‘It happens,’ Nattie said vaguely. ‘Everyone makes the odd slip.’
‘Some more than others. Oh, I knew I had something to tell you. I ran into Brian, ex of SleepSweet, yesterday on Piccadilly and invited him round to supper.’ He had an acid taste, recalling Nattie suggesting it, that sickening night at his parents’. ‘Brian called back today with a couple of dates so I’ve gone ahead and asked him round. We fixed on Wednesday week. Hope that’s okay? We haven’t anything on.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘You never know, something might come of it. He sounded a good guy from all you said and he can’t have approved of the new CE arbitrarily shafting you.’
‘He’s coming on his own. They live out in the sticks, I think. How about asking Maudie? And Tom too, with that odd woman he’s seeing, which would make us six?’
‘I’m really not keen to have Tom and Maudie together. He’s never got over her, it would be very unfair.’
Hugo felt impatient. ‘It’s years since she ditched him, for God’s sake! Tom sees her around and I don’t know who else we could ask who would be as easy to fill in about Brian, he’s hardly a close friend of ours.’ Any lingering sensitivities of Tom’s were the least of his worries. He wanted to check out Nattie’s story as well. He hated to feel so mistrustful, but his suspicions were octopus-like now, putting out feelers in all directions.
‘Well, let’s see if they can come first,’ she said mildly, ‘and take it from there.’
They got on with the evening. She’d done her best with leftover chicken and the wine slipped down, the bottle finished in no time, though Nattie had no more than a glass. Hugo resisted opening another; the way she looked, her still golden tan in her white shirt, so easy to unbutton, her soft skin and exquisite glow, he didn’t trust himself. He had to play it cool, had to go along with it. What other fucking choice did he have?
Nattie broke into his reverie. ‘Can you finish off the lemon tart, love?’
Hugo stared at her. ‘If you want me to. I’m not sure what you do want. You’re in another place, somewhere I’d rather you weren’t.’
‘Sorry, I did try to explain. Bear with me, darling, just for a while, can you? Life catches up sometimes.’ She smiled. Which bit of life had caught up with her, he wanted to know. He opened a second bottle of wine.
The lemon tart, which was home-made, reminded him of Sunday teas with Victoria and William. The children loved seeing them. Hugo wished his own parents made more of an effort to see Lily and Thomas at this special stage. They never came to London, never put themselves out and took an interest. He called home sometimes, but the contact was always one-way. He felt lonely and unloved. Nattie’s relationship with her mother had its sensitive moments, but the love was there. And with William. Hugo slightly resented their closeness – unfairly, he knew. William was more of a father to her than her own, but he’d also been Ahmed’s boss and mentor, which was hard to forget.
Nattie was clearing plates and he caught a yawn – as he was probably meant to. He felt randy and frustrated, despairing and harsh. ‘You needn’t yawn.’ He glared at her. ‘I know you’ll be off to bed any minute, you don’t have to advertise it.’
‘It’s very early,’ she said, grinning back at him. ‘I quite want to watch a bit of television.’
He washed the saucepans and turned from the sink. Nattie was standing near the kitchen table, glancing at her phone, and he moved close.
‘Just a kiss,’ he said. She gave a cautious half-smile. He drew her into his arms and kissed her full-on, which she allowed while giving nothing. He could feel the force of his own physicality, not just his hard-on and wine-loosened urgency, the overt sexuality, but his height and strength as well, the maleness of his straining body that she’d always responded to in the past. Why couldn’t she be just a little less wooden and give him a crumb of hope? The fight went out of him suddenly. ‘Oh, forget it,’ he said, his hands making fists. He turned away feeling racked with bitterness and anguish.
The questions buzzed in his head. Why? What had gone so badly wrong? She’d always responded so warmly and instinctively; what had turned her? Could she be having an affair? Surely not, it couldn’t be, she wasn’t like that . . . but the signs were there. In fact, the more he thought about her reactions, the more it seemed the most likely explanation.
The fault line had always been there – Nattie’s love for Ahmed – but it had been a fissure in the rock of their marriage, not a chasm. But had her sense of loss reached a point where she could no longer bear to be touched by her own husband? Was she feeling trapped – was that it?
