The Night Book
Page 10
Cameron was continuing to be extraordinarily punctilious. He had insisted on making up their picnic when he returned from Keswick (‘No, no, I can do it. You go and read the Sundays in the garden’) and once they were on the boat, he fussed with cushions and bottles and ice (‘I’m not casting off until I’m sure you’re nice and comfortable, Mer’) and made sure to place sunscreen at her elbow (‘We don’t want you burning, do we?’).
It was all extremely out of character and very unsettling, but she could hardly protest. Perhaps he really was ashamed of his behaviour the previous day, and was trying to make amends. But at the same time he’d made it clear that he’d come to the same conclusion as her: they’d reached a watershed in their marriage, and probably a terminal one.
So what exactly was he up to? Why all this unctuous, caring behaviour? Were Seb’s instincts correct? Was Cameron playing some kind of calculated game with her?
‘I know exactly what you think of me.’
Why did those words sound so loaded? They seemed to her to be pregnant with meaning.
She decided she was being paranoid.
Sleeping with another man could do that to a woman’s conscience.
The boat moved smoothly away from the jetty, its powerful outboard purring on low revs quietly behind her. She could hear Cameron humming a tune as he steered them well away from one of the five passenger steamers that plied the lake every day.
A sudden sense of fatalism tinged with determination overtook Meriel. Screw it. If Cameron was trying to pull off some kind of double-bluff, she’d find out what it was in due course. But it wouldn’t change a thing. She was going to insist on a trial separation starting the very next day, come what may. She’d move out; rent a cottage somewhere in the fells. Seb could discreetly join her there and they’d start to really get to know each other. She felt her heart lift at the prospect.
Meanwhile she’d go down to Manchester or London and see a lawyer, get some proper advice, not the crummy self-seeking guff her agent had spouted.
The boat began to pick up speed and Meriel stopped worrying. Qué será será and all that. She was still feeling extraordinarily physically relaxed after her night with Seb. She peeled her blouse off and swapped her bra for the bikini top she’d stuffed into her shoulder bag before leaving Cathedral Crag. She stretched out on the padded deck lounger and closed her eyes, gratefully surrendering to the warm breeze that was blowing through her hair.
This was the day everything was going to change. She was going to go with the flow, and to hell with Cameron’s pathetic little jeu de jour.
Cameron eyed his half-naked wife stealthily from the cabin as he steered the boat towards the centre of the lake. Increasingly, theirs had become a voyeuristic relationship – albeit an entirely one-sided one. Meriel didn’t have the slightest idea. She was completely unaware that, three or four nights a week, her husband crept from his room in the small hours and crouched in her bedroom doorway, watching her as she slept.
And Meriel slept naked, this steamy, stifling summer, her bedsheets kicked to the foot of the bed. Cameron only made these nocturnal visits when Meriel’s bedside lamp was off. He used a small, low-powered pocket torch to illuminate her body, using one hand to shield the dim light from her sleeping face. Even so, she had half-woken once or twice – but he always melted away and was back in his own room before she was properly conscious.
But most nights he gazed his fill at her breasts, her genitals, her legs, before bringing himself to a silent, juddering climax.
She was his.
There had to be a way of reclaiming what rightfully belonged to him.
Last night, he’d found it.
‘Do you want anything else? There’s plenty more of this cold chicken.’
Meriel shook her head.
‘I’m fine. Cameron . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Can we talk now? About us? About the future?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, of course. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Just let me get this.’
He walked to the rear of the boat and pulled the idling outboard’s kill-cord. The throaty, burbling engine died at once and a peaceful silence settled over the boat, broken only by the plish-plash of tiny waves breaking around the base of the hull.
He moved back towards her and sank down on the bench-seat opposite.
‘There. Just you and me and . . .’ he pointed up and across the water – ‘Helvellyn. An apt spot, eh, for negotiating one of life’s peaks? One of its watersheds? So . . . do you want to go first, Meriel, or shall I?’
