Saving Nathaniel

by Jillian Brookes-Ward

  He folded the other sleeve. 'I won't regret hitting Phil, he deserved it...and more. But I do regret upsetting you and I'm really very sorry.' To prove he meant it, he put his hands on her shoulders and gave them a light squeeze. Encouraged when she did not shrug him off, he laid a brief kiss on her head.

  She watched him walk across the hall to his study, tucking his shirt into his trousers.

  Left alone in the silent kitchen, she was suddenly uneasy. She dropped the latch on the rear door and tested the handle to ensure it was secure and she was safe.

  Nat might be content to live with the fact that he had been keen to batter in a man's head with his bare hands, but she certainly would not forget it in a hurry.

  Chapter 15

  'Megan! I can't find my keys!' Nat yelled, wriggling into his jacket and rummaging through his pockets.

  'Fruit bowl!' she bawled back from the laundry.

  He had developed a habit of throwing his keys casually on the kitchen counter when he came in. She always retrieved them and put them in the fruit bowl where they would easily be found again. He never remembered where they were, even though she reminded him almost every day.

  'What? Where? I can't see them…Megan!'

  She was suddenly behind him, reaching around into the ceramic bowl and extracting the keyring. 'For goodness sake, how many more times - apples, bananas…keys.'

  He snatched them from her with a muttered, 'Thanks.' She helped him on with his jacket, handed him his briefcase and he had made it halfway through the door when he stopped.

  'Look, I know its short notice,' he said, 'but what are you doing next Wednesday night?'

  'Erm…nothing, why?'

  Witness my sad and empty social life, she thought.

  'I've invited a few people around for a wee dinner party and I'll need you. You'll be able to come won't you?'

  She looked at him agog. Was that an invitation to dinner? She didn't have chance to ask.

  'We'll talk about it when I get back,' he said, and with a bright, 'Cheerio,' he was gone.

  'You want me to WHAT!?'

  Megan had waited patiently for Nat to come home, eager to hear his news, but was not prepared for what he had to say.

  'I need you to take charge of the catering.'

  She felt her face redden with indignation. 'You are joking!' she exploded. 'You know I can't cook, I told you that on the very first day! I'm from the land of black pudding, tripe and cow heels, not hâute cuisine. Let me emphasise - I don't cook!'

  'Your cooking's not that bad, I usually manage to keep it down, but don't worry, you don't have to prepare anything, it's all arranged.'

  He explained that entertaining at the Lodge was an exercise in deception. The food was not to be cooked there, but delivered ready to serve from a high-class restaurant in town. Nat had a long-standing arrangement with them. He called, they delivered, wine included. No-one was any the wiser and it made him look good.

  All she had to do was plate up using Struan's own crockery and cutlery, and serve each course. She would ensure the wines were poured as and when requested, and then be on hand to deal with the clearing away afterwards. It couldn't be simpler and the whole ordeal shouldn't take more than a couple of hours, three tops.

  She was stupefied. 'You want me to be a waitress and do the washing up?'

  'What's wrong with that?'

  'A waitress?'

  'It's always been part of the job, ask Rebecca.'

  'How strange she never mentioned it. I wonder why.'

  She stood with her arms folded tightly across her chest, glaring at him. Despite her agitation, he remained as calm as a millpond, totally unmoved by her outburst. 'I really would appreciate your co-operation, Meg. These are important people. I've been trying to deal with them for months. I need to put on a show, to butter them up a little and loosen their cheque writing hands.'

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. 'I can't do it.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because I've never been a waitress in my life…'

  'Don't be such a snob.'

  'I am not a snob, Nat. If you'd let me finish, I was going to say I can't do it because I've never had to. I don't do parties and I've never even been to a formal dinner.' Her voice went very quiet. 'I wouldn't know what to do.'

  He couldn't quite believe what he had heard. At last, a chink in her armour of efficient competency - something she couldn't do. The find delighted him. Now he could play her at her own game.

  He cupped his hand to his ear. 'I'm sorry! Would you mind repeating that? I didn't quite catch it.'

