Gabriel put his arm round her. ‘You may have made a
hash of it,’ he said gently, ‘but so have I, for God’s sake. I’ve
been brought here, to this glorious place, by a beautiful and
sexy woman and done nothing but whinge about it. Most
men would think I was off my trolley. I can hardly believe
it myself. I regret it terribly. But it has nothing at all to do
with you, how I feel about you.’
‘Oh, Gabriel, of course it reflects on how you feel about
me. You’ve hardly made love to me since we got here.’
‘Yes, well, you can blame the sun for that. I’ve been
feeling lousy most of the time. Chronic headache. Agonising
skin. Sick. Sore throat.’
‘Yes, all right,’ she said. ‘I get the idea.’
‘Sorry. Nor does it mean I don’t like you.’
‘How could you like me? When you see me so clearly?’
‘I haven’t told you some other things I see in you.’
‘Do I really want to know?’
‘Yes, you do. You’re hugely intelligent. You have a great
and engaging capacity for enjoying things. You’re curious,
interested, generous. Thoughtful, kind—’
‘Oh, stop it,’ she said, laughing.
‘In a minute. And beautiful, as I said, and very, very sexy,
as I said. Nobody’s perfect, Octavia. Stop trying to be.’
‘I don’t suppose you can remember what I said about
you,’ she said. She was smiling now, through her tears.
‘I can. Self-centred, self-satisfied, paranoid, immature — those were a few of them.’
‘Ah. Well…’
‘Anyway, for whatever reason, we clearly have to kiss
and part and know we’re not meant for each other. Not
really. Not for more than — well, more than a few days.’
‘If that,’ she said and smiled again.
‘Well, in a cold climate, maybe. But the real thing is — well…’
‘Yes?’ she said. ‘What is the real thing? As you put it.
Apart from a basic incompatibility?’
‘The real thing is,’ he said simply, after a long pause,
‘you’re still in love with your husband.’
‘Marianne, this is Nico.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘hallo.’
It was very good to hear his voice; she had missed him
more than she would have admitted. Missed the nonsense,
the attention, the affection. Missed him. But…
‘I — wonder if you’d like to have dinner with me.’
He sounded different; rather low, less sure of himself.
‘Well, I - Nico, the thing is …”
‘Yes?’
‘I really can’t.’
He sighed. ‘Hot date with your delinquent children?’
‘No, it’s not that.’
‘Tomorrow, then?’
‘No. Not tomorrow, either.’
A silence. Then, ‘Am I to deduce from this you’re trying
to avoid me? On a longterm basis?’
‘I—’ She hesitated, then gathering her courage said, ‘Yes.
Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘I see.’ The voice became icy suddenly; changed in a way
she would not have thought possible. Terrifyingly, it
reminded her of Alec’s. ‘And would you like to tell me
what has brought about this change of heart? Was it
something I did? Was I not quick enough, getting you
down to London on Sunday morning? Did I not express
sufficient sympathy with you over your domestic tribulations?’
‘Nico,
no, of course not, it’s nothing like that. You were
wonderful. It’s just that I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.’
‘About?’
‘About—’ She hesitated. ‘Felix.’
‘Felix!’
‘Yes. You see, I feel, whatever I may have said, I…’
‘Yes. Do go on. Whatever you may have said?’
‘I feel that I still owe him my loyalty,’ she said.
‘Loyalty! Well, that’s very amusing. Very amusing
indeed. Let me tell you, Marianne, Felix Miller doesn’t
have the faintest idea of the meaning of the word. Or
honour. Or decency. Any of those things.’
‘Nico—’
‘The man is a bastard. A conniving, unscrupulous bastard.
Who just happens to be in love with his own daughter.’
‘Nico, stop it! Don’t talk about Felix like that.’
‘I shall talk about him how I bloody well please. And I
find it deeply distressing that you should place him before me in your priorities, Marianne. Deeply. Well, you are most welcome to one another. You will receive no more
opposition from me. Good morning to you.’
