Was someone playing a trick on him? Was this Sam’s idea of a joke? He looked around the silent kitchen, half expecting somebody to pop out, giggling. But the units stood motionless; the marble gleamed silently. Everything was still.
Then a very faint sound attracted his attention. It was coming from somewhere else in the house, and it sounded like …
With a spurt of adrenalin, Philip got up and hurried to the kitchen door. As he entered the hall, he paused and listened again for the sound. It echoed again through the marble hall, strangely prosaic amongst all the splendour. A fax machine, cutting paper.
His heart beating fast, Philip followed the sound to the study. The fax machine was on the desk—and curled up beside it were several creamy-coloured rolls of paper. He picked up the first, unrolled it and stared in disbelief at the heading.
From the office of Hugh Stratton, Head of Corporate Strategy.
And above it, three distinctive intertwined letters. P. B. L.
Chloe lay alone in the darkened bedroom, staring into the pale, cool dimness. She felt confused, chilly and emotionally wrought. Her headache had gone. It had not been much of one anyway—merely an excuse to get away from them all. From Hugh with his persistent, searing gaze; from Philip with his loving, unwitting concern. She had wanted solitude and time to think.
But the more time she spent alone, trying to think rationally, the more uncertain she felt. Hugh’s voice was constantly in her head, pulling at her thoughts like a helium balloon. She kept feeling the lift of that magical, illicit exhilaration. Part of her was desperate to recapture that excitement, that magic. To feel his eyes on her face and his hands on her body. Hugh Stratton, her first real love. The love she had lost.
And, below the thrill, the romance—something else, far harder to deal with. The pain at seeing what she had missed out on all these years. The realization that she still liked and respected this man. That she could see his flaws—but understood them, probably better than his own wife did. Hugh hadn’t changed so much from the twenty-year-old boy who had laid his head on her naked breasts, talking into the long nights with her. She had known as much about him then as anyone could hope to know about another human. And although years had put layers of strangeness and sophistication on him, she still knew his essence. She could still speak and understand his language, it was not forgotten. And the more she was with him, the more fluent she became.
Hugh was right, the fifteen years was nothing. They worked together as they had always done. To have him back again was like a miracle; a fairy story.
And yet … And yet.
Real life was no fairy story. Reality was the knowledge that a secret passion in isolation was one thing—but conducted among the mess of broken families, it was quite another. Reality was the knowledge that some pieces of perfection simply weren’t worth the price. Her desire for Hugh stemmed as much from nostalgia as anything else. He had seemed like a passage out of her present tension and worry, back into the golden, easy past. She had closed her eyes and felt the thrill of his body against hers and had become twenty again, free of responsibilities and full of hope; starting out in life. For those magical few hours, anything had seemed possible. She had lost herself completely. But now …
Chloe stretched out a hand above her and stared at its textured skin dispassionately. This was not the hand of a twenty-year-old. She was not starting out in life. She had already chosen her path. It was a path in which she was contented. More than that—happy. She loved Philip. She loved her sons. To wrench all their lives apart for a selfish passion was something she could not do.
Hugh and I had our chance, she thought. We had our time; we had our cue. But now that cue has passed, and it’s too late. Other people have filled up the stage, and we have to dance alongside them, now.
She sat up and buried her head in her hands. She felt vulnerable and close to tears. The resolve inside her was strong but not invincible, and suddenly she wanted cosiness and familiarity and reassurance. Above all, reassurance. She felt anxious to gather her family around her, like ballast, like sandbags. She had to remind herself of what she was holding onto—and why.
Abruptly she got out of bed. She looked at her pale reflection for a moment, then left the room and headed outside. The whole place was unusually quiet, and she remembered that Amanda had taken the children out for a day trip. The kitchen was empty; the swimming pool was empty. She hesitated, gazing down into the vivid blue water—then turned and walked towards the field. She turned her face up to the sun, letting its rays soak into her chilled face. She wanted flushed cheeks and warmed blood. She wanted her internal, uncertain chill to thaw into a hot, holiday happiness.
