The Last Kiss Goodbye (18 page)

‘Remember that old B and B we always used to walk past in St Agnes?’ he said, his green eyes shining. ‘It’s for sale.’

The price was there for all to see at the top of the page.

‘I’ve spoken to a financial adviser, and we can afford it. Someone is interested in buying my business. They want to tie me in for three years as a consultant, but I could work remotely, one day in London, four in Cornwall, until my contract is over.’

Abby looked at him, not believing what he was suggesting.

‘It just seems like the time is right, Abs. With your job being downsized at the RCI, and me selling the business, it could be a fresh start for us both.’

Three years ago this would have been her dream. The conversation they’d had every time they walked past this B&B had been an annual ritual; an electric, excited discussion of what they would do with the property if it ever came on the market. There would be an art gallery in the stone outbuilding, an organic café at the front, and an office for the surf school somewhere among their living quarters upstairs.

‘How is it the right time, Nick?’ she said with sadness. ‘We’re here to discuss the breakdown of our marriage. After your affair. We’ve both instructed solicitors. Mine wants me to get the house valued, and not so that we can cash in our chips and buy a Cornish B and B together.’

‘It wasn’t an affair,’ he said, his voice choked. ‘It was one night. One stupid, idiotic night.’

‘It only takes one minute to betray the person you love, to destroy the bond of trust between two people. One minute to break everything.’

Not for the first time, she imagined him in some corporate hotel, his eyes meeting a woman’s across a half-empty bar.

It was a scenario that had played over and over in her head. A Stockholm hotel with smart teak interiors, soft subdued lighting. She wondered how many drinks they had imbibed on expenses. When had their conversation turned flirtatious, and who had initiated that first loaded, intimate touch? Who had said ‘Come back to my room’, in the way that Elliot had taken charge of the sexual tension?

‘Are you at least going to come and see Dr Naylor?’ he asked more soberly.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied, and she honestly didn’t.

He pushed his hand across the table, trying to stretch out and touch her fingers.

‘Abby, please. I will do anything to make this right again.’

It was a gesture so loaded with love and hope that it seemed wrong to accept it under false pretences.

‘Nick, I’ve met someone,’ she said finally.

She expected him to look furious, to accuse her of hypocrisy, at least to come back tartly with ‘That was quick.’ Instead he looked as if his heart was breaking.

‘Is it serious?’

Abby had no idea herself what the answer to this question was. Yes, she enjoyed Elliot’s company, yes, they’d had sex, and yes, they’d eaten breakfast on the balcony like any self-respecting mini-breaking couple the morning after. She didn’t want to dwell on where this was leading back in England, especially since they hadn’t seen each other since they’d parted at Heathrow. Elliot had a hectic work schedule, including a five-day trip to San Francisco to interview the wunderkind founders of the latest billion-dollar Silicon Valley start-up. But he had phoned three times, sent dozens of text messages – inconsequential chat, most of it: a man he had seen with a silly hat at the airport, a great restaurant he had discovered in Pacific Heights, a novel he recommended about the Russian Revolution – and a dinner date was pencilled in for his return to London on Monday. She didn’t know whether this meant nothing, or everything; either way she suspected that she should be economical with the truth before she knew where their relationship was going.

‘No. We’ve just had dinner. A date,’ she replied, willing herself not to blush.

‘But you like him?’

‘I like feeling good about myself,’ she said honestly, realising that that was exactly what had attracted her to Elliot Hall. Not his obvious good looks or his public school charm, but the way he made her feel like the most interesting person in the room, whether he truly believed it or not. ‘I haven’t felt good about myself for quite a long time now.’

Nick folded the B&B particulars carefully into a square and pushed it back into his pocket.

‘I know approximately what the house is worth,’ he said, adopting a more formal tone, the tone she had heard him use with clients when he took calls at home. ‘I’ve done some back-of-the-envelope sums and I don’t think we’ll have to sell it, so I don’t want you to worry about anything like that. And I’ve also put extra money into the joint account, so try not to get too bogged down about your hours being cut at the Institute.’

‘Nick, you didn’t have to . . .’

He drained the dregs of his drink and stood up to leave.

‘Are you going to see Dr Naylor?’ she asked, suddenly not wanting to leave.

He nodded, but didn’t ask her again if she was planning to go too. He left without another word, and it was another minute before Abby realised she was crying.

