by Emma Darcy
She felt the tension in his body, the restraint with which he was holding her, and knew he was thinking of how to answer her question about their future together, even as he imparted the comfort that he would never change.
‘You will hate me, Natalie,’ he said gently.
No equivocation. Forthright. Blunt. Honest.
His certainty jolted her. ‘Even worse than I hated my husband?’ She didn’t know how she knew she had hated her husband but she intuitively suspected she had.
‘I think it will be worse,’ he murmured. ‘Far worse.’
‘Why?’
‘You suspect something of me which isn’t true.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s not a memory I want you to recall.’
‘You won’t tell me?’
‘No.’
She lifted her head, deeply perturbed by the deadly barriers he saw coming between them. She wanted to push them away, decry their existence, but one look at the grim bleakness on Damien’s face told her he had spoken the truth, a truth he hated, but one that was inescapable.
Natalie’s mind suddenly latched on to the most recent event in her life. ‘The accident, Damien? Why was I knocked over by a car?’
He did not flinch. ‘You did not look where you were going, Natalie, because you were running away from me.’
She stared at him, thunderstruck. It was proof of what he said, yet it was in direct contradiction of the feelings he evoked in her. She struggled to make sense of it. People ran away in fear and confusion. Or when they were dreadfully hurt.
She drew back from him, instinctively reacting to fear and confusion now. Damien did not try to hold her in his embrace. He gently eased her on to the pillows, then tenderly stroked her cheek.
‘I am trying to prepare you, Natalie,’ he said, pained at the need, yet clearly determined not to hide behind a curtain that might be ripped aside at any moment.
He was right to do it. Yet his honesty was devastating. It gave Natalie a miserable feeling of isolation. Total isolation. Without Damien, her life would be barren of any meaningful human connection.
Where could she go?
What could she do?
CHAPTER FIVE
NATALIE fretted over her situation long after visiting hours had passed and Damien had gone. There was too much she didn’t know about herself. She had to relocate her identity. It was not healthy to be so dependent on one person. She had to broaden her world.
She thought of her mother. On impulse she rang her. It was a strangely unreal conversation to Natalie. It didn’t serve its purpose at all.
Her mother chatted on about what had been happening in the boutique she managed in Noosa. She told her the same kind of news Natalie had heard in her adolescence. Nothing had changed. They were simply echoes of a past long gone.
Even when Natalie mentioned her accident and the loss of memory resulting from the concussion, it was readily apparent that no help would be forthcoming in her quest to find herself. Her mother represented love and care and support, but she was too far away in more than physical distance.
Natalie ended the call, accepting the fact that her years in Sydney formed a different phase of her life, a phase she would not have confided to a parent. It was easy to share happiness and achievements. Failure was naturally hidden. Natalie was in little doubt that she must have considered herself a failure. Perhaps even as a mother. Was that why she had grieved so long, so excessively over Ryan, shutting herself away from everyone?
She searched her mind for something positive about herself.
The answer finally came to her.
It was in her handbag.
The one concrete fact connected to both her past and future was the signed contract for her work on the children’s book. She didn’t know why she had been carrying it with her on the day of the accident, but it represented something she had achieved.
Natalie took it out to look at it again. The contract contained her home address and the publisher’s address. Attached to it was a covering letter from an editor who wrote enthusiastically about Natalie’s work. The name signed at the end of the letter was Sharon Kippax.
Surely she must have met Sharon Kippax if they were doing business together. It might be worthwhile meeting her again, talking to her. It would be an opportunity to gauge another person’s reaction to her, even if it was only that of the slimmest acquaintance.
Resolution formed in Natalie’s mind. Tomorrow she would release herself from the hospital and pay her publisher a visit. Although she was bruised and sore, and a little shaky on her legs, she was not so weak she couldn’t manage to get around by herself. There was nothing really wrong with her, except for the intimidating gap in her memory.
The fearful thought struck her that she might not be able to fulfil the contract. Had she forgotten the skills needed to produce what she did? Would her work still be as ‘stunning’ as Damien said it was?
She fought the fear down with an even firmer resolution. There was no point in worrying about it. She would find out tomorrow. It was time to take a step by herself, for herself. No running away. No sheltering behind Damien’s devotion to her. She had to go out and meet the world she occupied head on.
The next morning Natalie discovered that signing herself out of hospital was a tedious business. They didn’t think she was ready to leave, so every obstacle was put in her way.
She had the feeling that Damien could have achieved the same result in half the time, but Damien was at work, and she couldn’t call on him for everything. Besides, she took some pride in proving herself capable of handling and overcoming the difficulties she met.
When she was dressed, packed and ready to leave, she did call the number Damien had given her. A secretary informed her, ‘Mr Chandler is at a business meeting.’ Natalie left a message for him that she had left the hospital, then set off to accomplish what she could alone.
The taxi from St Vincent’s Hospital deposited her outside a tall office building in North Sydney. The directory in the foyer listed her destination as the fourth floor. She caught a lift. When the number four flashed up, she picked up her suitcase, ready to step out. The doors opened.
A woman was waiting to step in. She wore a striking yellow suit with black accessories. Her hair was black, her eyes dark, and she was beautiful.
