Damage (14 page)

Standing up there he looked a sad and lonely figure. Isolated in a crowd he had engineered into place. The sight reinforced Holly’s feeling that she was an intruder here and she should go.

He saw her, then, and his expression shifted in an instant when he recognized her. It was like the sun breaking out from behind a cloud. His eyes widened, a smile spread across his face, and his whole frame seemed to relax.

He half-raised a hand, then let it fall. He straightened and walked around to the top of the stairs, his eyes always fixed on her, as if he was scared she might vanish if he lost sight of her even briefly.

She met him halfway up the stairs. She took his hands and he drew her against him, her head tucked under his chin, the difference in their height exaggerated by the staircase.

“You came,” he said, and she knew that he
had
meant for her to come back this evening and she had been stupid even to wonder if he’d meant otherwise. Then: “You like the party?”

“I do now.”

He must know she was avoiding the answer, but he didn’t seem to mind. He hung onto one hand and led her down the stairs and through to the ballroom.

As he walked, people stepped aside. They smiled at him and spoke, clapped him on the shoulder, raised their glasses. Maybe she’d been mistaken: that image of him standing above the party, surveying all the fun at a distance, had seemed so poignant, but in reality he seemed to be more at the heart of things.

He stopped, then tugged at her hand and she spun into his arms. How did he do that? He took her other hand and, holding her close, started to move, a slow, sweeping step, another, then two nimble ones as he turned her, then slow again.

She followed his lead, and let him steer her around the floor, as the band played
Blue Moon
. From somewhere they’d acquired a singer, a stick-like, silver-haired woman with a voice like honey.

“You looked so alone up there,” she said, her mouth close to his ear.

“I was. That’s how I am.”

She took that as another reference to Sarah, and tried not to resent that he kept doing that, but then he added: “I was waiting for you.”

§

They strolled out onto a terrace at the side of the Hall. In the summer there would be a rose garden here, but the plants were bare now.

Holly peered around at the others standing out here. “Do you know these people?” she asked.

Blunt reached for two more glasses of champagne from a passing tray and passed one to her. “Some,” he said. “I don’t care. They’re part of the scenery. It’s like a film set. A bit of glamour.” He waved a hand to indicate the Hall, the marquee, all the people. “Who’d have thought it, eh? All this for a lad from Bingley?” He emphasized the Yorkshire in his accent when he said that, and they both laughed.

He didn’t often allow himself to get like this: a joke and a smile. He seemed relaxed and for the first time Holly caught herself reassessing these parties: perhaps hiding in the crowd
allowed
him to relax. Maybe it wasn’t so much a case of punishing himself by surrounding himself with people having fun, but more that it gave him some kind of sense of normality again.

She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

“What was that for?” He’d clearly sensed that something had triggered that kiss.

“Oh,
just
,” she said, not sure that she could explain; hoping she sounded enigmatic and not just flustered. He was giving her that look. A smile pulling at the corners of his mouth and something in his eyes – a spark, an affection, maybe something more. “Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Sounds serious.”

She poked him in the ribs, a little harder than she’d intended.

“What is it?” he said. “Ask me anything.”

“I’m twenty,” she said. “Not twenty-one until February.”

“That’s not a question.”

But it was clear what the question was.

“So I’m a bit older,” he said, then he shrugged. “Should that be an issue?”

A reflex response: she thought again of the woman she’d found in his bed that time. She couldn’t have been much older than Holly. Maybe the age difference hadn’t even occurred to Blunt because it was something he was accustomed to.

“How much older?”

He started counting on his fingers, then gave up. “Not enough fingers,” he said.

She slapped at his hands. “I’m serious.”

“I’m thirty-two,” he said. “Is that close enough to reassure you? Or does it just confirm I’m ancient?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “It seems so... You’ve seen so much more of life. I must seem such a–”

“Such a
what?
”

“Oh, I don’t know. A child.”

He took her face in his hands. “You’re anything but,” he said. “There’s so much more to you than your years. It’s just a number.”