‘I’d like to, please.’
Meriel could feel her shoulders beginning to burn in the sun, but she was even more uncomfortable with the way Cameron was staring at her breasts. As casually as she could she reached for a towel and wrapped it around herself like a cloak.
‘It’s like this, Cameron,’ she began. ‘We’re locked into a horrible, never-ending war, aren’t we? I don’t know how it’s happened, but you’ve ended up despising me and I . . . well . . . I . . .’
‘Oh, spare your breath, my dear.’
She stared at him. He was smiling. Dammit, he looked almost happy.
This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right at all.
‘All right. I’ll get straight to the point then. I think we should have a trial separation. Time apart, to reflect. You need to decide what you want from a wife, and I need to think about you, too. I need—’
‘To think? I know exactly what you think of me, Meriel, and so do you, evidently. What on earth is there for you to think about?’
If anything, the smile had broadened.
‘Why do you keep saying that?
‘Saying what?’
‘That you know exactly what I think of you. I don’t see how. We haven’t spoken properly for months.’
Cameron sighed, and reached behind him into the cool-box.
‘True. But communication isn’t always about the spoken word. There are so many other forms it can take. You of all people must know that. You’re always lecturing folk on improving their communication skills, after all.’
He dragged the dripping bottle from the ice. ‘More champagne? Actually, I think you may be about to need it.’
A cold presentiment began to creep over her.
Outwardly she affected calm.
‘Oh all right, Cameron. It’s as I thought; you’re playing some kind of weird game with me. Well, I’ve told you what I want. A separation. Unless you have something sensible to say I’d like to go back to the house now, please. I have packing to do and arrangements to make.’
She stood up. ‘I’m going into the cabin to get dressed.’
He shook his head and motioned her to sit down again.
‘Not yet you’re not. Not until you’ve heard what I have to say.’ All pretence of humility and kindness was falling from him now like a cast-off cape. ‘Fair’s fair. I listened to you. Now it’s your turn.’ His eyes glittered with cold triumph as she reluctantly sank back onto the cushions.
‘You have some packing to do, do you? Well, indeed you have. Not that you’ll be going very far. Just a few yards, actually. You’re going to pack your things and return with them to the marital bedroom. For good.’
‘Cameron, you obviously haven’t heard a word I’ve said. I’m leaving you.’
‘Saying something doesn’t make it so, Meriel.’
He examined his fingernails before continuing.
‘I want you to pay me your fullest attention. You are going to return to my bed. Tonight. And from then on you will make yourself available to me at any time of my choosing, as a good wife should. In fact, that is what you are going to become, Meriel. A good wife.’
She stared at him. ‘You’ve gone completely mad. Seriously, Cameron, I mean it. I think you must be having some kind of breakdown.’
He laughed. ‘Me, mad? That’s a good one, dearest. Pots and kettles come to mind. Just give me a moment to recollect . . . oh, yes . . .’
‘A fountain of blood explodes from the scimitar-shaped, gaping incision I have just made. This is incredibly funny. I wasn’t prepared for that.’
He smiled at her. ‘Did I get it right? I think so . . . My goodness, Meriel, you’ve gone quite pale. You look as though you might faint.’
He poured more champagne into his glass and squinted at her through the golden liquid.
‘Yes, I found it, Meriel. I found your grotesque, depraved ramblings, all those throat-slitting, castrating, poisoning, strangling, butchering fantasies. The brief sentences I just quoted don’t even begin to do it justice, do they? But it was quite a revelation. I had no idea how much you relished the whole business of pain.’
He delicately sipped his glass. ‘As do I, Meriel. In fact, your book has given me some interesting ideas. I’d like to try some of them out on you. We could start this evening. What do you say?’
She was trembling. ‘I won’t be there this evening, Cameron. As soon as we get back I’m packing a case and getting out. Tomorrow I’m going to see a lawyer. It’s over. What on earth makes you think I’d agree to join in your sordid, depraved games?’
