The Art of Unpacking Your Life (20 page)

Luke had forgotten how much he loved riding. His horse, Mamello, was almost seventeen hands, but otherwise reminded him of the dark bay Dusty he had had as a child.

‘Ha, ha, gym bunny. I don't think this is quite the docile nag I had in mind. Do you think that Jason's got a sense of humour?'

Luke smiled. Sara got her overweight grey's head out of an acacia tree and once again bounced alongside him. She shot him one of her knowing looks.

‘Luke dearest, please tell me that you are not going to do anything rash?

Luke didn't say anything. He wasn't sure that he knew what Sara was talking about.

‘Think pragmatically rather than emotionally,' Sara urged. ‘I always do. I can highly recommend it as the safest course of action.'

Luke didn't respond. His default position was saying nothing, particularly with Sara.

Sara quietly eyed him and spoke softly. ‘Oh Luke, the only way is forwards. Going backwards is an act of pure nostalgia. It doesn't lead anywhere. Believe me.'

‘Why not?'

Sara repeatedly jerked on her reins to try and get her horse's head out of another bush, but to no avail, except to make her breath laboured and her face close to purple. ‘Connie will never leave Julian. She loves him. He gives her a sense of purpose she doesn't feel herself. Alpha males do that – they carry you along on their wave.'

Luke was cross with her for ruining his great mood. He didn't want to think about anything, certainly not Connie. He wanted to ride. ‘I'm not interested in Connie in that way.'

Sara yanked up her horse's head to stop him from eating and they trotted quickly to catch up with the others who had set off through the deep grasses towards a gentle slope. Neither spoke. Once they were a few metres from the backside of Dan and Alan's horses, their two rides abruptly slowed to a walk.

Luke tried to focus on the vast, open grassland bare without an animal or mountain in sight, yet rich with the ochre soil and grasses. Only a gentle hill stroked the foreground to their right.

‘Luke, you are cross with me. I don't want to spoil your ride,' Sara continued, ‘But remember, I lived with you both in Harley Place, as Lizzie tirelessly reminds me. I know you are both at a crossroads, but running back to each other is not the answer. Who else is going to be frank with you? It's why you love me.'

‘Do I?' he joked, before squeezing his horse's thighs and moving away from her.

Ahead, Jason was busy organising them into two groups. One would canter over the hill with him first while the other waited until he returned to accompany them along the same track. Luke led his horse right up to Connie's grey. ‘Shall we ask Jason if we can break away for a proper ride?'

He could imagine Sara watching him from further back in the line, but he didn't care. He wanted to enjoy this wonderful feeling of being out on a ride in Africa. How many more moments like this was he going to have?

Connie smiled silently in agreement. She trotted over to Jason's side. She talked briefly to him and then rode back to his side, but she didn't stop. She started cantering off the path ahead. He cantered after her. His horse had an easy stride. As its hoofs hit the ground, Luke felt the joy of that movement, the wind stroking his face. He was utterly free. Connie didn't slow down to direct him round behind the hillside. She gave a loose wave of a hand as she pulled her horse's mouth round with the other. He followed her. Once they were out of sight of the others, she accelerated into a gallop.
Luke urged Mamello on. Riding was effortless; it made Luke feel light and high. It was his definition of total freedom.

It was Connie who slowed to a trot. Her blouse was wet with sweat. They both started laughing.

‘Whoa,' Luke heard himself shouting, ‘Bloody marvellous.'

‘Bloody marvellous,' Connie echoed.

The sky was shouting with rage. Its charcoal fury was matched by a wind, which whipped over two umbrellas, even a sun lounger. The first fine drops of rain were already cooling the air. Despite the climatic chaos unfolding around them, Matt and Katherine were calm, leaning against one another on the sofa furthest from the terrace. Their own personal storm made this climatic one comforting and an excuse for them to sit and contemplate. They had two separate pots of tea in front of them and a large plate with only two coconut and date balls left.

Matt thought about their honeymoon in the British Virgin Islands. They had spent a whole torrential day inside their beach house. They had made love, talked, read, while watching the rain flood the beach. It was one of the happiest days of Matt's life.

