You fucked up, he told himself, swinging his bag off the carousel, but you can fix it.
Then the electric doors to arrivals swung open like the gates of hell.
Hundreds of flashbulbs exploded in Gabe’s face, blinding him.
‘Gabe! Do you have any comment about the Sun’s pictures?’
‘Where’s Macy? Can you confirm you’re having an affair?’
‘Do you love her, Gabe?’
‘Have you spoken to your wife?’
The questions shot through the air like bullets. There were cameras and microphones and a human wave of people, pressing around him from all sides, like vultures trying to pull him to pieces. Putting his head down like a bull, Gabe charged through them.
‘Will you get a divorce, Gabe?’
Gabe spun round towards the voice so fast he could have got whiplash.
‘Absolutely not.’
Another battery of flashbulbs. Through the maelstrom, Gabe suddenly caught sight of a familiar face. Before he knew what was happening, Santiago de la Cruz was at his side, taking his bag and wrapping a protective arm around his shoulder as he steered him towards the lift leading to the parking bays. Gabe didn’t think he’d ever been so pleased to see a person in his life.
‘Santiago!’ The vultures temporarily switched targets.
‘Have you spoken to James Craven?’
‘Is the engagement off?’
‘Fuck off, all of you,’ Santiago snarled.
‘Gabe! Gabe!’
Santiago bundled Gabe into the lift, blocking the reporters’ path with his body until the doors closed behind them.
The sudden silence was deafening. Gabe looked at his friend, still in shock.
‘Thanks for picking me up.’
‘I came as soon as I saw the paper,’ said Santiago. Grimly, he pulled a copy of this morning’s Sun out from his inside jacket pocket. ‘You’d better take a look.’
Gabe shook his head. ‘Not now. In the car.’
He knew that, once he opened that newspaper, the next chapter of his life would begin. It was a chapter he desperately, desperately didn’t want to read.
The car journey back to Fittlescombe was one of the longest in Santiago’s life. Watching Gabe was torturous. As he sat slumped over in the passenger seat, staring at the photographs of himself and Macy kissing passionately at Shutters’ beach bar, as if by looking hard enough he could somehow will them away, his remorse hung in the air of the little Volkswagen like a living thing.
And then there were the questions! God, they were awful. How had Laura taken it? Had he or Penny seen her?
Santiago told him the truth. But he knew that with each answer he was twisting the knife into a dying man.
Laura had taken it badly.
Yes, Penny had seen her this morning. She’d collapsed in Penny’s arms.
‘Is she going to leave me?’
The misery in Gabe’s voice was just horrendous.
‘I don’t know, mate,’ said Santiago. ‘She might.’
There was a long silence. Eventually, Santiago filled it, probing Gabe as tactfully as he could about what had happened.
‘So, you and Macy. Has it been, you know … going on for a while?’
‘No!’ Gabe looked appalled. ‘Christ, no!’
‘Because the papers are suggesting—’
Gabe cut him off. ‘There is no “me and Macy”.’
Santiago raised an eyebrow.
‘It was nothing,’ Gabe insisted. ‘Just a stupid, stupid mistake. I was very drunk. We both were. Laura and I had been fighting. Macy was just … there. I mean, she’s a nice girl. I like her, I do. And, you know. She’s beautiful. But I love my wife.’
His voice was starting to break. Santiago put a hand on his leg.
‘I know you do. It’ll be OK.’
Gabe’s mind snapped back to Macy, saying the same thing to him less than twenty-four hours ago, lying naked in his bed.
It’ll be OK.
But it wouldn’t. Nothing would ever be OK again.
A cluster of press had gathered in front of Wraggsbottom Farm’s closed gates, huddled together against the bitterly cold February wind. Against Santiago’s advice, Gabe got out of the car and spoke to them briefly.
He was not having an affair with Macy Johanssen.
He deeply regretted what had happened in Los Angeles.
He couldn’t make any further comment till he’d spoken to his family.
‘I really need you guys to leave now,’ he said, agreeing to pictures. Once they had their shots, the reporters all wished him luck and respectfully dispersed.
