The Last Kiss Goodbye

by Tasmina Perry

  She didn’t have to ask how he had sourced a decent claret in the jungle. It was one of the many things she loved about him: his competence and cleverness, the easy way he just got things done. That confidence in his ability to do absolutely anything was the one thing that had kept her sane over the past few weeks. If anyone could do a solo adventure into the Amazon and make it safely back, it was him. He had made similar journeys before and come back with stories for his dinner parties, rather than broken bones and tropical diseases. He was blessed. It was as if God was smiling on him.

  ‘Do you know what? I think the world would be a better place if it was lit only by candlelight,’ she said, dipping her spoon into her stew.

  Dominic started to laugh.

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘Look around,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘Look how intimate it is. It’s a light made for sharing secrets, for complicity, for honesty.’

  ‘Maybe we should recommend it to Kennedy and Khrushchev the next time they meet.’

  ‘Perhaps the Cold War would be a little less chilly,’ she agreed.

  ‘Tell me a secret,’ she said after a moment.

  ‘I can play the ukulele.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘You wanted a secret.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ she said, sensing that he did not want to play. She couldn’t help but think he was being a little distant; then again, it was probably just nerves, the excitement and the prospect of what was to come. ‘We have a lifetime to get to know one another. I want to be still talking, still finding things out about you when I’m seventy-five. The last thing I want to be is one of those couples who run out of things to say to one another after two years of marriage.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ he said softly.

  Ros wanted to know more about his survival training, about his last time in the jungle with the Lampista tribe, and Dominic seemed to relax as he showed her how to make a bow and arrow out of twigs, twine and stone. He told her how the tribe leader had given him a shot of venom from a poisonous Amazonian tree frog, and how he was hoping the procedure didn’t have to be revisited once they reached the camp.

  At some point Miguel knocked on their door, and Dominic disappeared for half an hour to meet the Indian guides, who had just arrived. In his absence, Ros changed into her last clean nightdress, enjoying the feeling of fresh cotton on her skin, although when Dominic returned, it was not long before it was removed.

  Their lovemaking was tender but intense, and when it was done, she did not want him to pull out from inside her. She wanted to stay absolutely connected to him for as long as she could, as if it would help her to lock in his scent, his touch, the sensation of him, until he got back.

  The sound of the bullfrogs woke her.

  Dominic was already awake and standing on the far side of the room getting dressed. She could see his muscular tanned back, and wished she was close enough to touch it.

  Yawning, she wondered how tired he was. She herself had woken at various points in the night and she could tell he had been awake. The first time she had rolled towards him and put her arm across his chest, at which he had given a barely audible sigh of satisfaction. The other times she had left him with his thoughts.

  Miguel’s wife made them some breakfast – a version of what they had eaten the night before – and at nine o’clock they set off, Dominic, Rosamund and the guide in one small boat, Willem, Miguel and their two porters in the other. Ros’s water bottle was strapped across her body – Dominic had given it to her that morning, reminding her that more people died from dehydration in the jungle than from poisoned darts.

  The engines of the boats were not powerful, and progress was slow. She dipped her hand into the brown water to cool down, but Dominic pulled her back immediately, warning her of carnivorous fish.

  Watching the turtles scramble across the riverbanks, Ros could understand why this sort of adventure was so seductive. It was like another world. Ignore the heat and the humidity and it was as if they had been dropped in Paradise.

  A bird circled overheard. It was large, black, with a broad wingspan and a thick, vicious squawk. She knew from her research at the RCI and the Royal Geographical Society that the Amazon rainforest was home to some of the most brightly coloured birds on earth: macaws in shades of hyacinth and scarlet, toucans, and turquoise-hued cotingas. But this wasn’t one of them. She remembered a story she had read about the evil bird that lived in the jungle and sang on the rooftop of someone who was going to die, and as she watched it fly wide, low circles above them, it made her shudder.

