Dead Romantic

by Ruth Saberton

  “Oh! Don’t mind me!” Dawn’s eyes widen. She drains her glass and grins. “I need another one of these anyway.”

  “We can talk here,” Simon insists as Dawn wiggles away, the dress doing a sterling job of containing her rear end. “Besides, you must realise there’s no point going over it all again.”

  “Appeal to his academic curiosity,” Wellby urges. “He won’t be able to resist.”

  I keep my hand on Simon’s elbow. “There’s one thing you didn’t manage to find. It’s the key to everything.”

  His eyes light up. “I knew there had to be more. What is it?”

  “It’s text on the base of the statue,” I say. I bet he never even thought to check underneath it. Simon’s lazy like that.

  “And why would you share this with me?”

  His interest is piqued. Time to reel him in.

  I shrug. “Because I’m an academic and I want the full story on the record. But up to you, I guess.” I make a show of glancing around the crowded room. “Where’s the Prof? He may be more use anyway.”

  “Paul’s still in his office. He had a last-minute funding meeting to chair. All right, Cleo, you have my full attention. Let’s go.”

  We edge our way through the party, nodding and saying hello to various colleagues and acquaintances. Simon collects another drink on the way. His cheeks are flushed and he’s clearly had a few already. Will alcohol make him careless?

  As we mount the staircase and then head for the departmental area, the chatter and chinking of glasses start to fade. All I can hear when I turn my key and let us into the office is the ratcheting up of my pulse.

  “Let me guess,” drawls Simon, looking around idly while I flick on the light. “You’ve actually linked the death of Aamon with the succession of his stepmother, Sehepne? But hard rather than circumstantial evidence?”

  I nod. “Yes, I have proof that Sehepne murdered him. The injuries to the body are inconclusive, but my mother had evidence that confirms the crime.”

  “You’d better pass that to me then.” Simon folds his arms across his chest. “This is my area of expertise now, not your pet project.”

  Pet project? For a second I’m robbed of speech. The cat is hissing like crazy, Aamon blows raspberries and even Henry Wellby uses a few choice words, but of course none of this bothers my colleague. Water finds it harder to slide off a duck’s back. My fingers are itching to slap his smug face. How did I ever find him attractive?

  “Goad him!” Henry Wellby barks. “Make him say something! And for God’s sake, don’t give him that evidence.”

  I can’t because it’s on the bottom of my statue, which is safely hidden in my bedroom. Not that I’d give it to him anyway. I’m determined that I’ll get my research back and tell Aamon’s story properly rather than allow Simon’s half-baked tabloid-style retelling.

  “I’ll have to dig it out,” I say through clenched teeth. “It’ll take a while.”

  “Well, get a move on. God, this is a chilly office.” Simon is looking around disdainfully. “Poky too, and dark. I don’t suppose you’ll miss it that much. I bet you’re looking forward to Luxor, aren’t you? It’ll be a darn sight warmer than here.”

  I bristle like the cat. “I don’t know how you’ve even got the gall to speak to me after everything you’ve done.”

  “And what exactly have I done?” Simon takes a large swig of his wine and widens his blue eyes.

  “Stolen my research!”

  There’s a rattle from the corner of the room. Aamon is playing with the phone again but unusually Henry Wellby is helping him. They appear to be trying to figure out how to dial. Knowing my luck they’re probably onto Domino’s by now. So much for a great plan. That pesky phone is one thing I won’t miss.

  Simon shakes his head sadly. “So dramatic, Cleo. That head injury really hasn’t helped you, has it?”

  “It’s helped you,” I say bitterly.

  “I can’t deny it.” The satisfaction in his voice sets my teeth on edge. Simon’s face is bright with victory and as he settles himself onto my desk I know he’s just dying to twist the knife. The alcohol has loosened his tongue and, like a Scooby-Doo villain, he simply can’t resist telling me how clever he’s been.

  “I’ll grant you it’s been useful,” he agrees. “You really are far too naïve, Dr Carpenter, and far too trusting.”

