Deception and Desire (39 page)

It was time now to work around the clock. Finance had to be raised, the new factory properly equipped, staff recruited, orders for vastly increased supplies of raw materials placed. Van seemed to thrive on the pressure of it all – he was a powerhouse of energy who could survive quite comfortably on four hours' sleep a night – but Dinah was less resilient. Lack of sleep made her edgy; combined with the stress of worrying about whether they could do it at all, let alone successfully, she sometimes felt her nerves were close to breaking point. She was losing weight, too – burning so much nervous energy and never stopping to eat proper meals were taking their toll. But she did not want to worry Van, so she soldiered on.

There were ups and there were downs, there were times when it seemed the whole operation was fated to collapse about their ears, but somehow they survived, building, building all the while. Thanks to vision, sheer hard work and not a little luck Vandina not so much crept as exploded on to the fashion scene. The rich and stylish were proud to claim they had been the first to discover it; an item bearing the little trademark snake became an accessory which proclaimed not only the wherewithal to shop in the world's top stores but also the mark of the trendsetter.

Towards the end of the first year, just as it seemed that success was within their grasp, Dinah's health finally gave out. The strains on her both mentally and physically proved too much and she suffered a nervous breakdown. The doctors prescribed Librium and a complete break; Van packed her off for an extended holiday in the south of France, but he made sure she took her sketch pad with her.

It was her salvation – and also marked the beginning of a new phase for Vandina. Sitting in a shady spot on the balcony of her apartment, with a warm breeze fanning the pages of her pad, Dinah dreamed up new ideas that would widen Vandina's range – bags and purses, little leather photograph frames around which the grass snake curled enticingly, and even, at last, some designs for the complementary silk scarves which would of course have to be made by a specialist under licence.

By the time she returned she was almost completely recovered, though still not weaned off the Librium. In her absence Van had redoubled his efforts – the workforce now numbered thirty full-time employees in addition to the outworkers, a sales manager, an accountant and a quality controller. But Van refused to relinquish overall control. He still took all major decisions, listening to the promptings of his own instincts rather than advice from others, he still insisted on personally overseeing every aspect. He had the power now that he had always wanted and he used it as despotically as his father had done. Vandina was, quite simply, his life. He did not intend to let anyone else take the smallest part of it from him and he did not intend to share the credit for its creation – not even with Dinah, whose inspiration it had been.

They had been married for almost five years and Vandina was an established success story when Dinah's maternal instinct began to reassert itself. Christmas was approaching; the shops were full of toys and excited children clamouring to see Father Christmas, and the atmosphere of frenetic family gaiety had reawakened the sharp, poignant longing she still felt for little Stephen, making her wonder where he was and wish she could buy presents for him and see his face light up when he unwrapped them.

It was of course an impossible dream, she knew that. But alongside it another dream was nudging her more insistently with every day that passed – the desire to be pregnant again, this time with Van's baby. No amount of hard work and success in the business could take away the desperate need to hold her child in her arms, and this time, she thought with hope, it would be different. Another baby would not replace Stephen in her heart – no other child could ever do that – but at least she would know the joy of seeing him grow up, at least there would be something to fill the great yawning hole in her heart.

There was another reason, too, why Dinah wanted a child. Lately Van had been coming home later and later so that Dinah was often alone, and she wondered how even a workaholic such as he was could find business matters to occupy him night after night. She had not criticised or questioned – Van hated both. But she thought that perhaps if he had a son or daughter to come home to he might raise his head and see something outside the four walls of Vandina.

One December evening when Van arrived home at a reasonable hour she broached the subject. They had eaten dinner and were relaxing in front of the big inglenook fireplace where a log fire was blazing and occasionally spitting sparks on to the rough stone surround. Dinah was curled up in one chintz-covered chair; she rested her chin on her hand and looked across at Van, sprawled in the other, a glass of brandy on the small drinks table at his elbow, smoking a cigar.

‘Van, I've been thinking. We're pretty secure now financially, aren't we?'

He looked across at her curiously. ‘I don't think we're on the verge of bankruptcy, no.'

‘It's a bit better than that, surely?'

‘Business is good, yes, though it has to be to pay off the loans. But why the sudden interest in our financial affairs? Have you been overspending on the Christmas cheer?'

She shook her head, a rosy blush rising in her cheeks.

‘Nothing like that. It's just that I was wondering … do you think perhaps we could start thinking about a baby?'

She saw his face change, eyes narrowing, the long lines that had begun to appear between nose and mouth deepening. Her heart sank.

‘Don't look like that, Van, please! Wouldn't you like a son, or even a daughter perhaps? I know I would. I want us to be a real family. I know we never seem to talk about it but I …'

‘No,' Van said. His tone was hard and uncompromising.

‘What do you mean – no?' Dinah asked, shocked. ‘ We want a family sometime, don't we? So why not now?'

He ground out his cigar into the chunk of rock fashioned into an ashtray.

‘I don't have any particular desire for a family, now or ever. Children are nothing but an encumbrance.'

‘You've never said that before!'

‘I've never liked children. Spoiled brats, most of them, sucking you dry and giving nothing in return.'

‘Surely you don't
look
for anything. The joy comes from just having them …'

‘Not for me. We don't need children. We have each other and the business. Why rock the boat? Do you want another drink?'

He drained his glass and got up to refill it, effectively closing the conversation. She gazed at him, numb with misery.

‘But I want children!' she said, her voice rising. ‘ I can't help it, but I do!'

He turned, looking at her, wondering if he should tell her the truth – that choice was not on the agenda. But he knew he could not. His infertility was his secret, he did not want to share it with anyone, and especially not with Dinah who was all too obviously fertile to a fault. And in any case he had spoken the truth. He did not want a child. Not any more. He had lived for so long with the knowledge that he could never be a father that he had not only accepted it but also rationalised it. He was not missing anything, it was his good fortune to have one less thing to worry about.

