The Olive Tree

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Yes.’ Helena felt sick to her stomach, but the word – and the truth – was out there, and she couldn’t take it back.

  ‘So, what happened to the baby?’

  ‘I . . . aborted it.’

  ‘Did Alexis know?’

  ‘Not at the time. I only found out I was pregnant when I got back to England.’

  ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘Not originally, no. It was only recently, on that afternoon you took the children out to the beach to give me a break.’

  ‘Christ, no wonder you both looked so odd when we got back. I knew something had happened, but I didn’t know what, so I suspected the worst. Although now I know what it was, I’m not surprised he was comforting you. Just as I would have done if you’d ever have trusted me enough to tell me.’ There was a hint of anger in his eyes, but also sympathy. ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘I knew I couldn’t keep the baby. I was a boarder at the Royal Ballet School by then, so I had to wait until half-term to do anything. I found the name of a clinic in the Yellow Pages and booked myself in. When I got home afterwards, I told my mother I had a bad stomach upset and spent the rest of the week in bed recovering.’

  ‘So you went through the whole thing by yourself?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell anyone, William. I had just turned sixteen and I was terrified.’

  ‘You never thought to tell Alexis? Surely you could have written to him? He obviously loved you, though what he was doing forcing you into an adult relationship when you were still only fifteen, I don’t know. Part of me wants to wring his neck, as you can imagine.’

  ‘William, he didn’t know I was underage. I told him I was nearly seventeen. I lied to him, because I knew if I didn’t, he wouldn’t touch me.’

  ‘And you wanted to be touched.’ William winced. ‘Sorry, Helena, forgive me for finding this conversation so difficult.’

  ‘Which is why I’ve never told you,’ she whispered.

  ‘Is this why you were so tense before you came here to Pandora? The thought that Alexis might still be here, and the truth would come out?’

  ‘Partly, yes,’ she agreed, ‘but I didn’t think you’d notice.’

  ‘Of course I did. Everyone has. We’ve all been worried about you.’

  ‘Have you? I’m sorry. I just . . .’ Helena shook her head, and tried her best to stem the tears she had no right to shed. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘Personally, I find the truth – however painful – always works the best. Anyway, darling, now at least I know and I’m so sorry you had to go through that alone, and so young.’

  ‘Please don’t apologise, William. What I did has haunted me ever since. I can never truly forgive myself.’

  ‘Well, you have to try, Helena. We all do what we think is best at the time and even you must realise that, in retrospect, it was the right thing,’ William added gently. ‘Unless, of course, you really wanted to come back here and marry Alexis.’

  ‘It was a summer romance . . . I . . . we were from two different worlds, and so young. I cut off contact with him completely. I thought it was better that he never knew.’

  ‘So you kept this secret all these years, and never told anyone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you had no contact with Alexis afterwards?’

  ‘I just said . . . I couldn’t.’ Tears came to her eyes. ‘You can’t imagine the shame I felt . . . still feel.’

  ‘Well, hopefully now the secret is out, it might help you to heal. And realise you simply had no choice. I’m really sorry for what happened to you, darling. You were just a girl – scarily, not much older than Chloë – and probably not even as worldly-wise as she is. What a shame you couldn’t tell your mother.’

  ‘God, William!’ Helena looked horrified at the thought. ‘She would probably have kicked me out of the house and disowned me. She was very proper and old-fashioned. More like a grandmother, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, maybe not having had a mother you could confide in is why you find it more difficult than most to rely on others. And more to the point, trust them. Please, darling’ – William gently squeezed her hand – ‘try to believe I’m here for you. I really am.’

  ‘I know you are. And I’m so sorry.’

  ‘So, just one more question while we’re clearing the air . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to tell me who Alex’s father really is? Having convinced myself it was Alexis – and I’m sure Alex has, too – I’m now back to square one.’

  ‘William, please! I’ve told you before, it was just some nameless guy I had a one-night stand with,’ Helena said, her brow furrowed with tension.

