The Consequence of Love

by Sandra Howard

  Sitting between Brian and Tom and dutifully turning to Brian first, Nattie realised she hadn’t a clue about his interests. Perhaps he was a keen cook too.

  ‘Hugo missed you at SleepSweet when you left,’ she said, still hoping for something out of the evening, ‘especially when your successor brought in his own pet PR consultants. That seemed a bit unfair to me.’ Brian said nothing about Hugo deserving better or about any help he could give; he said nothing at all, just gazed at her. She ploughed on. ‘I hope you’re enjoying your great new job. So much responsibility – Ambiance Furniture is huge! But that must mean long hours, of course. Do you have an easy commute?’

  ‘Not so bad,’ Brian said. ‘I often stay up in London anyway.’

  ‘Still, I hope you’ll be able to get home tonight,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely you could come, we were just sorry your wife couldn’t make it.’ That was a bit pointed and Nattie hurried on. ‘I don’t know if paintings are your thing, Brian, but Tom’s the most brilliant artist – even allowing he’s my stepbrother.’ She’d needed to bring Tom in, he was looking down at his plate; Amber on his other side was all eyes for Hugo.

  ‘Yes, I’m into contemporary art,’ Brian said, mildly surprisingly, sounding genuinely keen. ‘I’d be interested to see his work. Perhaps you’d come with me?’

  Nattie attempted a Delphic smile. ‘Sorry, must just leave you for a minute to see to the food. Do have a chat to Tom while I’m gone.’

  Hugo brought plates over to the draining board and kissed the back of her neck. ‘All okay?’ he murmured.

  She turned with warm eyes. ‘Hope so.’ He stared a moment, unsmiling, and began carving the meat. Had she stiffened when he kissed her? She’d tried hard not to.

  Brian and Tom were talking art. ‘I’m a great fan of Charles Willmott,’ Brian was saying, as Nattie brought over their plates and offered veg. ‘I love his obsession with ballet and form. And Ed Chapman too. Sad he’s beyond my—’

  ‘Isn’t Ed Chapman the tights tycoon with the wife who’s always boozed out of her mind?’ Amber threw in. ‘Too legless to wear his tights, they say!’

  ‘That’s Ed Champner, I think,’ said Nattie with a neutral smile. If battle lines were being drawn . . . ‘Ed Chapman’s the artist. He does beautiful portraits in mosaic.’

  ‘Whoops, silly me!’ Amber roared with laughter. She didn’t embarrass easily.

  The meal went down well; the Béarnaise sauce looked a bit weird, but tasted okay. People said so, and Amber called across the table, ‘Delicious! Aren’t you a clever little cook.’ Patronising cow.

  The summer fruits tart was popular too, and taking people into the sitting room for coffee, Nattie felt the end of the evening was in sight.

  She handed round cups of coffee and herbal tea. Amber lifted a cup of coffee off Nattie’s tray, without even troubling to look up. She was still latched on to Hugo, laughing like a clown with every second breath and talking loudly about Bosphor Air. ‘I’m coming too now,’ another cackle of laughter. ‘What an opportunity!’

  She was brazen, wanting Nattie to hear. And Hugo was smiling, going along with it. He was certainly trying to make her jealous, or was it just a desperate need for a bit of the sex he was being denied? With Amber – who’d always made him squirm? Nattie had no leg to stand on, no business to feel peeved and disbelieving.

  What would happen when she told him what she planned to do, when she flicked the switch on life as he knew it? She imagined the past repeating itself, Hugo sinking into self-destruction, submerged, and felt a shiver of premonition. It wouldn’t take much. A match could start a forest fire; a low moment and line of coke could do the same. Would he really go there again, knowing the horrors of what he’d been through?

  Tom touched her arm. ‘Here, let me take the coffee pot.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she smiled. ‘I was far away. I’ve forgotten the chocolates too – I’ll just get them from the kitchen.’

  She quickly checked her phone, read a text from Ahmed, which she deleted instantly. Her heart had started up and she tried to control her inward smiles. William had sent a text too. Nattie was pleased. He’d promised to put his mind to the Sadia situation and she’d been waiting to hear back. She stared down, reading the text. I’ve had a thought about your young friend’s problem, which I’ll pass on, but I need to have a word on another matter that’s closer to home. I know you’re busy now, but can you call tomorrow? Mid-morning if possible; we need to talk. She could guess what about and her heart pumped faster.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Hugo was in the doorway, white in the face.

