Almost a crime, p.61
Almost a Crime, page 61
‘No!’
‘Well, tell me what it is, then.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with you. You as a woman. I still think you’re one of the sexiest women I’ve ever known.’
‘Gabriel, please don’t. Don’t try and humour me. Flatter me . . .’ Her eyes were full of tears again. ‘The fact is, however you dress it up, I’ve made a hash of our relationship, our time together and – oh, God . . .’
Gabriel put his arm round her. ‘You may have made a hash of it,’ he said gently, ‘but so have I, for God’s sake. I’ve been brought here, to this glorious place, by a beautiful and sexy woman and done nothing but whinge about it. Most men would think I was off my trolley. I can hardly believe it myself. I regret it terribly. But it has nothing at all to do with you, how I feel about you.’
‘Oh, Gabriel, of course it reflects on how you feel about me. You’ve hardly made love to me since we got here.’
‘Yes, well, you can blame the sun for that. I’ve been feeling lousy most of the time. Chronic headache. Agonising skin. Sick. Sore throat.’
‘Yes, all right,’ she said. ‘I get the idea.’
‘Sorry. Nor does it mean I don’t like you.’
‘How could you like me? When you see me so clearly?’
‘I haven’t told you some other things I see in you.’
‘Do I really want to know?’
‘Yes, you do. You’re hugely intelligent. You have a great and engaging capacity for enjoying things. You’re curious, interested, generous. Thoughtful, kind—’
‘Oh, stop it,’ she said, laughing.
‘In a minute. And beautiful, as I said, and very, very sexy, as I said. Nobody’s perfect, Octavia. Stop trying to be.’
‘I don’t suppose you can remember what I said about you,’ she said. She was smiling now, through her tears.
‘I can. Self-centred, self-satisfied, paranoid, immature – those were a few of them.’
‘Ah. Well . . .’
‘Anyway, for whatever reason, we clearly have to kiss and part and know we’re not meant for each other. Not really. Not for more than – well, more than a few days.’
‘If that,’ she said and smiled again.
‘Well, in a cold climate, maybe. But the real thing is – well . . .’
‘Yes?’ she said. ‘What is the real thing? As you put it. Apart from a basic incompatibility?’
‘The real thing is,’ he said simply, after a long pause, ‘you’re still in love with your husband.’
‘Marianne, this is Nico.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘hallo.’
It was very good to hear his voice; she had missed him more than she would have admitted. Missed the nonsense, the attention, the affection. Missed him. But . . .
‘I – wonder if you’d like to have dinner with me.’
He sounded different; rather low, less sure of himself.
‘Well, I – Nico, the thing is . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I really can’t.’
He sighed. ‘Hot date with your delinquent children?’
‘No, it’s not that.’
‘Tomorrow, then?’
‘No. Not tomorrow, either.’
A silence. Then, ‘Am I to deduce from this you’re trying to avoid me? On a longterm basis?’
‘I—’ She hesitated, then gathering her courage said, ‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘I see.’ The voice became icy suddenly; changed in a way she would not have thought possible. Terrifyingly, it reminded her of Alec’s. ‘And would you like to tell me what has brought about this change of heart? Was it something I did? Was I not quick enough, getting you down to London on Sunday morning? Did I not express sufficient sympathy with you over your domestic tribulations?’
‘Nico, no, of course not, it’s nothing like that. You were wonderful. It’s just that I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.’
‘About?’
‘About—’ She hesitated. ‘Felix.’
‘Felix!’
‘Yes. You see, I feel, whatever I may have said, I . . .’
‘Yes. Do go on. Whatever you may have said?’
‘I feel that I still owe him my loyalty,’ she said.
‘Loyalty! Well, that’s very amusing. Very amusing indeed. Let me tell you, Marianne, Felix Miller doesn’t have the faintest idea of the meaning of the word. Or honour. Or decency. Any of those things.’
‘Nico—’
‘The man is a bastard. A conniving, unscrupulous bastard. Who just happens to be in love with his own daughter.’
