Читать книгу The By Request Collection - Kate Hardy - Страница 90
ОглавлениеTHE WALK BACK to the room seemed to take for ever. Every few steps they bumped into a group of Flora’s new friends wanting to drag her off to the bar, to after parties, for midnight walks out in the snow.
She turned each of them down with a laughing non-committal reply but the whole situation didn’t seem real. Her voice was too bright, her smile too wild and there was a buzzing in her ears as if she were in a waking dream.
Alex didn’t say anything at all. His hand clasped hers tight; his eyes burned with that same strange intensity she had seen on the dance floor.
And his words echoed round and round in her head. Will you marry me?
Of course he had been joking. Of course. There was no doubt. Just because his fingers were gripping hers tightly, just because she had daydreamed a similar scenario more times than she had imagined winning the lottery didn’t make it real.
Only...he had sounded serious.
What if he was serious?
No. Of course he wasn’t because dreams didn’t simply just come true. A dance floor, a waltz, beautiful lighting, champagne; that was the stuff of fairy tales, not real life. Not Flora’s life.
But he looked serious.
She had been so desperate to get him back to the room but as they approached the door an unexpected caution hit her. Whatever was done and said when they got inside couldn’t be unsaid, couldn’t be undone. And his face was so very set. The passion and laughter wiped clear as if they had never been.
Flora took a deep breath as they walked into the room. It was her imagination, that was all, working on his words and twisting them into something more serious than intended. She needed to lighten up, enjoy these last few hours before it all changed back and she was back in her rags clutching a pumpkin.
Okay. Lightening up. ‘Alone at last.’ She smiled provocatively at him but there was no answering smile on his face.
‘I meant it, you know. Marry me.’
Flora reached up to unclasp her necklace but at his quiet words her hands dropped helplessly to her side. ‘No bended knee, no flash mob, no ring in my ice cream?’ She tried to tease but the joke was flatter than one of her father’s failed soufflés, and Alex didn’t acknowledge it with as much as a flicker of an eyelid.
She walked over to the window and stared out. Ahead was darkness but if she looked up then the stars shone with an astonishing intensity, unfamiliar to a girl used to London’s never fully darkened skies. Below Innsbruck was lit up like a toy town. Not quite real.
Like this moment.
‘Why?’
She held her breath, hope fluttering wildly in her chest. Would he say it? Because I love you. I have always loved you.
He didn’t answer, not straight away. She heard him pace back and forth, imagined him shrugging off the tuxedo jacket, undoing his bow tie, running his hands through his disordered curls.
‘Does it matter why?’ he asked at last.
She still couldn’t turn to face him but at his words hope’s flutters became feebler and nausea began to swirl in her stomach.
‘I think so, yes.’ Tell me, tell me, she silently begged him. Tell me what I need to hear and I’ll believe you.
Even though she knew it wouldn’t be true.
‘No one knows me like you do. You know everything, all the darkness, and you’re still here.’
‘Of course I am.’
‘We know we’re compatible. I think we could lead very comfortable, happy lives together. The sex is good—more than good. And marriage would tick other boxes too.’
Flora swallowed. Hope finally gave up and withered away. Her stomach still twisted with nausea but most thought and feeling drained away to a much-needed numbness. ‘Great,’ she murmured. Marriage as a box-ticking exercise. Just what she had always dreamed of. Maybe they could make a list and follow it up with a presentation on the computer.
‘It would make things a lot easier for you as you change focus. I know money has been tight. That wouldn’t be an issue any longer, and there’s plenty of space at my house for a studio and storage.’
‘Money, storage...’ she repeated as if in a dream, the practical words not quite sinking in. ‘And what about you? What’s in it for you, apart from good sex?’
He didn’t seem to hear the bitterness in her last words, just continuing as if this were a completely sane conversation. ‘For me? No more dating, trying to be someone I’m not. Freedom to work—you wouldn’t mind when work took me abroad, wouldn’t expect me to check in every five minutes. There wouldn’t be any misunderstandings, any expectations—you wouldn’t want more than I can give.’
‘No, I suppose I wouldn’t.’ Not now anyway. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t warned her, was it? She had chosen not to listen. Not to guard herself against this.
She wasn’t numb now, she was cold. A biting chill working its way up from her toes, bone deep.
