The Last Kiss Goodbye (4 page)

‘Before he broke my heart,’ said Abby softly.

Anna rooted around in her bag and pulled something out. ‘Here’s Matt’s business card,’ she said, pushing a sliver of embossed white card her way. Anna’s fiancé was one of London’s top divorce lawyers. Abby knew of a dozen other ways to contact him, through Facebook, email, LinkedIn, which she had felt very grown-up joining in recent weeks. Matt was her mate; she could just phone him up if she wanted to speak to him. But there was a gravity in Anna’s gesture that made Abby appreciate that this was the rest of her life they were dealing with.

‘You know how good he is,’ added Anna. ‘But if it’s all a bit embarrassing, he’s got a couple of amazing associates who could act for you . . . if you’re sure that’s what you want.’

The thought of it made Abby sick. Selling the house, splitting the assets, never seeing Nick again.

She closed her eyes, imagining how much she would miss his presence in her life, even those terrible recent text messages begging for forgiveness. Nick Gordon might have broken her heart, but he had been the love of her life, and the idea of never seeing him again, never hearing his voice was almost too much to bear.

‘So what are you going to do?’ asked Anna, draining her glass.

‘I’ve got a lot of thinking to do,’ replied Abby quietly.

It was the understatement of her life.

Chapter Three

Abby wasn’t in the mood for work. To be honest, she hadn’t been in the mood for work for quite a while now, but this morning as she walked up Exhibition Road from the tube, she was dreading it more than usual. She took a sip of her latte, hoping it would go some way to clearing her head, but it didn’t seem to be working. The sunshine kept glinting off the windscreens of cars, and despite her oversized sunglasses, the light and the noise and the after-effects of the night before were making her head pound like a drum. What had possessed her to go out for drinks in the middle of the working week? She wasn’t nineteen any more; she couldn’t bounce back from a hangover the way she had done at university.

She crossed the road, narrowly missing being hit by a white van. The driver blared his horn at her and yelled something out of the window.

‘Big night?’

She almost dropped her coffee as she turned to see a beaming face.

‘Lauren! You nearly gave me a heart attack,’ she gasped.

‘Sorry, but you were miles away. Thinking about all those cocktails you drank last night, were you?’

Abby was momentarily thrown by the accuracy of her friend’s assessment. There had always been an air of the mystical about Lauren Stone, the Institute’s librarian, although much of it was by design. The boho smocks and purple tights, the geeky glasses and the obsession with horology – it was all carefully stage-managed to distract from the fact that Lauren was both beautiful and super-bright.

‘Sun’s gone in,’ she said, nodding towards Abby’s sunglasses.

‘I’m feeling a bit fragile.’

‘So what was last night’s occasion?’

‘Just a girls’ night out. A lot of bitching about how crappy men are, and more Pimm’s than is healthy or sensible.’

‘Good for you,’ said Lauren, putting her hand in her bag and pulling out a banana. ‘There you go. Potassium.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Don’t worry, I have an entire bunch of them in here.’ Lauren grinned. ‘I have a monster hangover too.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘I had a date.’

‘Tell me more. Anyone I might know? Anyone interesting?’

‘Very interesting. Alex Scott from the V and A.’

‘Result!’ laughed Abby, aware of the museum’s resident heart-throb. ‘Tell me more.’

‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Lauren with a wave of the hand. ‘Let’s see if he calls back first.’

They turned in through the gates of the RCI building and waved their passes at Mr Smith, the geriatric security guard, who was sitting more or less upright next to the reception desk. Abby often wondered why they bothered, considering he only had to remember a few female faces and was hardly likely to jump up and accost them, but it had become something of a habit.

‘So how’s the exhibition shaping up?’ asked Lauren as they prepared to go their separate ways.

‘Getting there, I suppose, but Stephen’s vision of what constitutes an iconic image and mine rarely seem to meet.’

Lauren snorted.

‘Not surprised; I’ve seen how the man dresses. Taste is clearly not one of his gifts. Well, if you need any help, just give me a shout. I’m not exactly being run off my feet at the moment.’

‘You can send me a long, juicy email about your date with Alex Scott then,’ grinned Abby.

She reluctantly left Lauren and descended the old stone steps into the basement, taking a deep breath before she stepped through into the archive.

‘Morning, Abigail,’ said Stephen, raising his eyebrows at the clock above the door. ‘Two minutes past.’

It was another of the little rituals they lived by. Abby worked late almost every evening, often coming in at weekends if a member required something specific from the archive at short notice, and yet Stephen insisted on pointing out every time she was even a second late.

