Loving Susie: The Heartlands series

by Harper, Jenny

  My wee treasure. My wee giftie.

  Again his voice is echoing round her skull and she can feel herself being lifted above his head, tossed screaming with delight and apprehension towards the ceiling, caught again safely. ‘Again, again!’ More screams, more laughter.

  That’s it – the essence of her childhood. Being taught about adventure and danger, then being pulled back to safety and security. That’s what my parents gave me. The leaden lump that seems to have inhabited her heart for months begins to ease. She registered downstairs at Reception as Brenda Miles, needing to feel what it’s like to be Brenda.

  ‘You look like that actress,’ the girl on duty said. ‘You know, the one on the telly in that old soap thing. What’s her name again? Susie something. Susie ... Williams!’ she ends triumphantly.

  ‘I’m not Susie Williams,’ she said, truth made easy by the girl’s confusion. She signed the name, Brenda Miles, with a flourish. ‘But I do believe she might be a distant cousin.’

  ‘Ooh, how exciting. Imagine being related to someone on the telly.’

  Does the past matter? Well, yes. Every day since she first heard the word ‘adopted’ she’s been driven to think about things she’s never considered before, about identity, personality, genetic inheritance. She’s had to think about the Miles inheritance and the Scirocco legacy.

  She met Jimmy Scirocco once. He was a legend, then, back when she was in her twenties and fighting to emerge from the bit-parts and make her name as a leading actress. He had magnetism, dear heavens, the charisma of the man. Poor Joyce. A young waitress, and pretty, she must have been helpless in front of the tsunami of young Jimmy’s charm. What chance would she ever have had? Jimmy was never a man for restraint or responsibility. Has she forgiven him? Because whatever the effect his carelessness had had on her life, it had been equally traumatic for Joyce Miles.

  A sleek yacht, its sails taut in a brisk breeze, scuds across the bay in front of the hotel. She knows she’ll have to talk to Joyce. Apart from anything else, she has to talk to her about Brian.

  She showers and pulls her fingers through the tangled golden masses of her hair. The aches in her muscles are easy to cope with compared with what’s waiting for her.

  She has to go back. However enchanting these days of freedom are, there’s no escaping the life she has back in Edinburgh. Reality is setting in and the time for action has come. She must square things with Karen and the Party. She has to give Maitland his answer about the film and press him about Rivo. Above all, she needs to start talking to Archie, because in the end her husband and her family matter to her more than anything.

  She finds her mobile, but the battery is flat and she has no charger. She’ll have to pay the premium for the hotel line.

  One ring, two, three, four. The call trips onto the answering machine at four. Archie must still be asleep in the studio, another late night at the music, no doubt.

  So much for missing her.

  She draws breath to leave a message, changes her mind.

  She starts instead with Karen and gets through right away. ‘Karen? It’s Susie. Hi.’

  And then it’s excitement and relief and chaos, and a discussion with Mo Alexander about the plot she’s hatching in her head, with a promise to call back after she’s talked to Joyce.

  Susie has made some decisions and in one part of her life, at least, she’s regaining a semblance of control – but if she’s to become whole again, she has to put things right with Archie.

  This day is as glorious as the last. She winds her way along the single-track road through the forests south of Tobermory until she reaches the small village of Dervaig. From there, it’s a small hop to Calgary Bay. She parks by the beach.

  This was where she filmed with Maitland. This was where she played with fire and risked everything she had with Archie. For what?

  For sheer, unbridled lust.

  A light breeze ripples the waves and races through her hair, lifting the curls so that they move and glisten and echo the motion of the sea. There’s no-one in sight. Amazing that a beach this beautiful can be so empty. Transport it to France and there would be sun loungers and parasols as far as the eye can see, a beach café would be selling drinks and ice creams at exorbitant prices, children would be running into the waves, screaming with delight and men would be smoothing oil into naked, bronzed flesh of their girls. Yet here, although the day is pleasantly hot, there’s only a man and his dog and, on the road behind her, a distinctive scarlet post-van meandering on its way.

