by Karen Swan
‘Wanna join us?’ Dev asked, the remote poised in his hand. ‘It’s about a paedophile in the seventies who abducted this girl – twice. Twice! He’d befriended her parents so, the first time, okay, they could be forgiven for not seeing what he was. But the second time . . .? Come on, dude!’
The word quivered in the room for a moment; Dev really wasn’t someone who could pull off the word ‘dude’.
‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice . . .’ Holly muttered.
‘Thanks, Dev, but we’ve got early starts tomorrow.’ Tara gave an apologetic smile. She couldn’t stand here for much longer without Holly sniffing something was off between her and Alex. Her friend had unerring instincts and lived by her hunches, be it for choosing the Grand National winner in the annual sweepstake, predicting the Oscars or diagnosing rare conditions. She was rarely wrong – which was precisely why her words on the Serpentine bridge had been so bruising. ‘You still coming to Sophie’s this weekend?’
‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I?’ Holly replied, looking aggrieved by the question. Sophie, who’d been in halls with them in the first year, was celebrating her twenty-first with a girls’ weekend at an Airbnb near her parents’ farm in Shropshire; it had been in the diary for weeks.
‘No reason. Just checking. I’ll drive, shall I?’ It was a rhetorical question and she instantly regretted it – they both knew perfectly well Holly didn’t have a car – but nerves were making her jumpy.
‘Sure.’ Holly gave a resentful shrug. ‘What time do you wanna leave?’
‘Eight?’ They were both answering every question with another question. Holly was on edge too.
‘Cool. Night then.’ Holly’s voice was clipped and dismissive.
Tara swallowed. ‘. . . Night.’
‘Night, guys,’ Alex said, raising a cheery hand back to Dev.
Tara walked down the narrow corridor to her room. Space was so pinched, she could easily place both palms flat on opposite walls at the same time and tonight, for the first time, she felt the gulf between her family life and this one. Was that because she was seeing it through Alex’s eyes? He’d come straight from a Mayfair townhouse to this. The contrast was marked.
He shut the door behind him with a soft click. She was aware they were both trying to be extra-quiet and not betray their discord to Holly and Dev, as though it in some way undermined them. A chink in the armour after all.
She sat on the bed and stared back at him, her heart pounding both from the conversation she’d just had and the one she was about to have. Alex remained with his back to the door; his hands were pinned behind him and the pose struck her as boyish and young. He was such a clash of contradictions – all guileless innocence at one turn, passionate orator at another; puppy-dog eyes, wolfish grin. How was anyone ever supposed to stay angry at him? Say no to him? But then she remembered what he’d just put her through.
‘So?’ The word was hard and accusatory.
‘Twig, I’m sorry. It just didn’t seem like the right time.’
The laugh escaped her body like a jet of steam. She’d had a wretched evening, sitting in apprehensive silence, waiting for him to ask for a private moment with her father, trying to catch his eye over the dinner table as the minutes and then hours slid past and still no mention was made . . . ‘Not the right time? You were right there, in the same room as my father. What more did you need?’
‘More time! That’s what I needed.’
‘Why? You’re not marrying him, are you?’ She felt close to tears, disappointment flooding her bones that the big moment she’d been preparing for all week had simply . . . not transpired. She had felt distracted and nervous for days, and for what? To watch her father and fiancé fall into some weird mutual love-in where Alex had seemingly forgotten the entire reason for their get-together?
He walked across the room, but her body language was closed and he stopped a few metres short. ‘Look, your father’s not like . . . most fathers. He’s just not.’ He pinned her with a look that said he wasn’t being unreasonable. ‘I didn’t get it before, what you were trying to tell me, but I do now and there’s no point beating about the bush – he’s a very rich, powerful man who is going to be protective of his daughter.’
‘So?’
‘So I need to get to know him better. I don’t want him thinking that I’m with you because of . . . his money.’ He looked exasperated, flustered.
‘He wouldn’t think that! He knows I’m cautious.’
