I thought of him sitting alone in Maria’s café, very young, very frightened, his father and brother already in church. Rigid with fear, watching the hands on the clock get closer to the hour. I wondered if he’d missed his mother in those moments. Someone soft and maternal, to watch over him.
‘Who found you?’
‘Dad, eventually. He knew I went there sometimes, and came storming through the door in his morning-coat, fuming. There was an almighty row, a lot of shouting about honour and family name and how I’d dragged it through the mud, and quite an agog audience as you can imagine. Forkfuls of chips and beans frozen halfway to lips.’
I smiled. ‘Street theatre at its very best. Although I’m surprised your father was so upset. I was never entirely convinced he approved of me.’
‘He didn’t approve of cowardice or desertion either. Didn’t speak to me for four years.’
I turned, shocked. ‘I’m sorry.’
He shrugged. ‘I deserved it.’ He paused. ‘And anyway, we’re fine now.’
A silence ensued as I considered the repercussions on his life. I’d only ever considered the devastation it had wrought on mine.
‘So then you went to Hong Kong?’
‘Then I went to Hong Kong. And threw myself into Army life. Set about getting myself a crack platoon and putting us forward for every conceivable hairy operation that came our way. We didn’t stay in Hong Kong, we were just based there. We were sent all over the place, mostly where no one else wanted to go. Tehran, Nigeria, Botswana – any third-world dive where there was a bit of flak going on, we took it. I didn’t really care what happened to me, you see. I just wanted to blank what had passed. Draw a veil. Put all my energy into commanding my unit and making them the best in the regiment. The toughest. And we built ourselves quite a reputation. I took them with me to Northern Ireland for four years, and then the Gulf War broke out and we were in the right place at the right time …’
‘And you went behind enemy lines, located the Iraqi foreign minister’s hide-out, destroyed it and were mentioned in dispatches and decorated for bravery. Then you joined the Special Forces.’
His blue eyes flickered up at me, surprised. ‘How did you –’
‘Tommy, as far as the SAS bit goes. But also courtesy of a fair amount of media coverage. I do read the newspapers, Brigadier Ferguson.’
He smiled. ‘Ah.’ He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully into the shimmering sun. When he went on, his voice was low. ‘Yes, I’ve enjoyed a very distinguished Army life. And a very miserable private one.’ He turned to face me, his blue eyes vivid in his sun-browned face. ‘I’ve never stopped thinking about you, Henny. Never. Never stopped regretting what I’d done. Regretting that you weren’t with me, as my wife, my other half, beside me all those years, in those foreign lands. Making a home with me in Ireland, Cyprus, Korea – all the different places I was posted to. Everywhere I went, when I opened the door to my new accommodation I’d ask myself, What would Henny think? What would she say? “My God, look at the cockroaches, Rupert! And the dust. Never mind, come on!” ’
I felt a huge lump rise in my throat. ‘I was making a home elsewhere.’
He nodded. ‘With Marcus Levin. Your old boss.’
There was something bitterly implicit in that last comment. As if I’d settled for something, and he hadn’t.
‘With Marcus, and our two children,’ I went on doggedly. ‘Angus and Lily. They’re thirteen and fifteen now.’
He looked surprised, as I knew he would. ‘Oh. I’d thought …’
‘That they’d be much younger?’
‘Well, I just imagined …’ He hesitated. ‘So you got married –’
‘The following year. And no, I wasn’t pregnant. I fell in love.’ I looked directly at him.
‘Of course,’ he said politely. Crushed. Then he recovered. ‘And it’s been happy ever after?’ He looked at me equally directly. Challenged me with his eyes. I felt my own flit away for a moment.
‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘Happy ever after.’
But he’d seen my hesitation. Logged it. I got up quickly from the bench.
‘And now I must go.’ I fumbled beside me for the strap of my bag. Swung it over my shoulder. ‘I’ve got so much shopping to do, and if I don’t go now –’
‘The Lighting Department will be clean out of fittings – yeah, I know.’ He grinned and got to his feet beside me. ‘I’ll walk you there.’
I was flustered now, but it seemed impossible to say, ‘No, don’t,’ and anyway, by that time he’d already fallen into step beside me.
