A Song of Isolation

by Michael Malone

  ‘We’re both fine, Leece. I’m on the other line with Bernard. Can I call you back once we’re done?’

  ‘Sure, babes.’ Lisa sounded hugely relieved. ‘As soon as, yeah?’

  ‘I’m back,’ she said to Bernard, sitting back in her chair and sett­ling in for another one of their long, rambling conversations.

  ‘What you’ve been through is just staggering, Amelie. I’m in­credibly impressed by your fortitude, my dear.’

  Something snagged in her mind from a previous conversation they’d had.

  ‘It beggars belief. But, silver lining: I’m relieved that the guy in France didn’t turn out to be that crazy wedding stalker.’ As the words issued from her mouth part of her mind was wondering why she was talking to Bernard about events from that night all those years ago. ‘I don’t think I could have handled that.’

  ‘Thank the good lord he vanished back to wherever he came from,’ Bernard said. ‘But hey, no such thing as bad publicity.’

  The snag pulled. An all but forgotten conversation and a thread unloosened. ‘It’s funny, Bernard. I think I only ever told you the bare facts about what happened. I couldn’t bear to go through all the details with you.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘The last time we spoke about this, you mentioned something that no one knew. The wedding cake. No one knew about that. No one.’

  ‘Amelie, the shock of all of this…’

  ‘Bernard, how did you know?’

  ‘You must have told me. How else?’

  ‘I didn’t. I told no one. Even Dave doesn’t know what really happened in that house. And the taxi driver who saved me prom­ised on his children not to tell anyone.’

  No such thing as bad publicity.

  ‘Oh my God, Bernard. You set it up. It was you.’

  ‘Amelie, you’ve gone positively barmy, my dear.’

  ‘Shut up, Bernard. I may have been stupid about certain things over the years, but I’m not an idiot. Before the Hardy movie my career was on its last legs…’ Her mind was going into overdrive. What she was saying was the stuff of melodrama, but she was con­vinced she was right. ‘You arranged the whole stunt. I can just see the headline you were working up … Actress in the biggest movie of the year gets kidnapped by a whacko.’

  ‘Amelie—’

  ‘Except it didn’t go to plan, did it? The taxi driver spoiled it all. How on earth did you think I would come through that un­scathed?’

  ‘Please, my dear, you’re overwrought after all of this stuff with Dave.’

  ‘Who was he? Some unemployed actor? Was the red dress and the big cake your idea, or did he go off script?’

  There was a long pause, and then Bernard spoke in a quiet, wa­vering voice.

  ‘You were never really in any danger, dear.’

  ‘Oh Bernard,’ she said as her high energy drained from her. ‘Your big plan backfired, didn’t it? Your cash cow couldn’t handle the glare of publicity after that whole…’ She couldn’t think of an adequate word. ‘I was so scared, Bernard. It was traumatic. I’ve not been the same since. I spent years terrified of my own shadow. How could you?’ She felt tears build up and pushed them down. She would not allow herself to cry. ‘And I walked away. All of that for nothing.’ Another thread unspooled. ‘Except…’ She thought about her missing money.

  ‘There was never any big money scheme that lost a bunch of celebs their money, was there? That was you, you bastard. What happened – did the masked wonder demand a bigger payday once he saw how successful I’d become?’

  Bernard said nothing. His breath was loud and fast in her ear. And that set off another thought.

  ‘You didn’t even have a heart attack, did you? Did you?’ She re­called their telephone conversation when she was sitting in that small garden space in the middle of Bordeaux. When he was breathing like he was now. Bernard must have been pretending to hit an oxygen tank. She was such a fool. ‘You were worried I might work out what had happened and got yourself into such a state you had a panic attack.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘When the thing about Dave came out, this guy came back to you, didn’t he? He wanted more money. So you thought, there’s Amelie all the way over there in France. She won’t notice it’s missing.’ By the time she got to the end of her sentence she was shouting. ‘God, I am such an idiot.’

  ‘Miss, please.’ A nurse popped her head in the door. ‘People are sleeping.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Amelie waved an apology.

  Then she noticed Dave was looking at her, awake, his eyes full of love. He held a hand out. She took it and held on tight.

  ‘Bernard, go away. I never want to speak to you again.’ She ended the call.

  The money was nothing, that was a loss she could bear, but the betrayal, and the scale of it, from one of her oldest and most trusted friends would never leave her.

  Epilogue

  One month later November 2019

  The morning’s mist had dissipated under the gentle heat of the late autumn sunshine. A buttered light settled over everything so all Dave could see were tones of warm gold. Even the ranks of vines, stretching across the landscape looked as if they might be gilded.

  ‘It was great to have the company for a few days,’ Amelie said to Dave as she approached bearing a tray with a cafétière and a plate of canelés. ‘But it’s nice to have the place back to ourselves.’ She placed the tray on the table and sat. ‘It was fun though, wasn’t it?’