Chapter Twenty

In the dream, Abby was running. She was on a road that looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. And why was she running? She knew she was scared; was something chasing her, or was she late for something – an exam perhaps? Slowly she became aware of a clanging noise; that was it. She was running for a bus, and there it was, bright red in front of her. But wait! Buses didn’t have clanging bells. And suddenly she knew what it was: a fire engine, and it was going to her house. Her house was burning down with everything in it. ‘Nick!’ she cried, sitting up, her fists clutching the bedclothes.

There was no fire. The house was still there, the morning light leaking underneath the bedroom curtains. But the ringing was real. It took her a second to realise it was the doorbell.

She blinked hard to wake herself up and rolled out of bed, glancing at her bedside clock to check the time. Pulling on her dressing gown, she went downstairs, snapping the Sunday papers from the letter box before she opened the door.

‘Rosamund?’ She frowned with confusion as she recognised her visitor.

‘Can I come in?’

Abby registered something clipped and impatient in the tone of her voice.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

It was 8.45 in the morning. A Sunday morning. Abby had no idea how the older woman had tracked her down or what was so important that she had.

Rosamund said nothing as she stepped inside the house. Abby tucked the papers under her arm and ushered her through into the living room.

The two women stood there for a moment without saying anything.

‘How did you know where I lived?’

‘Fifty years as a journalist teaches you a few tricks,’ Rosamund said crisply. She nodded towards the newspaper. ‘I expect you’re going to frame it.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The newspaper.’

Abby put the copy of the
Sunday Chronicle
down on the table.

‘Why would I want to do that?’ she asked in bemusement.

‘Isn’t your first byline a big thing for any new journalist?’

‘Byline? What?’ She rubbed her face. ‘I’m sorry, Rosamund, I’m not following you.’

She was met with an icy silence.

‘The lead story in the News Review section of today’s
Chronicle
.’

‘What about it?’ she asked slowly. Rosamund’s expression was making her nervous. She saw a glimmer of steel, the tough patina of a hardened journalist, not the benevolent wise owl she had previously encountered.

‘I take it you didn’t know the story was to be published today.’

‘What story?’ said Abby, now utterly confused.

‘Have a look,’ said Ros.

Abby picked up the paper, tossing aside the various sections until she found the News Review. There, splashed across the front page, was the picture she had found in
Bystander
magazine of Rosamund and Dominic, alongside a smaller version of
The Last Goodbye
. The headline above it all read ‘The Playboy Spy – Mystery Explorer Sold Secrets to KGB’. Her wide eyes shot to the top of the page: ‘Reporting, Elliot Hall and Abigail Gordon’.

‘You’re kidding,’ she whispered, opening the paper to see that the story ran to a double-page spread on pages two and three.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ replied Rosamund sharply. ‘I assume the timing of the feature has surprised you, if not its content.’

Abby looked up at her.

‘Honestly, Rosamund, I had no idea about this,’ she said quickly.

‘Abby, please don’t take me for a fool.’

‘You have to believe me,’ she said, trying to catch her breath. ‘Elliot hired me to be his researcher.’

‘So you
did
know all about it.’

Abby felt caught out, cornered.

‘As you know, after the feedback about the
Last Goodbye
photograph, Elliot wanted to look into Dominic’s disappearance. I told you that.’

‘And I told you it was against my wishes.’

‘But he thought he could solve it,’ said Abby more passionately. ‘He had a lead and we went to St Petersburg to follow it up. We got back on Monday and I haven’t seen him since. He certainly didn’t mention that he was writing this story.’

‘Enough,’ said Rosamund, raising her hand to stop Abby in full flow. ‘I thought better of you, Miss Gordon. I trusted you. You seemed decent.’ She spoke so softly that Abby could barely hear her. ‘My memories are all I have left of Dominic, and this feature, this feature has just set out to trash them.’

Abby looked at her, at the hurt in her eyes, the bottom lip that quivered with emotion, and had to glance away in shame.

‘I’m going to call him right away,’ she said, her heart pounding.

Rosamund blinked hard to recover her poise, the vulnerable woman gone and the firebrand returned. ‘If you do see him, could you tell him to expect a finely worded note from my lawyers, and pass on the observation that karma is bound to catch up with you both in the end. Oh, and that I very much hope it’s sooner rather than later.’

‘Lawyers?’ said Abby, her embarrassment now replaced by panic.

