by Flora Dain
Our slight, sensual intimacy is our only movement, his soft murmurs our only music, my cries of ecstasy each time I come our only speech.
For now it says it all – and it’s all we need.
In the morning I wake alone. A trolley laden with breakfast is stationed near the door. The clatter of the waiters must have woken me.
Darnley’s gone.
The bracelets have gone, his luggage has gone, his hangers are empty.
The Wolfe has slipped back to the shadows.
I’ve no time to mourn. My phone signals instantly. Billy wants to talk, still hyper after last night and thrilled with their win. When I run out of giggly ways to say they looked terrific she asks about Darnley.
My heart sinks but I guess I’ll have to get used to it.
‘What was all that about? He looked awful.’
I swallow. ‘No idea. You know Darnley. He clams up about his work.’
‘Does he? Eldon talks about his all the time.’
I laugh. ‘That’s rich, coming from you. You’re worse than anybody. He works in security so he’s cagey. That’s what they do. He practically invented it.’
I cut the call but next minute it signals again. This time it’s Lydia asking me to dinner. Her tone is still icy, her invitation a surprise. Even more surprising is what she says next. ‘And naturally Darnley will be here. See you later.’
Dinner should be a happy family reunion, but tonight the family seems far from friendly. As I arrive I hear laughter and chatter coming from a distant room but in the entrance area things are tense. Lydia looks wary, Aaron grim. They’re talking to Freda.
As I walk in she glances up, murmurs something to Aaron and pushes past me on her way out. ‘Good luck, sister. The skeletons are rattling the closet. Be warned.’ She slams the door behind her.
Lydia walks quickly over to me, her face pale under the heavy make-up. ‘Ella. So glad you made it.’ She looks vague for a moment, then troubled. ‘Please excuse Freda. She has another appointment. Darnley’s already here.’
I realise they’re all looking past me and I spin round to see him. He steps up close and puts his arm round my shoulders. He looks weary.
‘Be careful what you say in front of Ella,’ he says quietly. ‘I haven’t told her yet.’
Aaron turns on him, his voice low and fierce. ‘Then she’s just about the only person in the city.’
‘Hush, dear. She’s not used to all this.’ Lydia places a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t mind them, Ella.’
She breaks off, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I just wanted to say – I’m so glad you’re here. We need someone calm with us tonight. And you’re the calmest person I know. I’m so sorry about all this –’
Aaron’s face contracts. ‘Honey, you go and lie down. Darnley and I can handle this.’
Lydia darts him an angry look. ‘No. You’ll just fight if I leave you. Ella? Let’s go in to dinner.’
I stare round at them all. ‘Will somebody please tell me what’s going on?’ Behind me I can sense Darnley’s lurking presence. His hand moves gently on my upper arm and then falls away but he says nothing. His parents avoid his eye. Now they look nervous.
Lydia’s the first to snap. ‘Later, Ella dear.’ At that moment the far door opens and I see the wider family gathered, smiling, happy, some with champagne flutes. Beyond them a formal dining table, aglow with candles, snowy linen and glinting crystal.
‘Coming to eat, you folks?’
As we walk in Lydia leans close. ‘Ella, that was quite a shock, what Darnley did at the party. I can see you’re upset. But you’re pretty much one of the family now so we thought you should be here. Aaron wanted Freda here too, but I think she’s suffered enough.’
‘Freda suffered?’
She looks at me like I’m missing something blindingly obvious. ‘Oh, yes. Fletch affected us all, one way or another. She saw less of him than the boys, but still …’ She tails off, once more looking vague. I feel her hand quiver on my arm
Dinner’s a nightmare. I sense two conversations are happening – one the usual happy chat about babies, work prospects, business success. The other expressed in warning looks, sudden frowns, broken sentences.
It’s a relief when Darnley finally summons the car. After a round of hasty goodbyes we set off for the hotel through the bright, still crowded streets. Darnley holds me close, his cheek on my hair.