He hadn’t noticed, was still listing soulless benefits as if it were next week’s shopping list. ‘And there would be no real adjustment. We know each other’s bad habits, moods, and I get on with your family. Think about it, Flora. It makes perfect sense.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’ She turned at last. He had discarded his jacket and his tie, his shirt half untucked and unbuttoned, his hair falling over his forehead. He looked slightly dangerous, a little degenerate like the sort of regency rake who would kiss a girl on a dance floor and not care about the consequences.
And yet here he was offering a marriage of convenience. If she said no—when she said no—then everything really would change. They might be able to sweep a week of passion under the carpet. They wouldn’t be able to sweep this away.
Especially when every traitorous fibre of her wanted to say yes.
‘I can’t...’ she said before she allowed herself to weaken.
His eyes blazed for one heartbreaking moment and then the shutters came down. ‘Right. I see. Fine. Silly of me to think you would. Let’s not mention it again.’
‘I need more from marriage.’ The words were tumbling out. ‘I want love.’
A muscle worked in his cheek. ‘I do love you, you know that. As much as I can.’
‘But are you in love with me?’
She couldn’t believe she’d asked that. The last taboo, more powerful than the kisses they had shared, the whispered intimacies. This, this was the big one. But she had to know. She took a deep, shuddering breath and waited. Would he? Did he? All he had to do was tell her he loved her and she would be in.
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Do I care about you? Yes. Desire you? Absolutely. Like your company? You know I do. Isn’t that enough?’
Flora shook her head. ‘I wish it was,’ she whispered. ‘But I want more. I want the whole crazy, passionate, all-consuming love. I want to be the centre of someone’s world and for my world to revolve around them.’
But he was shaking his head, a denial of her words, of her hopes and dreams. ‘That’s not real love, Flora. That’s a crush at best, obsession at worst,’ and with those calm words Flora felt something inside her crack clean in two.
‘Oxytocin, serotonin. Hormones telling you lies. Love? It’s unstable, it can’t be trusted. But you’re right. Marriage between us is a bad idea.’ He stepped back and picked up his jacket, shrugging himself into it. ‘I’m sorry I embarrassed you. If you’ll excuse me, then I am going to get a drink. I’ll see you later. Don’t wait up.’
* * *
The plane was buzzing with festive spirit. Bags stuffed into the overhead lockers filled with brightly wrapped presents, people chatting eagerly to their seatmates—even strangers—about their plans for the next few days. Even the pilot made some flying reindeer jokes as he prepared them for take-off.
But the buzz didn’t reach their two seats. They were ensconced in roomy first-class comfort. There were free drinks, legroom, food—but Alex and Flora sat stiffly as if they were crammed into the most cramped economy seat.
Flora was sleeping—or, Alex suspected, she was pretending to—and he was looking through documents as if the fate of Christmas depended on his memorising them by heart. If that had been the case then Christmas was in trouble; no matter how often he skimmed a sentence his brain could not make head or tail of it, his brain revolving round and round and round.
She’d said no. Even the person who knew him best, who he thought loved him best, didn’t want to risk her happiness on him.
And now he’d done exactly what he had sworn he would never do. He’d broken Flora’s heart, tainted their friendship, ruined his relationship with her family. Because how could he possibly turn up there tomorrow ready to bask in Christmas cheer when he couldn’t even look at Flora?
Especially as she couldn’t look at him either. Oh, she was trying. She made stilted conversation, her smile too bright, her voice too cheery, but her eyes slid away when they reached his face, her body leaning away from his whenever they were close. Luckily his monosyllabic replies hadn’t seemed too out of character when other people were around—most of the departing guests were similarly afflicted, suffering the effects of overindulgence the night before.
It wasn’t a hangover that affected him, although heaven only knew he’d tried his best. Sitting in the bar until three a.m., drinking alone at the end, trying to block out the voices from his head.
You taint everything.
I can’t marry you.
I want love.
What could he answer to that when he didn’t even know what love was? The twisted obsession his father had had for his mother, so jealous he didn’t even want to share her affection with their child? The grateful desperation he had shown towards his stepmother for deigning to notice him and the dark turning that had taken?
He didn’t want or need that selfish emotion. There was a time when that made him feel invincible, as if he had an invisible armour protecting him from the follies that befell so many of his friends.
Now he just felt lost. Stuck in a labyrinth he didn’t have the key for—only there was no princess holding a ball of string ready to guide him out. And there was no monster. He was the monster.
