‘You never left me, Dom.’
He opened his arms and folded them around her. He felt thinner than he used to, softer and less strong. But he still felt like the man she loved.
‘I’d get down on one knee,’ he whispered into her hair, ‘but I fear I might never get up again.’
Laughing, they drew apart, holding hands and watching the horizon.
‘I bet you have wonderful sunsets over here,’ she said, squeezing his fingers.
He looked up at the sky, where the clouds were parting to reveal a clear expanse of cornflower blue.
‘We can watch one later,’ he said, settling his arm across her shoulders.
Ros nodded, her golden years suddenly feeling full of hope, love and promise.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
‘The one up-side of my recent divorce is being able to sit next to this lovely lady at my son’s wedding,’ said Larry Donovan, reaching for the red wine as soon as he had got to the table.
‘Larry. Larry Donovan,’ he said, giving Abby a presumptuous kiss on the cheek before filling his goblet. ‘And who might you be?’
‘Abby Gordon,’ she replied, smiling politely.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Matt eyeing Larry suspiciously.
‘I’ve told my father to be on his best behaviour, but if he doesn’t keep his hands above the table, feel free to hit the button on his ejector seat.’
They all laughed as Matt went to sit next to his bride.
It had been a beautiful wedding.
Anna had always insisted that she wanted to keep it small and low-key, and perhaps, compared to William and Kate’s celebrations, it was. But Abby had been impressed by every detail. The venue, Syon House, was on the western fringes of London, a grand old Robert Adam house with castellations and a long gravel drive set in acres of lush parkland.
Eighty people had assembled in the marble-lined Great Hall for a short civil service and the bride had looked exquisite, her long dress, a simple column of ivory satin, perfectly judged, her shoulder-length hair tied back and pinned behind her ears with tiny white flowers. A champagne reception had been served in the inner courtyard before the guests followed Matt and Anna along a wooded walkway to a stunning conservatory full of palm trees and exotic flowers, where dinner was to be served.
Abby had felt tears in her eyes when her friends had recited their marriage vows. Not out of sadness for her own situation, but from the hope in those words. I give you my heart for as long as we both shall live.
Matt particularly had every reason to be cynical. Not only was it his second marriage, but he was a divorce lawyer who spent his days dealing with the breakdown of commitments that had once meant something to his clients. And yet when he kissed Anna in front of the registrar, the only thing Abby could think about was that she still believed in love. Looking around, she knew that every person in that room did too.
‘Abby Gordon, of course,’ nodded Larry thoughtfully. ‘We didn’t meet the other day. That business with your husband got sorted out quicker than I thought it would have done. I was convinced they would press charges, but some things surprise even long-in-the-tooth old dogs like me. So how is he?’ he asked, his bushy eyebrows rising to a more pronounced peak.
‘He’s fine. He had a lucky escape,’ smiled Abby, taking a sip of her wine. She didn’t want to dwell on the subject. Larry was sharp, knowing. She didn’t need him asking difficult questions about Jonathon Soames that she wasn’t at liberty to answer.
She smiled to herself, thinking about what she could say about Nick. That she was proud of him, that she would never forget the way he had supported her, even if his attempts at hacking into Jonathon Soames’s phone and email hadn’t been entirely successful. He’d been quickly found out, and what he had done was criminal, but something about him had clearly impressed Jonathon, who had told Abby in Ireland that he had some work he wanted to talk to Nick about once things had settled down.
The wedding breakfast was served, a delicious but very unbreakfast-like three courses involving celeriac, beef and something sweet and creamy in tiny china pots. The speeches were short.
‘No one wants to hear you bang on about love when they’ve heard it all before,’ whispered Larry, telling Abby that he’d dispensed with speeches altogether by the time he got to his third marriage.
A jazz band started to play, just as the light was fading outside.
‘I’m nicely warmed up,’ said Larry, finishing off his wine. ‘How about I take you for a spin on the dance floor?’
Abby smiled kindly. She had enjoyed the day, loved seeing one of her closest friends walk down the aisle, but now she desperately wanted to leave.
‘Larry, there are thousands of women around London who would love to take you up on that offer, but right now . . .’
‘Right now, you want to go home.’ He nodded with some secret complicity. ‘You know, we spared each other the delights of the singles table, but weddings are hard on your own,’ he said, looking suddenly old and vulnerable.
Abby kissed him on the cheek and went to get her coat and phone for a taxi, which promised to be there in twenty minutes. She killed time putting some make-up on in the loos, and peered back in at the wedding. Anna and Matt were on the dance floor, foreheads touching, oblivious to the rest of the world. Everyone seemed drunk and happy. Abby just felt exhausted.
She slipped outside at a little after nine, not even saying goodbye, not wanting to tell Matt and Anna that she was going. She didn’t want to disturb them; besides, they would only make a fuss, pair her off with some colleague, or make her dance with Larry or Suze, none of which she felt like doing.
‘Where to, love?’ asked the driver.
She told him her address and settled back in the seat. Her mobile vibrated in her bag, the arrival of a text. She pulled it out and smiled when she saw it was from Rosamund.
Just watching a glorious Connemara sunset. I didn’t think love could be better the second time around. But it can. Have fun at the wedding. Thank you for everything. Rosamund.