‘I left early because they’re making this into a very big deal. They wanted a family conference, but Freda won’t play and you’re still not fully in the picture. When you get back to Lexington you’ll find out why. I’m sorry, Ella, I should have told you all this before. But I’d sooner you saw your copy first.’
‘My copy? Of what?’ My heart goes into free-fall.
‘You’ll see. I’m getting out here.’ His eyes glitter in the neon glow of the streets.
‘Why?’
The car’s already slowing to a halt. He touches my face for a moment, his fingertip soft, his gaze steady. ‘Because I need to walk a while.’
He touches my lips with his and then he gets out and walks away.
I stare after him, stunned.
Next day I’m chauffeured back to Boston in style by limo and helicopter. Bullen takes charge of me like I’m some precious flower. ‘Mr Wolfe’s instructions, ma’am.’
For once I’m glad to let someone else make the decisions. I need to think.
The helicopter ride should be fun. I get a private, privileged view over the glorious colours of the New England woods, where scarlets, russets and golds are painting the trees. I used to love the fall. Now? Not so much.
After the colour comes the snow – white and cold, bleak as my future.
Darnley’s vast residence feels hollow without him. As I walk in, the elegant spaces echo around me, the spectacular artworks mock me. The bowls of flowers billow with over-cheerful petals.
On a low table near the entrance I see a slim package with my name on it. As I pick it up his housekeeper Verna appears.
‘Welcome back, Miss Dean. I’m just off home now. I left you a meal in the kitchen. I know it’s late but I thought you might want a bite to eat before turning in if you’ve been travelling. That package came for you this afternoon. The courier said it was urgent.’
One look at the writing makes my heart leap. I clutch it like a lifesaver, smile at her in a vague thank-you and race upstairs to my room.
It’s from Darnley.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Five minutes later I’m staring, open-mouthed, at my laptop. Darnley’s on screen, large as life and twice as stunning. He looks like a movie star but he’s talking directly to camera. He’s talking to me.
I hold my breath so long I have to remember to take in air.
Scarily, the date top left of the screen reads 25 November. He said all this exactly one week ago.
‘Hi, Ella. This is for you. If you’re watching this, the Halloween party will be over and I’ll be gone. You know me well, so you know I wouldn’t do this to you without good reason. Well, here it is. Or as close as I can get. You’re intelligent enough to fill in the gaps. Some things in life are too painful to explain. I hope this helps.
‘What you’re about to see and hear must stay a secret. Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, ever. And take care you watch it alone, with all the doors and windows locked. You’ll see it only once. It self-destructs as it plays, so you can throw it out the window, put it in the trash, whatever. Pause it now and check the doors. Switch off your phone and eject any visitors. Or save it for later and restart from here.’
The screen goes blank.
So does my mind. I put the image – and all my feelings, even my sudden surge of gut-wrenching dread – firmly on hold. For a few minutes I fly round checking doors and windows and dart into the bathroom.
At last I slow down, take some deep breaths, switch off my phone and make myself a hot drink. When I curl up on the sofa and fire up the screen once more my
mind is deliberately emptied but I’m braced for the worst.
Is this a suicide note?
It starts again, the screen as blank as before. After a couple of seconds I see Darnley again. And now I look on, horrified, as he spills his soul. He’s telling the story of his encounters with Fletcher Kraik.
Some of it I’ve heard. But not all.
He says little about the others. This is a boy’s story. But he builds up a picture of a family in the grip of a controlling man who masked cruelty with fun.
Some of it’s teasing, like scary games or fake snakes in the bed. Some is tougher, like being kept apart from his brother during vacations. And some is simply heart-breaking.
‘… He hated dogs. One time my kid brother was given a puppy. He took it everywhere. But one day it pissed Kraik off, literally. Peed on his shoe. So he took it down the garden and killed it. Left it in the driveway for my brother to find. I went out early and found it first. My brother saw me carry it up to the house and thought I’d done it.’ There’s a brief pause. ‘He worshipped the guy, so I never let on. But my brother never forgave me.’
