by Jenny Harper
‘And then what?’
‘And then—’ he rolled over so that his splendid naked torso was inches above Carrie’s breasts, ‘—and then, Carrie my love, we can be together.’
They sealed the suggestion with the kind of all-consuming sex to which Carrie became addicted. And although she was uneasy at the notion of Tom leaving Jane and coming straight into her arms – surely their friendship couldn’t survive such an event? – she justified her perfidy by convincing herself that Tom really had stopped loving Jane, that she wasn’t breaking anything up.
Sleepless, Carrie turned onto her other side so that she faced the window. Instantly, the drawn curtains infuriated her. Why shut out the sky? Hopelessly restless, she swung her legs out of bed and yanked them back.
Scotland in summer. The sky was barely dark and she could make out the silhouette of the buildings on the far side of the Meadows. Soon, people would be stirring, rising sleepily, going about their business. Soon, she would have to do the same.
Tom did leave Jane, but it turned out that all the time he’d been sleeping with Carrie, he’d also been having an affair with a young starlet called Serena Swift. Soon after that, Jane had gone off radar – chucked in her place in the orchestra and simply disappeared.
Inside Carrie, guilt and fury had blended in almost equal measure, and boiled over. How could he have done that? For a whole year after Jane had vanished she had been wracked by anxiety. Where had she gone? What was she doing? Was she even still alive? She’d itched to tell Serena the grubby truth about the man she had married, and she’d very nearly gone to the press to give them the whole story – but she’d lacked the courage to do either. Or perhaps a sense of self-preservation had kicked in. She was glad now that she’d held her tongue, but it was more than Tom Vallely deserved.
She tugged the curtains back across the window with vicious ferocity. Dammit. She shouldn’t blame Marta for bringing Tom back into their lives. She’d been in South Africa, and couldn’t have known.
Chapter Seven
‘Here Benji! Walkies!’
The day after Marta’s dinner party was dull, verging on damp. Jane reached for the lead, which was hanging on the coatstand in the cluttered hallway. The mirror’s streaky glass was almost covered by the many coats bundled on hooks and by assorted hats and scarves thrown carelessly on top of them. She pushed aside a lank furry monkey of Ian’s that was supposed to double as a backpack to peer at her reflection, and scraped at her tangled locks. Useless. Why bother? It was unseasonably windy outside and anything she achieved now by way of improvement would be destroyed as soon as she was past the porch.
She reached instead for one of the hats, a droopy beanie in kingfisher blue that had been Emily’s first attempt at knitting. It sat on her head uncertainly. It was unlikely it would do anything to control her hair and, indeed, it was in danger of being blown away, so she pulled it further down over her ears. Now it looked even odder, but vanity was not one of Jane’s vices so she turned away, shouting again for their little spaniel, who this time came bounding through the hall and skidded to a stop at her feet.
‘Good boy.’ Jane bent and fastened the lead to his collar, feeling through his grey-speckled hair for the clip. Benji was spoiled by every member of the Harvie family so that he’d become quite plump. He gazed up at her excitedly, his bottom waggling, his feet scrabbling on the wooden floor. She knew he hoped that ‘walkies’ meant ‘rabbits’, which it would do if she went up Blackford Hill.
On the hill, there was only one thing she could think about. One person and a necklace of memories.
Tom Vallely had walked into her life when she was eighteen years old. Her over-anxious mother had driven her all the way from Edinburgh to London to audition for Guildhall. ‘You can’t travel alone, darling,’ she’d said. Secretly, Jane had been glad of her mother’s company, despite her constant fussing. London seemed vast compared with Edinburgh; she’d never seen so many people in her life; and though she’d never confess to it, she’d been terrified about the forthcoming ordeal of the audition.
It was a day she’d never forget. She remembered standing at the doorway of the huge hall where hundreds of young hopefuls were waiting for their turn to perform. She had clasped her cello to her chest.
‘I’ll wait with you,’ her mother said, starting to move forwards.