‘Doesn't what I want count at all?' Dinah asked.

The latent sense of inadequacy manifested itself in anger.

‘I should have thought you have everything even you could want,' he said cruelly. ‘You have a nice home, money to spend as you wish – and God knows, you are not afraid to spend it. You have the opportunity to exploit your bent for design and be recognised for it – that alone is something many young designers with more talent than you have would give a great deal for. I have made you a household name, Dinah, and you ask whether what
you
want comes into it! There is a word for that sort of attitude. The word is ingratitude.'

‘That's unfair!' she retorted, the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘You make it sound as though I had nothing to do with our success at all!'

‘The original idea was yours, I grant you, but you'd not have been able to do anything with it if it hadn't been for me. I've employed craftsmen to translate your ideas into viable merchandise, I've put up the money, I've marketed you. Without me, Dinah, you'd be nothing. I'm not sure you would even have had the ideas without me to goad you, and what ideas you did have would have remained on the drawing board. Make no mistake, I have made you what you are and you would do well to remember it.'

She turned away, tears of humiliation stinging her eyes. She wished she could argue, but she could not. She did not want to fight with him. All she wanted – all she had ever wanted – was his approval and his love. Van was her world. If he did not want a baby then she would not try to force the issue.

She ran to him like a child, clinging to him, needing to grow again through his forgiveness. It was almost as if she
were
a child again, the repressed little girl, threatened by the all-seeing eyes of John Bunyan and his new incarnation, her grandfather. Whenever things went wrong Dinah felt, however irrationally, that she was somehow to blame.

‘I'm sorry, Van. I'm sorry!'

Van held her and after a while she felt the stiffness begin to ease out of his body.

‘It's all right,' he said. ‘Calm down, Dinah.'

‘I love you, Van. And you're right, we don't need anything but each other, do we?'

‘No,' he said.

But he was not telling the truth.

Van had taken his first mistress while Dinah was in the south of France recovering from her nervous breakdown.

The affair had been brief; Van took what he needed and when he had had enough he dismissed the woman – a temporary secretary at Vandina – from her job and from his life. But the affair had reawakened his taste for variety in his sexual life; the novelty of being married to Dinah had worn off and Van was realising that monogamy was not for him.

Over the years there were to be many women, mostly one-night stands but a few longer-lasting relationships which Van was as adept at ending as he was at everything he did; when he tired, the lady in question was despatched as efficiently and relentlessly as a used cigar butt. One or two were to prove awkward but Van always found the most appropriate pay-off. Surprisingly, he managed to keep Dinah in ignorance of his deviations, or perhaps she simply did not want to know. For her, ignorance was bliss, and whatever the reason Van's exploits never became an issue between them.

As the years passed Vandina became more and more successful, a mini-empire producing lines that were sought after by the rich and discerning the world over, whilst Kendricks, the boot firm, contracted steadily until at last there was nothing left for it but closure.

‘Perhaps you had something after all,' Christian Senior said to Van the week before he died. It was the closest he ever came to admitting that his son had been right and he had been wrong.

Van acquired his private pilot's licence – for business reasons, he said, but when he bought himself a Cessna he flew it often for pleasure.

Dinah took things a little more quietly. Her work was still her joy; to it she added a passion for opera and ballet. She learned to ski and took winter holidays in Gstaad and St Moritz, and in the summer she usually spent a month in the Ardèche, where she had recuperated from her nervous breakdown.

That was well behind her now, the last prescriptions for Librium never filled.

As for her desire for a family, she never mentioned it again, any more than she mentioned Stephen, though thoughts of him haunted her still.

Van was her life, he was all she had ever really wanted. No one, Dinah thought, could expect to have everything. As Van had pointed out to her that long-ago December evening, she had been luckier than most – luckier, certainly, than she had ever had any right to expect.

And then Van was killed, and for a time that secure world had fallen apart. But once again fortune had been on her side. Totally unexpectedly, Stephen had returned to her, and his coming had gone some way to fill the awful yawning gap.

In a strange way she felt that Van was with her still. When she was worried or upset she would go to his study and sense his presence, strong and powerful as ever.

In life, in death, Van would always be with her.

Only now there was Steve too.

On the evening Maggie was at Dinah's dinner party, Mike went to visit Brendan.

He was deeply disturbed by what Maggie had told him; the position of the driving seat in Ros's car was almost indisputable evidence that someone other than Ros had been driving it when it was parked at the station, and it had become inextricably entwined in his mind with Brendan's assertion that he had seen her in a Clifton bar with a man. It was possible, of course, that Brendan was lying. Maggie suspected him of being connected with Ros's disappearance, Mike knew, and if he had indeed finally snapped and harmed her in some way then it would follow that he would be anxious to throw in as many red herrings as he could to put Ros's relatives – and the police – off the scent. But either way, Mike thought it was time he spoke to Brendan himself.

When he had finally wrapped up his school team's cricket match he drove home and fixed himself a scratch meal – a tin of corned beef, some tired-looking salad and a jacket potato baked in the microwave, washed down with a can of lager. While he was eating he switched on the TV, catching the end of the local news coverage, but there was nothing to hold his interest – the threat of job losses at a local manufacturing firm, primary school children dressed up in the costumes of the last century to commemorate some centenary or other, an old woman who might have worn one of the original mobcaps and pinafores as a child grinning toothlessly – and dazedly – as she was given a bouquet of flowers to celebrate reaching the grand old age of one hundred and five. The pictures blurred before Mike's eyes. He was just about to switch off when the recap of the headlines began. A body had been found in woodlands. Mike stiffened, nerves taut and jangling suddenly, like the trip wires of a dozen alarm bells.