The Olive Tree

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Yes. From what little she’s said, it didn’t sound good.’

  They both lapsed into silence.

  ‘You know the worst thing of all?’ Alex said eventually, looking up at William. ‘Rupes is my half-brother! Now, that really is a sticking point for me. I’m gutted that we share the same bloodline. But we do.’

  ‘Genes are funny things, Alex.’

  ‘Yeah, but as I can’t divorce my mother and walk away, I have to accept it. And the fact that Sacha is my genetic dad. And for all that you’re mad that your best friend had an affair with Mum, it was before you met her. The fact he is . . . or was, your best friend, must mean there’s some good in him. And just because you have the same taste in women, it doesn’t suddenly morph Sacha into a different person, does it? He’s still exactly the same as he always was. And Mum, too. The only difference is, you – and I – know the secret now.’

  William slowly turned towards him and shook his head. ‘How did you get to be so wise?’

  ‘It’s in my genes. On the other hand, maybe it’s not.’ Alex shrugged and gave a short chuckle.

  ‘Will you want to see him now?’

  ‘You mean, as my “father”? Bond with him, and all that stuff?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who knows? I’ll have to think about it. Just now, I loathe him for what he did, but maybe when I get over that, I’ll feel differently. But,’ Alex sighed, ‘that’s irrelevant anyway. It always has been, but I’ve only just realised it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like . . . do you remember when I fell off that climbing frame, literally head first, and you had to rush me to hospital?’ Alex pointed to the bottom of the garden.

  ‘Of course I do. Mum was pregnant with Immy. I thought she might go into labour at the sight of the blood pouring out of you.’

  ‘And when you taught me to ride a bike? You walked me down to the tennis courts along the road and took the stabilisers off. Then you ran round and round with me, holding me and puffing and panting and then you let me go and I wobbled off by myself.’

  ‘I remember,’ replied William.

  ‘And that time when I didn’t get into the Colts A rugby team and I was so, like, upset. And you told me how you hadn’t been picked for your school cricket team and felt the same, but the next year, you had got in?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded William.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You see, the thing is this . . .’ Alex snaked a hand into William’s and squeezed it. ‘You’re my dad.’

  λ

  Thirty

  Jules left soon after she’d heard the news that Alex was okay, and Helena decided she would save the dissection of that conversation for another day. The fact that her life was in shreds paled into insignificance compared with the news that her son was safe.

  Having called everyone to tell them Alex was fine, Helena went upstairs to take a shower. She came out refreshed and went downstairs to telephone Angelina, to tell her she could bring Immy and Fred back as soon as was convenient. She desperately needed to hear the sound of their voices. The relentless silence in the house kept reminding her of what she had lost, and of the dark future she now had to face.

  While she was waiting, she walked to her hammock and lay in it, too tired to even think. She knew she needed rest to clear her addled mind. She closed her eyes and dozed, comforted by the gentle rocking motion. Then she heard a car draw up and opened one eye, thinking it must be Angelina with the children. She was halfway up the steps to the terrace when Sacha appeared round the corner.

  ‘Hello, Helena.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Helena walked past him and into the house.

  ‘Wine will do, or whisky if you have any,’ he quipped, as he followed her through to the kitchen. ‘’S’pose it’s been fun and frolics this end, since the shit hit the proverbial? I went to the house just now to say goodbye to the kids, and Jules told me William knows.’

  ‘You could put it that way. Or you could say it’s been the worst twenty-four hours of my life. Alex ran away, and I only heard he was safe an hour ago.’

  ‘I hear he’s in England with William.’

  ‘Yes.’ Helena handed him a glass of wine.

  ‘Thanks.’ He drank it thirstily, then handed it back to her for an immediate refill.

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ she asked wearily.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? I came to see you,’ Sacha replied. He walked towards her as she put the wine bottle back in the fridge, then wrapped his arms around her waist. ‘Where are the little ones?’

  ‘Back any minute with Angelina.’ Helena tried to wriggle out of his grasp. ‘Sacha! Let me go.’