‘That was incredible,’ said Santiago. ‘They’d never do that for me!’
‘That’s because you keep telling them to fuck off.’ Gabe smiled sheepishly for a moment, before the gloom descended again. ‘They’re only doing their job.’
‘Do you want me to come in with you?’ asked Santiago. ‘Or I could wait out here? Just in case …’ He left the thought hanging.
‘Thanks,’ said Gabe. ‘But you’ve done enough. I’ll take it from here.’
He waited in the farmyard as Santiago drove away and the gates swung closed behind him. Then he walked slowly up the path to the front door, past Luca’s discarded tricycle and the egg-carton wind-chimes that Hugh had made on his first day at primary school, re-taped for the umpteenth time to the beam over the front porch.
All he wanted in that moment was to see his sons. To hear their sweet little voices and press their soft faces to his own and hug them like he would never, ever let them go.
His hand shook as he slipped his key in the door and let himself into the hallway.
‘Laura? Boys?’
Inside, the familiar chaos of family life was everywhere. Toys, wellington boots and odd socks littered the floor. This morning’s breakfast dishes were still on the kitchen table, and Laura’s papers sat piled up messily on her desk, next to the picture of the two of them on their wedding day. But without the usual soundtrack, of shouts and squeals and TV in the background, everything looked wrong.
Gabe ran upstairs, but he already knew no one was home. This wasn’t a momentary silence, but a heavy, total absence of sound. It was the silence of abandonment. The silence of loss. Of death.
Get a grip, Gabe told himself. She’s probably out at a friend’s house, avoiding the press. But then he walked into the bedroom and saw the mess of clothes strewn across the bed and floor. In the boys’ room, the chest of drawers had been completely emptied, the drawers jutting out at Gabe like shocked, gaping mouths, appalled at what he’d done.
Gabe gripped the wall, nauseous.
They’re gone.
Carefully, trying not to run, he went back downstairs to the kitchen, picked up the phone and started calling.
He would find her. He would talk to her. He would make this right.
He had to.
Laura’s parents lived in a rather horrible, modern house on the Kent border. It was beyond Laura why anyone would choose such a soulless home, especially in a part of the country so chock-full of charm. Even the name was awful: Holmlea. It sounded like cheese. But Laura’s mother liked it because it was ‘low maintenance’, whatever that meant, and because she and Laura’s father could walk to the railway station that took them straight back to London, the city they had just escaped from in order to enjoy a country retirement, in under an hour.
Hugh and Luca weren’t keen on their grandparents’ place either, although Grandpa’s cuckoo clock and the two tortoises in the garden, Gin and Tonic, took the edge off their boredom for the first few hours at least. Even so, when they saw their father’s car pull up outside, both boys hopped up and down with delight at the prospect of being taken back to Wraggsbottom.
‘Daddy! Daddy’s here!’
Hugh ran to the door, oblivious to the strained looks between his mother and grandparents.
‘Are we going home now?’
‘No,’ Laura said brightly. ‘W
e’re staying the night at Granny’s, remember? I told you.’
Hugh’s face fell, then brightened. ‘Can Dad sleep in my room?’
Before she had time to answer, Gabe was out of the car. Running outside, Hugh launched himself into his father’s arms, swiftly followed by a toddling Luca.
Gabe stood and hugged them for a long time, burying his face in their hair, smelling and kissing them with an intensity that brought tears to Laura’s eyes. Finally, after what felt like an age, he set them down on the tarmacked drive. He and Laura looked at each other. Neither of them spoke.
‘Come and see the tortoises!’ Hugh tugged at Gabe’s hand. ‘They’re having a strawberry-eating race. Tonic’s winning.’
‘Let Mummy and Daddy talk first.’ Laura’s father scooped Hugh up and dangled him upside down over his shoulder, producing gales of giggles. ‘We can have some of Granny’s chocolate cake while we’re waiting.’
Easily trumped by the prospect of a slice of cake, Gabe watched his boys disappear inside the house and the door close behind them. He felt a terrible sense of dread.