A shiver of premonition shook him to his roots like a gale ripping out a tree. Ahmed was only missing and Nattie had never given up hope. Could she have heard from him in some way? The possibility of his return had always lurked in the wings, shadowing Hugo, dangling like a noose over his head. Suppose it had happened? What would he do? Nattie held him together, he’d disintegrate without her.
A couple of lines from T.S Eliot’s Four Quartets came into his head, about things that might have been remaining forever a possibility. His pulse pounded; he could feel and hear its thud. He couldn’t bear Nattie’s distance, didn’t trust himself to keep his cool. He’d have to do something, see someone, talk to Victoria: there was no one else.
Nattie went upstairs first. Hugo followed slowly, feeling morbid and slightly drunk. She’d taken to wearing a long white nightie, despite how warm it was. Cool autumn nights were nowhere in sight. She was drawing it over her head as he entered the bedroom and bundled herself quickly into bed and was glued to a book when he joined her. She turned, leaning over to give him a chaste kiss on his cheek before settling back on her side and returning to her book.
In the office next day Jeanie put her head round the door. He was wanted upstairs, the chairman’s PA had just called. A summons from Brady Tyler. Hugo felt his world was collapsing about his ears. First Nattie’s rejection and now Brady about to tell him he wasn’t cutting it, not quite the man for the job.
He felt a pricking sensation, the beginnings of an old rash that used to attack painfully between his fingers, a form of eczema that was stress-related, unsightly and liable to spread. It itched to distraction and he felt nauseous again. Hugo swallowed back the sour-tasting bile, hoping it wasn’t giving him bad breath, and picked up the phone to the chairman’s PA. ‘I’ll be right up, Alison.’
‘Come in, come in,’ Brady said, leaving his desk and indicating the long white leather sofa. ‘Come and sit down.’
Hugo concentrated on trying to relax. ‘How can I help?’ he said, attempting to sound eager and on the ball.
‘With a bit of potential new business,’ Brady smiled. ‘We’re in the running for Bosphor Air, the new Turkish budget airline company, and I’d like you along. You do well at presentations, Hugo, nicely restrained, very much the classy Brit. I’m sure the Turks who know all about pushiness would find it a refreshing change. They’re after our British know-how as well as our tourists and provincial airports, I expect. I’d need you to fly out to Istanbul with me. It’s all happening third week of October. We’d fly out Wednesday, pitch on Thursday, give the guys who got us in the door, our local contacts, a slap-up dinner, and fly back the next day. I don’t think it should run over. Can you clear those couple of days? It’s three weeks away.’
It was an unexpected vote of confidence, a much-needed boost, except that Hugo felt it misplaced. He had no faith in his own ability and was sure the Turks would be a lot more impressed by punchy go-getting than old-fashioned British understatement. Brady would do the upfront stuff, but he’d expect some smooth elegant talking from Hugo, and backup. What chance of that? How could he perform with his head full of Nattie, his problems blurring his vision and sapping what little poise and verve he could have summoned up?
Brady was waiting. Hugo beamed and tried to sound positive and game. ‘Sure thing, I’ll get going on it right away. Great stuff!’ he enthused, knowing he’d have
to get on with it all himself; Jeanie wasn’t to be trusted.
Hugo left his chairman’s office feeling slightly amazed by the turn of events, but little better. Between his nerves and misery, the frustrations of Jeanie, the rash between his fingers, he was in need of a stiff drink. There was a bottle of vodka in his office cupboard; no ice, better not get any from the machine in the busy corridor, someone would suss him out. Vodka and flat tonic – the mixers in the cupboard were old and flat as cowpats – would get by as a glass of water. Anything to tide him over; he wouldn’t make a habit of it.
He decided to hold up telling Nattie the news about Bosphor Air and his travels till the weekend. He’d do it with William and her mother there as well. The new airline company could be a point of discussion and he’d be interested to hear their take; William might even do something on it editorially, for which Hugo could claim the credit. And, Hugo thought, if he managed to talk to Victoria privately before going he could possibly suggest she looked in on Nattie while he was away.
