Secret Intentions

by Caitlyn Nicholas

  Well, if it wasn’t broken before it would be now. She debated whether to go and inspect the body. Electing not to, instead she went to take refuge in the Ladies and sort out her bedraggled state.

  Trick or treat, she thought as she looked at her demented hair and white face in the mirror. Dave’s oversized tracksuit pants and enormous brown jumper made her look frumpy, and the dark shades leached away all of her colour. More like a drowned rat, than a Halloween ghoul, she thought a touch hysterically then took a deep breath to steady herself. Another woman emerged from the toilet stalls and, after a glance at Zani, neglected to wash her hands and dashed out of the bathroom. Zani peered in the mirror again, sure she didn’t look that much of a fright.

  How dare he threaten me? She wasn’t sure if she meant her father or Klebnikoff. God, but she was tired of overbearing, controlling men.

  They’re all bullies.

  Her hands tightened on the sink in unconscious resolve. She was going to fight this. For once she was not going to let herself be bullied by some man. First she would sort out her father then she would sort out Vladimir Klebnikoff. Taking off her rain spattered glasses, she firmly polished them dry on Dave’s jumper.

  A little more composed, Zani went to find Corbin.

  “You took long enough.” He glared moodily at her over a cup of grey liquid that was pretending to be coffee. She sat down opposite and stirred several packets of sugar into her sad beverage.

  “Um, yes.” She was unsure how to respond to this. Was he after some elaborate tale of constipation? she wondered. “I think the gale is getting worse. Should we keep driving?”

  “Well, what’s the alternative? Staying here with you?” he asked with an expression that made it obvious he thought that was a fate worse than death.

  “No, I meant finding somewhere to stay, a motel or a bed and breakfast or something,” Zani said scornfully, thoroughly sick of men who treated her like some feeble female.

  “Zani, look, we’ve had a long and tiring day, and I think you’re very nice, but cherie, I am very exhausted. I think spending the night together would be a mistake.” Corbin blinked at her earnestly.

  “I…I…” Zani stared at him as his words sank in. Then, unsure what to do next, she started to giggle.

  Corbin shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “You didn’t seriously think I was going to haul you off to some motorway motel and jump your bones?” she asked, hiccupping indelicately and snatching a napkin off the table to wipe her eyes under her glasses.

  “Um, well, no, no of course not…”

  “Good God, I believe you’re blushing,” said Zani, going off into another peal of laughter. The Little Chef was practically deserted, but a thin, pale man in a dark coat had sat down near them. He glanced up, and Zani realised she might be overdoing it a little. Mocking Corbin covered her burning hurt that he’d so summarily rejected her, even though she’d never dreamed of suggesting anything.

  “Okay, okay,” he grudgingly managed a small, bad-tempered smile. “I deserved that.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I should have explained what I meant. We’re both tired and we shouldn’t be driving, even if the weather was passable.” As if to underscore her point the automatic doors slid open and a blast of icy wind blew the napkins off the table as another bedraggled customer scurried into the Little Chef. “Anyway, I don’t want to be in the car with you in these conditions.”

  She could see the “fine, stay here then,” hovering on his lips.

  “Zani, we have to keep going. I’ve got to get back to Sunberri. I have no idea how I’m going to get the company through this, but I’ve got to think of something,” he said, exhaustion lining his face.

  “Surely it can wait until the morning.”

  “No, cherie, it can’t.”

  The weather deteriorated rapidly after they left the Little Chef. The wind buffeted the four-wheel drive, and as she peered out of the window Zani could see nothing but blackness and rain. Corbin drove slowly. A tense silence filled the car. The sound of the wind and rain drowned out everything except the scrape of the wipers. The car was suddenly lit up from behind as a large semi-trailer came upon them.

  “Jesus,” exclaimed Zani, as she was dazzled in the rear-vision mirror. The interior of the car glowed with a halogen intensity. The huge vehicle shot past them, its spray totally obscuring what little visibility they had, its horn blaring as it went. “He must be on a suicide mission,” she muttered to herself.

  “Or we are,” added Corbin dryly.