‘So. It was a very enlightening meeting with Christine yesterday,’ he said when Abby had sat down at her desk. A smug smile spread across his face. Abby tried not to think about her boss’s sexuality – until recently, she hadn’t even been sure if he was interested in women or men. That was until Christine Vey’s arrival at the RCI. Now, just the mention of her name seemed to send Stephen into raptures.

‘So,’ he repeated, putting on his glasses. ‘The good news is that Christine has invited several members of the press to the launch night of the exhibition, and quite a few of them have accepted.’

‘Fantastic,’ said Abby, thrilled that her efforts might get some recognition in a national newspaper.

‘It gets better,’ he said, raising a hand. ‘The
Chronicle
are sending along one of their top journalists to do a review. And if they think the images are strong enough, they’ll run a four-page feature in the Saturday edition.’

‘It had better be good then,’ said Abby, feeling excited and nervous.

‘Indeed. In fact I’d better have a look at your shortlist later today so we can make a final selection of images. If the press are coming, the exhibition has to be electric. It has to sing, my dear Abigail.’

His words reminded her of something.

‘On that subject,’ she said, hunting around her desk, ‘I wanted to pick your brains about an image.’

‘Pick away,’ said Stephen sagely.

She pulled out an envelope and passed the photograph inside to her boss.

‘I found this in the collection last night,’ she said, leaning forward. ‘Peru, 1961. The Blake Expedition . . . Does that mean anything to you?’

‘Dominic Blake,’ said Stephen, nodding. ‘He was mapping a remote section of the Amazon rainforest, or at least that was the stated aim of the expedition. There were rumours, of course . . .’

‘Rumours?’

‘Oh, that he was really looking for Paititi, the lost city supposedly stuffed with jewels.’ He gave the photograph a cursory glance, then flipped it back to Abby. ‘Pure nonsense, of course, just like El Dorado, one of those old wives’ tales that quickly become legends because people want to believe them.’

‘So he never found it?’

‘Never found anything,’ said Stephen. ‘In fact, he never came back.’

Abby almost gasped.

‘He died?’

‘One assumes,’ shrugged Stephen. ‘I believe this was the last official photograph from the expedition. He went deep into the jungle and was never seen again.’

Abby felt her hands begin to tremble. She didn’t know why she felt so shocked, so sad.

‘What’s the matter?’ Stephen asked.

‘Nothing,’ she said quietly. ‘I suppose it makes the picture even more powerful. More perfect.’

‘Perfect for what?’ said Stephen crossly.

‘For the exhibition.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he scoffed. ‘We can’t use this. It looks like a photo story for
Jackie
magazine.’

Abby was determined to stand her ground.

‘By our own admission we have to make the show as powerful as possible, and this is exactly the sort of image that should be at the heart of it.’

‘Abby, Blake was a very minor adventurer, a playboy by all accounts. I don’t need to remind you that the show is called “Great British Explorers”. We are here to celebrate the best. The very best.’

It was easy to be swayed by Stephen’s self-confidence, but Abby felt suddenly passionate about the Blake photograph.

‘We have plenty of shots that put across the triumphs of exploration: Everest, the Poles, Burton at Lake Tanganyika, the Northwest Passage. But I think the man in the street finds it hard to understand the courage and grit required to do such things. Conquering Everest just doesn’t have the same resonance it had fifty years ago, not when everyone knows someone who has run a marathon, or walked up Kilimanjaro for charity. This is the GPS generation, Stephen. People aren’t impressed by explorers any more. They don’t understand them. Not like you do.’

GPS generation.
Abby was pleased with that one, and she could see that it had struck a nerve. Stephen was looking sombre.

‘That’s a depressing way of looking at it. But I suppose you have a point,’ he said, rubbing his chin.

Abby nodded.

‘This show shouldn’t just be about summits and triumphs and firsts. It should be about loss and courage and heart.’ She thumped her hand against her chest, surprised at how strongly she felt about this.

Stephen fell silent in thought, then nodded.

‘Hmm,’ he said, tilting his head to look at the photograph. ‘I suppose we could pitch it as a companion piece to the letter written by Captain Scott’s wife.’

‘Yes, I really think you’ve got something there,’ said Abby, holding her breath. Experience had taught her that Stephen’s fragile ego needed to believe that every idea was his own.

‘All right. Add the Blake images to the Southern Hemisphere section and find out a bit more about the woman in the picture.’

Smiling, Abby picked up the phone and dialled an internal number.

‘Hello?’ said a husky voice.

‘Get you, sexy lady,’ laughed Abby.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Lauren morosely.

‘Hoping it was George Clooney looking for a map of Darfur or something?’

‘I was just hoping Alex might ring.’

