They seldom rowed, he and Nattie, just a few mini-snipes, the usual marital junk. She got at him over nit-pickiness and pomposity, he nagged her about her coats and jackets piling up on chair-backs – God forbid she’d ever hang them up in the hall cupboard – and leaving her jeans just where she’d stepped out of them, subsided but still with form. He minded her damp bras and pants decorating every radiator. Her untidiness drove him mad.
But did he really want to bring up Ahmed, the shadowy elephant in the room, the stalking ghost, and ruin the cosy promise of the last evening of the holiday? Less elephant more Loch Ness monster, Hugo thought morosely, since the mystery of Ahmed seemed destined never to be resolved. The man had probably met his end and his maker by now – some retributive killing that the authorities had chosen to play close – or else he was married with three little Ahmeds, fuck it, and living in Pittsburgh, Preston or Pakistan. But would it even help if Nattie knew?
Hugo stayed in Lily’s room cursing quietly and trying to contain his corrosive burn of resentment about the past. His regret at his own past too, whose horrors never left him; he still woke shivering in the darkest hours of night, reliving the pulsating headaches and screeching pain in his bones, the agonies of paranoid psychosis. Women were supposed to forget the pain of childbirth, but the memories of his torment were like a tic in his mind, always there.
Would he ever have made it through without Nattie? He had clung to a fervent hope that surviving the throes of detox and rehab would seal their relationship somehow and be the glue, the bright blue sky of their future together.
He’d known deep in his heart that there was no magical solution; he’d needed her on any terms, yet handling his feelings was becoming harder than ever and never more so than tonight. Perhaps it was the effect of two weeks in the Algarve – weren’t holidays traditionally supposed to exacerbate emotional troubles and rows? He felt spineless, useless, longing for more self-confidence, to have the sort of forceful personality that women seemed to go for – though Nattie had lost her heart to someone not at all like that. Ahmed had been unassuming, selfless, quixotic, quick-minded – qualities that were hard to beat.
Hugo sighed and, squaring his shoulders, had a last look back at Lily. She had her precious woolly kangaroo, but the room had an unfamiliar feel. It was a typical holiday-villa spare, with twin beds, a pair of antiseptic landscapes and short floral curtains over mosquito-netted windows. The child looked lost in one of the adult twin beds. He and Nattie had pushed it against the wall, put cushions in front in case she rolled out in the night and shut down the noisy air-conditioning.
Lily had chosen the story then fallen asleep a few pages in and even that was making him feel inadequate – he’d minded being denied his good-night kiss. She usually flung her arms round his neck and hugged him before burrowing down and cuddling her kangy.
‘Sleep tight, angel,’ he mouthed, going over to the bed and fondly touching her cheek. He lifted away a long wisp of spun-silk hair, just like her mother’s, and she gave an irritated little mumble.
Crossing to the door, he went out and pulled it quietly to behind him, and turning to go, almost bumped into Nattie. She was barefoot and he hadn’t heard her come upstairs.
‘Oops!’ she laughed. ‘You must have got through a lot of stories. I was waiting for you to give me a shout. Has she gone off?’
‘Yes. I’m going down for a drink. Glass of wine? Pink or white?’
‘I’m ahead of you,’ she said, giving one of her heart-stopping smiles. ‘I’ve opened the pink, but the white’s nicely cold and it’s got to be drunk, we can’t take it back on easyJet. I thought we’d eat outside. There’s no wind and the lemony candle bowls do seem to work.’
‘Whatever,’ he muttered, pushing on past, conscious of Nattie’s hurt, questioning look.
‘I’ll just have a peep at Lily,’ she murmured, looking back. ‘You’ve plugged in one of the mozzie disks?’ He nodded without turning and carried on.
Delicious smells were coming from the kitchen. Nattie had been making some sort of fish stew, a huge pan of it, he saw, with the crayfish, squid and some white fish or other that they’d bought on a companionable trip to the market – a child-free one, since Victoria and William had still been there to take charge. Nattie had frozen the fish, promising it would be fine, and it certainly smelled as good as fresh. She’d done a vast bowl of lettuce and avocado, basil-strewn mozzarella and tomatoes. She never stinted over food.