‘Yes, he knows you are – but he doesn’t know me! It’s about self-respect, Ta; I don’t want him thinking I’m on an easy ticket here. Look, it wasn’t till I walked into that house that I got the “scale” of what you’d been trying to tell me. I mean, I know you didn’t want me to be ambushed, but nothing can really prepare you for that.’ His eyes were wide at the memory. ‘And if I’d just strutted in there and asked for your hand . . . well, why the hell would he agree? He doesn’t know me from Adam.’
He was right, of course. Why would he? It was precisely the question she’d asked herself in the study. Looked at objectively from her parents’ standpoint, they’d been together just four months; it wouldn’t have crossed their minds – not even her mother’s! – that she had gone over there to tell them she was getting married and forfeiting the career for which she had fought so hard. And her father had referred to Alex as her ‘friend’, she remembered; he really hadn’t got it at all. For Alex to have gone ahead and asked, as planned . . . her father would have been blindsided.
But none of that made her feel any better. She wasn’t yet ready to be placated. She still had another secret of her own that she needed to offload, and she couldn’t, not until this one was unburdened. Disappointment made her angry. ‘Actually, that’s not true,’ she replied evenly. ‘Daddy knows plenty about you. He had a report done up.’
Alex paled. ‘What?’
‘It’s standard. He does it to pretty much everyone.’
‘Pretty much?’
‘Not Holly.’
He looked genuinely shocked, so stunned she felt almost sorry for him. Almost. ‘He had a report done on me?’ he repeated.
‘Yes. That’s how he knew about the Princeton project. It wasn’t me who told him.’
‘B-but . . .’ His mouth kept opening and closing like a guppy fish, questions forming and being discarded before he could get the words out. ‘What – did he get in a PI? Has he been having me followed?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘No, nothing like that. Just paperwork. It’s really not a big deal, he wasn’t dishing for dirt. He was just trying to find out your interests to put you at ease,’ she said, watching the shock flicker across his features like shadows. ‘So he already knows what you’re all about, is what I’m saying. He knows you’ve got integrity . . .’ She realized she was mollifying him and resentment crept into her tone. Why was she having to make him feel better? ‘Although I’m not quite so sure now.’
‘What does that mean?’ His voice broke slightly with the emotion, rendering him boyishly young at a stroke.
‘You told me you’re a Chelsea fan,’ she said simply, watching as the confusion cleared to understanding.
His shoulders slumped. ‘. . . Oh. You’re talking about Miles.’
‘He told me you’d never heard of Drogba and that you kept calling it Stanford Bridge.’
‘Yeah, it wasn’t my greatest moment. Or ten. Why did you even tell him?’
‘Because you had told me you supported them!’
‘Ta, I’m American. I’ve seen, like, five soccer games my entire life!’
‘Then why lie about it?’
He sighed, looking stressed. ‘Because in one of our first conversations, you said your brother was a fan and I wanted to find a way to . . . bond with him. For you.’
‘So, what? You were going to start suddenly supporting Chelsea? Start swotting up on their team, their past record?’
He shrugged. ‘Why not? I live here now. I’ve got to pick a team if I’m ever g
oing to be allowed into your pubs. I hadn’t really thought it through.’
‘Well, it backfired. Miles is now decidedly not a fan of yours. My parents might think you’re the greatest thing, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t like liars. You blew it with him.’
‘Okay, well then, I’ll put it right. I’ll . . . I’ll—’
‘No, stop! Just stop faking it! He’ll see right through you. Miles can spot a bullshitter twenty miles off. He’s already texted me twice, asking what the hell I’m doing with you.’
‘He has?’ Alex’s face fell. He looked bewildered and she suspected it was an unfamiliar feeling for him – being disliked.
‘Just stop trying so hard. You can’t pretend to be someone you’re not.’ In spite of her determination to the contrary, she felt her anger thaw at the sight of him so crestfallen. She gave a groan of exasperation. ‘Look, you thought that was a shortcut to bonding with Miles, I get it. And I know you’re trying to do things properly with my dad . . . but this is the twenty-first century. My family knows I’m no fool and that I make my own decisions. It’s you and me getting married, not them. Just keep it simple. You’ll get to know them in time, and they’ll get to know you.’
