The following morning before Flo got into the taxi to Paddington she said softly, as she hugged Jenny goodbye, ‘Don’t waste even a second of possible happiness.’
Jenny looked at her suspiciously. ‘Never mind me. You are not to worry about anything. Do as you’re told and rest! I’ll ring every day. See you next week.’
Bea and James got into the taxi anxiously, noting their daughter’s stubborn look and her inexplicable reserve with Antonio. It obviously had not been such a good idea to encourage Antonio to return with them because Jenny was in London for a week.
‘Oh dear,’ Bea said softly as the taxi swung away to Paddington.
‘Oh dear, indeed,’ James echoed, feeling exasperated with his daughter.
SEVENTY-NINE
I had been completely thrown by Antonio appearing in London with Bea and James. To my dismay, Flo had offered him a bed in Danielle’s flat with Bea and James. He refused, but he ate with us.
He came to say goodbye to Bea and James the following morning and as the taxi slid down the road to join the flow of traffic I was left, awkwardly, with him. I had reached the horrible point of knowing I was behaving badly but not knowing how to retrieve the situation.
I climbed the stairs with him behind me, prattled about Flo and her operation and heard myself with growing panic. Antonio followed me in uncharacteristic silence. When we reached the kitchen I saw a small tight smile on his face.
‘Coffee?’
‘Thank you.’ He moved to the window and looked down on the garden, ill at ease, jiggling the change in his pocket. My heart contracted. I wanted to put out my hand and touch his arm in his very Italian short-sleeved shirt and say I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I had never seen Antonio at a loss before.
I passed him a mug of coffee and looked down at the empty garden too. ‘Hot days in a city seem a waste somehow.’
He turned. ‘You are homesick already, Jenny?’ His eyes were amused.
I smiled. ‘Not really. Not yet.’
He took a sip of coffee. ‘So, you are left alone here, holding the fort?’
‘Danielle should be back this afternoon.’
We were silent. This was ridiculous. We were making small talk like strangers. I met his eyes and saw the misery in them, and I put down my mug and reached out my hand to him. He took it cautiously as if it were a Judas kiss and pulled me a little closer. I looked at the dark hairs that ran over his knuckles and shivered, instinctively bringing his hand to my cheek. He pulled me to him. ‘Jenny…Jenny…cara.’
I buried my head in his shoulder and he held me, and we rocked together in the kitchen. He moved to kiss me. I have to tell him, I thought, I have to tell him. I’m not being fair. But his mouth was on mine and desire ignited like a small forest fire. I pressed myself against him, abandoned, grateful not to fight any more.
In a second we were in my bedroom pulling off our clothes and leaping into bed. I did not want to think. I only wanted his touch, his body and his beautiful sensuous voice urging me on. Antonio could make me melt. He could set me alight in minutes. I loved the solid heaviness of him, the feel of his square dark body. I loved…
‘I love you, Jenny. I love you. Do you hear me, cara? I love you, love you…’
He was inciting me to a response and, although they rose in my throat, soared like a bird inside me, I could not, would not say those words to anyone else. I felt the tears run down my cheeks with an emotion so overwhelming that I clung to Antonio and shook. He folded me to him like a child, pressed his lips to my hair and we slept.
I woke when I heard Danielle coming up the stairs. I slipped out of bed, swung on my robe and shot out of the bedroom into the kitchen.
Her face lit up when she saw me. ‘Jenny! I thought you must be out.’
‘No, I’m here. I was just going to have a shower. Mum, Dad and Flo got off all right.’ I trailed off as she stared at me, pressing her lips together, trying not to laugh. I went to the mirror and my tell-tale face and smeared mascara stared back through a tangled mass of hair. I flushed and glared at her. We both heard Antonio get up and turn on the shower.
She lifted her eyebrows at me, still grinning. ‘Flo rang to say Antonio was in London. Let us have a drink together and then I’ll disappear.’
‘Don’t be silly. You don’t have to disappear.’
