True Colours (44 page)

Sebastian put his own glass down beside the cheeseboard, leaned back in the sofa, rubbing his face with his hands, hiding his expression. But Alex could see the shyness had returned to his eyes. He waited for a moment before he replied, crossing his arms as he formed his thoughts, getting the words right.

‘
I knew you’d be in and out of the office in a flash. Once we’d decided what we liked, you only needed to come back to check the decorator’s progress…I just wanted…I wanted to see you again…properly.’ Sebastian paused. The silence was loaded. ‘It was so long…’

Alex suddenly felt icy cold, she knew what was coming next, knew she’d walked right into it, but she was still surprised, surprised by the pain in his voice, surprised by the simplicity of the question.

‘
Why did you go?’ Sebastian’s voice was so low, she could hardly hear him.

Alex reached for her glass, picking it up, swishing the ice around it. Where should she start? How could she tell him now without sounding like she was attributing blame, without making the events of the other night even more painful? She sighed, her lips suddenly dry. Alex took a sip of her drink, feeling the tingle of the Baileys. Dutch courage. Sebastian’s eye met hers. He was waiting. The music began to build, flutes, then violins urging the orchestra on. This was it. She had to tell him.

‘
I had to. I wasn’t given any choice.’ Alex bit her lip, the memories bringing instant tears to her eyes.

Sebastian shifted his shoulders, kept his arms crossed, brow creased in a frown, ‘By who, who didn’t give you a choice?’

‘
Your grandfather.’ It was almost a whisper, Alex’s voice lost in a surge of French horns.

‘
My grandfather?’

Alex nodded, tucked the stubborn strand of hair back behind her ear again. She couldn’t look at him. The music had died away to almost nothing. ‘He called me into his study one day at the end of that summer. Asked me what I wanted to do with my life. I told him, told him I wanted to study interiors, had a crazy dream of setting up on my own.’ Violins again, plucked, insistent. ‘He must have known. God knows how, but he must have known what I was going to say because he started telling me about Barcelona, about the college, about how good it could be for me.’

‘
So you wanted to go?’ Sebastian’s voice was soft, defeated.

‘
No. No of course not.’ Alex was vehement now, turned to face him, her eyes spitting. ‘I told him I couldn’t. I didn’t want to leave. My Mum was only dead a year, I didn’t want to leave Dad…or you.’

‘
So why did you?’

Alex sighed, turned back to the fire, focused on the flames, the memories still raw, the tears hot in her eyes. The violins had calmed, were quiet, allowing her to speak.

‘
I didn’t understand what he was saying to start with, thought he was just being helpful, was interested.’ How stupid had she been? ‘Then he started saying that our relationship had no future, that you had your own future ahead of you, that you needed to focus on your studies. He said that it would be better if I thought about leaving, that Barcelona was perfect, that he would look after everything.’ The words were tumbling over each other, raw, her emotion naked. ‘I still didn’t get it, said thanks, but that I couldn’t leave.’

A sob caught in Alex’s throat. She lifted her head, looked at a point somewhere on the chimney breast, but she wasn’t seeing it, was back in the study with the smell of cigar smoke and the creaking leather of his chair. ‘Then he said that he’d have to fire my dad if I wouldn’t go.’ Alex turned to look at Sebastian, her face wrought with anguish, appealing to him to understand. Tears began to fall freely down her face. She brushed them away with the back of her hand. ‘I couldn’t do that to Dad. His job was the only thing he had left after my mum died. He loved it, loved the cottage, could get away from all the pressure when he was out in the woods. He’d come home full of it. I just couldn’t do that to him.’ Alex sniffed loudly, ‘And his pension wasn’t enough to buy another house – all his savings had gone on my mum’s medical bills. He’d never have got another job…we’d have had to go back to the city, find somewhere to rent. It would have killed him. ‘

‘
Christ.’ Sebastian put his hands out, grasped hers, his eyes filled with tears, deep pools of pain. ‘I didn’t know. How…how could he? God I knew he was ruthless but…’

Sebastian pulled Alex to him and she buried her head in his shoulder, breathing in soap and smoke and washing powder, his sweater soft on her cheek.

‘
He meant well.’ Alex was crying now, sobbing, ‘he loves you, wanted to…protect you. He thought he was doing the best.’ Why was she defending him? Alex couldn’t believe what she was saying. But maybe it was true…

Sebastian held her tight, rested his chin on the top of her head, taking it all in.

