Never Leave Me

by Margaret Pemberton

  Greg grinned to himself as he overtook a Duesenberg and a red Ford convertible, keeping her well in sight. She would have the shock of her life when she looked through her driving mirror and saw who it was hard on her heels. As she increased speed, not slowing down for the turn-off he had expected her to take, he frowned, puzzled. She’d known that he would be arriving home at this time, that he wanted them to leave for Texas as quickly as possible and he couldn’t for the life of him imagine where it was that she was going.

  Five minutes later he knew only too well. They were on US 101, heading towards Los Angeles on the route that retraced the route of the old Camino Real, the Royal Road the Spanish had built over two hundred years before. The route that would take her to Carmel.

  For a moment he had been unable to believe it. He had checked the road signs, checked the Lincoln Zephyr and then, knowing that there was no mistake, he had dropped back, no longer eager that she should see him, his face gaunt, his eyes burning, as he followed her to her rendezvous.

  The Santa Cruz Mountains soared magnificently skyward on her left-hand side, but she paid them not the slightest attention. It would be the early hours of the morning in London. With luck, Luke would be spending the night alone at his penthouse flat. If she was unlucky, he would be at home in Kent with Annabel. Monterey Bay gleamed glossily on her right-hand side, sailboats skimming the azure-blue water. She bit the corner of her lip anxiously. Her telephone call would wake him. Would wake Annabel. She drove in Del Monte and out of it again, flashing on to Pacific Grove, to Lake Majella and on to Carmel.

  Waking Annabel was a risk she would have to take. She couldn’t end her affair with Luke by a letter. Their lives had been too closely woven, for too long, for her to treat him in such a cavalier fashion. She had to speak to him, if not face to face then over the telephone. She slowed down, driving through Carmel’s main, tourist-thronged street, and out onto the beach road that led to the cottage. There was a hint of fog rolling in from the sea, and the wind-contorted trees hiding the cottage from public view looked almost reminiscent of the trees that shielded Valmy from the sea.

  She drew to a halt, turning off the Lincoln’s engine, stepping out into the salt-laden air. She had told Luke that she would never return to Valmy, but she knew now that she had meant she would never return to Valmy without Greg. The homesickness that never quite left her flooded over her. The beach stretching away at her feet for endless miles was alabaster white, far more perfect, far more aesthetically beautiful than the beach below the cliffs at Valmy. No men had died here, no blood had been spilt, and yet it failed to move her. She knew that no matter how often or how long she walked here, she would not gain the comfort that she gained when walking the beaches of France.

  The wind was strong, lifting her hair away from her face, stinging her cheeks. She gave a last look seaward and then turned, taking out her door key, entering the cottage for what she knew would be the last time.

  Greg’s knuckles whitened on the wheel as he followed her through the small villages strung out like jewels along the coastline. He couldn’t believe what it was she was doing. Couldn’t believe that she was capable of such an outrage. As they entered Carmel he allowed her to drive on, knowing very well where she was going, and knowing that he need no longer keep her in sight. He had been to the cottage Luke was renting from Steve Bernbach when Bernbach had given a leaving party before departing for his new job as creative director of Johnson Matthie’s London office. He knew very well where it was, how secluded it was, how perfect for the kind of trysts he now knew Lisette was keeping with Luke Brandon. The track was bumpy, covered with drifts of sand, and he drove slowly, not wanting his journey to come to an end. Not wanting to be brought face to face with her faithlessness.

  Lisette looked quickly around the small living room. Her copy of Thérése Raquin still lay open on the low coffee cable. There were other books of hers on the shelves. Books and photographs and French cigarettes. She ran quickly up the stairs to the bedroom, appalled at how many things had been accumulated during the months of their affair.

  Hurriedly she opened the closet doors, pulling dresses out and piling them on the bed behind her. She had been crazy driving straight down without returning home for a suitcase. She would have to throw everything into the Lincoln’s boot and it would take her three, possibly four trips, to carry everything downstairs. Within minutes her side of the closet was empty. Luke’s clothes hung alone. Sulka hand-sewn shirts from London, Knize ties, Lobb shoes. She turned quickly away from them to the dressing table, scooping up an armful of toiletries and then froze, her eyes widening in horror.

