Lovers and Liars Trilogy (178 page)

‘May I ask you something else?’

‘You may.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll even answer, I expect.’

‘Have you ever loved anyone, Rowland?’

‘Yes, twice.’

‘And what came of it?’

‘Nothing came of it.’ He paused. ‘The first woman I loved is dead; her name was Esther. She was killed in Washington DC, a month before our marriage; that happened a long time ago. And the second…’ He paused again. ‘Nothing came of it. It ended some time ago.’

Lindsay heard the decision to disclose no more in his voice; she had expected the closing of that particular door.

‘Nothing ever came of my marriage,’ she said, in a rushed way, bending her head. ‘It took me years to see that. You could say Tom came of it, of course, except that I never think of Tom as coming from my marriage. Tom is my blessing, my gift from the gods. But Tom actually came from—you can imagine, Rowland—nothing special; nothing glorious. A night when I was miserable, when my husband was drunk…’

‘Don’t, Lindsay.’

‘No, you’re right. I won’t. It doesn’t matter anyway, because Tom changed my life. He—as soon as I held Tom in my arms—he wasn’t a pretty baby, even I could see that. He had this dark hair then, Rowland. He was born with dark hair. I was so proud of that lovely hair, then later, he rubbed it off, on his pillow, in his cradle, and the next hair that grew was fair, like his father’s…’

‘Lindsay. Dear Lindsay. Don’t cry.’

‘I don’t mean to cry, I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m happy really. I love Tom so much. I just wish…I just wish…I wish he’d grown up with a proper father. Some man—not the man who is his father, because he didn’t care, and he should have cared, and I’ll never forgive him for not caring for Tom as long as I live…’

‘When did he leave? Tell me, Lindsay.’

‘When Tom was six months old. There was some girl, I think; there usually was. All the time, really. When I was pregnant, before, after. I didn’t find that out until later, of course. He—well, he lied a lot.’

‘Lindsay—’

‘It’s all right. I can see it in perspective now; I couldn’t then. He turned up again, when Tom was about eighteen months old. He’d turn up, beg to come back, then he’d stay a day or two, sometimes a week. After a while, I began to see—he only came if he wanted to borrow money, or if he had nowhere else to sleep, so I threw him out. But even then, I still used to write and send him photographs. I sent him pictures of Tom for years. First as a baby, then as a little boy, on holiday, his first day at school—things like that. I was so bloody
obstinate
…’

‘Lindsay, don’t get upset. Here—’

‘I kept thinking, it didn’t matter if he didn’t love me, but he had to love Tom. Even if he wasn’t a good father, he was the only father Tom had, and Tom needed him. So I kept on
hoping
, in this weak, stupid, futile way—and then one day, I suddenly stopped. I realized—he was such a shit. I didn’t like him; I didn’t respect him, and Tom was better off without him. After that—’

‘You never thought of marrying again?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘No-one asked me, actually,’ Lindsay said, in a small voice. She began to laugh, then cry. ‘Which is just as well, because I might have said yes, and I can see now that would have been a terrible mistake. I’ve had quite a lot of unmemorable lovers, Rowland…’

‘So have I.’

‘Dull as ditch-water, most of them.
Prudent
. I had a thing about prudent men, for a bit.’

‘Because of Tom?’

‘I expect so. And—there was one who kept his loose change in a purse; he was pretty bad. There was another one who, when we went out to dinner, he always tipped precisely eight and a half per cent. It took him hours calculating it. I left him in mid-soup…’

‘Mid-soup?’

‘I just got up and walked out. It was minestrone. He was talking about pension plans. I think he might have been about to propose, actually, now I look back. I expect that’s why I fled. I don’t really like prudent men. I—I’m not very prudent myself—I expect you’ve noticed that—and I didn’t really want a husband anyway; I wanted a father for Tom, which wasn’t fair on them, and—I’m sorry about tonight, Rowland. I’ve been a fool. I’m ashamed. Reeling around on that bridge. I’ve embarrassed everyone…’

‘You haven’t embarrassed me.’

‘Oh,
hell
. Now I’m really starting to cry. I’ll make your jacket all wet. Rowland…’

‘I’ve got a handkerchief somewhere. Wait, I’ll do it. There.’ He dried her eyes, then kissed her forehead. ‘Now, look at me, Lindsay…No, look at me properly. Now, do I look embarrassed?’

