Dark Betrayal

by Patricia Lake

  Looking at herself in the mirror as she brushed and plaited her long fair hair, she grimaced at the dark circles beneath her eyes. She looked a mess, she felt a mess, and she didn't know what to do about it.

  She found Oliver making coffee in the kitchen. He greeted her cheerfully but she had the feeling that he hadn't slept any better than she had.

  Outside, through the open doors, the sun was beginning to lighten the horizon, the gnarled old olive trees catching the first rays of light.

  Deborah couldn't touch any food, but watched Oliver eating an orange with his coffee, her thoughts miles away.

  They left the villa within half an hour, the jeep

  Oliver had hired for their stay, bouncing easily over the rough track towards the narrow road. Deborah pushed her sunglasses on to her head and gazed at the wild flowers that carpeted the ground beneath olive and Cyprus and poplar. The air was as new as the day, fresh and still cool. Corfu was such a beautiful island, she thought lazily, so barren and harsh despite the greenery.

  Before they reached the main road, they were forced to slow down behind an old man and woman with a donkey. The man sat astride the slow donkey, the woman, small and bent and dressed in black from head to toe was walking ahead. They waved as the track finally became wide enough for the jeep to pass.

  'Equality,' Oliver laughed, raising his hand.

  Deborah smiled. 'That's one way of looking at it, I suppose,' she said, unable to shake off the weary bleakness of her mood.

  They drove along the steep winding road into Kerkira, the capital, slowing to match the pace of the heavier traffic. Deborah stared out at the crumbling forts that overlooked the sea entrance to the town and tried to shake off her strange mood.

  'I want to buy some film, so let's have coffee here.' Impatient with the queues of traffic, Oliver pulled into a parking space near the harbour and jumped out of the jeep.

  They walked through the narrow Venetian streets, the high balconies above them strung with washing and lined with gaudy flowering plants. It was still very early but the town was bustling with activity. Deborah was feeling lazy, so while Oliver purchased his film, she sat beneath the tall archways of an outdoor cafe, sipping thick dark coffee and watching the world go by, happy to be alone.

  They reached Paleokastritsa before noon, approaching above the clover-leaf Bay of Alipa, past huge private villas, most lost to view behind banks of flowers, bushes and trees.

  It was busy, crowded with well-oiled noisy tourists, and the sun was relentlessly hot. They ate salad rich with Feta cheese and bitter olives, at a taverna near the water's edge. Lobster was the local speciality, kept alive till ordered. It seemed horribly cruel to Deborah and she wouldn't have dreamed of ordering it. The sheer beauty of her surroundings brought back her appetite and she ate her salad with relish.

  Oliver was bright and seemingly cheerful. Neither mentioned the night before, neither mentioned Tess's party.

  The white monastery on the clifftops was as Deborah remembered, with its white-washed towers and heavy metal bells. Leaving Oliver to his work, she walked alone into the cool dark church. It was believed that the monastery had been founded in the thirteenth century, though the present buildings were nineteenth and eighteenth century.

  She wandered around gazing up at the painted ceiling and silver chandeliers, at the icons in their carved gilt frames. She glanced at a forgotten guide book that suggested from the work of Berard that Paleokastritsa was the site of the Phaeacian capitol in Homer's Odyssey. That sort of detail would have fascinated Jake ...

  The booklet dropped from her hands unnoticed, and she closed her eyes. She hadn't done that for months. It had been a difficult habit to stop, seeing things through his eyes, knowing what he would appreciate, needing to share her experience with him.

  Disturbed, she walked out into the blinding sunshine of the courtyard, walking beneath cane trellises, the scent of flowers and herbs filling her nostrils.

  He was always there in the back of her mind, brought into her thoughts at any opportunity. She caught sight of Oliver, waving as he disappeared behind a low terracotta-roofed building.

  She lifted her hand automatically, her mouth moving in the shape of a smile. Below lay the calm blue sea, broken by huge red rocks that rose like towers from the water to the sky, the horizon barely discernible between.

