Yours sincerely,
Emma Tarrant (Head of fiction)
I stared. Read it again. Then my jaw dropped. Bloody hell. Bloody hell! God, the little toerag was a ruddy schoolboy! Just out of sixth form and getting cheap thrills from ur -ging frustrated housewives to pen their sexual fantasies! I nearly went up the back of the tractor I was so livid. How dare he? My blood boiled as I imagined some gauche, spotty, loose-limbed youth behind a pile of manuscripts in a dusty, forgotten office at the top of a publishing house, glasses steaming up as lurid sex scenes unfolded before his eyes, mouth open, tongue hanging out – and heaven knows what else under the desk – as he devoured them. And preying on women like me, I thought with a jolt. Women desperate to be published, desperate to go to any lengths to see their work in print. Well, we’ll soon see about that, I seethed, hot with indignation and shame. I’d – I’d sue, that’s what I’d do. I wouldn’t take this lying down, oh no!
I put my foot down and sped, with an alarming lack of thought, past the tractor. I missed an oncoming car by inches and, as it swept past me, horn beeping angrily, I flushed hotly. All that work, I seethed. Wasted! But narrowly avoiding a head-on collision had sobered me up a bit. I chewed my nail.
Perhaps it was for the best, I reasoned bitterly. I mean, had I, in all conscience, felt very comfortable with my work recently? Had it sat easily? Oh, it had flowed all right, like an oozing wound, but perhaps it had just been the sexually frustrated outpourings of a woman engaged to the wrong man, and not actually something I’d be proud to see in print? Let alone for anyone else to see. Flora, for instance. Or Mum. Mum! My hands leaped off the wheel in terror and the car lurched towards a ditch. I swung it hastily back on the road. And how explicit would I have got, I wondered uncomfortably, with encouragement? How erotic a tapestry would I have woven? How depraved a cast of characters, how many members would I have crammed in – so to speak.
No, I decided hastily. No, this was a blessing in disguise. Thank goodness for Emma Tarrant. Thank goodness she’d nipped it all in the bud before heaven knows what had gushed from my gaudy pen. Lordy, Sebastian might even have got his three in a bed with goat scene, as one of his recent emails had suggested. ‘Go for it, Annie!’ he’d urged. ‘Animals are very big at the moment. Maybe a pig, too?’ Oooh … I gripped the wheel.
I felt sad though, as I turned into the narrow lane that led to Taplow House. Sad that my secret dream of becoming a novelist was in tatters. There’d been real ambition there; the executing of a private desire that concerned me and no one else. A decision to stick my head above the parapet, and either have it knocked off or, if not laurelled, at least encouraged. But maybe I should try again? Write not romantic fiction, but something that truly fired my imagination? Something that came from the heart? Something I really wanted to write?
I sighed as I pulled into the drive and crunched slowly up the gravel. I was surprised to see an ancient blue Volvo already sitting in pole position, so I swerved and parked alongside it. I frowned. Then it came to me. Of course, it was Thursday, so Tod was due to be collected by his aunt. By Louise. No wonder Flora had been keen to get here before he went, to say goodbye.
As I got out and walked past the car, I noticed a pile of boys’ football boots in the back. Tod’s cousins’, no doubt. The green front door under the little wooden porch was ajar in the sunshine, lobelia nodding from the hanging baskets, blowing in the breeze. I ducked underneath the blue petals, and felt a sudden rush of relief as I pushed through the door. Nothing mattered. Not really. Not David, not the book. I was back, you see. Back where I belonged in this heavenly house, where not even a spotty seventeen-year-old getting his rocks off courtesy of my scribbles could impinge on my joy at being here. This was where I wanted to be, and it felt good.
‘Flora?’ I called as I went into the dim, flagstone hall, the Cornish slate cool beneath my feet. It smelled churchy somehow, of wax polish and flowers. ‘Matt? I’m back.’
My heart leaped ridiculously as I said that. As if I were home, and he were a part of it.
As my eyes adjusted to the gloom of the timbered sitting room, I saw someone hunched over a newspaper, silhouetted in the bay window. A pretty, dark-haired girl with merry brown eyes glanced up at me. Smiled. ‘Hi.’
‘Oh, hi.’ I smiled and dumped my bag on a chair. ‘You must be Louise.’
