The Winter Folly (11 page)

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think I was disturbing you,’ Alexandra said, flushing. He was rude but perhaps her staring had been ruder. ‘I’ll go now.’

She turned and began to walk swiftly away.

‘Wait a moment, no need to run off – wait, will you?’ His voice came after her and she stopped, not turning around, blinking at the grass that was almost acid-green in the
bright sunshine. She heard him say, ‘Turn around – don’t I know you?’

Know me?
she thought, astonished.
Who would know me? Who do I know? I don’t know anyone . . .

She turned slowly back to face the man by the bench. He was looking at her in a curious way and as she stared at him, his features seemed to transform, rearranging themselves into something
familiar.

‘Alexandra?’ he said in a tone of surprise. ‘You’re Alexandra Crewe, aren’t you?’

She nodded, confused. Then, just as he said his name, it came rushing back with a force that almost knocked her over. How could she not have recognised him at once?

He said, ‘Don’t you remember me? I’m Nicky Stirling. How incredible!’

And then he was walking towards her, a smile across his face, and she knew him at once, even though she hadn’t seen him since he was twelve years old and her mother had not yet died.

‘I think this is just the craziest coincidence!’ Nicky said, beaming. He seemed so happy to see her, she could scarcely understand why. The model had been sent away
and they were in a coffee bar, staring at one another across a Formica table and each taking in how the other had changed from childhood.

‘It is,’ she said breathlessly. ‘It’s very strange.’ She had an odd dizzy sensation being near him. It was like stepping back into her own past, a place that often
seemed obscure and veiled, even to her. But she remembered that she had been happy once, and he had been there then.

‘I haven’t seen you for years,’ he went on, shaking his head. ‘But we used to play together, didn’t we, when we were kids? Remember?’

Images flashed in her mind – children playing in woods and by streams – and she heard the echo of shouts and laughter over the distance of years. They had been those scrambling,
eager children with dirty faces and scuffed boots, climbing and jumping and playing their games of pretend. ‘Pretend you’re the enemy and you want to get me, and this is my castle and
you’re trying to get in!’ There had been many long summer days in the woods, and in the gardens of Fort Stirling, when cowboys and Indians pursued each other through trees and behind
box hedges. There was a little temple in the rose garden that had become their headquarters. She could see Nicky now, tousle-haired, with grubby knees below his shorts, as he issued orders or doled
out rations of the food and drink they had stolen from the kitchen. He’d always been the leader. His cousins had played with them – what were their names? – and some village boys
and the children of whoever was visiting the big house. Nicky had always been her hero, though, the one she hoped would pick her for his team when they divided up into sides. She was just a child
to him, though he never let the girls feel second best. After all, his cousin – the girl; her name was something short – was much tougher and faster than her fat little brother.

Then, during one awful summer, everything had changed. Her mother died, and she’d been forbidden from seeing any of her old friends. Their favourite place, the old folly, had been put out
of bounds forever, even though they’d never really been allowed to play there in the first place – it was too dangerous. Then Nicky had gone back to school and after that, they’d
never played together again.

The memory of the sudden fissure seemed to strike Nicky at the same time. He began to look awkward and said quickly, ‘But that was all ages ago now. We were just silly kids, weren’t
we? So – how are you? What have you been doing?’ His glance fell on the glinting stone in the ring on her left hand. ‘I see you’re married.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Oh. Congratulations and everything. What’s he like?’

She blinked at him. He had lost all the soft pink and white boyishness of his youth; his face was smooth and tanned but tougher, his grey eyes brighter under thick brows, his hair darker. But he
still had that energy around him, the mysterious force that drew people to him and made them do as he said. He emanated a vigour that she didn’t think she’d ever seen in anyone else.
She felt suddenly that everyone she’d met since Nicky had been pale and lifeless in comparison; he was so alive, from his hands with their long, graceful fingers that were constantly moving,
to his mobile mouth. The air around him almost seemed to vibrate with energy.

‘What’s he like?’ repeated Nicky.

‘Who?’ she asked.

‘Who?’ He stared and then laughed. ‘Your husband! What’s he like? Who is he? Do I know him?’

