by Anita Notaro
When Libby awoke the translucent, early morning light greeted her and it took a second for her to realize that she’d fallen asleep beside him, with her back to him, spooned in close for added comfort. It was the first time she hadn’t felt the awful ache of regret that had been her usual early morning companion for so long.
His arm made escape impossible and when she stretched tentatively he moved and turned her to face him.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
‘Are you OK?’ His favourite question.
She smiled and he kissed her and she looked longingly and shyly at his body in daylight as they explored each other, and made love again and she didn’t care about her tousled hair or early morning breath or the faint traces of make-up she knew must still be visible. It didn’t seem to matter, in fact the sleepy, dishevelled look of her seemed to arouse him further.
When she awoke for the second time it was much, much later and she was alone.
Chapter Forty-Eight
‘I’M CLEVER ENOUGH not to try and compete with a chef when it comes to cooking, but I thought I couldn’t go wrong with coffee and toast.’
Andrew was standing over her, grinning. He was dressed and she wondered if it meant he was leaving. ‘Thanks.’ She hitched herself up against the pillows and pulled the sheet up around her, feeling very naked.
‘’Don’t go all shy on me now, please.’ He sat down on the bed beside her and poured the fragrant liquid into china cups that looked too delicate for his hands. ‘How are you feeling after all that sleep?’ His eyes were grinning at her.
‘Fine. Thanks.’ He seemed in control of the situation and Libby didn’t like it. She took the offered cup and he sensed she needed space. ‘OK if I have a quick shower?’
So he was leaving. ‘Fine. In there. Towels on the left.’ Libby pushed her hair back and added milk to her cup, anything to keep busy and avoid catching his eye.
She drank thirstily as insecurities she didn’t even know she had came flooding in, swiftly followed by a cold feeling of apprehension. Her mind galloped along and all her thoughts were variations on a theme, helped along by the fact that he seemed too relaxed and confident; smug almost, she imagined.
Oh God, I was so easy. I practically begged him. I bet he can’t wait to tell his friends.
It was gathering momentum and it was dangerous.
What if he talks about this? Worse, what if he goes to the papers?
She needed to chat to Annie about it, to try and make sense of it all. All the plans she’d carefully put into place to protect her privacy were suddenly threatened. She felt naïve and stupid. He was a gardener, for God’s sake, a handyman. No formal training. This story could be worth a fortune.
It was building into a modern-day classic, rich older woman and her bit of rough. A small voice of reason tried hard to intrude but she was feeling panicky and pushed it away.
‘Fancy going out for breakfast?’ Or lunch, as it will be soon?’
He was back, looking even better with wet hair and gleaming skin and all she could think of was making her escape.
‘Em . . . let me take a quick shower first.’ She was out of bed in a flash.
She made her exit and jumped into the shower, then immediately imagined he might be seeing some of her personal stuff, letters she had lying on the table next to the bed, so she jumped out in record time and dried quickly, dressed and combed her hair and brushed her teeth. She was back in five minutes.
He was sitting on the bed watching Sky news.
‘What do you think about an early lunch?’ he asked.
Maybe he was hoping they’d be photographed together, had someone standing by, even. Don’t be mad, he didn’t know he’d be staying here last night, she told herself as the shrinking, sane bit of her brain finally broke through the paranoia.
‘I’m not really hungry. How about another coffee?’
Anything to buy time.
‘Fine. The newspapers have arrived downstairs, in case you fancy a browse, see if you’re in them.’ He was smiling, teasing. It was the worst thing he could have said at that moment.
What was he doing in the hall? Had he been in her study? Oh God, she’d told him some stuff about why she was selling the house last night. This would make a fantastic story.
‘Libby, are you sure you’re OK?’ It was only the second time she could remember him using her name and he made it sound soft and sensuous, yet different from how it had sounded when he called out for her last night.
They were in the kitchen and she had her back to him. Now her heart was beating faster and her stomach was churning.