Their conversation with Dawn had been difficult and painful. Matt and Katherine made a huge effort to be supportive and understanding of her loss; Dawn had been equally sensitive to theirs. It had been uncomfortable all round. Matt realised that they weren't the best people to comfort Dawn. She needed her family. Matt had been left thinking that they wouldn't keep in touch with her long term. They weren't friends, merely drawn together by their shared goal.

As he poured Katherine more tea, Matt tried to share his thoughts with Katherine. ‘It's strange, isn't it? We've been so close to Dawn. Yet she couldn't wait to get me off the phone once we had sorted out the practical details.'

‘Yeah, but it's totally understandable. Who are we really to her? We don't know her. It was an artificial situation.'

‘You're right, darling,' Matt sighed, re-wrapping the throw around Katherine's shoulders. ‘In a strange way, none of it feels real. When we see Isobel, it's going to hit home.'

Katherine squeezed his hand. ‘You know, I'm really dreading it.'

Matt pulled her close. ‘Yes, me too. Though I think it's important. I want to see her.' He paused. There were many thoughts slushing around his head. Matt was finding it difficult to focus on any one. ‘Katherine, are you sure that you are all right about staying out here? We could fly out today. Connie would totally understand. It might be better.'

There was no right or wrong ultimately. Dawn made it clear she didn't want them to rush back in the UK and bother her.

‘Honey, what can we do at home? Stare at our beautiful nursery?' she sighed. ‘No, obviously we will be back in time for her funeral, but you know…' She trailed off.

Matt knew that it hurt Katherine that Dawn insisted that she organise the funeral. It was on her terms, on her territory in Manchester. Whatever the legal rights and wrongs, they had agreed. They were hardly going to fight her over it.

‘We couldn't easily organise the funeral for Monday from here, Katherine,' he said gently.

‘Yes, of course. I know you're right,' she said hastily.

‘I'm not saying it's easy. Isobel was our baby.'

Katherine's eyes watered but she stared fixedly over the overflowing pool as if the storm could renew her strength. ‘Yeah. She was.'

As Matt was trying to pull himself together, his tears welled up again. ‘The funeral is for Isobel. And we are both going to speak at the funeral. You know, it's all right this way. Really.'

Katherine squeezed herself to him. ‘Oh Matt.'

Matt looked up and saw Connie. She was in her tan jeans, which were dusted in Namibian sand. She hovered a few metres away. She was his closest female friend, and he would never forget the physical support she gave him when he found out. However, Matt wanted to be alone with Katherine. How could anyone else truly understand? Connie had her four teenage children.

‘Connie,' he said as she slowly approached their table.

She looked uncomfortable. ‘I thought that you might have left already?'

Katherine answered quickly. ‘No. We are not leaving. We've talked to Dawn, but she needs to be with her own family right now.'

‘How is she?'

‘Devastated.' Katherine's face fell. ‘Naturally. Like any mother who has lost a
baby.'

His chin wobbled, but he quickly spoke to Katherine. ‘Though Isobel was
our
baby girl.'

Connie nodded. ‘Of course.' She reached out and took both their hands in hers.

‘Do they know exactly what happened?'

Katherine squeezed Matt's arm, leaving him to explain. She already knew that he derived comfort from the facts.

‘It points to the pre-eclampsia. It was a strong contributing cause, combined with birth complications. Dawn unexpectedly haemorrhaged. They might know more after the post-mortem. It is hard to establish the cause of a stillbirth. Often they never know.'

Katherine squeezed his hand and continued for him, ‘The funeral will be on Monday in Manchester. It's going to be special. Dawn's whole family is coming. I think that we will be able to share our grief with them.'

Connie took her hand as well. ‘We will all be there, of course. If you would like us?'

Matt could only nod. Katherine squeezed his hand harder. ‘We need you all, our close friends.'

Connie crouched in front of them. ‘I know it's a terrible thing to happen to anyone. I can't begin to imagine what you both feel. But I know that you have each other.'

Matt turned to Katherine. She gave him that secret little smile, he remembered on their first night together. ‘Yes we do, Connie. You are right,' he said, kissing Katherine.

