“Really?” I turned round and pulled the curtain open a crack. I saw that the room overlooked the car park. “Are they out there now?”
“I think so.” He came over and stood beside me. “The Peugeot in the corner over there.”
I followed his gaze. I didn’t know which car he meant, and I didn’t inquire further, but the idea that there was someone out there watching us gave me a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Who is it?”
“A journalist, I think. And . . . well, I don’t want them to see us together. Not in the circumstances.”
“I can understand that.”
“I hear your husband’s representing Evan.” There was a tone of hurt surprise in his voice.
“Yes.” I paused. “That’s what we had the row about.”
Gwydion put his hand on my shoulder. I could feel that it was trembling slightly.
I didn’t want to push it away, so instead I got up, with the intention of finding another place to sit, farther away from him. But when I looked around the room there wasn’t anywhere else, except the bed. So I sat on that, on the edge, bolt upright.
Gwydion stood by the window and looked down at me. I looked up at him, a safe distance away, my eyes adjusting to the light. He hadn’t shaved, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. His lips looked red, as though he’d been biting them. Bruised, even. He had a hunted, haunted look on his face.
I gazed down at the floor. Anything not to look at him standing in front of the window, so close, so real, the light framing his dark head like a halo.
Gwydion responded to my body language, checking himself, as though reminding himself of his manners.
“Can I get you anything?” He gestured at a tray in the corner, with a kettle, two cups, and a neatly arranged array of sachets beside it.
“No, thank you.” I continued to stare at the floor.
He sighed deeply. Then he came and sat down beside me. I froze.
He put his arm around me.
“Jessica. Stop pretending,” he said. “I know why you’re here.”
“I need to talk to you . . .” I began. “There are some facts I need to find out more about . . .”
He didn’t contradict me. Instead he put his other arm around me and pulled me gently to him. Then he put his hand under my chin, turned my face toward his, and kissed me on the mouth. And I kissed him back. Hard.
I don’t quite understand what happened next. It was sudden, as if a dam had burst and the water had come flooding out. Like a dream, but very real. My tongue was in his mouth, and his in mine, angry, fighting, fierce, like snakes darting between the rocks, looking for a place to hide. The red and yellow checks began to dance in front of my eyes. We rolled over onto the bed, me on top of him, him on top of me. His clothes, my clothes, were pulled away, up, down, around. I can remember body parts coming at me thick and fast, each one a discovery: a belly, a nipple, a thigh; and then they began to come two by two, marching armies of cheeks, lips, ears, armpits, buttocks; and after that the roar of the sea began to throb in my ear, and I closed my eyes, and Gwydion closed his.
And that was when it should have happened. But it didn’t. Because, as he reached inside my top, his hand brushed against a tiny button in the center of my bra and quickly drew back, so that in the midst of it all, I suddenly remembered who he was—a sensitive, traumatized young man, who’d come to me for help. And who I was, a mature, experienced woman who should have known better than to be flailing about with him on the red-and-yellow-checked counterpane of a bed in a Travelodge on the M4, with the curtains drawn against the afternoon light. And a Peugeot parked outside, with a driver inside it who was watching him, and waiting for us to come out.
“I’m sorry, Gwydion,” I said. “I really don’t think we should be doing this.”
“Yes, we should.”
“It’s not right.”
“It is. It’s exactly right.” His voice was a whisper.
I shut my eyes, savoring the moment, then drew gently away.
He looked at me in surprise. “What? What is it?”
“Look, I don’t want to do this.”
“Yes, you do.” There was a pleading look in his eyes. “I know you do.”
“That’s beside the point.” I sat up and began to readjust my clothing. “Your father’s been charged with murder. I might be called in as a witness. It wouldn’t do if people knew.”
“We’ll meet in secret, then.”
I tried another tack. “And I used to be your therapist.”
“You’re not now.”
“Yes, but it’s still not right. And anyway, I’m a married woman. I’ve got a family to think of. If this came out . . .”