  The tribal settlement was only a few miles from the edge of Kutuba, but it was slow going reaching it. This was still officially the edge of the jungle, but the vegetation was dense, and thick vines and branches dangled over the boat, scratching their arms and faces.

  They steered the boats towards the riverbank and clambered on to shore, pulling the equipment and medical supplies away from the water.

  Padre, the tribal chief, was waiting for them in a clearing, smoking a cigarette.

  ‘We’ll make camp here tonight,’ announced Dominic. ‘Amando will stay,’ he said, gesturing to one of the porters.

  ‘What about me?’ asked Ros.

  His look softened. ‘You should go back with Miguel.’

  The reality of what was happening started to suffocate her. It was as if the jungle was closing in around her.

  Miguel had his hands on his hips. He looked up to the sky and announced that they should go within the next half an hour. One of the guides nodded.

  Ros watched the scene unfold around her. Willem took some photographs. Miguel, Dominic and Padre conversed in rudimentary language.

  She waited until Dominic was alone, then went over to talk to him.

  ‘Don’t go,’ she said.

  ‘Ros, please.’

  ‘I mean it. It doesn’t feel right.’

  Miguel was clapping his hands.

  ‘It is time. Rosamund. Please, in the boat.’

  Amando was already chopping leaves and branches from the surrounding trees to build a fire and a shelter for the night.

  The crow was still overhead, Ros wasn’t sure where, but she could hear it, and the angry squawks now felt like a warning.

  ‘Don’t go,’ she said more urgently. ‘I just have a bad feeling.’

  ‘Ros, don’t. You’re not helping.’

  She took hold of his hands and squeezed them.

  ‘Dom, it’s not too late to say no. The power of words, you talked about it at our engagement party. Just stop this now, please. You can stop all this in thirty seconds.’

  ‘I know you’re scared. I’m nervous too, but I’ve done this before. I’m taking a radio . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t feel enough. I don’t know why the guides can’t stay with you for the entire trip. Take one of them with you, it’s not too late. One of Padre’s men. They know the jungle better than you. Better than anyone.’

  Dominic raised his hand to her cheek. Her skin absorbed his warmth and instinctively she placed her own palm over his.

  ‘I love you,’ he said simply.

  Behind her she could hear the click of the camera.

  She turned and saw Willem taking a photograph of them. She knew that it was one of the reasons he was here, but still, she felt angry at his intrusion.

  She turned back and looked at Dominic.

  ‘I’ll be waiting for you,’ she said softly.

  He nodded, his nostrils flaring with stoic emotion. He put his arms around her, and held her as if he never wanted to let her go.

  ‘It’s time,’ he whispered into the top of her hair.

  She pressed her cheek into his shoulder, the thick fabric absorbing her tears.

  ‘I love you, Dominic Blake,’ she whispered, and he turned and headed off into the jungle.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  London, present day

  Chelsea Physic Garden smelt amazing. It was
pretty too, of course: a maze of criss-crossing gravel paths leading you through an array of flowers, plants and trees, each one of them begging you to bend down and examine its leaves, shoots or blooms. But it was the smell, especially on a bright summer morning like this, that overwhelmed you. Abby could barely believe she had lived in London for so long and never stepped through the gate, because inside the high stone walls it was like being in a cocoon of calm. If you cared to look, you could see the tall Georgian residences outside the walls, but once inside the garden, it was as if London had momentarily slipped away.

  She looked at her watch: she was early, but that was good. She wasn’t exactly looking forward to this meeting, and it gave her time to relax and soak up the atmosphere. She sat down on a bench and pulled out her phone.

  The little screen was crowded with messages from the men in her life: Elliot, Nick and Stephen. She ignored them for the moment and opened one from Suze.

  Second date with Will last night – amazing, must talk. Call me! Sx

  There was another, sent two minutes after the first.

  Didn’t shag him! First time THAT’s ever happened! Sx

  Abby smiled. At least someone’s love life was going well. Sighing, she clicked on Stephen’s message – the lesser of three evils.