I know her, Natalie thought with a little spurt of excitement. The sense of triumph was dashed when the woman stepped briskly into the lift and pressed a button, giving Natalie no more than a cursory glance in passing. There was not the slightest flicker of recognition in her eyes, no smile of fellow acknowledgement.
Natalie quickly propelled herself out of the compartment, embarrassed by her expectation and the dismissive manner of the other woman. Yet her inner certainty that they were not complete strangers made her turn to glance questioningly at the woman again. Did she know her or didn’t she?
The woman returned a preoccupied look. The lift doors closed, putting an end to the odd encounter. It niggled at Natalie’s mind as she walked over to the receptionist’s desk, and continued to niggle throughout her meeting with Sharon Kippax.
The editor was in her twenties, cheerful in nature, and immediately sympathetic to Natalie’s plight. She showed Natalie a portfolio of what she had submitted. Natalie couldn’t help feeling a thrill of pride in the striking flights of fantasy she had produced. She really did have talent!
Sharon went through what had been planned for the children’s book. She was kind, patient and as helpful as she could be, but she struck no chord of recollection in Natalie.
It wasn’t that Sharon had a nondescript appearance. She had friendly hazel eyes, a mass of curly brown hair, and an attractive, expressive face. Natalie instinctively liked her.
‘Have I been difficult to deal with?’ she asked bluntly.
‘Not at all,’ Sharon replied reassuringly. ‘You’ve been as eager about the project as I have. I love your work. It’s creative. I truly don’t thi
nk you have anything to worry about. Once you sit in front of the computer again...well, it’s like reading. You haven’t forgotten how to do that.’
Natalie hoped it was a valid point. ‘Have we met often?’ she asked, fiercely wishing she could remember.
‘No. Only three times.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t recall you. The doctors do say it’s only a matter of time.’
‘Please...don’t distress yourself. I’m sure it will all come back to you.’
‘There was a woman getting into the elevator. She wore a yellow suit. Very smart...’
‘My boss. Project manager.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Anne Smith.’
Natalie sighed. It didn’t mean anything to her. ‘It’s hardly possible to get a more prosaic name than that,’ she remarked ruefully.
‘Believe you me, Anne Smith is not a prosaic person,’ Sharon said, rolling her eyes at the comment. ‘She’s a human dynamo. She’s not only on the ball all the time herself, she expects everyone else to be. In fact, it was Anne who spotted the work you submitted. Instant decision. “Get this person under contract,”’ she mimicked, then smiled. ‘She has a great eye for spotting talent in every form.’
‘She wore black when I met her,’ Natalie said with gathering certainty.
Sharon frowned. ‘But you’ve never met.’
‘We’ve never met?’
‘My orders were to handle this project myself. Completely. Anne’s kept right out of it. You’ve never met.’
‘That’s extraordinary! I was so certain...’ Natalie dismissed the idea for the time being. Perhaps her memory was playing tricks on her.
Sharon, she thought, might become a friend in time. She felt the liking was mutual. Apart from that, she did have something to do, and something she did well. What Sharon had shown her of her work had convinced her of that. It gave her a pleasant sense of satisfaction and autonomy.
She caught another taxi to her home address at Narrabeen. It was a beach suburb on the north side of Sydney Harbour, which probably explained her tan, but Natalie felt cold inside when she saw the house she lived in. A double garage faced on to the street. A high brick wall hid the rest, giving the place a shuttered, unwelcoming appearance.
She found the key to the locked gate in the brick wall on her key-ring. She walked slowly down a side-path that led to a covered porch protecting what was obviously the entrance to the house. Natalie automatically chose the right key for the door.
She stepped into a large open-space living area, very modern, and furnished in a style she knew instinctively was not her taste. She eyed with a sense of disbelief the glass and chrome tables, the leather sofas and chairs, the lack of any colourful character.
She dropped her suitcase and shoulder-bag in the entrance foyer and walked over to the glass doors at the far end of the living-room. Beyond them was an extensive patio and a swimming-pool. No lawn. No garden. A few landscape-designed areas with palm trees and ferns for shade.
An expensive house in an expensive location, she thought, and wondered about her finances. Was there a heavy mortgage on this property or was it paid for? Had her husband been a high-income earner? Had they led a very social life throughout their marriage?
She trailed slowly through the house, room by room. The furnishings were basically neutral, smartly fashionable, ultra-modern, without any striking individuality. Show-rooms, she thought, finding it difficult to accept she had lived here without wanting to change anything, or at the very minimum add some personal touches. Hadn’t she cared about her surroundings? Had Brett insisted on this sophisticated but soulless lifestyle image?
Why had she continued with it after his death? Why hadn’t she sold the house and made a different home for herself somewhere else? Had she simply stopped caring about anything? Even the study where she obviously worked on the computer was functional rather than personal.
What must have been Ryan’s room had been stripped of any evidence of childish occupation. No nursery things. No toys. No remembrances at all. Maybe they were shut away in the cupboards. Or had she been unable to bear reminders of what was forever lost and given it all away to a charity?
