Deception and Desire (64 page)

But she had not been proud of herself. Sometimes, thinking of how willingly she had gone to Van's apartment, she cringed, and she shrank from admitting to anyone, least of all Mike, that someone who prided herself on her independence and fierce self-reliance could have allowed herself to become putty in the hands of a man like Van.

It had begun, their affair, soon after she had gone to work at Vandina. From the first time she had met him she had been intoxicated with him, and like an alcoholic craving another drink, she had seized upon every possible excuse to be in his company. At first she did not think he had even noticed her, but he had – he had. And he teased her along, throwing her crumbs here and there to make her more avid than ever – a look, a smile, a throwaway remark to be remembered and dissected and stored away. And when he was ready, when he knew she would not refuse him, he had made his move and she had gone to him willingly, forgetting every scruple, every loyalty, drawn by that strange power he exerted so well into a web which she knew might strangle her but from which she had no wish to escape.

At times she had felt guilt for those she was betraying – Brendan, her husband; Dinah, her employer and friend – but it made no difference. When Brendan became violent towards her she almost welcomed it, for she felt that in some way she was paying for her pleasure; as for Dinah, she worked all the harder and cared for her loyally. She came to know, better than anyone – except perhaps Van himself – that childlike side of Dinah which needed reassurance and protection, and she made it her business to minister to it in every way possible, as if by so doing she could somehow exonerate the guilt that came from knowing she was screwing Dinah's husband.

They had been together often at Van's town apartment – though perhaps not as often as Ros would have liked. And that particular winter's night when Dinah's son had come had begun no differently from all the others, except that Van had told her not to come before eight.

‘I have an appointment earlier,' he had said, giving no word of explanation as to who it was he was expecting.

Ros, though she paid lip service to independence and the freedom of the individual, nevertheless was the possessor of a strongly jealous streak and it had occurred to her to wonder if the unnamed visitor might be a woman. The thought that she might have a rival had incensed her and she had made up her mind to be at Van's apartment in good time to see who left.

She remembered still, with almost startling clarity, how her face had burned as she ran up the stairs, partly from the cold, partly from a flush of apprehension for what she might find and dread of the scene that would follow. Strange, really, that it was that aspect of the evening that remained most vivid in her mind – that and the utter relief she had felt when she had opened the door with her key and come face to face not with a woman who might have usurped her, but a young man.

She had been curious – the snippet of conversation she had overheard had whetted her appetite – but she had known better than to ask there and then who he was and what he had been doing there. That had come later, after she and Van had made love.

They were lying in bed between his black silk sheets with her head nestled against his shoulder and their legs entwined, and Van was smoking one of his cigars, the smoke tickling in Ros's nostrils.

‘Who was that guy who was here when I arrived?' she asked.

‘No one you'd know, sweetness. Just business.'

She tugged gently at some of the greying hair that grew thickly down his breastbone, twisting it between her fingers.

‘It didn't sound like business to me. It sounded very personal. ‘‘Tell my mother from me that the last thing I intended was to cause her distress … that I have made a good life for myself without her help.” Business associates don't say things like that.'

‘Don't they, sweetness?'

‘No, they don't. Oh well, if you won't tell me the truth about him I shall just have to ask some questions until I find out for myself …'

He stiffened then. She felt a wave of anger run through him.

‘You'll say nothing to anyone about him being here.'

She pretended innocence. ‘ Why not?'

‘Because I am telling you so.'

She laughed. ‘Oh Van, we are not in the office now and I don't have to do what you tell me! I shall pry all I like and …'

‘All right,' he said suddenly, and his tone told her that this was no game to him, but deadly serious. ‘I'll tell you, Ros, but you have got to realise it is confidential.'

‘I can keep a secret.'

‘I know you can. You wouldn't have the job you are in and you wouldn't be here with me now if you could not.' There was a tiny threatening undertone in his voice – break confidence and I'll break you, he seemed to be saying. ‘That young man was, or claims to be, Dinah's son.'

‘What!' In spite of what she had overheard she was still staggered. ‘I didn't know Dinah had a son.'

‘Nor does anyone else. That is why I don't want you shooting your mouth off. Dinah had an illegitimate child when she was very young. In those days it was still a matter for great shame. The baby was adopted at birth, Dinah and I were married and she put the whole wretched business behind her. Now, out of the blue, comes this young man claiming to be that child.' He puffed on his cigar.

‘How do you know there's any truth in his claim?' Ros asked.

‘He had a copy of his birth certificate. It's possible to obtain them these days, of course – God knows why the law was changed to allow it. Much better in the old days when these things were treated as utterly confidential. Anyway, I have persuaded him not to bother Dinah with any of this. He has gone back to Scotland – he's a diver on one of the offshore rigs, as far as I can make out – and I don't think he'll be back. So please, Ros, will you say nothing?'

Ros settled herself more comfortably against Van's shoulder. She could hardly believe what he had just told her; that cool, perfect, untouched Dinah had an illegitimate son. Even more unbelievable was the fact that he had been here and she had seen him with her own eyes. She found herself trying to recall what he had looked like and wishing she had taken more notice of him. He had not struck her as being particularly like Dinah, but then why should he be?

She thought again of the fragment of conversation she had overheard.

‘So Dinah didn't want to see him?' she asked.

‘No.'

‘I can understand her being upset, but if it were me I don't think I'd be able to resist seeing how my own son had turned out.'

Van sat up abruptly, stubbing out his cigar in the huge crystal ashtray he kept on the bedside table.

‘Dinah does not know he's been here. I'd be very much obliged if you would make sure she does not find out.'

‘She doesn't
know
?'

‘I intercepted his letter. I wrote back to him myself. I don't want Dinah upset by any of this. I will not have her upset – do you understand?'

