Garden of Lies (55 page)

go on loving him no matter what.

“Brian ...” She choked.

Suddenly her knees felt weak. She sank onto the bench beside him, burying her hot face against

the worn ribs of his corduroy jacket, clutching him the way she had, as a child, clutched at

wonderful things in dreams, feeling that if she could just hang on hard enough, she would still

have them when she awoke. ...

Rose felt his arms go around her, gently, as if he were comforting a lost child, and with a sick

heart she found herself remembering all the times he’d held her like this. As if these were the

roles they had been born into, and would carry all their lives.

“Kiss me, Bri,” she cried, pulling back a little way and twisting her face up to meet his. “Don’t

do this to me. Don’t make me ask. Just ... for God’s sake ...
kiss me.”

“Rose, I can’t …”

Damn him. She would
make
him kiss her. She had to know if there was some part of him,

however deep down, that still loved her.

Then Rose was tightening her arms around his neck, dragging him toward her as if she were

drowning and he’d swum out to rescue her. God ... oh God ... how many times had she ached for

this? Dreamed of him coming to her this way?
Please, Brian, please let me have just this one

thing ... this one kiss. ...

Then he
was
kissing her, opening his mouth, fierce and sweet, hungry for her, a strangled moan

in his throat.
You see ... oh Brian ... you do love me. ...

But something was wrong. He was pulling away, forcibly wrenching her from him, his fingers

digging painfully into her shoulders.

“No!” he cried. “No ... I can’t. We can’t. Rose, those things I just told you. They’re all true.

But that was a long time ago. I love Rachel. She’s my wife. This ... this shouldn’t have happened.

I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Weak laughter bubbled up in her. Sorry was for when [333] you stepped on

someone’s toe, or when you knocked over a lamp. Not for when you crushed someone’s entire

world.

Then Brian was rising, towering over her with an expression of infinite sadness. And she

wanted to scream at him, tear at his face.
Don’t feel sorry for me, you bastard. I don’t want your

pity.

“I really
am
sorry, Rose.”

There was nothing left to say. He was walking away, taking with him everything she had ever

wanted.

Oh God, it hurt, it
hurt
so damn much. ...

Rose, crying out with rage and pain, snatched up the empty champagne glass that stood on the

end of the bench to hurl it at him, to hurt him just as much as he had hurt her.

But somehow, instead, her hand convulsed about the glass. There was a snapping sound, and a

savage, blossoming pain. Rose looked down and saw blood, dark and thick, and wicked thorns of

glass sticking up from her palm.
God, what have I done? What have I done?

Rose sat there, clutching her wrist, staring in hypnotized horror as the blood spread, formed a

lake in the cup of her palm, spilling down her wrist and spattering onto her lap, staining the

beautiful rubbed velvet gown.

“Rose ... oh Jesus, what ...” Brian. Hadn’t he gone? No. Because here he was, right here beside

her, holding her, cradling her injured hand, bright drops of blood staining the front of his white

shirt like tiny red flowers.

“It looks deep,” he was saying, voice choked. “You may need stitches. Oh God, Rose ...” Then

he was crying, all hunched over, an awful sound, like some animal in pain, a sound not meant for

human ears.

A feeling of twisted triumph came over her. For Rose knew then, in some part of her mind that

floated free from the pain, that he was hers. That whatever happened, however they hurt

themselves, or each other, Brian would always be hers.

As Brian led her upstairs, her bloody hand wrapped in his handkerchief, Rose felt oddly

detached. She thought:
None of this is
[334]
really happening to me. I’m watching a movie of

myself.
One of those BBC dramas they show on
Masterpiece Theatre.

The crowd grew still, and moved back in waves, as if it had been rehearsed that way.
The

parting of the Red Sea, Take One,
she thought, part of her now hearing an imaginary laugh track.