Natalie found her tour of the house unutterably depressing. If this represented her past, she felt no kinship with it. Perhaps, if she opened the cupboards, went through the drawers, some sense of familiarity might return. There had to be mementoes of her life here somewhere. But she didn’t feel capable of continuing her search. The purpose that had fired the day’s activities drained into a flood of exhaustion.
Her legs finally carried her back to the master bedroom where she flopped weakly on to the king-size bed. She managed to work off her shoes and drag some pillows out from under the quilted cover. She was trying to settle herself comfortably on her side when she saw the photograph.
Her heart lurched.
Ryan.
A golden little boy framed in gold.
The photograph stood on the bedside chest of drawers, turned to face where she lay. Natalie’s hand automatically reached out to bring it closer to her.
He was laughing, his sherry-brown eyes sparkling with delight. He had a soccer ball clutched in his arms, and he wore a red tracksuit and navy blue sneakers. The background was a park she didn’t recognise, but she remembered how Ryan loved playing with balls and balloons: kicking them, catching them, throwing them, bouncing them.
A happy child, giving happiness. Poignant memories flashed into Natalie’s mind: Ryan splashing joyfully in a bath, squealing excitedly as she swung him out and bundled him into a towel, holding him close, smelling the sweet clean freshness of his skin and hair; Ryan uninhibitedly snuggling up to her, saying, ‘I love you, Mummy.’
Natalie hugged the photograph to her as she lay back and closed her eyes, savouring the pictures that slipped into her mind. Ryan, taking his first steps towards her, the surprise, the glee that he could do it shining from his eyes; the joy of riding his tricycle on his second Christmas; the pride of achievement when he learnt to swim... ‘Look at me, Mummy!’
I couldn’t have been a bad mother, Natalie thought with heart-lifting conviction. My boy meant the world to me. My son...Ryan...
Chimes echoed through the house, insistently calling for her attention, too many chimes for it to be a clock. The doorbell, she realised, shaking herself out of the doze she had drifted into. The doorbell could only mean Damien. She had shut everyone else out of her life.
The framed photograph of Ryan slid off her stomach as she pushed herself up from the pillows. She picked it up, gazed sadly at the laughing little boy, then reinstated the golden memory where it had sat on the chest of drawers. It wasn’t a piece of celluloid she needed to hold, but a live flesh-and-blood child.
The door-chimes called again.
She fumbled her feet into her shoes, raked her fingers through her hair, then made her way out to the foyer to let Damien in. She opened the door and was instantly subjected to a concentrated scrutiny from caring grey eyes that bored into her soul, filling the emptiness there.
‘Are you all right, Natalie?’
She nodded. ‘Come in, Damien.’
His glance fell on her suitcase and shoulder-bag as he entered. ‘You haven’t been here long?’
‘Long enough.’ She closed the door, then gestured sweepingly at the living rooms open to view. ‘This...doesn’t feel like home to me.’ She searched his eyes, anxious for the answers she needed. ‘What was I like...as a person?’
‘On the day you were married you were filled with joy and love and laughter, brightly anticipating all the good things in life. You were...’ his voice softened, deepened ‘...the most desirable woman in the world.’
‘You were there...on my wedding-day?’
‘Yes.’ His mouth took on an ironic twist. ‘That was when I met you for the first time.’
‘What did I become, Damien?’
‘Withdrawn, introspective, unresponsive. No smiles for anyone..
.except Ryan. This past year you’ve been sullen, morose, isolated and alone. People could talk to you and were ignored. I doubt you knew they were talking to you, myself included.’
‘Why did you put up with it?’
‘Who wants to see a candle snuffed out? A flower that fails to bloom?’
She shuddered at the images evoked. ‘I don’t like this house,’ she cried. ‘It’s...it’s sterile. It isn’t me, Damien. If it was, I don’t want it to be me any more.’
‘What do you want, Natalie?’ he asked softly.
She went to him unhesitantly, her hands resting lightly on his chest, her eyes imploring his for understanding and acceptance.
‘Take me away from here, Damien.’
His arms came around her, drawing her closer. ‘Yes,’ he said simply.
She leaned on his wonderful strength, laying her head contentedly on his shoulder. She felt his chest rise and fall. A long breath wavered warmly through the short waves of her hair. She didn’t know or care where Damien would take her. She wanted the candle to burn brightly, and the flower to bloom, and she wanted to be with the man who believed it was possible, who had cared enough to wait to see if it would happen.
CHAPTER SIX
DAMIEN took her to his apartment.
It overlooked the ocean at Collaroy, not far from Narrabeen, yet the moment Natalie stepped into Damien’s living-room she was in a different world from the one she had once inhabited.
Warm, welcoming, earthy and sensual were the words that sprang to mind. The carpet was the colour of candied honey. Big squashy sofas were upholstered in a fabric that combined green and orange with leopard and zebra prints. The parquet top of a large square coffee-table fascinated with its unique design. A smaller mobile table supported a television set.
Set into a recess was a cabinet for stereo equipment. A rack displaying a range of compact discs rose above it. Bookshelves holding an extensive private library stood beside a nook accommodating a well-stocked bar. Oak and brass dominated. Wooden stools were softened by tan leather seats.