He gave her a steady look. ‘Nothing really.’
‘Come on . . . tell me.’
A pause, then, ‘OK . . . well . . . if you must know, it’s us.’
She didn’t reply, just watched his face go tense, his mouth working as he fashioned his next sentence.
‘It’s over, isn’t it? The love . . . no longer there.’
Jo was taken aback by the bleakness in his voice. Her instinct was to gush that everything was fine, that they should immediately sail off into the sunset together. But she knew that wasn’t the truth.
‘I do love you, Lawrence.’
He gazed at her, his expression sardonic. ‘Yeah.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well . . . I don’t know . . . every time we meet, it’s as if you’re holding back. Tolerating me, no more.’ Another pause. ‘I think you’re still in love with that American.’
‘I’m not,’ she said quickly, knowing she looked guilty, that her eyes still contained some vestige of her phone call to ‘that American’.
But Lawrence was warming to his theme without listening to her.
‘The other night, when we were making love, you asked me what’d happened, what was wrong? Well, the truth is,
you
were what was wrong, Jo. You.’ He shook his head as if he were bewildered. ‘I mean, why did you let me do it if you weren’t ready, if you didn’t want me? I wasn’t exactly begging.’
‘If you weren’t “exactly begging”, then why did
you
do it?’ Jo retorted, suddenly furious.
‘Because I thought it was vital to get over the hump. I didn’t see how we could move past what’s happened without finding each other sexy again.’ His eyes were narrow and hurt. ‘But you made me feel totally rejected, like I was old and useless and undesirable. It was quite horrible.’
‘I wasn’t making you feel like that. You were feeling that all by yourself.’
‘Really?’
She sighed. ‘Look, I’ll admit I wasn’t as engaged as I should have been. I really tried; I wanted to make it work as much as you did. But it didn’t feel right. We didn’t seem able to connect with each other properly.’
‘That’s exactly what I was trying to do. Connect.’ There was a note of exasperation in his voice.
‘OK, OK. I’m sorry. But don’t come the wounded lover with me, Lawrence. You’re the one who ran off, remember. And now you expect me to open my arms at the first opportunity? As if nothing’s happened? Now that it suits you.
Trust
you again? You had passionate sex with a man, behind my back, for nearly a year before you even told me. And now I’m supposed to just roll over and forget?’
‘Keep your voice down for God’s sake.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Because Jono doesn’t know anything about it, does he. You forgot to mention Arkadius in your reply to his “What’s been happening to you, Meadows?” question. No, it’s over for you, so it has to be over for everyone else too. Instantly. Never happened. Airbrushed out of all our lives.’ She took a shaky breath. ‘I’m actually beginning to feel sorry for Arkadius.’
Lawrence didn’t reply.
‘You asked if I was still angry with you the other night,’ she said, lowering her voice and trying to sound reasonable. ‘Well, there’s your answer. Of course I’m still angry. I’m fucking furious.’
His look, surprisingly, seemed composed, almost as if he welcomed her anger.
‘I let you go without a bloody murmur,’ she said, in a softer tone. ‘You must have been amazed I didn’t make more of a fuss. Cassie and Donna both said I should have fought for you. And maybe I should. But you can only do what you do in the moment. I didn’t see the point of fighting for someone who was in love with someone else. Would it have made any difference? If I’d made it hard for you to leave?’
Lawrence shrugged. ‘No . . . probably not. I wasn’t thinking straight at the time.’
‘Do you regret it?’ She didn’t know why she asked. It was the dumbest question on earth. ‘Don’t answer that,’ she added quickly. She watched his face go quiet, knowing that no one ever regrets falling in love. Only the fallout afterwards.
He glanced at his watch. ‘We should get ready for dinner . . . it’s nearly eight o’clock.’
Jo groaned. ‘Wish we could just leave.’
‘Me too.’
He got up off the bed and came over to her. ‘Jo . . . can I hug you?’
For a while they stood there together in the dusty summer light. She felt his arms close around her body, and as she leaned against his shoulder, she knew she wanted so much to love him again, in the way she always had, simply and with all her heart.
*
Alana was standing by the impressive sandstone fireplace in the drawing room, whispering with one of the other women who had been on the terrace earlier, when Lawrence and Jo came down. As soon as she saw them, she seemed to stiffen, don her hostess persona.
