A Twist of Fate (19 page)

She stripped off her bikini and stared out at the horizon.

This was it. She was going to walk into the water and cleanse herself. Cleanse herself of her past. The orphanage, Lemcke, Ulrich, that horrible night with Fox. Her terrifying ordeal in London.
She would wash away all the bad memories and make only good ones in their place.

She took one step into the water. Sunlight danced on the surface, but it felt cool. Her feet sunk into the sand; she could feel some small pebbles grazing her toes. A shoal of grey fish wriggled
past in the clear water. It was perfectly still and quiet except for the lapping waves and the trilling of some birds in the trees.

Romy stepped forward – up to her knees, her waist. Her hands flapped and she laughed out loud as the water made her back tingle.

With a yelp of triumph she held her nose and plunged under the water. Coming up for air, she gasped, grinning, her eyes closing as she spread her arms out to the sun.

She was eighteen years old, she was here and she was free.

November 1991

In the Oxford lecture hall third-year undergraduate Thea Maddox screwed the lid back on the engraved fountain pen that her father had given her, her hand aching from writing
hurried notes. She gathered her books and notepads together, as the 500 students erupted into chatter.

Way down the banks of seating at the front of the hall Professor Doubleday, Thea’s main tutor on her Modern European History course, took the board rubber and wiped away the writing behind
him. He turned, shielding his eyes to look up at the students. Seeing Thea and catching her eye, he smiled and beckoned her to come down to him. She waved back and nodded, feeling a swell of
satisfaction. He must have marked her essay, she thought, gratified that out of all of these students he’d picked her.

Just below her in the row in front Oliver Mountefort turned round and grinned up at her. Thea knew Ollie had a thing for her and she tried to avoid his puppy-dog stares in their seminars. If
things had been different, she might have considered dating him. He had a big quiff of a hairdo and always got parts in the drama-society plays, and he was the kind of joker who always had people
laughing around him.

‘Hey, Thea. I’m expecting you in the debating chamber later,’ he said. ‘You’ll be on our side, I take it?’

‘I’ll try and be there,’ she said, but she knew she would probably duck out of going. The debating chamber at the Oxford Union was just the kind of place where she would bump
into Bridget, and Thea did whatever she could to avoid that happening.

Trying to avoid Bridget Lawson had been her biggest pastime since she’d been here at Oxford. Just as she had been at school, Bridget was everywhere: in the drama society, the debating
club, at every party. It seemed crazy that they didn’t speak, when they had applied to Oxford together and had vowed to be best friends all through university and life beyond. But that summer
in Italy had changed everything.

Thea’s first year had been a nightmare, the second hardly better, and she’d promised herself that now at the start of her third year all this nonsense should stop. But
Bridget’s sense of betrayal had hardened into spitefulness and quite often people said to her, ‘Oh you’re
that
Thea Maddox.’ And she knew that Bridget had got to them
first.

She secretly longed to confront her old friend, to tell her how much it hurt that they no longer spoke. Apart from Michael, Bridget had been the only person who’d ever really known her
properly. And just as losing Michael had hurt so deeply, now the situation with Bridget felt almost as bad.

There must be a way to be reconciled, Thea thought, if only Bridget wanted it. But the truth was that Bridget seemed just as happy hating Thea now as she had been liking her then. That hurt. Oh,
how it hurt. Thea had to remind herself constantly that this wasn’t school and that they were grown-ups now. She mustn’t give Bridget the power to make her feel like that fat, unhappy
teenager she’d once been, but it was so hard. Thea had seen Bridget arm-in-arm with a good-looking guy last week. She’d waved, trying to look friendly, but Bridget had crossed the road
to avoid Thea, deliberately ignoring her.

Yet despite Bridget’s childish behaviour, Thea was hopelessly in love with Oxford. She loved the academic challenge and the college traditions. She liked the feeling of belonging to a club
that had nothing to do with her father, of being a million miles away from where Brett could get to her.

And she liked it too that, here, her money didn’t matter. Everyone lived in the same style of room as her. Everyone wore similar types of clothes. You proved yourself through work and,
from the first, Thea had set out to excel.