He looked crestfallen, and I could see why. I’d given him three good reasons why we shouldn’t have an affair, but none of them sounded convincing. To either of us. And that was because I wasn’t telling the truth. Which was, that between the two of us, it wasn’t a level playing field. He was a vulnerable young person, his fragile state of mind sometimes verging on serious mental illness. I was older, supposedly wiser, more stable. I had a responsibility, a duty, to protect him, but instead, here I was, taking advantage of his weakness.
“I wish you’d told me how you felt before . . . before we . . .”
“I’m sorry.” I didn’t explain myself further. I could have told him the truth, but it would have hurt his pride.
Gwydion got up from the bed. He went over to the window, pushed the curtain aside a little way, and looked out.
“I think I’d better leave first.” He spoke without looking at me.
“OK.”
I watched him as he zipped up his hoody and ran a hand through his hair, glancing at the mirror on the wall before he left.
“Wait at least half an hour,” he said. “And if you’re tailed on the way home, let me know.”
I nodded.
He picked up the keys to his car, which were lying on the bedside table. Then, as he was leaning over me, he paused.
“It’s not . . . ?” he began, then stopped. “It’s not that you don’t . . . ?”
There was an anxious look on his face.
I guessed what he was going to say. “Of course not. I find you very attractive. I’m sure you know that.” I paused. “It’s just that I want to do the right thing. For both of us. That’s all.”
The anxious look subsided a little. “OK. But maybe later, once this is all over.”
“Maybe.” I paused. I wanted to let him down, let myself down, lightly. So I turned my face up to his as he bent over to kiss me.
This time there were no darting snakes. Just a meeting and parting of lips and a soft regret that lingered on for a long time after he was gone.
14
As I was driving back to Cardiff, my phone went off. It plays an annoying little ditty whenever a text message comes in, and I’ve never worked out how to change it. I glanced at the screen and saw that the message was from Nella, so I picked it up and peered at it, thinking that I really should turn off the motorway and stop, but telling myself that this was important, possibly even an emergency. The screen read: Staying overnight in London. Back tomoz. Nella.
I gripped the wheel tighter, and a wave of panic hit me. Not just panic, but guilt. It was entirely irrational to connect the two events—my antics with Gwydion in the Travelodge and Nella’s trip to London for the audition—but I couldn’t help it. In my mind, I instantly became an irresponsible mother, disporting herself with her lover in a cheap motorway hotel, all the while allowing her sixteen-year-old daughter to go up to London alone, to meet an unknown theater producer. Nella had said that Emyr wasn’t going to be at the audition, but now I began to doubt that. She’d been lying to me, obviously. He’d lured her into his net, groomed her, a man who was a possible child molester, who preyed on young girls, who had been sacked for his teaching job because of his behavior. Why had I let her go, I asked myself? What on earth had I been thinking of?
I hadn’t expected Nella to openly defy me like this. She’d never done so before, however much she’d argued her corner. I’d been a fool not to realize that Emyr would influence her, that she’d believe his line about making her a star, or whatever it was he’d told her. And who was this producer, anyway? All I had was his name: Tony Andreou. I should have looked him up on the Internet, found out more about him before Nella and Tamsin left for London.
As soon as I could, I pulled off the motorway, parked the car, and rang Nella back. She didn’t answer, so I tapped out a text on the phone. Instead of ordering her to come home, which I felt might fail, I simply wrote: Please let us know name of hotel and phone number. Reply asap. Mum. Then I called Bob.
He’d obviously seen from his incoming call list that it was me, because his tone was frosty.
“Listen, Bob, we’ve got a problem here.” I didn’t say “emergency.” I didn’t want to panic him. “Nella’s just texted me to say she’s staying overnight in London.”
“But you told her she couldn’t, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“She’s not with that man Emyr, is she?”
“I don’t know. I hope not.” My voice started to quaver.
“Are you all right?” His tone changed to one of concern. “Where are you?”
