The Consequence of Love

by Sandra Howard

  Ahmed grinned. ‘Sure you want to? Okay, here goes. Remember I told you about a summer lunch party at Jeff’s chairman’s house? It was where I made the contact that eventually led to Shorelands. Jeff had sold me to his chairman as a voice of reason on the anti-fracking side and suggested asking me along to keep me sweet. It hadn’t seemed to occur to either of them that being on the side of the disadvantaged, the lavishness of the chairman’s home might have made me rather more inclined to sourness!

  ‘The house was in an area of Vancouver called the British Estates, one of those vast, stately mansions with rolling manicured lawns like you see in American films about the super-rich – usually the home of a mastermind baddie with a spoiled pretty daughter.’

  ‘And Jeff’s chairman had one of those?’

  ‘Yep. Danielle fitted the bill, though her father wasn’t a baddie. She was a slightly zestless, chocolate-boxy blonde in her mid-twenties, very much the opposite of Alyana, which had a certain attraction. She had her own mates at the lunch, rich boys and girls, and they’d completely ignored me. I was stuck with her parents’ generation, dry businessmen with plump, heavily perfumed wives.’ He grinned. ‘The mint juleps were good at least.’

  ‘But if you were stuck with the older lot, how did you get off with Danielle? Wouldn’t she have been seeing someone anyway, who’d have been at the lunch?’

  ‘Yes, she was in a relationship with a deeply suitable budding banker. She’d hardly spoken to me that day, but Jeff gave me her email later on, saying she wanted me to get in touch. She was no career girl, but she worked on the fashion pages of a Vancouver freebee and thought her mag might take one of my pieces. She’d noticed me, after all.’

  Nattie wasn’t surprised. Women did. Ahmed had that quality about him. He was good-looking in an unobvious way, but his eyes drew you in and it was hard not to feed on his energy and sparkling intelligence. She felt the familiar hollowing of her insides, gazing at him, then mentally shook herself and gazed at the clock instead.

  Ahmed kissed her. ‘There’s not much more. The Danielle thing didn’t happen in a hurry. She was with her uppish banker and I wasn’t pushing it. We eventually got it together and it lasted a couple of years, but it was a superficial relationship in many ways, very on and off.’

  Two years didn’t sound so off to Nattie.

  ‘She was a very material girl,’ Ahmed remarked. ‘It fascinated me how designer labels could matter so much, how she had to be seen in all the right places and could always suss out anyone’s exact degree of wealth.’

  ‘She sounds charming,’ Nattie said, loathing Danielle with every fibre. ‘But you were hardly in her financial league. How did you get round that?’

  ‘She seemed to assume I was slumming it at ARC from choice. Once I’d sold my idea to Hank Patzer and been paid an embarrassing amount to tie me in, my finances spoke for themselves. There you are, that’s my non-love-life.’

  Nattie felt cleaner for knowing. ‘I’m glad Danielle sounds so unlikeable,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a sad fact of life, though,’ Ahmed said, with a sheepish look on his face, ‘that her father’s lunch party got me to the right people. It’s all about getting a foot in the door. I could have written a book, but even if it had been published and the film rights sold, the whole process would have taken an age. I was impatient, I needed to prove something. It was all about you, Nattie, then and now.’

  They had to go. There was never a chance, and she had no right anyway to relax and just be with him. The clock was her slave master, the whip-cracking breaker of the spell. And as well as the rush and panic, she had to face an instinctive tightening of her gut, leaving the house. Were they being seen, Ahmed recognised? The media had honoured their promise not to use his photograph, but his enemies knew what he looked like all right.

  She felt quivers of fear and avoided looking round, climbing into the car. Ahmed drove off smartly. ‘If I can’t see you till Tuesday,’ he said, looking ahead, ‘how am I going to survive?’ He threw her a quick glance. ‘No Friday, no Monday, is there really no way?’

  She’d been secretly wondering about bringing Tubsy on non-office days, timing it with his midday kip. It would mean bringing the travel cot . . . She forced herself not to voice the thought.

  ‘One day I’d love you to meet the children,’ she said guiltily, voicing it tangentially. ‘Trouble is, Lily would chatter away about seeing you.’ Nattie coloured, knowing that what she’d just said anticipated the possibility of separation. The thought was in her mind now – and after only a few snatched meetings over a few short weeks. She couldn’t do it to Hugo. He needed her, he’d go to pieces, relapse, start using again. But how could they go on as they were?