As she entered the field she heard sounds of scuffling. A few moments later, some way across the grass, Sam sat up, his hair rumpled, his face flushed. He was followed by Jenna, who had two spots of colour high up on her cheeks, and a distracted expression. Chloe stared at them in silence, trying to conceal her shock. But of course. Sam was sixteen. It was only a matter of time … if not already a fait accompli. The thought made her feel almost faint.
‘Hi … hi, Mum,’ said Sam, staring at the ground.
‘Hi there, Chloe,’ said Jenna, a beatific smile on her face.
Chloe looked from one to the other, wondering what exactly they’d been getting up to—or, more accurately, how far they’d got with it. Sam’s hair was a mess and there were bits of dry grass all over his T-shirt. As she met his eye he looked away, a surly, embarrassed scowl on his face. Jenna was dressed only in the skimpiest of black bikinis—the top of which, Chloe noticed, was untied at the back. Was that really suitable attire for a nanny? Chloe found herself thinking—aware that she was beginning to sound worryingly like Amanda. But then, maybe Amanda had a point.
She noticed that Jenna’s hand was lying casually on Sam’s leg, and felt a surge of hostility so strong it startled her. Get your hand off my son, she felt like snarling. Instead, she said, forcing a brisk tone, ‘Sam, I want to do some washing. Can you go and sort out yours and Nat’s, please?’
‘In a minute,’ said Sam.
‘Not in a minute,’ said Chloe. ‘Now.’
‘But Mum …’
‘Maybe he could go later?’ said Jenna, and smiled at Chloe. ‘We were just sunbathing …’
‘I don’t care what you were doing,’ said Chloe, smiling viciously back at Jenna. ‘I want Sam to come and sort out his washing now. And then tidy up that room. It’s a disgrace.’
She stood silently, refusing to lose a millimetre of ground, while Sam slowly, reluctantly, got to his feet and dusted himself down. She was well aware that he was shooting miserable looks at Jenna; that the two were clearly trying to communicate in a coded way; that she had probably disrupted some approximation of teenage heaven. But she didn’t care. Sam would have to wait.
I’m not going to surrender my lover and my son to other women in the same day, she thought, her smile broadening tightly across her face. I’m simply not going to do it. Sam will have his chances. Sam will have his moments in the future. But this is my moment. I need my family around me, and that’s what I’m going to have.
‘Come on, then,’ she said to Sam, ignoring his murderous expression, and they began to walk back across the field, Sam slouching grumpily, kicking clods of earth and scrappy bushes. When they reached the villa and started climbing the stairs, Chloe smiled at Sam, trying to make amends.
‘After we’ve sorted out this washing,’ she said, ‘we could play a game. One of those board games in the living room.’
‘No, thanks,’ said Sam sullenly.
‘Or … we could cook a pizza. Watch a video together …’
‘I’m not hungry,’ snapped Sam. He reached the top of the stairs and turned to face her. ‘And I don’t want to play any crappy games. You’ve already messed up my afternoon, I don’t want it messed up any more. All right?’
He swivelled round, strode along the corridor and into the bedroom he and Nat share
d, then slammed the door with a crash that echoed round the villa.
Chloe stood staring after him, feeling shaky and close to tears. She edged towards an ornamental chair and sat down on it, trying to keep control of herself. But there was a pain growing inside her, which threatened to burst out in a sob or a cry.
What am I giving up for you? she felt like screaming at him. What am I giving up? She buried her head in her hands and stared down at the marble floor, her breath coming short and fast, her face taut and expressionless, waiting for the ache to pass.
Hugh had found a shady little terrace on the far side of the villa, well away from everybody else. He had waited for Della to call back for about an hour, then had given up. She must have been delayed—or gone out for one of the two-hour shopping sprees she called lunch. He had put on his bathing trunks and gone down to the pool, thinking a swim would clear his head—but had doubled back when he’d seen Chloe walking along in the distance. Now he sat at a small wrought-iron table, sipping wine from a bottle he had found in the fridge, trying to calm his thoughts.