‘His name is Laurence Sykes. He’s in the Royal Horse Guards.’

Nicky shook his head. ‘No. Don’t know him.’

‘I don’t think there’s any reason why you should.’

‘I can’t believe it. Little Alexandra Crewe, all grown-up and married.’ He smiled at her cheekily. ‘Well, you beat me to it. I’m nowhere near all that, I’m
afraid.’

‘Do you live in London now?’

He nodded. ‘Yes. I’m busy disgracing the family name. Pa is furious with me but I’ve told him I’m going to do what I want while I damn well can. He thinks I’ve gone
totally off my rocker being a photographer. No better than a tradesman as far as he’s concerned. He doesn’t understand that it’s different now, practically respectable.’

‘So that’s what you do now?’

‘Yes.’ He looked pleased with himself for a moment, his shoulders hunching in a kind of nonchalantly proud way. ‘You know the kind of thing – fashion. Art. Photo essays
for literary magazines.’

Alexandra was impressed. ‘And . . . foreign wars and things like that?’

‘Not exactly. No.’

‘Where will I have seen your work? In
The Times
? Or
Vogue
?’

He laughed a touch ruefully. ‘Er . . . no, none of those, I’m afraid.’

‘Then where?’

He grinned. ‘All right, you’ve caught me out. I’m not doing much proper work, if you must know. I just do a lot of stuff on spec. I get pretty girls to model for me and then
try my luck with the pictures in case anyone is interested. Sometimes they are. I got some published in the
Picture Post
recently, lovely shots of a girl by the seaside. And whenever I go
to one of those ghastly deb parties, I take pictures of the girls for their parents, and then try and hawk them to
London Life –
what was the old
Tatler
till just
recently
.
They’re in the market for that kind of thing. I spent an afternoon in the East End taking pictures of urchins to see if a magazine wanted them, but no one did. But
I’m going to break through one of these days, see if I don’t.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ Alexandra said with complete sincerity. Nicky had always been impossibly glamorous as far as she was concerned.

She noticed he was staring at her, his brow furrowed a little as his gaze moved over her face, looking at her in a different kind of way.

‘You know, you’re rather a looker under that awful makeup you’re wearing. You should come and pose for me.’

She flushed, not knowing whether to be flattered or hurt. ‘Well—’

‘Really, I mean it. I’ve got a studio set up in my flat. Come and see me there and I’ll take your portrait. I’m quite good if I do say so myself.’

‘How did you amuse yourself today?’ Laurence asked as they sat together in the tiny room that was both their sitting and dining room, eating the meal she’d
prepared.

‘I met an old friend, actually.’

‘Really?’ Laurence flicked his cool gaze up at her. His pale blue eyes always had a chilly look about them. ‘Who is she?’

‘Not she. He.’

Laurence’s fork stopped in the movement towards his mouth, hovered and then continued on its way. When he could speak again, he said, ‘Who is this “he”?’

‘A friend from home. Nicky Stirling.’

‘Stirling . . . Yes, I’ve heard of them. The family from that big house near your village.’

She nodded. ‘That’s right. We used to play together as children. It was very strange seeing him again; he’s changed so much. He’s a photographer now. He suggested taking
my portrait.’

Laurence put down his fork. ‘Did he? That’s an odd career for a man like him. He’s probably just amusing himself. I don’t suppose there’s any harm in you sitting
for him.’ He looked thoughtful and she could see ideas passing through his mind as clearly as a film playing out. He was thinking about how it might enhance his social cachet to have an
aristocratic photographer take his wife’s picture. They would frame the result and prop it up on the side table, and when visitors came and admired it, Laurence would be able to say casually
that it had been taken by an old family friend, Nicky Stirling, the heir to the Northmoor title, had they heard of him?

‘You don’t mind then?’ Alexandra ventured timidly.

‘No, of course not. Arrange something. And we must have him to supper to thank him for his interest.’

Alexandra thought of the scrap of paper in her coat pocket with Nicky’s strong black handwriting scrawled across it: a number and the words
Telephone me tomorrow morning
.

‘All right,’ she said, a flutter of excitement winging swiftly inside her. ‘I will.’