‘I am exhausted, darling, too many late nights. I am going to sleep, then I have plans for this evening. Serious partying coming up.’
I laughed as I poured us both a drink. ‘You’ve met someone?’
She looked smug. ‘Mm, Italia pilot. Seriously gorgeous. You see, darling, you are not the only one to have a sexy Italian.’
‘Shut up,’ I said, ‘and drink your gin.’
‘Oh, Jen,’ Danielle said. ‘I am so looking forward to this week with just you here. Like old times. We will have fun, yes?’
‘It’ll be bliss.’ I held up my glass to her.
‘Right,’ she said, winking. ‘I will take my drink to my bed. Shall I come down before I go out to say hello to Antonio? I promise to ring down first in case…’
‘Oh, go away!’ I said.
I went back into the bedroom and found Antonio neatly dressed. He grinned at me. I grinned back. I would say something later. I would. Later. It was just…
‘Get your clothes on, Jenny. I am taking you to a very wonderful place for lunch.’
‘Posh?’
‘Posh?’
‘Smart?’
‘A little.’
‘Italian?’
‘Of course. Are you hungry?’
‘I’m starving!’
He came and took my face in his hands. ‘So am I!’
I put on a dress I had made for myself in sarong style out of some material we bought in Spain. It was a greeny gold silk that Adam and Dad had loved me in. I felt like a sensuous mermaid in its folds. I dug out some Jimmy Choos and tottered around getting used to them again. I was tanned and I felt as I hadn’t felt for ages: sexy, confident. Excited.
‘I cannot take you out like that!’ Antonio exploded. ‘Get those clothes off immediately and get back into bed where I can ravish you!’
‘Don’t you dare lay a finger on me, Antonio. It has taken me ages to get ready!’ I shrieked.
He took my hand and we ran down the stairs. In the taxi he said, ‘I am unsure if I still want to take you to this Italian restaurant run by a good friend of mine. It will be full of Italians. You cannot trust Italian men.’
‘Is that right?’ I said, lifting an eyebrow.
‘You are very beautiful,’ he said.
We ate to-die-for food in a spectacular garden with a cool tinkling fountain. The wine was delicious and Antonio’s friends were easy, hospitable and amusing. I was even starting to pick up Italian. I had fun. I had such fun.
We fell into a taxi in the late afternoon and raced up the stairs like children. We tore at each other’s clothes and made chaotic, giggling love until we fell into an inebriated and happy sleep, entwined in the crumpled sheets.
EIGHTY
Danielle crossed the landing and went up to her flat humming ‘Love Is in the Air’. Once inside, she moved around throwing open the windows. Bea and James had stayed the night up here and they had left her a card propped against the kettle to say thank you. She kicked off her shoes, went into her bedroom and threw open the wardrobe. What was she going to wear for her beautiful Italia pilot? She smiled as she separated three dresses and hung them on the door.
She grinned to herself. Jenny and Antonio. She got herself some cold water from the fridge and went into the shower. I am happy, she thought as she lifted up her head and let the water cascade over her hair and body.
She pulled on her robe and wrapped her hair in a towel. Should she sleep or look at her post? She got another glass of water and sat at her table. Flo or Jenny had put her letters in a pile and there was a brown envelope beside them with a note. She pulled it towards her. She had forgotten all about the police photograph
s. Jenny had stuck a Post It on the front.
Danielle, the police wanted to see if we recognised any of the men in these photographs, all wanted for various terrorist activities. Flo and I went to the police station and we weren’t any help at all. I think the police are just showing us that they are still actively looking. Give Inspector Wren a ring on that number on Monday just to say you have looked at them.
Elle, hope this doesn’t upset you. J xx
Flo had rung and told her about Inspector Wren. She had also told her that Jenny had been violently sick when they got home from the police station.
Reluctantly Danielle eased the photographs out of the envelope. She did not want a reminder of that horrible time. It must have been awful for Jenny.
She separated the photographs and laid them out in front of her like cards. Three Europeans, two Asians and one African. Her hand stopped. The hairs rose on the back of her neck. Her heart began to hammer, her vision to blur. She got up violently and the chair fell behind her. She walked to the window and looked down on the garden.