  Minutes ago they had waved off Lisa and Damaris, who were in a taxi to the airport. Now they were having a quick coffee before Amelie’s next shift over at the winery.

  ‘Damaris was in good form,’ Dave replied. ‘She’s really coming out of her shell, eh? And Lisa was much less diva-ish than I re­member.’

  Amelie laughed, then looked around at their beautiful sur­roundings. ‘I think there’s something about this place that strips away all our pretensions.’

  Dave nodded his agreement, and set his hand on her forearm. He did that a lot, he realised. Casual moments heated through with the silk of casual touches. A solid and constantly needed rem­inder that she was back in his life, and he in hers.

  Amelie put the tray on the table, topped up his coffee and kissed him on the forehead before taking a seat beside him. She sighed as she relaxed into the cushions. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever tire of this view.’

  Dave followed her gaze over the vineyards to the tall oaks and firs beyond. To the red-roofed fourteenth-century buildings that housed the workings of one of the world’s top wine producers. And from there to the clear, blue, endless skies.

  ‘Do you think the owner will let us buy it?’ Dave asked before he took a sip at his coffee. He’d moved over from Glasgow when a gite adjacent to the chateau where Amelie worked became available for rent. It was on a little rise, tucked in to a corner of the estate, and had three bedrooms, a large kitchen and a small courtyard overlooking the Smith Haut Lafitte basin. All that was missing to make it perfect was a tortoiseshell cat called George.

  ‘Once the legal stuff has been sorted you’ll certainly have enough cash.’

  That was the irony in all of this, thought Dave. He’d ended up ridiculously wealthy following his father’s death. Sure, he knew the business was worth something, and the house in Bearsden was in a prime spot, but the full extent of his father’s dealings, as re­vealed by his will, had taken him by surprise.

  ‘It’s been a lovely few days,’ Amelie said. ‘Thanks for putting up with Lisa.’ He read concern for him in her eyes, an acknowledge­ment of his difficulty around other people.

  ‘It was fun actually,’ Dave said, and meaning it. He’d always found Lisa better in small doses, and it was a real joy to see what a lovely human being Damaris had grown into, despite everything.

  He caught Amelie looking at her watch.

  ‘You know you don’t have t
o work,’ he said. ‘You won’t need to work ever again.’

  ‘I don’t need to do anything,’ she replied mock-sternly. ‘I want to. This place has gotten under my skin. I love being a part of the tradition. Seeing the grapes grow, and then being carefully trans­formed into this wonderful drink.’

  ‘Hey,’ he laughed. ‘You’re not talking to a bunch of tourists here.’

  ‘You could come to work on the estate as well. I’m sure Florence and Daniel could find something for you to do.’ They were the owners of the entire operation and they’d warmly welcomed Dave as part of the extended family.

  Despite this, Dave felt himself retreat a little at the thought of too much human connection. Too soon. This was a conversation they had regularly, and while he knew Amelie only had his best interests at heart he couldn’t allow himself to be at risk with anyone ever again.

  The thought of being forced to mix with other people was the only taint in this new life. On his own, or with Amelie, and he was fine, but the moment other people intruded he felt the shutters automatically bang down. Even these beautiful views and this wonderful new lifestyle weren’t enough for him to become more trusting.

  ‘Does it make it easier for you to let your guard down, now that your name has been cleared?’ asked Amelie.

  ‘L’enfer, c’est les autres,’ he replied. Only half joking. Hell is other people.

  ‘Get you with your fancy French,’ Amelie laughed. A sound Dave thought he would happily hand over every last penny for. ‘And by the way, Sartre was talking about the gaze of other people and how we judge ourselves through their eyes. So maybe we both need to learn to stop doing that?’

  Damaris had gone public as soon as Dave was released from hospital, caring little for the risk to herself, determined that Dave and Amelie should get back to some kind of normal life. In re­sponse, the media had shifted their attention to Roger and Claire, demanding an enquiry. Damaris hadn’t wanted to talk about it, so as far as Dave and Amelie knew, the authorities were currently considering whether charging the Browns with anything was in the public interest.

  It wasn’t in Dave’s. Retribution wasn’t something he ached for. Another trial would mean it would all be dragged through the court of public opinion one more time, and he just wanted to forget.

  Here. This moment. Coffee with Amelie in the calm of these surroundings. That was where and how he was going to get back to himself.

  ‘It was so lovely to see Damaris,’ Amelie said after she’d finished chewing her little pastry.

  Another thing Dave loved about her was her new ability to eat whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. Even in that time when she first retired from public life she was hyper-alert to criti­cism of her appearance and consequently ate to stay skinny rather than for health. He thought back to her comment on Sartre. If she was able to take her own advice, maybe he could learn to do the same?

  ‘She’s keen to come back and work in the vineyard in the summer.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  That was another surprise in this new life they’d built. Their connection with the girl at the heart of this.