  This view always stilled her and she longed for someone to share it with. Someone? Who was she kidding? She wanted Jake. She had never stopped wanting him and she couldn't deny that any longer. Despite that dark violent side to his nature, she still cared, still needed him.

  Her thoughts drifted back to that summer in Windermere. A couple of weeks was all they'd had, but it seemed a lifetime.

  She had left her work in the tiny cottage unfinished. She didn't care. It meant nothing. All that mattered was being with Jake, and every second had been unbearably precious. They had spent their days walking and sailing, lying at the lakeside in the sun, talking and making love. When she looked back on it now, the sheer silent intensity of her feelings then frightened her. She had been so young, so fierce and Jake was totally unlike any man she had ever met, his personality strong and complex and self-assured. She realised later that he had hardly ever talked about himself, persuading her to talk instead, as though he needed to know every little thing about her.

  And at night she would lie in his bed, held tightly in the powerful, possessive circle of his arms, hardly daring to sleep in case she woke and found it only a dream.

  It satisfied her to know that he had come from London to write, yet, since their meeting, he had not written a word of the play so eagerly awaited by the West End.

  'God knows, I can't think of anything but you,' he had murmured into the loose golden silk of her hair. 'You're so beautiful, so soft.'

  And Deborah, lonely no more, with everything she had ever longed for, had smiled and touched her mouth to his.

  Those brief days had been idyllic, too wonderful to last. She knew now, with unusual cynicism, that nothing of any great value lasted.

  As the days passed she had gradually found out more about him, though he hadn't told her easily. His childhood, his whole life had been unconventional, marred by tragedy. His father had walked out on his mother, a week before Jake was born. His father had been a famous concert pianist, Jake the product of a brief passionate affair. The concert pianist died two years later never knowing his illegitimate son. Jake had been brought up in the house of his grandfather, who he spoke of with deep love and affection. Sander Logan had been the only father Jake had known, a strong friend in his formative years.

  Years later, his mother had married disastrously, and Tess had been born. That marriage had ended in divorce within two years, his mother dying quickly and unexpectedly when Tess was twelve.

  It was a powerful story, though Jake seemed untouched by it all, uncaring. He had travelled widely with his mother when he was a child, and alone, on leaving school. He was a man of experience, of perception. He had a sharp sense of humour, he could laugh at himself and he could laugh at the world, and nothing in those cool grey eyes ever revealed the turbulence of his youth. It was only much later, back in London that Deborah had seen that dark possessive streak in him, perhaps the effect of his upbringing, certainly the core of his brilliance as a playwright.

  'Hey, look who I've found!'

  She opened her eyes, blinking against the sun, and forced her lips to smile. Oliver was striding towards her, followed by Cole and his ex-wife Janetta.

  It was a huge surprise. Cole was the last person she had expected to see here in Paleokastritsa.

  'What on earth are you doing here?' she demanded, laughing, her smile for real now as she moved towards him.

  Cole kissed her cheek, his blue eyes narrowed against the sun, their depths lazily amused. 'You've caught the sun. A tan suits you.'

  'Which doesn't tell me anything, does it?' Used to his careless compliments, his affection, Deborah turned to the b
eautiful woman at his side. 'How are you, Janetta? It's been ages.'

  'Too long, darling. You look wonderful.' Janetta squeezed her hand.

  She was the same age as Cole, late thirties, but she looked much younger, her skin pale and perfect, flawlessly made-up beneath a wide straw hat. Her hair was deep auburn, curling with effortless chic around the sculptured triangle of her face.

  Deborah looked down at her own scruffy, cut-off jeans, then at Janetta's pale linen sundress, and grimaced inwardly. Despite the older woman's kindness and genuine friendliness, she always felt gauche by comparison, childish.

  'I doubt it, but thanks anyway,' she smiled.

  Cole slid his arm around Janetta's shoulders, his eyes on Deborah. 'Such a modest, unassuming child, isn't she?'

  Deborah laughed, and Janetta turned to Cole, her eyes warm. 'Don't tease, darling. Deborah may never forgive you.' There was a slight sharpness in her voice that Deborah couldn't identify.

  'Oh, I'm well used to it,' she said airily. 'He's a hard taskmaster—very difficult.'