  ‘I know you have. And equally, knowing you as I do – and especially after what you’ve just told me – it just doesn’t make sense. It’s not in your nature to have a one-night stand, Helena. Unless you were a very different person back then.’

  ‘A slapper, you mean?’ she sighed. ‘After tonight’s revelation, I’m sure that’s exactly what you think I am.’

  ‘Of course I don’t. You were twenty-nine when I married you – naturally you had a past that involved men. My track record with women was hardly spotless, as you know, so please don’t think I’m judging you, because I’m not. I’ve been married to you for ten years and I’d just like to know the truth, that’s all.’

  ‘Can we leave it, William? I’ve told you what you wanted to know, and . . .’ Tears of exhaustion and frustration finally sprang to Helena’s eyes.

  ‘Okay, enough,’ he said gently, seeing her despair. ‘Thank you for telling me about the baby, darling. The worst is over now.’

  If only it was, Helena thought sadly.

  William held her hand across the gear-stick on the way home, like he used to when they first knew each other. His face had lost a lot of its tension, and he looked far more relaxed. He pulled the car into the drive of Pandora, switched off the engine and turned to her.

  ‘I love you, Helena, please believe me. Whatever you’ve done before me is irrelevant. You’re a wonderful wife, mother and human being, so stop torturing yourself, please.’ He kissed her gently on the lips and stroked her hair. ‘I want to take you to bed, right now. Let’s sneak in through the kitchen door so we don’t get sidetracked.’

  They walked hand in hand towards the back door. William opened it as quietly as he could, and they tiptoed across the darkened hall and up the stairs.

  Later, Helena lay in William’s arms, feeling the cool breeze of the fan blowing across her naked skin. William, as always, had fallen asleep straight afterwards. She had forgotten, in the tension of the past few weeks, what comfort lovemaking could bring. She felt calm, and thankful that she’d told him, even if there was so much more he couldn’t know.

  For a fleeting moment, Helena wondered if the rest of her story could stay hidden – if finally she might be able to let it all go, stay like this for always, safe in William’s arms. Not waiting for the moment when he discovered the truth. And left her.

  Helena closed her eyes and tried to relax. Tonight he was with her, and they were close once more. For that, she must be grateful. And finally, she slept.

  ‘Mummy, are you awake?’ Immy’s silky hair tickled her nose.

  ‘No, I’m fast asleep.’ She knew Immy was staring down at her, studying her intently.

  ‘Oh, but you’re talking, so you must be awake.’

  Fred punched her arm and she jumped. ‘Ouch! Don’t do that!’

  ‘I waking you up,’ he announced logically. ‘I want milk.’

  ‘Morning, darling.’ William snaked a hand past Immy and stroked Helena’s shoulder. ‘I’ll go downstairs and make some tea.’ He was already up and reaching for his boxer shorts. ‘Come on, you two,’ he said to Fred and Immy. ‘You can help me.’

  ‘Daddy, why have you and Mummy got no clothes on?’ Immy asked as she trailed behind him.

  ‘It was very hot last night,’ Helena heard him reply
as the three of them left the room.

  ‘Well, I really think you should keep your pants on in bed, Daddy.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Fred.

  Helena lay back and smiled at the exchange. She felt refreshed this morning, as though a storm had passed over, bringing calm fresh air in its wake.

  ‘Now perhaps we can really have a holiday,’ she murmured to herself.

  August 2006

  Departures

  ALEX’S DIARY

  8th August 2006

  The last couple of weeks have been just what a family holiday should be.

  There has been no more Greek Tragedy, Bunny Boilers, Grape-Stampers, Divorces or Drunkards.

  And after all the excitement and tension, it’s been pleasant.

  Actually, I hate that word. ‘Pleasant’ is a neat house in a suburb, it is matching anoraks going for a walk in the country on their matching owners. Who own one well-behaved dog and drive a Nissan Micra. It is middle-class mediocrity. It is most of the western world.