She stood up slowly, the smile fading slightly. She licked her lips.
‘Uh, no,’ she said hesitantly. ‘No, actually. I’m Madeleine. Madeleine Malone?’
Chapter Twenty-six
I stared at her. Couldn’t speak for a moment. Then I found my voice. ‘Oh! You mean –’ I broke off, astonished. ‘Matt’s wife.’
As I said it, the implication horrified me. My God. Tod. ‘Ex-wife, actually, but yes.’
My mouth went dry. I walked quickly across to the window on the opposite side of the room on the pretext of opening it, to give myself time. I flung it wide and clutched the sill, my heart pounding. I felt the sea wind sharp in my face. Matt’s wife. And where the hell was Matt? Tod? I turned back from the window.
‘I … thought you lived miles away,’ I said, managing a nervous smile. ‘In Cambridge.’
‘I do, and I’ve just driven all the way down from there. Might I ask who you are?’ she said a trifle impatiently.
‘Oh, I’m Annie. Annie O’Harran.’
‘Well, nice to meet you, Annie O’Harran, but I’m none the wiser.’ She gazed at me steadily. ‘Where exactly do you fit in? You see, I’m somewhat nonplussed by what’s going on around here. Could you enlighten me? I’m looking for my son.’
I looked back at her. Her eyes were very unusual: amber, intent and focused. She wasn’t a bit like I’d imagined. Not a bit. Very pretty, but in a petite, fragile sort of way; with chestnut curls and a pale, heart-shaped face, not slick and blonde and stylish at all. She was wearing a baggy checked flannel shirt, loose over jeans and trainers.
‘Only I have to tell you, I’m going slightly out of my mind with worry.’ She gave a nervous laugh. Ran a hand through her hair. ‘Wondering if he’s – I don’t know – drowned in the ocean, or gone wandering off someplace.’
I licked my lips. ‘I’m afraid I’ve just arrived back from London. I don’t know where he is.’
‘But he is here? I mean – living here?’
I took a deep breath. Walked over to the heaving bookcase and stared at the dusty spines. I ran a finger down one of them. Oh dear God. Where are you, Matt?
‘Mrs O’Harran, do you have any children?’ The voice, when it came, seemed to come from far away.
‘Yes. Yes, I do,’ I admitted into the ranks of books. ‘Then perhaps you’ll appreciate how I felt when I called Tod’s cousins in Bodmin this morning in order to speak to Tod, and was informed by the housekeeper that no one of that name was staying. No Tod. Oh, but hang on, this woman said, last week, there had been a boy. A cousin, she thought, American, but only for one night. He’d gone the next day. And no, ma’am, he certainly hadn’t been back since.’
I swallowed, staring down at my feet, listening as her voice continued behind me.
‘Louise? I asked in panic, fear rising within me like a high-speed elevator. Where was Louise? Oh, out visiting friends in Exeter with the boys, she said, and Tom, her husband, was at work. When I asked who’d picked up the boy, the American boy, she said a man had. A tall man, with a similar accent, who she’d guessed was the father. Well, I tell you, Annie O’Harran, my blood ran cold.’
I turned sharply. ‘Why? Is that so terrible? For a father to want to spend time with his son? To collect him for a holiday?’
‘You bet your life it is.’ She raised her chin in an effort to control her emotion, but I could hear it in her voice. She took a crumpled pack of cigarettes from her jeans pocket, lit one with shaking fingers and blew the smoke out quickly.
‘So. Down I came, hitting ninety on the freeway, breaking every damn rule in the book, and arrived at the house in Bodmin a
little after four, out of my mind with worry. The house looked deserted. No cars were in the drive, and so I took it Tom and Louise were still out, but happily, the housekeeper was there. I saw her face at the window as I drew up, and as she bobbed behind the drapes, I guessed she’d realized she’d made a mistake. She opened the door just a crack when I rang, and didn’t want to let me in. She had to, though, because I pushed her pretty roughly out of the way. It’s fair to say I was in quite a state by then.’
She took a swift drag on her cigarette. Walked to the open window, one arm clamped fiercely around her stomach, her back to me.
