by June Gadsby
Callum told me that it was the property of his neighbour, but there was no longer anyone able to look after it. He intended to take it over one day, if he could persuade the old man to sell.
“Is it open? Can we go inside?” I asked, wanting to grab just a few moments of intimacy with him before we had to leave.
“If you want. The lock’s been broken for years.”
He led the way, pushing open the old rickety door. The air was thick and hot and musty inside with a heady aroma of fermenting and early ripening fruit. It was suffocating, but I didn’t care. It was a private, secret world and we could share our last moments together away from prying eyes. Once we got in the car and headed for the airport, we would no longer have this amount of privacy.
We lost ourselves among the foliage and Callum kissed me as if he couldn’t stop. He peppered my face with kisses, nuzzled his face into my neck, caressed my breasts. I could hardly breathe, but it had little to do with the close atmosphere inside that exotic glasshouse.
“Oh, my sweet, lovely Megan. We only have a few minutes. No time to make love properly. How am I going to live without you?”
“Don’t, Callum! I can’t bear to think about it.”
We had talked well into the early hours, thrashing the subject of our love until there was nothing left but ragged fragments.
“I can’t leave Hilary,” he had said finally. “I owe everything I am to her. She’s a good person, Megan. I can’t just cast her off, hurt her like that.”
“I never expected you to leave her,” I said, holding back a sob that rose to choke me. “We’re both guilty, Callum. We’ve deceived them…Hilary and Greg. I almost left Greg, you know. Then he had the accident and we discovered that he was ill...dangerously ill as it happens. He’s been doing so well recently, Callum, trying so hard. I don’t want to risk pushing his blood pressure back up to where it was before.”
“Do you still love him, Megan? Do you really still love him?”
I thought about his question and slowly shook my head. “I feel guilty and responsible for him, but…no, I don’t love him. Not anymore. Sometimes, I wonder if I ever did. Now that I come to think of it, our relationship was purely physical. When we met, I was very young. A virgin. He soon changed things for me. He was dynamic, exciting, virile. I was the envy of all my friends. We make some terrible mistakes when we’re young, don’t we?”
“Making mistakes isn’t the prerogative of the young,” Callum said and stuck his hands in his pockets as he marched stiffly away from me.
I followed him, wondering if he was thinking of his love for me as being his own tragic error. I didn’t press him on the subject. We were both feeling uneasy about going home and facing our respective partners, trying to act as if everything was all right, trying to hide our remorse for what had taken place behind their backs for the past two weeks.
“Oh, goodness, just look at that peach.” I exclaimed, wanting to lighten the atmosphere to make it more bearable. I had halted before an old peach tree laden with fruit. One piece of fruit looked remarkably better than all the others, ripe before it’s time. I reached up and plucked it off the branch without thinking, then glanced guiltily at Callum. “Oh, dear. I shouldn’t have done that. We are trespassing, after all.”
Callum turned and retraced his steps, once more under control. His mouth twisted into an amused smile. “Don’t look so worried. It was obviously ready to be picked. It’s a beauty isn’t it? Shall we eat it, Megan? You know, share a piece of forbidden fruit?”
Such ironic words. Wasn’t that exactly what we had been doing for the last two weeks?
We stared at the round, crimson orb, warm in my hand, exuding its peachy perfume. It seemed somehow symbolic. Of all the memories we had created during our fortnight in France, this simple peach was to be the last and perhaps the most significant of all.
“You first,” he said gently, taking the fruit from me.
He held the peach to my mouth and I took a bite, feeling the juice flow down my chin. Then he bit into it in his turn and his mouth was moist with the sweet nectar. We continued in this way, each taking our bite of succulent flesh, until there was nothing left but the hard stone.
“I’ll plant a peach tree in my conservatory and every year there’ll be fruit and when I bite into them…” My breath caught in my throat and I almost gagged. “I’ll be reminded of you, Callum…and our love. It’ll be like making love to you all over again…every year…when the fruit ripens…” My voice cracked and there was a short silence.
Callum’s face darkened. He forced a dry laugh. He didn’t realise just how much my heart was breaking inside, but I didn’t dare show it, couldn’t afford to let the utter desolation I felt rise to the surface. I knew how difficult the decision was that he had finally made. The decision to stay with Hilary. He was in love with me, passionately. But Hilary had been his wife for more than twenty-five years and he owed her more than just the loyalty he had pledged on their wedding day. He was as old-fashioned about promises as I was.
I suppose I could have asked him, begged him to leave Hilary and, if he had agreed, I know I would have left Greg. But I couldn’t bring myself to plead. Later, if things went terribly wrong between us, there would be too much guilt resting on my shoulders. I didn’t want him to have anything to reproach me for.
Callum placed the flat of his hand gently on my face. His thumb wiped away a stray tear that I hadn’t realised was there. His eyes delved into mine, dark with subdued emotion. “I’ll never stop loving you, Megan,” he said. “Never. I only hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me for not being stronger….”