  ‘Suppose,’ said Ahmed, bringing her back and holding her eyes, ‘you brought Thomas here when Lily’s in school? Is that a possibility? Perhaps even tomorrow?’ Did he always know the thoughts in her head?

  Hugo sometimes got away early on Fridays. Would it matter? She’d go straight to pick up Lily, and Tubsy always had to come with her in the car anyway. They could have been to the park. Rain was forecast. And what about the cot?

  ‘It is a possibility,’ she said, ‘but I’d rather leave it for this weekend and think it through. We need to take this slowly, step by step.’

  Nattie hurried in the door. Hugo didn’t seem to be home. ‘Sorry, I’ve kept you again, Jasmine. There’s just such a lot going on. It’s that time of year.’

  ‘No worries, all good, they’ve been little darlings – better than sometimes, eh, young Lily?’ Jasmine rose from the kitchen table. ‘Bye then, my precious ones, see you both Tuesday.’

  Jasmine had given her an odd look, Nattie felt. Walking with her to the door, she wondered if she’d blushed slightly, making her excuses, and laid bare her guilt.

  ‘Hugo called,’ Jasmine remembered, as she was half out of the house. ‘He said to tell you he was running a bit late, he’d be home after seven-thirty.’

  ‘Thanks. And for doing supper. We can have a nice bit of playtime now, before bath.’ Nattie smiled, warmly, anxiously, and was rewarded with a rather knowing smile in return. But it was also, in a funny way, shaded with understanding.

  Hugo made it home in time to read to a sleepy Lily, which allowed Nattie to get on with supper. He kissed her cheek as he came back downstairs, and asked after her day. She smelled the whisky on his breath.

  ‘I called earlier,’ he said. ‘You’re certainly working all hours of the day, but you’ll say it’s that time of year.’

  ‘Certainly is. The December issue’s out in a month, panic stations all round. I’ve heard back from Tom, by the way; he and Imogen are fine to come, but I’m not asking Maudie. I couldn’t do that to Tom.’

  ‘You’d made that clear enough. Anyway,’ Hugo said, pouring himself a brim-full glass of Bordeaux, ‘I want to ask Amber. She’s good fun, she’ll liven things up.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose she will. She’s loud, at least,’ Nattie added, feeling irrationally irritated. She dished up and handed Hugo his chops. Amber wasn’t one of her favourite people.

  He topped up his glass. ‘It was a good find, this wine,’ he said, slightly defiantly, feeling her watchful eyes. ‘It’ll do for the Brian evening. I’ve bought another case.’

  He continued to drink steadily, but Nattie felt in no position to nag or complain. Amber was such a pain. She was another Tyler’s executive, a pushy ginger blonde, blatant and full-on; she carried a little extra weight, but had neat sexy ankles and knew how to flaunt her assets. Nattie had met her a couple of times at office dos where Amber had made no secret of having the hots for Hugo. She’d made a beeline for him, drooling over him like he was a screen hero, and Hugo, who couldn’t handle that sort of thing, had squirmed. But women went for him. He’d been mistaken for Tom Hiddleston in his day – there was a passing resemblance. Amber’s attentions had turned him off in the past, but was Hugo trying to prove something now? Make his wife jealous or have it off with
Amber? She’d be an easy lay.

  He’d finished the bottle of wine and started another – Nattie had had half a glass – but he was more mellow than morose and helped her to clear the dishes.

  ‘Shorelands,’ he said suddenly, making her almost drop a plate. ‘It’s on in ten minutes, it’s good stuff, I’m really into it. I should do a few emails, but will you come and watch with me then?’

  ‘Sure,’ Nattie said, hoping she hadn’t gone a deeper shade of pink. ‘Thanks for the reminder.’

  They brought their laptops to the kitchen table. Nattie clicked onto her work email, since she’d left so early that afternoon. A tediously large batch had come in. They could all wait, but there was one from Sadia Umar that caught her eye.

