by Joy Wodhams
“Darling, don't go,” pleaded her mother when she told her. “Running away is no answer. Whatever is wrong, stay and talk it through with Rod.”
“I can't, Mum. I have to do some thinking first.”
“I'm worried about you. You don't look at all well. I don't want you to go off on your own.”
“I'll be all right. Really.”
“How long will you be away?”
“I don't know. I've told Jenny a week but if it's longer I'll phone.”
“At least give me your address, dear.”
Gabriella hesitated. “I don't want Rod to know where I am.”
“But I won't have a moment's peace if I don't know.”
Reluctantly Gabriella wrote down the address. She left on the Friday, two hours before Rod's plane was due.
****
The little guesthouse had only two letting bedrooms and the middle aged couple who occupied the other room seemed as anxious to avoid company as Gabriella herself.
Mrs Donleavy, the owner of the guesthouse, remembered her. “You came with that nice young man who enjoyed walking so much. How is he?”
“Bernard. He's well, I think. We don't see each other now.”
“What a pity.”
Was it? Did she regret their break up? No. She regretted almost everything she had done since, but not that. If marriage to Rod had taught her anything, it was that she needed more, far more, than Bernard could have given her.
She walked every day. Downriver to Dartmouth and along the coastal paths, across the fields. She took the ferry to Totnes and explored the old buildings and shops. Dartmouth itself was filled with tourists and the estuary bustled with small yachts and dinghies, steamers and the naval boats from the College, but in the surrounding countryside there was space for all and she tramped for hours at a time, until her anguish was dulled by physical exhaustion.
Later she would have to decide what to do. But not yet.
When she returned on the Tuesday evening Mrs Donleavy told her she had a visitor. “He's in the lounge, my love. Ever so handsome,” she said admiringly. “Like a film star!”
It could only be Rod. Gabriella's heart began a slow thumping. She would have liked to delay their meeting, at least until she had showered and changed. She knew she looked a mess, hot and rumpled, with scratches on her cheek where a briar had swung across her path. “How long has he been here?” she asked.
“Over an hour. I offered him a cuppa but he said he'd wait.”
She sighed. She couldn't keep him waiting any longer. She went in.
He was sitting in one of Mrs Donleavy's upright velvet chairs by the window, reading a newspaper. He tossed it aside and looked across at her, unsmiling.
“I didn't want to come,” he said. “Your mother persuaded me. She was worried about you.”
“I'm sorry.” She hesitated in the doorway. “You'd better come to my room. The other guests may come in at any moment.” She led the way upstairs. He glanced briefly around the white painted room with its flowery frilled curtains and bedspread, then dropped into a wicker chair that was ridiculously small for him and creaked ominously.
“You realise your mother's very upset. Not to mention the fact that you've created a whole chain of problems at Englands because we were both away at short notice.”
“I'm sorry,” she said again. She perched on the edge of the bed and stared down at her clasped hands. She couldn't look at him, it hurt too much.
“Why the hell did you run away?” he asked roughly.
Nothing she said could possibly make any difference so she said nothing. She thought she knew now why Rod had remained silent when she made her dreadful accusations and the knowledge brought renewed despair.
He got up, the tiny chair sticking to him, and she felt an hysterical giggle rising in her throat.
“Dammit!” he muttered, wrenching the chair away from him. “Don't they ever have normal size people staying here?” He paced the room, crossing it from wall to wall in three long strides, then stood in front of her, legs braced, hands shoved into the pockets of his blue jeans. He wore a red sweater, the sleeves pushed halfway up his muscular forearms and she recalled that he had worn it on the evening he had first taken her out. She thought of that evening with longing. If only they could go back to the beginning. How differently she would manage things.
“I came to take you back with me,” he said.
She began to shake her head. “I'm booked in until Saturday.”
“Never mind that. You've created enough havoc. It's time you learned to behave like an adult.”