  Downstairs a door had opened and closed. Male footsteps crossed the living room, ascended the stairs.

  She wheeled round, certain that it was a burglar, and then the bedroom door opened and she said unbelievingly, ‘Luke!’

  ‘Who else did you expect?’ he said with a grin.

  ‘But I thought you were in London!’

  ‘I flew back last night. I’ve just taken my car into Carmel to be serviced, and walked back via the beach.’

  He saw the dresses on the bed, the toiletries in her arms, and his grin vanished. ‘What the devil are you doing?’ he demanded savagely, striding towards her, grabbing hold of her arms, uncaring of the bottles and jars that tumbled to the floor. ‘Why are you here if you thought I was in London? Where the hell are you taking your clothes?’

  ‘I’m taking them away with me, Luke,’ she said, hating herself for the pain she knew she was causing him. ‘I’m not coming here again. Our affair is over …’

  ‘Like hell it is!’ He swept the remaining toiletries from her grasp, pulling her towards him, his face convulsed with rage.

  ‘Please be reasonable, Luke! It should never have started … It could never lead anywhere … Never come to anything …’

  ‘It didn’t have to lead anywhere!’ he shouted, his eyes blazing. ‘All it had to do was continue!’

  She tried to free herself from his grasp but he was holding her with ferocious strength. ‘Oh no you don’t Lisette! You’re not going anywhere! You’re staying here, with me! And when you leave, you’re going to leave with me! You’re not going back to San Francisco. We’ve play-acted for long enough! From now on our affair is going to come out into the open! We’re going to live together! Stay together! Die together, if necessary.’

  ‘You’re talking like a lunatic, Luke! We have no right to be together! Annabel loves you. She’s waiting for you now, right at this very moment.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about Annabel!’ he snarled, pushing her back onto the bed, pinioning her beneath him. ‘It isn’t Annabel who obsesses me! It isn’t Annabel that I fly thousands of miles to see! It’s you, and by God, you’re not going to walk out on me now! Not after all that we’ve been to each other!’

  ‘No, Luke! Please,’ she cried as he imprisoned her hands high above her head with one hand, wrenching open the buttons on her blouse with the other. His fingers dug deep into the flesh of her breast, his mouth coming down hard on her rose-pink nipple, sucking and biting as his knee forced her legs open. ‘For God’s sake stop it!’ she pleaded, twisting fruitlessly beneath him, held as fast as if she had been in a vice, and then, desperately, ‘I don’t love you, Luke!’

  He raised his head, his dark, lean face rapacious. ‘I don’t care,’ he yelled back at her, pushing her skirt high, tearing ruthlessly at her pants, silencing her protests with his mouth as he plunged savagely into her.

  Greg had parked the Cadillac beneath the trees, the blood pounding in his ears, the pain behind his eyes murderous. He had seen Luke approach from the beach, had seen him enter the cottage, and had known that it wasn’t only in battle that he was capable of killing a man. He had closed the Cadillac’s door quietly behind him, a nerve jumping violently at the corner of his jaw, his fists bunched as he unhesitatingly followed.

  The living room was nothing like he remembered. Bernbach had had the walls covered with st
ills from successful campaigns. They had all been removed. Works of modern art hung in their place, marrying oddly with the conventional, classic red leather sofas and high-winged chairs. There was an open book on a coffee table. He picked it up. It was a copy of Thérése Raquin in French. There were other books in French on the shelves. A copy of Le Monde in a magazine rack. He picked it up and noted the date. It was a month old.

  His eyes flicked round the rest of the room, noting the photograph of Henri and Heloise, the photograph of Valmy. The cottage hadn’t been a casual meeting place. It had been a regular retreat. Somewhere she had come to often and over a long period. He wondered how he could have ever imagined that her meetings with Luke had consisted of lunch dates and dinner dates. Why he had not realised that it was not unfulfilled love for Luke she had been about to confess to, but adultery. Adultery that was long-standing and that she had no intention of forsaking.

