Moth to the Flame

by Maxine Barry

  She was sorely tempted to go to Dr Lacey with it all. She felt instinctively that Gareth Lacey would believe her, or at the very least, listen to her. But that morning she’d risen, huge shadows beneath her eyes, having come to the conclusion that it simply wasn’t fair for her to talk to anyone else until she’d had a chance to talk to Rupert.

  She was a grown woman now. She owed it to herself to think things through very carefully before she acted. And surely, by now, Rupert must have wound down enough for her to speak to him rationally? After all, she, and everyone else, had assumed him to be a functioning human being all this time. He couldn’t . . . his mental illness, surely, couldn’t be all that . . . advanced, that he wouldn’t listen to reason?

  She was so woefully ignorant about things like this. She felt, all at once, too young to cope with it all. But it was Rupert, poor Rupert, who was the one in real trouble.

  She’d tried again to remove the Warrington ring with soap, but the damned thing seemed to be possessed. She simply couldn’t get it over her knuckle. Now, as she walked into the theatre and listened with a lurching heart to Jared’s voice as he cajoled Emily into a more understated performance, the ring throbbed on her hand, a ghastly reminder of her predicament. She needed to speak to Jared, of course. She realised that the moment she heard his voice again.

  She hurried down the aisle, dumping her bag and coat in the seat and walking forward, eager to get back into his orbit. To feel his presence beside her. To touch him, if only in passing . . .

  ‘Ah, here’s the sleeping beauty at last,’ Emily grinned from the stage. ‘Author, tell this buffoon that the murder victim has a right to go over the top.’

  Alicia smiled at her friend, wanting to kiss her. Emily was so . . . normal. Such a breath of reality. So uncomplicated. ‘You clown,’ she laughed back. ‘You know full well you’ve got our tragic heroine down pat by now.’

  Today was April the First, the day before the play was to be shown, and nerves were running high. Jared ran a harassed hand through his hair, and looked at Alicia. He knew he’d have to do it eventually, so he might as well get it over with.

  He’d just endured the longest weekend of his life.

  When Rupert had invited her home during the Party in the SCR, he’d been torn between the desire to march up to them and tell Rupert where to stick his party, whilst another part of him, a more treacherous, unsure, feeble part of him, had insisted that Alicia deserved fancy parties, in big glamorous houses. That she’d been raised in that environment, and that he’d been dreaming when he thought that she could be happy in a totally different world. His world.

  And so he’d stood, rooted to the spot, too cowardly to act, but all the time willing her to say ‘No’. Silently sending out telepathic messages, begging her to turn him down.

  But she hadn’t, of course. Why should she?

  And when he’d seen the look of triumph in her brother’s eyes he’d felt sick. When he’d seen the flare of relief that so clearly stated that the other man had won, and he, the upstart, had lost, he’d wanted to smash something. And it had hurt him. Stupid, he knew. But then, he’d been stupid all along to think that he was good enough for her. To believe that their romance had ever stood a chance.

  So he’d spent the weekend forcing himself to come to terms with it. Nights spent tossing and turning, imagining her dancing in Rupert’s arms. Days spent telling himself that love was just a fantasy worth having, but not a reality that was ever going to be his. At least, not with Alicia Norman.

  But now, standing beside her again . . . The fantasy was back. Stronger than the reality. Like a beautiful weed, determined to grow, no matter what. ‘So, how was the Ball?’ he heard himself ask cheerfully. The others too crowded around, eager to hear the details and Alicia did her best.

  ‘But, that’s enough of that,’ she finally managed to fend off their curiosity. ‘How’s the dress rehearsal going?’

  Taking the hint, the cheerful cast began to disperse back to their marks on the stage. But before Jared could turn away, she reached out and grabbed his arm. ‘Jared,’ she said urgently. ‘I need to speak to you. Something’s happened.’

  Being so close to her now, he could see the dark shadows beneath her eyes. The tense set to her mouth. He felt himself stiffen. ‘What’s wrong?’

  But before she could speak, the others on the stage gave a sudden roar of ribbing and mock-handclapping, and they all turned to watch Rupert jogging down the aisle towards them.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he called breathlessly. ‘I overslept.’

