Still, at night when Isa was all alone, aware of her every heartbeat, her every breath, she would turn and sigh, and deep inside of her would pulse the knowledge that she must beware. But she was drawn to him. And the lure he held for her was, after all, not that difficult to explain. The desire to play with fire was an old, old temptation.
There was really only one reason she was still holding back. Guilt. For now her sense of guilt was more insistent than her desire. Consummating her relationship with Justin would open the door wide on the feelings of shame she experienced whenever she thought of Alette. Despite her attempts to rationalize the situation, Isa knew she was letting her cousin down. Disloyalty, betrayal: these were dark, treacherous emotions. She had no wish to face up to any of those feelings for her cousin now. That was for later. That was for much later. Her relationship with Justin was still so fragile, so murky and unknowable. It was imperative to draw the boundaries tight and keep Alette on the outside. So even though she wanted him, desired him, was so intensely aware of his lightest, most casual touch, Isa held back. And every day she’d find Justin’s eyes on her: watching, waiting.
The house, which once had started to feel like home, was becoming an alien place. Isa tried to spend as little time there as she could. Alette’s presence was almost tangible: every object a reminder, every picture a reproach. Each night, after saying goodbye to Justin, Isa locked the door behind her and walked up the three flights of stairs, her eyes on her feet, her hands not touching the balustrade or the shiny walls. The house felt sad and melancholy, and though she turned up the heat, she could not dispel the chill that hovered in the corners and settled about the furniture. Whenever she left the house to be with Justin, it was with a sense of escape.
Tonight he had taken her dancing. The dance floor was small and crowded and the music very loud. The DJ was sticking to the classics: Dire Straits, Van Morrison, lots of Springsteen:
Now you play the loving woman
I’ll play the faithful man
But just don’t look too close
Into the palm of my hand …
Justin’s hand pressed into her lower back. She looked up at his half-averted profile. His features were accentuated by the coloured lights in the ceiling: the full lower lip, the strong, unrelenting sweep of the jaw. The dramatic lighting wiped years off his face, blotting out the tiny wrinkles around his eyes, the shadows at the corner of his mouth.
He glanced down at her and caught her eye. He smiled and she felt a sudden rush of emotion. Surely she was entitled to a little happiness? Surely the past should not be allowed to intrude on the present? If there was even the slightest chance that things could work out between them, she should grab the opportunity with greedy hands. So maybe she was being rash and imprudent. She might even come to regret her actions. But who wanted to be wise if it meant denying emotions that were so lavish, so giddily extravagant?
For a brief moment Eric’s face was before her; but then, with only slight regret, she felt it slide from her mind. For the first time she could look back on her relationship with Eric with a clarity and an honesty that had not been possible before. She had loved him passionately and with all her heart, but she had never allowed herself to acknowledge the claustrophobia that was inherent in their relationship. For twelve years their life together had played itself out within the walls of her apartment. They had rarely gone out, had never received the affirmation from others that they were a couple. And then, the need to always be the perfect companion: always welcoming, always loving. A subtle tyranny, that—a silken noose around her neck. Because if she was crabby or short of temper, he might decide not to return after his next goodbye. She had to ensure that the hours they spent together were as perfect as pearls on a string. No wonder Alette had been so derisive, so critical. Alette would never have allowed herself to buy into the wishful lie that it is better to love the wrong person than not to love at all. But why was she thinking about Alette now?
So when you look at me
You better look hard and look twice
Is that me baby
Or just a brilliant disguise?
‘Hey, you.’ Justin had placed his mouth against her ear. ‘Come back. Where are you?’
She looked up into his smiling eyes and suddenly colour, light, and music were contracting into a single, pure pinpoint of excitement. ‘I’m right here,’ she said. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
He smiled again and once more his hand tightened possessively against her back. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Because you’re not going anywhere without me.’
• • •
IT WAS LATE by the time they left the club. They spoke very little on the way back, but the darkness in the car was intimate and warm. She suddenly, furiously, did not want this night to end.
She glanced over at him. His face, intermittently highlighted by the glare of oncoming headlights, seemed eerily calm. His body was completely relaxed. She looked at his hands on the steering wheel: touch. She looked at his mouth and tasted: kiss. He turned his head and their eyes met. Without saying anything he turned his attention once more to the road. But he was smiling quietly, as if in secret. And deep within her stirred an almost painful anticipation.
By now it had become almost a routine. Every night he waited in the car until after she had unlocked the front door before driving off. He never got out. But tonight he carefully parked the car at the side of the road. As she reached for the catch of her door, he opened the door on his side and stepped out. And again she felt that sense of nervous exhilaration, almost fear, fluttering in the pit of her stomach.
She had left the outside light on and as they walked through the front garden their shadows stretched ahead of them, long and spidery. They weren’t touching—he was walking slightly behind and to the side—but she could feel his eyes on her. She inserted the key in the lock with a hand that was sticky with sweat. By the time they stepped into the lobby, her heart was drumming in her throat and her face felt flushed. Any second now he was going to pull her into his arms and then …
He reached for her, his movements slow and unhurried. For a moment he just held her against him and she buried her face deep into his shoulder, inhaling his scent, listening to the beat of his heart. And now his hands were in her hair and he was kissing her forehead, tilting her face up to his and brushing his lips against her eyelids, her cheeks. His breath became a delicious trickle of warmth against the side of her mouth.