She looked up at him and he must have seen the anguish in her eyes. He hesitated, then dropped down beside her on the bed. “What am I going to do with you, Gabriella?” he asked helplessly.
The tears began to roll silently down her cheeks and she turned away so that he wouldn't see them. She wanted to lay her head on his shoulder and beg forgiveness but it was too late. She had destroyed any chance of happiness for them.”
He sighed. “Why don't you get cleaned up and we'll go out for a meal?” he suggested. “I don't know how hungry you are, but I haven't eaten since breakfast.”
“All right,” she said, her voice thick, and grabbing her towel she fled for the bathroom.
During dinner at one of the Dartmouth pubs he kept the conversation light but she noticed he glanced at his watch frequently. “I'll have to find a room for the night,” he said. “It's too late to start back now.”
Her own room had a double bed but he did not suggest sharing it and she could not bring herself to offer. “Most places are booked at this time of year,” she said. “I was lucky. Mrs Donleavy had a cancellation.”
“I'll try here.” He put down his knife and fork and made for the bar.
She saw the landlord shaking his head and after a few minutes of conversation Rod returned. “Nothing,” he said. “At this time of year he says everywhere in Dartmouth, Kingswear and Dittisham is solidly booked.”
“What will you do?” she asked after a moment.
“I suppose I'll have to share your room. Unless you object?”
“In the circumstances how could I?” she asked, managing to sound calm.
It was a repetition of their first night in Madeira. Taking turns to undress in the bathroom, a polite Goodnight from Rod and an equally polite Goodnight from herself, but in the close confines of the double bed she found his nearness unnerving. They lay rigidly back to back and she listened to his breathing, wondering if he slept or if he too was merely making a pretence. What would he do if she turned to him? Would he make love to her? If he did, it would mean no more than the other times, and she couldn't face that. Now that she loved him with every part of her she knew that she would find the emptiness of their embraces unbearable.
All night she dozed and woke, woke and dozed, until in the early morning light she gave up any pretence at real sleep. She could hear the foghorns of the returning fishing boats and pictured the mist that must be laying on the river.
During the night Rod and turned and rolled towards the centre of the bed. She longed to kiss his sleeping face. But although only inches now separated them, she knew with a desolation that was almost unbearable that she couldn't cross that narrow no-man's-land. They had never been further apart. And it was all her fault.
At breakfast she told him she would return. He was right, it had been foolish to run away. A torment of remorse and shame burned inside her, and however many miles she put between herself and Rod there was no escape from that.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When she got home she found the only difference was that Mrs Priddy's daughter had left. She had found a job in a hotel in York, which pleased her mother because she would now be able to see her more regularly. Alison had left a note for Gabriella thanking her for all her help. Gabriella smiled ruefully as she read it, knowing that, selfishly absorbed as she had been in her own problems, she had given the girl less attention than anyone else in the house. She wrote t
o her that day, wishing her well in her new job.
She had come to realise how badly she'd misjudged those around her. It was as if for the last eight years she had been viewing everyone through a distorted lens. She thought of Bernard, poor Bernard, and how much she had under valued him, completely unaware that he was capable of any depth of emotion. She thought of her mother. Who was right, of course, she had patronised her. Although Gabriella loved her dearly she had never believed her to have any real commonsense. Even Sue Langdon, who had turned out to be a nice girl with problems of her own far greater than Gabriella's.
And Rod. She closed her eyes briefly against the pain of what might have been.
At least now she was seeing clearly. In the past few days she had thought long and hard, analysing the warped attitudes and prejudices she had accumulated over the years and making a mental bonfire of them. She knew that at long last she was growing up.
“I saw Sue at lunchtime,” said Rod, coming into her office a few days after their return. “She told me you'd been to see her.”
Gabriella was calling up spreadsheets on her computer. She continued to gaze at the screen, unable to meet his eyes. “Perhaps I shouldn't have gone,” she said when she had got her voice under control.