  No one thinks they are ordinary, of course. If they did, they’d shoot themselves. Because we all aspire to be individuals. We are not ants, whose massed colonies and superb organisation when they are staging an attack on a tiny piece of chocolate Fred has dropped on the kitchen floor never ceases to amaze me.

  They remind me of the Nazis, or the Russian Socialist Revolutionary Party, or Chairman Mao’s gang of millions: precision-trained and brain-dead.

  I think how much I’d like to meet the ants’ leader. And imagine he is probably – like all psychopathic dictators – short and ugly, with a penchant for facial hair.

  Perhaps I’d have a career path if I grew a moustache . . .

  Talking of shooting oneself, nothing in the garden is ever totally rosy, as Michel and Chloë are still together. In fact, they are rarely apart. Sadly, he’s a nice guy, and I really like him as these things go: he’s gentle and bright and polite.

  He adores her and she adores him.

  The only saving grace is that Chloë has to leave here soon to join her mother on holiday in France. I will miss her dreadfully of course, but at least she’ll be out of harm’s way. And next time we meet, I’ll be back on home – or at least, school – territory.

  And that’s another current fly – or even ant – in the ointment. When I arrived here, I had the whole of the summer before that school really reared its ugly head. Suddenly, it’s August. We are no longer at the beginning of the holiday. We are on the downhill run to the end.

  I heard my mother on the telephone to Cash’s the other day, ordering my name tapes. ‘Alexander R. Beaumont’.

  I refuse to reveal what the ‘R’ stands for. All I can say is it’s horrendous beyond belief. As is the uniform onto which it will be attached. I have also refrained from mentioning in this diary the actual name of the school I am to attend. All I can say is that you eat breakfast in white tie and black tails and that generations of British kings have been educated there.

  I won an academic scholarship. Let’s face it, I’d never get in on my hereditary credentials, given I only know the provenance of the ovary, rather than the sperm that sired me.

  I wonder if they know I’m illegitimate?

  At least, on one level, it goes to show how times have changed. Having said that, given the history I’ve read on our royal family, me and my unknown gene pool will apparently be in good company.

  What is seriously scary is that my name is all my classmates will know of me. I will have to prove myself to a set of strangers with whom I must cohabit for the next five years, like it or not. My touchstone, the one person who understands me, will be miles away. My bedroom at home will be empty for weeks at a time.

  Fred has already asked for my goldfish when I go, Immy for my portable DVD player. They are like tiny vultures, feasting on the prospect of my departure. I’d like to think they’ll miss me, but I know they’ll soon get used to me not being there. The family bucket of water: take out one glass (me) and it would still look quite full. Apparently, my new one has a whole lake to itself.

  And what if they’re all like Rupes? I could be dead by Halloween.

  I’m starting to seriously panic now at the thought of starting at my new school in less than a month – I mean, I’m just a boy from a middle-class family who’s never been on a grouse-shoot, and thinks ‘polo’ is a mint with a hole in it. My local school was so short on facilities that they bussed us once a week to the local pool.

  It was meant to be up to me whether I went or not. But when I won the scholarship, everyone just forgot to ask me and assumed it was what I wanted.

  On the plus side, at least Chloë will be just a few miles down the road. Her school and mine have ‘dances’ together, apparently. Christ, perhaps I’d better get practising my waltz and my American Smooth, given it’s all I can do to bend my knees up and down to ‘Crazy’ by Gnarls Barkley.

  Although it breaks my heart to see her with ‘Michelle’, the thought of her being so near to me when I go away glues it back together. And out of sight is often out of mind, so they say. That, and the fact Chloë is obviously impressed that I’ve won a scholarship there, is currently all that provides comfort for my black-tailed, lonely future . . .

  I’m lying on my Broom Cupboard bed – I hasten to add that there is a spare room upstairs now, but when my mother asked me if I wanted to move back, I declined the offer. Bizarre that I want to stay down here, but I feel comfortable. And I’m never short of anything to read.