  “Honest and trustworthy are how I’d describe myself,” I shoot back. “Simon, I trusted you! I thought we were friends. Why else would I have left my application with you and given my laptop into your keeping?”

  Simon smirks. “Yes, I must admit that was a bit of luck I hadn’t anticipated.”

  “And my documents on the network? I take it that it was you who wiped them?”

  “Of course that was me. You’d been so helpful too, labelling all the folders so beautifully. It only took me minutes. You’d chosen a blindingly obvious password and used the same one for everything, which helped. It’s disappointing really, Cleo. I thought you were smarter than that.”

  I begin to open my mouth to tell him exactly what I think of this, but Simon’s still gloating, enjoying every minute of his triumph. He finishes his drink and starts to laugh.

  “Of course, all this would have been a great deal harder had you not suffered your unfortunate head injury. Not much usually gets past Dr Carpenter, the department’s golden girl, does it? Jesus, Cleo, have you any idea how bloody nauseating it is for the rest of us to always be compared to you and have to listen to the Prof drivelling on about how brilliant you are?” His teeth are bared in a sneer. “He probably just wants to get in your knickers, but you’re a frigid bitch, aren’t you? Even I never managed that. He’s got more hope of shagging one of the mummies.”

  “You’re disgusting,” I say, sickened. To be confronted with such venom is shocking. How did I not notice that Simon hated me so much?

  He shrugs. “Maybe, but I’m the Associate Director of our department and you’re being shipped out all the way to Egypt, so call me whatever you like. The truth is, Cleo, you’ve lost. Your research is mine, your job is mine – and your reputation? Well, let’s be honest, I wouldn’t want that because it’s in tatters. You’ve been flaky lately, head injury or not, and you’re not on top of your game. It’s disappointing. I’d expected more of you. This has all been rather too easy.”

  In a haze of rage I watch him hop off the desk and saunter around the office, picking up my belongings and rifling through my documents as though he has every right to do so.

  “You won’t get away with this,” I promise him, but Simon gives me a pitying look.

  “I already have, many times, Cleo. I’m good at what I do. Make all the fuss you want. Nobody will believe you; they’ll just think you’re jealous. Which you are, and I totally understand. Of course the job was going to be yours – we all knew that – which was why I needed to level the playing field a little.”

  “Level the playing field? With what? A wrecking ball? Simon, you cheated!”

  Simon smiles at me. “I do hope they’re an understanding faculty in Luxor. I’d hate any rumours of your instability to reach them out there. That could cause all kinds of problems.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Are you threatening me?” he mimics. “God, for such an intelligent woman you can be very stupid at times. Yes, Cleo, I’m threatening you, or maybe more accurately I’m giving you a promise. If you continue trying to tell everyone that I’ve stolen your research I’ll make it my personal mission to ensure that what academic reputation you do have is left in such tatters you’ll be lucky to get a job teaching GCSE history in a sink school.” He leans forward until his face is inches from mine. “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Very,” I say bitterly.

  “Good.” Business completed, Simon meanders to the window, beams at his reflection in the glass and smooths his hair. “Now where’s that evidence you promised me?”

  “It’s at home.”

/>   “At home? What was this wild goose chase in aid of then? I thought you had it here?” He looks at me with great irritation, straightens his tie and picks a bit of dill from between his teeth. “Go and get it then, and make sure you drop it in to me on the first working day back after Christmas.”

  And with this parting shot Simon strides out of my office.

  “Well, that went well,” I begin to say to Henry Wellby – but it seems that Simon isn’t the only one who’s left: my office is deserted. Even the dead have given up. Deflated, I switch off the light, lock the door and make my way back to the party. I’ve tried my hardest to fight Simon but he’s too cunning and his trap has well and truly sprung on me. The more I protest the crazier I’ll look.

  Back in the museum café the party is in full swing, but I’m in no mood to celebrate. Collecting my coat and bag I leave the action just as “One Christmas Kiss” begins to play. Couples peel away from the throng and begin to sway together as Alex’s unmistakable voice begins to sing and another little piece of my heart crumbles.

