Flight (25 page)

They walked up the track and found a ramshackle cottage. His London estate agents would say it definitely needed work. They peered in at the windows. It was completely empty apart from a teacup upturned on its saucer on the draining-board in the kitchen. They walked round to the back.

The garden was narrow and sloped down steeply to a shallow trickle of a stream. There were no flower-beds. It was all just grass, thick and soft and dark, uncut for a month, half shaded by the trees and shrubs that enclosed it on both sides and sheltered it, today, from the wind. Fasil ran straight to the stream and squatted beside it, picking up small stones and twigs to throw in. Martagon and Julie lay down on the grass, in a sunny patch, Julie using her little backpack as a pillow. All they could hear was the wind in the trees.

It was peaceful.

Fasil ran back up the slope and threw himself down between them. ‘I saw a duck,' he said. ‘Why can't we live here?'

‘It doesn't belong to us,' said Martagon.

‘It's for sale. You said. You could buy it.'

‘I wish,' said Martagon.

‘You could, you
could,
' said Fasil. ‘Then we could live here. Mum and me. And you. We
could.
'

He jumped on Martagon, punching him in the chest. Martagon, laughing, sat up and pushed the little boy off. Fasil turned to his mother, and hurled himself face down across her body, kicking her legs. ‘Tell him. Tell him we've got to live here.'

Julie put her arms round her son. ‘Go and do some more playing,' she said, rocking him. ‘We'll have to be going back quite soon.'

It crossed Martagon's mind that the money from the sale of Child's Place would buy this cottage and put it in order and leave some to spare. Not that that was an option.

Fasil was back by the stream.

Julie said, a little awkwardly: ‘I've been meaning to tell you something. I've been talking a lot to Hailu. He wants us to get together again. He wants me and Fasil to go back to Addis with him.'

‘Is that what you want?'

They were lying back in the grass again, not looking at one another.

‘I don't know. Sometimes I think yes. Mostly because he's Fasil's father. A child needs a father. But I don't know if I could hack living in Addis now. I like my work, I might get that better job with the Grid Group, I've got good friends, I like being near Giles and Amanda, and my parents. Fasil's settled in his school. Also, there's you, now.'

‘There's something I've been meaning to tell you, too. It might make a difference. I'm probably going to shift my base to France – quite soon.'

‘I don't see why that should make a difference. You're always off abroad somewhere already, as it is, and you'd always be in London part of the time, presumably.'

‘It sounds a bit like your marriage story.'

‘Except we aren't thinking about getting married.'

‘No.'

‘And that does make all the difference. We'd both have our own separate lives, and then we'd have our times together as well. I'll have to be concentrating on Fasil a lot for the next few years anyway. We'll both do what we have to do, and when we are together it will be holiday. We'll just let things evolve, see what happens. If that's what you want. I'll always be there for you, Martagon.'

He said, ‘I'll always be there for you, too.' Because it was true. In one way or another.

‘Is that a deal?'

‘It's a deal.'

Martagon scratched his nose where a long grass-stem was tickling it. It had not entered his head before that he could have his cake and eat it. The thought was uncomfortably interesting. Long-term, it would not work. The short-term advantages might save everyone a lot of pain. Things would work themselves out. The only thing you can be sure of is that nothing stays the same. Things would evolve, like Julie said.

He decided to say no more, to let it lie. He propped himself up on an elbow, leaned over, and kissed Julie on her forehead.

As they were getting into the car, Fasil announced he had to pee. Get on with it then, they said. Just in time, Martagon seized him by the shoulders and wheeled him round. ‘Never piss into the wind,' he said. ‘That's a lesson in life. Maybe that's the only useful thing I'll ever teach you, Fasil.'

‘I don't think so,' said Julie. ‘At least, I hope not.'

*   *   *

Martagon and Julie fetched up outside Giles and Amanda's door in Fulham at about nine o'clock that evening. Giles, a bottle of champagne in his hand, took one look at their wind-burned, sun-burned, smiling faces, and said, ‘Aha! You two … Come in. It seems we have a lot to celebrate.'

In the kitchen with Amanda, they drank to the coming baby. They drank to Amanda. They drank to Giles. Giles said, ‘Speaking as a paterfamilias and a man of substance, I want to propose a fraternal toast to – Julie and Martagon!'

Julie blushed and giggled. Martagon, red lights flashing in his head, mimed moronic amazement. What was going on round here? He knew exactly. While Amanda and Julie were finishing the preparations for supper and laying the table, Giles refilled his own glass and Martagon's, and drew Martagon out of the french windows into the dusky garden.