He’d still be giving her a clear run, which was almost certainly what she wanted. Perhaps a little break was for the best, though, and could possibly even help her to sort herself out. He could be reading the signs wrong. There was always hope. If only his every instinct wasn’t telling him otherwise.
16
Talking to Tom
Nattie left the office at three o’clock and walked quickly to the narrow side street where Ahmed could stop on a yellow line. It was a depressingly sunless street full of warehouses, yet when she saw the Mazda her heart sang. Whatever the agonies of the future, the joy and promise of the now were incontestable. She climbed into the car and Ahmed pulled her into his arms. Nattie felt drunk on his kissing, his nearness, the seductive smells of leather, heat and dust in the airless car, the smell of the man she loved.
She sat up abruptly and brushed back her hair. ‘We can’t be late for Tom. I’m so ashamed; I hate not having told him. I know I went bright red with Hugo too, which won’t have helped his suspicions. If only Tom hadn’t been in Somerset last week. He hardly ever goes to see his mother!’
‘He’s coming at half three. We’ll be in time.’ Ahmed revved the engine. ‘Can you stay on afterwards for a bit? There’s nothing worse than these extended Thursday to Tuesday weekends.’
‘Jasmine knows I may be late again,’ Nattie said, feeling cautious all the same.
She was with Ahmed and ecstatic, but on edge worrying about the office. Ian had been looking a bit sniffy as she left; his pale eyes had narrowed with his resentment of her freedom. Most of all, though, she felt raging guilt about implicating Tom, who might actually mind quite a lot. When Ahmed had suggested getting in touch, asking him round and explaining together, Nattie was grateful. Tom was a good friend to both of them and sensitive to the situation, but he knew Hugo. She had no right to be burdening Tom.
He was a few minutes early. Nattie hung back while Ahmed went to get the door. She felt wretched with nerves and stayed listening from the kitchen doorway as Tom came in.
He sounded overwhelmed. ‘Ahmed – God, this is amazing! It is really you again, the man himself, you old fucker! How’re you doing? Great to have you back. We thought you were a goner, pushing up roses or mud slime.’
Nattie ventured out and saw Tom and Ahmed having a spontaneous back-patting hug. She felt less abashed and self-conscious as Tom gave her one too, then reached for her hand, which he held tight. ‘So isn’t this something, having him back? What you must have felt, hearing from him again out of the blue! I can hardly imagine it, except that I can – I can see it in your eyes.’
She felt the tears spring into them and laughed, brushing them away.
‘Come and have some tea, Tom – and I hope you can eat a bunch too. There’s plenty of food. Ahmed’s got a good line in shortbread and fancy cakes.’
‘And fizz,’ said Ahmed. ‘I’ll get a bottle. Tom needs a drop with his afternoon tea and we have to celebrate this little reunion. You’re the only two people in the whole of London who know I’m here.’
‘What about Jake?’ Tom interjected. ‘You’re renting his house, this cool pad.’
‘He’s in Oz. I was being literal.’
‘Got an answer for everything, hasn’t he?’ Tom smiled at Nattie and followed her into the sitting room. ‘So spill then,’ he said, squeezing her hand again as they sat down on the sofa, ‘as much or as little as you want. And don’t worry, I know to keep everything under wraps.’
It struck Nattie afresh how like his father Tom was: they both had the same dark colouring and height, the same raw-boned look to their faces, strong, well-drawn features. Tom was rangy and loose-limbed, always wrapping his arms round his long legs in chairs, and he was a dreamer with none of his father’s dynamic newspaperman’s drive. He and William were close, but Nattie sensed William’s frustration; he felt his son was too easily walked over and needed to be more assertive.
She explained that Ahmed was living in California and that Shorelands was his brainchild, although he wrote the scripts under an assumed name.
‘Wow, Nattie, that’s a lot to take in. Some success you’ve had there, clever bastard.’ Tom grinned, looking up as Ahmed returned. ‘But how did you get from going missing to taking over Hollywood?’
‘That’s a long and emotionally draining saga,’ said Nattie, ‘for another time.’
She chewed on her lip, pressed her linked hands together under her thighs. Ahmed raised a slightly impatient eyebrow in an aren’t-you-going-to-get-on-with-it sort of way, then took over himself.
