by Ken Follett
“Couldn’t you have found a more tactful way of saying so?”
“I think she’s probably oblivious to hints.”
He looked annoyed and defensive. “Well, you’re wrong. She’s actually a sensitive person, although she seems brash.”
“It doesn’t matter, anyway.”
“How can it not matter? You’ve just offended one of my oldest friends!”
The barmaid brought Diana’s brandy. She drank some quickly to steel her nerve. Mark ordered a glass of Guinness. Diana said: “It doesn’t matter because I’ve changed my mind about this whole thing, and I’m not coming to America with you.”
He went pale. “You can’t mean that.”
“I’ve been thinking. I don’t want to go. I’m going back to Mervyn—if he’ll have me.” But she felt sure he would.
“You don’t love him. You told me that. And I know it’s true.”
“What do you know? You’ve never been married.” He looked hurt, and she softened. She put her hand on his knee. “You’re right. I don’t love Mervyn the way I love you.” She felt ashamed of herself, and took her hand away. “But it’s no good.”
“I’ve been paying too much attention to Lulu,” Mark said penitently. “I’m sorry, honey. I apologize. I guess I got wrapped up in her because it’s so long since last I saw her. I’ve been ignoring you. This is our big adventure, and I forgot that for an hour. Please forgive me.”
He was sweet when he felt he had been wrong: he had a sorrowful expression that looked boyish. Diana forced herself to remember how she had been feeling an hour ago. “It’s not just Lulu,” she said. “I think I’ve been foolhardy.”
The barmaid brought Mark’s drink but he did not touch it.
Diana went on. “I’ve left everything I know: home, husband, friends and country. I’m on a flight across the Atlantic, which is dangerous in itself. And I’m going to a strange country where I have no friends, no money, nothing.”
Mark looked distraught. “Oh, God, I see what I’ve done. I abandoned you just when you were feeling vulnerable. Baby, I feel such a horse’s ass. I promise I’ll never do that again.”
Perhaps he would keep such a promise, and perhaps he would not. He was loving, but he was also easygoing. It was not in him to stick to a plan. He was sincere now, but would he remember his vow next time he ran into an old friend? It was his playful attitude to life that had attracted Diana in the first place; and now, ironically, she saw that that very attitude made him unreliable. One thing you could say for Mervyn was that he was reliable: good or bad, his habits never changed.
“I don’t feel I can rely on you,” she said.
He looked angry. “When have I ever let you down?”
She could not think of an instance. “You will, though,” she said.
“Anyway, you want to leave all these things behind. You’re unhappy with your husband, your country’s at war, and you’re bored with your home and your friends—you told me that.”
“Bored, but not frightened.”
“There’s nothing to be frightened of. America is like England. People speak the same language, go to the same movies, listen to the same jazz bands. You’re going to love it. I’ll take care of you, I promise.”
She wished she could believe him.
“And there’s another thing,” he went on. “Children.”
That shaft went home. She did so long to have a baby, and Mervyn was adamant that he would not. Mark would be such a good father, loving and happy and tender. Now she felt confused, and her determination weakened. Maybe she should give up everything, after all. What was home and security to her if she could not have a family?
But what if Mark were to abandon her halfway to California? Suppose another Lulu turned up in Reno, just after the divorce, and Mark went off with her? Diana would be stranded with no husband, no children, no money and no home.
She wished now that she had been slower to say yes to him. Instead of throwing her arms around him and agreeing to everything right away, she should have discussed the future carefully and thought of all the snags. She should have asked for some kind of security, even just the price of a ticket home, in case things went wrong. But that might have offended him, and anyway it was going to take more than a ticket to get across the Atlantic once the war started in earnest.
I don’t know what I should have done, she thought miserably, but it’s too late for regrets. I’ve made my decision and I won’t be talked out of it.
Mark took her hands in his own, and she was too sad to withdraw them. “You changed your mind once. Now change it back,” he said persuasively. “Come with me, and be my wife, and we’ll have children together. We’ll live in a house right on the beach, and take our toddlers paddling in the waves. They’ll be blond and suntanned, and grow up playing tennis and surfing and riding bicycles. How many kids would you like? Two? Three? Six?”
But her moment of weakness had passed. “It’s no good, Mark,” she said wistfully. “I’m going back home.”
She could see from his eyes that now he believed her. They looked at one another sadly. For a while neither of them spoke.
Then Mervyn walked in.
Diana could not believe her eyes. She stared at him as if he were a ghost. He could not be here. It was impossible!
“So there you are,” he said in his familiar baritone voice.
Diana was swamped by contrary emotions. She was appalled, thrilled, frightened, relieved, embarrassed and ashamed. She realized her husband was looking at her holding hands with another man. She snatched her hands out of Mark’s grasp.
Mark said: “What is it? What’s the matter?”
Mervyn came up to their table and stood with his hands on his hips, staring at them.
Mark said: “Who the hell is this jerk?”
“Mervyn,” Diana said weakly.
“Christ Jesus!”
Diana said: “Mervyn ... how did you get here?”
“Flew,” he said with his customary terseness.
She saw he was wearing a leather jacket and carrying a helmet. “But ... but how did you know where to find us?”