It got worse when Laura started speaking.
‘What do you want, Gabe?’
She sounded tired. Resigned. Eerily without emotion.
‘I want you to come home. I want to talk to you. I’m sorry, Laura. I love you.’
She held up a hand for him to stop. ‘Please. Don’t.’
‘Don’t what? Don’t say I love you? But I do, desperately.’
She gave him a small, sad smile. ‘Not desperately enough, it seems.’
He took a step towards her but she immediately moved back. ‘It was a mistake. It meant nothing. Look, I’m not minimizing it, but I was drunk out of my mind. So was Macy. I was upset after our conversation … Please, Laura. Look at me.’
She did, and Gabe instantly wished he hadn’t asked her to. Her gaze was so clear, so blank. There was no anger there, no fight. For Laura, it was already over.
‘We’ll come home in a few days,’ she said. For an instant Gabe’s hopes soared. ‘Once you’ve gone,’ Laura clarified, sending them crashing down again.
Gabe opened his mouth to speak but she shut him down.
‘I know you’re sorry,’ she said. ‘And I know you love me. I love you too. But I can’t do it, Gabe. I wasted my entire twenties on a man who lied to me. Who wasn’t what he seemed to be. The pain was so bad I thought I would die, but I didn’t. I survived. And I promised myself, never again.’
‘Oh, come on!’ Gabe raised his voice. His fear was making him angry. ‘You can’t seriously be comparing me to John Bingham? The man was a total arsehole. And he was married.’
‘So are you,’ Laura said quietly.
‘Yes, and I’ve been faithful,’ said Gabe. ‘For ten years! And then, yes, I made a mistake. One mistake. One night. And I know I was wrong and I’m sorry, but come on, Laura. Surely you aren’t going to throw away our life, our family over that?’
For the first time, a flash of real anger crossed Laura’s face. ‘I’m not throwing away anything, Gabe. You did that! This is all you. So if you’re looking for someone to blame, I suggest you start with the mirror.’
Gabe looked away. There wasn’t much he could say to that.
‘Wraggsbottom’s your home,’ Laura went on, once she’d calmed down. ‘I understand that. Once everything’s sorted out, I’ll find somewhere else for me and the children. I want us to try and be civilized about this, for their sakes.’
‘Civilized about what?’ demanded Gabe.
She didn’t answer.
‘Laura, this is crazy. We have to talk.’
‘Go home, Gabe.’ She gave him a pitying look and started walking back to the house.
‘No!’ he shouted after her. ‘I won’t go! Not without the boys. I’ll sleep out here if I have to.’
When she turned back to look at him the pity was gone. It had been replaced by something close to disgust.
‘I’d like to believe that not even you would be that selfish,’ she said. ‘You’ve caused enough pain for one day, Gabriel. Go. Home.’
Back at Wraggsbottom two hours later, Gabe sat down at the kitchen table. The children’s cereal bowls were still there, the day-old Frosties glued to the sides like barnacles on an abandoned ship.
That’s what this house is now, thought Gabe. An abandoned ship.
And I’m the captain, left to sink here alone.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, the one-millionth urgent message of the day from someone. Macy, Eddie, Santiago, Channel 5. Everyone had called. Everyone but Laura. Standing up, Gabe walked outside to the pond, drew back his arm and threw the phone as far as he could. It made a satisfying plop as it hit the water.
He waited until the ripples had all gone and the pond was still again, like glass. Looking down, he saw his reflection. Laura’s voice rang in his ears.
If you’re looking for someone to blame, I suggest you try the mirror.
For the first time, Gabe started to cry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
James pulled up outside Cranbourne House in a silver Jaguar XJ and turned off the engine. Rain poured down in a solid grey sheet, sluicing the windscreen and pooling on the road in deep, lake-like puddles. The weather suited James’s mood. He sat for a moment, gathering his thoughts, letting the rhythmic pounding of the raindrops soothe him.