‘I’m fine, Andrew, it’s just that . . .’ How could she explain it without sounding like a looper? ‘I just think . . . we should take it slowly, that’s all.’
‘Fine by me.’
‘That’s if we’re taking it anywhere at all.’ She laughed to hide her nervousness.
‘Is that what all this is about?’
If only it were that simple. She knew she must represent a great catch for him, even if only in the short term. She wasn’t silly enough to believe he had any long-term intentions towards her.
She looked at him now, standing tall and healthy and uncomplicated in her 200,000-euro kitchen and wanted to believe that he was what he appeared to be. But somehow she doubted it.
‘I suppose, it’s just that . . . my life is very complicated and . . . I don’t normally do what I did last night and I have to be careful, in my position . . .’ She didn’t elaborate, because it was all coming out the wrong way.
‘What are you trying to say?’ He had been flicking through the newspaper and now he came to stand beside her. He tilted her face up to look at him.
‘Libby, I know this is hard for you but there’s something going on in your head and you need to tell me so that we can sort it out.’
‘I have to be careful about my privacy . . .’
‘So, what, you think we shouldn’t be seen in public together?’ He was grinning at her. ‘We’ve already been out in public together. I’m suggesting brunch. I could be anyone, your brother even, and I promise not to kiss you or slap you on the bottom so no-one will get the wrong idea. How’s that?’ He winked at her.
‘You don’t understand, I . . .’
‘Libby, we’re friends, we have been almost from the start.’ He was talking to her as if she were a child. ‘And getting to know you was . . . different – at least it was for me. I liked the fact that it happened slowly, almost by accident. Anyway, you’re not typical girlfriend material.’
‘What exactly do you mean by that?’
‘Well, I know you’re . . . famous.’ He was smiling again, indulging her. ‘Your lifestyle is different from mine. And what happened last night changed things between us, I think we both know that. But what we need to do now is really get to know each other, spend some time together as a couple, when I’m not your gardener, your employee.’ He paused briefly. ‘There are lots of things about me I need to explain too. My job, for instance—’
‘No. Please, I need to think about this, I . . .’ Libby had a horrible feeling that maybe he was a journalist or something. What was it Annie had said about him? She cursed herself for not looking for references. This was turning into a nightmare.
‘Let me explain.’
‘No. Let’s just take a bit of time, talk later in the week. Please.’
‘OK, fine, I’ll leave and we can meet in a couple of days, but only if you tell me what’s really bothering you.’
She took a deep breath. She had to test out her theory, see his reaction. Then at least she’d know. ‘The papers would pay big money for a story like this about me.’
Something flashed across his face, but his expression didn’t change.
‘You think I’d talk to the newspapers about us?’ He looked puzzled, as if convinced he’d got it wrong, but then when she didn’t deny it he looked hurt, then angry and she knew she shouldn’t have said it.
‘Have I
given you any reason to think I’d behave in such a manner?’
‘I don’t know, it’s just, I’ve been let down before . . .’
‘And couldn’t you have given me the benefit of the doubt, for a while at least, until you’d got to know me a bit better? Spent the weekend with me, asked me anything, checked me out, whatever it is you do with people before you decide whether they’re good enough for you?’ It was the first time she’d seen him really pissed off, but it was still a quiet, controlled emotion.
‘Look, I know I’m being foolish and stupid,’ Libby said. ‘Why would you want to talk about us? It’s mad, I know that now. After all, there isn’t really an us, is there?’ Her laugh was nervous and she was looking for reassurance.
None was forthcoming. He looked straight at her for a long moment, then gave her what she later thought was a pitying look. He spoke slowly, but very deliberately, as if making his mind up as he went along. ‘Up until a moment ago there was a definite possibility, but now . . . no. There isn’t an us.’
The look of sadness, the lack of bitterness, the quiet, determined voice hit her right between the eyes and she knew she’d seriously misjudged him.