The phone went dead. Marianne burst into tears.
Octavia stared at Gabriel. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ she said.
She felt very hot suddenly, and her mouth was dry. ‘Of
course I’m not still in love with Tom. I loathe him.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Gabriel, I do. Every time I think about him I feel sick.
What he did — not just having an affair, but having an affair
with my best friend—’
‘Who is clearly a complete nutcase.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Quite a lot. He got trapped. Very nastily trapped.’
‘And that makes it all right, does it? Gabriel, please. I
don’t think I like the turn this conversation is taking. One
man defending another, poor chap didn’t really mean any
harm…’
‘I’m not saying that. Not really. Look,’ he said, taking
her hand, ‘I think I can understand how you felt. It was a
double betrayal. Very ugly, very hard to bear. It turned
your life into a sort of minefield. What, where, who next.’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘it was exactly that.’
‘The fact remains,’ he said, ‘you’re still in love with him.
I know you are. He’s what you really want, he’s right for
you, right for your life. You hate what he did. You don’t
hate him.’
‘Gabriel, I do.’
He shrugged. ‘All right. I won’t argue any more. But I
shall wait for news of you with more than usual interest.
Now what are we going to do with our last day? It would
be nice to enjoy it.’
‘You can’t enjoy it, can you?’ she said, her voice irritable.
‘You hate it here, you hate the sun, you feel rotten—’
‘I don’t feel rotten today,’ he said, ‘actually. I slept much
better last night. Once we’d finished our little — exchange.
Maybe I’m getting used to it. Maybe if we stayed for another week—’
‘We can’t possibly do that,’ she said quickly.
‘Why not? Is someone coming over to take the cottage?’
‘No. But I have to get back to work.’
‘I was only teasing you. Of course we have to get back.’
He looked at her thoughtfully; she was sitting hunched
up now, sifting sand through her fingers, not looking at
him. The body language was interesting: defensive, watchful,
self-aware.
‘You’ll be going ahead with the divorce, then, when you
get back?’ he said lightly.
‘Oh - absolutely, yes. Look, let’s not talk about that. Is
there anything at all you’ve enjoyed that you’d like to do
again?’
‘Just stay here,’ he said, ‘swim, snorkel, snooze, talk.
Maybe have dinner at that nice place just along the beach.
That would be lovely. A lovely day.’
‘Oh, dear,’ she said, ‘maybe if I’d let you do that every
day, we’d still be happy together. Don’t look at me like
that, I’m only joking. We’d better get on with it, then. Our
happy last day. Shall I go and get the snorkelling things?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘only give me a kiss first. And if you don’t
hate me too much, the idea of a siesta seems a pretty nice
ingredient. For our happy last day. Or would that offend
you?’
‘I’m really sorry,’ she said simply, her face very serious as
she looked at him, ‘but I think it would. Well, not offend
me. But I - well, I don’t feel I could be very wholehearted
about it now. It’s hard to explain.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘I understand. And I’m not
offended. Yes, go and get the snorkels. And that dreadful
thick white stuff that seems to stop me getting burned.’
He watched her as she walked up the beach. He knew he
was right. She was still in love with Tom Fleming. It was
going to be agony for her to have to recognise it even, but
the simple fact remained: she was.
‘You must be thrilled,’ said Pattie David. Her plain face was
flushed as she looked at Sandy, her sweet smile slightly
strained. ‘I mean that she’s getting better so — so quickly.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Sandy. ‘Of course I am.’
He longed to say he wasn’t thrilled, that he was horrified
at the prospect of Louise being home in less than a
fortnight. But he couldn’t explain. It really wasn’t on.
‘Well — if you want to pop in next week again, after your
visit, we’d love to see you.’
‘Thanks. Yes. That’d be very nice. If we have time.’ He
really mustn’t get too much in the habit of coming here,
enjoying her — her and Megan’s — company. It would have
to stop all too soon.
‘No, if you don’t have time, I shall understand.’