  “I know a place. It’s not too far from here. We could shelter overnight, let this storm blow itself out and head off first thing in the morning.”

  Corbin fidgeted in his seat, obviously unhappy with the idea. “I really need to get back…” He never got to finish the sentence. With a gasp and almost as a blind reflex he stood on the brakes and the car began to skid out of control.

  Secret Intentions

  Chapter Eight

  “Christ, that was close,” said Zani, slowly easing her death grip on the door handle. “I can’t believe the wind could move a branch that big, that fast.”

  Corbin, driving at a snail’s pace, moved back into the slow lane. “Like a twig. I really thought I was going to hit it,” he muttered. He’d seen it coming out of the corner of his eye, a branch almost the same size as Zani. The wind had caught it, and it rolled merrily into their path. He’d swerved to miss it, but it was across the road and out of their way in the blink of an eye.

  “Will you listen to me now? We need to get out of this weather. Feel that wind? We’re nearly being blown off the road. It’s not safe. Phil the IT Guy and Vivre are not worth dying for.”

  Corbin could hear the strain in Zani’s voice, and another wave of guilt swept over him. First he’d refused to listen to her about the dangers of leaving the Isle of Wight, and now he was refusing to listen about the storm. He knew they needed to be sheltering somewhere. But he had to get home, or to work. Somewhere he could start thinking and planning. Suddenly he felt very tired.

  “I know. It’s okay. We’ll stop,” he said.

  “Finally, the man listens to reason,” she snapped. Corbin tightened his hands on the steering wheel and peered into the slanting rain.

  “I know a place about ten minutes from the next exit. There’s no one there, but there’ll be some food and it’s a good place to sit this out,” she continued.

  “Fine. Show me the way,” said Corbin sharply. He could almost feel Zani’s glare, but refused to turn his head or make eye contact. He wasn’t taking his eyes off the road until this nightmare was over.

  The weather reminded him of his life. Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, it notched everything up a few hundred degrees. He longed for his cozy farmhouse in Woodend, sitting solidly, hunched against weather it’d endured for three hundred years. Then he remembered the leak in the spare bedroom. He should’ve left the bucket from the last time; it’d be awash tomorrow.

  They wound down narrow country lanes, the headlights picking out nothing but rain and thrashing hedgerows. Disorientated, Corbin went as fast as he dared, silently praying they wouldn’t meet anyone coming the other way.

  Before long they turned off the road and up a driveway overshadowed on either side by a wood. Huge trees loomed over them, and under the bare skeletal branches the black night seemed even darker. The whipping, restless shadows held an indefinable menace.

  They rounded a sharp bend and the woods were behind them. The narrow light-beams of the headlights picked out a neat circular lawn with a fountain in the middle. Behind it the dark shadow of a vast house loomed.

  “What is this place?” asked Corbin, not bothering to hide his exasperation. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a visit to a stately family pile. Everything about her is a secret.

  “Everwood,” replied Zani succinctly as they pulled up in front of the enormous front door. “C’mon.” She fished some ke
ys from her pocket and disappeared from the car. Corbin followed slowly, bringing the bags. He caught up to her as she pushed open the front door with a loud creak. The draft slammed it shut behind them and a deep silence enveloped them, the howling wind and rain abruptly shut out.

  “Power’s on at least.” Zani snapped on a light, lighting up a room of expensive and tasteful elegance. It should have oozed sumptuous warmth, but there was a chill in the air and Corbin gritted his teeth against a shiver. The house had an air of melancholy about it; sadness seemed to drift through it. Rising damp, he told himself firmly. These huge old houses were riddled with it.

  “You’re cold,” said Zani, and lead him across the deep red carpet, past delicate antique furniture into a medium sized room decorated in a pale delft blue and cream. Corbin marveled at the luxury of the place. It was immaculate, not a speck of dust. It was as if the family who lived there had just popped out for a minute. “Mrs. Stewart usually leaves a fire laid here for me,” she said.

  Glancing at the ornately decorated ceiling and the beady-eyed portraits that stared down from the walls, Corbin gave up wondering. He sank thankfully into one of the three soft sofas that were grouped around the huge fireplace. A packet of matches sat on the cold hearth next to a bronze bucket of wood.