  'You don't have to tell me.' Janetta's remark was heartfelt, though not very serious.

  She and Cole had been childhood sweethearts, married at eighteen, divorced two years later. 'We were too close—we couldn't live together for more than five minutes at one time. We drove each other crazy,' Cole told Deborah, the first time she was introduced to Janetta.

  They were still very close though, the best of friends. 'No regrets,' were Cole's own words, but sometimes when Deborah looked at Janetta, she wondered if the older woman felt the same way. There was still something there in her eyes when she looked at her former husband, something undefinable but definitely at odds with Cole's breezy 'No regrets'. But it was none of Deborah's business and she didn't dare to pry. In some ways Cole was a very private man. She had no idea how he really felt, she only heard his complaints about the vast amounts of alimony he had to pay to Janetta and his assertions that the beautiful women he was seen around with were all 'strictly casual—no strings attached.'

  'You must have dinner with us tonight at our hotel.'

  Cole looked from Deborah to Oliver, persuading them with his smile. 'The food's pretty good.' Oliver's eyes told Deborah that he had nothing planned, so she accepted for both of them. 'That would be lovely. We didn't have anything arranged for tonight.'

  She wanted to shower and change, so they arranged to meet at the hotel after nine. The drive back to Benitses was pleasant. The sun was losing its heat, the sky paling from relentless azure to a delicate cornflower blue. Deborah leant back and allowed the cool breeze to whip her hair around her face. She was angry with her own lethargy, the grey depression that was lurking just beneath the surface. Oliver chatted and she responded automatically, a trick she had learned very well over the past three years.

  They reached the villa in plenty of time, despite the traffic in Kerkira. The maid was just leaving as they walked through the wooden front door. Maria, a very quiet girl with a sweet smile and hardly any English, came from the village every other day to clean.

  She smiled at Deborah and Oliver. 'Laundry,' she said haltingly, the word broken and alien.

  They both smiled. 'Thank you,' Oliver said carefully. The girl nodded, her face shy, and disappeared.

  'Drink?' Oliver flung down his camera and walked over to the stock of bottles.

  'Gin and tonic, please,' Deborah kicked off her sandals. 'I think you've made another conquest there.'

  'What?' Oliver turned from his task, his eyes innocent.

  'Maria.' She flung open the long wooden shutters to admit the cooler afternoon air.

  Oliver snorted as he passed her a glass frosted with ice.

  'Oh, so you've noticed,' she teased.

  The jangle of the telephone broke between them. Oliver stiffened imperceptibly, pretending to be busy with something else, so that Deborah reached for the receiver. 'Hello?'

  It was Beatrice. 'Deborah darling, is Oliver about?' Her voice was warm and husky, very attractive.

  'Beatrice—how are you?' She gave the clue easily to Oliver, who shook his head, his face whitening. 'I'm not here,' he mouthed silently.

  Deborah nodded, only half listening to Beatrice, her sympathy and attention with her stepbrother. 'I'm afraid Oliver isn't here at the moment. He's driven down to Benitses to get some film developed.' She found it difficult to tell the bare-faced lie, adding to lend weight to it, 'We went to Paleokastritsa and Oliver took hundreds of photos.'

  Amazingly, Beatrice sounded convinced. 'Damn, just my luck. Would you be a darling and tell him I called?' Her voice became wry. 'Perhaps he could 'phone me. He does know my number.'

  'I'll tell him as soon as he gets back,' Deborah promised. Turning to Oliver as she replaced the receiver she said quietly, 'I hate lying.'

  'Sorry.' Oliver poured himself more gin, sounding relieved and unconcerned. 'I couldn't face her.' Deborah stood up finishing her drink. 'She's certainly persistent. Just don't ask me too often,' she said and went to shower.

  The water was cold, pelting her body and bringing her back to life. Drying herself she let the towel slip to the marble floor and curiously examined her body in the long rows of mirrored tiles that covered one wall.

  Her skin had a golden bloom from the time spent in the sun. Despite her colouring she didn't tan easily.