‘So then I set about trying to find Tod. Crazy really, cos she’d already told me he wasn’t there, but still I went from room to room, shouting like a maniac, running up to the bedrooms, flinging open doors and closets, but sure enough: no trace of him. No clothes, no books, no nothing, and yet I’d driven him to that very house barely a week ago. Had coffee with Louise in the garden, admired the house, seen the room Tod was all set to share with his cousin.’
I continued staring at my shoes. In my peripheral vision, I saw her turn back from the window and regard me carefully, gauging my reaction. She tilted her head down, the better to see my face.
‘Awful, huh?’ she said softly, finding my eyes. ‘When you come to think of it? Think about it properly, Annie. Think how you’d feel if you’d left your child in someone else’s care and they betrayed your trust. It’s treacherous, isn’t it? Appalling.’
I raised my head, but didn’t respond. ‘So, finally,’ she went on, ‘I went back to the kitchen and made for Louise’s desk. The housekeeper’s wringing her hands as I rifle through her papers, protesting like the chorus from some Greek tragedy, but I’m oblivious. I’m like – possessed. I went through Louise’s diary real thoroughly, her address book – anything just to give me a clue to his whereabouts. And d’you know what I found in the address book under Matt Malone?’
I glanced up. ‘Why, sure you do. I found his Boston address, naturally, and then underneath, in pencil, Taplow House, and this telephone number. At first I couldn’t think where in the hell Taplow House could be, but you know, as I racked my brains, I remembered … remembered about two years ago, when Matt and I were still together and staying at Louise and Tom’s on a trip over here, we met this eccentric old English lady. She had a quaint old house on a creek by all accounts, which Matt thought sounded so cute and was real keen to rent. But then I thought: No. No, it can’t be true. Matt’s in the States. He can’t be over here. He wouldn’t be so duplicitous. Couldn’t be. So I reached for the phone and I dialled the Boston University Hospital. I spoke to his secretary – a new one, who doesn’t know my voice – who assured me that yes, Matt was definitely on vacation. In Europe for sure, and possibly England. Well, my heart was pounding like you wouldn’t believe as I put that phone down. At first I didn’t believe it, didn’t believe he’d be capable of such a thing, but then I thought: Jesus, Madeleine Malone, you’d better believe it. And you’d better get yourself over to that quaint old house right away.’
She tipped back her head and blew smoke out in a shaky blue line at the ceiling.
‘So, my mind racing, I got back in the car, and I drove the distance over here. No real address mind, just a village and a house, but there aren’t many houses at the end of a creek, and sure enough, after quizzing a few locals, I found it. Empty. Deserted. But that’s OK because, running frantically around it, I find a room, right at the very top, that’s clearly Tod’s, with all his stuff in it. And you know what? I sat down on that bed and I clutched his sweatshirt to me and I burst into tears I was so damn grateful.’
I took a deep breath. Let it out shakily. I felt her eyes on me as she took another quick drag of her cigarette.
‘And then, as I moved around this kooky old house, it got stranger and stranger. Matt’s clearly living here. I figure that out because I find his stuff in a room upstairs. But there’s a woman too. Not with him, in his bed, but down a floor. And another child, a girl.’
‘I can explain that,’ I said quickly. ‘Matt rented this house, but there was a misunderstanding because I also –’
‘Oh, please’ – she held up her hands – ‘spare me. Matt’s domestic arrangements became a matter of complete indifference to me a long time ago.’ She flicked her cigarette ash sharply into an ashtray.
‘So then I find this note, fixed to the fridge in the kitchen, which is so damn cute, and, I guess, addressed to you.’ She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and handed me a piece of paper.
I read it: Gone fishin’. Got cabin boy, and Girl Friday too. Wish you were here. Matt. My heart leaped ridiculously. Couldn’t help it. I glanced up. She narrowed her eyes at me as she exhaled a long stream of smoke.
‘Touching, isn’t it? And clearly you are touched, although I think you should know what you’re dealing with here.’
‘What I’m –’ I started. ‘Look, I don’t know what you’re implying about Matt, but –’
‘So then,’ she went on, cutting me off brusquely in mid-sentence, ‘then I go into the study. I mean, I could just sit tight because by now it’s dawned on me that Louise and Matt have pulled a fast one and I’m the dupe, but at least Tod’s here and that’s all that matters. But you know, something makes me want to keep looking around. I just have this feeling, this hunch there may be more. And how right I am. Because in his study – which I know is his because it’s so chaotic – I search through the drawers, and find these.’
