After the Honeymoon (35 page)

I think you’ve done more than enough already
, she’d emailed back.
We don’t need your help. On the other hand, if you want to email your son, that’s up to the two of you
.

Did they keep in touch? she wondered as she scrubbed the table harder, letting out her anger and fear. If so, that was another thing that Jack was staying silent about.

Suddenly she felt a warm breath on her neck, followed by a pair of strong arms around her. Before she knew it, Rosie was being lifted into the air. ‘Please,’ she laughed, breathless. ‘Put me down!’

Reluctantly, or so it seemed, Greco did so. ‘Leave this,’ he declared, gesturing towards the bucket and scrubbing brush. ‘Come on the boat with me.’

It was tempting. Since she and Greco had got together, they had made several wonderful boat trips. Sometimes it seemed it was the only time they could have together, away from prying eyes and Jack’s sullenness.

‘Not now,’ she said, nestling her chin on his shoulder. ‘I need to be here for when Jack gets home from school.’

Greco gave her a comforting squeeze. ‘I think he may be some time. I saw him at the bar when I was coming over here.’

Her heart filled with unease. That was another thing her son had started to do, since the summer. Drink. All the other teenagers did it but she still didn’t like it.

‘It’s just a stage,’ said Greco softly. ‘He’ll get through it.’

But would he? Rosie wondered, looking out over the horizon where the sea merged with the sky in a dramatic indigo-blue line.

And even if he did, what about her? Would she get through it too? A memory of Winston’s mouth on hers in that crowded dance hall came back to her. As clear as the carved heart on the leg of the patio table, in its teenage capital letters.

ALICE LOVES JACK.

The girl must have done that, before she’d left. However hard she scrubbed, the heart wouldn’t come out. And why should it? There was something about your first love that could never go away.

Maybe, Rosie admitted to herself, that was why she was still unable to banish her own memories, especially now they had been rekindled.

In fact, after this summer, could anything ever be the same again?

Start as you mean to go on – providing it’s
your
idea.

Stash a secret pile of ‘running away’ money in case things get tough.

Be selective with your past history.

Never be rude about his mother, even if
he
is.

From
Charisma’s
bridal special

WINSTON

‘Where are my football boots, Mum?’

‘Who’s hidden my laptop? I know it’s you, Freddie. Give it back or you’ll never see your football boots again!’

‘Buck up, you lot! You’re going to be late!’

Winston paused, mid-exercise, to shut the door of the spare room which Melissa had allowed him to convert into a gym. He should be at the television studio now. Not listening to this awful pre-school argument that went on every day with minor variations.

Sometimes it was homework that went missing. Or one of the children – usually Alice – would kick up a fuss because her jogging bottoms were still in the wash. It made his head ring. But worst of all was the discovery that Melissa, whom he’d first thought so sweet, turned into a harridan when it came to getting the kids off in the morning. It had certainly shown him a new side of her.

Still, thought Winston, looking out of the window at the row of neat suburban gardens backing an identical row of spacious Edwardian semi-detached houses (so boringly smug compared with the colourful life-on-the-streets view outside his London flat), his new wife would probably say the same about him.

Sweating, and not just from the exercise, Winston sat astride the rowing machine that he’d brought down from his place, along with a few of his other possessions, and grabbed the handles, working himself up to the maximum speed. Sheer hard graft was the only way to block this all out.

‘Who’s moved my car keys?’

‘Don’t blame us, Mum! Look after your own stuff!’

Faster. Faster. Winston’s hands tightened. Thankfully, Melissa was going to do a makeover at the other end of town after the school run. It meant that, for a few hours at least, they wouldn’t have to pussyfoot around each other all day, with the kind of polite distance that he’d always abhorred in couples who had little to say to each other.

What had happened to those lovely long conversations they used to have, not to mention the warm, melting kisses?

Winston stopped rowing. The truth was that it had never been the same since that bloody newspaper series.

Melissa might just have been able to cope with the news about Jack. As she reluctantly said, it wasn’t always easy for a man to know if a girlfriend was pregnant. But it was the story about Nick that had really done it.