I watch it all through, heart in mouth.
‘Maybe other people had contact with him too. Maybe other kids were bullied like I was. And if they feel too ashamed to tell people, maybe they need somebody like me to stand up for them. That’s why I’ve stepped aside from my companies and decided to go it alone. My family may not like it but I think it’s the right thing to do. I’m willing to testify to all this in court if it helps anybody. And I’d just like to say that however tough it was back then, doing this was a whole lot tougher.’
The tape ends here. I stare at the blank screen for a long time, still in shock. His story says broadly two things – that he suffered, and that he tried to cover it up to prevent others from suffering too.
I feel tears sting at the thought of how many times he could have asked for help. Instead he took everything on himself.
This happened last week. So that’s what he’s been doing, that’s what’s taken up so much of his attention this last couple of weeks. That’s what’s haunted him.
He’s been psyching himself up for this, detaching himself from his companies and all the people closest to him, preparing to fight his demons.
And face not just the ordeal of public exposure but the wrath of his family.
His emotion may be under strict control but it’s still there. I shudder to think what it’s cost him to hide it, to rise above the humiliation he’s had to replay, all to help out a semi-literate kid whose mom cleans in the building where I work.
And he took apart an empire to do it. For all the flowery management-speak about ‘stepping away’ and ‘taking the business in a new direction’ this is in effect what he’s done. It’s probably the business equivalent of jumping off a cliff. And if not complete meltdown, it must mean major upheaval.
What must he be going through?
As I get ready for bed I stare into the mirror, appalled at my reflection. I feel a rush of guilt. Is this because of me? When I asked him to help the Formans, was this the first thing that sprang to his mind?
The face of Helen of Troy launched a thousand ships. The face staring back at me just destroyed an empire, and possibly the man at its head.
And now the real horror strikes me – maybe I was right the first time. Maybe that was a suicide note, or the business equivalent of a suicide note – of an extraordinary man at the peak of success, throwing it all away in a desperate bid to stand up for somebody with nothing.
After I get into bed I stare into the darkness, both real and imagined. Sleep is impossible. Finally I sit up and open my laptop.
In times of trouble some people turn to music, others to drink. I’m supposed to be a poet. I turn to poetry. But where’s poetry when you need it? It’s no help to me now.
I stare into space and all I can see is Darnley, elegant, stunning, surrounded by his clan, lord of all he surveys, asking me to keep smiling.
Where is he now? He planned this as long ago as last week, maybe longer. Is he hiding somewhere? Is he – I hardly dare frame the thought, but I must – is he dead? I thought he’d dealt with his past. But maybe with that kind of past, success – even love – takes its toll.
Maybe the past finally dealt with him.
Maybe I freaked him out.
Maybe I wasn’t enough.
Now I’m mad at myself. I’m just a teacher. How can I possibly help someone like him? What was I thinking?
And as I stare into the void words float past, singly at first and then in clusters. They flutter round my head like Snow White’s bluebirds, organising things, tidying up scattered thoughts. Ideas form like clouds, melting and fusing into rhymes and shapes.
Words don’t solve anything. They’re just pretty patterns. There’s little comfort in their joy, but they’re what I do.
I fire up my laptop and start to type.
I look into space and see only the stars.
I look at the stars and see only your face.
A void yawns before us. Who knows where it ends?
I thought we were lovers, I thought we were friends.
We’re too far apart now, no bridge in between.
The future we face is unknown and unseen …
It’s a ropey start but soon the words flow, unstoppable as tears. I type for a long time, until I’m all typed out, and stare at the last line I’ve written.
I don’t want to own you, just want you to say –
I frown. What, precisely, do I want him to say? That he loves me? That he wants me?