Behind them, a youth said, ‘Excuse me please,’ in a polite voice and Jane stood aside self-consciously, eyeing the dark-haired boy with awe. He’ll get in, she thought, he’s tailor-made for stardom.
‘No,’ she said emphatically.
She’d feel like a baby with her mother there. This was her first step into the big, exciting world of adulthood. She was standing on a threshold, literally and metaphorically, and she needed to cross over it by herself.
‘No, thank you, Mum,’ she said more quietly. ‘I really appreciate it, but honestly, I need to concentrate and think about my music. I’d much rather be on my own. You don’t mind, do you? Tell you what, I’ll drop my cello at the hotel after I’ve finished, then I can meet you somewhere and we’ll do something special. Okay?’
‘All right, darling,’ her mother conceded, perhaps understanding, possibly merely relieved.
Jane watched her depart with a mixture of love and embarrassment. She was alone and nervous, but also excited and energised. Around her, some applicants stood in groups or sat chatting animatedly. Too shy to approach anyone, she pulled out her Walkman, put on the headphones and immersed herself in the concerto she was going to play as one of her audition pieces. All around her she sensed the crackling electricity of anticipation. A blonde girl, with skin so delicate it was almost translucent, sat cross-legged on the floor, trying to calm herself by doing yoga. Nearby, one girl was biting her nails; another had streaked her hair purple and outlined her eyes heavily with kohl; a third was wearing skin-tight leather trousers and a coral spandex top that barely reached her waist. Everywhere, she could see aspiring Jennifer Anistons with shoulder-length bobs and Meg Ryan lookalikes, hair bleached, cut short and tousled.
Jane felt horribly dowdy in her neat skirt and blouse. These kids were fashionable, confident, extrovert. They already looked like drama and music students. They were hip, trendy, cool, all the things she wasn’t. She turned up the volume and sank back into the music. With that, at least, she was safe.
A hand tapped her arm and she looked up, startled. The young man they’d bumped into at the doorway was looking down at her, his mouth moving. For a few seconds she was too riveted by his good looks to realise that he was trying to talk to her. His black hair was thick and floppy, falling into his eyes. Compelling eyes – metallic grey, almost silver, and hooded, like a falcon’s. He was wearing a grandpa shirt, collarless and striped, tucked into wide-legged trousers held up by broad braces. It was an unusual look, not fashionable, but a powerful statement.
What did he want?
‘Anybody in?’
She slipped the headphones off so that they fell round her neck.
‘Hi.’ Her mouth felt dry.
‘Are you for acting? Or music?’
‘Oh. Music.’ Jane gestured at her cello, propped up in a nearby corner. ‘You?’
‘Acting. Scary, isn’t it?’
He looked friendly.
He was speaking to her like an equal.
He admitted to nerves.
He was beautiful.
It took Jane about three seconds to fall wildly in love.
She nodded and bit her lip, longing for this boy to fall for her, too, though she knew it would never happen.
‘Tom.’ He stuck out his hand and she took it gingerly, feeling the connection like an electric shock. ‘Tom Vallely. Hi.’
‘Jane Porter.’ It sounded so boring. ‘Good luck.’
‘What are you listening to?’
She wished she could say Bryan Adams or Madonna, but she had to admit to Dvorjàk’s Cello Concerto. She could almost see his eyes glazing over.
&n
bsp; ‘Well, nice to meet you. Good luck.’
He smiled an easy, natural smile as he turned away.
Jane put her headphones back on, turned up the volume and, this time, closed her eyes.
‘Benji! Here boy!’ Jane had been so engrossed in her memories that she’d lost sight of the dog. ‘Benji!’
There was a scuffle and a whisper of movement in the undergrowth and the dog appeared, trailing sticky-willy from his coat. She picked it off, cradled the trusting little face in her hands and stroked the dog’s head affectionately. ‘Silly boy. Be good now.’
He shot off towards the top of the hill and Jane plodded behind him, scenes from long past still replaying in her head.
