Barefoot in the Dark (23 page)

Chapter 24

Go away, Hope thought. Perhaps that’s what she should do. Once the run was done, maybe she would take the children off somewhere. To a caravan, or a cottage, perhaps, just the three of them. If she could just remove herself from her normal life for a few days perhaps she might shake off the gloom. If she could just
find
her own life, amid the muddle of everyone else’s, perhaps she might find a path that would make her feel hopeful again.

But right now she had to keep her happy face on. Because it was Kayleigh’s eighteenth birthday and they were having a bit of a do.

Any excuse for a party, Madeleine had said, and that was what this was turning out to be. An excuse for a party. An excuse
of
a party. A dozen of them, gathered in the main office on a Wednesday, drinking champagne and eating take-away pizza, and everybody getting drunk. Not that Hope was. The pizza had looked like something that had been disgorged by a bilious buzzard after a heavy night’s carnage, so she’d stuck to the champagne. Only a prudent one and a half glasses, but it was nevertheless fizzing and buzzing in her brain.

Kayleigh, by now, was certainly drunk, and clearly also of the opinion that it was her duty to provide the entertainment. She had fished out a Kylie Minogue CD from her back-pack, and someone had found a CD player, and now she was dancing with a box file.

It was only just gone seven, but already Hope was trying to formulate an excuse of her own. One that would sound plausible enough to get her out of the place. She wasn’t quite sure what she’d like to do instead, only that she was tired and crotchety and not feeling very sociable. And Simon was beginning to cloy.

‘They’ve done a good job,’ he was saying to her now – shouting to her, in fact, even though his mouth was but inches from her ear. ‘With the radio build-up. Don’t you think?’

She nodded. Simon had been trailing around after her since five. Trailing pointedly, persistently.

Betty, who’d come over from the shop, nodded vigorously. ‘You can say what you like about these celebrities, but I must say your Mr Valentine’s come up trumps for us, hasn’t he? We’ve been listening to him on the radio. He’s been ever so good.’

Hope nodded.

‘You going to do the run yourself, dear?’ she asked Hope.

Hope nodded again, about to speak, but Betty’s attention had been diverted by Simon, who was nodding pretty frantically himself. ‘We both are, Betty,’ he interrupted happily. ‘We’re becoming a bit of a double act, actually. We’ve been in training together.’

‘That’s nice,’ said Betty.

‘Haven’t we?’

He smiled at Hope. She nodded again.

‘I was even wondering if we shouldn’t have a couple of T-shirts printed. You know. “Two Hearts Become Run” or – get this – “Beauty and the Beast”. You know, “beauty dot dot dot… ” on yours and “… dot dot dot and the beast” on mine.’

Hope felt appalled. But she nodded again. ‘Ri-ght.’

Betty looked at Simon, then at Hope, and then at Simon again. Simon glugged down champagne and beamed.

‘That’s nice,’ said Betty.

Simon beamed some more. ‘This year the fun run – next year the London marathon, eh?’

‘I don’t really see myself running a marathon,’ said Hope. ‘Five K is plenty for me.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Simon, reaching for the nearest bottle and filling his glass to the brim for at least the fourth time. ‘It’s only a question of commitment. Only a question of us getting in training for it, Hope. You’re very fit. She’s very fit,’ he added, to Betty. ‘Always keeps me on my toes, I can tell you.’ He did a little running mime then patted his stomach. Which was certainly a little smaller. The ‘us’ however, loomed fearfully large. He patted his stomach again. ‘I’ll probably have lost a stone by the time she’s finished with me!’

‘You’re looking well now, Simon,’ Betty said. ‘I was only saying to Iris the other day how well you’re looking these days. You always used to look so peaky. Nice to see. So, the transformation’s all down to you, then, is it, Hope?’

‘Hardly –’

‘Absolutely!’ said Simon.

‘That’s nice,’ said Betty. ‘You make a nice pair, you two.’ She smiled. ‘Nice to see.’

Simon beamed.

She’d kept away from him after that. But she was still conscious of his eyes, which seemed permanently angled towards her, as if connected by invisible string. She had never ignored Simon so pointedly, and she could tell he was aware that she was doing it now. Which was why she should have really seen it coming. But when an hour later she became aware of his sudden absence, she simply assumed (no, hoped) he’d gone home.