  'I said I wouldn't know what to do. It's out of my sphere of experience. I'll probably make a complete hash of it and ruin the whole night.'

  He began the game by piling on the guilt. 'Oh, that's a shame,' he said with an air of deep disappointment. 'I'm sorry you feel that way because I have every confidence in you. But if you really feel that you just can't do it...'

  Followed by a little flattery. 'I really thought a woman of your admirable capabilities would make short work of a simple thing like a dinner party. '

  And the icing on the cake. 'I suppose I'll just have to cancel the whole thing. All that work...'

  'If it's so important you can't cancel,' she said.

  'But you said you won't do it. What else can I do? I was rather counting on you...' He let out a long dramatic sigh and shrugged.

  She suddenly inhaled deeply, let it out very slowly and rolled her eyes. 'Okay, I'll do it…but this one time, and one time only.'

  He beamed at her. 'Really?'

  'Yes, but under duress. I'm not happy about it, I'll tell you that for nothing. And you can wipe that silly smile off your face.'

  He dropped the grin and reinstated his expression of utmost solemnity.

  'I'm doing it because it's important to you…for your business,' she said.

  'Of course you are and I really, really appreciate it.'

  'I'll do my best; I'll try not to embarrass you. I can't say fairer than that.'

  'Understood,' he said and nodded, his face still an immutable mask. 'You are a jewel amongst women.'

  It then dawned on her what had happened. He had subtly, but expertly, manoeuvred her exactly where he wanted her, and she had let him do it. She narrowed her eyes at him. 'You devious, conniving bastard.'

  In celebration of his victory, he restored his boyish grin.

  A few minutes before the guests were due to arrive, Megan, in a simple black dress, white apron, and much umbrage, was fussing with the floral centrepiece. She stood back to admire her work and was satisfied. 'Self-praise is no recommendation…except in this case. Good job, Meg.'

  As she put the final touches to the glasses and cutlery at the table, Nat rushed into the dining room in a state of agitation. He was wearing a dinner jacket over a crisp white formal shirt, and in his hands he flapped the ends of an untied bowtie. 'Help me with this thing will you, Meg, I can't do it?'

  'Dearie me, something you can't do? Let me see.'

  She made him stop fidgeting and stand still. 'It's a simple sequence of loops and folds, a child could do it. Chin up.' After a few moments' concentrated effort, the bow sat neatly tied at his throat. 'There, how's that, not too tight?'

  'It's perfect. Thank you. How come you know how to tie a bowtie?'

  'It's your tie, how come you don't?'

  'I do. It just wouldn't go right this time.'

  'Nervous?'

  'Clumsy. How do I look?'

  She straightened his collar, tweaked the tie straight and looked him up and down with a critical eye. She picked a loose hair from his shoulder. 'You look…quite splendid.'

  The dinner party passed off without incident.

  Despite her trembling hands, Megan muddled through plating up and serving the meal to all four guests and the host. She didn't spill soup in anyone's lap or forget the gravy; she ensured everyone's wine glass was kept topped up, and when they had done, she cleared away without fuss. Not
one of them acknowledged her presence or thanked her for her effort.

  They were appalling people; loud, rude, arrogant and rich, with a veneer of civility that peeled away as the wine flowed, revealing even more vulgarity underneath When they did deign to speak to her, she replied with all the sincerity she could muster, which didn't amount to a great deal.

  When one of the men put his hand up her dress it took all of her self-control not to stab him with a fork.

  Even Nat ignored her. When she did happen to catch his eye, as she served him his dessert, she gave him a look so cold it would have made a penguin reach for a muffler. He smiled weakly at her before returning his attention to the guest on his right.

  Between courses she sought refuge in the kitchen. There she disposed of the tell tale signs of the evening's deception - the foil trays and cartons and wine carriers from the restaurant, and fed the pile of dirty dishes and glasses to the hungry dishwasher. Eventually she was called on to serve the coffee and mints - usually the final course. It would be over soon.