“Oh, just . . . driving around. I’m on my way home.”
“Well, get here as soon as you can.” He sounded worried. “And then we’ll decide what to do.”
“Right.” I paused. “I’ve texted her to ask where she’s staying. I thought if we knew the name of the hotel, that would be something.”
“Why didn’t you tell her to get home?” There was a note of panic in his voice. “I’ll phone her now. Give her a bloody good talking-to . . .”
“No, Bob. She’s not picking up. And I don’t think that’ll work, anyway. Best just to find out what her plans are and then . . . I don’t know. At least we’ll have an idea where she is.”
I thought for a moment. “Maybe you could get hold of Tamsin’s mother, see if she knows anything.”
I gave him the number of one of Nella’s other friends, so that he could track her down.
“All right. I’ll call you if I find out anything.” He began to sound a little calmer. “But phone me right away if you hear from her, won’t you?”
“Of course.” I paused for a moment. “And, Bob, I’m sorry.” Tears came to my eyes.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, too.” His voice sounded strained.
There was a silence. I could tell that, like me, he was feeling frightened and ashamed. We’d done nothing but argue lately. Maybe that was part of the reason that Nella had defied us. And now, if anything happened to her, it would be our fault.
“See you later.” I clicked the phone off, put it down on the passenger seat, and leaned forward, my brow against the steering wheel. I felt like banging my head against it in frustration, but instead I began to cry. Just then, the phone piped up with its merry roundelay.
I grabbed it, praying that the text would be from Nella. And to my relief it was. All she had written was the address of a hotel in Paddington, but it was enough.
I immediately called Bob back.
“Listen,” I said, “I’ve got the address of the hotel. I’ll drive up there.”
“What, now?”
I hesitated, then made up my mind. It did seem a crazy thing to do, but I was feeling panic-stricken, not only by Nella’s message, but by what had been going on in the Travelodge. “I’ll find the hotel and wait for them there. However long it takes. Then I’ll bring her home.”
There was a pause. “D’you want me to come with you?”
“No, you stay there with Rose. I can manage. I’ll keep my phone on.”
“All right.” He gave a deep sigh. “But take care, won’t you. And keep me informed.”
Keep me informed. That was an expression Nella had picked up from her father, I realized. Hearing it, I thought how much I loved her, and him, and Rose, how much I wanted our family to be together, and safe, and happy. And how stupid I’d been to jeopardize that by losing my temper with Bob, and fooling around like an idiot with Gwydion.
“Will do. See you later.” I clicked off the phone and scrabbled for a tissue in my bag. I took one out, wiped my eyes, and blew my nose. Then I started the engine, turned the car round, and headed up the motorway, this time to London.
When I got there, after an exhausting drive up the M4, I parked the car at the back of Paddington station. The charge per hour was exorbitant, but I told myself this was an emergency. By now, I’d come to the conclusion that Nella was definitely in London with Emyr. On the way up, Bob had texted to say that Tamsin and her mother were back in Cardiff. Nella had told them I’d allowed her to stay on for the audition by herself. She’d lied to them, and to me. I was furious with her, but more than that, I was desperately worried.
I got out of the car and walked down to the hotel. It was a budget bed-and-breakfast in one of those long, white-pillared terraces that border the station, each indistinguishable from the next, although the sign over the front door of this one was somewhat shabbier than most: the sort of place you’d stay in if you didn’t know London at all, didn’t have much money, and were planning to take a train out the next day. Typical of Emyr’s limited imagination, taste, and experience of life, I thought, rather snobbishly perhaps, as I went up the front steps.
The lobby inside was a cramped affair, with a reception desk jutting out into the narrow hallway below a staircase leading up to the rooms. There was no one behind the desk, so I pressed the bell. While I waited, I looked around. There was no sitting room, as far as I could see, just a chair jammed into a corner beside a small table with a pile of cards and leaflets on it, most of them advertising minicabs and taxis. If I was going to have to sit it out until Emyr and Nella came back that night, the lobby of the Park Hotel clearly wasn’t going to be a very comfortable place to while away the hours.
