A Question of Love (33 page)

‘I decided to put it all away,’ I explained again. ‘I’d waited three years and felt it was finally time to move on. I wanted to start
living
again.’

‘Who could blame you?’ he said. ‘Three years is a long time. But could you tell me about the day Nick disappeared? How it all unfolded?’

As Darren sat there, nodding sympathetically, I recounted it in detail, down to the month I’d spent searching for Nick, to the two silent phone calls which I believed had been my last ever contact with him. Once or twice I had to stop and compose myself, but I was proud of the fact that I managed not to break down. I didn’t want to be portrayed as a victim.

‘What’s been the hardest part of it for you, Laura? Apart from Nick’s actual absence?’

‘The false sightings—there were a few of those at the start—and then the milestones have been very hard. When I realized that Nick had been missing for a thousand days, for example—that was very painful; when it was his birthday; or mine, or our anniversary. Our tenth wedding anniversary is coming up in early May so I’m bracing myself for that. Christmas is always hard of course, as is New Year’s Day because that’s when it happened.’

‘When you heard from the Missing Persons’ Helpline that Nick was okay, but that he wanted no contact with you, how did that make you feel?’

‘Well…crushed of course. And terribly hurt.’

‘And surprised?’

I stared at him. ‘Yes of course. Of course I was surprised. Very surprised.’

Then Darren asked me about the tabloid coverage, and I told him how hard it had been, having to read so many lies about myself.

‘Lies—and innuendo,’ he added. ‘The innuendo that you had…I don’t know…in some way been responsible for your husband going missing.’

I didn’t answer for a second. ‘That’s right.’

‘That you might somehow have caused it.’

‘Yes. That’s been the subtle suggestion in some quarters.’

‘But how
could
you have done?’

‘I don’t know…I suppose they think that I might have…’ I looked out of the window. ‘That I treated him badly I suppose…or that I hurt him…or that I drove him away…That’s what they’ve tried to suggest.’

‘Is there
any
truth in that?’ I felt my face heat up. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you,’ he quickly added. ‘But I’m only doing it so that you can deny it.’ I looked at him.

‘There’s no truth in it whatsoever,’ I said. ‘No truth at all.’

‘So you don’t feel guilty then?’ he added quietly.

‘Well…I
do
feel guilty—but only because anyone in this awful situation
does
. It’s natural, because your partner’s gone and you don’t know where.’

‘Or why?’

There was a pause. ‘Or why. So you feel…’ I sighed, ‘that you…might have let them down in some way. So, yes, of course there’s…guilt.’

‘Even though it’s not your fault?’

I felt shame and regret flood my chest. ‘Yes.’

‘So you sit there wondering whether it was something you said, or did—or failed to do?’

I shifted on my seat and sighed. ‘Yes. You pick over your conversations again and again—quite obsessively.’

‘If it
was
your fault then—’

My eyes strayed to the skirting board. ‘It
wasn’t
my fault.’

‘But if it
had
been, then how would you feel?’

‘How would I feel?’ I looked at him. ‘Well how would anyone feel? Just…awful, of course. Absolutely devastated. But as I say, it wasn’t my fault.’ I zipped the lip.

‘It’s funny, isn’t it,’ Darren went on after a moment, ‘that you’re a quiz show presenter, and yet here you are with this huge,
un
answered question in your own life.’

‘That irony hasn’t escaped me,’ I said.

‘And has the media frenzy taken you aback?’

‘Totally. I knew there might be
some
interest in me once the papers got hold of the story, but I never expected that there’d be so much.’

‘Can you understand people’s curiosity about you?’

‘I suppose I can. If it wasn’t actually happening to me, I guess
I’d
be curious. If I read that, say, Carol Vorderman’s husband had been missing for three years, then every time I saw her on TV or read an article about her, I’d probably wonder where he was and how he’d been living, and what she’d done to try and find him, and whether she’d ever see him again.’

‘And why he’d gone?’ He looked at me. ‘Wouldn’t you wonder that?’

‘Well…I don’t know…’

‘Surely you’d wonder what had caused him to do it? What the story was?’

‘Perhaps, although…’

‘You’d wonder what might have gone on between them?’

‘Look, it’s obviously very complex. People who go missing have all
sorts
of reasons for doing so. Don’t they?’