‘Joanna, Lawrence, how wonderful to see you.’ She offered Jo a mwah, mwah on each cheek. ‘You’ve met Caro?’
They said that they had, but Alana wasn’t listening as she bustled over to the butler’s table by the window, laid out with whisky, gin and vodka in a polished wood and silver tantalus, bottles of white and red wine, various mixes, bitters, a lidded stainless steel ice bucket and tongs, slices of lemon and tidy ranks of cut-glass tumblers and wine glasses. She was restless, always on the move, Alana, never stopping to listen or think.
‘What can I get you, Jo?’
‘Vodka and tonic, please.’
Her hostess set to, her slim figure elegant in a white sheath dress with black panels on the shoulders which showed off her tanned, shapely legs. With one hand she patted her dark hair, held back by a tortoiseshell clip at the nape of her neck, with the other she handed Jo her glass.
Lawrence asked for the same, both of them subdued, tired from their row. Jo’s drink was gratifyingly strong.
Dinner was hours late – apparently due to the vagaries of the ancient oven. Even Maria, the Portuguese housekeeper and cook, couldn’t seem to control it.
‘This place is worse than Fawlty Towers,’ Jono complained good-naturedly as they waited for the meal, everyone now drunk from the relentless flow of alcohol. ‘Da hadn’t replaced so much as a brick in thirty years, and wouldn’t let me touch the place while he was alive. Worried I might do something “modern” – for which read “nasty”. But now I don’t know where to start.’
Jo was sitting on Jonathan’s right, opposite Caro and next to her husband, Edward – a property millionaire whom Jo found virtually impossible to talk to. Four more couples – all local – had arrived, so the long table was full, despite the teenagers having been dispatched to a pizza restaurant in town.
‘This is all very jolly.’ Jono raised his glass to her in the gap between the guinea fowl and the cheese. It was nearly eleven by now, and Jo was wilting with the effort. ‘Glad you and old Meadows have sorted things out. Always thought you two were solid.’ He cast his eye down the table at his wife. ‘Unlike some I could mention.’
Jo raised her eyebrows at him in question.
‘The Russian?’ Jono went on, drunk enough to be oblivious to her discomfort. ‘These things happen, not a thing you can do about it. But you want to avoid being silly. No point in spoiling the ship for a ha’porth of tar.’
‘Lawrence said he hadn’t told you.’
‘Oh, he didn’t. Don’t blame him either. Bit of a dark secret, eh? No, Alana has a chum who’s married to a Russian. They all know each other, of course.’
‘Of course . . .’ she wanted to just get up and walk out, drive away as she imagined most of the faces currently around the table wide-eyed and gripped by the salacious gossip about her husband. It made her feel like one of those sad wives photographed at the garden gate for a media moment, holding hands and smiling through gritted teeth at their perfidious spouse. But in the wake of this feeling was a sudden fierce desire to defend Lawrence against all those gossiping mouths.
‘Been a bit tricky, has it?’ Jono, for all his bluster, was actually a kind man. He reached over and gave her hand a quick squeeze.
‘Could say that.’ She smiled at him and they both began to laugh.
*
By the time they got to bed it was nearly two. The weather had changed, a fierce wind blowing up that rattled the sash windows and blew cold air through the cracks. Jo flopped, exhausted, on to the bed.
‘Thank God that’s over.’
‘At least you had Jono. I had some tedious woman who banged on for hours about a drugs scandal at her child’s boarding school. And chilly Alana on the other side, who obviously loathes the house and can’t wait for Jono to sell it.’
Jo sat up. ‘He won’t do that.’ Her head was spinning and she felt slightly sick, which brought worry about the distant bathroom into focus again.
‘Not sure I can take a whole weekend of this,’ Lawrence said. ‘I was mad to agree to it in the first place.’
‘Can we do a runner?’
‘They might think it a bit odd.’
‘Shouldn’t worry about that. They think we’re super-odd anyway. They know all about Arkadius – the Russian connection, apparently.’
Lawrence looked stricken. ‘God.’
‘It was never going to stay a secret, Lawrence. You may not have told anyone, but why wouldn’t Arkadius?’ She closed her eyes, suddenly sick and tired of the subject. ‘But don’t worry, Jono referred to it as a “ha’porth of tar”, so maybe it’s not considered so unusual in their circle.’
‘Can we not talk about it?’ he asked.