I stopped his flow of words with a light touch of my fingertips to his mouth and shook my head. He had said enough. For a long time, I couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the right words. Everything that went through my head was wrong. I was willing him to change his mind at the last minute, forget Hilary, the wife he respected too much to give up for me. At the same time, I hated myself for such selfish thoughts. What he was doing was right and noble and I had to accept it as such.
“Callum…please just hold me,” I said finally, suddenly frightened of the thought of losing him. “Hold me really tightly because I can feel our little world slipping away.”
He enveloped me in his arms and kissed me tenderly, then with passion. He tasted of ripe peach. I would carry the lasting aroma of it with me forever, I thought.
He lifted my chin so that the sun filtering through the glass found my eyes. “Oh, my love. What can I say, other than I’m sorry?”
He pressed his forehead against mine, closed his eyes. I felt his own tears drop onto my cheeks mingling with mine. We stood there for what seemed an age, clinging to one another. After a while I put my arms around his neck, pulling his head down, my lips straining for his. My heart seemed to disintegrate in the knowledge that it was to be our last kiss. Down in the valley, the church clock was chiming the hour. It was time to say goodbye.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Present
I closed Callum’s book, folded it in my arms and held it closely to my heart. My face was wet with tears. I opened it again, flipping through pages, reading random phrases, still not believing the words I had read. Words that had torn at my heart. My vision blurred and my throat tightened.
How could he have written such a book and not told me, I wondered? It was a beautiful story, simply told, of a man’s forbidden love for a younger woman. And I was that woman. It was our story. What did he hope to achieve by it?
Three years had passed since those two glorious, unforgettable weeks in France. Three years when my life had known sadness, anger, remorse. But there had been happiness too. Greg had not only recovered his health but had tried remarkably well to be a good husband. He had become again, for a while, the man I had married. For a while.
Then he grew bored and the itchy feet came back and, also, his old behaviour. First the smoking, though these days he preferred cigars. Then the o
ver-eating and drinking, and running around with a younger, more sophisticated jet-set of journalists, always under stress in the fast lane. He pooh-poohed the idea that he was risking his health, running swiftly back into the danger zone.
He wasn’t too discreet when it came to the other women, either. I didn’t have to hunt for clues. He left them for me to find. Traces of lipstick, perfume, the odd long, blonde, red or brunette hair.
I got to be quite relieved when he didn’t come home, when he stayed away for days on end. At least, as long as there were other women around who interested him, he no longer bothered me physically or in any other way. There were no strong words between us or acts of violence against me. That, at least, had stopped. And so had Greg’s jealousy of my success as an artist. At last I had my independence and he had his. It just happened that we still shared the same roof.
As for Callum, when we got back from France he departed almost immediately on a world tour. I never saw him again, except by chance in magazine articles or giving a televised concert. After a while, he disappeared from the show-business scene. Rumour had it that he had retired to France.
Then he wrote this book, his love-story, and intrigued the world as they wondered how much of it was true, how much the product of his imagination. I could have told them.
I jumped suddenly as the doorbell sounded and grabbed a handful of Kleenex to mop up my tears as I went to answer the summons. There was nothing to forewarn me, no way that I could have cushioned the shock of seeing the short, stocky figure of Hilary Andrews standing on my doorstep when I opened the door.
“Hello, Megan. Can I please come in, dear?”
I drew in a gulp of fresh air and stepped back to allow her to pass before me into the hall.
“Goodness, Hilary!” I fumbled clumsily with the words as they sorted themselves out in my numbed brain. “This is a surprise. It’s been such a long time.”
I hadn’t seen her since I returned to England with Callum and she was there at the airport to meet us, looking like an anxious wife desperate to have her husband back home. She had called me a couple of times after that, but I always made the excuse that I was already engaged or too busy to go and see her.
I think my distancing myself had hurt her, but how could I possibly face her after what had taken place between Callum and I. It was a lot worse than a New Year’s Eve kiss and I knew I would never be able to hide my deep-seated feelings of guilt. Finally, she gave up phoning and sent me cards at Christmas and Easter. And one picture post-card from France. Dear Megan, Having a nice break with Callum and the family at Labagnac. Hope all is well with you, dear. Callum sends his love. Regards, Hilary.
“I’m sorry to drop in on you like this unannounced,” she was saying as her eyes darted about curiously. “Are you alone? I mean…Greg isn’t here, is he?”
“No. He’s covering the latest government crisis down in London. He won’t be back for a few days.” I led her into the sitting room and she sat down wearily on the seat I had just vacated. She looked old and tired and anxious. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”
She shook her head quickly. “Later perhaps, after I’ve said what I came to say. I…oh…you’ve already read it.”
She reached down to the coffee table and picked up Callum’s book. My heart sank. There was no escaping anything anymore. She was bound to have read it. Only a very naive woman would not recognise the truth in the pages of that book. And Hilary Andrews, although simple and homely, was not stupid.
“I’ve just finished reading it,” I murmured and sat down beside her.
She opened the book to the flyleaf and read the dedication out loud: “With all my love, Callum.” Her voice broke on pronouncing his name and when she looked at me her small eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Do you know, when I read that the first time, I thought it was dedicated to me. But it isn’t you know. It’s the girl in this book. This novel…only it isn’t a novel, is it, Megan?”