She hugged her books to her and shuffled to the end of the row of desks and then down the stairs to Professor Doubleday’s desk.

‘Hi,’ Thea said, smiling.

Professor Doubleday hitched up his glasses and smoothed his white hair over his bald patch. He had probably been quite good-looking in his day, Thea thought. He reminded her a bit of Harrison
Ford, and she suddenly remembered how she and Bridget had been obsessed with
Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade
. She brushed the memory away. There would be more Bridgets in time, she
assured herself. Someone to giggle in the cinema with. One day.

The Professor slid Thea’s essay on the reunification of Germany across the green leather top of the desk towards her.

‘Very good, Thea,’ he said. ‘I gave it an easy first. I particularly liked your insights into the East Berliner’s socio-economic disadvantages and their polarization in
the labour market. Very good research.’

Thea felt her cheeks blushing with pride. She’d stayed up half the night working on that essay, trawling through the microfiche in the library, reading the eyewitness accounts. She’d
even unearthed videotapes of the news reports in the new media suite in the library. The tears of joy of one girl almost her own age – was it Ursula? – had inspired the whole essay;
she’d been interviewed on the night the Berlin Wall came down. She’d spoken so movingly about how she’d had a friend who’d escaped across the border. The terror and danger
of such a journey had been so real for Ursula, and she had no way of knowing whether her friend had survived. That all this hardship had gone on so recently had moved her profoundly.

‘You know, I wish you would join my Modern History seminar group,’ the professor said, doing up the leather buckle on his briefcase. ‘It’s never too late to join in here,
Thea. It’s part of what makes Oxford unique. I hate to think that you’re missing out.’

There was a question in his voice, but she batted it away with a shy smile. How could she tell him that she’d like nothing more than to join in. But that she couldn’t. Because of
Bridget.

But his words were on her mind as she left the lecture hall and shivered in the crisp evening air. She unlocked her bike and then, wrapping her stripy woollen scarf inside her duffel coat,
headed off.

Thea loved cycling through the streets of Oxford. Both in the summer, when the punts slid through the willows on the river, or now, when the leaves were falling and she could
see her breath in the cold air. A gang of students in black tie laughed, falling into the road. Thea laughed too and rang her bell, swerving to avoid them. One of them was carrying a sparkler and
she remembered that tonight was Guy Fawkes night, as he shouted after her, and another of his friends let out a leery wolf-whistle.

She whizzed over the bridge, feeling her stomach jump, her brakes screeching as she slowed down to reach the sprawling racks of bikes outside her college, smelling the roast from the back of the
college dining hall. If she was quick she’d catch the evening sitting.

She stepped over the high step and through the door with its ornate stone college crest into the Porter’s Lodge. It smelt of tea and toast, and the music from
The Archers
crackled
on the radio. Mr Brown, the porter, stood behind the high desk studying the visitors’ ledger.

As usual he was wearing a bowler hat and a waistcoat and had the air about him of someone who considered himself to be a guardian of the college’s many traditions. He polished the glossy
mahogany pigeonholes, never missing the opportunity to tell anyone who would listen that they bore the history of 500 years’ worth of alumni.

Still out of breath from her bike ride, her cheeks smarting in the warmth, Thea went along the line to where Maddox was spelt out in neat gold letters. A fax on thin yellowish paper was rolled
up neatly inside.

‘Where’s my key?’ she asked, looking at the empty hook.

‘Ah, Miss Maddox,’ Mr Brown said, in his clipped English. ‘A young gentleman took it.’

‘Who?’

‘Well, your brother of course. He says he’s staying with you,’ Mr Brown prompted, his look over the half-moon spectacles making it clear that he’d heard it all
before.

‘My
brother
. Here?’

‘Yes, Miss. He was most insistent. Obviously, I’m sure you’re aware of the college rules on gentlemen callers in the women’s colleges—’

But Thea didn’t wait to hear the rest. She was out through the other door in a flash, running across the cobbled courtyard, with its neat square of grass and the dark shadow of the ancient
bronze sundial, to the corner door, taking the wooden stairs two at a time, her mind spinning with fury . . . with fear.