‘Andrew, look, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, it’s just I’ve had so many bad experiences . . . and Annie said something . . . and I was afraid you might be a journalist because I don’t think you’ve been a gardener all your life.’
‘I’m a doctor.’
‘What?’
‘I studied medicine because it was what my father wanted. But horticulture is my passion, always has been. Then I got caught up with teaching and I went to North America to study for a couple of years and suddenly I was at the top of my profession and I’d never really stopped to think about whether it was what I really wanted. So, I took a year off, time out to see how it would work out if I indulged my hobby.’ He was talking to her as if she was a stranger. ‘That’s all, nothing more sinister.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It’s a long story. And up until last night it wasn’t important.’ He sighed and seemed to come to a decision. ‘I’d better go.’
‘Please don’t. Look, let’s go out to brunch and talk. I’m really sorry, I know I was being ridiculous, I’ll—’ She was jabbering.
‘No.’
‘I’ve said I’m sorry. Now you’re the one who’s being stupid. I . . .’ She struggled to make it OK, unused to not getting her own way.
‘Stop.’ He was staring at her intently. ‘Either you trusted me or you didn’t. It’s a gut thing and it’s really quite simple. I think you’ve made it clear where you stand.’ He looked a bit lost, started to say something more, then shrugged and turned away. Picking up his bag that he’d abandoned so casually the night before, he walked out of her life and Libby let him because she was too proud to beg.
Chapter Forty-Nine
‘HE’S A WHAT?’
‘Doctor.’
‘I don’t believe it.’ Annie laughed. ‘Or maybe I do. Now that I know him I think he’d make a perfect doctor.’
‘I slept with him.’
‘Ah here, this is too much for the telephone to take. It’ll go up in smoke in a minute. Are you coming to me or I am going to you?’
‘Put the kettle on, I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
Annie was the only person in the world Libby knew wouldn’t judge her. As usual she sat quietly and listened, then rallied round her friend.
‘You poor thing, I can imagine what was going through your mind.’ She gave Libby a hug.
‘It was mad, I sort of freaked out while he was in the shower. I could feel it building up. I was convinced he was going to sell his story to the tabloids. Ruin whatever miserable chance I have of surviving this last few months and the lousy series that I can’t wait to see the back of.’
Annie giggled. ‘I don’t think he was ever going to do anything to hurt you, Libby. He’s too . . . honest looking – sincere – self-confident. I dunno . . .’ she struggled to find the right word. ‘Too nice, I suppose.’
‘Much too nice. And I’ve ruined it.’
‘Maybe not. I think we’ll have to come up with a plan. First, coffee and some chocolate.’
‘I forgot to tell you, by the way, I’ve been asked to do the Late Late as well this week.’ Libby was glad to have some good news, even though she herself was dreading it. ‘So let’s get that out of the way first, before I screw anything else up.’
Annie danced around her tiny kitchen. ‘I can’t believe it. This makes it bearable, knowing you’ll be there too.’
‘Well, I’d have been there anyway. I was going with you, whether you liked it or not.’
The day of the show dawned and Annie was anxious, despite Libby’s encouragement. On the surface at least, things had returned to normal. It was only a little over a week since the incident, but she had made a determined effort not to let it ruin her life. Max Donaldson was relieved and the show was providing her with a car to take her to and from the studio at all times. Mike Nichols had called around; he’d been calm and measured and had helped her considerably by assuring her that they would all do everything they could to help her recovery. Her new pal Orla sent a lovely card and telephoned regularly and the police were brilliant, especially John Reynolds, who had by now become a friend. She saw police cars almost every night in her estate and it was a comfort, but nothing could take away the fear that lurked at the back of her mind and turned silly, everyday things into a challenge, making her realize how much she’d taken freedom and peace of mind for granted.
Annie didn’t walk alone any more, didn’t browse or stroll or window-shop and never daydreamed. She lived in a state of heightened alert and the tension never seemed to leave her stiff, taut back. Libby was minding her like a baby, turning up at all hours and bringing her shopping, and even going to the dentist with her. It was keeping her going.