As we walked along the paths, our shoes crunching on the gravel underfoot, through the fading flowerbeds encased with low wrought-iron railings and strewn with curling yellow leaves which no amount of assiduous park-keeping could control, I thought of all the London parks we’d ever walked through together: Battersea, St James’s, Hyde Park – halfway across London sometimes, when we didn’t have the money, or simply the inclination, to get a bus; happy just to be walking together, talking. And although it felt strange to be beside him now, it also felt … as natural as anything.
I watched our feet as we kicked up the flaming sycamore leaves that spiralled down like bright jewels in our path. His shoes – brogues, now, brown and solid – next to my expensive black suede boots; no longer two pairs of trainers together, but a familiar sight nonetheless. I remembered the way his heel came down quite decisively, the way he deliberately slowed his swinging gait to accommodate my shorter step.
‘So, your father’s still in London?’ I asked conversationally, not wanting to get back on to Marcus, or my happy-ever-after family life.
‘Still in London, yes. But not at Albany. I live there now.’
‘Do you?’ I looked up, surprised.
‘He got tired of living so centrally. Wanted to see some trees, a bit of sky, or so he claimed. He’s moved out to Richmond, near the park.’
‘On his own?’
‘On his own at present, but he met someone recently, so who knows. I’m not allowed to meet her yet.’ He smiled. ‘Her identity is still under wraps.’
‘Nice for him,’ I commented. I’d always thought Andrew was a lonely man. That his sharp edges would soften if he met someone. ‘I imagine he feels rather shy about introducing you.’
‘He met her in Annabel’s,’ he replied sardonically.
‘I imagine the reason he hasn’t introduced me is because she’s probably about nineteen.’
‘Ah.’ I was surprised, but not altogether astonished. Andrew was a very attractive man, although I somehow couldn’t see him in Annabel’s picking up young girls.
‘And you’re happy being back at that flat?’ I glanced up at him. ‘It must be weird.’
He shrugged. ‘Not really. It’s central, it’s convenient, it’s familiar – it suits me.’ He hesitated. ‘And I’ve got a cottage in Ireland. I was working over there for four years at one point, and when it came up for sale, I thought, Why not? I might as well buy a bolt-hole here. It’s a beautiful country. I go back quite a lot. Fishing, walking, that sort of thing.’
We’d reached the railings now, where the park met the street. A natural point for me to peel off into the stream of people going in the direction of Harrods, and for him to turn left, back to Piccadilly. I looked up at him; at the lean, handsome face beside me, a face that nevertheless had a slightly ravaged look to it. A look of someone who’s been slightly further down the road in life. Seen some action. Not just physically, but emotionally too.
‘And you never found anyone to share your life with, Rupert?’
He held my eyes. His were clear, blue and steady. ‘I never found anyone, Henny. Never found anyone to match up. You see, I always compared them to you.’
I looked down at my feet. Embarrassed, but not too embarrassed. Not altogether hating it, exactly. In fact, if I’m honest, it’s what I’d always rather hoped. That he knew he’d bogged it. Missed his chance.
‘But I guess there’s
plenty of time,’ he said easily, knowing he’d got too heavy. ‘I’m not entirely decrepit yet, so no doubt I’ll meet someone, someday. Perhaps I should pop along to Annabel’s? See if Dad’s latest squeeze has got a sister?’
I laughed, relieved that he’d lightened the atmosphere. ‘Perhaps you could meet her mother? Go for the older woman?’
‘It would certainly make for interesting family gatherings, wouldn’t it? Imagine Christmas – “Darling, shall we give the children their presents?” “Yes – here, Dad, matching leather jackets for you and Trixie, hot-water bottle covers for me and Doris …” ’
We both laughed, and as our laughter faded, I stopped uncertainly by the gate to the street. Rupert rubbed the top of the wrought iron thoughtfully with his fingertip.
‘How long did you say you were in London for, Henny?’