‘But they must be unhappy and confused. Was Nick unhappy and confused?’

‘I…I don’t know. I guess…yes…perhaps…’

‘Otherwise he wouldn’t have done what he did?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘And
why
do you think he
was
unhappy and confused?’

I stared at Darren. ‘I don’t…know. His father had died not long before. I think that was part of it.’

‘But had anything else happened?’
Zip the lip.

‘No. Nothing. Nothing at all. Maybe you could ask me another question now.’ There was a slight pause, then Darren asked me a few more things about the quiz, so I told him about the second series which would start in September, and about the programmes we were developing, thanks to the success of
Whadda Ya Know?!!

‘So the company’s on quite a roll.’

‘Yes. The format for the quiz has just been sold in eight countries—including the States—which means that we can expand. We’re currently recruiting new staff, we’re having the building refurbished. Trident’s doing very well.’ I felt a burst of pride.

Darren leaned forward and stopped the tape.

‘Well, I think that’s it, Laura. Thanks very much. I’m pretty sure I’ve got enough now and I don’t want to keep you.’

‘That’s okay. And you’ll show me the quotes?’

‘I will. I’ll either fax them to you or read them over the phone.’

‘And when do you think that’ll be?’

He was rummaging in his briefcase. ‘Not for a couple of weeks because we’ve decided to run it on Sunday May 1st as that coincides with the start of National Missing Persons’ Month.’

‘Oh that’s a
great
idea,’ I said. ‘It’ll help hugely with the fund-raising. I’ll let the charity know that’s what you’re doing.’

I went to show him out, and as I lifted my hand to the latch, the front door was pushed open from the other side, and there was Cynthia, with two bags of shopping.

‘Hello Laura,’ she said wearily. In the weak sunlight she looked exhausted and suddenly frail. Then, as she noticed Darren, I saw her face redden.

‘Cynthia, this is Darren Sillitoe.’ She flinched. Then she gave him a tight little smile, unmistakable in its hostility. I saw a look of surprise cross his face.

‘Do you know her?’ I whispered as she went upstairs.

‘No. I’ve never laid eyes on her.’ How curious. On the other hand she can be quite odd.

‘Well thanks for coming, Darren. I hope it’s not too hard to write up.’

‘I don’t think it will be.’

As he walked down the steps, I heard Cynthia’s door open again.

‘Has he gone?’ I heard her hiss in a theatrical whisper.

‘Yes.’ I turned round. ‘Why? What’s the problem?’

‘I’ll tell you what the problem is,’ she said as she came downstairs. ‘The problem
is
—that he’s a fucker!’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘That young man is a fucker,’ she repeated vehemently.

‘That’s a bit rough, Cynthia. He seemed all right to me.’

‘Well he
isn’t
. None of those fuckers are.’ She obviously meant journalists. Her
bêtes noires.
But…how did she know he
was
a journalist given that I hadn’t told her? Perhaps there was something to this psychic business after all.

‘They are all disingenuous creeps,’ she added. ‘Darren Sillitoe indeed!’

‘Well—that’s his
name
, Cynth.’

‘It
isn’t
. He was lying. His real name’s Darren Fucker.’ I looked at her non-comprehendingly. ‘
Fucker
. F, a, r, q, u, h, a, r,’ she enunciated contemptuously.

‘Oh.’

‘And it’s a great pity you didn’t tell him to Farquh off when you had the chance. So he’s just interviewed you has he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh dear.’ She was shaking her head. ‘Oh
dear.
‘

‘What do you mean—“oh dear?” He seemed perfectly okay—nice even.’

‘He would do,’ she said. ‘But he
isn’t
, he’s a little…’

‘Cynthia,’ I said, panic rising in my chest. ‘Would you please tell me
what
you’re talking about? You’ve got me
worried
.’

‘All right. I
will
. Come with me.’

I followed her upstairs to her flat. It was the first time she’d invited me in. The furniture and furnishings were in good taste but it was clear that, like Cynthia, they’d seen better days. The Chinese brocade on the
chaise longue
was badly frayed, as was the silk shade on her standard lamp. The velvet cushions on her sofa had bald patches, and the fringes on the large Persian rug had been pulled. On the mahogany sideboard were about eight silver frames all containing black and white photos of Cynthia in her younger days. As she made a pot of tea, I glanced at them. She was glamorous enough now, but she had been a true beauty. A British Claudia Cardinale.

