by Karen Swan
‘You call me?’ he said, confirming their agreement.
She held up his card. ‘Yes. Thank you,’ she nodded, hopping off tentatively.
Her flip-flops seemed noisy as they slapped against the wooden treads; the staircase seemed steeper – and more precarious – than she recalled too and for a moment, her courage abandoned her. What was she doing? Everyone (the police, even Kate) had warned her about this man, so what was she doing chasing him here to a remote house on the far side of the island? But before she could change her mind and turn back to safety, she heard the water taxi at her back, pulling away from the shore, white wake frothing behind it.
She closed her eyes and steeled herself. Well, there was nothing else for it now. Apart from anything, she couldn’t get phone coverage down here by the water. She would at least need to climb the steps.
Her knuckles blanched as she gripped the rope handrail, swearing under her breath as tiny, chalky stones skittered down the cliff either side of the staircase; but within minutes she reached the top with an expressive burst of expletives as she dared to look back down.
Eyes glancing left, right and left again, checking her arrival had been unobserved, she walked hesitantly into the olive grove that seemed almost to sparkle with shadows and light. Her hand reached for some of the ancient stippled, gnarled trunks; the trees were laden with fruit, much more so than when she’d been here earlier in the summer, fat juicy green olives speckling the canopies. She ducked low, avoiding some of the more bent-over and low-hanging trees – some of them appeared almost cleaved in half, others had stubby trunks no taller than her but so wide she couldn’t close her arms around them.
She remembered how charged the air had been as she and Joe had come back down here together that fateful last night, how they had almost skipped over the roots, returning to the boat with an unarticulated promise suspended between them.
Soon, though, she was through it and she stood at the edge of the grove, heart hammering, as she looked up towards the crumbling stone wall. Beyond it lay the garden and the house. Was he even there? He surely had to be, didn’t he? Why buy a house only to continue to stay in a hotel? It didn’t make sense, unless he was doing building works? But then, seemingly nothing that man did made sense. Everything about him was illogical and elusive.
Scanning the ground area one more time, she ran across the open expanse to the steps at the bottom of the wall and waited. There was no sound that she could make out, nothing to suggest he or anyone else was nearby. Tentatively, she climbed the steps and peered round the wall into the garden, her eyes opening wide at the sight that greeted her.
The difference was astonishing – it had been turfed, beds cut in around the perimeter and laid with lavender, rosemary, thyme and sage; a gardening fork was still stuck in the ground, a kneeling pad and trowel beside it. A beautiful cubed teak furniture set with sofas, armchairs and a table had been positioned on the grass; deep, palest-blue linen cushions softened its angular lines, and from here she could see the pages of a magazine fluttering upwards in the breeze on one of the seats.
On the terrace, some plush orange beach towels were drying across the backs of chairs grouped around a vast slate dining table, storm candles on the surface burnt down low.
Her eyes settled on the house, her ears straining for sound – a TV on, music playing, voices from a bathroom . . . But all was still. Nothing moved behind the glass, no lights shone. That was perhaps the biggest change since her last visit – as per her advice, glazed Crittall doors had been put in behind the ground-floor shutters which lay flat against the wall now. The stables had become a living room properly now.
Balling up all her courage – knowing that in moving from this spot, she would be fully exposed to anyone looking from the house, especially in this dress – she stepped forward. Blood was rushing through her ears and she half expected an alarm to suddenly blare, floodlights to find her; but she continued to put one foot in front of the other, creeping her way up to the building.
Feeling like a comedy villain, she pressed herself flat against the glass, trying to hear anything at all apart from the thud of her own heart and the caw of the wheeling seagulls overhead. She peeled herself away and peered in through the kitchen window. A chopping board was on the table, two lemons and a knife positioned there as though awaiting a Dutch master to paint them. She saw a cookbook – Trish Deseine’s Petits Plats Entre Amis – lying open on the wooden counter and several brown paper bags still twisted closed at the top. Some plates, glasses and cutlery were lying on the draining board; the water rivulets still running down the sides told her they’d been freshly washed. A laundry basket was on the floor in the far corner and she squinted, trying to make out the jumble of clothes from this distance: she could see cuffed shirt sleeves, the elasticated waistband of boxers, and then – she stilled as she glimpsed a cream bra strap dangling distinctively over the side.