  Twenty-nine years ago it all looked very different. An array of large trailers dotted up the road where the post-van had just disappeared, causing considerable inconvenience to the locals for the duration of the filming. The dunes behind the beach were a muddle of cameras and cranes, lights and sound equipment. The film crew seemed to be everywhere. And in the middle of the mayhem, she met Maitland Forbes for the first time and her world had trembled on the brink of collapse.

  Susie blinks. The man is crossing the beach, his dog running gleeful rings around him, this way, now that, now back again, covering five times as much ground as his master. Such energy. It was Maitland’s dog she met first, she remembers. A wet nose on her hand, a curious muzzle in her crotch, embarrassment and laughter and her first glimpse of that notoriously handsome face. The lust had been instantaneous and mutual and completely, absolutely irresistible.

  She picks her way across the marram grass to the pristine white of the beach. Maitland was newly married, photographs of the event were still wet on the pages of the current magazines. How could he have been so disloyal? How could he have desired her when he was fresh from the sublime Serafina’s bed?

  And how could she – how could she – have betrayed Archie like that?

  Susie settles on a rock at the far left of the beach and stares into the deep turquoise of the water, so clear that she can see a crab scuttling across the sandy bed, and a sea anemone opening and closing, opening and closing, fish-like in its pulsing movements. There’s another world down there. Pleased with her thoughts, she becomes lost in them. Here’s a school of small fish, darting and weaving round the stalks of the seaweed. Here are the treacherous, opaque ribbons of a jellyfish.

  One wave, bigger than the others, splashes on the rock in front of her and spume flies up and onto her skirt. Smiling, she looks indulgently at the patches of damp. In this heat, they’ll dry quickly.

  Back then, it took them both a few weeks to surface from the dream and understand how terribly they were deceiving not only themselves but also the partners they truly loved. At once, the decision to end the affair became easy. Filming finished, Maitland flew back to London and Serafina (and later to Hollywood) and by mutual agreement they didn’t stay in touch. Susie, stunned by how she could have so easily gambled her marriage, returned to Archie. It was a decision she never regretted because Archie means everything – has always meant everything – to her.

  On the road above her, a car coughs its way up the hill. That engine needs attention, she thinks idly, admiring the ridges formed by the tide in the sandy sea floor. So pretty.

  She becomes aware that the car has stopped. Another walker, perhaps – it doesn’t much matter. The beach is huge and there’s room enough for others. Her peace won’t be disturbed.

  But she’s wrong. Someone calls her name. It reaches her across the expanse of marram grass and sand, across the rocks and the seaweed.

  ‘Susie!’

  Her heart lifts. Archie has found her. She always knew he’d come. She stands, turns, begins to wave, but as the figure draws nearer, she sees that it isn’t Archie.

  It’s Justin Thorneloe.

  Chapter Thirty

  Justin scurries across the beach. His skinny legs are encased in tight jeans and a tee shirt bearing the legend ‘World Domination’ clings to his torso. He’s clearly delighted with himself. ‘I’ve found you at last.’

  ‘What—’ Susie is lost for words. ‘What are you—?’
r />   ‘Good to see you, too, Susie,’ he says equably, his sharp features twisted into a self-satisfied rictus.

  All Susie’s worlds are shattered in an instant. The mountain, the beach, her own silent underwater world, the gift of respite that nature and beauty have given to her, all snatched by this man, this ferret.

  ‘Were you invited?’ she says coldly.

  ‘Now don’t be like that. I’ve worked bloody hard to track you down, you didn’t make it easy. You could at least be a bit more welcoming.’

  ‘And just how did you find me here, Justin?’

  ‘Ah well now—’ He flashes a grin and taps the side of his nose in a gesture, she supposes, designed to indicate knowingness. Then he relents, obviously keen to show off his investigative skills. ‘You’d gone missing. Everyone was talking about it. Mo Armstrong, bless her, was madly keen to cover your absence, but it was too good a story to stay secret for long.’