Lindsay looked at him for a long time. She looked at his dark hair and his shadowed eyes; any harshness in his features was softened by the half-light. She lifted her hand and rested it against his face.

Rowland took her hand and clasped it in his own. He gave a sigh, leaned back and gathered her more comfortably against him. He looked away across the room and made no reply. Lindsay, positioning herself so she could look up at him, saw his expression was now bleak.

She tightened her grip on his hand and rested her head against his shoulder. She watched the quiet rise and fall of his chest; she let the quietness of the room enter her veins. All the words she would have liked to say, and all the comfort she would have wished to give, rose up in her heart like a tide. Her feelings were of the utmost eloquence, but words would not contain them. Perhaps silence could speak, she thought, hoping it was so. She pressed his hand, then raised it to her lips. She kissed his knuckles.

‘You’re still crying,’ Rowland said.

‘Only a bit. I’ll stop soon. I’m glad you’re here.’

‘I’m glad I’m here too.’

‘I wish things were different for you, Rowland. I wish that things had worked out. That you weren’t alone…’

‘I’m used to it.’

‘You ought to have children, Rowland…’

‘I know that.’

‘…I watch you with Tom sometimes, and I think—you’d make such a fine father…’

‘Would I? I hope so.’ He hesitated. ‘I sometimes wish—’

‘What do you wish?’

‘Oh, the usual things: that the plot had worked out differently, I expect.’

‘Tell me, Rowland; talk to me. You’re too reserved; it’s not good to be as reserved as you are…’

‘Maybe not.’ He shifted her position a little, so she was curled in his arm, and they sat for some while in silence. Lindsay closed her eyes; was it three in the morning, four? The city was almost silent; its stir had subsided; no cars passed; it was quiet in the dusky room, the only sound their breathing, and quiet in the streets.

After a while, Rowland began speaking again. He continued to hold her hand, and he told her innumerable things, in no particular order, but perhaps, she thought, as they played before his eyes, or swam into his head.

He described the small farm his Irish father had owned on the west coast of Ireland, which he had left when he was eight, after his father’s sudden death. He described living in London with his English mother, and his school, his scholarship; then, jumping over years, spoke of his mother’s unyielding character and her lingering death. He talked of the purchase of his strange and beautiful house in the East End of London, and then—houses being perhaps the association—he described Colin’s search for Wildfell Hall and the house near the sea, which he and Colin had eventually found, and which Tomas Court appeared to like.

From this house, he said, a path led down to a remote and little-visited beach, a horseshoe between two headlands. There, only a few days ago, while Colin remained at the house, taking his photographs and making his notes, Rowland had walked. Shells underfoot, shells pulverized by the waves; the cry of gulls as they swooped; a heavy sea, the tide racing in and engulfing the rocks.

Lindsay, eyes closed, her body warmed by his, listened to the crunch of those shells underfoot; she listened to the scream of the gulls, the heave of the tide, and listening to them, watching Rowland alone on a pale, shrinking strand, she fell asleep.

The next morning, that morning, when it was light, she woke to a changed Rowland, or perhaps to a more familiar Rowland, a man who had reverted, who was considerate, but distant again, kindly and polite. It was only six, but he was preparing to leave. Lindsay watched him numbly. She felt as if someone had injected novocaine into an artery; novocaine was numbing the muscles of her face; novocaine impeded her breathing and interfered with her voice.

‘I haven’t been fair to you, Rowland,’ she said, finally, when he was almost at the door, the words jamming, then coming out in a rush. He turned.

‘I’m sorry. I wanted to say something at lunch yesterday and then I couldn’t. I wanted to say something last night—and I forgot…’

‘Lindsay, it doesn’t matter. It’s irrelevant now, in any case.’

‘It isn’t. It isn’t. Three weeks ago you made me a proposal, an offer—a very generous one. You gave me the time to think about it, and…’

‘Lindsay, you obviously don’t want the job. That’s all right. I was a little confused, when you announced your resignation, your plans. And disappointed, obviously. But I understand now…’

‘No. No. I shouldn’t have done it like that. I don’t even know why I did. I should have talked to you first. I should have talked to you before I resigned. I should have explained when we were on our own, not sprung all that on you at lunch, with three other people there; I owed you that. Oh, why was I so stupid,
stupid
…I was afraid, I think.’