Eventually a young Asian man appeared behind the desk. He looked tired and pale, with a rash of acne on his upper cheeks. I asked him whether he’d had a booking in the name of Griffiths, Emyr Griffiths, for a double room that night, explaining that I needed to contact him urgently. At first he looked at me blankly, but after a while he agreed to check the bookings, scanning a small computer screen on the desk.
“No Griffiths here. Sorry.”
I spelled out the name, just to be sure, but he was adamant.
“No. Nothing.”
“Cadogan, perhaps? Nella Cadogan? It’s possible my daughter might have made the reservation. She’s with Mr. Griffiths.”
The man kept scrolling through the names on the screen.
“No Cadogan.” He didn’t look up as he spoke.
The front door opened and a young woman walked in, dragging a suitcase. She wasn’t much older than Nella, and she seemed to be alone. For a moment, before the door swung shut, the roar of traffic filled the lobby, and I felt a wave of panic mounting inside me. Nella had vanished. She could be anywhere in this big city. I’d lost contact with her. She was with a man, a man I didn’t trust, and she’d gone missing.
“Excuse me a moment,” I said to the man behind the desk. I was surprised at how calm my voice sounded. “I just need to make a call.”
I brought out my mobile phone, which I’d taken to clutching in my pocket, and tapped out a text to Nella. You are not booked in at The Park. I’ve checked. Where are you staying? You MUST let me know right away. Mum.
I waited for her to reply, willing the phone to emit its idiotic jingle. But nothing happened. So I took a pen out of my bag, asked for a slip of paper, and wrote Nella a note. Nella, if you get this, please phone me NOW. I’m in London. Will wait until I hear from you. Dad and I are v. worried about you. Mum.
Then I folded it, wrote her name on it, and gave it back to the clerk. He took it, showing no curiosity, and put it beside the computer.
�
�My daughter is with Mr. Griffiths, I think. If they do come back here, will you make sure she gets it? It’s important.” A pathetic, pleading note had crept into my voice.
He nodded distractedly, still looking at the screen, so I walked toward the door. Before I opened it, I glanced back at the lobby. The girl was bumping her suitcase up the stairs. As I watched her, I wondered how many stories like mine had taken place at this hotel, imagining all the mothers and fathers who might have come here looking for their sons and daughters, and the children themselves, passing through as they took their first tentative steps into adulthood, arriving at this narrow, stuffy hallway with the traffic thundering by outside, climbing up that staircase, and . . .
I went out into the road and let the door swing shut behind me.
For an hour or so I wandered around Paddington, stopping once to have a cup of tea in a nondescript café near the station—or at least, trying to. Once the tea came, I found I couldn’t sit still long enough to drink it, so after a few sips I got up and resumed my aimless walking. I didn’t want to phone Bob, not without any news. And I didn’t want to leave. I was clinging to the idea that Nella was somewhere in the area, that perhaps I might even bump into her. But as twilight turned into evening, and evening to night, I knew full well that wasn’t going to happen.
I began to make my way back toward the car park, not knowing what else to do. I didn’t want to drive home yet, but I thought perhaps that sitting in the car, with the familiar paraphernalia of my life around me, would help me to think straight, come up with a plan of action. On the way there I sent Nella another text, this time adding an ultimatum: Please phone me, Nella. If I don’t hear from you, I’m going to call the police. When I didn’t get a message back, I started to feel sick.
As I walked up Praed Street I passed an Internet café, and an idea occurred to me. Perhaps I could track down this Tony Andreou, find an address for him, and get in touch with Nella that way. I went in. The place seemed to be a meeting point for Arab men, who stood around talking to each other in low voices. They shot me suspicious glances as I walked in, but once I’d found myself a spot, sat down, and logged on, they forgot about me and the talking resumed.
The House on the Cliff Page 16