‘Well, perhaps it’s the glimpse you’ve given me into your sordid, depraved imagination, my dear. But not only that. Have you considered what sort of reaction you’d get from your devoted followers if they could read your delightful musings? The entry where you remove my genitalia with a carving knife would certainly have many rushing to the nearest lavatory to throw up.’
He sighed, almost regretfully.
‘If this gets out you’re finished. No unhappily married woman looking for advice is going to want to contact a phone-in hosted by a psychopath, or write to her. What’ll your counsel be? “Kill him”? “Disembowel him”? “Pour boiling water on his face”?’
‘It’s not going to get out, Cameron. Ever. I’ve burned it. All of it. I wish you hadn’t found it, but it’s ashes now, thank God. You can’t threaten me with my own foolishness.’
He made a little moue. ‘Oh Meriel, you disappoint me. What sort of nincompoop do you take me for? I was up until after two in the morning downstairs in the study, photocopying every page. In fact, I’ve made multiple copies, and hidden them where you’ll never find them.’
She tried and failed to keep her voice steady.
‘I see. And what exactly do you intend to do with them?’
He drained his glass and stood it next to the ice bucket.
‘Absolutely nothing. Unless you’re very silly indeed and give me no choice. In which case I’ll see my own lawyer and instruct him to file for divorce on the grounds of your unreasonable behaviour. We’ll use your diary as our principal plank of evidence. I can’t think of many husbands who’d be happy to live with a wife who writes down detailed fantasies about how she’s going to castrate and murder him. My God, do you know how many ways you kill me in that book? I’m stabbed, poisoned, suffocated, drowned in the bath – very original use of a shower curtain, by the way – and I invariably die writhing in unspeakable torment. Meriel Kidd, agony aunt? More like agony enthusiast.’
She managed to stand up again. ‘I’ll counter-sue. I’ll tell the world what a controlling swine you are. How you—’
Cameron burst out laughing. ‘Based on precisely what evidence, my sweet? You’ve spent the last eleven years telling anyone who’d listen what a wonderful husband I am. The press cuttings are inches thick with glowing testimonials to my uxorious nature. You can’t simply take all of it back now that it suits you.
‘And remember – I’ll have the diary. Two pages of that alone will guarantee ours is the divorce of the decade. I’ll come across as poor Mr Rochester, married to the mad woman in the attic. Your career and reputation will never recover. Think about it.’
He walked over to the chromed ladder that dropped down into the water below, and began stripping to his boxer shorts.
‘Look, Meriel! Here’s that dreadful potbelly that so revolts you. Better get used to it; you’ll be seeing a lot more of it from now on, right up close and in your face, too.’
He gave a throaty, comfortable chuckle. ‘In fact, I think we can guarantee it, don’t you?’
She was struggling to fight back tears. ‘You unbelievable bastard. What exactly is it you want?’
‘Good God! Now who’s not been listening? I told you! I want your body, my dear, nothing more, nothing less. Given to me unconditionally, unequivocally, unhesitatingly. And I want us to have some adventures, too. We can explore the possibilities of pain together – remember me telling you that time how I wanted to hurt you? Well, now you’re going to let me. Your diary has given me the right.’
She tried to sound defiant. ‘The right? No, Cameron. I have the right – the right to refuse you.’
‘By all means do so. But then your devoted followers would, in turn, have the right to know just how sick and twisted is the mind of their redeemer. Be very careful about quoting your so-called rights to me, Meriel; everyone has rights, you know. At this juncture you need to be exceptionally cautious about exercising yours.’
As usual before swimming, he slipped the gold Rolex from his wrist and placed it carefully on the deck, before climbing down the silver rungs towards the surface of the lake.
‘Have a good think about your options, Meriel, while I take a swim. Really, as equations go, this one couldn’t be simpler. Do as I suggest, and you keep your good name, your extremely financially advantageous marriage and your career.’
