The Consequence of Love

by Sandra Howard

  Nattie’s tears were flowing more freely. Wiping her eyes, she saw that Ahmed’s head was turned; he was emotionally wound up too. It made her feel glad, moved that he should feel strongly enough for an outburst, while burning up with the unfairness of such a monstrously one-sided attack. She was conscious of the dangerous potency; they were talking and fighting as if they’d never been apart.

  He’d given no explanation, not a word; the opposite, in fact, since everything that had happened – certainly in her eyes, from her perspective – had stemmed from the moment he’d cut off all communication and vanished. He had a lot to answer for. A year of silence, nothingness, not a word; was it any wonder that her loyalty had wavered? If she hadn’t found herself pregnant . . . The shock, the realisation of what that had meant, responsibility, the bond with Hugo who was a good, decent man. It was a marriage born of genuine affection, not from her sad sense of defeat when thirteen months on with no word, no sighting, despair had set in.

  Her anger spilled over. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something? You’d disappeared off the face of the earth, remember? Left everyone high and dry. Let me down, sure, but others too – William, your colleagues – and you talk about believing in people? I’d been faithful, “loyal”, pure as a nun all the while we were in contact, and for months afterwards, living in hope, however wretchedly bleak the chance that all was well. Blindly believing in you . . . I’d been helping Hugo, as you’d suggested, and he’d come through. He’d managed to lick his demons with all that took. I’d given him something to live for. And still no word from you.

  ‘So I got drunk one night and went to bed with him. I’d kept taking the pill on and off when I remembered and was pretty certain I had done that night. But a month later I was pregnant. So what do I do? You’re nowhere, a ghost. And what about Hugo? It was his child. I’d spent most of my time hiding my tears from him, as I’ve gone on doing over the years. Marrying was an impulsive decision, yes, but I had Hugo to think about too.

  ‘And don’t tell me you’ve been nowhere near a woman in all this time.’ Ahmed started smiling, which made her feel completely incensed, almost about to hurl something at him. ‘I’m glad you think it’s funny,’ she said, through clenched teeth, sticking out her jaw. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I can’t help it; it’s you. I was terrified you’d have become someone else, cooler and more sophisticated, just as beautiful obviously, but more worldly and closed off. You’ve grown into your loveliness, Nattie, like a true swan; you’re still the soft, fantastic, unique woman I fell in love with and was absolutely determined to marry one day. As I still am.’

  With those four words hanging loose, giving off vapours like a genie out of the bottle, he leaned forward on his elbows and buried his head in his hands. He was as aware as she was of the enormity of those words. But he hadn’t said them challengingly, more as if there was a humility underlying his declared intention. He wasn’t a selfish man and Nattie wondered if he’d been thinking of Hugo in all this. There were three people’s feelings to consider.

  Ahmed lifted up his head. ‘You’ve got just as much fight, all the same instincts; you’re everything I’ve always loved – it’s like we’ve never been out of touch.’

  ‘But that’s just it!’ she exclaimed, in an agony of frustration. ‘We have been – for seven years. All that time I’ve thought you dead or married. You owe it to me to tell me every single bit of what happened. You’ve been asking why. Well, I have to know why too, why you vanished and not a word. Don’t you see?’

  She was quivering, feeling in desperate need of physical contact. She fought it, turned her knees sideways, picked up her fork and gripped the table edge with her other hand. She wanted him to prise away her fingers and bite on them lightly as he used to. It was all she could do not to reach out to him.

  He was distant for a moment and she was too, thinking about him, loving his eyes, dark chestnut with infinite depth, his hair, straight and black with a shank of it falling forward. It was tidy and well cut and from his clothes, all outward signs, Ahmed was far from the penniless reporter of seven years ago, always desperate to have his expenses paid on time. Yet he’d made it onto the Post, no mean achievement. William had seen his star quality, and it was through the paper that she and Ahmed had met. She’d gone to a party to celebrate William’s ten years as editor. People were seeds blowing in the wind, settling where they could, and she clung to the wonder of everything turning on chance.