Ros had nodded, not knowing whether to be shocked by Van's arbitrary decision or smug because she now knew something Dinah did not know and presumably never would.

It was not long, of course, before the novelty value of her newly acquired knowledge began to wear off. A ‘nine-days wonder' is an old adage but one with much truth in it, and soon Ros forgot about Dinah's son. She was busy and fulfilled in her job, she had met and begun to date Mike Thompson, but her affair with Van continued nevertheless. He still fascinated her too much to allow her to end it, for Mike or anyone else.

One night when Van was making love to her something rather dreadful happened.

One minute he was lying on top of her, pumping with the ferocious vigour that seemed to be necessary to bring him to a climax these days, the next he gasped and rolled away from her, fighting for breath and clutching his chest.

‘My God, Van – are you all right?' Ros raised herself on one elbow, looking down at his face, which was grey and suddenly old-looking, and his eyes, curiously distant. He did not answer her, simply lay there concentrating on getting his breath, and Ros got out of bed, slipping into a dressing gown and wondering if she should do something positive, like calling a doctor. She didn't want to do that, it would be horrendously embarrassing, but she didn't care for the look of Van at all.

She knelt down beside the bed, taking his hand.

‘Van? Can you hear me?'

His eyelids blinked: Yes.

‘Van – what is it? Are you in pain?'

Again, a tiny flicker. The real difficulty seemed to be his breathing. His chest heaved as he struggled with it.

‘Van, I'm going to get help.'

‘No!' He managed to say the word, and in spite of his condition his tone carried as much authority as ever.

She waited and gradually his breathing eased and his colour returned to normal. At last he sat up, reaching for her, and she put her arms around him.

‘God, Van, you frightened me to death! What was it – your heart?'

‘Could be.'

‘Could be? What do you mean, could be? Have you had something like this happen to you before?'

‘A few times, yes.'

‘And what does the doctor say about them?'

‘The doctor doesn't say anything. I haven't told him.'

‘Van, you must! You looked really ill just then.'

‘I don't want him to know. I don't want anyone to know. If they think there's anything wrong with me they'll revoke my p.p. I. and I don't want that.'

Van had gained his private pilot's licence soon after establishing the business, and now he had his own plane, which he flew whenever he could for pleasure. The thought of losing his licence was unbearable.

‘They'll find out when you have your next medical anyway,' Ros said. ‘You have to have one every year, don't you?'

‘Yes – but I'll be over all this nonsense by then. For God's sake stop fussing, Ros. I've had a bit of a chesty cold and I had too heavy a dinner – that's all.'

Ros felt sure it had been much more than that but she also knew that where Van was concerned argument was useless.

The next time she saw Van clearly unwell she tried again to insist that he seek medical attention. They had been away on a business trip, and driving back along the motorway he suddenly fell silent. She glanced at him and saw beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.

‘Are you all right?' she asked sharply.

‘Yes.' But his voice was tight and a moment later he swung on to the hard shoulder, braking hard and sitting with his head pressed back against the headrest while his breath came in hard, shallow gasps.

‘Move over,' she ordered. ‘I'm taking you to a hospital.'

He moved, and she got into the driving seat and put her foot hard down, watching him anxiously out of the corner of her eye. But by the time she had taken the next exit from the motorway and was racing along the country roads trying to remember where she would find the nearest hospital he had begun to recover, and with recovery came the typical assertiveness for which Van was renowned.

‘I'm all right now, Ros. Let's just go home.'

At Vandina she parked, then faced him squarely.

‘Van, you have got to do something about these turns of yours. You can't just let them go on happening.'

‘Don't try to tell me what to do, sweetness.'

‘You are ill, Van.'

‘I had too much to drink last night, that's all. If I consider there is anything seriously wrong I'll seek help. Do you understand?'

She did not argue. What was the point? And besides, what had just happened could well have been exactly what he had said – a slight case of hangover, no more, no less – while she could hardly describe to anyone what had happened on the previous occasion without admitting their illicit liaison. She was worried, but she said nothing to anyone.

A few weeks later she was bitterly regretting her decision. Flying himself in his little Cessna, Van had crashed. The moment she heard about it, long before the speculation began, Ros knew what had happened and blamed herself dreadfully. Whatever the consequences she should have told someone of her suspicions as to Van's state of health. She had not – and now he was dead. He had been wrong to ignore the warning signals – but so had she. If she had done what she had known she should have done maybe she could have saved him.

In her worst nightmares Ros asked herself how she would have felt if Van had managed to kill someone else besides himself; at other times she gratefully thanked the fates that he had not. She wept into her pillow, tears of grief for the man who had obsessed her, and guilt for her failure to do what she could have done to save him, and she salved her conscience as far as she was able by doing everything she could to comfort and support Dinah, who was devastated by Van's death.

Ros had always been fond of her mercurial boss. Everyone who knew Dinah loved her and wanted to protect her, and Ros was no exception. Sometimes it had occurred to her to wonder how this loyalty could co-exist alongside the knowledge that she was carrying on a long-term affair with Dinah's husband, but somehow it did and the fact that she not only suspected but
knew
Dinah's true vulnerability only made her more anxious to spare her any pain. After Van's death this emotion intensified. Although her own grief was sometimes insupportable, seeing Dinah's total collapse made her somehow strong and she found herself caring for Dinah, buffering her, as Van had done.

I am doing it for him, Ros told herself, and the sense of purpose helped her through the pain of her own loss.

She had long since forgotten about the young man she had met in Van's apartment. She remembered it only when she went into the office one morning to find a Dinah glowing with radiance and trembling with excitement.

The change from the gaunt and grief-stricken woman she had become since Van's death was so startling that Ros could only stare in amazement. And then Dinah had told her that she had received a letter from her son, adopted as a baby, and whom she had never expected to see again.