  Hi, Abigail, congrats on piece in Chronicle, Christine very impressed. Could you give me a ring? Have an idea. Stephen

  She could just imagine what the idea was: more free publicity for some other exhibition he could take all the credit for masterminding. She took a deep breath and clicked on Elliot’s message.

  Are we still on for dinner tonight? I know you’re pissed off, but we can fix this.

  She frowned to herself, wondering if she should cancel, and indeed whether she wanted to. Elliot had called her the day the Chronicle story had run – mid-afternoon, but 7 a.m. West Coast time – and had spent over half an hour explaining himself. How he’d mentioned the story and their St Petersburg findings to his editor, how his editor had wanted to run with it immediately, while The Last Goodbye was still hot, how Elliot had spent twenty-four hours solid writing the piece, not sleeping, only drinking and smoking. And not telling Abby that he had filed the story because he feared her reaction, knowing that the editor would want to run with it whatever her objections. ‘I didn’t want to deceive you, Abs. So I just didn’t tell you,’ he had said over their long-distance phone call.

  Abby wasn’t sure if the two things were mutually exclusive.

  Finally she opened Nick’s message.

  Are you going to Dr Naylor’s? I am. Let me know. I love you. Nx

  Another one who wants to talk, she thought dismissively, noticing the ‘x’ at the end and thinking that wasn’t like Nick at all. He was always critical of people who signed off with a kiss; it wasn’t real, he used to say, then would grumble about how social media were destroying people’s ability to actually connect with each other. All this upheaval must have brought out his feminine side. About time, thought Abby with a grim smile.

  ‘Something funny?’

  She looked up to see Rosamund standing there; she had been so wrapped up in what she was doing, she hadn’t heard her approach.

  ‘Oh, no. Just catching up on my messages,’ she said, standing up, wondering if they should shake hands or air-kiss or something. No, she decided, looking at Rosamund’s face. She was clearly here for a purpose, not socialising. Abby could hardly blame her. In her shoes, I wouldn’t exactly be my first choice for a friend right now, she thought.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me so quickly,’ Rosamund said. She had called Abby earlier that day.

  Abby didn’t like to point out that her lack of work and the desire to sort out – indeed, scotch – any potential legal proceedings had facilitated their prompt meeting.

  ‘I was just glad you got back in touch,’ she said quickly. ‘I still feel terrible about what happened. I’ve spoken to Elliot. He was under pressure to run the story and didn’t tell me because he knew how angry I’d be.’

  ‘And I’m sorry for coming round unannounced like that,’ was Rosamund’s surprise response. ‘I shouldn’t have been so abrupt, although you can understand my initial shock and anger when I first read the piece.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Abby, still feeling guilty.

  Ros glanced over at her as they began to walk, a look of good-humoured complicity on her face.

  ‘I should imagine it’s quite easy to fall into step with men like Elliot. They are rather seductive.’

  ‘I think he’s just ambitious,’ said Abby, feeling herself blush at the thought of herself being quite literally seduced.

  Rosamund nodded. ‘I have always found the third-generation children of wealthy families quite fascinating. They tend to go one way or the other. Either they are lazy, complacent, unmotivated. Everything in life has been given to them on a plate, and instead of building on that success they squander it. Or they can be even more ruthless and driven than their parents or grandparents because they have something to prove. Let’s give Elliot the benefit of the doubt and say his absence of morals is simply a reaction to the achievements of his father. But that’s in the past. Let’s move forward, hmm?’

  They walked on, their feet crunching on the gravel, Rosamund pausing every now and then to admire a plant or to stoop to read one of the name labels.

  ‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ she said, rubbing a leaf between her fingers then holding them to her nose. ‘But everything in this garden has a purpose. Some plants can cure stomach upsets, some can even stop bleeding. Before modern science, with its pills and powders, this was essentially a giant pharmacy.’

  They stopped at a group of plants with a wooden sign reading ‘Neurology and Rheumatology’.

  ‘Now I think I could do with a few of those,’ said Rosamund, indicating a nearby bench.