  Zani crouched by the fire, grabbed the matches and had a curl of flame in a matter of moments. “Thank goodness for firelighters,” she said with a quick, almost guilty grin, then turned her attention back to the fire.

  Corbin watched her. She looked ridiculous in Dave’s oversized tracksuit bottoms, with her hair framing her face in unruly waves. Her pale skin looked like porcelain in the low light. Staring contemplatively into the fire as it crackled and spat complaining about the damp wood, she looked tired, almost careworn, and so distant that he had an impulse to hold her, to somehow settle the demons that perpetually lurked behind her eyes. He had a sense that no matter how long he knew her, how intimately he possessed her, he would never really have her. The idea intrigued him and her elusiveness fascinated him. It pulled at him.

  A blast of wind rattled the windows violently, and Corbin again sensed the melancholy that permeated the house. Zani must have felt it, too. She stood and broke the silence. “Doesn’t sound like it will ease up soon. I’ll get something to eat. I won’t be long.” She disappeared out the door.

  Slouched on the couch, he stared hypnotically at the flames, soaking up their warmth, feeling protected and cozy from the tempest outside. He half dozed, fighting the dizzy, hazy sensation which tried to lure him to sleep.

  A flicker of movement on the periphery of his vision made him glance toward the door. He thought he saw a shadow outside the room, and had the fleeting impression of a woman, thin, almost emaciated and very, very sad, drifting past. The housekeeper, he assumed; Mrs. Stewart, Zani had said. He considered calling out, letting her know he was there, but then supposed Zani must have found her and told her by now. He relaxed back and scrubbed his face with his hand. Exhaustion made him muzzy and lightheaded.

  Zani felt her way through the dark house, moving confidently from one light switch to another. The thick carpets deadened her footfalls until she arrived at the worn red tiled floor of the kitchen. The huge cream Aga in the corner gave off a low warmth.

  Opening the fridge she smiled as she found one of Mrs. Stewart’s huge casseroles and two big baked potatoes sitting on a plate like a pair of small boulders. Mrs. Stewart made no secret of the fact she thought Zani was far too thin, and blamed that situation entirely on the newfangled fad of dieting. Dieting, in her opinion, led to a variety of ills, including premature wrinkles, becoming attractive to gay men and, most worrying of all, shriveled ovaries. To date she hadn’t succeeded in encouraging Zani to put on any weight whatsoever, but she cooked in hope.

  Quickly serving the food onto two plates, Zani put the first plate in the microwave then braved the cellar. Damp and gloomy, with a heavy wooden door studded with iron nails, it had always given her the creeps. Paul used to enjoy locking her down there when he was being particularly poisonous.

  She clicked on the bare light bulb and hurried down the wooden stairs, making a beeline for her father’s wine collection. Grabbing two bottles, she hurried out, patently relieved to hear the reassuringly normal ping of the microwave from the kitchen.

  She put the other plate in the microwave.

  She and Corbin were alone in the house. All night.

  Scrabbling in a drawer for a corkscrew, she shakily uncorked one of the bottles, slopped some wine into a glass and took a long sip.

  Phew.

  For a brief, stupid moment she imagined they were a couple, that Everwood was their home, and that she adored Corbin with her heart and soul. The idea fascinated her. She’d always thought she’d end up in some marriage of convenience. Suitable for everyone concerned, of course, and binding for a very good reason: money, property, a title. Something like that. Something that would make her father proud. But love wouldn’t be involved. Long ago she’d realised she wasn’t good enough to be loved. Love was for other people. Her father had let her know in agonisingly subtle ways, and her brother had gone out of his way to reinforce it. Now it hardly saddened her at all.

  She swigged the wine again. The microwave pinged, and she bent to find a tray in the cupboard under the sink.

  Until she’d met Corbin, this decision seemed fine. But the last few days had turned everything on its head. Suddenly Zani wasn’t so sure that a loveless marriage and a business that was her life were exactly what she’d be happy to settle for after all. Maybe, just maybe, she did deserve to find love. Perhaps her father and her brother were wrong.