‘Afraid? Am I such an ogre?’ Rowland gave her a puzzled look. He hesitated, and for one singing moment Lindsay thought he was about to change his mind and stay. He unlatched the door, then turned back.

‘I blame myself, not you,’ he began awkwardly. ‘You’re right, I can be arrogant. I assumed—I thought you might like to work with me again. I thought you might want to move on from fashion. It seemed such a good plan…’ He paused. ‘Do you remember, Lindsay, when I was Max’s Features Editor? You never stopped telling me how to do my job…’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure I never admitted it at the time, but your ideas were good. I haven’t forgotten that. I can hive off the heavier stuff and leave you as Features Editor, with responsibility for everything else. All those damn columns: gardens, property, restaurants, food, cars; they matter to the readers, and they’re not good enough. I’d give you a completely free hand. You could continue to oversee the fashion, if you want. If you want to reconsider, the offer’s still open—you do understand that? If it’s a question of salary…’

‘No, Rowland, it’s not money; truly. What you were offering was more than generous.’

‘Then what’s the problem? Were you worrying about Max? I told you, Lindsay, Max wouldn’t be pleased at my stealing you. But he’d accept it. Max is a realist. In fact…’ He began to smile. ‘Why don’t we
really
annoy him? Persuade Pixie to come with you, to run the fashion side of things, but still reporting to you. We could do that. We could…’

‘Stop, Rowland. Please don’t. I’m so sorry, I hate myself for this. You’ve shown confidence in me and look how I’ve repaid you. I sat there at lunch, letting Tom and Colin and Katya criticize you, and I didn’t explain the real situation. You could have given me away if you’d wanted to, taken me to task—and you didn’t. Oh damn, damn…’

She turned her face away to hide her distress. Rowland took her hand and turned her to him.

‘Forget about that,’ he said. ‘Lindsay, I don’t care what they said or thought. Listen to me, we’ve always worked well together. I know you could do this job. Won’t you at least think about it?’

‘Rowland, no. I have thought about it, and I’ve decided. I’ve signed the contract for this book. I’m committed…’

‘It isn’t that. I don’t believe you.’ He was watching her closely. ‘There’s some other problem. You don’t want to work with me, is that it?’

Lindsay looked away. To accept this job would mean working with Rowland McGuire in the closest proximity; that would destroy all her peace of mind. The only way in which she was going to cure herself of Rowland was to see him less and to put distance between them. She was now even more certain of this.

‘Tell me,’ Rowland said, when she had not replied. ‘Look at me, Lindsay. Is it that you don’t want to work with me? Is that so bad a prospect? Why? I know I can be infuriating—you tell me often enough. But we understand one another now; we know one another so well—don’t you feel that?’

‘In certain ways, maybe. But—’

‘We make a good team. We spark ideas off one another. Even the fights are useful…’ A glint of amusement came into his eyes, then his expression became doubtful again, and his manner somewhat awkward. ‘I’d rather you said, Lindsay. I—well, I didn’t expect you to turn me down. I thought—I can only assume now…’

‘Rowland,
don’t
. You know I like working with you; I always did—and you taught me a great deal. I’ve told you that often enough…’

‘No, you haven’t actually.’

‘Then I’m telling you
now
. This decision has nothing to do with you personally, Rowland. Try to understand. I’ve spent twenty years, more, in an office. I’ve spent twenty years going to the collections, twenty years catching planes and chasing around the world. I’ve had
enough
, of fashion
and
of journalism; I don’t want deadlines to dictate the rest of my life. Rowland, I never had a choice before—Tom depended on me, my mother depended on me; we had to have my salary, come what may. But now I
do
have a choice. I can write this book; I
want
to write this book—and if it’s a success, maybe I could write others. I’m looking forward to it, Rowland. You wait…’ She smiled. ‘In a few months’ time, you won’t recognize me. I’ll have become an archive junkie, a library addict. I’ll be filling up all these notebooks with research…’

It was, she thought, a seamless blend of truth and falsehood, and it was effective.

‘An archive junkie?’ Rowland also smiled. ‘I admit I can’t quite imagine that.’ He paused. ‘You promise me that this is what you truly want?’

‘Ah, what do women want?’ Lindsay made a face. ‘I wouldn’t go that far, but it’s what I want to do.’

‘I shall miss you, you know. The office won’t seem the same without you. Who’s going to cut me down to size if you aren’t there?’