The stark, tidy room seemed to come apart, then rearrange itself in a bizarre collage. Little

things jumped out at her, jarring, distorted. A cigarette burned down to a tube of ash in the hand

of a tall blond woman who stood watching her, frozen in horror. A white Persian cat snaking its

way stealthily among the forest of legs. A pattern of overlapping wet rings on the surface of the

glass coffee table, like ripples on a pond.

Then, like a mirage appearing out of nowhere, there she was. Rachel. Shouldering her way

through the crowd, striding forward, seeming to rip right through the haze of red ... everything

blue now, the blue of her eyes, the blue of dreams and smoke and vanished promises. ...

My twin,
Rose thought,
yes, that’s what you are. My Siamese twin. You don’t know me. But

I’ve lived with you for years. Tied to you. Hating you. Wondering why he chose you instead of me

...

“Let me help you,” Rachel was saying, coolly. Rose couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

But then those slim strong fingers were clasping her wrist. “I’m a doctor.”

This
is
a movie,
Rose told herself.
Things like this don’t happen in real- life.

Rose drew away, shrinking from Rachel’s touch, hating her gentleness, her competence, more

than if she had been rough, hurtful. “No ... no ... I’ll be okay. It’s ... I don’t think it’s deep ...

thank you, but I’ll manage—”

“Don’t be silly.” Rachel took hold of her wrist again, firmly, an adult shepherding a stubborn

child across a dangerous street. “You’re still bleeding. It must be deep. How did it happen?” Her

eyes cut away to Brian. Just for an instant, but Rose saw the question mark in them.

She felt again that stealthy glow of triumph that had come over her in the garden. This time she

did not draw away. A compelling fascination took hold of her. Suddenly, she wanted to know this

woman. And getting close to her might be a little like getting inside [335] of Brian, mightn’t it?

Seeing Rachel through Brian’s eyes, maybe finding out what in her had made him fall in love

with her.

Know thy enemy.
Isn’t that what the Bible said? Maybe she could discover Rachel’s

weaknesses. Places where a wedge might be driven in.

“A champagne glass,” she said. “It broke in my hand. I must have been holding it too tightly.”

“Let me see.” Rachel started to unwrap the bloody handkerchief, then glanced up, her steel-

blue gaze taking in the rubbernecking crowd. “Not here. In the bathroom.”

Rose felt herself being propelled forward, a steadying hand on her elbow. She looked up, saw a

familiar figure burst from the crowd. Max. He looked disheveled, upset.

“Rose. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Are you—” He stopped, stared, and his stolid

face seemed to crumple, turn old before her eyes. Softly, he said, “Oh Rose, oh baby.”

Immediately, Rose felt better, a great glassy wave of calm sweeping over her. Max was here.

Max would stop these crazy red thoughts flapping inside her head. Max would make her sane

again.

“Max ... I’m okay,” she said, meaning it. “Just a little accident. Wait for me. I’ll be a few

minutes. Then please ... please just take me back to the hotel.”

“I’ll wait,” Max said, and in that instant Rose caught something in his voice, his eyes, that

made her wonder if ...

Then Rupert Everest, wringing his hands, was ushering her into a bathroom, an Art Deco

fantasy. Black marble tiles and flamingo-pink porcelain, a huge sunken tub with fixtures in the

shape of bronze water nymphs. Mirrors on every wall, shaded in soft pink light, multiplying

every angle, turning it into a fun show.

Rose sank down on the cushioned chair beside a glass étagère filled with French bath salts.

Rachel shut the door.

They were alone.

Rose, for just an instant, felt as if reality were holding its breath, leaving her—the two of them

—in a sort of surreal vacuum. A place where nothing ... and everything ... made sense.

Like this feeling she had that, somehow, she’d seen Rachel before. It couldn’t have been that

news photo. So blurry, and her [336] face mostly hidden behind Brian. No, it was something

more. Something
truly familiar ...
that was what was so creepy about it. Rachel reminded her of

someone she knew well ... only she couldn’t think who. The image kept slipping away just when

she thought she had it.

Just my imagination,
she told herself.