  ‘Who with!’ one of the wags, who was busy setting up the scenery, shot back drolly. Catcalls and whistled followed.

  Jared, who was still standing so closely to her, saw the way Alicia paled. ‘Alicia,’ he said, his voice sharp. ‘Alicia! What’s the matter?’

  Rupert’s head slowly turned their way. For one instant, his eyes narrowed on them, then he smiled, walking forward. ‘Darling,’ he said, in a clear, loud, ringing voice as he made his way towards her, hands outstretched.

  Alicia couldn’t help herself. She took a step back. One part of her knew she was being hideously unfair and immature. The other part screamed at her that this man needed help, not neglect. That, for better or worse, she was the only one who could help him. She must persuade him to see a psychiatrist. She simply must make him seek help. She cringed at the thought of going to see an analyst on her own, and coming out with that old chestnut, ‘Doctor, I have this friend who needs help . . .’ No. She had to make Rupert see for himself that he needed help. She would be there for him. All the way. And she wasn’t going to do that by backing away from him whenever he came near. So she forced herself to take a step towards him. To smile. To look pleased to see him.

  But Jared had noticed her instinctive withdrawal. Had noticed the strange play of emotions cross her face. And he felt a deep rock of dread build in his stomach. What the hell was going on? What had happened at this damned Ball? What had she wanted to tell him?

  ‘Rupert,’ Alicia said, as brightly as she could manage. ‘I’m glad you’re here. We need to talk . . .’ She wanted to get him out of there. Away from those watching, curious eyes. She reached for his arm, trying to tug him in the direction of the exit.

  But Rupert wasn’t budging. ‘Of course, darling,’ he agreed, then patted her hand and turned her to face the stage. ‘Have you told them all our news yet?’

  Alicia jerked under his arm. ‘No! Rupert, I think . . .’ she babbled quickly, ‘that we should wait . . .’

  ‘Oh, don’t be shy darling,’ he admonished her tenderly. ‘I want the whole world to know. Listen, you lot,’ he called cheerfully across the stage, as the cast began to shuffle forward, sensing something of interest. ‘I’ve got great news. This weekend I asked Alicia to marry me. And she’s agreed.’

  There was a dead silence for the merest heartbeat.

  Alicia felt the world move away from her for an instant, and then come rushing back in a wave of sound and commotion.

  The cast on the stage, after an initial surprised second, began to jump down and surround them, slapping Rupert on the back and congratulating them. Only Emily stayed on the stage, staring at her friend, dumbstruck.

  Alicia blinked, trying to smile at the women who were gathered around her, chattering excitedly. The girl who was to play the victim’s mother suddenly spotted her engagement ring, and shrieked. ‘Hell’s bells! Look at that!’ She grabbed Alicia’s hand to display the impressive rainbow Warrington Ring to everyone.

  Alicia’s hand had gone numb. Like the rest of her. Over Rupert’s blond head, her eyes searched for Jared. He was standing just where she’d left him.

  Looking at her as if she’d just shot him with a revolver.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Alicia turned in to the gate where Rupert, living out in his second year, had his flat. She pushed the door open timidly and found, beside the staircase, a list of names and addresses which told her that Rupert Greyling
-Simms had one of the more spacious flatlets on the second floor.

  After Rupert’s stark announcement at rehearsals that morning, she’d found it impossible to talk to Jared alone, and Rupert had never left her side. It was only after they broke for the morning that she was able to persuade Rupert to leave, and only then by agreeing to have a late lunch with him.

  But Jared had been so busy with last-minute hitches, that, with the time ticking on, Alicia had had to leave herself, without speaking to him.

  Rupert, who’d been standing by his window for the last half hour keeping a look out for her, quickly opened the door. She followed him into a pleasant bed-sitting-room, where a small round table beneath the big bay window had been set with plates of glamorous food, and an open bottle of champagne. It was French—a vintage year.

  She took her seat nervously, as he served her. At last he sat down opposite her, raising his glass. ‘To us,’ he said.

  And Alicia suddenly knew it was now or never. ‘Rupert,’ she said softly, her gentle heart already breaking for him, ‘there is no us. I tried to tell you so at Warrington but . . .’