She’d spent the best part of the first year at Guildhall not learning music, but learning how to be a student. She’d never adopted the razzmatazz style favoured by many of the acting students, but she had metamorphosed from the dowdy schoolgirl who had attended the audition into someone who felt comfortable in her own skin. She wore stone-washed jeans and white trainers most of the time, teamed with skinny white cotton T-shirts. She had always been slim and it was a look that did her no disservice. She liked big jackets and scoured the vintage and charity stalls in Camden market for affordable ones.
She came across Tom Vallely frequently. He was always charming, always surrounded by eager women, always friendly, but no more than that. He seemed to go through money at a ripping pace, there were countless tales told by people he’d borrowed from.
One exceptionally sunny day in March, she was sitting on a bench in a small square near the School, her eyes closed, her head back, enjoying the warmth on her face.
‘Hi.’
A body landed on the bench near her.
She opened her eyes. Tom was sprawled a yard away from her, his arms draped over the back of the bench, his legs crossed casually, his face creased into a friendly smile.
‘Hi Tom. Isn’t this fab?’
He looked startlingly attractive, as always. His hair, shining in the sun, fell softly over his left eye so that he had to peer through the long fringe. He was wearing baggy tweed trousers and a chunky dark green sweater, pushed up to his elbows. Tom Vallely had style.
‘How’s the music?’
‘Fine, thanks. How’s the acting?’
‘Oh, you know. Bit of declamation, bit of interpretation and a great deal of boring line learning.’
‘Boring? Aren’t you enjoying it?’
‘I love it. Can’t imagine myself doing anything else. To be honest, I don’t think I’m bright enough to do anything else. I’m going to have to rely on my looks to earn me some money.’
‘At least you have looks.’
‘You don’t flatter to deceive do you? You didn’t have to agree that I’m stupid.’
‘I didn’t mean ... sorry, I ... I only meant...’
He laughed.
‘You’re delightfully easy to tease, Jane. Are you giving a concert?’
‘Just before we break for Easter.’
‘Can I come?’
‘Of course.’ Jane was astonished. She hadn’t imagined that classical music would be Tom’s bag. ‘I’ve got a solo,’ she said shyly.
‘Then I’ll definitely come. Can you get me a ticket?’
‘I will.’
They were expensive, but he didn’t offer her money. Maybe he’d do that later. It was enough that he wanted to hear her.
Tom dug in his pocket and pulled out a bag of brightly coloured boiled sweets.
‘Fancy one?’
They were sugary and yet sharp, red and round, like little cherries. They sat and sucked in silence for a few minutes, then Tom said, ‘You couldn’t lend me some cash could you, Jane? Just till Easter? I’ll get my new allowance then.’
So that was it after all. Having borrowed from every other person in college, he had at last turned to her. Did he think she was such a sucker that she’d simply say yes?
‘No problem,’ she heard herself saying. ‘How much?’
It had been more than she could easily afford, so that she had to go without things herself over the next few weeks. She didn’t mind, nor did she expect to get her money back. Giving had been an impulse, but it wasn’t one she regretted.
Tom did come to the concert – she spotted him sitting near the back – but afterwards, he’d been surrounded by admiring girls, each flattered by his attendance, and he didn’t bother to come and say hi.
So much for getting him a ticket. So much for the loan.
One night there was a knock on her door. She had just had a shower, her hair was dripping and she was wrapped only in a towel. She opened the door to find Tom Vallely on the threshold.
‘Oh!’
‘Is it a bad time?’
‘It’s all right.’
She stared at him awkwardly. Behind him, she could hear comments.
‘Cor, look who’s visiting our Jane.’
‘Go, Jane, go!’
‘Don’t keep him waiting, Jane.’
‘Look, you’d better come in,’ she said hastily, stepping back for him to pass.
He pulled a bottle of vodka out of one capacious pocket of his oversized tweed coat, then a bottle of Coca-Cola out of the other.
‘I come bearing gifts.’
Jane, who never drank spirits, couldn’t help smiling back. He was charming, natural, friendly – irresistible in every way.
‘And....’
Bending slightly, he beat out a drum roll on the small desk beneath the window.