Rachel slid back one of the mirror panels over the sink, and rummaged inside for first-aid

supplies. Then she knelt on the thick pink rug in front of Rose, and peeled back the handkerchief,

examining the wound: a long gash running diagonally across her palm like a sneering mouth, but

no more than a fraction of an inch deep.

Rose felt relieved. It wasn’t as bad as she had thought. Even the pain had subsided to a dull

throbbing ache. She stared at the top of Rachel’s head, at the pale pink line of scalp that looked as

if it had been drawn with a ruler, at the waves of shimmering amber hair falling over her face.

She thought about taking the Art Deco statuette of a discus thrower that stood on the marble

counter, and bringing it down hard against that perfect pink line.

Then as Rachel drew a long sliver of glass from the wound with a pair of tweezers, she

flinched. Fresh waves of pain blotted out her sinful thoughts.

Rachel glanced up, grimacing in sympathy.

“Ouch. Bet that hurts. But you won’t need stitches. I’ll just clean you up, and put a bandage

around it.”

“Thank you,” Rose gasped. “Really, I feel so stupid about the whole thing. It was such a stupid

accident.”

“Accidents happen. It wasn’t your fault.” But again, that question mark flashing in her eyes.

What happened between you and Brian out there?
Rose read in her clouded gaze.

I’ll let you figure that out for yourself,
Rose answered silently.

She remained quiet, watching Rachel swab the cut with sharp-smelling antiseptic, then wrap it

in gauze. Secretly admiring the graceful, efficient movement of her hands, Rose imagined those

hands on Brian’s body, making love to him, dancing over him with butterfly touches. ...

Stop. Stop it right now,
she commanded.
This is crazy. You’re acting craz—

Rachel, standing now, was turning the tap on to wash her hands. [337] “Leave the bandage on

for a day or two.” Her voice rose over the running water. Now she was drying her hands on one

of the fluffy pink towels lined up on the towel rack, now turning back to Rose. Her gaze dropped,

and she shook her head. “A shame about the dress, though. It’s lovely. I hope it’s not ruined.”

Her dress? She hadn’t thought about it, and now she felt a twinge of dismay. Well, it could be

cleaned. If only her life could be restored to her as easily, the life she would have had with

Brian ...

But that was like wishing Vietnam had never happened. Or the fire that killed her mother.

Rose, overcome, began to gasp with soundless, helpless sobs, leaning her forehead against the

cool marble tiles.

“Look,” Rachel was saying, her voice helpful, professional, “you’ve had a shock. Go back to

your hotel, take a couple of aspirin, get some rest.”

Rose, struggling to contain her emotion, focused on Rachel through the tears standing in her

eyes. “Brian didn’t tell me,” she said, “where you’re staying. Your hotel. So I can send you a

check for your services.”

Rachel stiffened. “That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I wouldn’t think of charging a friend.

Of Brian’s,” she added quickly. Too quickly, followed by a deep flush that fanned up her neck,

turning her creamy pink skin an ugly mottled red.

Rose felt a twist of satisfaction in the pit of her stomach. Good. So she had an Achilles’ heel

after all. And it was, as she’d suspected, Brian.

“I owe you then,” Rose said.

Rachel stopped at the door, and turned to give her a long look. And Rose thought,
We are in a

Fellini picture,
seeing Rachel reflected in the pink mirrors, over and over, a dozen Rachels lined

up like dominoes, tiny and golden with eyes like blue forget-me-nots. Once again, too, Rose had

the eerie feeling she knew that face from somewhere else. ...

“You don’t owe me anything,” Rachel said, a thin smile pasted in place. “Consider us even.”

Not yet,
Rose thought, her bitterness a cold thing now,
not as long as you have Brian.

Chapter 22

Rachel checked her panties again, just to be sure.

No blood.

A wave of exhilarating relief swept over her as she sat huddled on the toilet in the tiny

washroom at the back of the clinic.

Four days,
she thought. And her period was almost
never
late. Still, it was too soon to let

herself get excited.

Except she
was
excited. Hands shaking. Stomach fluttering. As she stood, pulling her panties