  ‘Sorry, not quite as sprightly as I was,’ she sighed when they were seated. ‘It’s true what they say, you know – everyone feels much younger inside. Some people claim to feel eighteen, but I suppose I think of myself as about twenty-eight, twenty-nine. It’s always a surprise to me when I look in the mirror in the morning, or when I have to sit down quickly.’

  She tapped her temple and her wistful expression dissolved.

  ‘But I’m every bit as sharp up here, however weak the flesh. And frankly, Abby, I don’t buy it.’

  Abby looked at her, realising the time had come for Rosamund to explain the purpose of their meeting.

  ‘You don’t buy it? The story about Dominic?’

  Rosamund nodded.

  ‘Now, I believe you spoke to one Alexei Gorshkov,’ she said after a moment.

  ‘How did you know?’ asked Abby with surprise.

  Ros’s grey brow arched knowingly.

  ‘I’ve been doing a little research of my own.’

  Abby could imagine her on the internet, on the phone, calling her contacts, calling in favours, the years rolling away as if she were back in the Fleet Street newsrooms.

  ‘Gorshkov is who he claims. He was a senior member of the NKVD during the war, moving up into the KGB and achieving the rank of colonel. No one could tell me if he ever retired, which suggests that he still has “juice”, as I believe the Americans put it.’

  ‘So if he’s legit, why don’t you believe what he said about Dominic?’

  ‘Don’t you think I heard the espionage rumours in the sixties, Abby? Dozens of journalists were under suspicion, myself included. There were a few instances when I suspected Dominic of something: an affair, even keeping the wrong company, although as a connected magazine editor he knew everyone from lords to gangsters. But I never believed he was a Soviet agent because I knew my fiancé,’ said Ros more fiercely.

  ‘And so did Gorshkov. He knew Dominic was working for the KGB.’

  ‘We only have his word for it.’

  ‘And the Soveyemka newspaper article that named the Soviet spies operating in England,’ replied Abby quickly.


  Rosamund let out a snort.

  ‘Propaganda.’

  Abby softened her tone of voice.

  ‘But why would Alexei lie about it? He’s an old man without an agenda.’

  ‘People like Gorshkov always have an agenda,’ said Ros quietly.

  She opened her handbag and pulled out an envelope, handing it to Abby.

  ‘I loved Dominic. I don’t believe he would have betrayed his country. But I’m not the only one. Read this,’ she said.

  Glancing quizzically at Rosamund, Abby pulled out a small white postcard, the sort you could get in any post office. Written in small black letters were the words Trust Dominic.

  ‘Who sent this?’ she asked.

  ‘No idea,’ replied Rosamund. ‘It arrived yesterday. First-class stamp, central London postmark. I assume someone read the Chronicle at the weekend and posted this sometime on Monday. Although look, my address seems to have been written in different handwriting to the postcard.’

  Abby looked up. Ros’s expression was animated, resolute.

  ‘Trust Dominic. What do you think it means?’ she asked, handing back the card.

  ‘That he was innocent,’ said Rosamund with passion. Abby noticed that she had clenched her fist.

  ‘Or that whoever sent it believes he was innocent.’ Abby’s mind was whirling.

  Rosamund gave her a stern look.

  ‘Whose word do we really have that Dominic was a KGB spy? Gorshkov’s? He admits he wasn’t Dominic’s spymaster.’

  ‘But he knew him. Apparently the spymaster died over ten years ago, and that’s why we couldn’t speak to him.’

  ‘That’s convenient.’

  Abby let her shoulders slump. She knew how desperately Rosamund wanted Dominic to be innocent of the charges he was posthumously facing, but she was growing frustrated that she refused to see the facts.

  ‘Ros, I know Elliot’s story was sensationalist and perhaps he didn’t speak to enough people—’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said Rosamund over the top of her. ‘Journalism was a whole different ball game in my day. Things had to be corroborated and re-corroborated. Nowadays any old source can give you a nod and a wink and it passes for investigative journalism.’