She looked hurt; he couldn’t bear it, hurried to reassure
her.
‘No, no, we’d love it. Let’s make that a definite. Tea, if
that’s all right. We’ll probably take Louise out to lunch
again. She enjoyed that today.’
She had: sitting there, smiling in the sunshine in the
garden of a pub, cuddling Dickon endlessly, flirting — that
was the only word for it — with him. She obviously had
decided he was what she wanted — for now. And she was
working on it. Working on making him want her. He
thought of her being at home again, thought of her being in
the house, in every room, not being able to get away from her, thought of the horror if she wanted to share his bed,
have sex with him, and felt physically sick. How was he
going to stand it, what was he going to do?
‘Oh - hi,’ said Octavia. Her voice she knew sounded odd:
strained and shaky, not the cool, controlled one she would
have hoped for. She felt shaky altogether; her hand had had
difficulty turning the key in the lock and the twenty-pound
note had shaken rather humiliatingly as she handed it to the
cab driver. Absurd really to be so nervous: but it wasn’t
nervousness at all, of course, it was simply stress. She had
done her best with her appearance, had cleaned her teeth,
changed her T-shirt, done her make-up, sprayed on some
perfume at the airport: but she still felt frowsty, somehow
grubby. And sick. And very tired. She had not slept at all.
She didn’t care in the least what she looked like, of
course: not for Tom anyway. She had no desire to impress
or to please him. She wanted only to proceed with the
divorce. She had given it a great deal of thought,
particularly on the journey home, and there really was no
option. She could not continue to live with someone she
didn’t trust; it was unthinkable.
No, the only reason she wanted to look — well,
reasonable — was that her mood was always affected by her
appearance. She wanted to feel confident and in control,
from the moment she walked in the door, and she couldn’t
do that if she was looking scruffy. She never had been able
to.
And somehow, Tom being in the hall, looking far from
scruffy, dressed in a collarless white shirt and jeans, and his
deck shoes, rattled her, dislodged her. She had expected hoped
actually — that he wouldn’t be there at all. If he had
been there, then she had thought he would have stayed in
his study, doing whatever it was. Not come down the stain
to greet her. It was disconcerting. She wished he hadn’t.
‘Hi,’ he said, taking her bag. ‘Good trip?’
‘Very. Thank you.’
She smiled at him. That was all right. Ideally, she would
like them to be friends. Not close friends, that was
impossible. But - well, friends was essential for the children.
‘You look very good.’
‘Tom, I don’t! I’ve been awake all night.’
‘Well, all right, you don’t.’ He smiled back at her. ‘I
know better than to argue. Do you want anything to eat?’
‘Oh — no. No, thank you. I feel sick.’
‘Coffee, then?’
‘Yes. That would be nice. Where’s Caroline?’
‘She’s taken Minty for a short walk. We didn’t expect
you quite so soon. Your plane must have been very
prompt.’
‘It was. And there’s no traffic, of course.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘I’m going to have a shower. Then I’ll come down and
have a coffee. Are you going to be here for a bit?’
‘Yes. Of course. Why shouldn’t I be? It’s Sunday.’
‘I know but—’
Somehow she’d thought he’d at least be going out. Not
sitting there, in the house, as if — well as if things were
normal. All right, even.
‘But what?’
‘Oh — nothing. Look, I’ll go on up.’
She walked rather wearily upstairs. She didn’t feel as if
she’d had a holiday at all, felt worn out. That in itself was
disappointing. Maybe tomorrow…
She felt better when she’d had her shower. She put on a
white polo shirt and some shorts, and then pulled out the
bag of dirty washing from her luggage, so that she could put
it in the linen basket. As she tipped it in, a shower of sand
fell out with it: Bajan sand. It had travelled back with her:
along with her disappointment, her despair at herself, a
sorry souvenir. She remembered lying on that sand the day
before with Gabriel, agreeing that their relationship was not
to be the joyful thing she had hoped for, that she had set her
heart on, that would restore her self-confidence and her