  It wasn't.

  They then moved onto brandy and Cuban cigars for the men, liqueurs and chocolates for the women. The chatter became more strident and more uncouth, and that was just the women.

  Pompous arseholes, she thought as waves of coarse, drunken laughter drifted through to where she rested her now bare feet on the cool tiles. A crumb of consolation came in the form of a half-empty bottle of expensive red wine.

  She yawned. She was tired. It had been a long day and an even longer evening. To save her having to drive home alone in the middle of the night, Nat had insisted she stay over at the Lodge.

  Crawling away to bed couldn't come soon enough.

  Eventually, the laughter died away and the evening broke up. The guests were ushered out of the front door to effusive goodbyes, and two large, powerful motors were heard crunching their way down the gravelled driveway.

  Megan doubted that either driver could pass a breathalyser test. A fleeting, despicable thought crossed her mind. What if I tipped off the police?

  Chapter 16

  Nat waited until the last of the tail lights were out of sight before he closed and locked the front door. He put out the lights and went in search of Megan. He owed her thanks for what had turned out, as far as the business was concerned at least, to be a very successful evening.

  'There's no need to stay in here,' he said from the kitchen doorway. 'They've gone. Come through to the study. Have a nightcap.'

  She followed him across the hall to his private room, where he motioned for her to sit in the easy chair. He took off his jacket and undid his bow tie, leaving it to hang loose around his neck. He undid the buttons of his stiff collar. From the large bottom drawer of his desk, he took out his secret bottle of Southern Comfort and two glasses. He poured her a generous measure.

  'Can I talk to you yet, or are you still mad at me?' he asked, handing it to her. He sat on the edge of the green velvet window cushion, his forearms resting on his knees, his own equally loaded glass cupped in his hands.

  'No, not any more,' she said, taking a sip from her drink and letting it slide down her throat, appreciating its warmth. 'That fine bottle of red washed it all away. Thanks for abandoning it.'

  'You're welcome to it. You did a great job tonight, Meg. I can't thank you enough. I really appreciate it.'

  'Like I said, it was a one time deal. It's over and done with. I'm not doing it again.'

  'It wasn't that bad.'

  'It was dreadful! Those people were dreadful! I hated every minute of it. Don't ask me again.'

  'Understood,' he conceded.

  'I mean it, don't ask me.' She took a small sip from her glass and watched Nat roll and rub his neck. 'You look tired,' she said.

  He gave her a weak smile. 'I am. It's been a long day.'

  'Tell me about it. I've been at it since six this morning. You didn't get up until nine.'

  'Only because you took it on yourself to go banging on the florist's door to get first pick of the flowers. They looked very nice by the way.'

  'Thank you.'

  He drank deeply from his glass and smacked his lips. 'I should sleep well tonight,' he said absently. He looked across at Megan and her expression of quiet disapproval.

  'Do you need it to help you sleep?' she asked.

  'Sometimes,' he admitted.

  'Why?'

  'I have trouble dropping off sometimes.'

  'Are the nightmares still troubling you?'

  'No.' He averted his eyes, looking into the cut crystal drinking glass. He was lying, she was certain of it.

  'I don't believe you,' she said.

  He gave a small derogatory laugh, conveying an unspoken, 'I don't care whether you do or not,' after which the ticking of the clock filled the silence hanging between them.

  She sat back into the chair, feeling it sag slightly. 'I used to have nightmares,' she said.

  'Did you?'

  'Hmm. I used to wake up in a sweat, crying and screaming. It was awful.'

  'What brought them on?'

  She took a drink, held it in her mouth and swallowed. 'I had an accident with my car. I knocked down a little boy in the street.'

  'Christ, Meg! You didn't...?'

  'Oh no, he wasn't badly hurt, thank God, just a broken leg. He had run out into the road, chasing after a ball. It was an accident, pure and simple, but I couldn't help but blame myself, thinking I should have seen it coming; I should have braked sooner, and a million other what ifs. It played merry hell with my conscience and I couldn't get past the guilt. Even after I'd been to see him in hospital and knew he was going to be fine, and his mother and the Police all said it wasn't my fault, I couldn't get over it. I didn't sleep properly for weeks after.'