‘No, he hasn’t,’ corrected Madeleine, who was getting the birthday cake out of its box. ‘His coat’s still on the coat stand. He’s probably gone off to the office or something. Perhaps he had to make a call. Perhaps he’s beavering away on some anomaly in the purchase ledger. You know what he’s like. Go and fetch him, will you, sweetie?’

Yes, of course she should have seen it coming. That was the trouble with champagne on an empty stomach. It smoothed away the edges of your mental vision. She should have seen it coming and taken evasive action. Sent Kayleigh or Kevin for him instead. Stayed well away. As it was, she found herself alone in the unlit office with him, its forms and shapes murky against the darkening sky. She heard the door sigh shut, the click of the latch, the indistinct sounds of the rest of the staff partying so near yet so far away beyond it. He had a pencil in his hand, which he was using, but no calculator. No serried ranks of figures jumping through hoops before him. Just doodles. Endless doodles.

‘Are you all right?’ she said.

‘I’m OK,’ he replied, glancing up at her and nodding slowly. ‘Just needed to sit down.’ He had taken off his brown pullover. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes. ‘I thought I’d grab five minutes.’ He put the pencil down and pushed his hands slowly through his hair.

‘Only Madeleine was wondering where you’d got to. She’s about to do the cake.’

Simon stood up and started straightening his tie. It was an instinctive action, one so familiar you hardly noticed it. Like the way he always said tickety boo when his figures balanced, or the way he stirred sugar in his coffee so fast.
Ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding!
There was an almost full glass of champagne on the desk in front of him. He picked this up now and downed the contents in one gulp. She watched his Adam’s apple bob. She started to turn back towards the door. But even as she did so, she knew he’d try to stop her. Knew this was the moment she’d have to let him down. Poor Simon. She should have done it sooner, she knew. But how could you tell someone you didn’t want to go out with them before they actually asked you if you would?

‘Dutch courage,’ he said now, lowering the glass and considering her over it.

She smiled. Feigned lightness. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘That’s what they say, don’t they?’ He put the empty glass down and moved out from behind the desk. He was looking pointedly at her now, like a predator assessing his chances. A mild anxiety washed over her. How much had he drunk? ‘Why Dutch?’ he went on. ‘Why do you think they call it
Dutch
courage particularly? Are the Dutch a particularly uncourageous people, do you think? I’ve always wondered about that.’

He couldn’t pronounce the word ‘particularly’ properly. Hope took a step back, making a gesture as if she were headed to her own desk, to get something.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know any Dutch people. Isn’t it something to do with soldiers?’ He was advancing on her now, straightening his tie again as he walked. ‘Isn’t it a war thing? Something to do with the army? I don’t know. I –’

He was in front of her now. She could smell the fabric conditioner on his shirt. See the shadows beneath his arms, the sheen of sweat on his face, the grooves in his forehead as he frowned at her.

‘Oh, Hope,’ he said slowly, enunciating carefully. ‘Look at you.’

She blinked at him. ‘What?’

He opened his arms wide, startling her. ‘
Look
at you!’ he said again. The arms began moving up and down, for emphasis, his palms open, his gaze bobbing over her with them. ‘Look at you! Oh, Hope, have you any idea what you do to me?’

‘
What?
’

He slapped them back against his sides. ‘Oh, Hope.’ He swept the arms out once more and this time he left them there. ‘
This!’

She stared at him, stunned. She was completely unprepared for this kind of drama. A mumbled invitation to dinner perhaps. A shy declaration. But not this. ‘Simon,’ she lied, ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’

His brows converged as he advanced closer. ‘Don’t say that. Please don’t say that, Hope. You know very well. The way you look, the way you act, the way you –’ He grabbed her hand. Held it tightly between his own. They were big hands. Big powerful hands. Warm and moist. ‘The way you look at me, Hope.
Me
. Don’t try to tell me you don’t know. Please don’t.’ He squeezed it now, his gaze locked on to hers. ‘Don’t try to tell me you haven’t been aware
–
that you really don’t know. That you’re not a part of this. That you haven’t been waiting for me to – look, I know it’s been a difficult year for you. I don’t want to push things, really I don’t. I know you feel a bit shy. I don’t want to… ’ He moved his thumb tenderly in small arcs over the back of her hand. ‘I don’t want to pressure you or anything. But sometimes,
sometimes
, when you’re sitting there across the office, and I look over at you, and you catch my eye and smile back at me – the way you smile back at me, Hope. I can’t help but believe that –’

She pulled her hand away and stepped backwards, horrified. Her bottom was now against the edge of her desk.