‘Darren Sillitoe, my
eye
,’ she muttered as she brought in the tea tray. ‘His real name is Darren
Farquhar.
Sillitoe is his mother’s maiden name.’

I felt my stomach turn over. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘Because…’ her hand trembled as she lifted the silver pot, ‘I know his father. We had a long…association.’ Suddenly Hans appeared and began winding herself in and out of Cynthia’s legs.

‘Who
is
his father?’

‘Sir John Farquhar.’

‘He’s a big-shot at the
Sunday Semaphore
, isn’t he?’

‘He is,’ she said acidly as Hans curled herself up in her lap. ‘He’s the chairman.’

‘But then why didn’t Darren recognize you if you know his father so well?’

‘Because Darren and I have never met. But I’ve seen many photographs of him. My relationship with his father was…unofficial. I was his…’

Oh. ‘Friend…?’ I suggested.

‘
Mistress.
I won’t mince words. I was his mistress, Laura—for twenty-five years.’

‘That’s a long time,’ I breathed.

‘Don’t I know it?’ she said wearily. She passed me a chintzpatterned china teacup. ‘But in many ways I couldn’t complain. I had a lovely flat, in Hans Place. I had a generous monthly allowance, and an account at Harrods. I used to go to Marrakech and St Bart’s. I sat in the stalls at the Opera House. I dined at the Ritz; I wore couture…’ So that explained the elegant clothes. ‘Of course I longed to be John’s wife,’ she went on. ‘But I told myself that I was his
real
wife. His soul mate.’ Her voice had caught. ‘That’s what he said I was. He said he couldn’t do
without
me.’ She ran her hands over the cat to try and calm herself.

‘How did you meet him?’

‘At the royal premiere of
The Spy Who Loved Me
in ‘77. I was 36, and John was ten years older, a handsome, powerful man; he’d been a journalist for twenty years, but through clever manoeuvring had managed to get on the board of a number of media companies, including the one which had financed the film. I fell catastrophically in love with him despite—and I am not proud of this—knowing that he was married. But he said that his marriage was loveless and that his wife totally neglected him for their children. Darren, the youngest, was a baby. I suppose that doesn’t say much for John does it?’ she added with a bitter sigh.

I thought of Tom. ‘I don’t think it does.’

‘Time went on, and John remained with his wife. Whenever I became upset about it he would claim that it was because she was ill, and a divorce might kill her; sometimes he’d say he was waiting until the children were older. It was the old, old story.’ She fumbled in the cuff of her silk shirt for a tissue.

‘I see. So he never left her then?’

Cynthia looked away while she struggled with her emotions.

‘Oh no,’ she said bitterly. ‘He
did
. That was what was so awful. He
did
finally leave her.’ Her mouth quivered again. ‘But not for
me
!’

‘Oh…I’m sorry.’ Hans was purring loudly, quite oblivious to Cynthia’s distress. So much for inter-species communication.

Cynthia wiped her eyes, then took a deep breath.

‘A little over a year ago, John told me that he was going to leave Mary. I was
so
happy to think that my years of living in the shadows were coming to an end. He came to the flat and I cooked him supper, and he told me that she had agreed to a divorce and that the flat in Hans Place would have to be sold. So I asked him where we would live. But he didn’t reply.’ She fiddled with her crystal beads. ‘Then he explained that Mary would get the house in Mayfair, and that he would move to Hampstead. So I said that Hampstead would be wonderful—I didn’t mind where we lived, as long as we were together. Then he dropped his bombshell. He said he was sorry, but that he’d fallen in love with someone else—a woman I’d never even heard of.’

‘Who was she?’

‘Some American journalist called Deborah, thirty years his junior, a hard-faced creature, with legs like toothpicks, huge feet and—’ she lifted her left hand to her generous décolletage—‘
no
breasts.’

I vaguely remembered now seeing Sir John Farquhar in one of the gossip columns with an anorectic, beady-eyed brunette.

‘I’ve seen pictures of her,’ she went on tearfully. ‘She’s not even
pretty
. Not in the way that
I
had been…’ I glanced at the photo again.