I will walk back. I will look again. It will be tiredness, tiredness and imagination. I will be calm. It is not possible. I must be wrong.
She went into the bathroom and with trembling fingers combed out her hair, stared into her own frightened eyes. She walked back to the table and lifted the fallen chair. She looked at all the photographs and last the one by her right hand. As she stared at it her life fell away. There was no mistake. She knew who it was.
The phone rang and she ignored it. It would be Jenny. She heard the front door bang and a taxi stop outside: Jenny and Antonio going out. She was alone in the house. The blood drummed dizzily in her head like a waterfall. She stumbled into her bedroom and got into bed. She turned and pulled up her knees into a foetal position. Her teeth were chattering and she pulled the duvet up to her head. She rocked and keened with the terrible knowledge of what she had done.
The day died. Dusk filled the room. She had no idea of how long she lay, icy and motionless. She made herself go back over a sequence of events, slowly trying to comprehend her part in it. Had she been used? Or had she provided the opportunity?
Through the darkness came Tom’s fury: ‘Don’t you ever do anything like that again. How dare you be so irresponsible, Danielle? If you want to screw around, keep to your own flat; don’t you dare bring your bits of rough into our flat. Shut up! I’m not interested. You don’t listen, do you? You think my job is a game I play to irritate you. I could have killed that guy. Your stupid promiscuity puts us all at risk and I won’t have my wife and child put in danger by you. The door between the houses stays locked at night from now on. Do you understand?
She had hated him. She had loathed him for humiliating her. Jumping out of the dark suddenly, scaring her and the man witless as they tottered about, drunk, in Jenny’s kitchen looking for coffee. She had thought Tom liked playing Mr Tough Guy roles to impress. She had never, ever taken him seriously. Somehow she just couldn’t.
She sat up with the duvet round her shoulders. Think. Where had she met O’Sullivan? Had he approached her or the other way round?
My God, he had been petrified when Tom had hold of him. He had fled down the stairs, scrabbling at the locks and rushing out into the night. Danielle had never forgotten the speed and silence of Tom or the look on his face. It had been creepy.
She had slept with this man, shared her body with him for a short intense period. He’d had a rough Irish charm. Sex was good and uncomplicated. He did not waste time with words. She concentrated frantically, heard again that Northern Irish accent: I left Belfast in 1997. I’d had enough of British soldiers turning over my mother’s house.
One thing she was sure of. She had never mentioned to anyone that Tom was in the army. She put her head in her hands. Tom had been serving in Northern Ireland around that time. Had O’Sullivan recognised him that night? Or had the way Tom sprang out of the darkness made it obvious to an IRA man what Tom did for a living? Had it alerted him? Or worse—she got out of bed and began to pace. Had O’Sullivan coldly and deliberately targeted her to get to Tom? She moaned low to herself like an animal. She had casually, drunkenly, taken him straight into Tom and Jenny’s home.
She had rung him the next day. Their short affair had run its course but she was worried he might cause trouble, report Tom for assault. He was the aggressive sort of man who would think of it.
‘I’m sorry that happened. Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine, girl. I grew up in Northern Ireland under British occupation, remember?’
Words she should have remembered. Words that should have engraved themselves on her mind. They should have jumped out at her after Tom was killed, but she had been far too busy blaming him for Rosie’s death.
Danielle felt Rosie in her arms, smelt her lovely baby smell. She threw herself back on to the bed in anguish and started to weep again. Tom had been right all along. Her life had finally caught up with her.
EIGHTY-ONE
I woke and lay beside Antonio in the room that Tom and I had shared. The walls and curtains were a different colour. The furniture had been changed around. The photographs were Ruth’s. The feel of the room was not the same, but in the dark the ghost of Tom still hovered.
I got out of bed abruptly, went to the kitchen, poured myself some water and drank it thirstily. I looked down at the garden. Blackbirds scuttled and called in the dusk. Ghosts were not laid so easily. They slid back without substance like a breath on the evening air.