‘
Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you write?’ Alex could hardly hear him through her tears, through the music.

‘
He made me swear, swear I wouldn’t get in touch, swear I’d never come back, never set foot in Kilfenora House again. I was so frightened for my dad, for you.’ Alex took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, pulled away from Sebastian so she could see his face, ‘I wanted to. God I wanted to.’

Sebastian didn’t let her to say anymore, took her face in his hands, began to kiss away her tears, his lips caressing her eyelids, her cheeks. Then he stopped, staring deep into her caramel eyes.

‘
I should have guessed. I asked him to hire a private detective to try and find you, you know. He told me the chap had come up blank. I thought you’d been kidnapped.’

Alex smiled, laughing through her tears, her hands on his, ‘Who’d want to kidnap me?’

‘
I would. No question. Kidnap you and lock you in the attic so you could never escape.’ Sebastian was smiling now.

‘
I think your parents would have guessed don’t you?’

‘
Probably. But I don’t think they would have minded.’ He tucked Alex’s hair behind her ear, rubbing away a smudge of mascara from under her eye with his thumb, ‘I came over the day you left. There was something I wanted to ask you.’ Sebastian let her go, leaned back, rooting down the side of the sofa, pulling out a small black leather box. He found her hand and laid it in her palm. ‘I wanted to ask you to marry me.’

Stunned, Alex looked from his face to the box and back again. Violins met cellos in a surge of sound. And he was smiling, a nervous half-smile, his eyes red-rimmed, beseeching. Hardly daring to look, she eased it open. The Wingfield Sapphire lay on a bed of black velvet, the huge stone catching the firelight, the colours at its heart leaping and singing, cornflower and indigo, periwinkle and ultramarine. The multi-faceted blue of hope. Surrounded by a ring of diamonds, glowing like fairy dust.

Sebastian pulled it out, dropping the box onto the sofa beside him.

‘
Do you think it will fit?’ Alex’s lips twitched as she spoke. She wanted to laugh, to cry, to hug him. To hold him and never let him go. Turning her hand over, Sebastian slipped it onto her finger. It was tight but it fitted.

‘
I don’t think that’s going to come off in a hurry do you?’

Alex reached for his face, running her fingers along his jaw, the stubble already rough, ‘I never want it to come off.’

He kissed her. Their lips meeting, fine as a bee’s wing, his breath mingling with hers, giving her life, hope, a future. Alex found herself leaning back, pulling him with her, the leather of the sofa creaking beneath them, the orchestra filling the room as the symphony reached its peak. Suddenly she put her hand on his chest, pushing him away, her grin cheeky, ‘Do you know what, we forgot about dessert.’

He looked deep into her eyes, his voice husky. ‘We can have it for breakfast.’

THE END

Acknowledgements

No book comes into being without huge help from experts whose assistance is vital in ensuring the facts are accurate. John Reilly, Station Officer at Dun Laoghaire Fire Station was incredibly generous with his time. Garda Joe Griffin has been an invaluable source on many projects, together with Detective Garda David O’Sullivan - they have both been subjected to reading various scripts as my writing progressed. And I couldn’t have got the techie bits right without retired Detective Garda Pat Scully, Garda Stephen Heffernan and Darrell Fitzpatrick from Scenes of Crime.

Much of this book was written on holiday in a wonderful place in Cornwall where Rupert Smales explained guns and the game season and played a vital role in making the story line work. And where sculptor Andrew Bird appeared one evening at precisely the right moment to find out whether I was waving or drowning.

Thanks too, to Bede Fox for his meticulous eye (and the ability to add up), Sophie O’Rourke Walker and the much missed Max, for Palm houses, paint pots and Clumber spaniels. Jane Wong for a conversation that became a story.

Maria from the Butler’s Pantry provided the food (she can for you too! [email protected]) Thanks to Zoom, in Greystones for teaching Sam to bake while I edited. To Paul and Mar Ryan for introducing me to Tarragona, Spain; Yvonne Kennedy and Maire O’Loughlin for essential tips on Chinese etiquette.

Nothing I write would be vaguely publishable without my writer pals and everyone who has made Inkwell possible. Sarah Webb helped start it all and Alex Barclay made the difference. Without Ferdia MacAnna, I would never have heard Richard Thompson’s Bee’s Wing.

And to Niamh O’Connor, who keeps me going - thank you.

### END ###