  ‘Just looking at a text from William.’

  ‘Can I see what it says?’ She gave him the phone. Did he really think she’d lie about that? He would never trust her again. ‘I was just curious,’ he said in an unflustered way, handing it back. ‘But why did you come out here?’

  ‘I forgot the chocolates.’

  ‘Who’s your young friend with a problem?’

  ‘Oh, just an author with an immigration issue. Nothing important. I’d mentioned it to William on the off-chance.’

  Hugo hadn’t asked what William could want a word about, but he’d be able to guess as well as she could. She felt the walls closing in. Yet, for all her panic, the chance to talk to William was calming. She had a sense of the knots of stress being massaged away and eased back her shoulders, unwinding slightly.

  Tom and Imogen soon made a move to go. Nattie pressed another drink with such obvious half-heartedness that the others stood up too – even Amber. Seeing them all out, standing on the front step with Hugo, Nattie wondered how glaring were the strains. Did they show at all? Did everyone think that they looked such a lovely well-suited couple?

  She closed the door and switched off the outside light. Hugo rolled up his sleeves and they soon had the kitchen looking shipshape again. He was quite chatty, less caustic and bitter than of late; was it the Amber effect? William’s text? It was hardly likely to have much to do with Brian whom she couldn’t see being any use to Hugo – though he’d redeemed himself slightly and hadn’t been as bad as she’d first feared. She’d wondered how on earth Hugo could have got on with him. It was lucky she’d asked Brian about art instead of cooking. Tom might even make a sale.

  She called William mid-morning. ‘I don’t want to talk over the phone,’ he said, ‘but I’m free for lunch. Can you make it?’ She would have to change her plans with Ahmed. She hadn’t seen him since last Thursday.

  ‘Thanks, I’d love that,’ Nattie said, ‘but I wouldn’t have much more than an hour.’

  ‘We’ll go to Wilton’s and make it quick. Can you walk round to the Post? I’ll meet you in Reception at one and we’ll go in my car.’

  ‘How the other half lives,’ Nattie laughed, hiding her nerves. ‘Editors certainly!’

  William made small talk in the car; his driver was no slouch. But immediately he and Nattie were seated – opposite each other in a wood-panelled booth with green velour banquettes where, William assured her, they wouldn’t be overheard – he launched in.

  ‘Is Ahmed back?’ he asked, picking up a glass of water and eyeing Nattie over the rim.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Want to tell me about it?’

  ‘Does everyone know? Your reporters?’ A clutch of panic skewed her thoughts. If William knew, surely that meant her mother did too.

  ‘Only me – no one else at the paper.’ Was that a qualified answer? It seemed carefully crafted. ‘I won’t blow his cover,’ William said, ‘you can trust me on that. And it won’t go any further if you’d like to talk things over and want it to be between us alone.’

  He was watching, waiting on her answer, and while her adrenalin pounded, she also felt the tension drain. It was a release.

  ‘If you want any help or advice,’ William said, patiently edging her on, ‘I’ll do my best. How about starting with how you suddenly came to be in contact again?’

  Nattie told him.

 
; ‘And you didn’t say anything to Hugo?’

  ‘No.’

  Nattie had to answer more fully, she knew. William still wasn’t hurrying her, instead, commenting on the excellent fish. He looked as dishevelled as ever. A hard man with soft eyes, the ravines in his face looked carved with a scalpel; he’d started on newspapers in the hard-drinking, sleep-deprived days. Nattie adored him. No stepfather could have been more loving or put himself out for her more.

  ‘No, I didn’t tell Hugo,’ she said. ‘I should have, of course, but I knew what a shock it would be, hearing Ahmed was back, how destabilised he would feel, however much I tried to reassure him. I was in shock myself. After seven years I needed time to adjust. I was angry as well. He’d left me high and dry and desolate, after all, but I had to find out what had happened before giving vent, as I’m sure you’d understand. Ahmed knew that I was married, he knew all about me, as it turned out. I said we could only meet once then never again – for Hugo’s sake.’