‘Nattie’s putting off telling you, Tom,’ he said. ‘She was a bit late home from work the other day and used you as an alibi.’
‘I’m truly sorry, Tom, I feel really bad about it, but you see I told Hugo I’d looked in on you after work. I’d wanted to ask you in advance, but you were down in Somerset and it wasn’t something for the phone. I’ll quite understand if you want me to set the record straight, if you don’t want to be dragged into any of this . . .’
Tom looked from her to Ahmed and back again. ‘You love each other, Nattie, you always have, right from day one. Somebody’s going to get hurt and I know all too well what that’s like, but you two belong. Don’t worry, I’ll tell Hugo, if he asks, how good it was to see you the other day. I have now, after all!’
‘Thanks, really. I’m aware it’s a lot to ask. He’ll have to know soon, but I just need a window of time.’
She was causing Tom discomfort, going on about it; he needed to close that door.
‘You should come round,’ he said, turning to Ahmed. ‘I’m only down the road. The studio’s a real tip, but I’m out of the old basement flat – out from under my father so to speak. I live with Imogen, a psychiatrist. She’s away this weekend so come round – if you can stand the mess.’
‘Love to. I don’t get out much for obvious reasons. It’s good for cracking on with Season Four, but lonely as hell.’ He gave Nattie a look that said it all. Great as it was to see Tom, they were craving a few leftover minutes alone.
‘How’s Imogen?’ Nattie asked, trying to picture the two of them together. Not easy. Imogen was a fierce, intense woman, a high-powered professional, intellectually demanding – attractive, though, with heavy, piled-up auburn hair.
‘She’s fine,’ Tom said, ‘all good. But she’s not Maudie.’ He turned pained eyes on Nattie. ‘We were a good team. Maudie loved my art, the art world, and she had to go off with that paunchy turd of a dealer and break my heart. It didn’t last, nor with the next one – she even still works in his gallery too. It’s all so cynical. I still love her.’
Nattie was beside Tom on the sofa and touched his arm, a helpless gesture. ‘You have to try to move on. I know how hard it is, having mutual friends and seeing Maudie around. She’s hooked on the fast life and playing the field, but think how successful you are now, Tom. Focus on your art. She’ll see how you’re doing and can’t fail to be impressed and you’ll have that satisfac
tion.’
They were empty words, useless; it was like trying to comfort a teenager, embarrassingly dumped. Nothing Nattie could say would ease the pain.
She remembered about the Brian evening. ‘I’ve got a boring ask, Tom. Hugo lost a client when the chief executive he got on with left the company. We’ve asked the guy round for supper – I had this long-shot notion that he might know of an opening or at least put the word about. It’s next Wednesday, bit short notice. Can you and Imogen join us?’
Tom thought they could.
He sipped his champagne, staying a while. ‘I’m on a new set of paintings, abstracts, working in neutrals – layering the paint then whipping the canvas onto its side or rotating it. The effects are like shifting reflections on a pond, calming, and you sort of feel the ripples. Or at least that’s the idea.’ Nattie smiled fixedly as he chatted, feeling Ahmed’s needs as her own. She sensed Tom’s needs as well, though; as Maudie’s oldest friend, she knew she helped him to feel connected.
When he left, his eyes were hooded with sad envy. ‘You’re lucky buggers,’ he said. ‘Got it sorted.’ It carved Nattie up.
Alone together at last, Ahmed was tender and caring, and when they lay intertwined afterwards, Nattie couldn’t drag herself away. She was where she wanted to be. She felt the pumping in her chest, the unquenchable physical yearning, but there was more; shared instincts, the meeting of minds. How could he reach so deep into her psyche and pull her into his own? How could she feel such overpowering passion and easy compatibility as well? All that was missing was selflessness and restraint.
‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Don’t. Not yet, we still have some time.’
Nattie looked at the bedside clock. ‘Not much. Just enough for you to say more about the missing years.’ She turned side on to face him. ‘You’ve skipped a bit – like who came after Alyana? Like, for instance, who you met partying with your friend, Jeff, in Vancouver. There must have been someone and I need to know.’
The Consequence of Love Page 15