‘Sorry to disappoint. Just wondering if you could help me find out about Dominic Blake. Sixties explorer type. I particularly need to know if he was married.’

‘I was just about to sit down and have a sneaky read of
Grazia
,’ said Lauren, more light-heartedly.

‘Stephen wants it asap.’

‘Okay, okay. Pop up later and I’ll see what I can dig out for you.’

‘Check him out,’ said Lauren, opening a copy of
Three Centuries of Exploration
by Peter May, the bible of expedition documentation. She thunked the volume on to her desk and pointed at a handsome man in a parka. ‘Is it wrong to fancy a dead person?’

‘He was very good-looking,’ said Abby, scanning the text.

‘If he was around today, he’d have his own show and a range of sleeping bags,’ said Lauren. ‘How much do you know about him? It’s a really sad story.’

Dominic Blake was standing in a formal shot on a mountainside, piles of equipment in the background, rope looped around his shoulders. It was stiff, posed, but he certainly stood out, his gaze coming straight down the lens as if to say ‘Yes? And you are?’ There was just the hint of a smile, too.

‘Where’s he off to in this one?’ asked Abby.

‘The Karakoram Pass,’ said Lauren, reading the caption.

‘He got around.’

‘You have no idea. I called my mother. You know she was a bit of a mover and shaker in the sixties. According to her, he shagged half of high society. Why the sudden interest?’

‘I’m thinking of using a picture of him in the exhibition.’

‘I’d better tell my mum. Might get you one more punter through the door.’

‘What about the wife? We’ll have to do some notes to accompany the images.’

‘I haven’t been able to find out about that. Dominic’s got a Wiki page, but it doesn’t say much. Went to Cambridge, edited a long-defunct magazine called
Capital
, wrote a few books, travelled the world. Seems he wasn’t married.’

‘Well he looks pretty much in love here,’ said Abby, showing Lauren the photo she had brought with her.

Lauren sighed as she looked at it.

‘Wow. What wouldn’t you give to have a man look at you like that? Lucky lady.’

Abby silently agreed with her.

‘There were a few more photos in the set,’ she said. ‘You can see the woman’s face better in this one.’

‘Well let’s see if we can track her down that way,’ said Lauren, clicking on Google Images and tapping in the words ‘Dominic Blake’, ‘
Capital
magazine’ and ‘girlfriend’.

Some random images appeared on the screen. A few of them were even of the right Dominic Blake.

‘We’ve got a stash of old society magazines over there. Have a look through while I try the online
Spectator
archives.’

Abby wandered through the shelves of the library. It was an impressive place, stacked floor to ceiling with books about everything that might interest the Institute’s members, from geology to the birds of the northern tundra.

She heaved one of the leather tomes on to a reading table:
Bystander
magazine, 1958–62, all carefully bound together. She smiled: to many of the well-born RCI members, the people featured inside this society journal were probably friends and relatives. She flipped to January 1961 and found the party pages: lots of photographs of toffs having fun. Apart from the fashions and the grainy photography, they could have come from the social pages of
Tatler
today. The same bright faces, the same cocktails, the same swish houses just glimpsed in the background. She turned to the February issue, then March, April, May, June and July. And there, nestled among the coverage of the 1961 Monaco Grand Prix, was the handsome face she was looking for. It was unmistakably Dominic Blake, sitting holding a cigarette, his arm draped along the back of a sofa. Next to him was a woman, laughing. Abby stopped. It was her. She glanced down at the caption:
Adventurer Dominic Blake and Rosamund Bailey. May 14th, 1961.

She took the book over to Lauren.

‘She’s called Rosamund Bailey.’

‘I’ve heard of that name,’ said her friend, typing it into a search engine.

Abby’s eyes opened in surprise as thousands of entries came up.

‘She’s more famous than Dominic,’ muttered Lauren as they read her Wiki page.

Rosamund Bailey is a British journalist and political activist. She wrote the controversial ‘View from the Gallery’ column in the
Observer
newspaper and was involved in setting up Greenscreen, the eco-pressure group, and FemCo, the charity credited with changing international law on the exploitation of women in the Third World.

Wow. Abby had been expecting some Home Counties housewife. Rosamund sounded like Superwoman.

She scrolled through the many archived articles the woman had written: ‘What Price a Life?’, ‘The Conservative Approach to Poverty’, ‘Must We Rattle America’s Sabres for Them?’ She only had to dip into them to see they were left-leaning polemics. The biography went on: ban the bomb and CND marches, demonstrations at Downing Street, actions to stop the Vietnam War. Throughout the following decades, Rosamund had been involved in a variety of government think tanks and appeared on heavyweight TV and radio programmes. Abby was surprised she hadn’t heard of her before now.