  I push through the crowd and stumble outside into the cold air. I want nothing more than to be as far away from here as possible. I pull my phone from my pocket, frowning when I see three more missed calls from Rafe and a text from Simon demanding that I bring him the evidence I mentioned or he’ll have to speak to Paul. I feel sick with dread.

  I’m still staring at the screen, trying to work out what on earth to do next, when the phone begins to ring, vibrating in my palm like an angry wasp. Prof H, says the caller display, and with a shaking finger I swipe it to the off setting. It didn’t take Simon long to go telling tales. The phone rings again instantly and this time I turn it off completely. Whatever it is the Prof has to say, it can wait.

  It’s cold outside and I walk away from the museum, pulling my thin jacket tightly around my shoulders and trying to marshal my thoughts. The snow is starting to fall again, spiralling down in dizzying whirls and dusting the pavements and the railings. The windows of the shops twinkle with fairy lights and from the café on the corner “One Christmas Kiss” is playing on the radio. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alone in my life. What do I do? Where do I go? I wander aimlessly, my teeth chattering with both the cold and the realisation that for probably the first time in my life I have no plan at all. When a cab swishes along beside me I jump because I’ve been so lost in thought.

  “Are you all right, love?” The window hisses down and the cabbie, a man in his mid fifties, bald and pink faced, leans across, giving me a concerned look. “It’s a bit parky to be out in your evening dress.”

  He’s right. I’m freezing. I’ve been so lost in my misery that I’ve hardly noticed the cold. The sky is thick with ominous clouds. More snow is coming.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” I say. “Honestly.”

  “You’re blue, love! Come on, hop in,” he says. “You’ll catch your death wandering about like that and I can’t have that on my conscience.”

  As though in a dream, I clamber in. The warm fug inside is almost shocking.

  “Where to, love?” asks the cabbie. He has an elderly woman in the front seat beside him but is totally oblivious to her. Well, of course he is. She’s yet another ghost. They’re everywhere. I may have told Alex to leave me alone but the others are still there, superimposed on the real world like a clumsy Photoshop effect, and I have a nasty feeling they always will be.

  “Hello, dear,” she says. “Could you tell my son he needs to drive more slowly? And why isn’t he wearing a vest in this weather? He needs a vest!”

  The cabbie is waiting for my response. Where do I want to go? Back to a time before this whole mess began, that’s where.

  In that case the answer’s obvious. I’ll go back to where it all began, my love of Egypt, Aamon, Mum and, most painfully of all, Rafe Thorne. Maybe there I can start to make sense of everything.

  “Marylebone station, please,” I say. “As soon as possible.”

  The cabbie lets the clutch up and the car glides back into the traffic.

  “Going anywhere nice, love?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, and for the first time in ages I feel the tension begin to slide away. “I’m going home.”

  Chapter 30

  The station is dark and deserted, veiled by the falling snow and seeming to materialise from nowhere when the train rounds the final curve in the tracks. The carriage is empty and I’ve travelled in thoughtful silence ever since changing trains at High Wycombe.

  My iPhone lies loosely in my palm. When I turn it on again there are two more missed calls from Rafe, logged since I left London, and a text from Susie telling me she’s staying with Dave tonight. There’s nothing more from Simon, thank goodness, although the Prof has tried again and appears to have left a voicemail. I stare at the screen for a few moments, toying with the idea of listening to it, before exhaling slowly. There’s plenty of time for this later on. I’ve had more than enough of Simon’s games for one evening and, anyway, the battery’s very low. I turn the phone off again, wanting to conserve what little power remains. My father’s at a school play and has promised to come and collect me as soon as he’s able, but his timekeeping has always been dreadful and I’ll probably need enough battery to call a taxi before I freeze to death.

  The train slows and then shudders to a halt. I press the button to open the doors and step out onto the platform, which is every bit as snowy and as empty as it was all those years ago. The place is dark and utterly silent, the snow spiralling down onto the motionless world without a whisper. Behind me the doors hiss shut. The train accelerates with a growl, then rounds the track and vanishes into the darkness.