  Nat was hanging onto her every word. 'Do you still...have them?'

  'No. The boy himself saw to that. He sent me a little card he had made himself and he wrote in it that it wasn't my fault and he was sorry for having upset me. The minute I read that sweet little note...everything was fine again.'

  Nat looked at her with suspicion. 'Why are you telling me this?'

  'Because nightmares are a symptom of some kind of disturbance in your life, or in your mind. Put that disturbance right and the nightmares will go away. Mine went away with that sweet card from a seven year old boy.' She wet her lips from her glass. 'What will it take to make yours go away?'

  The question caught him off guard and he stared at her. Her eyes locked onto his, waiting for his answer. He looked away, drained his drink and poured more, emptying the bottle.

  'Absolution,' he said into his glass, swirling the liquid. He took a large gulp.

  'For what?' she asked.

  'I killed my wife.'

  Megan felt her heart skip a beat and a cold hand of fear gripped at her throat, tightening her voice. 'What do you mean?'

  Rebecca had told her next to nothing about Joanna's death because she herself didn't know anything. Nat had never spoken of it. The words 'tragic' and 'complications' were mentioned, but never 'killed' or that anyone was to blame.

  'I killed her,' he said. 'It was my fault she died. I forced her to do something for me and it killed her. Mea culpa.'

  Megan shook her head slowly. 'That can't be true.'

  'It is,' he said. 'And if nightmares are the only punishment I get, it's the least I deserve.'

  He got to his feet and stood stock still, staring out of the window. The darkness outside and the lighting in the room turned it into a dark mirror, and she could see his reflection in the glass, although not clear enough to make out his expression. She could have been watching a ghost.

  She got up from the chair and touched her hand to his back. He shrugged it off, threw his head back and emptied his glass. Unable refill it from the empty bottle, he put it on the TV table and thrust his empty hands into his pockets.

  'Do you...want to tell me what happened?' she asked.

  'No.'

  'It might help to talk
about it.'

  'I don't want any help.'

  'It can't hurt...'

  He whirled on her. 'I said I don't need any help!'

  She immediately backed away, her eyes wide in a face paled in alarm. Nat blew out his breath. 'I'm sorry, Meg. That was totally uncalled for…' He sighed deeply and sat heavily on the plush seat, leaning his head back against the cold window with his eyes closed.

  Megan slid into place next to him. She tugged on his shirt sleeve, forcing his hand from his pocket. She took it in her own, rubbing her thumb over the thick gold band chaining him to his guilt.

  'You need to talk to someone about it, Nat. It might bring you some peace of mind. Have you ever seen a grief counsellor?'

  'I was offered one, but I turned it down.'

  'And all this time you've been bottling it up, trying to pretend that everything's all fine and dandy, when in reality, it's starting to seriously affect your health, both physically and mentally.'

  'Is that your diagnosis, Ms Freud? That I'm slowly cracking up? That I'm taking giant strides along the road to self destruction?'

  She did not dignify his sarcasm with a response.

  'I don't want to talk about it,' he said. 'If I talk about it, it might go away…and then how will I be punished for what I did?' He sighed despairingly and pinched his eyes and the bridge of his nose. There was a long contemplative pause as he stared unblinking at the ceiling. 'Will you help me, Meg?' he said, his voice unsteady.

  She stroked his hand. 'Of course I will, if you'll let me.'

  'Then tell me what to do?'

  She enclosed his hand in both of hers. 'You open your mouth and you let the words fall out and we'll sort them out later.'

  He sat up and wiped his free hand down his face, dragging it against his cheeks and over his chin. Suddenly he looked very tired indeed and seemed to age before Megan's eyes.

  In his throat, a lump had grown so large he thought it might choke him. He tried to swallow it down but it refused to go and he had to force words out past it. 'I don't know where to start?'