He slid into the warm water with a satisfied sigh before turning onto his back and calling, a little louder: ‘Deny me and you lose all three.’
He grinned up at her before pushing away from the side of the boat and back-stroking slowly out into the lake.
‘Aw, c’mon, Mer. It’s only sex with a soupçon of suffering. Who knows? You might even come to enjoy it.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Meriel stared out unseeing at the sunlit lake, smoking furiously.
She had finally managed to fasten the buttons on her top, in spite of trembling fingers, and crossed the cabin to a cupboard where she hoped she’d find some cigarettes.
Sure enough, there was almost a full packet lying on the floor of the locker next to a damp book of matches inscribed ‘Pheasant, Bassenthwaite Lake’.
After several attempts she eventually managed to light a cigarette and went back out on deck. She had to calm down and think this mess through.
No doubt that Cameron had discovered her diary. No doubt at all. That quote had been word-perfect. And his summary of the various chapters (including the one involving shower curtains) . . . Well, he’d obviously read every fucking page, hadn’t he?
So why go to the trouble of replacing the book exactly as he’d found it, only to confront her with the fact of it barely hours later?
She sighed. It was obvious. So that she wouldn’t see what was coming. He’d enjoyed his coup de théâtre on the boat just now. Controlling Cameron strikes again, Meriel thought bleakly. Nothing new there, eh?
So what now?
One thing was immediately plain to her. There was no question of staying at Cathedral Crag, not for one night, not even for one hour. The mere thought of surrendering herself to one of Cameron’s sadistic games made her feel physically sick. In fact, she was having difficulty holding down what little she’d managed to eat for lunch.
Meriel forced herself to take long, deep breaths until her nausea subsided. Suddenly she didn’t want her cigarette and she tossed it overboard. It fell, hissing, into the water.
She would leave Cameron, just as she had planned. But that would involve calling his bluff. Would he really take her vile scribblings to a lawyer? See them used against her in a horribly public divorce?
She looked out at her husband as he paddled in slow circles around the boat. He caught her glance and lifted one dripping arm out of
the water in an ironic wave.
God, she wouldn’t put it past him, the shit. Cameron was accustomed to winning, and he wasn’t too fussy about how he did it. It was one of the reasons he had no real friends: he had a reputation for sacrificing anyone in a business deal in order to come out on top. Why would he behave any differently with her? He was indomitable. He’d obviously gone to a great deal of time and trouble to find a diary that he couldn’t possibly have known even existed.
Winner’s instinct, again.
Meriel ground her teeth. Christ. If only she’d destroyed the bloody thing sooner. Even a day sooner.
Too late for ‘if only’ now. She forced herself to sketch out the likely coming chain of events.
One: she’d leave Cameron. Two: he’d divorce her, citing the diary. Three – and ‘three’ was the biggie – there’d be a sensation: screaming front-page headlines, personal profiles in the features sections, weeks of lurid speculation and comment pretty much everywhere.
It would be a freak show. But was Cameron right? Would it swamp and sink her career?
She simply didn’t know. At one level, she wasn’t even sure she cared.
But she cared about Seb. What about him? What would he make of the diaries, never mind the sick carnival triggered by their publication? Would he even want to be with someone capable of harbouring such sick fantasies? Let alone a person who painstakingly wrote them down in such grisly detail?
‘Oh God, what have I done?’ Meriel whispered to herself, rocking slowly back and forth on her haunches. ‘What am I going to do?’
Cameron’s voice cut through her thoughts and she started. He had paddled close to the boat and was treading water only a yard or so away from her.
‘I said, what time is it? Didn’t you hear me? Why are you talking to yourself like that?’
She looked at him with loathing.
‘If you wore your watch you’d know what time it is. You’ve got a fucking Rolex, for Christ’s sake. They’re waterproof for hundreds of feet. Why do you always take it off before you swim? It’s stupid.’