‘Nico, stop it! Don’t talk about Felix like that.’
‘I shall talk about him how I bloody well please. And I find it deeply distressing that you should place him before me in your priorities, Marianne. Deeply. Well, you are most welcome to one another. You will receive no more opposition from me. Good morning to you.’
The phone went dead. Marianne burst into tears.
Octavia stared at Gabriel. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ she said. She felt very hot suddenly, and her mouth was dry. ‘Of course I’m not still in love with Tom. I loathe him.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Gabriel, I do. Every time I think about him I feel sick. What he did – not just having an affair, but having an affair with my best friend—’
‘Who is clearly a complete nutcase.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Quite a lot. He got trapped. Very nastily trapped.’
‘And that makes it all right, does it? Gabriel, please. I don’t think I like the turn this conversation is taking. One man defending another, poor chap didn’t really mean any harm . . .’
‘I’m not saying that. Not really. Look,’ he said, taking her hand, ‘I think I can understand how you felt. It was a double betrayal. Very ugly, very hard to bear. It turned your life into a sort of minefield. What, where, who next.’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘it was exactly that.’
‘The fact remains,’ he said, ‘you’re still in love with him. I know you are. He’s what you really want, he’s right for you, right for your life. You hate what he did. You don’t hate him.’
‘Gabriel, I do.’
He shrugged. ‘All right. I won’t argue any more. But I shall wait for news of you with more than usual interest. Now what are we going to do with our last day? It would be nice to enjoy it.’
‘You can’t enjoy it, can you?’ she said, her voice irritable. ‘You hate it here, you hate the sun, you feel rotten—’
‘I don’t feel rotten today,’ he said, ‘actually. I slept much better last night. Once we’d finished our little – exchange. Maybe I’m getting used to it. Maybe if we stayed for another week—’
‘We can’t possibly do that,’ she said quickly.
‘Why not? Is someone coming over to take the cottage?’
‘No. But I have to get back to work.’
‘I was only teasing you. Of course we have to get back.’
He looked at her thoughtfully; she was sitting hunched up now, sifting sand through her fingers, not looking at him. The body language was interesting: defensive, watchful, self-aware.
‘You’ll be going ahead with the divorce, then, when you get back?’ he said lightly.
‘Oh – absolutely, yes. Look, let’s not talk about that. Is there anything at all you’ve enjoyed that you’d like to do again?’
‘Just stay here,’ he said, ‘swim, snorkel, snooze, talk. Maybe have dinner at that nice place just along the beach. That would be lovely. A lovely day.’
‘Oh, dear,’ she said, ‘maybe if I’d let you do that every day, we’d still be happy together. Don’t look at me like that, I’m only joking. We’d better get on with it, then. Our happy last day. Shall I go and get the snorkelling things?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘only give me a kiss first. And if you don’t hate me too much, the idea of a siesta seems a pretty nice ingredient. For our happy last day. Or would that offend you?’
‘I’m really sorry,’ she said simply, her face very serious as she looked at him, ‘but I think it would. Well, not offend me. But I – well, I don’t feel I could be very wholehearted about it now. It’s hard to explain.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘I understand. And I’m not offended. Yes, go and get the snorkels. And that dreadful thick white stuff that seems to stop me getting burned.’
He watched her as she walked up the beach. He knew he was right. She was still in love with Tom Fleming. It was going to be agony for her to have to recognise it even, but the simple fact remained: she was.
CHAPTER 42
‘You must be thrilled,’ said Pattie David. Her plain face was flushed as she looked at Sandy, her sweet smile slightly strained. ‘I mean that she’s getting better so – so quickly.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Sandy. ‘Of course I am.’
He longed to say he wasn’t thrilled, that he was horrified at the prospect of Louise being home in less than a fortnight. But he couldn’t explain. It really wasn’t on.
‘Well – if you want to pop in next week again, after your visit, we’d love to see you.’