  She was slender, her breasts full, her waist and hips slim, her legs long and well-shaped. The pronounced curves of her body didn't please her. The clothes she designed were for fashionable pencil thin figures and however hard she exercised and dieted, her own body would not conform.

  She dried her hair, the long strands blowing against her throat, and left it loose around her shoulders, a long fringe covering her forehead. She made up her face automatically, used to hiding the ravages of inner pain and sleepless nights. She inspected herself for any tell-tale signs as she brushed pale shadow over her eyelids.

  Her green eyes were clear and widely-spaced, her nose straight, her mouth generous, hinting at the passionate warmth of her nature. Her jaw was stubborn yet delicate, shaping her face into a heart-shaped triangle. She could never believe she was beautiful, too familiar with features she found frankly boring.

  She dressed in a white linen suit with a matching silk blouse, brushed her hair once more, and switched out the lights with a snap.

  There was no sign of Oliver, and as they were in plenty of time, she wandered out into the garden. The night had fallen suddenly, warm and black, the sky littered with white stars. Tonight there was no breeze, the hushed air laden with the scent of flowers. Walking around the pool, her high heels clattering on the tiles, to the edge of the garden, she stared down at the town below. The lights were already glowing, twinkling strings of coloured bulbs along the harbour wall.

  Melancholy gripped her. She felt as though she had been living in a vacuum for the past three years, hermetically sealed against the power Jake had always held over her. Even her brief marriage and Robert's death had not touched that deep part of her that Jake had reached and which she had locked away at their parting.

  Speaking to Tess had released the stopper, letting in the world, letting in Jake, and all those painful memories.

  She had loved him so wildly, so completely. Her thoughts halted. Had loved him? Was it all in the past? Was it over? She couldn't answer her own questions. There was only confusion if she tried.

  The only thing she knew for certain was that she was not free of him. She had tried to cut herself off, but it hadn't worked. And if her feelings for him now weren't love, albeit love twisted by circumstances and deception, what were they? Hate? She couldn't tell, and her head ached from trying.

  She had hated him when she found Leila in his bed. She had wanted revenge. Her illusions had been shattered and she had wanted to hurt him as he had hurt her. She had been so young then, so innocent. Now she was mature, she had a certain knowledge of the world, a certain sadness at the injustice of life. But there was still part of her
that remained untouched. Hope still sprang there refusing to die, and she still yearned for Jake.

  'Deborah, are you ready? We'll be late if we don't get a move on.' Oliver's impatient voice drifted out to her on the still air.

  'Here,' she called back, moving towards the villa. 'And I've been waiting for you for at least ten minutes.'

  They locked the front door and Oliver slipped his arm around her shoulders as they walked to the jeep. He looked young and handsome in a white dinner jacket and dark trousers, his lean body reassuringly hard against her side.

  'You look nice.' She smiled up into his face.

  He grinned back, pleased. 'I do my best.' Eyeing her from head to toe, he added, 'You look pretty good yourself.'

  'What a mutual appreciation society,' Deborah murmured laughing, as they reached the car.

  Kerkira was bright and busy, the streets crowded and glowing in the darkness of the night. Strains of music and laughter drifted on the air, and the tantalising scent of food. The hotel was exclusive, a new expensive building on the outskirts of the city. A smart young man stood behind the glass-topped reception desk. He eyed Deborah with discreet admiration as she walked in with Oliver.

  'Mr Cole Sullivan's suite, please,' Oliver said with a smile. 'Would you tell him we're here. Mrs Stevens and Mr Lawrence.'

  'Of course, sir, right away.' The young man was very efficient, his English perfect.

  Cole was waiting to meet them as they stepped out of the lift. 'Honey, you look wonderful,' he said to Deborah, as he kissed her.

  'Thank you.' She was very fond of Cole, her green eyes shining as she accepted the compliment.

  'Oliver, good to see you,' Cole acknowledged the younger man with a smile, shaking his hand and indicating with a nod that they should enter the suite. 'Can I offer you both a drink? I thought we'd eat up here, a better atmosphere than the restaurant. Janetta is still changing.' His voice held a wry experience of his former wife's habits.