If only he could have hidden it. For one mad moment that day, Winston had considered the possibility of shredding every copy in the land, along with each iPad, like the fairy-tale character who had banished all spinning wheels from his kingdom.

If only.

Instead, Winston had woken up the morning after returning from Greece to find Melissa studying her iPad with a frown on her forehead.

She’d glanced at him and then at the Google news item headed ‘Winston’s Shame’. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ she’d said in a voice that was scarily devoid of emotion.

He’d felt a catch in his throat. ‘Yes, I do.’

Bracing himself, he’d propped his pillow up next to hers. She’d edged slightly away.

Not a good sign.

Winston took a deep breath and began to talk.

‘I’d had girlfriends before you,’ he began.

She gave a short laugh. ‘I think Jack is proof enough of that, don’t you?’

Ignoring the barb, he carried on. ‘But none of them lasted, partly because of the nature of the job and partly because I didn’t feel ready to be committed. But then, one day, a new Wren was posted out.’

Melissa cut in. ‘Nicola Thomas,’ she said quietly, glancing at the iPad with its picture of a young woman in formal uniform and hair knotted back in a bun, staring out at them both.

‘Nick,’ whispered Winston. ‘She was known as Nick.’

A look of hurt passed over Melissa’s face. ‘She was pretty,’ commented his wife, chewing a wisp of hair like a child. It was a vulnerable gesture which, he’d noticed, she often made when describing how Marvyn had betrayed her.

Now it was his turn. Betrayal could also mean
not
telling someone something, couldn’t it?

‘She looked a bit like you,’ he added, wondering too late if it was wise to admit this. ‘She had dark hair with a hint of red, although it was shorter than yours. She was easy to talk to. And there was something different about her.’

Melissa’s lips tightened. But he had to go on. Not just for her, but for himself. ‘She was good at her job, too. Nick was a nurse in the Wrens. She was passionate about saving lives. If there was a risky operation, she was always up for it. It was what she’d been made for. That’s what she used to say.’

Now his wife was edging further away. As she did so, his hopes plummeted even lower. ‘That was how
you
felt too, wasn’t it?’

He nodded. ‘One scorching hot day, when our lungs were full of dust and our uniforms soaked with sweat, I was asked to lead a convoy carrying medical supplies to some men who had been injured. We all knew it was dangerous.’ He groaned inside. ‘It was a route that was still being cleared of landmines. I was told that it was virtually free but that if I wanted to be certain, we needed to wait forty-eight hours.’

The silence hung heavily between them. ‘We didn’t have forty-eight hours, Melissa. Those injured men needed help urgently. I might have held off if …’

‘If Nick hadn’t pushed you.’

He looked at his wife gratefully. He could see it now. Nick tugging at his sleeve as he stood in the tent, poring over the maps. ‘I can’t stand here doing nothing,’ she’d said fiercely, as though he was a coward.

Sometimes, he wondered if Nick should have been a man. She had enough balls, and there was a certain boyish look about her. But there was also a vulnerable side, a tender one that only he knew about. A picture of her lying next to him in bed flew into his mind. That was definitely not one to share with his wife.

‘It was my decision, of course, but the rest of the team wanted to go too.’ He took another deep breath. ‘So we went.’

Getting out of bed, he began pacing round the room. It was easier to make his confession on the move: it made him feel like he was doing something.

‘At first, we made great progress. The cars didn’t hit any of the usual obstacles like rocks, and, thank goodness, we didn’t come across any snipers.’

Melissa gave a little gasp. ‘It must be scary knowing that someone could take a potshot at you any time.’

Winston shrugged. ‘The strange thing is that there’s no time to be frightened. You’re too busy keeping your wits about you and making sure everyone is doing what they should.’ He paused by the foot of the bed. It had a pink counterpane: too girly and frilly for his taste. Had it been here when Marvyn had been married to Melissa? He didn’t like to think of that, any more than he liked to dwell on that hot, dusty day in Afghanistan.

‘Go on,’ she urged.

Winston wanted to look Melissa in the eyes but couldn’t. Turning round, he addressed the wall. There was one of those black-and-white studio family portraits there, showing a younger, gappy-toothed Alice standing behind her little brother. Her hands were on the kid’s shoulder and she looked as though she was about to throttle him.