  ‘But he persuaded you otherwise?’

  ‘He’s not to blame. I am. I’m the one who’s married, I have a will of my own. He left me on a cliff-edge all the same. His story took a lot of telling.’ Nattie felt her colour rise. Talking about Ahmed was like stepping into the warm out of a raging snowstorm.

  ‘You haven’t stayed angry with him, clearly,’ William said. ‘There are stars in your eyes, but it’s hardly straightforward, is it?’

  Pushing away his plate, he leaned forward and held her gaze. ‘You don’t need me to tell you how much you’re hurting Hugo. You’ve shown the strain, and your mum’s been worrying herself sick. You’ll have to take some decisions soon and let Hugo know where he stands. You must see that?’

  ‘Of course I must tell Hugo, but everything unravels so fast then and it’s like a spool of film; you can’t wind it back neatly if at all.’

  William kept up his concentrated gaze, yet his expression was sympathetic. ‘Did Ahmed have a very hard time of it in that long absence?’

  It was a distracting switch away from Hugo. Was William simply allowing her a breathing space? It was more likely just his incorrigible curiosity. He was a newspaperman to his boots.

  ‘It’s long and complicated,’ Nattie said. ‘It would take forever to tell you and I need to talk more about Hugo. It’s still very early days, you see. I’ve been terrified of acting too hastily. I tried not to see Ahmed again, but it was kind of inevitable with our feelings as strong as ever. The trouble is, Hugo’s wired very physically and when I asked for space, he couldn’t handle it. I hoped he’d accept a sort of marital sabbatical and give me time, but it wasn’t to be.

  ‘I only want to wait till Hugo’s back from his trip to Istanbul. I feel he’d cope better out there, not knowing, wretched as he is, and have more chance to help secure the account. Winning new business would be good for his self-esteem. I’d like the children to have met Ahmed too,’ Nattie explained, knowing that spoke volumes.

  ‘Have you come to a decision? Are you going to leave Hugo?’

  She looked at her nails, picked at one of them. Was she? She lifted her head finally and faced William’s steady eyes. ‘What I’m hoping and praying for is a friendly trial separation. Everything’s happened in such a rush, so compressed and emotional. Separation feels the best solution; time to let the dust settle and just see.’

  ‘But what’s really behind that is seeing how Hugo copes, isn’t it, Nattie? I know about his past problems, how bad it got; we’d exposed Shelby as a pusher, remember, when Ahmed was still one of my reporters. Your mum knows about Shelby, what was in the papers, but not about him supplying Hugo in those early days. When you said you were getting married, I felt it was best to keep things that way.’

  ‘Can you hold off telling her about Ahmed and any possible separation?’ Nattie pleaded. ‘I’ll talk to her very soon, I promise, and before I tell Hugo, but I dread it almost as much. She’ll be so shocked and heartbroken, and feel I’ve let her down. Which I have.’

  Nattie sighed and carried on. ‘Ahmed’s rented a house. I could move straight in with the children. Hugo would still be in his own home, able to see them and have them at weekends.’

  ‘Is the house in South London?’

  ‘Yes, actually – what makes you ask that?’

  ‘Just an educated guess, it’s familiar territory. What’s Ahmed doing now?’ William asked, signalling for the waitress. ‘What about money?’

  ‘Not a problem. He’s been living in California for a couple of years, writing the scripts for a television series, a big one, which was all his own idea. He’s cooped up working hard on a fourth series.’

  William was the only person, other than Nattie herself, who knew Ahmed’s new identity. He’d had to be in the picture, despite the considerable reservations of the authorities, if Ahmed was going to be working for him on the New York desk. Nattie regretted mentioning the television series, however, even as she spoke. She worried about William’s irrepressible curiosity; he would want to know the series and start ferreting about.

  ‘Ahmed’s given himself a third identity for his scriptwriting,’ she carried on quickly. ‘He writes under another name, which I’d rather not tell you as I think you’ll understand.’

  ‘He’s done the scripts for three series already? That’s going some.’ William grinned. ‘He’s quite a guy. Here’s the “but”, Nattie, love. I know more than anyone how much you love him and I’m certainly in no position to lecture you, but there’ll be a lot of hurdles. Not least the very real concern about Ahmed’s enemies; even seven years on and with a new identity his cover could be blown. He’ll always be at risk.’ William stared at her gravely. ‘And not only Ahmed, you would be too – and the children. You’d have to live abroad.’