  Rupert shook his head. ‘Don’t be silly, Alicia,’ his voice was just a touch sharp. ‘We were made for each other. Everyone thinks so. My father. Your brother. It’s perfect.’

  Alicia slowly lowered her glass on to the table and sighed. ‘Rupert, I don’t think we make a perfect match,’ she emphasized the word ‘I’ just enough so that he couldn’t possibly misunderstand. ‘I hardly know you, after all! And, if you’re honest,’ she added, choosing her words very carefully now, ‘you must admit to yourself that you don’t love me . . .’

  ‘But I do!’

  ‘We’ve hardly talked . . .’

  ‘But all that time spent at theatre . . .’

  ‘All that time at the theatre we talked about the play, Rupert,’ she said softly.

  Rupert flushed. He could feel an awful yawning gap opening up around him. She was going to leave him! He was going to be alone, with his father’s scorn and his mother’s disappointment, and Camilla sneering at him . . . He went so pale Alicia almost cried out loud. She was hurting him!

  She, who wouldn’t even voluntarily swat a wasp. ‘Rupert!’ she cried, reaching for his hand, pulling it into her own. ‘Rupert, I want you to agree to come and see someone with me,’ she began, and then stopped, as she saw his eyes flicker.

  ‘See someone?’ he almost whispered. Images from his childhood flashed hideously across his mind. Hadn’t his nanny said something just like that to his mother, once. When he’d been seven. Or was it eight? See someone.

  ‘You mean a psychiatrist, don’t you?’ Rupert said flatly. He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘No, never again.’

  Alicia felt a jolt of alarm shoot through her. ‘Again? You mean . . . Rupert, have you seen a therapist before?’

  He turned his face away, but he was remembering being driven to Quiet Acres, the small, residential mental home in the lake district. His father had told everyone he was going away to school. No one was to know that the Earl of Warrington’s son was just a bit touched. Oh no. No one must ever even suspect that . . . Rupert’s face twisted as he fought back the desire to cry. His hands clenched around his champagne glass. ‘No,’ he said again, his voice high and wavering, almost falsetto in its cadence now. He shook his head. ‘No, I’m not going back there . . .’ He was on the verge of hysteria.

  Alicia had no idea what he was talking about. She was only aware of a growing sense of horror as the young and handsome man, who seemed to have it all, began to disintegrate in front of her eyes.

  ‘Rupert,’ she whispered, appalled, ashamed, afraid for him. ‘Rupert, it’s all right . . .’

  ‘I need you Alicia. You’re the only one who can save me,’ he said flatly. ‘I have to marry you. I have to!’ The delicate glass stem of the glass he was holding snapped in half, nicking his finger. A slow, red trickle of blood began to seep down his hand.

  Alicia got to her feet, a cold river snaking down her back as she wondered if there was anyone in the house besides themselves. Wondered if anyone would hear her if she screamed. She took a deep breath. ‘All right Rupert,’ she said softly, as soothingly as she could. It was not easy when her voice was shaking as badly as the rest of her. ‘We’ll talk about this again after the play.’

  Rupert smiled suddenly. ‘It’s a wonderful play, Alicia. I’ll be good in it, I promise.’ His voice was almost child-like now in its heartrending desire to please. ‘I’ll be good—just for you.’

  Alicia blinked, stunned by the sudden change in his face. In his voice. In his character. She licked her dry lips. ‘I know you will. I have to get back now to see that everything is all right. It’s the opening night tomorrow, remember . . . ?’ she began edging towards the door, and he moved suddenly, his face beaming.

  ‘Of course,’ he walked up to her and hugged her exuberantly. ‘Once all that’s over, we can concentrate on us, right?’

  Alicia, who’d frozen in terror as he’d swept her into his arms, managed to nod. She pulled out of his arms, moved to the door, stuttered goodbye and all but ran into the street. Her heart was racing.

  One thing was now sure. She would have to talk to the Earl of Warrington. He must be told about Rupert’s . . . relapse.

  When she got back to her room in St Bede’s, she attacked the ring on her finger with ferocious force. Even if she had to break her finger, she was going to remove the ring before the night was over . . .