  His sharp, knowing eyes drill into her. ‘Anyway, your disappearance intrigued me because it seemed to me that you have quite a lot to hide. So I started digging. Your assistant, Karen, she was tight as a monkey’s arse. Your researchers were getting nowhere. I called your man a dozen times—’

  ‘Archie?’

  ‘He is your man, isn’t he? Or is there another?’ he says sneeringly.

  He’s insufferable. Susie looks around for escape, but he’s on the only rock between her and dry land and she’s trapped.

  ‘But he was saying nothing. Seemed to me, though, that he was running scared. It wasn’t that he was covering up, he didn’t know where you were either. I was stuck.

  ‘Then I remembered two things. The first was a conversation I heard you have with Maitland Forbes, about that film you shot together. “Calgary Bay”. You seemed really taken with the place, said you’d had some great holidays here since. That was a start. Then I remembered that that daughter of yours, Margaret-Anne, works for that big hotel chain, the one with a hotel on Mull. It didn’t seem an impossible guess that you might have headed for here. So I started phoning around. First call was to the hotel, but you outsmarted me there, didn’t you?’ He leers at her. ‘You didn’t register under your real name. That threw me off the scent for a bit.’

  Oh, but I did , Susie thinks, my real name is Brenda Miles.

  ‘I was going to give up, but I’m not one for being defeated.’ He puffs his skinny chest up importantly. ‘I’ve got a contact, see, works for the ferries. I put in a call to him, gave him your car registration. If you really want to disappear, Susie, hire a car next time, it’ll make it much harder for the likes of me.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Susie says grimly. ‘So, Justin, now you have found me. And what, may I ask, are you hoping to get from all this exertion of yours?’

  ‘For one, I’ve got a cracking story now, haven’t I? The man who found Susie Wallace. Pretty good in itself, your disappearance has caused quite a stir round the Parliament. But more than that, I want to find out what made you take off, because that’s the real story, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve nothing to say.’

  ‘No comment? Really?’ He laughs. ‘You’re just so perfect, aren’t you, Susie? That’s why I’ve been pushing you all these months. Nobody can be that perfect, there’s got to be some dirt in there somewhere and I wanted to be the one who finds it.’

  ‘Pushing me?’ Susie latches onto one phrase.

  ‘Well, yeah. The lesbian story? I enjoyed that one. Pity your man from Hollywood managed to quash it because we could have had fun with that for a while.’

  My man from Hollywood? It’s an odd choice of phrase – does he know something? Has some crew member leaked some tittle-tattle after all this time? Can this horrible little man drag something up that might still damage them both?

  ‘Rivo Trust? That’s much closer to home, now, isn’t it? There’s real meat there. “MSP mismanagement fiasco.” “Trustee of charity fails in duty of care.” Oh yes, I still scent blood there, I’ve just been biding my time on that story.’

  Susie says nothing, but her mind shrieks, Failure, failure! He’s closer than he knows but she won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it.

  ‘Then there’s the biggie, isn’t there? The one no-one else has come near yet.’

  Her heart seems to have stopped completely and she holds her breath while her world hangs precariously from this man’s meddling fingers.

  ‘Susie Wallace was adopted. Not a scandal, I grant you, but still, a great story to break.’

  She’s so surprised that he knows about this that she’s startled into blurting out, ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Oh yes. I was there. I heard it all.’

  ‘Where? You heard what?’

  ‘I got lucky, Susie. I just happened to be passing by when that old woman let it slip. “This lady’s adopted, Indira, just like you”.’

  She remembers now – Justin Thorneloe was behind her when Elsie Proudfoot let the truth slither out. She didn’t think anything of it at the time, she’d barely registered it. He must have sharp, sharp little ears.

  ‘Well and so what? Hardly earth-shattering, is it?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On what happened. Why you were adopted, who your parents were. There might be a nice, dirty little story to be told.’

  She can no longer contain her fury. ‘How dare you! How dare you dig your grubby little paws around in my business! Even as a member of Parliament, I’m entitled to some privacy—’

  ‘That’s a matter for debate. If someone’s past has an impact on—’

  ‘And what in my past could possibly impact on the way I act and behave now? You’re a contemptible little shit—’

  He’s laughing at her. Laughing! The rage inside her swells to such enormous proportions that she doesn’t notice that another car has driven up the hill and another figure is running down the beach.