‘But now your brother hates me.’
She sighed. ‘He doesn’t hate you. He just doesn’t trust you yet. I told you, we don’t trust easily, it’s how we were brought up. But he’ll come round.’
He nodded silently, but there was tension in his jaw. He looked unhappy. ‘So you’re saying I should just go ahead and ask your dad?’
There was a tense silence for a moment. ‘Look, I’ll set up a Skype with them—’
‘Skype?’ He looked shocked. ‘No. No way. I wanna do this right. Face to face, man to man.’
‘But you missed your chance, Alex! That was what tonight was for; they’re flying to Geneva early next week.’
‘So then we’ll go over again tomorrow.’
‘I’ve got Sophie’s this weekend, remember?’
His blank expression suggested he didn’t. ‘Shit . . . Well, when will you be back?’
‘Late on Sunday night. I can hardly rush off. And they’re going Monday first thing.’ He just didn’t get it. He didn’t know what it was like, pinning down people like her parents. They had commitments to honour, committees to sit upon, charities to chair, functions to host, multinationals to run. ‘My mother mentioned something about Paris on the way back, and she likes to be in Harbour Island for Easter, so . . . that’s that for the moment.’ She shrugged, well used to her parents’ globetrotting ways, although boarding school had protected her and Miles from a lot of it.
He bit his lip, a deep frown furrowing his brow. ‘Okay. Okay. We can make this work, I know we can.’
‘Alex—’
‘No, let me just think . . . I can do this.’
She sighed as he began to pace, knowing full well that ship had sailed. It might be weeks before she saw her parents again. This was futile. ‘Look, it really doesn’t matter that much you asking him for my hand. It’s me you’re marrying, and I’ve already said yes.’
He wheeled round, suddenly angry. ‘But it matters to me to do this right, don’t you get it? Everything about my life up till coming to London was . . . weird. I didn’t have roots. I didn’t have a family in the conventional sense. I didn’t go to school, didn’t go to prom. For once in my life, I want to do something the right way. And whether you see it or not, it matters to me that I have your father’s respect.’
‘But you already do! The two of you didn’t stop talking all night. Trust me, that doesn’t happen. He’s polite and friendly but he’s reserved. He isn’t usually like how he was with you tonight.’
Alex’s face brightened a little. ‘Really?’
‘Really! Trust me, you’re in with him. He respects you. You’ve got nothing to worry about.’
‘That’s pretty cool. I liked him too.’ His mouth spread into a wide, delighted smile that flipped her stomach over with it. Annoyingly. He stared unseeingly at an anatomy poster on her wall, lost in thought. ‘Hey – could we go back for breakfast tomorrow? Before you go to Sophie’s thing?’
‘I’m leaving at eight.’
‘So then leave later.’
‘My mother does not receive anyone before double digits and I can’t wait till then.’
‘So, what? Your father fasts till she’s ready?’
Tara snorted at the thought. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘So then couldn’t I join him? Just him? Better yet, I could take him to breakfast – to the Wolseley or Claridge’s.’
‘You can’t afford that,’ she tutted. ‘And it wouldn’t impress him and he wouldn’t let you pay anyway. Besides, it would be odd for you to suddenly turn up there on your own tomorrow, having only left at midnight.’
‘But if you were to text him now and suggest it? You said yourself we got on like a house on fire, so why should it be odd? You could say you’re going away for the weekend – true – and I’m home alone – also true – and you thought it would be nice for us to do more . . . bonding. True, true, true. And then boom, as soon I get there, I’ll ask him.’
She stared at him, seeing the desperation in his eyes, the urge to be conventional for once and not the irreverent maverick getting by on his charm alone. He wanted to do this properly, to win her father’s respect when it had never occurred to her that might be important to him. It was a matter of honour and, in spite of her own disappointment, she loved him all the more for it.
‘Well . . . I suppose I could suggest it to him,’ she said slowly. ‘But wouldn’t it be odd, you asking him for my hand when I’m not there? Not even in the next room?’