He shrugged. “At least you didn't hurl accusations at her. The poor girl's had enough to contend with without that!”
She turned to him then. “Rod, I know I was wrong. I'm very very sorry.”
“And that makes it all right? Well, now you know the truth but, my God, Gabriella, if you knew the sort of life Sue's had recently you might have given less thought to your own problems. She could have done with another friend.”
His disgust was an almost solid force and she flinched from it. “I'm sorry,” she said again.
“You can be so blind,” he accused. “Didn't you ever see the bruises she came in with?”
“Bruises?” she echoed.
“Martin's answer to any argument he couldn't win.”
“Why didn't she leave him before?”
“Why does anyone stay with another person? I tried to persuade her. So did Jenny, but it was only when she found she would be risking a baby as well that she forced herself to make the break.”
“You knew all this. Even Jenny knew.”
“Jenny was a friend. So was I.”
“But you let me go on thinking you and Sue were having an affair Why didn't you tell me?”
He stared at her coldly. “Why should I? It was Sue's private life and you'd never shown any interest in her. And you were determined to think the worst. You hadn't a shred of evidence that there was ever anything between Sue and me. Whatever I'd told you, you wouldn't have believed me,” he said, and walked out of the room.
At home Mrs Stevens fussed over her, anxious that she was still losing weight and that her eyes had shadows around them.
“You're both so stubborn, keeping up this silly squabble,” she said. “Look what it's doing to you – and Rod's suffering too. He looks so tired.”
“We'll work it out eventually,” said Gabriella, trying to pacify her.
“Do you still think he's seeing someone else?”
“No. I was wrong.”
“Then tell him so. Apologise.”
Gabriella's eyes filled. “I have.”
“You shouldn't have run off on your own, dear. That never solves anything.”
“You're right. I just didn't know what else to do at the time.”
“I hoped Rod would stay there with you for a few days, give you both a chance to talk. What you need is some time together, away from Englands. Away from Margaret and myself, come to that.”
The opportunity came the following week with an invitation from Rod's mother to visit her and Claire in London.
“We'll have to go,” said Rod.
“Don't you want to see them?”
“Of course. It's just that my mother's not easy to fool. A whole weekend on our best behaviour won't be easy,” he warned.
Mrs Nicholson's house was a charming Georgian terrace on the Thames near Chiswick, filled with an odd but attractive mixture of English antiques, modern watercolours and drawings, and mementoes of Japan where she and her late husband, Rod's father, had lived for two years. Her welcome was rapturous.
“It's lovely to see you again, Mrs Nicholson,” said Gabriella when the older woman had released her from a long and highly scented embrace.
“Oh my dear! You can't possibly call me Mrs Nicholson. And not Mother, I think What about Dodie? That's what all my friends call me and I know we're going to be great friends. Now, where's that girl? She's been clockwatching all morning, now she's disappeared!”
Claire emerged from the kitchen to kiss Gabriella and deliver a mock punch to her older brother.
Gabriella began to relax. It was difficult to remain gloomy with these two bright people.
Dodie, in her whirlwind manner, had arranged a hectic programme of outings and visits for the weekend and Gabriella was glad of it. The busier they were, the less opportunity for Rod's mother to suspect that anything was wrong.
“And on Saturday night,” Dodie was saying, “we're all going to a party at the Grasolis.”
Rod raised an eyebrow. “Who are the Grasolis?”
“Fabio's an artist, darling, absolutely marvellous, huge oils that won't go through the front door! And Melanie's a very glamorous television actress. Well, only commercials so far but they pay quite well, I believe.”
By Saturday night Gabriella was almost exhausted but her spirits were brighter than they'd been for weeks. She had been warned that the party would be smart (Fabio collects people with money, darling,” said Dodie. “Prospective clients, you know.”) and she was glad that she had brought with her the little red chiffon dress that she had bought for her honeymoon. When Rod saw her in it he looked away and for a moment sadness threatened to envelop her. She pushed it from her determinedly.