  Sadia had emailed on arrival in Pakistan thanking for the lunch at Bella Cucina, and for Nattie’s stiffening of her backbone. That email had been bright and positive, Sadia full of excitement about a plan she’d worked out on the plane, but the tone of this latest email was the opposite. All the fight seemed to have gone out of her. Sadia sounded low and defeatist, frightened for her sister’s life.

  Dear Nattie,

  I’m sorry to trouble you and be a bother, but you asked me to let you know how I was getting on and I’m afraid I’m really depressed and in a quandary. My dad thinks I should come home, that I’m putting us both at risk, but I can’t desert my sister. There’s nothing to be done, unless she can steal away her passport, but I dread to think what our stepfather would do to her if he caught her or found out. Even if she succeeded, there’s the near insurmountable problem of the visa. That’s down to me, persuading the British High Commission in Islamabad, and time is running out. Alesha is eighteen in three weeks and has no chance of a visa then. I can’t bear to think of her being forced to marry that fat, middle-aged man and he’s a first cousin, but how can I allow her to endanger her life, trying to escape? It’s such a terrible responsibility. I’d be so grateful for any advice.

  Apologies again for bothering you,

  Sadia Umar

  Nattie sat back with a heavy heart. She could only tell Sadia what her own instinct would be, which was by no means the right course of action. And the thought of the punishment meted out, if Alesha were caught . . .

  She sent a quick return email.

  My very hesitant advice would be to risk it. Your sister’s whole life’s happiness is at stake. If your plan fails, the violence done to her would, I’m sure, be appalling, but your mother and stepfather have entered a contract, remember: they’d want the marriage to go through. Wouldn’t that be a point of honour as well? Whatever the risk of physical suffering, I don’t believe you’d be risking Alesha’s life.

  Nattie prayed she was right. Wasn’t the prize of freedom worth going through any number of dangerous hoops for, however remote the chance of success? Perhaps William would have some off-the-wall ideas. Better William; her ex-Home Secretary mother would feel she had to go by the book. Nattie texted him, saying that the situation with the young writer she’d told him about was more urgent, the girl feared for her sister’s life. There was probably little he could do, but just in case . . .

  ‘You coming?’ Hugo had closed down the lid of his laptop and was on his feet. ‘Mustn’t miss the start. Come and snuggle up on the sofa,’ he called over his shoulder, going out of the door. ‘If you can bear to . . .’

  17

  Hugo and Victoria

  ‘Those two are for Granny and Gramps and Tubsy can have that one, Mummy.’ Lily’s sticky fingers were hovering over the gingerbread men on the baking tray.

  ‘No, Lily,’ Hugo said, ‘you must give your brother a good one and have the no-arms one yourself. That’s what cooks do, give other people the best.’

  ‘But I want the man with the Smartie red nose. Mummy, you said I could!’

  ‘I did, actually,’ Nattie admitted with an apologetic smile. ‘Don’t worry, Lil, I’ll have the one who’s lost his arms, it’s not a problem.’

  ‘No, Mummy, that one’s yours.’ Lily stamped her foot. ‘Tubsy can have it. He doesn’t know it’s got no arms, he’s just a stupid fat baby.’

  Hugo faced his daughter, getting angry. ‘We’ll have no stamping, Lily, do you hear? And that’s no way to talk about your brother. Say sorry, right now.’

  ‘No.’ She stuck out her little jaw, grabbed the broken biscuit and bolted out of the open doors into the garden.

  Hugo chased after her. ‘Come and say sorry, Lily, or no gingerbread man for you and I’ll tell Granny and Grampsy why!’ She was by the guinea-pig hutch and threw the biscuit into the run when he reached her, screwing up her face and starting to cry. Hugo marched her back indoors, fed up to his teeth. Why did it always have to be him? The doorbell was ringing. ‘They’re here now! Say sorry – quickly!’

  Lily mumbled something unintelligible that just about saved the day and raced to get the door. Nattie followed after her, looking back at Hugo with a wry smile that didn’t help his mood. He hung back a moment feeling jagged. He needed to calm down if he was to use the afternoon to get things across. He wanted a quiet word with Victoria and to talk about Bosphor Air and his trip to Turkey – which was going to come as news to Nattie.

  William would know about the Bosphor start-up, though; trying to interest him in it was pointless, especially since they had yet to win the account. A cat’s chance in hell of doing that. Hugo felt as braced for failure as ever.

