The Secrets Between Us (24 page)

Alexander pushed his chair back and stood up. I caught my breath at the beauty of him. I loved the grace and manliness of him. I loved the shape of him, the scruffiness, the bagginess of his clothes, the way his shirt hung over his trousers, his beautiful eyes, his mouth, his chin. Still I withdrew a little. No matter how I was drawn to him, I could not get round this thing between us. Genevieve gone.

‘Hey,’ he said, holding out his hands in a conciliatory manner. ‘Come on, Sarah. I’m sorry, but Genevieve …’

I was on the point of conceding. If he had not said her name, I would have let it go. But he said ‘Genevieve’ and I was tired of that pretty French name, tired of protecting Alexander from the things I knew about her, about him, about them. I had had enough of Genevieve.

‘I’ll see you later,’ I said, and I picked up my jacket and went outside.

* * *

I waited for Claudia at the bottom of the drive, hopping from foot to foot, and was shivering by the time the car pulled up. I should really have worn a coat, but couldn’t bear to go back inside once I’d flounced out. I slipped into the passenger seat and reached for her handbag.

‘Do you mind if I have a cigarette?’ I asked.

‘Help yourself,’ she said.

There was a ten-pack of Silk Cut in her bag. I shook one out, lit it, wound down the window and inhaled.

‘Trouble in paradise?’ Claudia asked. I snorted.

She accelerated the car down the lane. It was pitch black between the tall hedges on either side of the road. I thought: Heaven help us if we meet anything coming at our speed the other way.

‘What’s the matter?’ Claudia asked.

‘It’s Genevieve,’ I said quietly.

Claudia held out her fingers for a draw on the cigarette.

‘It’s not her fault,’ she said. ‘You can’t blame her for any of this.’

I turned to look at her profile. She was driving but I could see her face lit by the headlights of oncoming cars. There was a shine to her eyes and I was ashamed of myself.

‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’

Our quiz team was called, with irony, ‘The Trophy Wives’. It consisted of me, Claudia and two of Claudia’s book-group friends, Bess and Libby, both of whom were, like Claudia, well bred and scruffy and rather horsey, and they both had daughters at the same school as the twins. Neither, fortunately, lived in Burrington Stoke. I was an unlikely member of the foursome, and had not realized how competitive the event would be. The other teams were predominantly male, and mostly older than us. They lined up their real ales on the sticky tabletops and we lined up our
plastic mini-bottles of Merlot and Chardonnay, and the landlord, who was known as John the Steak because he used to be a butcher, handed out the sheets and read the questions over a microphone.

Within a very few moments I realized that my only helpful role that evening was likely to be in making up the numbers. While the other women answered the questions, I drank one drink, and then another. When the quiz was over, while the answers were being collated, I moved into the snug with Libby. We ordered more drinks and sat at the only available table and, at the bar, a man waved at me. It was Tom, Betsy’s partner. I beckoned him to come and join us.

We talked of the children, of this and that, but sooner or later, inevitably, the conversation came back to the fight in the pub. I tried to explain to Tom how humiliating it was to have everyone in the village pointing fingers at me. He nodded and sipped his cider.

‘It’s not you they’re really interested in,’ he said. ‘It’s her. People have been talking about Genevieve all her life. They can’t get enough of her.’

I took a drink of wine.

‘There’s always been some drama going on around her,’ said Tom. ‘My mum remembers the scandal when Philip swapped his first wife for Virginia and Genevieve came along six months after the wedding, if you get my drift. Same day as … well, you know. People used to say that she was bound to have bad luck after a start like that. They said she’d be cursed, but she turned it round. She was such a good rider she was winning trophies almost as soon as she could walk. Then …’

‘What?’

‘She was sweet on a lad from the village, Robbie Innes. They used to ride together. He was the only one who could match her cross country. And you know what happened to him?’

I shook my head.

‘He drowned in the old quarry.’

‘Oh!’ I looked up. ‘The boy who died was Genevieve’s boyfriend?’

Tom nodded.

‘God, poor Genevieve.’

I was beginning to feel very tired and emotional.