He had been put in a quite appalling situation. Appalling, there was no other word for it. Philip Murray was a National Southern employee. He was on holiday with a National Southern employee—who had no idea who he, Hugh, was. It was like some sick joke; the kind of ‘What would you do if …’ poser that junior staff occasionally e-mailed round the company. Here, in the flesh, was one of the nameless branch managers whom Hugh had spent hours discussing in PBL conference rooms. One of the middle-ranking employees whom he had represented on an integrational structure chart by an icon of a man in a bowler hat. Philip was one of those fucking icons. It was surreal. He almost felt that one of his chess pieces had come alive and started talking to him.
Why hadn’t he known? Why had nobody said? But ever since they arrived, they had all deliberately been avoiding discussion of work. Chloe’s voice ran again through his head, like salt on raw skin. We’re not talking about work … We’ve been under a great deal of strain recently … Philip’s under serious threat of redundancy …
Hugh flinched, and took a sip of wine. Redundancy. It was a word he and his colleagues avoided using—even in private correspondence. Such negative overtones of depression and failure. He tended to use the phrase ‘restructuring’—and, where possible, to refer to units rather than people. He had no idea what words were used when employees were actually being told the bad news. Dealing directly with people was nothing to do with him.
Of course, he’d met plenty of National Southern staff, one way or another. He’d attended meetings with key contributors to the bank; he’d been present at the huge, tense assembly which had been held straight after the announcement; he’d even sat in on a morale-boosting focus group, in which employees were assiduously questioned on what they thought this merger meant for them, personally, and their answers fed into a customized computer program.
But that was theory. Real people, yes—but anonymous and unknown and therefore still theory. Whereas this was real life. This was Philip’s life, and it was Chloe’s life. And it was his life.
Hugh took another gulp of wine, then stared at the glass in his hand as though memorizing its form. The fact was, he thought steadily, that if Philip lost his job, Chloe would never leave him. Of that, he was quite certain. The knowledge hung in his mind like a glass mountain. A hard, shiny, insuperable obstacle. If Philip was made redundant, it was over. He had no chance.
His grasp tightened. Perhaps he had no chance anyway. Chloe had told him as much that morning, hadn’t she? She’d stood in front of him and told him it was over, that it had been a stupid mistake. Perhaps he should believe her.
But he couldn’t, just couldn’t. He’d seen the light in her eye; the trembling of her lips. All the giveaway signs to show him that she felt just as passionately as he did. Of course she had rejected him this morning. Of course she had felt guilty on waking. But her refusal had been a hasty, knee-jerk reaction—a sign of guilt. It hadn’t meant she didn’t, deep down, still feel the same way. She could still weaken. It was still possible.
But it was not possible if Philip lost his job. If that happened, nothing would be possible. Hugh drained his glass and poured another. He took a sip, looked up, and froze. Philip was coming towards him.
Firmly, Hugh instructed himself not to panic. He would act completely normally, and not give away anything. Not before he had all the facts.
He forced himself to smile ruefully up at Philip, and gestured to the bottle.
‘Indulging in a bit of the hair of the dog,’ he said. ‘Care to join me?’
‘Actually,’ said Philip, speaking as though with enormous effort. ‘Actually, Hugh, I’ve got a fax for you.’
‘Oh,’ said Hugh, puzzled. ‘Thanks …’
He held out his hand as Philip produced the cream-coloured pages, and froze as he saw the distinctive PBL logo at the top of the page. Oh fuck, he thought, his throat suddenly tight. That stupid fucking moron Della … He looked up and met Philip’s eyes, and felt his heart plummet.
‘So, Hugh,’ said Philip, in the same curious voice, and flashed Hugh a tight smile. ‘When, exactly, were you thinking of breaking the news to me?’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘I didn’t know,’ said Hugh. He looked up at Philip’s tense, angry face, and swallowed. ‘You have to believe me, I didn’t know.’ He shifted his eyes to the fax in his hand and scanned the message typed from Della:
Dear Hugh, hope you got my message. I enclose the relevant pages of the Mackenzie review. Best, Della.