How could he return to Kent with her now? It was her home, not his. The only place he belonged to was the house he had designed in Primrose Hill. But he didn’t want to return there alone, to spend Christmas alone in a house without a heart.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to grab a last-minute flight and head out again. He looked around the plane at the bland décor, the packed seats filled with strangers, the almost soothing signs telling him to sit back, switch his phone off, keep his seat belt on. He could spend Christmas Day on a flight. It almost didn’t matter where to.
‘Do you have to pick up presents and things before you head back home?’ His throat scratched as he forced the words out, as if unaccustomed to speaking.
Flora’s eyes opened a fraction. ‘Yes, if that’s okay.’
‘I’ve ordered you a car. It’ll run you back to yours and wait for you, as long as you need, then take you home to Kent.’
She sat up at that, any pretence at sleep forgotten. ‘You’re not coming back with me?’
‘Not tonight, I have too much to do.’
‘Too much to do on Christmas Eve? Everything’s shut for the next few days. What on earth can’t wait? But you are driving down tomorrow?’
He couldn’t answer.
Her eyes flashed. ‘We promised, Alex, we promised that we wouldn’t let things change.’
Had she really believed they wouldn’t? Had he? He closed his eyes, exhausted. ‘We lied.’
There was no more to be said. Not for the last hour of the flight, not during the tedious business of disembarking, immigration and baggage collecting. Not as he saw the sign with his name on it and steered a mute Flora towards it.
‘Can you drop my bags and skis off at my house on your way out?’ he asked. ‘You have your key?’
She turned to look at him, her face paler than usual, the white accented by the deep shadows under her eyes. ‘You’re not even travelling with me? How are you getting home?’
He shrugged. ‘Train, Tube. My own two feet.’
‘You’re getting on the train? On Christmas Eve? It’ll be packed!’
He couldn’t explain it, the need to wander, to be anonymous in a vast sea of people where nobody knew him, judged him. ‘I’ll be fine. I just need some space.’
She stared at him sceptically and then turned away, the dismissive movement conveying everything. Hurting far more than he had expected. ‘Suit yourself. You always do.’
He stood and watched her walk away. ‘Merry Christmas, Flora.’ But she was too far away and his words fell unheard.
* * *
The train was as unpleasant as Flora had forecast. Alex was unable to get a seat and so he stood for the fifteen-minute journey back into London, barricaded into his spot by other people’s suitcases and bulging bags of presents. The carriage stank of sweat, alcohol, fried chicken and desperation, the air punctuated by a baby’s increasingly desperate cries and the sounds of several computer games turned up to a decidedly antisocial volume.
No wonder he rarely travelled by public transport. Alex gritted his teeth and hung on; he deserved no better.
Not that anyone else seemed to be suffering. His fellow travellers seemed to be as full of Christmas Eve cheer as those on the plane, upbeat despite the conditions. But once he had finally got off the train and stood under the iconic glass curved roof of Paddington Station the last thing he wanted was to disappear underground and repeat the experience on a Tube train full of last-minute desperate shoppers, Christmas revellers and people freed from work and ready to celebrate. It was a couple of miles’ walk to Primrose Hill but half of that was through Regent’s Park and he could do with clearing his head.
Besides, he didn’t want to risk bumping into Flora when she dropped his bags off. For the first time in his life he had no idea what to say to her.
It was hard not to contrast the grey, unseasonably warm day with the crisp air and snowy scenes he had left behind. Hard not to dwell on the fact that for the first time in a week he was alone.
Hard to face the reality that this was his future. He’d always thought of himself as so self-sufficient. Hardened.
He’d been lying to himself.
Alex bought a coffee from one of the kiosks, curtly refusing any festive flavourings, and set off, the last week replaying through his head on repeat, slowing down to dwell in agonising detail at every misstep. He shouldn’t have kissed her. He shouldn’t have allowed her to kiss him.
He shouldn’t have proposed.
It shouldn’t hurt so much that she said no...
He wandered aimlessly, not caring much where his feet took him. The back streets were an eclectic mix of tree-lined Georgian squares, post-war blocks and newer, shabbier-looking business premises. Like all of central London, the very wealthy rubbed shoulders with the poor; wine bars, delis and exclusive boutiques on one street, a twenty-four-hour supermarket and takeaway on the next.
It wasn’t until he hit Russell Square that Alex realised just how far he had walked—and how far out of his way he was. He stood for a moment in the middle of the old Bloomsbury square wondering what to do. Head into a pub and drink himself into oblivion? Keep walking until he was so exhausted the pain in his legs outweighed the weight in his chest? Just sit here in the busy square and gradually decompose?