  He stared abstractedly at Thomas, criss-crossing the kitchen on his walker, happily chatting away to himself in baby talk. ‘One, two, see, Daddee.’ Thomas stopped, hearing voices in the hall, Lily’s excited hellos, and let go of the walker. He took a few steps towards the door, stumbled over a toy car and fell flat on his face.

  Hugo rushed to pick him up. ‘There, there, Thomas, not hurting, brave boy now.’ Thomas gazed at him with huge, solemn gold-brown eyes, his mouth in a comical turndown, but he held in the tears. It was a tiny precious moment and Hugo’s heart overflowed. He smoothed back his son’s buttery curls, kissed him and went out with him into the hall, hugging him close.

  ‘Hi, good to see you both,’ he said, relinquishing Thomas to Nattie and greeting his in-laws, kissing Victoria’s cheek and catching her scent. She was still an extremely attractive woman. ‘Come on through. We thought we’d have tea in the garden. With this crazy weather, you’d think it was Midsummer’s Day!’

  Lily was bursting with excitement, tugging on William’s hand. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said, allowing her to pull him into the kitchen. ‘Let’s see what’s cooking then.’

  ‘It’s gingerbread and it’s cooked already, Grampsy, silly. We made a cake as well.’

  Nattie and Victoria ferried plates out into the garden and Hugo, taking Thomas’s high chair out too, noticed Victoria’s anxious glances. Nattie was radiating tension; his wife was like an animal sensing danger, a child facing the school bully.

  Hugo left them and went to join William who was up the garden, peering at plants with a proprietary air. ‘Looking good,’ he said, without sounding condescending. ‘Your plumbago’s still flowering and the roses keep going with this weather. I’m keen on that hydrangea too. Annabelle, isn’t it? I like the way the white flower heads go that lovely lime green in September time.’

  ‘Yes, it’s less obvious, and I think it goes well with the Solomon’s seal.’ They could talk gardens at least. Hugo had never been entirely comfortable with William, feeling awkward and inadequate, however easy that was with the powerful editor of the Post.

  ‘Tea’s up!’ Nattie called.

  The wrought-iron table needed repainting, but she’d spread an embroidered cloth from Madeira, a present from his parents, over it and put a few late roses in a vase. It was a proper Sunday tea, with cucumber sandwiches, Marmite soldiers, lemon cake; the gingerbread men had pride of place, all with their limbs intact.

  Lily apportioned them, avoiding her father’s eyes. ‘This is yours, Granny,’ she said, proudly picking up one with orange b
uttons – only to drop it and burst into tears.

  ‘We’ll stick him together with jam,’ Victoria said, ‘and he’ll taste extra good.’

  ‘How’s trade, Hugo?’ William queried. ‘Any new accounts?’

  ‘We’re about to pitch for something juicy, but the competition will be tough.’

  ‘Can we know what it is?’ Nattie asked. Hugo knew she was struggling to think what she could have missed; she was so fucking off in her head the whole time . . .

  He took a small perverse pleasure in carrying on talking to William. ‘It’s Turkey’s new budget airline, Bosphor Air. An interesting challenge, breaking into the market. What do you think, William? Can they pull it off?’

  ‘It’s a volatile part of the world. They’re a bit vulnerable, but what country isn’t these days? They should do okay, the tourists pour in,’ he said. ‘They’re based in Istanbul, aren’t they. Will you have to go out?’

  ‘Yes, for the pitch, which doesn’t help any. I’d rather be on home turf.’

  Nattie was registering the significance of a trip to Turkey, it was written all over her face. She’d be storing up questions, burning to know. How soon? How long for? He was almost amused. ‘Sorry, darling, it does mean a couple of nights away.’ He tried not to lace his words with sarcasm, bitter as he felt. ‘You’ll be okay?’

  ‘Of course. How exciting, though. Let’s hope for good things.”

  Victoria’s eyes had flickered anxiously to William, which made Hugo feel guilty. Had he sounded that cold and derisive? Surely Victoria hadn’t imagined that he’d been callously trying to score points. She knew he cared . . . He felt the cracks in his marriage widening, new ones forming and letting in more pain.

  ‘Best of luck. I’m sure you’ll pull it off.’ Victoria was clearly trying to sound encouraging and positive. ‘How soon do you go?’