His hand slipped underneath her sweater, his palm hot against her skin. But even as she arched her back slightly and opened her mouth to him, she felt the hair at the back of her neck rise.
The phone was ringing.
His grip tightened. ‘Leave it.’
Against her skin was the cold prick of sweat. A wave of nausea washed over her. Justin’s mouth on hers felt smothering. The phone kept ringing. On and on it went, an off-key, atonal sound. Stop, she thought. Please stop. But the ringing was getting louder, the sound bouncing off the walls now, ricocheting within her head. The sound was a warning—utterly compelling—and she could not ignore it.
She tried to pull away from Justin, but his hold was firm. ‘No,’ he said, and his mouth searched for hers once more. ‘Don’t answer that.’
She placed both her hands against his chest and twisted from his grasp. ‘Let go.’
He stepped away immediately. For just a second she saw a flicker in his eyes but the next moment his face was still. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and gestured with his hand towards the kitchen, where the phone was still ringing. ‘Please.’
She turned and walked away from him, stiff as a wooden doll. The phone was on the far side of the kitchen, sitting on the edge of the dresser like a squat, malevolent frog. With a tremendous effort of will, she managed not to touch it, although her brain was screaming at her to lift the receiver. Swiftly she sank to her heels and pulled the cord from the wall.
For a few moments she stayed where she was, eyes closed, her heart jerking err
atically inside her chest. For just a moment she felt like laughing hysterically. What if she went back to him now and told him she had just hung up on his dead ex-wife?
Slowly she straightened. Now that the noise had stopped, her breathing was becoming more regular, her heart gradually calming itself. But as she stepped back into the hall, her breath stalled in her throat with an audible gasp. For a moment her mind stopped working.
Justin was standing next to the console table that flanked the wall. On the table was a bamboo tray and in it a large, manila envelope. Underneath it, she knew, would be two smaller letter-sized envelopes fastened to a sheet of paper. Alette’s third letter.
How could she have been so careless? How could she have been so utterly stupid? After her meeting with Tunbridge, she had simply dropped Alette’s letter and the letters addressed to the newspaper editors into the tray. She had meant to stow them with the two other envelopes, but had never got around to it. The letters were of no importance to her any longer. And aside from that very first visit when he had invited her to have a picnic, Justin had never followed her into the house.
But now she was about to pay for her carelessness.
Absentmindedly he picked up the large fawn-coloured envelope. He was staring at the handwriting. Between his brows was a faint frown.
She had to distract him before he noticed the smaller envelopes addressed to the newspaper editors and the letter that was clipped to them. They were now in plain view. All he needed to do was look down at the tray and he’d see them. Even from where she was standing, she could make out the first sentences of Alette’s letter: This will be my last letter to you. With luck Justin will be knee-deep in lawyers by this time …
‘Justin.’
He glanced at her, the manila envelope still in his hand.
‘Would you mind if we called it a night?’ She knew her voice sounded high-pitched and strange. She tried desperately not to look at the table.
With a careless gesture he flipped the envelope back in the tray, keeping his eyes on her.
‘Is something wrong?’ Taking a step towards her, he gently tried to draw her into his embrace. Involuntarily she stiffened her back and shoulders, resisting the pressure of his arm.
He let his hands fall by his side. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. I’m just really tired.’
‘Tired,’ he repeated, his voice completely uninflected.
She couldn’t meet his gaze. The silence ran on for several heartbeats. This time when he spoke, there was a tightness behind the words. ‘Well, if you’re tired, of course I won’t keep you.’
‘Wait. Please.’
He looked at her over his shoulder, his hand on the doorknob. His mouth was a thin line in his face and his eyes were bright.
She was handling this badly. He must think her the worst kind of tease. And now her eyes were filling with tears. Wonderful. Puffy eyes and a red nose: how attractive. The tears ran down inside her nose and she sniffed dismally.
He took a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Here.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her tongue sluggish in her mouth. She dabbed the handkerchief at her face.
‘No. I should have known better. But I really thought …’ He paused and she saw something come and go in his face. But then he blinked and the expression in his eyes went blank. ‘I’ve never liked this house,’ he said suddenly.
She waited wordlessly.
‘Don’t look so stricken.’ His voice was abrupt and dry. ‘It’s all right. Really. I’ll pick you up tomorrow evening as we planned. Okay?’
‘Thank you,’ she said hardly. ‘Again … I’m sorry.’
He shrugged and made a gesture with his hand: a gesture at once dismissive and weary. ‘It doesn’t matter. At least I know where I stand now.’