Hugo poured himself a glass of the Portuguese white, downed half of it and went out to the terrace with the bottle in a Thermos cooler. He pulled out a chair at the wrought-iron table and sat down. He’d taken down the covering sunshade after tea, liking the feeling of the terrace being open to the night, not overhung with a huge square canvas shield. The terrace was set in large pinkish tiles with steps down to the garden and he sat looking out into the shady dark.
Nattie had brought out dishes of crisps and immense shiny olives. She’d laid the table with rush mats and decorative pottery plates, the lemon candle bowls, and put a few sprigs of bougainvillea in a small round vase. Hugo palmed a mouthful of crisps. He sipped the cold white wine, drinking steadily, and refilled his glass. He felt as strung up as a plucked chicken.
Nattie came out to join him. She kissed the top of his head before sitting down and he smelled her scent, which was honeyish, like jasmine or rose, he thought, and freshly applied. It was distracting and alluring, he was trying to get a grip.
‘You’re making fast work of that bottle,’ she said cheerfully, reaching over him for an olive. She bit into it and held it half-eaten between her fingers as if about to speak. Hugo could see her small teeth-marks in the flesh round the stone. He wanted to grab her wrist and make her drop the stone, kiss her mouth, taste the piquant saltiness of the olive.
‘We saw a little hedgehog in the garden this evening,’ Nattie said, finishing the olive in tiny bites, ‘when we were bringing in the toys. Lily was over the moon! It was snuffling in the grass near the pines. I called, but I think you were in the shower. We put out a saucer of milk, though I’ve brought it back in now – don’t tell Lily. I was worried about rats and things.’
‘I’ll get your wine.’ Hugo rose abruptly and went inside. He came back with the bottle of rosé and Nattie’s glass, which he topped up without speaking. He was feeling ridiculously put out. Lily told him everything and she hadn’t breathed a word about the hedgehog. He knew how stupid it was to let it upset him, but it did.
‘Lily fell asleep after three pages of Tim to the Lighthouse,’ he said levelly, making a conscious effort.
‘Done in with all that swimming, I expect. You were up there such ages, I thought she must be getting her way as usual, winding you round her little finger.’
Hugo gripped the stem of his empty glass. With his oversensitivity about Lily he was in no mood for Nattie’s trite chat and smiles. ‘Far from it,’ he said curtly. ‘I had things on my mind, I was in no hurry to come down.’
‘What like?’
He stared back at her. She looked exquisite. She was wearing a flimsy, greenish sundress with shoestring straps. The colour showed off her tan, and her nipples, standing out against the fabric, were hard to ignore.
‘I was actually wondering,’ he said, ‘looking at Lily, peacefully asleep, whether she’d grow up and fall in love with a Muslim reporter from Leeds.’
Nattie visibly flinched. She looked away, then bringing her eyes back, found some fight. ‘That’s a silly thing to say and you know it. What’s got into you, darling? What on earth is the point of harking back to something so long ago in the past? We’ve had a cool holiday, just us, with the place to ourselves these last days. It’s been great; don’t spoil it now.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘I’ll get the food. Then can we start over? Calm down and relax a bit, love. Please let’s just enjoy tonight.’
‘Not so sure about that,’ Hugo muttered as she left, probably out of hearing. He emptied what was left of
the bottle into his glass. He’d been off alcohol ever since getting clean, but had started again the previous year. It had been a conscious decision, a rare feeling of certainty that he could drink purely for pleasure and socially, without ever letting it lead to a relapse. Never again the tyranny of that absolute need of a hit; he’d come through.
He unscrewed the second bottle feeling well in control. The food would help as well. The wine was shoring up his determination to spell out his grievances before they spread like suffocating weeds and strangled his ability to cope.
Nattie was subdued and said nothing as they ate. The crickets made their symphony. The garden below the terrace was ink-dark, but the stars were out and the air as warm and soft as a woman’s touch. She caught his eye finally, with a rather frail, uneasy smile.