“You’re really just thirty-two?”

He nodded.

It wasn’t that he looked any older than that, but he had done so much for a man so young. Married and widowed. Founder of a company that had become a multinational. A man who had accumulated the kind of wealth that allowed him to hold parties like this whenever he wanted, purely for his own distraction.

“You look so much
older
,” she said.

She watched as he did a double-take: surprise and then the realization that she was teasing him, and the sudden delight that someone would do such a thing. His mouth sagged open, he snorted, he didn’t know what to say, so she leaned in and kissed him again, this time on the lips, brief and delicate.

“Is that why you won’t paint me?” he asked. “Too many lines?”

She so liked him like this. Up to now, he had been many things to her, but
playful
and
fun
weren’t high up on a list of words she would have used.

She raised her glass, and he reached over to the wall where he’d placed his. They chinked, raised, sipped. She was getting accustomed to the sharp fizz of the champagne very quickly.

Something had changed, a subtle shift between them. The simple fact of talking about the age difference meant things were on a different level now. Even the possibility that age might be an issue implied that there was something for it to be an issue
for
: a relationship, an interaction that extended beyond a brief fling.

Funny how you could have such an important conversation without realizing, almost without having the conversation at all: all the important bits were hidden away between the lines.

“You’re beautiful like that.”

“Like what?” she asked.

“Thinking. Smiling.” He shrugged, and the moment was gone.

Just then a group of young people burst out onto the terrace, laughing and chattering. Glass broke – a champagne flute – and there was more laughter. Almost immediately a waitress was there, sweeping up the debris while the group moved on.

Holly glanced at Blunt, but he didn’t appear to have noticed.

“You should invite people,” Holly said, and those pale eyes flashed across at her. “Friends. People from Blunt Instruments. People from the village. It’d be a chance to get to know people.”

“Maybe I like things better like this.”

“Really?” Her stare cut right through his pretense and he looked away. “They talk about you in the village,” she went on. “The mysterious stranger up at the Hall.”

“I know. I’m not one for gossip.”

She knew he was aware of the rumors about the death of his wife. “It’d be really good if people could put a face and a name to the mysterious man from the Hall. It’d make a big difference. It’d be good for you, too: get some sense of where you’re living, meet some real people and not just all these hangers on.”

Blunt was shaking his head. “No,” he said. “People in the village hate me. I’m the beast. I’m the bastard who sends eviction notices to pillars of the community, after all.”

“You could change that if you made the effort. Come down to The Bull again, let people see you. You never know: you might even enjoy yourself.”

He wasn’t a man who took well to being pushed. She could see the shutters coming down already. She kissed him again on the cheek. “Can’t teach an old dog, eh?” she said, and he gave a short laugh, then slipped an arm around her and drew her closer.

“You want to dance?” he asked.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

§

Tommy should never have shown his face. He must have known it could come to no good. But he still had such a strong trace of youthfulness about him: the naiveté, the clumsiness, the world-conquering confidence and assurance that he was right.

He must have been watching, waiting for an opening.

How much must he have seen as he watched?

Holly and Blunt on the terrace, talking and laughing, holding and kissing. Moving inside to dance; the way Blunt possessed her on the dance floor, the electricity between them. The two of them chatting with other guests over canapés, Blunt coming into his own as the smooth host; Blunt reveling in introducing Holly, in seeing how people responded, showing her off to the world.

As she watched Blunt slipping away through the crowd, called to the phone, she realized how far she’d moved on from her initial trepidation about the evening. Hard to believe she’d come so close to turning and leaving almost as soon as she had arrived. But now she was having fun. She felt confident and secure. She was seeing another side to Nicholas and she liked it a lot.

She turned, and Tommy was approaching her through the knots of people gathered at the edge of the dance floor. What was he doing here? He’d slicked his hair down, and was wearing a black jacket that was too tight across the shoulders, and slate gray jeans. His attempt to dress up for the occasion only served to demonstrate how much he was out of his element at this party.