  Ahmed had outgrown Harehills, that small inward-looking community in a corner of Leeds, and blossomed. He had ability and knew it; there was no false modesty on his part, but no cockiness either, he didn’t strut about. The love she felt clawed at her heart, which was pounding so fast and loudly she wanted to cry out.

  She had a sense of his pain too. Not just for the wretched situation they were in, but for his lack of freedom; not even able to see his own family – not in that tight-closed community where people wanted him dead. She could only imagine his heartache and sense of deprivation, how lonely he must have felt, cut off from the unfettered love of family, his life in London, his close friends. His need for contact must have intensified over the years.

  Nattie wondered if he’d find a way to see his father – secretly in London, perhaps. She’d met him once, a small bald man with bright wary eyes, and seen at first hand the fierce love, pride and affection that flowed between father and son. It had been just before Ahmed left for New York and she’d sensed his father holding her to blame in some way for his son putting his life on the line. But those wary eyes had softened and she’d felt his father warming to her, despite all. It had given her hope for a future that wasn’t to be.

  Ahmed was looking at her again, back from his thoughts.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded, still feeling miserably thwarted and forestalled. ‘You owe me a whole continent of explanations. You owe me and I have to know.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll tell you everything, but it will take time and it will be a struggle for me. It’s not for now. The food’s getting cold too – you should eat something or you’ll hurt your new friend’s feelings. And any minute now you’re going to look at your watch and cut me off, say you have to go.’

  Did her panic about having to leave show that much? Her feelings were seeping out fast. It was nearly two; would take half an hour to get back to the office – she had a meeting at three . . .

  A restaurant nearer the office would have allowed more time, but there was always the risk of being seen by colleagues. Word got around and she worried about Ahmed’s safety. Hugo too, was often in her part of the world, lunching with journalists; nothing could cause him more pain than if he happened to see her or if anyone else did, for that matter, and it got back. Bella Cucina had felt the safest bet.

  ‘Telling you is going to be impossibly difficult,’ Ahmed repeated. ‘And I have to hold out a bit, don’t you see? You’ve made it clear enough that you feel our meeting again like this is a bad, dangerous idea and would have to be kept secret from Hugo. You’ve deleted every single message from the past. I see our account too.’

  ‘So this holding out is by way of a bribe? To get me to agree to see you again?’

  ‘Call it what you like, it’s my only hope. You have to, Nattie. You know that. I had to wait this long before coming to London – any sooner would have been an even more irresponsible risk and the authorities wouldn’t have been pleased. They wouldn’t be now if they knew. I had to think of that, but I’d reached a point, however guilty I feel about Hugo, which I certainly do, where I couldn’t last another day. Maybe it’s wrong and selfish of me and I should have stayed away, but we belong, Nattie, you and me. Our lives were passing us by and my need of you was desperate.’

  He smiled. ‘We’d better eat something. Race you through the seafood special!’

  ‘No contest, you’d win.’

  ‘I’m going to.’

  She looked down.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ he said, leaning across to lift up
her chin. ‘Thursday? Anywhere, any time, any place. You say.’

  ‘I’m working from home tomorrow, looking after Tubsy – Thomas. And I’ve got lunch with Mum on Thursday. It would be hard to put her off without an inquisition, which is not what I want right now.’

  ‘After work on Thursday then if you can’t do lunch?’ he asked. She nodded cautiously. ‘How are your mother and William? Does your mother miss politics?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. She says she’s glad to have got out when she did. They’re both fine, in fighting form. You haven’t been in touch with William then?’ Nattie looked at him nervously.

  ‘How could I, before seeing you? Jake’s about the only person who knows I’m here. I got in touch with him before coming. Have you kept up with him?’

  ‘Of course! You know how keen I was on him; I always said if I’d met him first you’d never have had a look in. He’s doing great,’ Nattie said, ‘exams behind him, an architect who’s going to go far. I’ve seen him with Hugo, we’ve been to his place for supper – his house is very state of the art. But he’s been so busy and as I expect you know if you’ve been in touch, he’s just left for Australia. He emailed saying how sorry he was not to say goodbye. It was quite a shock. I still haven’t told Hugo. I’d love to have seen Jake before he left,’ she said, sounding wistful. ‘I’ve missed him in my life, but to be honest I’m not that gone on his wife.’