The next day she had to find a telephone box to make her call, and she felt almost furtive as she left the barracks and walked into Knightsbridge like a spy on a secret
mission. There was a public telephone by the station but she had to wait for a man in a mac to finish a very long conversation, and she stood there feeling foolish and faintly guilty. At last the
man hung up and pushed his way out of the booth and she stepped inside, wrinkling her nose at the sour smell within. She took out some coins, dropped one into the slot and pressed the button, then
dialled the number that she already knew by heart, holding her breath as it connected. The ringing tone sounded a dozen times and she exhaled her disappointment. So that’s how it was. He
hadn’t really meant it. He’d forgotten. A strange and unexpected grief pierced her; it was as though a shutter between her and the past had been raised for moment, letting her glimpse a
forgotten world, and now it had slammed down again, leaving her in darkness. She slowly held out the receiver to replace it on its cradle when she heard the tinny sound of a voice emanating from
it. ‘Hello, hello? Who’s that?’

Gasping, she snatched it back to her ear as she reached out and pressed the second button so that her coin rattled downwards and she was connected. ‘It’s Alexandra. You told me to
telephone you so I have.’

A pause. Had he forgotten her entirely? Had she been presumptuous in thinking he really meant her to do as he’d suggested?

‘Oh, yes. The beautiful Miss Crewe. I mean . . . Mrs Sykes. I hoped you would call. Are you going to sit for me?’

Her heart was thumping in her chest. ‘Yes . . . yes, please. I’d like to very much.’

‘Good. Come tomorrow at two. Don’t wear that make-up whatever you do.’

She touched her cheek. It was quite bare. She’d already thrown the panstick in the bin. ‘I won’t.’

‘Here’s the address. Are you ready?’

Present day

John was in a good mood on Saturday morning, released from the burden of the VAT return which had been emailed to the accountant the previous afternoon. When Delilah woke, he
was lying next to her propped on one arm, gazing down at her with a tender expression. She smiled happily at him, blinking sleepily, and he bent in to kiss her.

‘Mmm, you taste delicious.’ He pressed his mouth to her ear. ‘I can’t resist you . . .’

His lips trailed warm kisses down her neck, setting off a delightful tingle on her skin, then he returned to her mouth, kissing her gently and letting his tongue probe softly until she opened
her lips to him.

Delilah savoured the dark taste of her husband. At times like this, she felt the decade or so between them. He wasn’t a milk-and-honey boy but a man, and he tasted of musk and old leather,
citrus cologne and what she imagined cigar smoke ought to smell like but didn’t. She loved the masculinity of his scent and the way it made her feel. Sometimes she recalled Harry, who now
seemed bland and flavourless compared to John. She hadn’t really known that an almost mystical bond could be felt through sex until she and John had made love, and she’d experienced a
deep, animal desire to be connected, and to give in return all the pleasure that was received. There was also his unembarrassed desire to dominate without being dominating, and after years of Harry
deferring to her in every way, it had been exciting and invigorating to feel that she didn’t have to be in complete control. It was part of what had made her fall so giddily, so addictively
in love.

His hand went to the silkiness of her nightdress and he pulled down the straps so that her breasts fell free of it. He slid it off her and discarded it, then took her breasts in his hands and
kissed each one softly. She let out a long breath. She hadn’t realised how much she wanted this or how much she’d missed this feeling of pure desire. Sex had been mechanical for them
lately, performed with the end of pregnancy firmly in mind. But now she was hungry for his mouth and body, and she pulled him to her quickly, wanting to feel the firmness of his chest against hers
and run her hands along his broad back and down to his buttocks. He brought his mouth to her neck, kissing and anointing her skin with tiny licks and nips. She murmured appreciatively as he worked
his way up to her mouth, and kissed her hard again, his passion stronger now. She could feel his hunger for her and she pressed back against him, relishing the way his hardness dug into her belly,
eager to possess her. She dropped her hand downwards and found the soft opening in his pyjama bottoms, reaching in to touch him. He moaned softly as she wrapped her hand around him.

‘I can’t wait long for you,’ he warned.

‘I don’t want you to.’