‘The fish isn’t bad, is it,’ she asked, ‘cooked this way?’
‘No, it’s good. Tasty.’ He felt unable to maintain a total freeze-up, though it was hard to suppress his urge to put her through it and make her aware of his bitter mood.
She watched while he made inroads into the second bottle, but didn’t raise her eyebrows. Then she pushed back her chair. ‘I’ll get the peaches and there’s all that cheese left as well. Coffee ice cream in the freezer.’
‘No, stay for a moment. I want to ask you something.’ Hugo wasn’t about to be deflected. He stared at her, determined to shake her up and inflict pain. ‘Here’s a question. What would you do if, say, the doorbell rang one day and you opened the door to Ahmed?’
Nattie’s eyes filled with tears. She still cared that fucking much? He felt chilled to the pit of his stomach. She brushed at her eyes impatiently with the back of her hand, sat up straight and faced him. ‘How can you do this, love? Why keep obsessing about something that’s history now, long over and done with.’
No, Hugo thought, it wasn’t over and done with. Ahmed had control of her heart, he owned it – he still would even if he was buried and below ground.
‘We have so much,’ Nattie pleaded, more in control, doing her irritating best to soothe and placate him. ‘I love you, I treasure our life, I love our children, I’m wildly proud of you, my tall handsome guy. Can’t you just be glad of what we have and be happy like me?’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’ Hugo stared stubbornly; his hands were shaking and he pressed down hard on his thighs, fingers splayed. Sure she loved him, just not as much . . . He felt the pain tear into him. ‘Well?’ he demanded, leaning forward, still gripping his thighs. ‘What would you do? And don’t say it’s hypothetical; don’t fob me off. I need to know.’
‘But it is hypothetical, probably impossible – I doubt he’s still alive. And even if he was back in England and managed to track us down, he’d know by the same token that we were married. It would be a social call. Darling, it’s been nearly eight years! Don’t be such a gloopy loon, you know how much you’re loved.’
Hugo had a barely containable urge to swipe at everything on the table, send plates, glasses flying. Nattie couldn’t spit it out, couldn’t bring herself to say that it wouldn’t matter if Ahmed turned up, it wouldn’t mean a thing. He froze when she reached for one of his trembling hands and entwined fingers. ‘I love you,’ she repeated uselessly, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘And always will.’
Hugo could feel the heat of his fury ebb away. ‘It was the look in your eyes,’ he mumbled, still sitting rigidly upright, unyielding and unresponsive. Retrieving his hand he rose and stood with his back to her a moment, trying to regain his composure. ‘I’ll get the bloody cheese,’ he said over his shoulder, going into the villa, pushing open the sliding glass doors.
There was no release, nothing gained. She couldn’t love him in the way he wanted. He’d married her knowing that, though, and challenging her tonight had been a stupid unwinnable battle, even tanked up with two bottles of wine. He loved and needed her; without her he wouldn’t survive – the addictive need would surface. Living on crumbs was better than starvation.
He returned with the fruit bowl and some pungent black-rinded cheese. Nattie hacked at it and put a piece on his plate, reaching for the bread basket with a cautious smile. She always did it to him, the way she looked. It wasn’t the flickering candlelight, she looked like it in the early morning, in bright sun. Her long fair hair – too straight, she always complained absurdly – golden eyes, the teasing, wicked upturn of her smile . . .
She was his wife. The disbelief never left him. Nor the acid fear of losing her, the wild thoughts that haunted him, the bitter frustrations of the night; resentment hung around like the smell of charred remains, but he never ceased to be transfixed by her face with its velvety bloom.
She got her fair hair from her father, Barney, who’d been a blond charmer in his day – a heavy, sometimes violent drinker as well. Her parents’ divorce had surprised no one. Barney had lost his looks and it was shocking to see him now, a bloated, fumbling alcoholic. He’d taken up with June, the ex-wife of an old drinking crony who’d seemed able to handle the situation, his ex-wife and his friend, Barney, in a relationship – so well, in fact, that he’d even moved in with them. They made a weird drunken threesome, Nattie had said, laughing. Hugo knew she couldn’t stand June, but she loved her father through it all.