  ‘You should have seen her,’ Amelie had said to Dave, after he got out of the hospital. ‘She was so brave, standing up to her uncle like that. She was a warrior. And seeing how she stopped cutting when she realised her abuse wasn’t real? It’s helped me deal with my own faked trauma.’ Amelie had bit her lip. Wiped away a tear. ‘What an amazing young woman. Despite everything I feel hon­oured to know her.’

  In the days after Damaris rescued them from her uncle she had gone back to live with her friend Chrissie, only tentatively allow­ing contact with each of her parents. She’d finally gone to live with her father just a couple of weeks ago.

  ‘He’s really, really sorry,’ Damaris had explained. ‘So’s Mum, to be fair, but she’s also kinda in denial.’ Damaris’s view was that Claire was on her daughter’s side but torn by her loyalty to her brother. ‘And while she’s still defending him she can forget it.’

  Of Cameron, they’d seen and heard very little since that night. As far as they knew the police were actively trying to bring him to book – for what he’d put him and Amelie through, and any number of other charges.

  Dave considered Amelie’s invite to Damaris to come back anytime. And saw her at the funeral service, her wave, the look of contrition and shame on her face. People might think it was strange that the girl who was at the heart of all their problems was now a friend. So what. He could live with that.

  Amelie smiled and stood up, the metal feet of her chair squeal­ing a short, high and happy sound against the stone tiles of their little patio. She leaned over, pressed her lips against his and he sa­voured the heat of her lingering kiss. Towards the end, he pushed his tongue towards hers and she gave a low groan as if experiencing the sweetest ache.

  ‘Oh my,’ she said when she stepped away. ‘Mr Robbins.’ She fanned her face dramatically.

  Dave laughed, feeling so much joy in the moment he wondered that he wasn’t about to burst out of his skin.

  ‘I really must go. You going to be alright?’

  He knew she meant in the next few hours while she toured the vineyard with tourists from various parts of the world, but he looked at her clear-eyed and heart-sure, thinking of the rest of his life. And certain that whatever it took, he was going to edge his way back into life and be fully among the living. He patted the little, black velvet box in the pocket of his jeans and felt a surge of hope. Lisa had travelled to Bordeaux via Glasgow and following his instructions to get into the house she’d collected the ring and brought it over with her. Now he was waiting for the right moment.

  ‘I’m going to be fine, my love. Just fine.’

  Acknowledgements

  As always, to all my fellow authors, booksellers, bloggers, book festival organisers and reviewers, thanks for your support. Book people really are the best people.

  Thanks to Karen Sullivan, surely the hardest-working person in publishing, for her steadfast and ceaseless efforts on my behalf.

  Thanks also to Karen and editor, West Camel for their clear-eyed attention to detail.

  Appreciation also to Alan Yuill, Barry Richardson and staff of the Scottish Prison Service. Also to Helen Fitzgerald. Any errors around the penal and legal system in Scotland are strictly mine. (It’s fiction, innit!)

  Also huge thanks to Claire, Guillaume, Anna, Tess and Noah – for sharing your beautiful home with me, and for providing a gateway to your stunning city. And Claire, what a wonderful cook you are! It was only when I got home that I realised I hadn’t eaten any meat the whole time I spent with you guys. (Apart from that one visit to Le Poulailler D’Augustin.) I’m just sorry I couldn’t work out how to mention Marche Des Capucins in the book. A must-see for anyone visiting Bordeaux.

  Thanks to Meggy for the afternoon tour and for answering my Bordeaux questions.

  To Florence and Daniel Cathiard, Valerie, Alix and all the staff at Chateau Smith Haut Lafitte – my time at the chateau was bliss. Thank you for the space, your kind attention and for putting up with my schoolboy French. I hope I’ve done justice to your won­derful setting in the book.

  And finally to you, dear reader. Without you this would be just a collection of black marks on white paper. It only comes to life when you open the pages and allow those scratches to settle in your mind. Thank you for your continued support – as every com­petitor on The X Factor ever said – it means the world!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Michael Malone is a prize-winning poet and author who was born and brought up in the heart of Burns’ country. He has published over 200 poems in literary magazines throughout the UK, includ­ing New Writing Scotland, Poetry Scotland and Markings. Blood Tears, his bestselling debut novel, won the Pitlochry Prize from the Scottish Association of Writers. His psychological thriller, A Suitable Lie, was a number-one bestseller, and th
e critically ac­claimed House of Spines, After He Died and In the Absence of Miracles soon followed suit. A former Regional Sales Manager (Faber & Faber) he has also worked as an IFA and a bookseller. Michael lives in Ayr. Follow him on Twitter @michaelJmalone1.

  Copyright

  Orenda Books

  16 Carson Road

  West Dulwich

  London SE21 8HU

  www.orendabooks.co.uk

  First published in the UK in 2020 by Orenda Books

  Copyright © Michael J. Malone, 2020

  Michael J. Malone has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–1–913193–36–2

  eISBN 978–1–913193–37–9