‘I may be old, but I’m not dead. I believe libel laws apply to the living.’

‘Look, maybe we can get it removed from a later edition or something.’

‘I doubt you’ll get through. I’ve been trying since just after seven.’

‘Couldn’t you call another of your contacts in the media, maybe do a story on your side of things?’

‘And what would be the point?’ said Rosamund. ‘The damage is already done and another story would only fan the flames. Besides which, I’m not worried for myself; my lawyer will encourage me to sue, but I’m sure my reputation, such as it is, will survive. I’m just angry that Dominic Blake will now forever be seen as a traitor to his country, when nothing could be further from the truth.’

Abby shifted with discomfort and looked down at the feature again.

‘But Gorshkov . . .’ She trailed off, suddenly paranoid about using the Russian’s name. ‘The KGB contact, he claimed that Dominic worked for him. Do you think he was lying?’

‘I don’t have time to discuss my thoughts with you right now, Miss Gordon. Perhaps you should have thought to include them before Mr Hall filed the piece. Right now I’ve got to get to the newsagent and buy up all the copies of the
Chronicle
. My national reputation is one thing, but I don’t want people talking about me in my local shop.’

‘Rosamund, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ Abby said, but the older woman had already turned to leave.

When the front door had clicked shut, Abby closed her eyes and puffed out her cheeks. She stayed still for a moment, then went to the kitchen, made herself a coffee, and returned to the paper, curling her fingers around her mug as she read and reread the story from start to finish. There was, she had to admit, a tiny kernel of excitement at having – on paper, at least – become a journalist, at seeing her name in print, but it was squashed flat when faced with the arrogance and presumption of Elliot Hall.

How dare he file the story without consulting her? How dare he even write this story? She had always understood that they were looking into Dominic’s death, but the story in front of her was a textbook example of press sensationalism.

It was, however, a riveting read, and any other Sunday morning, before the exhibition, before Elliot Hall, Abby would have relished it.

From what she could gather, reading the article carefully, Elliot hadn’t said anything they knew to be untrue, but he had turned up the dial to make everything that little bit more salacious. Dominic Blake was portrayed as a decadent Oxbridge toff who used his contacts to seduce the wives and daughters of the aristocracy in order to pump them for information, which he would then gleefully feed back to his Soviet paymasters. According to Elliot’s account, Dominic was simply a traitor with an unspecified grudge against the establishment, who betrayed his country for the buzz of being a spy. Rosamund hardly came out of it much better; Elliot insinuated that her ‘dangerous left leanings’ meant she was fully sympathetic to her boyfriend’s line of work. In his conclusion, he implied that Dominic had been assassinated by MI5 before he could do any more damage. No wonder Rosamund had been upset.

Abby picked up her phone and began to dial Elliot’s number, stopping when she realised it would be past midnight in San Francisco. They were close, but not that close. Even if she was phoning with a bloody good reason, she knew enough from listening to the banter between Nick and his friends that midnight calls were likely to get you branded mad or a stalker. A darker thought also troubled her. What if she heard the sound of giggling in the background, or got the polite brush-off that suggested he had company? In the early hours of the morning that was not a good sign.

She would send him an email, she decided, folding the newspaper and walking across to the coffee table to get her laptop. Perching on the edge of the sofa, she balanced the machine on her knee and turned it on to the sound of a low, soft gong. For a minute she sat staring at the blue screen, wondering what to say. She was still furious, still shocked and bruised from her encounter with Rosamund, and she knew she should give it to him with both barrels, but as she sat there crafting her words, it all sounded hollow and naïve.

Yes, Elliot was wrong to file the story without telling her, but it wasn’t as if he had pretended to be anything other than a journalist. What did Abby really think was going to happen? It was inevitable he’d print something eventually, even if it was only to justify the expense bill for their trip to St Petersburg. Besides, it was a very, very good story. An exposé. Dominic Blake, friend of the establishment, had betrayed them all.

In the end she decided to keep things simple.

Elliot, I know it’s late, but if you haven’t gone to bed, please call me. The
Chronicle
piece is out and Rosamund has just been to see me.

That was it. No kisses, no smiley faces, just the bald facts. She congratulated herself on her restraint.

But as she closed the laptop, she felt deflated and unsettled. The threat of some vague and future legal action obviously troubled her, but it was more than that. She had been let down, tricked and lied to by another man, and for that she felt an utter fool.