  From above came the unmistakeable creak of a bed; the shout of a male voice at the height of orgasm. Slowly, surely, his face an unrecognisable mask of rage and jealousy and bitter, blinding hurt, he began to climb the stairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Midday sunlight streamed into the bedroom. The walls were yellow, the floor polished oak, covered with gaily coloured Mexican scatter rugs. Neither of them gave any sign of having heard his approach. Luke’s body pinioned hers beneath him, his hands on her breasts, his mouth devouring hers. Neither of them had had the patience to wait to remove their clothes. Lisette’s blouse was open wide, the straps of her brassiere pulled down, the lush weight of her breasts exposed. He noticed how dark Luke’s hand looked against the creamy white flesh. How dark the hairs on his knuckles were.

  Every detail of the room and the figures on the bed were imprinted in his mind as if it were a photograph. The bowl of winter roses on a bedside table. The blue-black sheen of her hair as it spread across the pillows. Luke’s shirt, pulled from the band of his trousers, the undone belt, the shoes kicked hastily to the floor. He was engulfed by horror, drowning in it. Lisette’s scarlet cotton skirt was pushed high to her waist, looking like a swathe of blood against the white lace counterpane. Her hands were pushed hard against Luke’s chest, pushing him away as if she sensed the presence of an intruder, as if she, at least, had heard his approach.

  ‘Bastard!’ he yelled, his voice contorted in his throat, springing forward and seizing hold of Luke by the shoulders, pulling him away from her, bunching his fist and sending it plummeting into his jaw. The force of the blow lifted Luke from the bed, sending him sprawling to the far side of the room. He was aware of the flash of surprise in Luke’s eyes; of Lisette’s agonized scream; of her scrambling to her knees amid the rumpled sheets; and then Luke was hurtling towards him, fists clenched, eyes murderous.

  Bone smacked against bone. Blood spurted. The bowl of winter roses smashed to the floor. Luke had no intention of fighting like a gentleman. His fists hit low, doubling Greg up in agony. With a savage expletive, Greg hit back, landing a cruel short-arm jab at Luke’s throat. Luke spun backwards, tottering, and Greg was on him, his face highlighted by sweat, blood running down his cheek from a cut on his temple, his breath rasping, short and hard. His hands were on Luke’s throat and then Luke’s knee came up high and they were apart again, gasping for breath as they picked themselves up from the floor, facing each other with heads low and fists swinging.

  ‘Arrétez!’ Lisette screamed. ‘Stop it! For God’s sake, stop it!’ and then Luke rushed bull-like at Greg and Greg side-stepped but not quickly enough. Luke’s fist caught him high above the heart and they were locked again in a hideous, swaying, battering fight with no holds barred. Blood spurted from Luke’s nose, spattering the walls, the floor. Greg’s shirt was dark with sweat, clinging to his back, outlining the bulge and strain of his muscles as he slammed into Luke, sending him backwards, leaping on top of him as he crashed down amongst the spilt water and the broken shards of the rose bowl.

  ‘Bastard! Bastard! BASTARD!’ he yelled, straddling Luke, his hands once more closing tightly on his throat.

  ‘Stop it! You’ll kill him!’ Lisette screamed, catapulting to his side, her hands grabbing hold of his arm, tugging with all her strength to break his grip.

  ‘I should have killed him years ago!’

  Luke’s fingers clawed futilely on Greg’s hands, his tongue protruding between his teeth, his eyes bulging.

  ‘Stop it! For God’s sake!’ His arm was like an iron bar as she tried to prise it away. She saw Luke’s face begin to turn blue, heard a hideous gurgle in his throat, and then Greg’s hands slackened and slipped and Luke twisted, free of him, rolling clear, vomiting on the polished oak floor.

  Greg rose pantingly to his feet, looking contemptuously down at him and then at Lisette, distraught and dishevelled, her eyes black pits of horror in the chalk-white triangle of her face.

  ‘He’s still alive,’ he spat at her savagely. ‘And he’s all yours! That’s all you’ve ever wanted, isn’t it? Well, now you have him and I wish you joy of him!’

  He spun on his heel, striding towards the stairs and she rushed after him, seizing hold of his arm.