  ‘Helena, don’t fight me.’ His lips nuzzled her neck. ‘We’ve waited years for this moment, haven’t we, lovely?’

  ‘No! Stop it!’ She wrenched herself away. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Helena, you must know how I’ve felt about you all these years. I’ve had to watch you with William, wishing every moment you were mine. Remember Vienna? It was the most beautiful few weeks of my life. Now there’s nothing to stop us being together. We’re free, angel.’ He advanced towards her, but she edged away.

  ‘All I remember is a man who promised to return to me, and never did.’

  ‘Is that why you’re angry? Still, after all these years? Surely you understood why I couldn’t? Jules was pregnant. I could hardly leave her, could I? But I’ve never stopped thinking about you; not for one moment.’

  ‘And I’ve never stopped thinking that you forgot to mention you were married.’

  ‘I’m sure I must have done. You just didn’t want to hear it.’

  ‘No! Don’t you dare give me that shit! You didn’t tell me. Nor did I hear a word from you after you’d left.’

  ‘Surely I wrote to you to explain?’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Sacha.’ Helena slammed the fridge door. ‘You’re pathetic, you really are.’

  ‘You don’t love William, do you, Helena? He just happened to be there to rescue you when you needed him.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your opinion.’

  ‘Is he divorcing you? I’d take a bet that he is. Good old Will, straight as a die. God knows why he ever had me as his best friend. We couldn’t be more different,’ he slurred.

  ‘Shut up, Sacha! I will always love him, whether we’re together or not.’

  ‘And Alex? What of him? He’s my son, after all. I’ve stayed away until now, for obvious reasons, but I might want to get to know him a little better.’

  ‘I . . .’ Helena did her best to control her fury. ‘I would very much appreciate it if you would refrain from contacting Alex. If he wishes to get to know you, then that’s his decision.’

  ‘He’s my son. I can do what I wish.’

  Helena’s hand itched to punch his selfish, bloated face, but she realised antagonising him would get her nowhere.

  ‘Okay. Then I beg you to leave him alone until he’s at least had time to come to terms with all this. I beg you for our family’s sake too. If not for me, do it for your oldest friend, who is feeling so betrayed.’

  ‘So you’re still protecting him.’ Sacha gave a slow handclap. ‘Well done, Helena. You always did like to be seen as perfect, didn’t you? I’ll have to tell Jules the truth, of course.’

  ‘Go ahead. She already knows,’ Helena said lightly.

  Sacha’s face registered shock. ‘How?’

  ‘She knew it immediately, at the wedding. She thinks Alex has your eyes.’

  ‘Shit! I had no idea.’ Sacha sat down abruptly. ‘She never said a word.’

  ‘No. Actually, your wife is pretty amazing. She loved you enough to turn a blind eye to our betrayal, and apparently, others besides. Astounding, really.’

  ‘Well. That makes me feel like a complete bastard. I suppose you’d agree?’

  Helena refused to rise to his bait. ‘What I think is that I’m a different
person now to who I was in Vienna. The problem is, you’re still exactly the same.’

  Sacha put a hand through his greasy auburn curls. ‘Are you telling me that even if you are single, you wouldn’t think about us trying again?’

  Helena did her best not to giggle hysterically. ‘No, is the short answer to that. I’ve told you: I love William. I always have, and that’s all there is to it. And even if I didn’t, I’d still feel the same. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Come on, angel, you’re just still angry about me not coming back for you.’

  ‘You can think what you want, Sacha, but there is no future for you and I. Ever. Okay?’

  ‘I hear you,’ he said with a nod. ‘It’s too soon, that’s all. I should have waited a few days before coming to see you. You’re in shock from what’s happened.’ He stood up. ‘I won’t give up on you, lovely, I really won’t.’

  ‘Do what you want, Sacha. But I promise you, you’re wasting your time. You have a son and daughter, not to mention a wife, whose lives you’ve recently ruined. Perhaps it’s time to grow up and start taking responsibility for them. And yourself.’