Quite possible.

Next to it was a slightly faded space and a picture hook, suggesting there had once been another photograph there. Marvyn and Melissa, perhaps. Maybe a wedding photo. He wouldn’t blame Melissa if she wished it was still there; that Marvyn hadn’t gone off and – more crucially – that she hadn’t met him, Winston.

‘I felt lucky that day.’ He laughed. ‘So did Nick. She told me before we set off that fortune favoured the brave. It was one of her favourite phrases. Far better to risk one’s life by helping others than lead some boring life in an office like her sister.’

He glanced down at the iPad and the interview with Nick’s family. ‘Whatever that says, I can tell you that Nick’s sister hardly ever saw her; she couldn’t even be bothered to come round when we were back on leave.’

Melissa’s voice had an impatient edge. ‘What exactly happened on that day, Winston? I need to know.’

Focus on the wall. On the faded space. ‘I was in a jeep behind the car carrying Nick and another Wren. We were nearly there. Then suddenly there was the most almighty noise.’

As if on cue, a shout came from Alice’s bedroom next door. ‘Get out, Freddie! You’re not allowed in here!’

Wasn’t it possible even to make a confession in peace? Winston carried on speaking, louder and steadily. It was the only way. If he allowed himself to waver, he would crumple. ‘Nick’s car was engulfed with flames. It was like one of those scenes you see on television.’

Even as he spoke, it didn’t feel real. ‘I didn’t think. All I can remember is leaping out of the jeep and running towards Nick’s door, which was buckling in the heat before my eyes.’ He shuddered, putting his hands up to block out the mental image.

‘Inside, I could see Nick staring at me. She wasn’t screaming. Just looking at me, waiting, trusting. Certain that I would get her out. But I couldn’t.’

He was weeping, dammit. Weeping tears that he’d kept in for all this time. Dimly he was aware of Melissa putting her arms around him. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered. ‘It’s all right.’

Unable to stop himself, he rounded on her. ‘No, it’s not!’ She drew back as though he’d hit her. ‘Don’t shout at me, please.’

He was tempted to point out that the children did it all the time. ‘I’m sorry. But don’t you see? I
couldn’t
get Nick out. I failed her. And even though the official report cleared me, saying that I’d made the convoy decision for the “greater good”, the guilt and the smell of that burning flesh will stay with me for life.’

He sat on the edge of the bed now, head in hands.

‘What happened to the other Wren?’ asked Melissa quietly.

‘She was thrown clear. Don’t ask me how. There’s no rhyme or reason in war.’

‘Mum, she’s hurting me!

Freddie burst through the door, closely followed by his sister. Ignoring him, they leaped onto the bed.

‘Get off, Alice!’

‘
You
get off!’

Then the girl turned and gave him a nasty look. ‘I’ve been reading about you on Facebook. My dad says it’s
your
fault that someone died.’

Melissa’s voice was quietly reproachful. ‘Alice! Don’t be so rude!’

‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it?’

The din was so loud that he almost didn’t hear his mobile ring. But he could see the name flashing on the screen. His agent.

Leaving the bedroom, Winston headed downstairs for some peace and quiet. Melissa’s sitting room wasn’t to his taste with its red and green rugs and squashy blue sofas. They’d get a place of their own soon, they’d told each other during the honeymoon. They needed that. It was important for them to create something together. Now, as he perched on the edge of a stiff-backed chair that had once belonged to Marvyn, it all seemed horribly irrelevant.

‘Winston.’ Tara’s voice was politely distant, faintly condemning. ‘I presume you’ve seen the news. Look, there’s no easy way of putting this. The producer has been trying to get hold of you. It might be best if you didn’t go into the studio for a few days. Wait until the fuss has died down.’

Not go into the studio? He felt as though he’d been punched in the chest. ‘What about the programme?’

There was a short pause at the other end. ‘Don’t worry. They’ve got someone else to step in for you.’

His pulse quickened. ‘Who?’

‘A new face.’ Tara was talking quickly, attempting to make light of it. No ‘darling’ or ‘sweetie’ this time, he noted.