  ‘No, Greg!’ she gasped desperately. ‘You don’t understand! Please listen to me!’

  ‘I understand perfectly!’ he shouted, shaking himself free of her. ‘I’ve understood for a long time, Lisette! Longer than you could possibly imagine!’

  He threw her away from him and she fell against the wall. ‘No!’ she choked, ‘You haven’t understood, Greg! You don’t understand now!’

  He sprinted down the stairs and she hurled herself after him, her hair spilling around her shoulders, her breasts sheened with sweat. ‘Please wait, Greg!’ she cried, tears raining down her face. ‘Please wait!’

  Blood still streamed from the cut on his face. He ran across the open ground to the trees, slamming open the Cadillac’s door, not even bothering to look at her. ‘It’s over,’ he said savagely, twisting his key in the ignition. ‘Nothing can explain away what I saw in that room!’

  She ran frantically after him. ‘No, Greg! Don’t go! Listen to me, please!’

  He blasphemed viciously, gunning the engine into life. She called his name again, her fingers touching the Cadillac’s wing, and he surged away from her, sending her sprawling to the ground. She stumbled to her feet, calling his name, beginning to run after him, but it was too late. The Cadillac was a hundred yards away, speeding down the beach road, a cloud of dust and sand swirling in its wake.

  He was shaking, shuddering from head to toe. Jesus God, but it had been worse than anything he had even remotely imagined. He swung the wheel hard left, surging off the unmade beach road onto the road leading into Carmel. He had known they had been meeting each other. He had known about the cottage, but even then he had not truly believed that they were lovers. He skimmed past a Duesenberg, taking a curve of the road with a scream of tyres. How long had it been going, on? Months? Years? He slammed his foot down harder on the accelerator. No wonder she had needed to talk to him. No wonder that the prospect of such a talk had terrified her.

  He overtook a Ford and a van, streaming down the middle of the road, his knuckles white on the wheel, the veins at his temples bulging and knotting. Luke and Dominic. She had wanted to talk to him about Luke and Dominic. He swerved out of the path of an oncoming truck. Why Dominic? What possible connection could there be between Luke Brandon and their son? The answer roared at him, pain jack-knifing up his arm, blasting into his chest. Brandon had loved her before he, Greg, had even met her. Brandon had intended marrying her. The pain was crucifying, crushing the air out of his lungs. He had wanted to marry her in order to legitimise their coming child. The child that had been born only eight months after D-Day. Only seven months after he, himself, had married her.

  As his chest seemed to implode and the Cadillac veered towards the stream of oncoming traffic, he knew that somewhere, deep in his subconscious, he had always known it. Dominic was not his son. The ch
ild he loved, the child he had reared, was not his. The pain was insupportable. He fell across the wheel, no longer able to breathe, his last conscious thought as the Cadillac rocketed off the road: Dominic must not know. Dominic must never know.

  She stood on the sand-blown track, the dust gouged by the wheels of his car heavy in the air. There would be no trip to Texas now. No bright new future. Her courage to talk to him had come too late. It was over. He himself had said so. The salt-laden air stung the tears on her cheeks. She raised her hands, wiping them away. There would be time enough for tears in the future. No doubt all the time in the world. For now she had to finish what it was she had set out to do. And then she would return home. To whatever awaited her there.

  Luke was sitting in the bathroom, his head in his hands. He looked up as she entered, and she saw the ugly weals around his throat, the purple bruising of thumb marks on his larynx.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said curtly, rising to his feet and crossing to the wash-basin, splashing cold water on his face. ‘There’s a London flight at four this afternoon. We should be able to get tickets for it easily enough.’ He picked up a towel, wiping the droplets of water away.

  ‘I’m not going with you, Luke,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m never going to see you again.’

  He flung the towel away from him, saying remorselessly. ‘Of course you are. You’re going to divorce Greg. I’m going to divorce Annabel. We’re going to get married just as we should have done years ago.’ He took her arm, walking her out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. ‘We can be packed and out of here in fifteen minutes. There’ll be no need for us to ever return. We’ll live in London …’