by Lesley Lokko
‘Yes, she is,’ Dom agreed. ‘I mean, I suspect she knew about me before even I did. Not that she’d ever say, of course.’
‘Does she mind?’
Dom was quiet for a moment. ‘I don’t know, to be honest. I mean, yes, in the sense that she’d love to see me settle down with a nice Home Counties girl and produce tons of heirs … but she’s always wanted me to be happy, too.’
‘And are they happy, d’you think? Your parents?’
‘Oh, they get along. I think Mother would say it’s not a relevant question. She loves it here at Hayden. That’s what makes her happy.’
‘It all seems … I don’t know, much simpler for them, somehow.’
‘Don’t you believe it. They have their problems. I just don’t think they place such a premium on happiness, that’s all. I mean, there’s duty and responsibility and all that. Why d’you think I gave up the law? Does running Hayden House make me happy? No, not really. But it’s my responsibility, and without sounding unbearably noble about it, there’s some measure of satisfaction in that.’
Julia was silent. As often happened when she came to visit Dom, she felt the presence of the house and the weight of its history like someone standing behind her. She looked out across the lake to the trees beyond; the strange shyness of their friendship reasserted itself and she found herself unable to speak. Everything had turned over in the barrel of the world since her unexpected encounter with Aaron Keeler, but coming to Hayden had steadied it again. She gripped Dom’s arm with a sudden uprush of affection. ‘Come on. Race you to the bottom!’
46
NIELA
London, February 1997
‘Mind how you go, love.’ The shopkeeper smiled at her and handed over her groceries. ‘Still raining, is it?’
Niela nodded. ‘All day,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘It feels as though it’ll never stop.’
‘Oh, it will. Just when you think you’ve forgotten what the sun looks like, it’ll pop up again. You’ll see.’
‘I hope so.’ She paid for her groceries and left the shop. She opened her umbrella and hurried down the street. The shopkeeper was right, in one sense at least – she had forgotten what the sun looked like. It had been six weeks since her return from Djibouti and there’d been no word from Josh. Nothing. Not a single phone call or a message … nothing. It was as if they’d never met. As if it had never happened. Perhaps it never had? She thought with a mixture of disbelief and embarrassment of the three nights they’d spent together. Why had she imagined it would mean any more to him that that? Enjoyable, yes – his body had made that clear, even if his words hadn’t. But memorable? It wasn’t his fault that she’d had so little experience of the sensuality he’d managed to coax from her and that she would find it impossible to forget. ‘You’d better forget it,’ was Anna’s grim advice when it became clear there would be no follow-up. ‘This kind of thing can eat you up, believe me. I know. Just forget it. Forget him.’ Niela had looked at her in a kind of numbed disbelief. Forget him? How could she? But as the days lengthened into weeks and the silence deepened, she had no choice but to conclude that Anna was right. Forget it. Forget Djibouti. Forget him.
She opened her front door. The smell of last night’s meal still hung in the air. She took the groceries into the kitchen and opened the window. It was still light, despite the grey pall of rain. It was February; two more months of long nights and closed-in days. The damp, cold air curled around the windowpane. She unpacked the milk, bread and yoghurt, stowing them away in the small fridge. The flat was quiet; even the neighbours, whose noisy fights came through the walls as if they were there in the room with her, were silent. She folded the plastic bag, her movements neat and deliberate, and stowed it under the sink. She looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 8 p.m. Almost midnight in Djibouti. Her mind raced ahead to him out of habit. She wondered what he was doing at that very moment – was he still at the camp? She had no idea. He’d said so little about himself, where he would go or where he called home. She knew his parents lived in London but she had no idea where. After Djibouti he would probably take another contract somewhere in Africa or the Middle East. That was it. The slimmest, barest facts. Nothing to go on once he was no longer there.