He looked anxious. ‘I’m not sure, is it? I’ve never done this before.’
‘Well, I don’t know! I’ve never been proposed to before either.’
He pulled a face as they looked at one another. ‘I feel . . . literally paralysed with fear of making a faux pas. You Brits, with all your manners and goddam politeness—’
‘Hey! It’s the goddam politeness that’s getting you hitched in the first place. Don’t forget that.’
A light lit up his eyes as he walked slowly back over to her, knowing he was forgiven, knowing she could never stay angry with him. ‘Don’t I know it. I owe it a lot.’
‘Yes, you do,’ she murmured as he leaned towards her, over her, forcing her down onto her back until she was gazing up at him.
‘You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,’ he murmured, his lips inches from hers now, their fight almost forgotten. ‘I just want to do this right.’
She stopped him with a hand on his chest, knowing she would be lost in the next moment. ‘Alex, I just want you to do it.’
Chapter Six
‘Are we nearly there yet?’ a breathless voice panted.
‘Yes! Keep going! We’re so nearly there!’ Sophie said encouragingly, bounding ahead of their group like an enthusiastic PE teacher. Or Labrador.
The strong gusting wind was blowing them all sideways, flattening the grass and streaming their hair across their faces, making it hard to look up or see. But Tara was aware the horizon had dropped in her peripheral vision as she walked in breathless stomps, listening vaguely to everyone chatting around her.
She still felt tired from their early start and three-hour journey up the motorway. Holly had slept most of the way, her pillow pressed against the seatbelt and still wearing her pyjamas; Tara had packed them a thermos of tea, a packet of dark chocolate digestives, two bottles of water and a phone charger. They had barely spoken and when they’d arrived at the cottage Sophie had rented, to Tara’s surprise, their hostess had put them in rooms with . . . other people! She had assumed that as flatmates and best friends, they’d be rooming together, but perhaps Sophie had wanted to separate them on purpose, so they weren’t too cliquey? Tara didn’t think they were cliquey, though, and surely Holly hadn’t asked to be put in a different room?
‘Look! We’ve
done it!’ There was a victorious whoop as Sophie held her arms out wide and turned a circle on the spot beside a cairn. ‘Isn’t it beautiful? This is my favourite place in the entire world.’
Everyone staggered up to the plateau with relief, hoping the view was worth the hurried hike. They had barely dropped their bags in the door before Sophie had bustled them back out again, wanting to ‘make the most of the day’ before the light went.
There were several moments’ silence as they took in the sight of fields parcelled below them like a patchwork quilt, thick hedgerows like wonky, bushy borders, lone ancient oaks like elder statesmen amid the furrows. The land rolled back for miles, tightly tucked beneath a billowing grey sky, occasional drops of moisture dotting their faces. Fresh droppings on the ground suggested the flock of sheep they’d passed a few moments earlier had only just vacated the area.
‘It’s very . . . green,’ Charlie said suspiciously. A born and bred Londoner, she needed to be equipped with good reasons for ever leaving the city.
‘It’s fabulous, Soph,’ Tara panted, trying to get her breath back and wishing, treacherously, that a helicopter could be summoned to bring them back down again. She couldn’t believe how drained of energy she felt. With every passing hour, it seemed, her body was changing in silent, secretive ways.
Holly, the straggler in the group, crested the summit to find the lot of them – except Sophie – sitting on their bums, elbows on knees, heads hanging. Sophie still had her arms outstretched like Rio’s Christ the Redeemer. ‘Isn’t it glorious?’ she grinned with an almost evangelical glee. Tara wondered how her friend coped with living in the city when she clearly belonged out here, in nature.
Holly sank to her knees. ‘Fuck me! I am cream-crackered! A gentle stroll, you said.’ She gave Sophie an accusing look.
Sophie laughed, falling down beside them in a joyous heap. ‘Sorry. I tend to forget not everyone has grown up with these hills. This used to be my run with my dog.’ She began picking absently at the long grass and looking out, every few seconds, over the far-reaching view.
‘You run up that?’ Holly wheezed.