‘Tombstoning, they call it,’ Tom said. ‘Jumping off the cliffs into the water and never mind what’s below. Everyone used to do it, all the young lads. I went up there myself a few times. Everyone knew that old quarry was an accident waiting to happen. To give them their due, the Churchills put up signs warning of the danger and fenced the area off. They tried to keep the kids out but they didn’t take any notice. Boys never do.’

‘That’s terrible,’ I said. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. ‘That’s so sad.’

‘Genevieve was there when it happened, her and her brother. People say that’s what tipped Damian right over the edge, no pun intended. She never got over it either,’ said Tom.

‘She got over it enough to marry Alexander.’

‘Yeah, but …’

‘What?’

He shrugged. ‘After Robbie died, everyone thought she’d end up with Luke.’

‘Who’s Luke?’

‘Robbie’s brother.’

‘So where is Luke now?’

‘Fuck knows.’

‘Maybe it’s him!’ I said.

‘What’s him?’

‘Maybe he came back to Burrington Stoke and met up with Genevieve and she realized she still loved him. Maybe she decided she should have been with him all along and that’s why she went away.’

Tom sighed and tipped his head back to drain his glass. There was a stubbly patch on his throat that he’d missed with the razor.

‘Or maybe not,’ he said.

Somewhere along the line, Tom and Libby swapped places. She was having an animated conversation with someone else, which I was too drunk and tired to listen to. Tom seemed to have run out of things to say and was staring morosely into his glass. I rested my head on his shoulder. It was wide and hard with muscle. He smelled of deodorant, something strong and spicy. I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just somewhere to put my head. It was heavy and sleepy and already beginning to ache a little.

‘I’m glad you’re with Betsy. I think you’re very nice,’ I said to Tom, holding out my glass for a top-up.

‘I think you’re very nice too,’ he said. ‘Only move your head.’

‘Why?’

‘You’re involved with Alexander Westwood and the Churchill family,’ he said. ‘You should be careful.’

‘Why should I be careful?’

He leaned forward so that I had to sit up straight.

‘You’ll see,’ he said.

I don’t remember the exact sequence of events but some time later, when Alexander came into the pub, I was asleep, curled up on the bench with my head pillowed by Libby’s jacket.

Claudia helped me to my feet and passed me to Alexander. I stumbled into his arms. He apologized to Claudia for me and half-dragged, half-carried me into the cold outside air beneath a starlit night and a blue moon, and helped me into the Land Rover. He didn’t say a word to me. Nothing.

We drove home in silence. I was determined not to make excuses for my behaviour. I felt sullen and resentful of
Alexander. Everyone else seemed happy to talk to me; other people seemed to like me. What was wrong with him that he couldn’t open his heart to me? Was he
still
so in love with Genevieve? My forehead bumped on the car window. Alexander drove with one hand on the wheel. He rested the elbow of the other arm on the door, and rubbed his forefinger along his lips.

At Avalon, Alexander ran up to check on Jamie, who had been left unattended, then he helped me up the stairs and lay me down on my bed. Several times I insisted I was all right, but I wasn’t.

‘I’ll bring you a cup of mint tea,’ he said, easing my boots off my feet.

‘Yes, because that’ll put everything right,’ I said miserably. Now I felt sorry for myself and tearful.

‘It’s supposed to prevent hangovers.’

‘Like I said.’

‘Sarah …’

‘What?’

I rolled over on to my side, facing the window with my back to him. I could see my face, in duplicate, reflected in the panes. My mascara was smudged around my eyes and my face was pale. I looked like a zombie, a living dead person.

I felt the weight of him as he sat down behind me on the bed, and my body moved along the depression of the mattress towards him. His back was reflected in the window glass. He had his head in his hands.

‘What’s the matter, Sarah?’ he said. ‘Why did you have to go and do that?’

I felt my eyes fill with tears of self-pity. There was a salty taste in my mouth.

‘It’s you,’ I said.

‘What did I do?’

‘It’s what you don’t do. You don’t let me into your life.
You won’t let me help you. Most of you is closed off from me. I feel like a stranger.’

His reflection shook its head. It put the heels of its hands into its eye sockets and rubbed ferociously.

‘You live in my house, Sarah, you look after my son, we eat together and sleep together and spend most of our free time together. I’ve done things with you I’ve never done with anybody else. You
are
my life.’