  Tonight I choose Keats’ poems and read, er, ‘Fanny’. Not a title I would personally go for myself, but the words are lovely and it’s a truism that misery loves company. It makes me feel better to know that someone else once felt like I do.

  ‘Yourself – your soul – in pity give me all,

  Withhold no atom’s atom or I die.’

  Then I hear two sets of tentative footsteps along the corridor – one male and one female – and a tear comes to my eye.

  And I know all too well the pain of unrequited love.

  ιθ′

  Nineteen

  Helena stretched forward, her left leg executing an arabesque. She held the position for a few seconds, then pirouetted fast across the terrace and flopped into a chair, sweating profusely.

  At eight thirty, the sun was already searingly hot. As July had spun gently into August, the temperature had risen noticeably, and Pandora’s occupants had visibly relaxed and given in to a heat-induced torpor. Even the little ones were comparatively languid, their usual frenetic activity levels tempered by the relentless sun. They had started sleeping in until past nine, and the whole pace of the house had slowed with them.

  This was how Helena had imagined their time at Pandora would be: days were spent by the pool or on the beach, broken by lunch, then a siesta for all. William had metaphorically shrugged off his jacket and tie, spent time with his family and begun to relax. Since the night she’d told him about her lost baby, they had become closer too, both physically and mentally. And Helena knew she had never felt more contented – or loved – than in the past few days. Having seemingly wreaked havoc initially, Pandora was now weaving her magic spell on all its inhabitants.

  The long, hot evenings were spent on the terrace en famille, or with added guests. Michel, Chloë’s boyfriend, had become an almost permanent fixture at the house, both Helena and William deciding it was far better to welcome him and keep some semblance of control over Chloë, rather than isolating them both. As Helena pointed out, parental opposition and the thrill of the forbidden provided a potent mix.

  And if William struggled with the thought of his daughter being romanced by the son of the man who had once been involved with his wife in very similar circumstances, he did a good job of controlling it.

  Alexis had been round again for supper, this time at William’s invitation. The tension that had existed before seemed to have dissipated and Helena felt the two men had developed a genuine, if guarded, liking for each other. Sadie
and Andreas, her amorous young carpenter, had also joined them occasionally in the evenings. Even though Andreas’ conversation had been almost non-existent due to his limited English, they seemed blissfully happy. As Sadie said, they communicated in the place where it mattered. Even Helena had to admit that ‘Adonis’, as the two of them had jokingly but aptly nicknamed him, was gorgeous.

  ‘I will live for today and pay the price tomorrow,’ Sadie had said with a shrug when Helena had asked where the relationship was heading. ‘Even if I knew, I wouldn’t be able to tell him,’ she’d chuckled. ‘And that suits me just fine.’

  They’d not seen much of Jules since she and the children had left Pandora to take up temporary residence in Alexis’ villa. But Viola, who turned up regularly on the bicycle Helena had suggested she borrow, said her mother seemed okay. She made a mental note to call Jules today. She didn’t want her to feel abandoned, but equally, neither was she keen on encouraging anything that might disrupt the currently peaceful atmosphere at Pandora.

  Having recovered her breath from her exertions, she got to her feet and strolled along the shady length of the terrace, stopping at regular intervals to admire and deadhead the flowers she’d planted in the weathered stone urns that had stood there since Angus’ day. As she picked off the odd wilted bloom and automatically tested the soil for moisture with her fingertips, she was pleased to note that everything was thriving. Pink and white geraniums, twice the size of any she’d grown back home in their garden in Hampshire, jostled for attention alongside fragrant gardenias and gorgeous red hibiscus.

  As she reached the end of the terrace, she leant on the balustrade and surveyed the rest of the gardens as they fell away towards the olive groves. With help from Anatole, a relative of Angelina’s from the village, she’d begun to populate the beds with oleander, lavender and solano that would, with luck, survive year after year in the fierce heat. As she drank in the view, a butterfly drifted past, a shimmer of yellow against the backdrop of dazzling azure sky; the silence was only interrupted by the gentle background chorus of cicadas.