Not Brett
. Not in Oxford. In her rooms. He couldn’t do that to her. Could he? How could he possibly be here?

But she knew the answer.

What was he going to do to her
this
time?

No, no, no, no,
she screamed inside her head. She would not let this happen. He would not spoil this precious place for her. Since leaving Little Elms, this was the closest place to feel
like home. A real home. A place where she felt safe. She’d defend it – and herself – no matter what it took.

She ran along the short corridor on the second floor and flung open her door, her hands already balling into fists. But the thick wool curtains were drawn across the latticed windows, blocking
out all the light.

Suddenly a hand grabbed her from behind in the darkness, across her mouth, pulling her backwards. She jerked as she heard the door being kicked shut and then locked.

With a furious yell, Thea broke free and turned, swinging her bag with full force. Whoever it was, she hit them hard. She heard them scramble back and grunt as they let go.

‘Don’t you fucking dare,’ she spat into the dark.

Already she wished she’d brought Mr Brown with her. The darkness closed in. She scrabbled to switch on the lamp, which smashed to the floor, but stayed on. A naked man was curled up in the
corner behind the door, cradling his balls with one hand, his head with the other.

‘Oh . . . oh shit,’ she breathed, tears of exasperation and relief bursting from her.

‘Jesus!’ Tom Lawson said, sitting up. ‘That hurt.’

Thea crouched down by him. ‘Oh, Tom. Oh God. I’m so sorry.’

Tom staggered to his feet and Thea took a shuddering breath as she flung herself into his arms and clung on.

‘Hey, hey, calm down,’ Tom said.

‘I was so scared.’

‘Clearly,’ he said, with a small laugh.

She took a deep breath, embarrassed now, and sniffed loudly, brushing away her tears.

‘What were you doing anyway?’ she asked, looking down at his naked body.

It was only now that she saw that her room was tidied and unusually warm. The small fan heater must have been on for hours. The stereo was playing her favourite Beverley Craven album. Fresh pink
roses were in a pint glass on the small table. The bed had a new red silk cover on it and a silk blindfold to match. Four silk men’s neckties were hanging from the brass bedsteads. A bottle
of champagne and two glasses sweated on the bedside table, beneath the black-and-white poster of Robert Doisneau’s ‘The Kiss’.

‘It was supposed to be a fantasy,’ Tom said gruffly, ‘like we wrote in our letters. You know. I was going to lead you to the bed, tie you up. Ice-cubes and feathers. It’s
firework night.’ He stared at her, his familiar features dark with disappointment. ‘I was going to give you fireworks.’

‘Oh, Tom. Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ she mumbled.

This was her own fault, she thought, her cheeks burning. She was so aware of how experienced he was with other woman, so cripplingly insecure in her passion for him, that she’d gone out of
her way to impress him, plundering scenes from books and plagiarizing fantasies from the movies.

But now she felt the weight of her own naivety come crashing down on her. And something else too. A nagging sense that this was the moment she should own up. That she should stop trying to
present herself in a false light. She should tell Tom the truth about her sexual past. About Brett, and what he’d done . . . what he’d said.

She’d thought so often of telling Tom her secret. Now that she was in a proper relationship with him, Brett’s power over her had dwindled. And yet somehow that made the secret so
much worse. And the longer she kept it to herself, the more it ate at her.

With the benefit of hindsight, the fact that Brett had violated her and threatened her like that, in her own home, was unforgivable. But worse than all of that was that he’d got away with
it. And if he’d done that to other girls, then surely that made Thea complicit in his crimes too?

But it was too late to say anything . . . do anything. She was too much of a coward to come clean to anyone, let alone Tom, who might make her confront her father. What if he made her blow apart
the whole facade of the happy family behind the huge Maddox corporation? An image (false as it may be) that kept the company together and the shares trading high.

No, Thea couldn’t expose Brett. Not now. She couldn’t risk it. She couldn’t risk hurting her father like that.

Instead she did what she always did, burying the secret, determined to put Brett where he belonged: out of her mind.