  ‘I haven’t met her obviously. But she must have something going for her. Thursday then. Can you get away by half four? Meet by the Millennium Bridge, Tate Modern side?’

  Nattie’s thin words of resistance were never said; she was still hesitating when the waiter reappeared. ‘You no like? No good?’ He stared at their little-touched plates with soulful eyes. ‘You like some tiramisu? Very nice,’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘Nothing more, thanks. Delicious pasta! Sorry, we just weren’t very hungry.’

  ‘Two double espressos and the bill, please,’ Ahmed said, less disingenuously.

  The waiter cleared their plates and left with an audible sigh.

  Ahmed paid the bill with a shiny American Express card and left a large tip. He walked with her to Baker Street Station, close enough for his arm and the back of his hand to brush against hers, but no hand–holding. Nattie was grateful. Walking in the street left her feeling very exposed.

  He looked sideways at her. ‘You’re chewing on your lip.’ That was too intimate and Nattie looked away. ‘What about my lip?’ he used to say. ‘I want your bite.’

  She couldn’t respond, the effort of keeping control was more than she could handle. She wanted to be wrapped in his arms, feeling the contours of him; the longing was infinite pain.

  He came with her on the tube, sitting close. They walked together down deserted back streets, south of the Thames; then they were in the vicinity of her office, which felt dangerous. Both of them were keeping their eyes skinned, but there wasn’t a soul about.

  ‘Your scent is just how I remember,’ Ahmed said. ‘I’ve hung on to the memory for years. It’s you, Nattie, everything about you is the same, my Nattie . . .’

  She was Hugo’s, though – and Lily’s and Tubsy’s. She couldn’t be his.

  ‘I should carry on alone from here,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll look in Drafts?’

  ‘Why, what for? In case you can’t make it on Thursday – either of us can’t?’

  ‘For love letters,’ he said. They were standing close. He traced over her lips and kissed them. It was a sweet, fleeting touch, featherlight, like a passing cloud-shadow that caused a small shiver, a breath of wind that presaged a coming storm.

  Nattie turned away and rounded a corner. The Buckley Building and Girl Talk’s offices were right ahead.

  8

  A Mother’s Instinct

  Victoria was annoyed about having a tight schedule on the day she and Nattie were having lunch. Her Women in Health board meetings often overran, but as Chair of the Trustees she could hurry it up that morning. She couldn’t be late for her afternoon meeting, though, which was important and likely to be fraught. Victoria was a non-executive director of a drugs company, Haverstock, which she considered impressive, ethical and responsible and she approved of how it was run, but the Post was sniffing about, making mischief, something everyone could do without. Being married to the editor of a national newspaper was no breeze; their jobs were often clashing – all the more so during her time in government – and William seemed to take positive delight in provoking his wife.

  Nearly midnight. She and William were still up, enjoying their big, comfortable, book-laden sitting room. They often let time slide. The room had wonderful symmetry, fine cornices, full-length sash windows with creaky shutters and heavy cream curtains on fat rosewood poles. They never drew the curtains, preferred the look of the shutters. The room was mainly William’s doing. The soft glow from the table lamps was soothing and he’d made reading a positive joy with two huge swooping chrome arcs that had cost a bomb. They harmonised well with their mix of modern and antique tables, the Chesterfield sofa and old armchairs.

  He’d found the house, an unmodernised wreck on a main road in Kennington, when he’d been newly divorced and far from flush, but it was Georgian, set well back from the road with windows that could be double-glazed. Victoria had been Home Secretary back then, battling with suicide-bomber terrorist attacks and only too glad to hand over the house-hunting. She’d fallen for the house just as William had and it was only a stone’s throw from Parliament too, just over Lambeth Bridge.