‘Thanks. Yes. That’d be very nice. If we have time.’ He really mustn’t get too much in the habit of coming here, enjoying her – her and Megan’s – company. It would have to stop all too soon.
‘No, if you don’t have time, I shall understand.’
She looked hurt; he couldn’t bear it, hurried to reassure her.
‘No, no, we’d love it. Let’s make that a definite. Tea, if that’s all right. We’ll probably take Louise out to lunch again. She enjoyed that today.’
She had: sitting there, smiling in the sunshine in the garden of a pub, cuddling Dickon endlessly, flirting – that was the only word for it – with him. She obviously had decided he was what she wanted – for now. And she was working on it. Working on making him want her. He thought of her being at home again, thought of her being in the house, in every room, not being able to get away from her, thought of the horror if she wanted to share his bed, have sex with him, and felt physically sick. How was he going to stand it, what was he going to do?
‘Oh – hi,’ said Octavia. Her voice she knew sounded odd: strained and shaky, not the cool, controlled one she would have hoped for. She felt shaky altogether; her hand had had difficulty turning the key in the lock and the twenty-pound note had shaken rather humiliatingly as she handed it to the cab driver. Absurd really to be so nervous: but it wasn’t nervousness at all, of course, it was simply stress. She had done her best with her appearance, had cleaned her teeth, changed her T-shirt, done her make-up, sprayed on some perfume at the airport: but she still felt frowsty, somehow grubby. And sick. And very tired. She had not slept at all.
She didn’t care in the least what she looked like, of course: not for Tom anyway. She had no desire to impress or to please him. She wanted only to proceed with the divorce. She had given it a great deal of thought, particularly on the journey home, and there really was no option. She could not continue to live with someone she didn’t trust; it was unthinkable.
No, the only reason she wanted to look – well, reasonable – was that her mood was always affected by her appearance. She wanted to feel confident and in control, from the moment she walked in the door, and she couldn’t do that if she was looking scruffy. She never had been able to.
And somehow, Tom being in the hall, looking far from scruffy, dressed in a collarless white shirt and jeans, and his deck shoes, rattled her, dislodged her. She had expected – hoped actually – that he wouldn’t be there at all. If he had been there, then she had thought he would have stayed in his study, doing whatever it was. Not come down the stairs to greet her. It was disconcerting. She wished he hadn’t.
‘Hi,’ he said, taking her bag. ‘Good trip?’
‘Very. Thank you.’
She smiled at him. That was all right. Ideally, she would like them to be friends. Not close friends, that was impossible. But – well, friends was essential for the children.
‘You look very good.’
‘Tom, I don’t! I’ve been awake all night.’
‘Well, all right, you don’t.’ He smiled back at her. ‘I know better than to argue. Do you want anything to eat?’
‘Oh – no. No, thank you. I feel sick.’
‘Coffee, then?’
‘Yes. That would be nice. Where’s Caroline?’
‘She’s taken Minty for a short walk. We didn’t expect you quite so soon. Your plane must have been very prompt.’
‘It was. And there’s no traffic, of course.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘I’m going to have a shower. Then I’ll come down and have a coffee. Are you going to be here for a bit?’
‘Yes. Of course. Why shouldn’t I be? It’s Sunday.’
‘I know but—’
Somehow she’d thought he’d at least be going out. Not sitting there, in the house, as if – well as if things were normal. All right, even.
‘But what?’
‘Oh – nothing. Look, I’ll go on up.’
She walked rather wearily upstairs. She didn’t feel as if she’d had a holiday at all, felt worn out. That in itself was disappointing. Maybe tomorrow . . .