She wondered what Ros and Dominic had been up to in the two days since she and Jonathon had left Ireland. She imagined them going for leisurely walks along the coast, playing bridge in the garden, reading the newspapers together or perhaps doing the crossword.
She clicked on the internet icon on her phone and found herself googling the Chronicle story of The Last Goodbye. The screen was only small, but it was enough for her to see the magnificent black-and-white image that had started it all. The words from the wedding echoed in her head as she switched off her phone.
I give you my heart for as long as we both shall live.
‘I’m going to go over Kingston Bridge if that’s all right, love,’ said the cabbie. ‘Terrible traffic over the others.’
Abby nodded vaguely, realising that while she hadn’t wanted to stay at Syon House, she didn’t want to go home either.
The car wound its way through the streets of Isleworth and Twickenham, and suddenly Abby knew exactly where she wanted to be.
‘Do you know what? You couldn’t take me to Bushey Park, could you?’
When Nick had given her the tickets for the showing of Casablanca under the stars, she’d been thrilled for the two minutes it had taken her to realise it was on the same night as Anna’s wedding.
The taxi driver looked surprised, but he dropped her off at the Hampton entrance to the park. Abby had worried that the path to the cinema might be dark and lonely, but it was well lit, and peppered with stray couples who were either late like her or were milling around.
Two girls were sitting behind a table, a makeshift booth for collecting tickets. Abby burrowed in her purse for a twenty-pound note.
‘It’s sold out. I’m sorry,’ said one of the girls flatly.
‘Please,’ said Abby, suddenly desperate to go in.
‘I’m sorry . . .’
She put the note on the table and placed her hand over it.
&n
bsp; ‘It would mean a lot. I was supposed to come here with my husband . . .’
The girl’s face softened.
‘It’s halfway through.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
The girl smiled in sympathy and waved her through, directing her to the bar and the popcorn stand.
The park was beautiful at night. The trees looked as if they had been printed against the mottled purple sky. It was warm; the grass was dry, so Abby kicked off her shoes. It was the perfect summer night.
She looked up at the screen, the giant sepia images of Bogart and Bergman, suspended between two oak trees. She had seen the film so many times she could almost recite the dialogue word for word, but she never grew tired of it, even if she had never been able to understand why Rick let Ilsa get on the plane at the end. Nick had explained it every time they had watched it together. ‘He knew she would have a better life without him.’ But Abby didn’t buy that story. She didn’t think Rosamund Bailey and Dominic Blake would buy it either. How could you have a better life not being with the person you loved? It just didn’t make sense.
If the past few weeks had taught Abby anything, it was that you had to be brave to love. It was a potent force, one that dispensed great highs and dreadful lows, but the magical moments made everything worthwhile. She pictured Rosamund and Dominic holding hands and watching a golden sunset together, remembering the countless times she had done the same thing with Nick on the beach in Cornwall, imagining them doing it every warm summer’s evening if they lived in St Agnes.
She let her eyes trail across the grounds, looking for somewhere to sit.
There were bodies all over the grass. Couples lying under duvets, others propped up in beach chairs.
And then she saw him. Her heart started to beat faster and she had to peer through the darkness to check that she wasn’t imagining it. A little voice in her head told her that she’d known he would be here. After all, she’d seen the tickets propped up on the mantelpiece when she’d gone round to his Kennington flat.
She hopped over legs and cool boxes to get to him. To get to her husband.
She next down next to him and bumped her shoulder against his arm.
‘How could a girl miss Casablanca under the stars?’ she said softly, watching his face crease with pleasure when he saw her.
‘You came,’ he said, looking at her as if she was the only girl in the world.
‘I still don’t like the way he lets her get on that plane, though,’ she said, stretching out and touching his fingertips.
‘I wouldn’t let you go,’ he said, putting his arm around her.
And as the moon cast its silvery light around the park and the music swelled in the distance, Abby smiled and knew that she believed him.
Acknowledgements
The inspiration for The Last Kiss Goodbye came from a trip to the treasure trove of wonder that is the photographic archives of the Royal Geographical Society – so hearty thanks go to Jamie Owen at the RGS who allowed me to come and visit and, in doing so, kick-started an idea.
Benedict Allen is a real-life Indiana Jones who helped me bring the character of Dominic Blake to life. He’s actually been into the depths of the Amazon jungle and told me all sorts of fascinating detail – from jungle rituals to how to pack a mule for a trip to Peru.
To Nyree Belleville, Kay Burley, Belinda Jones, Polly Williams and Jacquie Lawrence – I do enjoy all our ‘book’ chat! Margaret Perry provided colour from London in 1961. Christopher M gave me insight on Cold War Russia.
Continued thanks to the fabulous team at Headline, especially Sherise Hobbs, Beth Eynon and Mari Evans, and my agent Eugenie Furniss. Thanks also to Liane-Louise Smith for all your help.
Thanks as ever go to my family; Mum, Dad, Digs, Far and Dan. My son Fin is a nine-year-old creative dynamo and is always right when I run titles and character names past him. And for John – as ever, for everything. If you ever got lost in the rainforest, you know I’d always come looking for you until I found you.
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The Last Kiss Goodbye Page 33