They got into bed, Jo on her side, Lawrence on his, deliberately keeping space between them. Jo shivered.
‘These sheets feel damp . . . almost wet.’
After a moment’s quiet, Lawrence said, ‘Come over here, otherwise we’ll both die of pneumonia.’
Jo wriggled to his side, grateful for Lawrence’s warmth. The wind continued to howl and soon, as they lay huddled together under the cold sheets and stiff, pre-war blankets, they heard the rain begin to hurl itself against the panes.
‘This is more like Baskerville Hall than Fawlty Towers,’ Jo whispered, as a sudden bolt of lightning illuminated the room with a silver-blue flash. ‘Any minute now we’ll hear The Hound.’
Lawrence chuckled, but all they actually heard was a terrifying clap of thunder directly overhead, which seemed to shake the very foundations of the old house. In response he drew her closer and began to rub her back, first quickly to warm her up, then slower, moving his hand in circles, the rubbing now a gentle caress as his fingers wandered over her back, then down over the rest of her body. Jo felt herself begin to relax, allowing first the warmth, then the beginnings of desire to flow through her, all resistance, all thought, driven out by alcohol and tiredness. It was just her and Lawrence, in their own dark, sensual cocoon as the tempest raged outside, responding with heightened pleasure to each kiss, each caress as if it were for the first time.
*
Jo woke with a start. It took her a moment to realize that cold water was dripping on her face. She sat up, dazed. Another drop, and another. The ceiling was leaking, not just drops now, but a thin stream of water, directly on to the pillow. She gave Lawrence a sharp nudge as she jumped out of bed.
‘Bloody hell.’ He stared up at the ceiling. ‘Where’s it coming from? We’re not under the eaves.’
‘Maybe a blocked gutter or something? The water’s travelled across the ceiling till it found a weak spot. No wonder the bed felt wet. It was wet! This probably isn’t the first time.’
The light coming in through the window told them it was dawn, but still very early. Lawrence pulled back the curtains, the brocade drapes releasing a cloud of dust over his head. The storm had passed and the day was perfect, washed clean and fresh by the rain, everything sparkling in the morning sun. He checked his watch. ‘Ten to five.’
‘What are we like?’ Jo said, as they looked at each other across the room: naked, bedraggled, hungover, at a loss. Jo felt a bubble of hysteria as she tried to stifle her giggles in the silent house. But the more she tried, the harder she laughed. Lawrence joined her now, bent over, breathless, clutching his side, pointing to the water still dripping from the ceiling.
‘Gives a whole new meaning to “ensuite shower”.’
‘Shh . . .’ she managed, between gulps of strangled laughter.
‘They can’t hear us.’
‘I’ll never complain about the bathroom being miles away again. We need a bowl or something to put under it. Or we could move the bed,’ she said, when she got her breath.
Lawrence waved his damaged wrist in the air. ‘Weighs a ton,’ he said. ‘And then we really will wake the whole house.’
In the end Jo laid the two bath towels put out for them by Maria, doubled over, on the sheet beneath the drip – although the damage was already done.
‘What shall we do?’ Jo asked, shivering as she went in search of her clothes. ‘We can’t go back to bed and the others won’t be up for at least six hours.’
Lawrence was pulling on his shirt, still grinning. ‘Leave,’ he said, decisively. ‘We’re going to pack up, write a note and drive off. If they think we’re rude, then they think we’re rude.’
Jo laughed. ‘Right . . . OK. Good plan, Stan.’
For the next few minutes they tiptoed around the room, hurriedly stuffing belongings into bags, while the water still drip, dripped on to the towels. Jo had no time to think about what had happened last night. But underneath the tiredness and hangover she felt a quiet knot of pleasure.
They crept along the corridor – horribly aware of all the sleeping bodies behind the closed doors – down the stairs, each creak making them stop, pull a face, tiptoe on. The last thing they wanted was to be caught red-handed in their dawn flit by Jono or Alana. They left a note on the hall table, the paper torn from the Moleskine diary that Lawrence always carried, explaining that he was ill – of unspecified origin – and that they felt it better to go home than be a burden on their hosts.
The gravel of the circular drive crunched alarmingly beneath their feet. The doors closing sounded like a bomb going off, the car like a traction engine in the dawn stillness.
Lawrence let out a whoop as they reached the road. Jo realized she had been almost holding her breath for the last ten minutes. They grinned at each other.