She walked into the small living room and turned on the television. She needed something to distract her thoughts. It was ridiculous. She’d known him – if that was the right word – all of a month. Why should she care where he was, what he was doing, who he was doing it with? The latter thought slid into her mind unawares, making her wince. Was he with someone else? Someone new? She caught her lower lip in her teeth, nipping painfully down on the soft flesh, distracting her momentarily. She couldn’t afford to start thinking about that. The television flickered dully in the corner; the newscaster’s voice filled the room. A train accident somewhere in France. She gave herself up to his voice with relief. In a while she would get up and make herself something to eat. She’d had nothing since breakfast but her appetite had vanished. A line she’d read somewhere a long time ago suddenly came to her. Eat without hunger, mate without desire. That was her, now. She had no appetite for anything, least of all food. No, the sentence wasn’t quite true, she thought to herself as she watched the news unfolding on the small screen in front of her. She was full of desire. Full. There were mornings when she woke almost choking on it. Come on, Niela, she whispered to herself, half in anger, half in despair. Three nights. That was all; that was nothing. What on earth had he said or done to make her think it could be anything more?
‘Three bodies have been recovered from the wreckage of the carriage.’ The disembodied voice of the presenter flowed over her. ‘Although fears are growing that there may be many more.’ That was her, she thought to herself. A body pulled from the wreckage of something she had yet to understand.
47
JULIA
London, March 1997
The venue for the Annual Law Society Spring dinner was the Great Hall at Gray’s Inn. Julia walked down the gravel pathway, glad of her shrug. It was March but it was freezing. She was nervous. It had been over a month since her conversation with Lady Barrington-Browne – not that it had made the slightest bit of difference to her frosty relations with Aaron Keeler – but the annoying upshot of it was her increased awkwardness around him. If there was one thing she hated, it was women who made fools of themselves where men were concerned … and now she seemed in danger of doing the same. She pulled the shrug around her shoulders as if it might protect her from more than just the cold.
She walked into the hall. The magnificent hammer-beam roof soared way above her head; the buzz of several hundred lawyers, judges, academics and their invited guests floated all around. She wished with all her heart that Dom was there. He’d been invited but he’d gone off on an illicit holiday with someone he’d met in a London nightclub. ‘Don’t tell me,’ Julia had protested, laughing in spite of her disappointment. ‘I don’t want to know.’ Presumably Lady Barrington-Browne thought he was with her. She accepted a glass of champagne from one of the waiters and wound her way through the crowd to a corner where a couple of her colleagues stood, obviously and pointedly discussing everyone else.
‘Gosh, you scrub up nicely!’ James Harriman said as she approached. He raised his champagne glass.
‘Lovely dress, Julia,’ Katie Fitzsimmons agreed.
‘Thanks,’ Julia said, her cheeks reddening slightly. She hated being the centre of attention. ‘Quite a do,’ she added, looking round.
‘Don’t look now, but there’s Banville’s wife,’ James said, pointing to the doorway with his champagne glass. ‘D’you see her? The one with the concrete hairdo?’
Julia giggled. She liked James Harriman; he reminded her a little of Dom. The three of them spent a few minutes chatting about the various partners and significant others of their colleagues and then a loud gong announced the beginning of dinner.
‘Who’re you sitting next to?’ Katie asked as they made thei
r way to the Bernard, Bennison & Partners tables.
‘I don’t know. I hope it’s someone I can talk to. Where’s Daniel sitting?’
‘I don’t know. I told Liz to make sure I was next to James.’
Julia pulled a face. She hadn’t thought of asking Liz. ‘Oh well, so long as it’s not John Doyle. I never know what to say to him.’
‘Oh, no one does, don’t worry.’
Julia was just about to say something when she saw Aaron Keeler cut across her line of vision, making his way towards them. She couldn’t help staring. It was the first time since Balliol that she’d seen him in a dinner jacket.
‘Weren’t you two at Oxford together?’ Katie said suddenly, as if she’d read Julia’s mind.
‘Er, yes. But we weren’t friendly. In fact, we hated each other.’
‘Oh yes, I remember someone saying something … didn’t you chuck a bottle of champagne at him or something?’