God, he was tired. Exhausted. It was a full week since the news had broken about Macy’s night with Gabe Baxter, but tour commitments had meant that James hadn’t been able to fly home until last night. Of course he and Macy had spoken. There had been tears and apologies and dreadful, pain-filled silences. But it was James who’d cut their conversations short. This was not something that could be worked out on a computer screen or over a long-distance telephone line. He needed to see her.
A few reporters had shown up at the airport when he’d landed and asked their inane questions. But the upside to being stuck in Dubai for a week was that by the time James got home the story was lukewarm, if not quite cold. He’d managed to miss the media feeding frenzy that had enveloped Gabe and Macy on their returns to the UK. A small silver lining, but at this point James would take what he could get.
He ran up the path, head down against the rain, and was about to knock when Macy opened the door and pulled him inside.
‘You’re drowned.’
James stood dripping in the hallway. ‘I’m OK.’
‘I’ll get you a towel.’
She ran to the bathroom, returning with a large white bath towel. As she handed it to him, James noticed how pale she was, and how thin. It was nearly a month since he’d seen her in the flesh and she must have lost a stone in that time, far too much on such a tiny frame.
He frowned. ‘You’re not eating.’
Macy shrugged. ‘Stress.’
‘You need to eat.’
He followed her into the sitting room. The fire was lit and crackling cheerfully, but nothing could banish the sadness as they sank onto the sofa together.
‘I still love you,’ said James. This wasn’t the time for small talk, and he was crap at it anyway. ‘I still want to get married.’
Macy looked down miserably at her hands, twisting her engagement ring round and round.
‘I can’t.’ Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘I can’t marry you.’
James took a deep breath. ‘Why not?’
He already knew the answer, but some masochistic part of him needed to hear her say it.
‘Because I’m in love with Gabe.’ Macy looked so utterly devastated when she said this that James found himself instinctively putting his arms around her. His kindness was too much to bear. ‘I’m sorry,’ Macy sobbed. ‘I thought I was over it. I told myself it was just a crush. I wanted to marry you, to make it work. But when I saw him in LA, I knew it was no good.’
‘Does he feel the same way?’ James forced himself to ask.
Macy gave a short, joyless laugh. ‘No. He adores Laura. He’s torn
to pieces about what happened. He won’t even take my calls.’
James winced. He did not want to think about Macy calling Gabe. He did not want to think about anything. He wanted to go home, crawl under the duvet and never, ever come out.
He stood up, forcing himself to let her go.
‘I would have been a good husband, you know.’
Macy looked up at him. ‘You still will be. For the right woman.’
‘You are the right woman,’ said James, fighting back tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ Macy said again.
There was nothing left to say. She sat and watched, frozen, as he walked away, closing the front door behind him with a soft click.
Violet Charteris flicked back her mane of perfectly blow-dried, honey-blonde hair and pretended to type the minister’s letter. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Milo Wellesley, glued to his computer screen as usual, and found herself irritated and attracted in equal measure.
Why wouldn’t he notice her?
Violet Charteris was used to being noticed. With her pert figure, high cheekbones, pretty green eyes fringed by long, dark lashes and her wide, sensuous mouth, Violet was extremely beautiful. James Garforth, the Home Secretary, had practically fallen over himself to offer her this internship. The fact that she was reading politics at Balliol and that her father was a Tory peer might have helped matters. But Violet knew that she’d been picked above all the other clever girls because she was sexy, and charming, and because Garforth fantasized about taking her to bed, just like all the other male staff at the Home Office.
Except Milo Wellesley. It was just Violet’s luck that the one, properly handsome man in the office, and the only one close to her own age, should also be the only one who didn’t fancy her. In fact it was worse than that. She strongly suspected Milo didn’t even like her. She’d tried flirting with him. She’d tried ignoring him. She’d played the competitive card (some boys liked that), attempting to score points with the Home Secretary at Milo’s expense, staying late and producing beautiful research reports far superior to Milo’s efforts. None of it made a shred of difference. The infuriating boy still came to work every day and looked right through Violet as if she were a ghost.
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