  I pull my jacket tighter around my shoulders. In the orangey light of the lamps I watch the snowflakes tumbling to earth, dancing and waltzing before silently disappearing. The world beyond Riverside Halt is muffled, and as I walk along the platform I notice that my footsteps are left in the light dusting. The waiting room is in darkness. I rattle the door but it’s locked, so I hug myself against the cold and shiver. There’s no sign of my father. What do I do now?

  Litter rustles on the tracks, whisked up by the wind, and the station clock ticks the minutes away. I wander further along the platform, exhaustion prickling my eyes. There’s the bench, hard metal with a curved back – the same bench where Rafe held me all those years ago. Tears make the scene swim. I wish so much that I could rewind the years. He’ll appear then, with his guitar slung across his back and his black hair falling over his face; he’ll brush it away as he smiles and holds out his hand.

  “You’re sad and it’s Christmas,” he’ll say. “Nobody should be sad at Christmas.”

  I sigh. I don’t think sad even comes close to how I’m feeling. Maybe the word for this biting sense of loss hasn’t even been invented yet. Regret, loneliness, confusion… These are the emotions that chase through me, and of all the things that have hurt me I know that Rafe seeing Natasha behind my back is the most painful. He’s been a part of me for so long, and for a few heady days I thought he was the future too. The future is wide open now in every possible way.

  I lower myself onto the bench, flinching as the icy metal chills my skin even through my dress. The snow is thicker now, obliterating the world beyond. The station clock seems to tick slower and slower as though time, too, is freezing. Maybe it is. Perhaps only moments rather than years have passed since Rafe and I first met here? Or maybe I’ve slipped back in time and we haven’t even met yet? Imagine that. All the opportunities and chances are still out there for the taking, just waiting for me to reach for them.

  That makes me smile. It’s a lovely fantasy but that’s all it will ever be. I know now that life doesn’t offer any second chances. Alex tried his best to make me believe otherwise, but Alex, if he ever existed at all, was wrong. We get one shot and if we mess it up, then tough. We have to learn to deal with our mistakes and live with them as best we can. My father knows this, Rafe knows this and, after the past couple o
f months, I know it too. All my certainties have melted away, just as the snow has dissolved in patches where the platform’s been gritted.

  A tear slips down my cheek and I dash it away impatiently. It’s too cold to cry and my face feels raw with the clawing wind. Across the fields church bells sound as the ringers begin their practice, chimes echoing and trembling across the still world, taking me back to that long-ago Christmas Eve. Memories roll over me with each peal. Weary of fighting them, I close my eyes and dream that I’m nineteen again, just a girl alone on a railway platform waiting for life and love to write a footnote in her own history, an aside she’ll remember until the day she dies.

  There’s growl of a car engine, followed by the slamming of a door. I gulp my misery back and wipe my eyes on my sleeve. This has to be my dad at last, miraculously on time for once. Footsteps crunch on snow, keys jangle and through the dancing flakes I see a man at the far end of the platform, striding towards me through the darkness.

  Wait. He’s tall. Taller than my father and wide shouldered, lean hipped and with such presence that my every cell wants to cry out in recognition. I don’t need to see the crimson scarf, the stubble-shadowed jaw, the dark hair or the mouth set in a determined expression to know who this is. My heart is already telling me.

  “You’re sad and it’s Christmas,” Rafe calls softly, holding out his hand. “Nobody should be sad at Christmas.”

  Rafe is here. I don’t know why and I don’t know how, but none of that matters anymore. I leap up from my seat and now I’m running towards him, the snow stinging my face and the wind whipping any words from my lips. My feet in my heels slither and skid, but I feel as though I could fly. In my haste to reach Rafe I’m not bothered about practicalities – and when I catch my heel in my long skirt and pitch forwards I’m too taken by surprise to even cry out. I hear him shout a warning, but it’s way too late for me to stop. My hands claw helplessly at the thin air and then I’m slammed onto the platform, the snow a useless cushion as my head hits the concrete.