  Zani reappeared a short time later bearing a tray that was wafting delectable scents. Corbin hurried to take it from her. Two bottles of wine, he noted, and one open.

  “Emily, Mrs. Stewart, is such a poppet. She left us a meal in the fridge.”

  “Did she know we were coming?” Corbin racked his brain, but couldn’t think when Zani had contacted her. He had a nasty moment wondering if she’d somehow contrived to lure him to the enormous deserted house, in a wild storm, in the middle of nowhere. Then he decided he was tireder than he’d realised.

  “No, I said I might be down this weekend, so she usually makes me up something if she knows I’m coming.”

  “Lives here, does she?” he asked casually.

  Zani looked at him oddly. “No. She lives down in the village. She won’t set foot in the place at night, says it’s haunted.”

  Taking the empty glass from the tray, Corbin slopped in some wine and took a swig. It was a surprisingly good Merlot, and the rich warmth of it banished his unease. He mentally calculated when it was he last ate. Breakfast on the boat, he decided. No wonder he felt awful.

  “Haunted? Still you’re happy to be here alone?” he asked lightly.

  “This house has never been anything but a sanctuary to me.”

  “And you needed a sanctuary…” He took another sip of wine. If she wasn’t going to answer direct questions then he was going to keep up conversation until she let something slip. It was a technique that had served him well in the past. Everyone, no matter how taciturn, had an unconscious desire to talk about themselves. It was just a question of creating the right opportunity.

  “Have you sailed long?” she asked, inelegantly avoiding the question. Corbin mentally shrugged. He was going to get to the bottom of the intriguing Zani, and now, stranded, he had time. Putting down his glass on the low table in front of the sofa, he balanced his plate on his knee and took a mouthful. Warm, rich beef in red wine with mushrooms. Bliss. His tiredness slowly evaporated, replaced by an unexpected contentment.

  “I’ve sailed on and off since I was a child. My family is from a town in the southwest of France, La Rochelle…”

  “I know it!” interrupted Zani with a grin, “I’ve sailed there. That’s where they sail the Whitbread from.” She named the famous around-the-world yacht race.

  �
��Yes, so as you can imagine, as a small boy, all my heroes were the yachties. It was the only thing I ever wanted to do. Until I found out about girls anyway,” he said, then wondered why he said it. Zani was the last person he wanted to appear crass around. She didn’t seem to notice, though.

  “I didn’t discover sailing until I was a teenager. It’s been my passion ever since. You know, some girls fall in love with horses, but for me, for whatever reason, it was the sea. Dad was always so busy with work, and Mum, well, she was sick all the time so they pretty much left me to it.” Zani cradled her drink, staring into its blood red depths. Corbin wasn’t sure if she was going to speak again, but kept quiet.

  “Then, after Mum died, I think Dad was just happy to have me out of the way. Not that I wanted to be here, the sympathy…everyone meant well, but it was suffocating. Teachers, school friends, all so perpetually sorry. Sailing became my escape.”

  Corbin let out a slow breath, quietly appalled at her loneliness. She fell silent again.

  “You said your mother died of breast cancer?” he prompted, expecting she’d duck the question.

  “Yes. It was the cruelest, most terrible thing. It was like the whole family was dying. We all drifted with my mother, waiting for the inevitable, all existing somewhere between life and death, until one day she was gone. She quietly floated away and left us all behind. And instead of realising that life went on, we all stayed frozen, shut down. I’m sorry.” She stopped suddenly and sent him a defensive glare which she quickly covered with a thin smile. “It’s been a long day. I don’t usually rattle on so.”

  Corbin didn’t react. “You must have become very good at sailing.”

  The moment of defensiveness passed, and she relaxed again. “In my final year of school I spent more time on the water than in the classroom.” She shot Corbin a shy look. “I won a national title that year. Luckily I managed to scrape up enough marks in my final exams to make it into the London College of the Arts. Not that I really cared about what I studied. Dad had made it clear from early on that he wouldn’t support me in a career that involved the sea. Professions like marine biologist or oceanographer were for men, and protected from the world and without a strong female role model I believed him.”