the impression of being somewhere in the Mediterranean. Away from the more formal garden, the ground was rockier, with clumps of thrift and little white daisies pushing up where they could. In the distance, Eve could hear the crash of the waves on the rocks. High tide.
‘We haven’t been here for a long time.’ The single spotlight outside dimly illuminated the interior. Terry was brushing the seat with his hand. Then, with a flourish, he gestured that she should sit down.
Wishing she was wearing something warmer, she took her seat, and waited for him to begin.
25
By the time Rose reached the bar, Simon was ensconced in a corner, in one of the large armchairs angled towards the window. From there he had a view of the marquee, but also, beyond the clifftop, of the inky darkness over the sea, sporadically lit by the moon. She could just see the top of his head, heard the sound of his glass hitting the glass tabletop, the page of a magazine turning. He was alone, apart from the barman, who had taken a stool behind the bar and was absorbed in a well-thumbed paperback.
Nervous but determined, buoyed up by her rage, she cleared her throat.
Startled, Simon peered around the wing of his chair. His face lit up when he registered who was there.
‘Rose! I’d given up trying to talk to you. You’ve been so busy. If I were paranoid, I’d say you’d been deliberately avoiding me.’ He laughed easily, confident that couldn’t be the case. ‘The dress looks great, especially with those shoes. Are they new?’ He didn’t wait for her reply. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ He lifted a finger to hail a non-existent waiter, then realised and lowered it.
‘I’ll get my own, thanks.’
She didn’t miss his look of bewilderment at the animosity in her voice.
‘Have I done something? I think you should tell me if I have.’ But not really believing that whatever it was could be anything serious, he half returned his attention to his reading.
She didn’t grace him with a reply. Now that the moment of confrontation had arrived, she was experiencing a sudden loss of nerve. Asking for the truth would make her conclusions real. And just suppose she had got it all completely wrong. The hope, however faint, that she might have paralysed her. If that was the case, her new and, until now, precious friendship with Simon would be ruined for ever. But if he was responsible for her last terrible days with Daniel, then she owed it to herself. Miss. Love. Come back.
Her silence unnerved him. ‘Rose. For God’s sake, what’s wrong?’ He threw down the magazine and twisted his body so he leaned round over the arm of the chair, expecting her to answer.
But Rose didn’t reply as she walked over and sat down to face him, her back to the window. Her mouth was dry. She ran her tongue round her teeth and swallowed, as she prepared to speak. She saw him in a new light now – this impeccable, handsome younger man who had drawn Daniel into his orbit. Daniel had always been easily flattered by the interest of someone younger, someone good-looking, particularly if they had the added bonus of being urbane and intelligent. Simon leaned towards her, his brow furrowed as he tried to work out the reason for this sudden unprovoked hostility.
She waited, wishing the nausea would leave her, as the barman brought over her Perrier and carefully orientated a place mat so the illustration of the hotel faced the right way. He seemed to take an age to get it precisely right. Then at last he left them. Simon raised an eyebrow, inviting an explanation.
‘How could you?’ She was surprised to hear the toughness in her voice as her resolve returned.
A look of puzzlement crossed his face. ‘How could I what?’ he asked. He clearly hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. ‘Rose, what’s this all about? Put me out of my misery, please. What am I meant to have done?’ He gave the small smile that until now had bonded them.
But there was something in that smile that she saw now for the first time: a reliable winning charm that infuriated her. Any remaining reserve vanished as everything that she wanted to say clamoured to be let out.
‘First of all,’ she began, doing her best to keep her voice level, ‘I want you to explain why you’ve abused the trust of our family. What kind of a person does something like that?’ She heard her voice catch. Praying he hadn’t noticed, she bit the inside of her lip until the pain focused her. ‘You disgust me. I can hardly bear to sit here with you.’
‘What are you talking about?’ He stretched both hands out in appeal, his frown deepening. ‘I still don’t understand. I thought we were friends.’
‘So did I, and that’s what hurts.’ If he thought that pretending ignorance – if that was what he was doing – was the way to convince her, she would show him how very wrong he was.
This time he said nothing. He looked to the ceiling before crossing his legs. He tilted his foot and examined his shoe, which gleamed under the light. Rose waited. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable under her fierce inspection, then raised his face to look at her. His head to one side, his eyes finally met hers. She could see only bafflement there. Either she had made a terrible mistake, or he must be supremely confident in the safety of his secret. She needed to be more direct.