Doing The Late Late Show was going to be a nightmare, however, and she cursed her stupidity over and over again. She should never have agreed to go on national TV and talk about herself. It was the most out of character thing she’d ever done. It was like showing off, name-dropping and bragging all rolled into one. It was like ‘Look at me, aren’t I terrific.’
Still, it should be short, that was the only consolation. A quick chat about the part, another few minutes about the nomination and she’d be out of there like a shot. Max had kept his word: she now had a gorgeous, burnt-orange dress, sleeveless with a fitted top, long and well cut. It made her look tall and thin. It was easily the most elegant creation she’d ever seen and it was completely the opposite to what Bobby normally wore. She was ordered to get her hair done – ‘have the works’ – on the programme budget and Janey from make-up had promised to stay back and give her a soft, girl-next-door look without the hard lines and textures her character loved. Yet despite all the attention she was a bundle of nerves as she read through her notes that afternoon.
Libby was also feeling unusually nervous about doing the show, but then she’d had a faintly sick stomach since the frightful morning with Andrew. It was almost a week and she hadn’t heard from him – not even a bill. When Mrs O’Connell returned Libby asked her casually how she’d found him.
‘George met him at some night course and he’d just taken a year’s sabbatical from the hospital, so George offered him some work. He’s a doctor, you know,’ she said and smiled smugly.
Now you tell me. Libby felt like slapping the grin off her face.
‘Yes, so he said.’ Eventually, she didn’t add. ‘Eh . . . do you have a number for him?’
The older woman was thinking. ‘Well, George told me he’d be back in the hospital from next week, so I don’t think he’ll be available again, except maybe the odd day here and there. I’m sure I could get a number, I know they keep in contact. He seems to keep himself to himself, though,’ she added approvingly. ‘Nice man, very handsome. Good breeding, you can tell.’
Pity I couldn’t. Libby
was annoyed and ashamed all over again.
She left her housekeeper and went back to her study, cursing herself for not getting Andrew’s home address and telephone number, at least. The more she thought about him, the more she realized how ridiculous she’d been: she knew now she’d been wrong not to trust her instincts. It was driving her mad.
The other nagging, uncomfortable thing about the whole episode was finding out how much she missed him. It was like a dull ache in her stomach. She’d got so used to having him in her life, to telling him things, stupid little nothings that she’d never have told anyone about, not even David. He’d become her friend and then her lover and the sex had been gentler and softer yet just as passionate as anything she’d experienced. Now, when it was maybe too late, she realized it was a powerful combination she wasn’t prepared to live without easily.
‘He suits me, somehow,’ she told Annie one night. ‘It’s like he goes well with the person I now am, and that’s very different to how I was when David was alive.’
‘I think you suit each other.’
‘I wish he thought so.’
‘You’re terrific and he must see that.’ Annie was her usual loyal self. But Libby knew she’d been far too busy worrying about what ‘everyone’ would think if it came out that she was having an affair with the gardener. She felt like the worst snob now, especially as Annie already liked him and she knew her mother would never pass judgement without getting to know Andrew first.
She spent the day getting organized. A couple of her favourite boutiques had sent her several outfits on appro. They knew her taste exactly and she’d insisted it had to be black.
In the end she’d settled on a long tailored coat jacket that nipped in at her waist, or what was left of it, and flowed away at her hips. With it she wore a long black crumpled silk skirt with a chiffon wrap around the waist and a heavy lace corset-like bodice that made her boobs look huge.
Her hair had been expertly cut and her hairdresser was to meet her at the station for a final fixing; so would her favourite make-up artist, who was flying in from London. She’d had a facial and manicure that morning. The only good thing about the week was that she’d eaten very little so her face had lost some of its puffiness. She whiled away the time getting her jewellery ready and organizing shoes, some glorious new French underwear and tights so sheer they were almost invisible.