Nattie touched his arm. ‘One more day. I hate to think it’s back to work again so soon. Has Christine been on at you today? I bet she’s back at her desk already, with the Bank Holiday so early this year.’
Hugo stared at the ripe yellow peaches in the bowl. Three emails from the woman that evening. Christine was Head of Communications at Palmers and a hard-nosed, hyperactive cow; she never left him alone. He cursed internally. The trouble with a world-famous, upmarket department store was its many departments. Palmers was always revamping its food counters, opening a cupcake-and-coffee corner, exciting itself over some unexciting new line, the start of the sales, seasonal displays. And he had to deal with the lot, magic up big-name celebs to give endorsements and bite into a cupcake – Victoria Beckham at the very least to satisfy Christine. He enjoyed his other clients, but Palmers and Christine ground him down.
‘You’re right. She’s been peppering me endlessly, up her arse about some new Japanese designer, Hiroki, who’s opening a shop within the store. Christine only wants coverage in every bloody national. It’s a bit of luck, but the Post’s fashion editor is free the day after we’re back – not sure what I’ve done to deserve that! Hiroki’s this-season stuff is punky black leather, very S&M, so what do you think if I push that slant?’
‘It’s still Beverly, isn’t it, who’s fashion editor? With your charm you can’t fail to win her round, but I’d try to keep it more upmarket – family newspaper and all that. “Black leather punk, the new chic”, more that sort of thing.’
She touched his cheek and brushed over his lips with her fingers. ‘I think it’s bedtime. Let’s go up, the holiday isn’t quite over . . .’
Hugo’s gut churned. He lusted after her, but felt mentally unable as yet to unwind. Nattie’s overtures felt too effortful and forced; he wanted passionate abandonment, though knew it was rather a tall order that night.
She started to clear the table, then sat down again and took his hand. ‘I can’t bear this. Can’t we just cuddle up in bed and find our wavelength? I want to be close to you, more than anything.’ Her eyes were glistening, her fingers kneading his palm. As so often his love formed a knot, a tightening sensation in his chest. It was physical, constricted his breathing. It made Hugo fear for his life; he wouldn’t have one without her.
She’d been pregnant with Lily. Would she have married him otherwise? He never stopped asking himself that, knowing at heart she’d have held off and he’d never have felt able to push it. Nattie had come out with it herself one evening after discovering she was pregnant. ‘Let’s get married,’ she said, with sparkling eyes, ‘and have an instant family!’ She’d heard nothing from Ahmed, not a word for well over a year by then, and had been at
the height of her disillusionment – as well as being pregnant.
‘Better clear up, I suppose,’ Hugo said now, battling with the tensions of the evening and leaving her invitation unanswered, holding in his desire. ‘It won’t take long.’ It did. When Nattie started wiping kitchen surfaces he lost it completely. ‘For Christ’s sake, can’t you ever stop?’ he snapped, grabbing the cloth and hurling it at the sink. ‘I thought you wanted to be close.’
He took hold of her upper arms and kissed her hard on the mouth, her soft, lovely mouth, feeling the heat charge through him with roaring speed. He dropped the thin straps from her shoulders and lowered his head, excited to distraction by her body’s arching response.
She led him by the hand upstairs with her eyes never leaving his, even as they fell on the bed together, even as she hooked him in with her legs. He felt deluged, intoxicated as he sank into her, engulfed by an obliterating passion. She was filling his senses, blocking all thought. At that moment everything and nothing mattered. He’d ride any storm while he had Nattie. She was his everything, his wife, his Nattie. With her hand holding his he would survive.
4
Nattie and Sadia
Nattie was pleased to have secured an interview with a writer whose first novel was causing such a stir. She arrived early and the restaurant, which was a red-check-tablecloth bistro, probably more of an evening place really, was a sea of empty tables. An elderly man in tweeds was eating alone at a corner table with his broadsheet newspaper folded into three, and two women in suits, who looked like senior executives, were coming in. Marks & Spencer’s head office was just up the road. Otherwise the place was deserted.
The Consequence of Love Page 3