She felt almost winded by the sight of it, even though she had already known he had a woman; she had known that first night just by the tone of his voice. This, then, was merely confirmation – one of the truths she had come looking for.
Why should she be surprised? Why should it hurt so much? But her head dropped, a tightness in her chest spreading. What point was there in staying now? This was enough surely. Why torment herself with further evidence of the life he had set up here? With his wife, or whatever she was.
But she couldn’t help herself. With masochistic zeal, she crept around the rest of the building, cupping her hands around her face as she peered in, unable to stop herself from looking, her frantic, hot breath fogging the windows as she flayed herself with the vignettes of a happy home: a gauzy blanket draped over the sofa – the same sofa she had lifted and put there – the cushion positioned side-on as though someone had used it as a pillow for a nap; a stack of paperbacks on the floor, a wireless tall floor speaker, a large brown leather holdall at the bottom of the stairs; a—
She froze again, forgetting to breathe as she caught sight of something tucked away to the side of the window; she could barely see it from where she was standing and she ran around the corner to try to get a better look, but it was exactly the same from this vantage point; it hadn’t – couldn’t – miraculously morph into something else. It was and always would be a cradle, wooden with turned spindles and hanging on a rocking frame. She blinked, blinked again, one palm pressed flat against the glass as she struggled to accept this inviolable truth.
He had a baby.
It was the sucker-punch she had needed; the only thing that could knock some sense into her and make her think clearly again. She had romanticized this man; even as everyone had warned her off, she had found ways to excuse or pardon him. An impostor, a fraud, or ‘something much worse’ – that was one thing; incredibly, she’d told herself perhaps he had ‘reasons’! But a husband and father?
She had to get out of here. There was no point in prolonging the agony. Whatever his reasons for doing what he’d done, these were irrefutable facts that rendered any explanations pointless anyway.
Her phone buzzed suddenly and she jumped. She had signal here? ‘Hey! Where are you? Room empty.’
Chloe texted back as quickly as she could. ‘Soz. Went for a quick walk. Heading back now.’
She pressed send and turned, only to find herself facing some sort of summer nativity – for there, just a few metres away, was a trinity of figures: a woman on a donkey, a man standing beside her. And in front of them both, Joe.
If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. ‘Hello, Chloe,’ he said quietly.
Looking back at them, just for a moment, she thought their group looked more shocked, more scared, than she. But that was ridiculous of course, she was heavily outnumbered. To her ear, her own breath sounded like a howling wind; everything was hollow.
‘I believe you know everyone,’ he said calmly, introducing her as though they were at a dinner party and he hadn’t in fact just caught her trespassing on his proper
ty, spying through the windows; that he wasn’t a man who had lied to her about his name and God knows what else . . . ‘You’ve met my brother Lucas.’
She swept her gaze over to the dark-haired man holding the donkey’s reins. She squinted, a frown puckering her brow. Why on earth did he think she knew his brother? She didn’t even know who he was . . . Although . . . now that she looked at the man, he did seem familiar, somehow . . .
Everyone was silent, as though waiting for her to catch on, to catch up.
Her sudden gasp was the sign that she had. ‘The doctor,’ she whispered. ‘On the boat.’ They had looked so alike, it had been like passing Joe’s ghost, even though she had known it was impossible . . .
Lucas nodded but still there was no smile, no flicker of friendliness. They were all locked in some sort of holding pattern, as though waiting to see who would do what next.
‘And of course . . .’ Joe’s arm swept round to the woman sitting on the donkey. With the sun behind her, she was largely silhouetted, but as she held her hands out to Lucas to be helped down, Chloe saw the ripe swell of her belly.
Lucas handled her carefully, setting her down as though she was made of glass. Chloe remembered the large leather holdall at the bottom of the stairs – a doctor’s bag, ready for anything, delivering a baby for example.