“Your letter said you were flying to America, and there’s only one way to do that,” he said with a note of triumph.
She could see that he was pleased with himself for having worked out where she was and intercepted her, somewhat against the odds. She had never imagined he could catch up with them in his own plane: it had simply never occurred to her. She found herself weak with gratitude to him for caring enough to chase after her this way.
He sat down opposite them. “Bring me a large Irish whiskey,” he called to the barmaid.
Mark picked up his beer glass and sipped nervously. Diana looked at him. At first he had seemed intimidated by Mervyn, but now he evidently realized Mervyn was not going to start a fistfight, and he just looked uneasy. He moved his chair back from the table an inch, as if to distance himself from Diana. Perhaps he too felt ashamed at being caught holding hands.
Diana drank some brandy to give her strength. Mervyn was watching her anxiously. His expression of bewilderment and hurt made her want to throw herself into his arms. He had come all this way without knowing what sort of reception he would get. She reached out and touched his arm reassuringly.
To her surprise, he looked uncomfortable and threw a worried glance at Mark, as if he felt disconcerted at being touched by his wife in front of her lover. His Irish whiskey came and he drank it quickly. Mark looked wounded, and moved his chair closer to the table again.
Diana felt flustered. She had never been in a situation like this. They both loved her. She had been to bed with both of them—and they both knew it. It was unbearably embarrassing. She wanted to comfort them both, but she was afraid to. Feeling defensive, she leaned back, putting more space between herself and them. “Mervyn,” she said, “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
He looked hard at her. “I believe you,” he said evenly.
“Do you ...
? Can you understand what happened?”
“I can grasp the broad outlines, simple soul though I am,” he said sarcastically. “You’ve run off with your fancy man.” He looked at Mark and leaned toward him aggressively. “An American, I gather, the weedy type who’ll let you have your own way.”
Mark leaned back and said nothing, but stared intently at Mervyn. Mark was not a confronter. He did not look offended, just intrigued. Mervyn had been a major figure in Mark’s life, although they had never met. All these months Mark must have been consumed with curiosity about the man Diana slept with every night. Now he was finding out, and he was fascinated. Mervyn, by contrast, was not the least interested in Mark.
Diana watched the two men. They could hardly have been more different. Mervyn was tall, aggressive, bitter, nervy; Mark was small, neat, alert, open-minded. The thought occurred to her that Mark would probably use this scene in a comedy script one day.
Her eyes were heavy with tears. She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “I know I’ve been imprudent,” she said.
“Imprudent!” Mervyn snapped, mocking the inadequacy of the word. “You’ve been bloody daft.”
Diana winced. His scorn always cut her to the quick. But on this occasion she deserved it.
The barmaid and the two men in the corner were following the conversation with unabashed interest. Mervyn waved to the barmaid and called out: “Could I have a plate of ham sandwiches, love?”
“With pleasure,” she said politely. Barmaids always liked Mervyn.
Diana said: “I just ... I’ve been so miserable lately. I was only looking for a little happiness.”
“Looking for happiness! In America—where you’ve no friends, no relations, no home.... Where’s your sense?”
She was grateful to him for coming, but she wished he would be kinder. She felt Mark’s hand on her shoulder. “Don’t listen to him,” he said quietly. “Why shouldn’t you be happy? There’s nothing wrong with that.”
She looked fearfully at Mervyn, afraid of offending him further. He might yet reject her. How humiliating it would be if he should spurn her in front of Mark (and, she thought in the back of her mind, while the horrible Lulu Bell was on the scene). He was capable of it: that was the kind of thing he did. She wished now that he had not followed her. It meant he would have to make a spot decision. Given more time, she could have soothed his wounded pride. This was too rushed. She picked up her glass and put it to her lips, then set it down untasted. “I don’t want this,” she said.
Mark said: “I expect you’d like a cup of tea.”
That was just what she wanted. “Yes, I’d love it.”
Mark went to the bar and ordered it.
Mervyn would never have done that: to his way of thinking, tea was got by women. He gave Mark a look of contempt. “Is that what’s wrong with me?” he asked her angrily. “I don’t fetch your tea—is that it? You want me to be housemaid as well as breadwinner?” His sandwiches came but he did not eat any.
Diana did not know how to answer him. “There’s no need for a row,” she said softly.
“No need for a row? When is there need for one, then, if not now? You run off with this little pillock, without saying goodbye, leaving me a silly bloody note....” He took a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and Diana recognized her letter. She blushed scarlet, feeling humiliated. She had shed tears over that note: how could he wave it about in a bar? She moved back from him, feeling resentful.
The tea came and Mark picked up the pot. He looked at Mervyn and said: “Would you like a cup of tea poured by a little pillock?” The two Irishmen in the comer burst out laughing, but Mervyn glared stonily and said nothing.
Diana began to feel angry with him. “I may be bloody daft, Mervyn, but I’ve got a right to be happy.”
He pointed an accusing finger at her. “You made a vow when you married me and you’ve no right to leave.”
She felt mad with frustration. He was so completely unyielding. It was like explaining something to a block of wood. Why couldn’t he be reasonable? Why did he have to be so damn certain he was always right and everyone else was wrong?