She dipped into her handbag and pulled out an envelope. Handed it to me.
‘Open it.’
I did. Slowly. Stared at the two pieces of paper in my hands.
‘Two tickets to JFK from Heathrow for tomorrow afternoon,’ she said, carefully. ‘One way.’
I swallowed. ‘Now. Who d’you suppose those are for?’ she drawled softly, head tilted to one side. ‘You and Matt?’ She reached out and took them from me. ‘No. I don’t think so. I don’t think you’re going anywhere with him, honey.’
I licked my lips. I’d already read them. Mr M. Malone, and Mr T. Malone. I sat down slowly on the arm of the sofa.
‘Matt and Tod,’ I said softly. ‘Exactly. Matt and Tod. So what we have here is not just a little vacation with his daddy, which anyone who didn’t know Matt’s full history of abuse might say was only fair since he hadn’t seen his kid in over a year, but a deliberate, calculated plot to abduct my son from under my nose and take him out of the country and back to the States, which I doubt even Tod knew about.’
I stared at her. Her face was white, bloodless. ‘Abuse?’ I whispered. ‘What d’you mean? Matt wouldn’t … he wouldn’t …’
‘Wouldn’t do this?’ She quickly unbuttoned her shirt and revealed a scar, livid and red, the stitches still raised and puckered, running from the base of her throat right down to her breast. I gasped, horrified.
‘Pretty, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but he told me about that,’ I said quickly, averting my eyes. ‘About the glass table smashing, about it flying up at you –’
‘And you believed him?’ She shook her shirt open and my eyes were drawn back like magnets. ‘Look at it, Annie. This is no flying glass scratch. Take a real close look.’
‘Of course I believed him,’ I faltered at last. ‘Of course I did, I –’
‘Even though a jury in a court of law, two police officers, a judge and a probation officer didn’t?’
I met her steady gaze. Her eyes were peculiar. Almost yellow. Like a cat’s.
‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘I believed him.’
She buttoned up her shirt. ‘More fool you. The judge called him a dangerous man. A danger to children. A danger to his own child. Said he was removing Tod from his father for his own good.’ She took a step closer to me, her face inches from mine now. ‘Tell me, Annie, how many fathers in this country are not allowed access to their own children? No visitation rights at all? It’s pretty unusual, wouldn’t you say? Not ev
en chaperoned? At weekends?’
Her eyes bored into mine, like burning gold. I felt my mouth go dry.
‘He’s not well, Annie. Really not well. And he’s out there now, somewhere, with my boy, planning on skipping the country. And at the moment, he’s got your daughter – who I take it is Girl Friday – with him too.’
I stood up quickly. She’d deliberately phrased it like that to frighten me. Ridiculous. None the less, anxiety accumulated in my chest, one grain at a time. Where were they? Which boat had they taken, I wondered? The little blue one, Pandora, or – or something bigger? Nonsensical thoughts spun around my head like a kaleidoscope, about them heading out to sea, up Taplow Creek and beyond, towards Ireland perhaps: crazy, irrational thoughts that made my head whirl, but that was how this strange, beautiful, amber-eyed woman was making me feel. That Matt was capable of anything. I had to get away from her. I got up, stumbling in my haste, almost thinking she might pull me back, and made quickly for the kitchen, for the back door. Wrenching it open, I hastened across the terrace and down the garden towards the creek, my heart thumping somewhere high up around the base of my throat.
At the end of the lawn I plunged straight into the woodland, ignoring the path and taking the shortest route straight down as the crow flies. I shielded my face from branches with my arms, but was almost oblivious of the boughs and brambles, my mind racing. Could it be true? A whole courtroom of people, a jury, and that appalling scar. I’d no idea it would be like that, so huge, so disfiguring, and yet – ‘Oh!’
As I crashed through a bush, I ran slap into Matt coming up the main path, his tall frame taking the force of our collision.
‘Hey, steady!’ He laughed, catching my arm. ‘No!’ I pulled away roughly. Our eyes met in that terrible moment. His, bewildered. Mine, fearful.
The Wedding Day Page 35