‘Chloe, it is good to meet you at last.’ The woman walked towards her, still more shadow than light; but her voice, though quiet, was accented and . . . again, familiar. Where had Chloe heard it before? Why was it hitting bone, demanding to be acknowledged? ‘You have done so much for me. I am glad I can thank you in person.’
‘Th-thank me?’ Chloe stuttered, bewildered. ‘. . . You mean, for finding the house?’ A love nest for her and Joe and their soon-to-be-born baby?
‘For saving my life.’
The woman was only a couple of metres away now, taller than she had seemed from a distance, her face coming into clear, beautiful view. Only then did Chloe understand.
‘Elodie.’
Chapter Thirty
They were sitting on the garden chairs when Poppy appeared at the top of the steps, out of breath and looking a little wild-eyed. ‘Oh, thank fuck for that! I thought the driver was having a laugh!’ she panted, leaning on the wall for support as she saw Chloe sitting with the others. ‘Those bloody steps,’ she managed, one hand pressed over her jack-hammering heart.
Everyone smiled at her dramatic entrance, the flame from the storm candle beginning to throw out long shadows as the sun dropped below the horizon.
‘It is a bit hard to find,’ Chloe said, jumping up and running over to her. ‘Although that’s rather the point.’ Poppy straightened up as Chloe gave her a relieved hug. ‘I’m glad you got here.’
‘All okay?’ Poppy asked quietly, concern in her eyes.
Chloe pulled back and nodded, smiling widely. ‘Come and meet everyone,’ she said as they slowly walked over the grass, arm in arm. Poppy was so weak still, perhaps she ought to have sent a donkey for her; but it would have taken three times as long to get here and she’d had the driver on standby in the port anyway . . . She hadn’t been able to wait any longer than was necessary. ‘Did you sleep okay?’
‘Yeah. But what’s going on? Why are we here?’
‘Well, rather a lot happened while you were resting,’ Chloe said, just as they arrived back with the others. ‘Pops, I want you to meet Lucas Inkham – orthopaedic surgeon extraordinaire.’
‘Jeez, you’re going to love me then,’ Poppy quipped, holding out a hand. ‘I’m more metal than bone these days.’
Chloe swept her arm round to indicate the woman next to him. ‘And this is Elodie—’
In a flash, Poppy’s smile vanished, her mouth dropping open in a perfect ‘o’ as she met the gaze of the beautiful woman. ‘Elodie?’ She looked in stunned amazement between Elodie and Chloe, for confirmation.
Chloe nodded.
‘Elodie Subocheva? You’re alive?’ Poppy whispered, slapping her hand over her mouth in disbelief as tears gathered in her eyes. She sank down into the nearest sofa, her already weak legs too tired now to keep holding her up. Chloe sat beside her and squeezed an arm around her; she knew that Poppy – regardless of how Chloe tried to argue it – still blamed herself for what had happened to Elodie. She had been the weak link, the channel through which Gelardi had managed to steer his dark ambitions, and although she had come to accept that Alexander’s behaviour had been equally as monstrous as his rival’s, she had refused to forgive herself for her lapse.
‘I am alive, very much so.’ Elodie’s own smile flickered as she smoothed a hand protectively over her bump, before looking up again. ‘But I am not Subocheva any more. I go by my mother’s maiden name now: Fournier.’
There was only a short pause as Poppy caught up, her back straightening as understanding settled over her. ‘Ah yes. Much nicer,’ Poppy said, still wide-eyed.
‘And safer,’ Lucas said quietly, his hand resting lightly on Elodie’s thigh.
Poppy’s eyes swivelled between the two of them, and her smile widened. ‘How excellent,’ she whispered, making Elodie laugh. It was a hesitant sound, as though rarely made, Chloe thought as she watched on.
‘And, last but not least, this is Joe.’ The name felt gravelly in her mouth as she said it.
‘J—?’ Poppy did a double-take. ‘As in No Joe?’
Chloe grinned. ‘The very same.’