  * * *

  Davina climbed out of the seat of the self-drive removal van Gareth had hired and jumped lithely on to the rain-washed path. For the next few hours they worked together with quiet concentration as they got the furniture settled into the cottage.

  ‘Let’s break for tea, shall we?’ he said, as the clock he’d hung carefully on the wall five minutes ago showed him it was nearing four o’clock.

  ‘Where ever I may roam, all of civilised England still stops at four o’clock for tea and crumpets,’ she mocked.

  ‘Don’t knock it,’ Gareth growled at her, leaning his dusty arms across the top of one of the shelves as he got his breath back. ‘I’ve got a thermos in the van.’ He retrieved it and set up the tea things. Something about the sight of him, sitting at the table in the middle of the cosy kitchen, made her heart contract. Perhaps it was because she’d never thought of any man, complete with hearth and home, as being her destiny. Or perhaps it was because she knew she would never see him like this again. Relaxed. Happy. Innocent. Whole.

  Gareth raised his steaming beaker. ‘To “Spindlewood”, and all who live in ’er,’ he toasted.

  Forcing back a wave of guilt that seemed to rock her, she accepted the mug. ‘Why Spindlewood?’ she asked, looking around her.

  ‘Because of all the Spindlewood bushes that are growing wild in the jungle out there,’ he nodded to the wild, overgrown garden outside the kitchen window.

  Solemnly she clinked her beaker against his. He was calling their cottage ‘Spindlewood’. The thought was like the pang of an abscessed tooth. Because she knew she would never live here. The dream that had led him to buy and name this cottage was a dream that was as far beyond her reach as . . . as . . . living on the moon.

  ‘It’ll get dark early, the weather being so bad today,’ she forced herself to change the subject, and glanced out at the dark lowering clouds that skulked across the sky. She simply couldn’t tell him that she’d be leaving. Soon.

  She’d woken that morning knowing that, for the first time in her life, there was something that she couldn’t face. And that was being with him, as a trusted lover, when his world fell apart. And watching his face as he realised who had engineered it all . . .

  Coward. A word she’d never thought would ever be applied to her. But his love had turned her into a coward. Ironic to think that, before he was even aware they were at war, he should win such a major victory and never even know it.

  But then, perhaps, after all, it
was only poetic justice. Nemesis, the goddess of retribution, had an even-handed way of doling out her punishments. She would have to write a poem dedicated to her by way of a ‘thank you for the lesson’, Davina mused sadly.

  Davina sighed deeply and rubbed the back of her neck. She heard him get up and knew exactly what he was going to do. If she had any sense at all, she’d stop him. ‘Hmmm . . .’ she murmured blissfully, as his fingers pushed her own aside and began to knead with surprising firmness and accuracy.

  If only . . . If only she didn’t love him.

  If only she didn’t hate him.

  ‘Life gets complicated,’ she said quietly.

  She felt the fingers on her neck pause, then once again begin their firm, caressing, circular movements. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m not moving in here,’ Davina said flatly.

  The fingers didn’t hesitate.

  ‘Why not?’ Gareth said mildly.

  ‘Because it’s not a good idea. Believe me.’

  Still, Gareth said nothing. He looked down at the top of her spiky blonde head, feeling the smoothness of her flesh beneath his. Warm. Melting now, under the ministrations of his fingers. ‘All right,’ he said quietly. But he was not giving up.

  Davina felt a trickle of something run down her spine. Not unease, exactly. But something . . . perhaps a warning. Something that told her never to underestimate this man. For all his gentleness, his sensitivity, his sophistication, she sensed a male power that, for all her experience of men, she’d never encountered before. She leaned back and looked up at him, her green eyes flashing like fire. ‘You’re up to something,’ she said, more as a statement of fact, than an accusation.

  Gareth looked down at her. ‘No,’ he responded softly. ‘Unless you call patience being up to something.’

  Patience. Davina shivered. Yes. He had a lot of patience. And for all her own ferocity, for all her own passion, for all her own ruthlessness, she had the sudden premonition that, in the end, it was going to be Gareth’s patience that undid her.