Suddenly she realized this feeling was very familiar. She had had it about once a week for five years. During the last few hours, in her panic on the plane, she had forgotten how awful he could be, and how unhappy he could make her. Now it all came back like the horror of a remembered nightmare.
Mark said: “She can do what she likes, Mervyn. You can’t make her do a single thing. She’s a grown-up. If she wants to go home with you, she will. And if she wants to come to America and marry me, she’ll do that.”
Mervyn banged his fist on the table. “She can’t marry you. She’s already married to me!”
“She can divorce you.”
“On what grounds?”
“You don’t need grounds in Nevada.”
Mervyn turned his angry eyes on Diana. “You’re not going to Nevada. You’re coming back to Manchester with me.”
She looked at Mark. He smiled gently at her. “You don’t have to obey anyone,” he said. “Do what you want.”
Mervyn said: “Get your coat on.”
In his blundering way, Mervyn had given Diana back her sense of proportion. She now saw her fear of the flight and her anxieties about living in America as minor worries by comparison with the all-important question: Who did she want to live with? She loved Mark, and Mark loved her, and all other considerations were marginal. A tremendous sense of relief came over her as she made her decision and announced it to the two men who loved her. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mervyn,” she said. “I’m going with Mark.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Nancy Lenehan enjoyed a minute of jubilation as she looked down from Mervyn Lovesey’s Tiger Moth and saw the Pan American Clipper floating majestically on the calm water of the Shannon estuary.
The odds had been against her, but she had caught up with her brother and foiled at least part of his plan. You’ve got to get up very early in the morning to outsmart Nancy Lenehan, she thought, in a rare moment of self-congratulation.
Peter was going to have the shock of his life when he saw her.
As the little yellow plane circled, and Mervyn searched for a place to land, Nancy began to feel tense about the forthcoming confrontation with her brother. She still found it hard to believe that he had deceived and betrayed her with such complete ruthlessness. How could he? As children they had been bathed together. She had put Band-Aids on his knees, told him how babies were made, and always given him a chew of her gum. She had kept his secrets and told him her own. After they grew up she had nursed his ego, never letting him be embarrassed because she was so much smarter even though she was a girl.
All their lives she had taken care of him. And when Pa died she had allowed Peter to become chairman of the company. That had cost her dearly. Not only had she suppressed her own ambition to make way for him: at the same time she had stifled a budding romance; for Nat Ridgeway, Pa’s deputy, had resigned when Peter took charge. Whether anything would have come of that romance, she would never know, for Ridgeway had since married.
Her friend and lawyer, Mac MacBride, had advised her not to let Peter be chairman, but she had gone against his counsel, and her own best interests, because she knew how wounded Peter would be that people thought he was not fit to fill his father’s shoes. When she remembered all she had done for him, and then thought of how he had tried to cheat her and lie to her, she wanted to weep with resentment and rage.
She was desperately impatient to find him and stand in front of him and look into his eyes. She wanted to know how he would act and what he would say to her.
She was also eager to join battle. Her catching up with Peter was only the first step. She had to get on the plane. That might be straightforward; but if the Clipper was full, she would have to try to buy someone else’s seat, or use her charm on the captain, or even bribe her way on board. When she got to Boston, she had to
persuade the minority shareholders, her aunt Tilly and her father’s old lawyer, Danny Riley, to refuse to sell their holdings to Nat Ridgeway. She felt she could do that, but Peter would not give up without a fight, and Nat Ridgeway was a formidable opponent.
Mervyn brought the plane down on a farm track at the edge of the little village. In an uncharacteristic display of good manners, he helped Nancy get out and climb down onto the ground. As she set foot on Irish soil for the second time she thought of her father who, although he talked constantly of the old country, never actually went there. She felt that was sad. He would have been pleased to know that his children had made it to Ireland. But it would have broken his heart to know how the company that had been his life had been run down by his son. Better that he was not here to see that.
Mervyn roped the plane down. Nancy was relieved to leave it behind. Pretty though it was, it had almost killed her. She still shivered every time she remembered flying toward that cliff. She did not intend to get into a small plane again for the rest of her life.
They walked briskly into the village, following a horse-drawn wagon loaded with potatoes. Nancy could tell that Mervyn, too, was feeling a mixture of triumph and apprehension. Like her, he had been deceived and betrayed, and had refused to take it lying down; and like her, he got great satisfaction from defying the expectations of those who had plotted against him. But for both of them the real challenge was still ahead.
A single street led through Foynes. Halfway along it they met a group of well-dressed people who could only be Clipper passengers: they looked as if they had wandered onto the wrong set at a film studio. Mervyn approached them and said: “I’m looking for Mrs. Diana Lovesey—I believe she’s a passenger on the Clipper.”
“She sure is!” said one of the women; and Nancy recognized the movie star Lulu Bell. There was a note in her voice that suggested she did not like Mrs. Lovesey. Once again Nancy wondered what Mervyn’s wife was like. Lulu Bell went on. “Mrs. Lovesey and her—companion?—went into a bar just along the street here.”