• • •
ISA REACHED for the top shelf. As she carefully removed a few books, the first two envelopes Alette had sent her peeked out from behind a thick, green-backed volume. Isa placed the third manila envelope with the others and replaced the books. She should have done this days ago. The real question, of course, was why she was keeping these letters. She wasn’t ever going to send the contents of the third envelope. They should be burned. Maybe tomorrow that’s just what she’d do.
She sat down on the side of the bed, sick at heart. As she remembered the shuttered expression on Justin’s face, she felt like weeping. Closing her eyes, she experienced again the warmth of his arms around her, the coolness of his lips. And then the ringing of the phone. The stomach-clutching nausea, the cold sweat. The sense of imminent peril. The perception that she had been caught in an action that was dark and perverse … incestuous almost. One moment she had been swept away, and the next moment it had been like looking onto darkness.
She wished she could go to sleep, but her mind kept reliving the evening over and over. For a moment she considered calling Michael. It would be good to hear his voice. If she could just talk to him for a little, she’d feel better. And he had made her promise to call him if she needed him. But it was already so late. And what would she tell him? She certainly couldn’t tell him about Justin, he would be aghast. Why it was so important to her that Michael continued to think well of her, she couldn’t explain. She only knew she didn’t want to lose his respect. So she should probably wait until he returned and try to explain to him face-to-face. And she couldn’t tell him about the phone call either. He’d be so alarmed, no doubt he’d drive over immediately and that would not be fair to him or his family. No, she was just going to have to get through this by herself.
She walked to the bookcase. Maybe something escapist and forgettable would help her fall asleep. On the bottom shelf she found a paperback crime novel. It was not the kind of book Alette would normally read, and as Isa opened the cover, she saw the initials J.T. written on the flyleaf.
J.T. Justin Temple?
The novel was slickly written, even though it trod familiar paths. A serial killer; mutilated women; a spunky, self-deprecating female detective, herself a potential victim. The details of the murders drawn with excruciating care: sliced-off fingers, eyeballs impaled on toothpicks, toilet plungers shoved into female orifices. Sexual sadism, misogynist fantasies. ‘Serial killers are always a good bet,’ an editor friend once told her. ‘And viruses.’ Not the casual cruelty of relationships gone wrong, the ferocity of soured emotions, or the subtle savagery of careless words. Those did not make for bestsellers.
But the book was addictive and held her attention. She read on until the early-morning hours. After she had turned off the light, she fell immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When she woke up, it was as though someone had flicked a switch. One moment she was dead to the world, the next moment she was wide awake, her senses stretched to full alert.
For a few moments she lay quietly, trying to pinpoint what it was that had triggered an alarm bell within her. She turned her head slowly to one side on the pillow and her eyes wandered through the room, taking in the dark shape of the writing desk by the window, the loom of the bookshelves, the black, strangely unwieldy outline of the wing-backed armchair.
She eased back the covers and groped for her robe. Silently she walked out onto the landing and stopped to listen. And then she heard it—a tiny sound. It seemed to come from somewhere in the house below her. She held her breath, straining to identify what it was she had heard, and for a few moments it was quiet. But then she heard it again: a sound that was unfamiliar, alien.
It was probably nothing. It could be coming from outside. No need for the apprehension, which was turning her stomach to acid. Silently she chided herself. So much for her professed indifference to the scenes of carnage she had read before she went to sleep. Obviously the deranged violence in the book had spattered her unconscious and was now playing skittles with her nerves.
Beneath her bare feet the carpet felt soft as velvet. She started down the stairs, one hand barely touching the balustrade. Her robe b
rushed the stair runners with a sibilant swish and she stopped to pull the hem upward.
The large, double doors leading to the living room gaped wide open. In the pure moon glow, the spacious room with its exquisite furnishings was an illustration from a dark fairy tale. A magic place this—caught in a spell—waiting for a sleeping princess to bring it back to life: to restore colour to the rugs, the windows, the large lacquered screen with its exuberant pattern of birds and foliage.
On the mantelpiece the gilt frame capturing the large studio picture of Alette winked at her. It seemed to have fallen over. She picked it up and turned it around in her hand.
It took her a heartbeat to realize that the photograph inside the frame was gone. In her hand she held nothing more than a flat, black square. The gaping emptiness was a shock.
She was still staring, stupefied, at the empty frame when she heard it again. A thin shiver of sound.
Not in this room.
She replaced the frame on the mantelpiece and walked out of the double doors. At the bend in the staircase her eyes fell on the two carved masks that Alette had brought with her from Africa. The top one had its lips flattened into a fastidious sneer. The bottom one stared solemnly at the world with round eyes. For the first time she found them sinister, and as she continued down the stairs, she imagined them staring after her. One expression malevolent. The other unnervingly vacant.
A silvery tinkle. Much closer now. The kitchen.
The blood was rushing in her ears. She was sweating.
Switch on the light. Intruders are scared away by signs of activity. But she couldn’t bring herself to flip on the light switch in the hall. If she did so, the moment of confrontation would inevitably be upon her.
Confrontation with what?
She leaned against the half-open door leading to the kitchen and stepped inside. A freezing wind gusted through an open window immediately facing her and the door behind her slammed shut.
Writ in Water Page 56