‘It was a glass,’ Julia murmured, her cheeks scarlet. ‘And he deserved it.’
‘I’m sure he did. He’s awfully dishy but he can be the most annoying prick. Watch out, he’s coming this way. And he’s alone.’ She looked down at the place cards. ‘Good Lord! He’s sitting next to you.’
‘Good evening, ladies,’ Aaron said smoothly, sliding into the seat next to Julia. ‘What rotten luck, Burrows,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to put up with me for most of the evening.’
Julia couldn’t think of a single even remotely witty thing to say. She shrugged and looked longingly at Katie’s back. Aaron Keeler on one side, Graham Harvey on the other. It was going to be a long evening ahead.
All through dinner, Aaron was conscious of Julia’s perfume – faint, tangy, delightfully sharp. Rather like her, he thought to himself as he tried unsuccessfully to make conversation with the wife of one of the senior counsel who was seated to his left. Across the hall on the High Table with all the other law lords and important personages he could just make out Diana. He caught her eye; she raised her glass to him in a silent toast and smiled. One day, she seemed to be saying, he too might be sitting up there amongst some of the finest legal brains in Britain. The thought pleased him. It occurred to him suddenly that he was already seated next to someone whose brain he admired, though he’d have sooner cut out his tongue than admit it. Julia was deep in conversation with Graham Harvey – a man with whom Aaron had never found much to talk about. From the snippets of conversation he overheard between them, it seemed Harvey had recently lost his wife. He was surprised to hear Julia sympathise with him. Beneath the prickly exterior and the acerbic tongue, there seemed to be some compassion. Her father had been a trade unionist, he remembered. That required a certain compassion, he supposed. Compassion for the common man.
‘Are you quite finished?’ Julia’s low voice brought him back to himself.
‘Sorry?’
‘You’ve been staring at me for the past five minutes. I’m sorry you had the ‘‘rotten luck’’, as you yourself put it, to be sitting next to me all bloody night, but you don’t have to stare. It’s rude,’ she hissed.
He was so taken aback that he began to laugh. ‘Christ, Burrows … you don’t let up, do you?’
‘Me?’ Her look was incredulous. ‘You’re the one—’
‘Look,’ he said quickly, pushing back his chair. ‘Main course is over. Join me outside for a fag.’
She looked at him, confusion written all over her face. She was actually rather beautiful, he thought to himself, then regretted the thought.
‘Outside where?’ she asked finally.
‘On the terrace. You’re perfectly safe.’
To his surprise, she pushed back her own chair and stood up. ‘All right. Come on then.’ She marched off.
He hurried after her. The invitation to step outside had been his, and now he was running to keep up! Typical, bloody typical!
It was chilly outside. Julia wrapped her arms about herself as she strode on to the terrace that looked out over the formal gardens of the Inn. She could hardly believe what she was doing. She leaned against one of the stone balustrades and accepted a cigarette. ‘I hardly ever smoke,’ she said, coughing slightly as the smoke hit her lungs. ‘Usually only when I’ve had a drink or two.’
‘Me neither. I used to, though. When I went up to Balliol, it seemed to be the thing to do.’
‘D’you always follow the herd?’
He smiled. She caught a glimpse of his teeth in the semi-darkness. Further down the terrace a couple were kissing, the man’s hand running up and down the woman’s bare back. ‘I used to,’ he repeated, and there was amusement in his voice. ‘Not any more. And you? D’you always run in the opposite direction?’
It was Julia’s turn to smile. ‘Always.’
‘Yeah. You don’t strike me as the type to do what anyone else says.’