The rain was light as Connie went back to her room. Her legs were stiff, particularly her inner thighs. She hadn't ridden for years. She had loved every minute of it. The total escape. They had seen hardly any animals, but it hadn't mattered. Connie felt liberated by it.

Their front door was ajar. There was no sign of Julian. She looked out on the terrace. He wasn't there either. She sighed. He had probably slipped back to the phone without Matt and Katherine noticing. She walked through to their bathroom, desperate for a cool, long shower. She gave a short cry. Julian was sitting on the closed loo seat.

‘Julian, hello, you gave me a shock. Busy morning?'

He didn't respond. Julian would brood through an impending crisis, working out his own position, before bursting out with a detailed explanation of the Chinese whispers that had led him down the latest dark corridor. She glanced casually at him as she unbuttoned her jeans. His skin had a tinge, despite two days of sun. She ought to be the good wife. Ask what was wrong. But she didn't want to delve into the human entrails of yet another political situation after such an uplifting ride.

‘Connie,' Julian said as if trying out her name. His voice sounded dry. ‘How was your ride?'

‘It really was exhilarating. I love riding. It makes me happy. Why don't I do it in Oxfordshire?'

‘You must.'

When they were first married, Julian had encouraged her to do the things she loved. He was as proactive and as enthusiastic about the small details of their life together as he was his career. Not so any longer. When had it changed?

She dismissed the idea of telling him that she might have found her grandfather's notes. She spotted a pale tan school-style exercise book with his name, George Sanderson, written in loopy black, smudged ink on the cover. It was in a cabinet in the library. Of course, it might be sketches or more photos. Still, she was excited by the discovery. It reminded her of the thrill she felt researching history at university. The sense of adventure into an unknown past.

‘There has been a coup in my absence.'

She sighed. She was right. She distracted herself by trying to peel off her jeans, which were cellophaned to her legs by the extreme humidity.

‘I can't work out who briefed against me,' muttered Julian, leaning heavily on his arms. ‘My instinct is it's Susan. She benefits most from me resigning from the Cabinet. The PM would offer her Chief Secretary.'

He stood up, towering over her. She tried to inch her jeans down her thighs.

Connie guessed he was already in Westminster, fast-forwarding to the next cabinet meeting.

‘Susan's a bitch,' he continued as if Connie had made a comment. ‘She had it in for me.'

She looked up. She could only guess why. She didn't respond. Julian didn't require political feedback. He needed to vent his anger, work out his own solution and move swiftly to exact his subtle revenge. It was the way politics worked. Of course,
even from the Kalahari, Julian would trace the mole. It was extraordinary he didn't already know for certain. Susan, if indeed it was Susan, would rue the day she started a war with Julian Emmerson.

Connie resorted to crouching with her bottom resting on the floor and pulling one leg at a time up thirty degrees, as she rolled the jeans painstakingly inside out and down her calves.

‘I'm sorry, sweetheart,' he lowered his eyes to hers. ‘I've rather botched up.'

She looked sharply. It was one of those idiosyncrasies of any long-term relationship: the tiniest things gave the greatest away. Sweetheart was a decidedly un-Julian word.

He raised his arms in a gesture of helplessness, gave a dramatic shrug. She had seen this act many times before.

‘I'm sorry, Connie.' He sighed deeply. ‘We have to go home. Face the music.'

‘You are not talking about leaving now?'

‘Well,' he sighed. ‘The story is going to break in the
Mail on Sunday
. I need to be back before it goes to print. I need to counter it. Otherwise they will write:
Julian Emmerson is hiding from the press on safari in the Kalahari. Privileged bastard
. It will make it easy for PM to be bullied into letting me go.' He gave her the strong, purposeful look that had won her over in that French restaurant.

With a final, desperate shake of her right leg, she hurled the jeans across the white tiled bathroom floor. ‘I am sorry, Julian, but I'm not leaving my friends in Africa on my fortieth birthday celebrations. Not to mention Matt and Katherine after they have lost their precious baby.'

She was taken aback by the vehemence in her tone, but delighted by it.