For a moment Holly wondered if people saw her in a similar way, here at the Hall in her cheap New Look dress.

Then Tommy gave a hesitant smile and said, “Hey, Holly. You look great. You want to dance?”

She glanced back across her shoulder, in the direction Blunt had taken, then back at Tommy. “I don’t think... Tommy, I–”

“Or talk? We could go outside and talk. It’s a beautiful night. Just give me a couple of minutes to say my piece, will you? Old times?”

She glanced over her shoulder again. “No, Tommy. There’s nothing to say, is there? Please don’t do this.”

“But there is. I love you, Holly.”

All around: the staring faces. The conversations paused mid-sentence. The sense of anticipation hanging heavy in the air.

“But... why now, Tommy? What’s going on?”

“You needed time, Holly. You needed space. I got that. I’ve been patient, but I’ve never stopped loving you. Splitting up with you was the biggest mistake I ever made. All I’m asking is that you give me another chance. Think about it. We had some times, Holly, didn’t we?”

How had he reached this point from absolutely nowhere? From a chat in the pub. From walking her home. She’d let him back into her life just a little, opened the door a sliver, and now he was here, like this.

“So this is the competition?”

When had Blunt come back?

Holly turned at the waist and saw him standing there, arms at his side, poised like a fighter just waiting to get started.

Tommy’s attention was on Blunt now, his eyes crawling over him. For a moment Holly thought the two of them might actually come to blows, then Blunt snorted a laugh and said, “Jesus, kid. I don’t have time for playground fights, okay? Why not just have a drink?” The tension seemed to be slipping away until Blunt added, “An alcopop or a shandy, perhaps?”

Tommy had a short fuse. She saw it sweep over his features: a sudden flush, a tightening, a narrowing of the eyes.

She reached across and put a hand on Blunt’s arm. “Nicholas, please,” she said.

She felt a twitch – was he shrugging her off?

“Go on,” he said, still addressing Tommy. “Run along, won’t you?”

He was a blunt instrument, indeed. Holly stepped between them, forcing Tommy to meet her look. “Not now, Tee,” she said. “Okay? Just not now.”

He sucked a deep breath in and held it, and she saw the tightness start to ease. Maybe he had grown up some, after all.

He nodded, turned, walked away, and she was left to confront Blunt.

“Was that necessary?” she said.

“I...” He raised both hands, palms towards her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is new. I’m still learning the rules.”

“You can’t keep playing that card. Don’t be a bully, okay? Tommy’s harmless. You don’t need to humiliate him any more than he does to himself.”

Hands still raised, Blunt nodded. “Gut reaction,” he said. “When I said playground reaction I meant me: my response. I don’t know why I was like that with him.”

“You were
jealous?
”

Blunt shrugged. “He’s young and good-looking,” he said. “You clearly like him. And you have history with him. Your old man said there was a local lad. He liked him, too.”

That time Blunt had called round. Just how much had they talked about over milky tea and biscuits?

Those pale eyes kept finding hers and then flitting away again. For a moment it was as if everything was reversed: Blunt the young insecure one, Holly the one in control. She stepped towards him. She didn’t know if the people around them were still pausing, watching; she didn’t care. There was only Blunt.

“You don’t have to be scared,” she said. “You don’t have to be insecure. But you do have to apologize to Tommy, okay? He’s one of the good guys.”

Blunt opened his mouth to speak, but she placed a finger across his lips, silencing him. “First of all, though,” she said, “you have to kiss me.”

§

It would have been the perfect moment.

The kiss.

The realization that even a man like Blunt could be insecure – that he could value her affections so highly that it could reduce him to that petulant schoolboy response to Tommy.

The understanding that despite the huge gulfs between them in terms of age, experience and wealth, they were equals: that sometimes he could sweep her off her feet but, equally, at other times it was Holly who was the confident, assertive one.

Perfect.

But that was the moment when Ruby barged in, drunk and excited and clumsy, and just about to ruin everything.