  ‘Okay, Helena, but I bet you’ll change your mind when you feel the cool breeze of loneliness. Can’t see you lasting long without a man. Not your style, is it?’

  Helena ignored his vitriol. ‘I think it’s time you left.’

  ‘Fine. I’m going.’ He stood up and lurched towards the door. Then he turned back, the expression on his face suddenly contrite. ‘Forgive me, angel, please.’

  ‘I did. A long time ago.’

  ‘I love you, you know. I really do.’

  ‘Bye, Sacha. Have a nice life.’

  She watched him wobble to his rental car and climb in. ‘I don’t think you should be driving!’ she called to him from the back door, but she knew it had fallen on deaf ears as the car door slammed and Sacha drove at full pelt up the hill.

  Helena felt a sudden wave of relief.

  Whatever the future might bring, at last the past had been put to rest.

  ALEX’S DIARY

  14th August (continued)

  I’ve left Dad to it.

  After we’d had our little chat, he went very quiet. Then he said he needed to mow the lawn. I watched him from my bedroom window. He was aboard his precious ride-on for hours, going round and round the garden in circles, shearing it into submission. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt sorry for blades of grass. Then he came inside. He’s downstairs somewhere, but I feel I mustn’t disturb him. It’s getting dark now, and our house is silent. I’m not used to it and I don’t like it.

  I wish he’d hurry up and decide what he’s going to do: ‘To Divorce or not to Divorce. That is the question.’

  Then I can go downstairs and get a Pot Noodle, as that’s all there is in the kitchen cupboard. I checked earlier – and I am now starving!!

  So, I ponder to pass the time, what is it about men and emotion? The dreadful truth is, I fear most of my sex would prefer to end up dead than admit they’re scared shitless. Then I think of the trenches in the First World War, and all that live cannon fodder. Those men seemed to go over the top like they were embarking on a nice morning stroll in the country:

  ‘I’m off, Sah!’

  ‘Yes, Jones, have a good one. Put a word in to Big G for me when you see him, won’t you?’

  ‘I will, Sah. Goodbye, Sah!’

  And off Jones would go, to be peppered with bullet holes or to survive minus a limb or two, with a mind as shot as his body.

  God, it makes me want to cry just thinking about those poor sods. Walking to their inevitable deaths. Almost one hundred years on, I shudder at the thought, because I know if it was me, I’d be wetting myself and blubbering like a blubbery thing. They’d probably have to drug me to get me over and then lay me out, comatose, to be used as target practice.

  Which brings me back to my current main thought topic:

  What do women want of us?

  There’s Chloë, the Love of My Life (so far), initially mooning over brain-dead Rupes; loving his swagger, his full-bodied Neanderthal-ness, never doubting he could kill a woolly mammoth with one blow, swing it over his shoulder and bring it home to their exquisitely furnished cave.

  Then (having had a quick fumble with Airport Guy) she turns in an instant to ‘Michelle’. Even though he’s a nice guy, the way he did show-off wheelies on the gravel when he arrived on his moped tells me that, despite his girly name, he would be regarded as ‘buff’, ‘butch’ . . . where all I have in the ‘B’ category is, er, Bee – for Bunny.

  I am a touchy-feely man. And my goodness, I want to touch and feel Chloë. But not just physically . . . emotionally, too.

  Does the fact I empathise make me unattractive?

  Yet . . . All my information sources on the subject – notably, an article I read yesterday on the plane home entitled ‘The Five Main Reasons for Divorce’, courtesy of the Daily Mail, lead me to believe that women want a man who ‘gets’ them emotionally.

  Like Sadie does with Mum. I.e., they want their man to be their best friend.

  But how can us men be both? Embody the quintessential qualities of male and female at the same time??

  It seems to me, women actually don’t know what they want. Which means we men can never bloody well get it right.

  And Dad is most certainly all male . . .

  Well, I sigh, I just hope Mum knows what she wants.