Or run home, grab the car and head off to Kent. He’d be welcomed; he knew that. Flora would try her best to pretend everything was okay. But he didn’t belong there, not really. He didn’t belong anywhere or with anyone.
So what would it be? Pub, walk or wither away in the middle of Bloomsbury? He leaned against a bench, unsure for the first time in a really long time which way he should go, looking around at the leafless trees and railings for inspiration when a brown sign caught his eye. Of course! The British Museum was just around the corner. He could while away the rest of the afternoon in there. Hide amongst the mummies and the ancient sculptures and pretend that it wasn’t Christmas Eve. Pretend he had somewhere to go, someone to care.
Pretend he was worth something.
His decision was made; only as he rounded the corner and hurried towards the huge gates shielding the classically inspired façade of the famous museum he was greeted, not by open gates and doors and a safe neutral place, but by iron bars and locks. The museum was closed.
Alex let out a deep breath, one he hadn’t even known he was holding, gripping the wrought-iron bars as if he could push them apart. No sanctuary for him. Maybe it was a judgement. He wasn’t worthy, no rest for him.
He stared at the steps, the carved pillars, the very shut doors. It was strange he hadn’t visited the museum in the eleven years he’d lived in London; after all, it was visiting this very building that had first triggered his interest in building design. The neoclassical façade built to house the ancient treasures within. He used to come here every summer with his grandmother.
With his grandmother...
When had that stopped? When had he stopped seeing her? Before he was ten, he was pretty sure. She took him out a couple of times his first year at prep school, had visited regularly before then, although he had never been allowed an overnight stay. And then? Nothing.
No cards, no Christmas presents. Nothing. He hadn’t even thought to ask where she had gone—after all, his father had made it very clear that it was Alex who was the problem. Alex who was innately unlovable.
But it wasn’t normal, was it? For a grandparent to disappear so completely from a child’s life? If she had blamed Alex for her daughter’s death then she wouldn’t have been around at all. And surely even his father would have told him if she had died.
There was something missing, something rotten at the heart of him and he had to know what it was, had to fix it. Fix his friendship with Flora.
Be worthy of her...
He couldn’t ask his mother why she couldn’t love him, why she’d left him. He couldn’t expect any meaningful dialogue with his father. But maybe his grandmother had some answers. If he could find her.
He had to find her. He couldn’t go on like this.
* * *
Christmas Eve was usually Flora’s favourite day of the year. All the anticipation, the air of secrecy and suppressed excitement. The rituals, unchanging and sacred. They were usually all home and unpacked by late afternoon before gathering together in the large sitting room to admire the tree and watch Christmas films. The last couple of years they had pretended that the films were to amuse the children—but the children usually got bored and wandered off leaving the adults rapt, enthralled by stories they had watched a hundred times before.
Then a takeaway to spare Flora’s dad cooking for this one evening, before stockings were hung. Milk and carrots would be put out for the reindeers, home-made gingerbread and a snifter of brandy for Father Christmas himself and then the children were bundled off to bed. The last few years Minerva and Flora’s mother had stayed behind to babysit the children and put the last few touches to presents but the rest of the family would disappear off to the pub for a couple of hours, finishing off at Midnight Mass in the ancient village church.
She loved every unchanging moment of it.
But this year it would all be different.
What if she had said yes? Right now she and Alex could be walking into the house hand in hand to congratulations, tears, champagne.
But it would all have been a lie.
Flora took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves as the car Alex had ordered for her rolled smoothly through the village towards the cottage her parents had bought over thirty years before, but her hands were trembling and her stomach tumbling with nervous anticipation. They must never know. Alex thought they would blame him but she knew better; they would blame her for driving him away.
She needed some air, time to compose herself before the onslaught of her family. ‘This will be fine, thanks,’ she said to the driver as they reached the bottom of her lane. ‘I can walk from here.’
Flora stood for a moment gulping in air before shrugging her weekend bag onto her back and picking up the shopping bags full of presents. The bags were heavy and her back was aching before she had got more than halfway down the lane but she welcomed the discomfort. It was her penance.
The cottage stood alone at the end of the lane, a low-roofed half-timber, half-redbrick house surrounded by a wild-looking garden and fruit trees. Her father grew most of his own vegetables and herbs and kept noisy chickens in the back, although he was too soft-hearted to do more than collect their eggs.
The house was lit up against the grey of a late December afternoon, smoke wafting from the chimney a welcome harbinger. All she wanted to do was curl up in front of the fire and mourn but instead Flora pinned a determined smile onto her face and pushed open the heavy oak front door.