‘Simon, you’re stressing me. I don’t –’

‘
Stressing
you?’ He pushed his hand through his hair again. ‘Why on earth would I be stressing you?’ He looked genuinely appalled. He took another step towards her. ‘Why on earth would you be stressed? There’s nothing to be stressed about. I’m just talking about
us
, Hope,’ he said quietly. ‘You and me.’

His arms were around her before she could properly digest this. And his face – God, his lips – were heading for her own – collision-course heading, like surface-to-air missiles. She wriggled away from him.

‘Simon, come on. Stop this, please. You’ve had a little too much to drink, and you’ll –’

‘Hope, come on. Don’t do this to me.’ He was crowding her again, a half-smile twitching on his lips. ‘Don’t play games with me. Just relax. Just let me hold you. There. That’s all I want. See? Just to –’ His arms encircled her again, and this time she could feel the steady pressure of them against her sides. ‘Just to kiss you, that’s all. I’ve been waiting so long, I can’t let you –’

She pressed her palms against his chest and pushed him gently but firmly away. ‘Simon, stop it,’ she said. ‘Stop it. You’ll regret this in the morning. Come on. Don’t be silly.’

His arms were still around her and his face was still angled to kiss her, but his lips, slightly open still, reined themselves in. He was looking at her now with unmistakeable determination, his eyes glittering with lust only inches from hers. Though his ears, evidently, weren’t working.

He licked his lips. ‘Oh, Hope… ’

There was an unsteady thickness in his voice now. God, but he was dogged. She’d never seen him like this, and it filled her with foreboding. ‘Come
on
,’ she urged again, more firmly this time. ‘Don’t be silly, Simon. It’s just the champagne. You’ll be kicking yourself in the morning –’

But it was fruitless trying to reason with him. The pressure against her shoulders grew, if anything, stronger. She could feel the warm bulk of his thigh against her own. And he was grinning at her.
Grinning
at her.

‘Come on,’ he whispered. ‘Look, we both know you want to really.’ He licked his lips again. ‘I do understand your reticence, you know. I do know how it’s been for you… ’

He was edging her back against the desk, albeit gently. Albeit only in his quietly persistent way. He was a persistent man and he was persisting right now. Also, as was becoming increasingly apparent, stupid and ignorant and immune to reality and persistently trying to get his tongue in her mouth and to press his fat knee between hers. There was no room for discussion. No point in cajoling. She shoved her hands against his chest hard enough to make him stagger backwards and collide with his own swivel chair.

‘The
hell
you do!’ she roared at him. He looked incredulous. Poleaxed. ‘The hell you bloody do! Do you hear?’

There was a moment of absolute silence. And then, either as a result of the push, or her expression, or the alcohol level in his bloodstream having dropped just half a millilitre below that required for the continuing application of Dutch courage – Hope really didn’t know – his expression changed from one of stupefaction to one of mild horror. And then, even as her own was busy forming one of forgiveness and compassion, it moved on to one of barely restrained anger. She grew frightened. She hadn’t expected anger either. Not at all.

‘The hell you do!’ she said again, his narrowed eyes and curled lip acting as fuel to her own fury. ‘You know nothing about me, Simon! Nothing!’

He was flexing and unflexing his fingers at his side now. Staring at her with as much hate as there’d been love moments earlier. She didn’t doubt it. Oh no. Not now. Where once she’d simply seen a gentle person with a puppy-dog devotion, she could now see the reality of his feelings for her. The raw intensity of the ardour of the man underneath. To think she’d caused this. To think she’d fanned such a fire. To think her innocent gestures of friendship and camaraderie had been so wrongly interpreted, so mistakenly read. Even as he stood there hating her for it, she couldn’t help but feel wretched that she’d let it come to this. How on earth would she deal with him now?

He was still staring at her, breathing heavily and raggedly. In – out. In – out. Flex – unflex. In – out.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice low and cold, his eyes shining. ‘I’m sorry I ever laid eyes on you, Hope.’ Then he turned his face away from her, lifted his arm, and punched his fist, like a piston, at the wall.