  I hope I got my point across to Dad, too. After all that time on the mower, he must be thinking about it: thinking about Mum and me, and Immy and Fred and now, I hope, Chloë too.

  Our family.

  It may be a little unorthodox, but that doesn’t make it bad, or wrong.

  We are the best family I know. I was reminiscing on the plane home how much fun we all have. How much we laugh. And how much I love him – my dad. It took a ‘real’ one to make me realise how I will miss the so-called pretend version, if he suddenly isn’t around anymore.

  Which he might not be.

  If he decides on the Big D.

  He’s treated me like his own son all along. He doesn’t pick me out for special treatment either way. The fact he finds it frustrating when I have one of my moods is not because I’m not his blood, but simply because I am his son and can be irritating. And he gets irritated, just as any blood parent naturally would.

  He – William – isn’t perfect. He has his faults. Like all of us imperfect humans. Including my mum.

  However, she – and he – are more good than bad. And perhaps that is all one can hope for, because I’ve realised we’re all somewhere on a spectrum, with black at one end and white at the other. Most of us seem to hang about somewhere in the middle, veering one way and the other within a narrow margin.

  And as long as none of us get too close to either extreme – then I think we are basically okay. And me, and Mum and Dad, and even Sacha and the dreaded Rupes (for now) are in the central milieu somewhere.

  I mentally piece back together the broken bits of my mother’s statue, but leave her pedestal behind. She will stand from now on her own two feet. On the ground: neither saint nor sinner.

  Just a human being, like my dad.

  And if, and it’s a big if, he decides he can swallow his pride and take my mother back, I’m going to ask whether he will adopt me. We will do the legal thing and as a mark of my respect and love, I will change my name to his and finally be a fully surnamed-up member of our family.

  ‘Alexander R. Cooke’. And God, I wish he would hurry up and do my new surname – cook, I mean. I haven’t eaten since yesterday on the plane.

  So, there was me searching my whole life for something I thought I wanted . . . and now I’ve got it, I don’t want it at all. Not one little bit.

  I just want back what we had.

  Hang on! Dad is knocking on my door. My heart is in my mouth. Actually, it’s not. I would eat it if it really was.

  ‘Come in.’

  Dad puts his head round
the door. ‘You hungry?’ he asks.

  ‘You bet,’ I reply.

  ‘Fancy an Indian?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘I was thinking we should have something English whilst we can,’ he quips back.

  ‘Why is that?’

  He looks away for a moment, then smiles at me. ‘We’re going back to the Land of Feta Cheese and Fish-Poo Sauce tomorrow morning. I’ve just booked our flights.’

  λα

  Thirty-one

  Helena awoke to another beautiful day, astonished at how well she’d slept – and, ironically, how peaceful she felt.

  She got out of bed, put on her leotard and ballet shoes, and went downstairs to the terrace. She began the pliés and her body automatically took over, which disengaged her brain and allowed her to think.

  The house . . . Pandora . . . the instinct she’d had about coming back here had been right. The box had been opened; its dusty contents had been disgorged from the dark corners and flown free, causing chaos and pain. Yet, just as in the myth, there was still one thing that remained: hope.

  There were no more secrets, nothing to hide and no shadows to haunt her. Whatever would come – and she acknowledged how dreadful a world without William was likely to be – at least it was honest. From now on, she would stand or fall by the truth.

  Alexis arrived at ten o’clock, just as Helena, Immy and Fred were having a late breakfast on the terrace.

  ‘’Lo ’Lexis,’ said Fred. ‘Did you bring me a prezzie?’

  ‘Fred!’ chided Immy. ‘He asks everyone that when they arrive, and it’s very rude.’

  Alexis kissed Helena warmly on both cheeks. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Much better. Thank you for all your help, and I apologise for losing the plot the other night.’

  ‘Whatever a “plot” is, I understand why you lose it. When your child is in pain or danger, it is the worst thing. I know,’ he agreed.

  ‘Coffee, Alexis?’ asked Immy importantly, holding up the pot.