I hadn’t. Had deliberately kept it vague. ‘Oh, until Marcus gets back. He’s – in Spain. On a shoot. He makes commercials, you see. Often has to go abroad.’ This much was true, but why did I feel he knew it wasn’t the case? Could he read me? I looked away, up the high street. Concentrated on the ebb and flow of the crowd beyond.
‘Well, if you ever need an escort for all those solitary theatre trips or art galleries,’ he said lightly.
I glanced back quickly. ‘Oh Rupert, I don’t think …’
‘No,’ he agreed, with a curt nod. ‘No, of course not. Stupid of me. I wasn’t thinking. Or if I was, I only meant as old friends. For, you know, old times’ sake.’
I didn’t answer. Knew that wasn’t possible. Knew we couldn’t put that particular gloss on things.
He bent and softly kissed my cheek. ‘Anyway, you know where I am. Should you change your mind.’
And with that he turned left and walked away. I watched as he moved gracefully along the pavement towards Hyde Park Corner; a tall, distinct figure, then just a blond head bobbing in a sea of people. Finally, though, I lost him. He disappeared.
Chapter Thirteen
When I got back to the flat I went straight to the bathroom and ran a hot bath. I don’t often bathe at three o’clock on a clement Saturday afternoon, but it’s where I go to think, and right now, I needed to think. I filled it to the top, watching as the bubbles rose in a shimmering cloud, bursting on the surface. It wasn’t the first time I’d done some concentrated thinking in the last twenty-four hours; last night I’d been at it till two in the morning. Pacing the flat, pausing at blackened windows, looking out over the Kensington rooftops, glass of wine in one hand, uncharacteristic cigarette in the other – really giving it what for, and coming down, inevitably, on the side of meeting Rupert. Deciding this was something I had to do. Calling it unfinished business – an unresolved chapter in my life to which I had to know the ending. Yes. For sure. The trouble was, I thought guiltily as I dipped a toe into the crisp white bubbles and let myself down into the piping hot water, now that I knew the ending, I was horribly aware I’d known it all along.
In my heart I’d known Rupert had truly loved me, but simply wasn’t ready to become a husband. That was why he’d left me in the lurch. And at twenty-one with no previous form for serious girlfriends, no married mates and a shotgun to his head in the form of a three-year overseas posting, who could blame him? But I’d wanted to hear him say it. Not the bit about not being ready, but the bit about loving me; and about no one else matching up. Trouble was, now that he had, it didn’t resolve a thing. Didn’t close any chapter. In fact, I decided, sinking slowly into the steaming water, it just opened another.
Because how much easier would it have been, for instance, if Rupert had met me today and said, ‘Look, I’m sorry, Henny. I simply didn’t feel strongly enough for you all those years ago. Didn’t feel the requisite passion. Happily for me though, I did feel that passion five years later, when I met the girl of my dreams. She’s called Anna and she’s a mobile chiropodist, and we live in Godalming. Look, here she is in my wallet – see? And here’s one of the children, Margot and Sally, eight and six. Have you got one of yours? Oh, so grown-up!’
But no. I lifted an arm and slowly soaped it. It wasn’t like that. And if I’m honest, I’d known it wouldn’t be. I’d seen it in his face last night in the Chelsea street-lights. There’d been no need to pace the flat and wave cigarettes and posture about unfinished business, there’d been no need to go and meet him in the park today, it had been there, all along, in his eyes. This wasn’t a happily married man with a Volvo in the garage and a climbing frame in the garden, this was a single man, a free spirit. A handsome, brave, distinguished man, one who, moreover, was not only all of these things, but also still madly in love with me.
At this heady thought, I slid my bottom down the bath and went right under the water, submerging my face and hair completely. Moments later I came up for air, gasping and hoping I’d cooled down a bit. Naturally I was even hotter. I smoothed back my wet hair and surveyed the backs of my hands; fiddled with my engagement ring. It was an emerald, surrounded by some fairly serious diamonds. Not my first engagement ring, of course, my first had been a tiny moonstone, which Rupert and I had found in an antique shop in Swiss Cottage. Or so the shop had grandly described itself, but Rupert and I, nosing around in the boxes of old jewellery, had laughingly decided a Second-hand Rose Emporium was nearer the mark. I’d loved that ring. Cherished it.