Game face on. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she called as the door swung open.
‘Flora!’ ‘Aunty Flora!’ ‘Darling.’ She was almost instantly enveloped in hugs and kisses, her coat removed, bags taken from her aching arms, drawn into the sitting room, a mince pie put into one hand, a cup of tea into the other as the chatter continued.
‘How was Austria? Did you see snow?’
‘Your scarf looked lovely in that picture. Congratulations, darling.’
‘We need to talk strategy.’ Minerva, of course. ‘Boxing Day you are mine. No running off.’
‘Nice journey back, darling?’
And the inevitable: ‘Where’s Alex?’ ‘Didn’t Alex travel with you?’ ‘Did you leave Alex in Austria?’
If she had come back to a quiet house. If it had just been Flora and her dad, she sitting at the wide kitchen counter while he bustled and tasted and stirred. Then she might have cracked. But the tree was in the corner of the room, decorated to within an inch of its life and blazing with light, her nieces were already at fever-pitch point and for once nobody was asking when she was going to get a real job/move out of that poky room/get a boyfriend/grow up.
So she smiled and agreed that yes, the scarf looked lovely; yes, Minerva could have all the time she needed; yes, there was plenty of snow and guess what, she’d even been on a horse-drawn sleigh. And no, Alex wasn’t with her, he had been delayed but he should be with them tomorrow.
And if she crossed her fingers at that last statement it wasn’t because she was lying. It was because she was hoping. Because now she was here she couldn’t imagine Christmas without him. She couldn’t imagine a life that didn’t have him in it.
And even though she wished that he loved her the way that she loved him. And even though she would have given everything for his proposal to have come from his heart and not his head, she still wished he were here. Even if it was as friends. Because friends was still something special. Something to cherish.
She needed to tell him. Before he sealed himself away. Before he talked himself into utter isolation.
‘I’m just going to take my bags upstairs. No, it’s okay, thanks, Greg,’ she assured her brother-in-law. ‘I can manage. Besides...’ she looked mock sternly at her giggling nieces ‘... I don’t want any peeping.’ She kissed her still-chattering mother on the cheek and went back into the hallway to retrieve her bags and hoist them up the wide carpeted staircase that led to the first floor and then up the winding, painted wooden stairs to the attic. There were just two bedrooms up here, sharing a small shower room. To the left was Flora’s room, to the right a small box room they had converted into a room for Alex.
His bedroom door was ajar and Flora couldn’t help peeking in as she turned. The bed had been made up with fresh linen and towels were piled onto the wicker chair in the corner. An old trunk lay at the foot of the bed—his old school trunk—a blanket laid across the top. A small bookshelf held some books but otherwise it was bare. Spartan. He had never allowed himself to be too at home here. Or anywhere. No wonder he was such an expert packer.
Flora’s room was a stark contrast. It was more than twice the size of his with a wide dormer window as well as a skylight. Old toys, books and ornaments were still displayed on the shelves and on the white, scalloped dressing table and chest of drawers she had thought so sophisticated when she was twelve. Old posters of ponies and boy bands were stuck to her walls and a clutter of old scarves, old make-up and magazines gave the room a lived-in air.
She dropped her bags thankfully in a corner of the room and pulled her phone out of her pocket. The message light flashed and Flora’s heart lurched with hope as she eagerly scanned it, but, although she had received at least a million emails urging her to buy her last-minute Christmas gifts Right Now, been promised the best rate to pay off her Christmas debts by several credit-card companies and a very good deal on sexual enhancement products, there was nothing at all from Alex.
Swallowing back her disappointment, she stared thoughtfully at her screen. Call or text? Texting would be easier, give her a chance to phrase her words carefully. But maybe this shouldn’t be careful. It had to be from the heart. She pressed his number before she could talk herself out of it and listened to the dial tone, her heart hammering.
She was so keyed up it didn’t register at first that the voice at the other end wasn’t Alex but his voicemail message. ‘Darn it,’ she muttered while his slightly constrained voice informed her that he wasn’t available right now but would get back to her as soon as he could.
‘Alex,’ she said quickly as soon as it beeped. ‘It’s me. Come home. Please? It’s not the same without you. We all miss you. We’ll be okay, I promise. Just come home. Come home for Christmas.’
She clicked the hang-up icon and let the phone drop onto her bed. She had done all she could. It was up to him now.