  ‘As if I didn’t think about that every waking hour.’ Nattie wanted to cry out loud. What did you do when you loved someone to distraction, with every cell in your body? Tears prickled and welled in her eyes, which William sensitively chose not to notice.

  She’d recovered by the time he’d ordered coffee and asked for the bill.

  ‘I’ve had a few thoughts about your young writer’s sister out in Pakistan,’ he said, making clear that the subject of Ahmed was closed – and also managing to intimate, Nattie felt, that everything discussed had been strictly between themselves.

  ‘Forced marriages are a serious problem here in the UK too, British Muslim girls being packed off to relations in Pakistan to be “dealt with”. A unit has been set up to help rescue them. Your friend’s sister may not be a UK citizen, but she has strong British connections, so there’s a chance something can be done.’ William smiled. ‘I know the head of the unit, I’ll have a word if you like. He’s out in Pakistan a lot and if your friend, Sadia, contacts the unit it’s just possible he’ll be around and able to press her sister’s case. No promises, but that’s her only hope, I’d say.’

  ‘Thanks, it would be a huge help,’ Nattie said, ‘and a relief to have something to pass on.’ Alesha still had to get hold of her passport, though. The situation was no less fraught.

  Nattie was glad of William’s arm round her shoulders as they left the restaurant. It was a comfort. He asked after the children in the car and wished Hugo luck in Istanbul.

  She thanked William again as he dropped her off at the Buckley Building, and kissed his cheek. ‘And for being able to talk; it really means so much to me.’

  She wiped at her eyes and hurried up to the seventh floor with her emotions in turmoil. Few people would trust a newspaperman, even a respected editor like William, but she trusted him from the bottom of her heart. He hadn’t condemned her, called her heartless and selfish, but others would. They’d be censorious, scathing, reproachful, all of which she could handle; it wouldn’t mean much, it couldn’t break her. Only Hugo’s pain could do that.

  19

  Meeting Thomas

  Ahmed fondled Nattie’s hair, lost to his thoughts. They were having a quick cup of coffee in the kit
chen before he gave her a lift to the office, sitting on stools at the island unit, and she leaned her head against him. He knew she was thinking too.

  Tomorrow was set to be a pivotal day. She was bringing Thomas. Ahmed had seen photographs of the children, golden and glowing with happy smiles, but he imagined them giving him cold stares, sensing, with that instinct of the innocent, that he was a threat to the equilibrium of their young lives in some unknown way.

  Nattie lifted her head and swung her legs down from the stool. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  It was becoming a mantra, almost a joke between them, but no less painful. She stared at him, looking frightened, unable to hide the conflict, the pull of loyalties. It was written all over her face.

  ‘Hugo must know what you’re going through,’ Ahmed said, putting the back of his hand to her velvety cheek. ‘He knows how much you care. You’ve helped him so much.’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do for him.’ She looked away.

  He stood down from his stool and held her face in his hands. She was trying to confront the moment of truth about separation. Ahmed had an urge to press her. He had needs too. How did you equate two people’s intense happiness with three people’s unfulfilled lives? But he couldn’t push it, wasn’t in his nature. It had to be Nattie’s choice, her decision, and her eyes had to be wide open to the enormity of the risk. Did he even have a right to ask her to take it?

  ‘I want to talk about the safety risk for a moment,’ he said. ‘I can’t be sure, but I’m fairly confident that it’s slight while we’re tucked away in Jake’s house and that you and the children will be secure here. I’ve checked out everywhere round about, got the feel of the neighbourhood, and I wouldn’t be easily recognised except by people who know me. There was only that one photograph in the Courier, when Shelby was making his mischief, and that was seven years ago, after all. I worry about you coming and going, Nattie, ferrying the children, but I wouldn’t be with you and you’d be in your own car.’

  He took a deep breath; he had to say it. ‘I still can’t ask you to take the risk. I can go away, go back to California without you, if you think that’s for the best and feel it’s right. It’s the only way you can be truly safe.’