“Hilary…I…”
“It’s you, isn’t it, dear? You’re his heroine.”
I didn’t know how she could sit there and be so polite, so calm, knowing what she knew.
“It’s true, isn’t it, Megan?” she persisted and laid her hand gently on mine. “Please don’t lie to me. I know it’s true, but I would rather hear it from your own lips.”
I took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, Hilary. The girl in the book…Magda… Yes, it’s me…it was me. But there hasn’t been any contact between Callum and I since those two weeks in France.”
She blinked at me, frowning. “I find that so hard to believe,” she whispered. “I’ve read the book. It’s the story of a love far too strong ever to die.”
We stared at one another, both breathing uneasily. “I didn’t say that the love had stopped, Hilary,” I said gently, not wanting to hurt her any more than she was hurting already. “I can’t speak for Callum, but I’ve never stopped loving him…and I never will.”
“Then why…?”
“Why didn’t we stay together?” I took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly, but she withdrew it and held it close to her. “We both had too much love and respect, Hilary…for you. Callum loves you, you must know that, surely. And I…well, I thought I owed Greg the chance to be the man I believed he was capable of being….”
“And did it work out…for you and Greg?”
I took a long time to reply to her question and she waited patiently, watching my face intently. “No, Hilary, it didn’t. It was all right for a while, but then…well, I’m afraid he’s gone back to his old ways. I think it would take a very special person to change him and I’m not that special.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, my dear,” she said, and I saw her lips quiver with an emotion that she was having difficulty holding back. “Oh, I can tell you from experience that men don’t change and nothing we women can do will make them. But you are special, Megan. You’re very special to Callum. I’ve known it all along. Almost before he did, I think. You see, I may not be able to change him, but I do know my husband very well.”
“Hilary…please…don’t upset yourself by all this,” I pleaded with her. “It’s long since finished…in the past. Callum obviously felt it necessary to put the story down on paper. Perhaps he needed to get it out of his system.”
“Oh, Megan, don’t be so naïve. You’ve read that book, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I’ve read it, but…”
“He’s never going to get you out of his system. Not ever. Megan, my dear girl, Callum loves you so much.” She saw me start to put forward an argument of some sort and held up a hand to stay me. “No, Megan. Hear me out. There’s more to Callum and I than he would ever admit of his own accord.
“When I married him, he was nothing more than a music teacher eking out a pathetic living in a small Scottish country school. I was the daughter of the local laird. We were rich, but I was very plain and quite honestly had talent for nothing at all. I got to know Callum quite well. My mother used to organise charity concerts and Callum always gave his time freely. I fancied myself in love with this handsome young teacher, but in reality, all I wanted was to get off the proverbial spinster shelf and have a family of my own. It had nothing to do with love or passion, Megan. Actually, I’ve never been too fond of men. Stuart was the product of a one-night stand I had with someone before I met Callum.
“Callum didn’t really want to get married. He was still very young and probably saw marriage as being too much of a tie. Besides, I was ten years older and hardly the most attractive girl in his life. But we did get on awfully well and my parents approved of him. He married me out of sympathy, Megan. Sympathy and gratitude for turning his struggling career into a world-wide success.
“And, of course, my parents were rather important people and very proud. The thought of having a daughter give birth to an illegitimate child was unheard of.
“It was my father who intervened as soon as he knew I was pregnant. He paid Callum to marry me. He introd
uced him to all sorts of important people, picked that quiet school-teacher up by his ears and dropped him where he needed to be, on the road to fame and fortune. Callum has lived with the shame of that…and the gratitude…all our married life.
“Callum could have left me at any time, but he owed my family too much and he had made promises. He is a man of his word and a gentleman. It’s an old-fashioned word, but that’s what he was in those days. Still is, if it comes to that. Anyway, that’s what I kept telling myself. I suspect he was a gentleman because, although he liked me, he didn’t find me at all physically attractive. We were friends. Good friends…but that’s all it ever was.”
“Oh, Hilary, I’m so sorry. For everything.”
“I don’t know why I told you all that. It wasn’t the purpose of my visit, you know.”
“Then why have you come?”
“I felt the need to make up to Callum for all the years I’ve held onto him so selfishly when I knew he didn’t love me. He never loved me, Megan. I don’t believe he’s ever loved anyone in his life other than…” She gave an audible gulp and hesitated before going on. “Other than you. That’s why I say you’re special. Don’t let him waste that love, my dear.”
“If he wanted me so badly, Hilary, he would have come back to me before now.”
“Oh, damn that Callum and his stupid pride.” Hilary fished out her handkerchief and blew her nose, then wiped her reddening eyes, making them worse than ever. “Of course, he wants you, Megan, but he daren’t risk being turned down in favour of Greg.”
“He knows I don’t love Greg.”
“Yes, but he also knows about you and your loyalty to a man who doesn’t really deserve it. If you hold onto your marriage with Greg, you can’t possibly expect a man of Callum’s integrity to interfere. He’s just not made that way, Megan.”