Birdsong filled that still and empty garden, echo of a voice and a trail of laughter; a child so heavily asleep in my arms that her head felt like lead. Sadness rose and I shivered. This house and garden could never be empty of them, neither could my heart.
Something distressing hovered. What was it about this evening that felt sickly familiar—a beating in the air disturbing a hidden anxiety? I felt as if I were tracing my steps backwards. As if I had been here before.
Wine at lunchtime always made me strangely melancholy as I sobered up. I turned away from the window to make tea for my dry throat and it came to me in a rush: I felt this thick apprehension waiting in vain for Tom and Rosie to come home from the zoo.
I looked up and Antonio stood in the doorway, a towel round his waist. The light from the bedroom pooled across the landing and into the dark kitchen. I was glad he could not see my face.
He said softly, ‘Will you marry me, Jenny?’
I stared at him, horrified and guilty. ‘I can’t marry you, Antonio.’ My voice still sounded husky with sleep.
‘Why?’ he asked simply.
‘I’m sorry. I…I don’t love you.’
‘No?’ He came closer. ‘Is that so?’
I felt my body grow hot with the thought of what our bodies had done together today. I was suddenly angry and defensive. ‘I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, Antonio. I’m really sorry. I thought we were having fun together. I thought our relationship was nice and casual.’
I turned and grasped the teapot like a lifeline and swirled hot water inside it. Antonio sprang towards me and the teapot flew out of my hand, hot water sprayed upwards and it crashed to the floor, breaking its spout.
Astonished, I met his eyes.
He was furious. ‘Casual! My feelings for you could never be mistaken for casual. Let us be truthful here. How then, do you think of me?’
I floundered, stunned by his anger and he said, ‘Good enough in bed. Not good enough for marriage? Am I right?’
‘No! No, Antonio, it’s not like that…’
‘What is it like, Jenny?’ He came and took my arms, shaking with the effort of not raising his voice. ‘Tell me what it is like.’
‘I’m not ready. It’s too soon…’ I said frantically.
‘It will always be too soon. You are still in love…you are still obsessed with a dead hero. How could I think you could possibly love an ordinary mortal like me, a dull Italian businessman?’ He laughed without humour, l
et go of me and moved towards the door, his body still stiff with rage. ‘No one else will ever be good enough. No one on God’s earth can compete with a man you won’t bury. Well, good luck with your life, Jenny. I have had enough.’
As I stood there the phone shrieked into the silence, making me jump. I went and picked it up. ‘Hello?’
There was no answer and then I heard a little whimper.
‘Who is it? Adam?’
‘Aide-moi, Jenny.’ The words were a whisper. ‘Jen…Aide-moi…forgive me…I…’
‘Danielle? What’s happened? Where are you?’
There was a rush of whispered French, repetitive, hopeless. I couldn’t understand her. ‘Elle, speak English, I can’t understand. Just tell me where you are. I’ll come, wherever you are, I’ll come now.’
‘Forgive me, chérie. I go now. I need to hear your voice.’ She reverted to French again, the words rising and falling like an incoherent litany.
I shouted, ‘Antonio! Come quickly,’ but he was already beside me. ’It’s Danielle. I can’t understand her. I don’t know what’s happened or where she is.’
Antonio took the phone and tried to calm her. ‘Danielle? Qu’est-ce-que tu dis? Calme toi, parles anglais.’
He listened and I watched his face grow anxious. ‘Darling, listen, tell me where you are. It does matter. Nothing can be so bad, nothing. Oh…’ He turned to me. ‘She has gone. I do not know what is wrong, Jenny. I do not know what has happened, but I think it must be bad.’
Danielle never spoke French. I took the phone and dialled 1471. I expected it to come up as her mobile but the number was unobtainable. I closed my eyes. Danielle had been so happy. What on earth could have happened in a few hours? She would not be this distraught over a pilot standing her up. I shivered, terrified she had been raped.
Come Away With Me Page 37