Julia’s head was swimming. She’d had far too much to drink, she thought to herself, panicking slightly. The entire evening suddenly began to take on a surreal, strange quality. Not only were they chatting to one another, they were actually smiling. Laughing. Teasing. She felt the sudden tug of longing that had swept through her on their last encounter surface again. She put out a hand as if to steady herself and found it on his forearm instead – had she put it there? She felt the heat rise in her body like a blush; she lifted her hand from his arm to touch her face but he caught it halfway. Instead of releasing her, he drew her closer. Just as before, she was trapped between an almost unbearable desire and an equally unbearable fear. The distance that he maintained so rigidly when he was in her presence suddenly dissolved. His touch was both tender and strong. The sudden unexpected intimacy of him hollowed her out. She drew a deep breath as if to steady herself before a fall. That was exactly what it felt like, she thought to herself wildly in the seconds before his lips touched hers. A fall. Wild, abrupt, intoxicating. She felt her arms reach up and take hold of the soft, darker blond hair at the nape of his neck, drawing him down towards her as if she couldn’t possibly get enough. It’s Hades you’re about to enter, Burrows. Dom’s words came back to her. And then she couldn’t think about anything else.
48
MADDY
New York/Iowa, March 1997
The chatter of the other diners in the crowded restaurant receded into the background. Maddy stared at the little black box. Across the table, Rafe waited, his handsome face full of nervous, expectant tension. She swallowed. Her thoughts began rushing over one another, tripping themselves up. It had been just over six months since Rafe Keeler had walked into her life. She loved him. Of course she did. Who wouldn’t? He was the kindest person she’d ever met. He was so solid and reliable; handsome, charming, talented … there were times when she still had to pinch herself to make sure it was real. Rafe Keeler loved her. He’d chosen her. He would always be there for her, always. He would never do to her what her father had done. The thought of Rafe simply not being there one morning was absurd. He would always be there. She could see it in his eyes, in his words, his actions … in his family. Aside from the tension that the younger brother, Josh, seemed to provoke in everyone, she’d never met a more tightly knit family. She’d been back to London twice since her first visit over Christmas, and whilst she hadn’t managed to get any closer to his mother, Diana, she genuinely liked Harvey and Aaron. They seemed to like her, too. Rafe was offering her something she’d always lacked – a family, a place in the world … a home. With him she could start her own family – their family. The thought of it produced a funny, thrilling sensation inside her. Perhaps that was what fate or God or whoever it was who made such decisions had decided for her. Perhaps she wasn’t destined to become the greatest stage actress ever. She knew it; her agent knew it. The only person who still seemed to believe in her was Rafe. He made no secret of the fact that he was fascinated by her, by what she did, the way she thought about things, the intensity that she brought to things, especially what he called her ‘craft’. He’d gone along to see her perf
orm in a small, off-Broadway production on his last trip over and couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks. ‘That was you up there,’ he’d said to her over and over again. ‘But it wasn’t. It was someone else. Everything about you was different. I don’t know how you do it. Even your face looked different.’ Maddy squirmed, unused to hearing such praise. She’d tried so hard; she’d worked so hard … and in the end, it simply wasn’t enough. Could she bear the thought of continuing to waitress at Sunshine’s for the rest of her working life? She wasn’t stupid – the older she got, the less likely her chances were of succeeding. Now Rafe had entered her life to present her with another set of options – marriage, a family, motherhood … a chance to make things right in a way that hadn’t been given to her. She swallowed. Here they were, seated opposite one another in the French bistro on Park Avenue that Rafe had chosen. The little black box lay between them, unopened. Maddy looked up at him. His hair was ruffled. She was overcome with a sudden wave of tenderness. ‘Your hair’s all messed up,’ she said shakily, her fingers coming to rest on the box. ‘You must’ve slept on it.’
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Rafe ignored her.
Maddy swallowed again. She prised open the lid. The diamond winked back at her. A simple solitaire set in a band of white gold. She felt her stomach turn over.
‘I know it’s a bit sudden … I should’ve said something … warned you. But I can’t face the thought of going back to London without you. I just can’t.’
‘Rafe …’ Maddy struggled to say something.
‘Just tell me. Will you?’ She drew the ring out of the box and held it in her fingers. Slowly she brought it up to her cheek. It was cold and hard against her skin. His face was a picture of conflicting emotions – hope, anxiety, worry, even fear. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Will you marry me?’ he repeated, reaching across the table for her hand.