The Grasolis lived on the top floor of a converted dockland warehouse, an enormous acreage of space with very little furniture. Several dozen of Fabio's brilliantly coloured paintings flamed the walls. A balcony which overlooked the Thames led from the single open plan room and the doors were open to the late evening sun. Gabriella decided there must be at least two hundred people there.
Fabio, a small dark man in early middle age whose eyes seemed to be everywhere, saw them at once and danced over to them. “Dodie and Claire!” He kissed them both with gusto. “Wonderful to see you. And who are these two beautiful young people?”
“My son Roderic,” said Dodie proudly. “And this is his lovely young bride, Gabriella.”
“Gabriella? Italian, yes?” Fabio's eyes caressed her. “One day, bellissima, you come to my studio here and I paint you, yes?”
“Now, now, Fabrio!” Dodie laughed. “Take no notice, Gabriella. He only paints buildings.”
Fabio snapped his fingers at a hired waiter who brought them drinks, ushered them vaguely in the direction of the nearest group of people and darted off to greet someone else.
“What d'you think?” asked Claire.
“It looks fun,” Gabriella smiled. One foot tapping to the beat of the background music, she surveyed the milling guests, recognising several faces from cinema and television and trying to match them to names.
In the centre of an all male group some distance from them was a blonde woman whom Gabriella couldn't place but thought she ought to recognise because she was so stunning. She was small and slight but the short silver dress that she wore emphasised curves and limbs that were rounded and feminine. Her honey blonde hair was cut very close, showing off a beautifully shaped head, delicate ears and slender neck. Her eyes were large and of a vivid blue.
“Oh dear!” said Claire quietly. And Gabriella, although she wasn't touching him, sensed Rod stiffen at her side. And she saw that they were both staring at the blonde woman. Then Dodie was there, her arms around the three of them, coaxing them to another part of the room.
“You must come and meet Daniel Jacobson,” she was saying. “He's just had his first book published and is about to be sued for libel by at least six people!”
“No, mother,” said Rod. “There's no point in running away.”
Gabriella felt the tension amongst them and suddenly she realised who the other woman must be. She turned to say something to Rod but it was already too late, he was moving forward and then the blonde woman saw him and waved her admirers away.
“Come along, dear,” said Dodie, taking Gabriella's arm. “He'll be back soon, don't worry. Come and meet my friends.”
But it was an hour before Rod returned to them. At one point Gabriella saw them on the balcony, the blonde woman talking earnestly to him, her big blue eyes raised appealingly to his and her narrow hands fluttering against his chest like two small white birds. Gabriella couldn't help thinking what a striking couple they made, the tall dark powerfully built man and the slender blonde haired woman, scarcely higher than his shoulder.
Rod was quiet when he returned and no one mentioned the encounter. They left a half hour later.
Her next glimpse of Caroline was from the window of her office at Englands the following Wednesday. It was five thirty. She saw the white open top car pull into the car park and recognised its driver instantly.
Rod had told her he was going out to dinner that night and she was not surprised when she saw him leave the building and stride towards the white car.
Just as Caroline was about to drive away, Rod looked up at Gabriella's window and his eyes met hers. He nodded briefly and then they were gone.
During the long evening as Gabriella waited for him to come home she realised anew that her love had matured. Her concern was no longer for her own feelings but for Rod himself and she prayed that Caroline would not have the power to hurt him again.
She had a feeling that the meeting had been initiated by Caroline. What was her purpose? Did she want something from Rod? Money perhaps? Or did she want Rod himself? Gabriella wondered if he still cared for Caroline. Was it possible to fan the flames of that old love into a new fire? For his sake she hoped not. For her own, she wished she had the right to fight the other woman for him. But she had forfeited that right. In any case there could be no contest, she thought sadly, for she had no weapons.