Poppy leaned over the coffee table with an arm outstretched. ‘Well, pleased to meet you, No Joe.’ But just as he went to shake her hand, she looked back at Chloe quickly. ‘Am I pleased to meet him?’ she stage-whispered.
Chloe laughed. ‘Yes!’
‘Well, then, how do you do.’
Joe – eyes glittering with amusement – cracked a small grin and Chloe could see he liked her friend; but whenever he glanced over at her, his eyes somehow made her blood spin, making her feel like she was falling. They had yet to talk alone. Things had been so . . . overwhelming since finding him and his brother and Elodie here. It had been all she could do to have the presence of mind to ring the taxi driver and ask him to bring Poppy round. There was still so much to say, to understand, but she wasn’t sure where to start – or when.
They settled back into the chairs again and, for a moment, the two parties looked at each other in the dusky light. There was welcome in the air but also trepidation and Chloe sensed this invasion by the Brits took their small group into uncharted waters. They were all off-plan now.
‘Well, this is unexpected,’ Poppy said lightly. ‘So, is this the land of missing people or what?’
Everyone laughed again, put back at ease.
Chloe looked over at Joe, deciding to start it. She wasn’t sure she could wait another minute. His presence was filling up her head, her heart, her limbs. Blood had never raced around her so fast. All she wanted to do was look at him but she could scarcely bring herself to do it. ‘So what is your name?’ she asked him, feeling her cheeks flush as his gaze settled upon her with typical intensity. ‘I know it’s not Joe Lincoln.’
He looked at her – always so steady, so calm. ‘It’s Joel.’
She blinked at him. His brother was Lucas Inkham. ‘Joel? Joel Inkham?’
‘Joe Lincoln. Joel—’ Beside her, Poppy burst out laughing at the phonetic echo falling back in the cushions. ‘Oh, I love that!’
But Joe – though he was smiling too – kept his eyes firmly on Chloe. ‘If you have to tell lies, keep them as close to the truth as you possibly can.’
‘His nickname in high school was Dual Income, if that’s of any interest,’ Lucas quipped. ‘He had a sideline in selling our father’s beer from the back of his car.’
Poppy slapped her thighs. ‘Oh my God, you lot! You’re brilliant,’ she cried. ‘That’s the best thing I’ve heard in months!’
Joel. Chloe remembered Ariane at Chimichanga had called him that but she had assumed it was an error. Chloe tried the name on for size, rolling it
around in her mouth, running it through her mind. She couldn’t take her eyes off him; nor he her.
He reached forward and poured Poppy a glass of wine; she was already spearing olives in the olive bowl with a cocktail stick.
‘Thank you, Joe with an L,’ Poppy said, taking the glass from him and sitting back, devilment in her eyes. She looked back at Elodie. ‘Shit . . . I still can’t believe you’re here.’
‘It was the only way.’ Elodie’s hands smoothed over her taut stomach protectively. ‘Once I found out about this little one, I knew I had to get out. I had to do it not just for me, but for her.’
‘You’re having a little girl?’
Elodie nodded.
‘I love little girls,’ Poppy sighed, clapping her hands together and resting her cheek against them. Chloe groaned. It was like sitting next to a puppy.
‘So do I. Already she has given me such strength.’ Elodie’s voice was quiet but fierce. ‘For years I knew that leaving my husband was too dangerous: he is such a controlling person, so obsessive. I feared it would not even be possible, that he would rather I was dead than I left him . . .’ She swallowed, looking down at the ground. Her arms tightened around her bump. ‘But when I learnt about this little one, I knew I had to try; I had to get away before it became evident because then we really would be trapped. He would never let us leave him then.’
Poppy’s expression had changed. ‘He hurt you?’
Elodie met her gaze and nodded.
Chloe suppressed a shiver. Alexander was a big man in every way – ego, power, and in bulk too. It would be no exaggeration to say that Elodie probably weighed little more than his leg. To think of him bearing down upon her, fists flying, eyes glaring . . . She remembered her own fear that night on the yacht as he stood inches away from her, deciding her fate; it had been so physical she could taste it, a metallic element in her mouth.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Poppy said, looking crestfallen.