  It was time for bed, but she wanted to talk. ‘It’s my lunch with Nattie tomorrow,’ she said, partly to herself. ‘Probably silly of me to be worried, but she did seem rather nervy on Sunday.’

  No response, but Victoria knew William would have taken it in – in some compartment of his brain at least. He was sprawled on the sofa, peering at smudgy newsprint through his stern new tortoiseshell-framed glasses.

  ‘I’m taking her to the Savoy Grill,’ she carried on. ‘It’s close to where I’ll be and she only has to walk over Waterloo Bridge.’

  ‘She was a bit restless,’ William agreed, ‘acting a bit artificially. I suppose it could be something to do with Hugo, though I doubt he’s playing around. I asked if anything was up, but she fobbed me off. It’s so unlike her, keeping something close; if it weren’t so fanciful I’d have said it could be connected with Ahmed. It must be tough for her, living with the unsolved mystery. My advice, for what it’s worth, is talk about him at lunch. Don’t start saying how hard it is on Hugo, that’s not the point. Tell her that you do understand – though I don’t believe you do really, do you?’ William eyed her, taking off his glasses and reaching for their case.

  ‘Not entirely, not seven years on. She and Hugo seem such a good match, easy in each other’s company, and he does love her so. It was the happiest day for me when they got married.’ Silly thing to say, it would only irritate William. He’d been very unconfident that it would work out. Nattie wasn’t enough in love with Hugo, he said.

  For a hardened newspaperman William had a sentimental side. He’d been swept up by Nattie’s love and loyalty for Ahmed, trusting of his reporter himself, hurtfully so, as far as Victoria was concerned, considering all the pressures and responsibilities of her job. William and Nattie had been proved right, of course, Ahmed had been on the level; he’d saved theirs and the lives of many others.

  ‘She was particularly tense with Hugo,’ Victoria said, ‘which seemed odd. I will bring up Ahmed if you’re convinced it’s a good idea. But why should she be pining for him more than usual? It has to be something else.’

  ‘I suppose her feelings for Ahmed just get the better of her at times, and it makes her feel extra guilty about Hugo. You should try harder to understand. Think of us, the risks you took. There was Nattie, my children, our two marriages, you even risked losing your brand-new government job! I like to kid myself that you once had those same powerful feelings as Nattie.’


  ‘And I still do, you crusty old curmudgeon. But it’s no comparison. True, you and I took the risks, but our situations and the state of our marriages, particularly mine to Barney, were very different. You’re always unreasonably unfair to him, don’t be unfair to Hugo too! Come on, this is getting us nowhere and that was a big fat yawn – time for bed.’

  William was more often right than not, but Victoria wasn’t at all sure about raising the subject of Ahmed at lunch. And should she really try harder to understand? She’d genuinely believed her only daughter had a better chance of a safe, practical, lasting marriage with Hugo than a leap into the dark with Ahmed. Was it so terrible to have felt so happy and secretly relieved on the day? She prayed that the marriage wasn’t beginning to fall apart; nothing could be worse.

  William put his arm round her as they rose and she leaned up to kiss his cheek. He was dark-haired, greying now, and had a strong beard; his cheek was rough and bristly at that late hour. She could tell the time by his stubble.

  She felt incredibly close to him, warmed by the memories and the love they’d found. His making comparisons, though, and reminding her of the depth of Nattie and Ahmed’s love, was unsettling. She kept her sighs to herself and reached to smooth William’s hand. He gave her a kiss.

  ‘You smell of print ink,’ she said, ‘but the scent in this room is gorgeous. It’s your roses, isn’t it, you man of hidden talents.’ Growing the lovely fragrant, blowsy old shrub varieties was one of William’s many passions. The back garden was a bower, a triumph, though how he found the time . . . She was no gardener; politics had taken up every spare minute, in Parliament till all hours.

  ‘I thought those wonderfully scented shrub roses only flowered once,’ she said. ‘Aren’t they all over by now?’

  ‘It’s jasmine you’re smelling, and even that should be over but it’s still doing its thing; it’s in the vase with some late climbers. I’d stick to cooking and your questionable business interests if I were you!’