‘I know, Simon.’ She refused to look away, and was rewarded by the sudden unease that crossed his face. Her hands were clasped so tightly together they hurt. ‘I know,’ she repeated, twisting her wedding ring round her finger.
‘Know what?’ He drained his whisky and uncrossed his legs as if he was going to get up and walk away. Then he hesitated. His expression changed again, as disbelief then alarm were superseded by self-confidence. That look said she couldn’t possibly have found out. Not possibly.
Rose read each emotion, each thought, as clearly as if he’d spoken them.
‘I still haven’t a bloody clue what you’re talking about,’ he protested, but less insistently than before.
That reaction was enough to spur her on. She was fighting him for her marriage and needed the truth, however much it hurt.
‘I know about you and Daniel.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper, but the effect of her words was instantaneous.
He jerked backwards. His face paled to the colour of parchment. He swallowed, darting his eyes round the room, looking anywhere but at her. But he wasn’t beaten yet. He recovered himself quickly. ‘What about us? You’re talking in riddles, Rose.’ He sounded self-assured, even aggressive, as he challenged her to confront him, to accuse him out loud, to say the unimaginable. But Rose wasn’t going back down now.
‘Did you love him?’ she asked, dreading the answer.
He stood up abruptly, knocking the drinks table with his leg, and went to the window. His reflection stared back at them both from the darkness beyond, gaunt and frightened. ‘That’s a preposterous question.’ But his voice was tired. The game was up.
‘Did you love him?’ she repeated. ‘You might as well tell me, Simon. You see, I found the libretto. He’d written in it. I’ve worked it all out. You gave me Daniel’s ticket to the opera, didn’t you?’
He nodded his head, just once, capitulating at last. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. If you must know. I did.’
Rose’s pulse was beating like a jackhammer. She took a sip of water.
‘Did he love you?’ How asking that question hurt. But it was the one to which she most needed an answer. Without that knowledge, she couldn’t go on.
This time, he turned to her. ‘I think I need another drink for this. You?’
She nodded her assent, grateful for a moment to prepare herself for his reply. Having reached this point, a strange calm had settled over her. Simon crossed to the bar, ordered from the barman, then returned and sat down with two whiskies. He slid one across to her, keeping his gaze down. This time, whether from shame or anger, he couldn’t meet her eye.
‘Well, did he?’ she insisted. ‘Love you, I mean.’
At last he raised his head, but
his eyes had a faraway look in them, as if he was remembering another time. Rose was shocked by the sadness and longing that she saw there. He shook his head, refocusing his gaze on her. For a moment, he pressed his lips together as if he wasn’t going to speak. Then he thought better.
‘No,’ he said, briefly closing his eyes as if in pain. ‘No, I don’t think he did.’
Rose’s thoughts were racing. So everything she had most feared was true. Daniel had had an affair. But with Simon. With a man. She still didn’t know whether that made it better or worse, but at least she didn’t have to live any longer in the aching ignorance of his lover’s identity. Simon really was ‘S’. And perhaps he was telling the truth. Perhaps Daniel really hadn’t loved him. She wanted to believe that more than anything. Nothing she had found had proved otherwise. Whatever she felt, with her new knowledge came an unexpected sense of relief as everything about her terrible last days with Daniel fell into place for the first time. Of course he hadn’t confessed to her. Now she understood a little better what had happened between them. He must have been terrified of her reaction. Ashamed too, perhaps. Other than her shock and disbelief, he would have foreseen her anger, the crucifying self-doubt and the pain he would inflict. But if Daniel hadn’t reciprocated Simon’s feelings, then perhaps he had never stopped loving her. Perhaps that was what he meant when he’d said ‘It’s not what you think’: words she had puzzled over since.
‘I think you’d better tell me everything, don’t you?’ The anger she’d felt before knotted in her throat, tight and controlled. To think she had liked this man, trusted him, had even entertained ideas of there being more to their relationship one day than mere friendship. The thought made her skin crawl.
‘I don’t know where to start.’ He sounded utterly defeated, so broken that, for a brief moment, Rose almost pitied him. But any sympathy left her as quickly as it had come.
‘At the beginning, I think. Let’s start with where you met.’