  ‘Leave her alone! Get out of here, you stinking little toad!’

  Justin turns, alarmed, as Archie races towards him, fury written all over his face.

  ‘Stop it—’ he starts to shout, as the seventh wave of the seventh wave rolls in. With the seaweed now slick and oily and the water dragging at his feet, Thorneloe’s scrawny frame hasn’t the strength to retain a purchase on the slippery surface and he topples, in glorious slow motion, into the sea.

  Archie stops in his tracks. Susie, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, stares at him in astonishment. Justin, tossed between the rocks on a rising tide, screams, ‘Help! I can’t—’ before his head goes under and all that can be seen is one white hand scrabbling in vain to get a grip on the rock. For a long minute they look at each other.

  ‘I suppose we’d better—’

  ‘Here, I’ll do it.’

  Between them, they manage to grab his wrists and pull the journalist onto the slimy boulder he just slipped from. He lies there, floundering like a beached whale, gasping and spluttering, stripped of all dignity.

  Susie’s gaze meets Archie’s across the spectacle. She never could work out who started to laugh first – was it her, or was it her wonderful, loyal, tenacious husband?

  ‘He’s all right—’

  ‘More’s the pity—’

  ‘Are you—?’

  ‘I’m fine ... how did you ... I didn’t hear ...’

  ‘I thought he was going to attack you.’

  ‘More like the other way round.’

  ‘He’s ... wet.’

  ‘Very.’

  A small voice comes up from the rock. ‘Do you fucking mind. I’m still here, you know.’

  Susie flops down onto her rock, higher than the others and still dry enough to sit on. Laughter overcomes her, her ribs ache with it. Archie is bent double, clutching his sides.

  ‘Oh ... oh ... oh, stop, this is hurting.’

  ‘I’m bloody hurting too,’ Justin reminds them.

  In the end, they help him off the rocks and onto the safety of the strand. The tide
has been coming in fast. Despite their amusement, his fall could have been serious because the pull of the waves has grown very powerful. Her peaceful underwater world has become a murky swirl of seaweed and sand and spinning pools of grit and slime.

  ‘You didn’t need to fucking shove me,’ Justin says, aggrieved.

  ‘No-one was near you, Justin. If anything shoved you, it must have been your conscience. That’s if you have one, which I doubt.’

  He’s grumpy and resentful. ‘I’m bloody freezing.’

  ‘Get your clothes off then.’

  ‘What? Not bleeding likely.’

  ‘Haven’t you got any spares in your car?’

  ‘Might have something,’ he admits grudgingly.

  ‘So go and change. Then, if you’re prepared to talk in a civilised manner, come back down and we’ll talk.’

  They follow the trail of drips as he trudges up the hill to where he parked his car.

  ‘Archie,’ Susie says, turning to him. ‘You are a miracle.’

  He pulls her to him. ‘I can’t stand it, Susie,’ he says, murmuring into her hair. ‘I can’t bear not being your friend. I hate the emptiness in my life where you should be.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Archie.’ She pulls back so that she can look into his eyes. ‘I’m sorry for everything. Only can we talk about it later, because the skunk approacheth.’

  ‘What on earth is he wearing?’

  As Justin Thorneloe winds his way carefully back down the path to the beach, it seems that the only dry clothing he’s been able to find is an outsized and completely shapeless hand-knitted sweater with a reindeer on the front and a jaunty Santa on the back, and a pair of very short swim shorts.

  ‘Do. Not. Laugh,’ he shouts as he approaches.

  They bite back their mirth. It can be saved and relished later.

  ‘It’s all I’ve got with me,’ he says aggressively. ‘My mother knitted it. I keep it in the car so I can wear it when I visit. It keeps her happy.’

  ‘Ah yes. Mothers,’ Susie says, her face straight. The idea of Justin Thorneloe with a mother who knits sweaters and has to be kept happy is almost too delightful to contemplate.