Later on, I hadn’t known quite what to do with it. I couldn’t send it back, because that would have meant making contact, and if anyone was going to do that, I’d wanted it to be him. So for years it stayed where I’d hastily stuffed it: wrapped in tissue paper at the back of my dressing-table drawer, mouldering peacefully with old lipsticks and cracked compact mirrors. Until one day, I spotted Whoopy-Doo wearing it. Whoopy-Doo was our guinea pig, our dog substitute in London. He normally lived in a hutch in the garden, but on this particular Sunday he’d been allowed the freedom of our Holland Park kitchen, since apparently he was going to a ball in the doll’s house. Lily, who must have been about six at the time, had put red nail polish on his claws, a chiffon scarf around his neck, and dangled the ring on a ribbon around one of his ears, for all the world like the piggy-wig in The Owl and the Pussy-cat.
‘Where did you get that?’ I gasped, as I turned from wrestling the Sunday roast out of the oven. I stared, transfixed.
‘In your dressing-table drawer. It wasn’t in your precious things, Mummy. Not in your jewellery box, so I knew it was allowed.’
‘Best place for it,’ sniffed Marcus over the Sunday papers. ‘Round a pig’s ear. Since that’s what he made of things.’
‘Who?’ demanded Angus from under the table with his Lego. At eight he was getting rather too sharp.
‘Never mind,’ I muttered, putting the leg of lamb to one side and hastening across the room in my oven gloves to rescue it. But Lily was beside herself.
‘No!’ she wailed, clutching Whoopy-Doo to her breast. ‘It’s his jewel! He’s going to give it to Cinders at the ball as a token of his manhood!’
This had Marcus guffawing into the Sports section. ‘Token? I’ll say it’s a token, and tell her not to hold her breath for the rest of his manhood, either. She could be there all night.’
‘Is manhood a willy?’ enquired Angus brightly.
‘Only when it’s attached to a man,’ replied Marcus dourly, but then, catching my eye, shrank cravenly behind his paper, knowing he was on thin ice.
I gave in with the ring, but kept an eye on it as it moved from Whoopy-Doo’s ear to the top of Cinders’s thigh (aka Hula-Hula Barbie), and was even mildly diverted when Lily asked me why I didn’t wear mine like that. When it eventually came to rest in the dressing-up box, I told myself that was the best place for it. I persuaded myself it amused me to see Lily in my high heels and my mother’s old ballgown – the very same gown that I’d worn when I’d first met Rupert, which added a certain piquancy – the moonstone sparkling on her finger. Eventually though, I lost track of the ring as it drifted around Lily’s bedroom, alter
nately in and out of favour. But then, one day, it turned up: on the day we moved to the country, in fact, at the bottom of a packing case. I swooped on it like a magpie, and after a furtive glance around to make sure no one was watching, wrapped it carefully in loo paper and popped it back in my dressing-table, hoping Marcus wouldn’t notice. It was part of my history, I reasoned, pushing the drawer shut. My past. Heavens, he had pictures of old girlfriends squirreled away somewhere, didn’t he? Actually, I was pretty sure he didn’t.
I got out of the bath and dried myself with the fabulously soft, white towels we kept in London, which were quite unlike the thin, worn green ones at home. When I’d finished, I let the towel drop to the floor and stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror. My tummy was a bit bigger, I thought, smoothing it reflectively with the palm of my hand, and my bottom too …I turned round, the better to peer over my shoulder at the cellulite. But my boobs hadn’t dropped, I decided, turning back and cupping them underneath with my hands. They were still full and round and just as he’d …just as he’d what?
Horrified, I whipped the towel around me again and picked up my hair brush, sweeping it through my wet hair with long, strong strokes, and keeping an eye on myself in …damn. That mirror again. I stopped brushing and leaned towards it. A few crow’s feet had definitely appeared around my eyes …laughter lines perhaps. I tried a smile – yes, definitely laughter lines. But no grey hairs yet, thankfully.
Huge grey eyes gazed back at me. Doe eyes, he used to say. And he’d shown me too, one day, in Richmond Park.
Not That Kind of Girl Page 18