He says so all the time, in every look, every touch, every angry reaction to things I do that he can’t understand. If I don’t know it now I never will.
He tells me simply by trusting me – to keep his secrets, to play by his rules, not to freak when he goes off-plan.
If I never see him again and this is some scary way of saying goodbye then that’s what he’ll leave me, this rich store of memories that prove how much he loved me and trusted me, how hard he tried to see things my way and love me the way I want to be loved.
Which is nothing like the way he wants to be loved …
I take a deep breath, run weary hands through my hair and close the lid. I’ll finish it tomorrow.
Something will come.
Maybe I’ll wipe it.
I stow my laptop and shuffle down under the covers, chilly and tired.
Next morning I wake early with a sore head and a dry throat. I take a shower, soothing myself under the hot jet, letting it warm my aching, weary muscles.
Afterwards I feel fresher. I reach for a robe and towel my hair. Somewhere in the house I can hear his housekeeper, already at work. I call down for some tea, open my laptop while I wait for it and scan through my poem with a critical eye.
Actually, for a first draft it’s not that bad. In fact, now I see it fresh on the page, it’s nearly there. It just needs an ending …
With a sinking heart I scan down to the end of the file and then freeze. A couple of spaces below the last line I’ve written, there’s a new one.
Hey. Don’t give up on me yet. I’m not far away.
I stare. I don’t believe in ghosts.
This only happens in horror movies. Not in real life.
Not to me.
I must be going crazy.
I snap down the lid, take a few deep breaths and then answer the door to his housekeeper. She sweeps in with a cheerful, early-morning wake-up grin and a fragrant tray of tea and toast, sets it down on the side and hurries out again.
I pour a cup, take a sip and scald my lip in my hurry to do something normal and prove to myself I’m awake.
Then I open the lid again, slowly this time in case it bites.
The line’s still there.
Just like he might have said it, a million miles away from what I’d write – but a perfect ending.
At that moment there’s a small sound in the room behind me.
<
br /> ‘I finished your poem. Might need a little work.’
‘Darnley?’
He’s standing in the doorway, grinning.
He’s alive. And he’s here. I launch myself at him and we cling together, me sobbing, him laughing.
I thought I was crazy.
I am now.
When we’ve raided the tray he pulls me down onto the bed beside him.
‘We have to talk.’
With his arm round my shoulders I lean my head on his and slip my hand into his robe. I finger the waistband of his boxers, thrilling to the hard muscles underneath. ‘You were here all the time?’
He kisses me on the cheek. ‘I came in late. I tried not to wake you. I checked on your laptop to see if you’d played the disc and found your poem. Did I mess it up?’
He looks so stricken I fling my arms around him. ‘No, no. It’s perfect. But what happens now? Will there be a trial? Will you have to testify?’
He looks away. ‘No one knows yet. They’re still squaring up. Probably, if Lola Forman won’t settle. But that’s not what I want to talk about.’
As he outlines his plans I’m hardly listening. I’m so proud of him – proud and sad, because what he’s doing in the midst of all this personal stuff is setting out a detailed, carefully worked-out routine for me. He’s thought of everything.
Once more he’s lying low from the press so as to play down the change of leadership in his former business and protect its market share. His new work means travel at short notice and patchy contact. I’ll have to adjust to sudden absences, fleeting visits.
Once more, he insists I’ll need protection to avoid press intrusion over the next few days. That means staying here.
I’m unsure about this but it certainly solves my immediate problem. With Eldon and Billy using her apartment I need somewhere to live.
I mount a feeble protest. ‘This place is way too big for me.’
He shrugs. ‘The staff need the work and you need them to do it. You work full time. You can’t manage a place this size. Plus the house needs a resident and I need you. It’s a no-brainer. And here.’ He tosses me a credit card. ‘Use this. There’s half a million on it. Get anything you need, pay for anything you like. Use it for expenses for clothes and fares. You may have to travel unexpectedly.’