‘—Ta-da!’
Like a magician, he produced a wad of notes.
‘What’s that?’
He held the money aloft and squinted up at it. ‘Is this a dagger I see before me? Methinks not. It is the stuff of dreams, sweet Titania, or at least, the money I owe you.’
He placed it on the desk and looked around. ‘Got any glasses?’
Jane was dumbfounded.
‘Glasses? Erm ... cupboard,’ she gulped, pulling the towel more tightly round herself.
‘Great. You’d better get dressed or you’ll catch your death. I won’t look.’
He swung away and started pouring drinks. Jane stared at him, astonished, then grabbed her clothes and dressed rapidly.
‘I’ll need to dry my hair.’
‘Let me.’
To her great astonishment, Tom picked up the hairdryer and plugged it in, then pressed her shoulders gently until she sank dizzily onto her bed. He brushed her hair as he dried it, his touch gentle but firm. It was the sexiest thing that had ever happened to her.
He stood back and admired his handiwork.
‘Beautiful. Take a look.’
She looked. She saw Jane Porter, skinny, plain, her normal, slightly anxious expression emphasised by her desire to please him.
‘You’ve done a good job,’ she said shyly. In truth, her hair looked the same as usual – long, straight, in need of a good cut.
‘Don’t you agree?’
‘What with?’
‘That you’re beautiful.’
She looked at him, puzzled. She could name a hundred other girls who were much more beautiful. ‘Me?’
He traced his finger round her face.
‘Lovely. You don’t plaster make-up all over your skin and your hair’s so natural. You look good enough to eat.’
Jane’s heart began to race. She had never considered herself in Tom Vallely’s league, but now here he was, touching her face softly, intimately. She held her breath and willed the moment to last forever.
He dropped his finger and stood, offering her a glass of vodka and coke.
‘To natural beauty,’ he raised his glass towards her, ‘and to one generous, lovely girl.’
He drained the glass in one gulp.
They never did go out that evening. Tom, sorting through her CD collection, started with Beethoven, moved on to Debussy, then to pop. When it was nearly eleven, he pulled a CD out of another deep pocket, pressed play, and Marvin Ga
ye’s ‘Sexual Healing’ blasted out, the lyrics a sultry invitation to sex.
He was looking at her. He was smiling softly. His eyebrows were raised questioningly. She lifted her hand and pushed aside his hair, trembling.
And then she was in his arms and the kissing was urgent and as absolutely necessary as breathing.
They’d lain in bed all night and until late the next morning. When she’d woken at last, to find the sun coming through the thin curtains, she’d turned expecting to find that Tom had gone, maybe even discover that she’d dreamed the whole thing.
But there he was by her side, a miracle. She studied the smooth muscles of his arm, curled above the covers, the dark hairs thick on his chest, and caught her breath.
‘Hello, witch.’
He had woken and was looking up at her, sleepily.
‘Hello, spinner of magic spells,’ she replied, smiling shyly.
He hooked his arm round her neck and pulled her down towards him. Her hair fell over his shoulders and he caught at it, smoothing it between his fingers before taking her face between his hands and kissing her.
She really did believe that something magical had happened.
‘Home, Benji. Home b-boy.’
Damn the stutter. It had started again. She couldn’t believe it. And now it was starting to rain. If she didn’t get home in the next ten minutes, she’d be soaked.
Magical. Yes. The sorcerer had cast a spell over her and it had lasted for years before the scales had fallen from her eyes.
And then, dear God, the pain had been excruciating.
But that was another story, one that she had buried – until Tom’s reappearance yesterday had exposed the flimsiness of the fabric she had woven to cover everything.
One word from Tom and the world she had constructed would rip apart.
She had to hold strong.
No-one must never know what had happened.
Chapter Eight
‘I adore this painting, Marta. You’ve got a lovely house. Your pictures ... the colour scheme ... it’s pretty.’
‘Thank you. We like it.’
‘You and Jake.’
‘Of course, me and Jake. Talking of Jake, Tom, can I ask you a favour?’