I shook my head.

‘There are too many secrets. You don’t trust me.’

‘I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t.’

‘Then why don’t you tell me anything?’

‘I tell you everything.’

‘No.’

I turned over to look at Alexander. His eyes were red where he had rubbed them, his hair stuck up. He looked unkempt, tramp-like and vulnerable.

‘You don’t tell me about anything important,’ I said. ‘You don’t tell me about why Genevieve really left, or Pete, or’ – I took a deep breath – ‘or why you were in prison.’

‘Oh.’

I sighed.

I saw the tiny muscles in his face tense. I could feel him closing himself up.

‘That was always the deal, wasn’t it, Sarah? We took one another on trust because we believed in each other.’

‘But it’s all one way,’ I said. ‘If you asked me a question, any question, I would answer it honestly.’

‘I don’t want to know. I don’t care about your life before I met you.’

I thought of my baby wrapped in a cotton hospital blanket, blue for a boy. I recalled his tiny fingers and how warm and sweet and solid he was in my arms; the perfectly peaceful expression on his face. I remembered how I put the tip of my little finger between his lips – they were dry and slightly
purple – and felt the fading heat of the inside of his mouth. I put the smallest amount of pressure on his gum and pleaded in my heart for a miracle, for what nearly all babies do instinctively and naturally; I willed him to suck. My lips were on his forehead. I tried to make a deal with God, I begged Him to let me see my baby take just one breath. It was such a small thing to ask for: a single breath, a tiny movement of his ribcage. Nothing happened. My whole body ached with the exhaustion of childbirth and with tenderness for my son. He was the best thing that had ever happened to me. Did he not matter now because he was in the past? Didn’t he count?

‘Don’t say that,’ I said. ‘There are things I’d like to tell you, things you ought to know. If you cared about me …’

‘I didn’t say I don’t care about you,’ said Alexander. ‘But what happened to you before I met you is irrelevant to us now.’

It wasn’t! What happened to me before I met him was the reason I had been in Sicily in the first place. If it hadn’t happened we would never even have set eyes upon one another … but I was too drunk to rationalize my frustration or to put it into words.

‘I’ve never lied to you,’ he said.

That wasn’t the point. I hadn’t accused him of lying but of being evasive. I struggled, in my fug of misery, for a cohesive response.

‘Then tell me why you went to prison. What did you do?’

His face was tired and closed.

‘It doesn’t matter. It was nothing.’

‘Most people, Alex, would think being sent to prison was quite a big thing.’

‘I thought you were different from most people.’

He looked so disconsolate, so disappointed, that I was ashamed of myself.

I wanted to throw my arms around him and assure him that I was, indeed, different. I wanted to apologize so that we could have some kind of happy ending to that miserable day; kisses and tears and apologies, sex and reconciliation. But I was angry and hurt and jealous. I shuddered and curled myself a little tighter.

I had the feeling he was waiting for me to speak, but I said nothing.

‘It’s over,’ he said at last. He stood up and left the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

I didn’t know what he meant. Did he mean the past was over, or the evening, or that we were over?

Ordinarily, I’d have tried to sort it out there and then, but I was in no fit state to do anything that night.

I heard him banging about downstairs even as my headache began to kick in.

I pulled the duvet over me and hid beneath it. I wasn’t exactly comfortable. I was still wearing the dress, belt and leggings, and there were clips in my hair, but I thought I’d wait until Alexander was in bed before I went to the bathroom.

I didn’t mean to sleep, but I must have dropped off almost at once because the next thing I remembered was waking in daylight, dry-mouthed and achey, to see Alexander standing at the open door to my room. He was rubbing the knuckles of one hand with the palm of the other.

He nodded towards the chest of drawers and said: ‘I brought you a cup of tea.’

‘Thank you.’

I did my best to smile, but the smile did not last long because Alexander said: ‘This was a mistake. Us, I mean. It was a stupid idea you coming here. I think it would be best if you left.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

I STAYED IN
my room until Alexander and Jamie had left for school, then I crept into the bathroom and sat on the toilet, peeing for an eternity. I rested my forehead on the cold tiles, which were damp with condensation, and wondered what I should do.