She felt better when she’d had her shower. She put on a white polo shirt and some shorts, and then pulled out the bag of dirty washing from her luggage, so that she could put it in the linen basket. As she tipped it in, a shower of sand fell out with it: Bajan sand. It had travelled back with her: along with her disappointment, her despair at herself, a sorry souvenir. She remembered lying on that sand the day before with Gabriel, agreeing that their relationship was not to be the joyful thing she had hoped for, that she had set her heart on, that would restore her self-confidence and her faith in herself, something that meant she could face Tom, bid farewell to him and her marriage feeling desirable and fearless again, but a sad shadow of a love affair. Suddenly, foolishly, she missed Gabriel, in spite of everything: wanted him back with her. They had parted, tenderly, quite cheerfully, even, at the airport; he had promised to ring her in a few weeks.
‘Not too soon, it might be painful. But after that: well, I hope we can be friends. And there’s Bartles Wood to settle, of course.’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘And one day I’d like to meet your dad. Your legendary dad.’
‘I won’t say you’d like him, because you probably wouldn’t.’
‘I thought you adored him?’
‘I do. But he is very – difficult.’
‘And – good luck with everything. With Tom . . .’
‘You mean the divorce.’
‘Yes, all right. With the divorce.’
So foolish: his insistence that she still loved Tom. Absurd. A measure of their incompatibility really.
‘Well – thank you, Octavia. For a lovely week.’
‘You don’t mean that,’ she had said, laughing.
‘I do. There were lovely bits, every day. And whatever I said, Barbados is a much more interesting and beautiful place than I imagined. Like you,’ he had added.
His words came back to her now and she felt very near to tears. Don’t, Octavia, just don’t. Don’t be silly.
She pushed the rest of her washing into the basket and went downstairs. Tom was waiting for her with a large pot of coffee and some orange juice.
‘Here you are. The coffee’s really strong.’
‘Thank you. I wish Minty would come back. I missed her so much. And I miss the twins. Any news from them?’
‘No, they haven’t rung. They’ll be home on Friday.’
‘Yes.’
‘So – it was a success, was it?’
‘Yes, of course it was,’ she said, irritable at the implication. ‘The weather was perfect and I saw lots of friends.’
‘Sounds good. Did you go to Crane?’
‘Of course.’ He always liked Crane best; they had once made love there early in their marriage, in the small beach beyond the bay, in the shelter of a cave. She could remember it still, so vividly; they had been surfing, riding the waves, laughing as they were swept in on them, and afterwards he had looked at her as they lay exhausted on the hot white sand and leaned over and kissed her and said, ‘Come on, let’s go for a walk.’ She had known what he meant, had felt a stab of pleasure, of anticipation and had taken his hand and they had run along the beach, scrambling over the rocks and the rough steps at the end, and into the next cove, grateful for its desertedness, frantic now for each other. They had gone into a small cave, tearing off their clothes, lain down on the damp sand, and she had taken him into her at once, into her wet, greedy self, the taste and sound of the sea mingling with the taste of Tom and the sound of her own pleasure, looking out from the cave afterwards at the dazzling, blazing sky, watching the waves rising, gathering, breaking, just like her own orgasm, thinking she had never been so happy.
She looked up at Tom now, met his eyes; he was reliving it too, she could see, and she felt awkward, discomfited by the shared, vivid memory, of the pleasure, the happiness, the desire for one another, sex by proxy, remembering too his words after that, knowing he would be remembering them too. ‘I shall never forget this,’ he had said, kissing her bare breasts, ‘never, as long as I live, and no matter what happens to us.’ And it was if she was naked there in front of him now, pleasured by him, not neatly dressed for Sunday breakfast, not hating him, not betrayed by him at all.
‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. And how was Elvira?’
‘Fine. She sent her love.’ She was back in the kitchen now, hating him; even passing someone else’s love on was difficult, she didn’t want to do it.
‘Thank you.’
‘So what have you been doing? Given that you weren’t in Tuscany. So silly, me thinking that.’
‘Extremely silly,’ he said.
‘Not that it really mattered.’
‘Didn’t it?’
There was something in his voice that startled her: something raw, something angry.
‘It mattered to me, Octavia. It mattered a lot. That you should think I would have – well, I was very upset about it.’