And, underneath that, a bland statement to the effect that the contents of this fax were confidential and intended solely for the use of the individual or entity to whom they were addressed.
He hadn’t yet looked at any of the subsequent pages. But it was obvious what news they contained for Philip. Jesus, thought Hugh yet again, feeling slightly sick, what had Della been thinking of? For any National Southern employee to see this report, firsthand, was a corporate communications disaster. Let alone this guy, standing there in his shorts and bare feet. This man he knew but didn’t know; whose life he already desired to disrupt but in a totally different way …
‘Philip, I had no idea you worked for National Southern,’ he said, his voice strengthened by the fact that on this, at least, he was being honest. ‘Not at the beginning.’
‘So what about this?’ Philip gestured roughly with the fax. He looked completely different. Hugh thought, from the amiable guy who had sat next to him last night, getting slowly sozzled. This man was tense, angry, and suspicious, staring at Hugh with no hint of friendliness in his face. It was as though they were meeting for the first time.
Which in a way, thought Hugh, they were. All that crap about not talking about work, about wearing T-shirts and relaxing and forgetting about real life—it was bullshit, wasn’t it? You couldn’t escape real life, even on holiday. It was there all the time, waiting to come after you. Coming at you through the fax, through the phone, through the TV. And if you were unprepared for it, so much the worse.
‘I didn’t know until today,’ he said. ‘I had no idea who you were. Then I came across Nat. He had a folder with the PBL logo on it. I asked him where he’d got it, and when he told me …’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t believe it. It’s crazy. We both work for the same outfit …’
‘National Southern and PBL are not the same outfit,’ said Philip tightly. ‘You own us. It’s not the same.’ Hugh stared at him, taken aback by his hostility.
‘The takeover was completely amicable—’
‘At board level, maybe.’
Hugh shook his head.
‘Not just at board level. Our executive transition team has been monitoring levels of staff satisfaction throughout the organization, and they have found that—’
‘You want to know what my staff call you lot?’ said Philip, ignoring him. ‘The fuckers.’
Hugh was silenced for a few moments.
&nbs
p; ‘Philip, I’m on your side,’ he said at last. ‘All I want to do is—’
‘All you want to do is find out everything you can about me.’ Philip jabbed at the fax. ‘Were you planning to tell me any of this?’
‘Of course!’ exclaimed Hugh. ‘Jesus! I wanted to find out what the recommendations were for your benefit. I wanted to … warn you, if anything …’
‘Well, go on, then.’ Philip gestured sharply to the pages. ‘Go on then, Mr Corporate Strategy. Why don’t you read it and find out if it’s a happy ending or not?’
His eyes met Hugh’s challengingly. After a pause, Hugh turned to the second page of the fax. He read the first few words, then looked up. ‘East Roywich,’ he said. ‘Is that you?’
Philip stared at him incredulously.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s us. I suppose it’s just another name to you, is it?’
Hugh said nothing, but felt his mouth tighten defensively. Why should he know that Philip worked at East Roywich? He didn’t even know where East Roywich was, for fuck’s sake. He scanned the page quickly, then turned to the next, and scanned that, too. As he read phrase after unambiguous phrase, his frown deepened. East Roywich wasn’t even borderline. It was going to go. And quickly, by the sound of things.
‘I haven’t misread the jargon, have I?’ said Philip, watching him. ‘You’re going to close down the branch.’ Hugh turned to the last page of the fax and gazed at the final paragraph without taking in a single word. What was he going to say to this guy? He wasn’t the bloody communications officer.
‘What this merger is about,’ he said, without looking up, ‘is creating opportunities. Opportunities for PBL—and opportunities for National Southern. In order to maximize those opportunities—’
‘You’re going to close the branch.’ Philip’s voice cut harshly through his words. ‘You’re going to “downsize” us. Is that what you people call it?’
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