The wind had dropped. They talked of this and that, of Chelsea's prospects, and of the schedule for the grand opening of Bonplaisir, which was imminent. Giles was at his most expansive and vital. Martagon felt his seductiveness, as in the early days of their friendship.

Giles is an angel. Giles may be the devil. Or the devil for me. In this mood, Giles can make me do anything. Like over the merger.

‘You know something?' said Giles. ‘I've never cheated on Amanda. In all this time. Guess that surprises you, doesn't it?'

‘Not really,' said Martagon. ‘Not that I've ever really thought about it.'

Giles put an arm round Martagon's shoulders. ‘Julie hasn't said much, but she's said something. Amanda and me, we don't want her to go back to Ethiopia. Hailu's a really nice guy, but she needs her family … I just wanted you to know, my old mate, that if you and she really became an item, it would be good news so far as I am concerned. Very good news indeed. I know it's nothing to do with me.'

Martagon said nothing. He was glad of the darkness.

Giles hadn't finished. ‘I've been thinking, too. I know we had our difficulties, but it was early days for us all and you didn't really give it a chance. Why not come back into the firm? We've both come a long way since then.'

‘Things have changed, for me,' said Martagon.

‘That's the whole point. You've had your adventures – professional and, if you don't mind me saying, personal – and you'd be coming back in a really strong position. A homecoming, back to your family. We've always been like family, you and us, haven't we?'

‘We have.' Giles knew how to touch his most tender spot. He was moved, unable to speak.

‘And now – well, now even more so. I won't say any more.'

‘No, Giles, not now.'

*   *   *

Martagon did not take Julie home. He left before her, saying he had work to do. When he got home to Child's Place he was unnaturally exhausted. The emotional moment had passed with the effects of the champagne. He was coldly clear-eyed.

It all looked rather different to him now. Giles had seen an opportunity. Giles was offering Martagon a package.

Giles cared deeply about his sister and her happiness. If that meant Martagon, then he would help her to secure him. He cared, too, for Martagon, so long as Martagon did not go off at a tangent. He knew Martagon was a class act and top of the range, professionally. He was ambitious for Harper Cox.

Put all this together, conceal the price-tags, gift-wrap the package, and present it. That's what Giles had done.

Forget the romance of commerce. What about the commerce of romance?

*   *   *

The following Tuesday, 12 June, the newly opened Millennium Footbridge over the Thames between St Paul's and Bankside swayed so violently under the weight of sightseeing pedestrians that it had to be closed. Martagon, fascinated, rang a friend at Ove Arup, the engineers of the bridge, to get the inside story. He didn't get much: ranks were closing. Nothing significant, he was told. We're on the case, we'll probably be doing something with dampers, shock-absorbers. I could do with some shock-absorbers for myself, thought Martagon.

Some days later, Martagon's mobile rang while he was standing on the platform at Earl's Court tube station waiting for an eastbound train.

The call was from Marina. They had spoken the evening before; they had talked about the wobbly bridge, she had told him about the state of play with Jean-Louis, who was persecuting her with telephone calls. He still wanted their mother's chair.

‘I've never understood,' Martagon had said, ‘quite what's so special about that chair, for you two. It seems out of all proportion.'

‘It would take too long to explain, I'll tell you another time.' Billie was with her, just back from seeing her aunt in Biarritz. Marina and Billie were about to have their supper: sea-bass and spinach. Everything had been normal.

The sound quality this morning wasn't so good, the station was noisy, and he had to strain to hear her through the crackle.

‘Martagon, now I know. You are a shit.'

She did not seem to be in one of her states. She spoke in a low, expressionless voice.

‘No, I'm not. You know I am not. What's up?'

‘You have a girlfriend in London. You are a shit. I thought you were different, but you're not.'

Martagon was silent, numb. A train came screaming into the platform and stopped. The different things he might say to her went round and round in his head. He sweated. He was ready to fight for his life, but he needed to buy time.

‘I can't hear you properly, my darling. Can I ring you back?'

‘What is the point? Is it true or isn't it?'

A voice on the station public-address system: ‘There are no Circle Line trains this morning due to a shortage of drivers. Repeat: there are no Circle Line trains.'

‘Martagon. Tell me. Is it true?'

Three long seconds passed, quivering with his unspoken ‘No' and his unspoken ‘Yes'. Whichever way he went, there would be no getting back.

‘Yes,' he said.

He heard her intake of breath.

‘But I can explain everything. Look, I'll come over. Stay at home, stay at the farmhouse, I'll be with you by afternoon.'

His phone had crashed. He wasn't sure she had heard. He pressed the green button two or three times. No good. He crossed over to the other platform and got on to the next Piccadilly Line train to Heathrow. Fight or flight. He was going to fly, in order to fight.

How could Marina possibly have found out? With adrenaline flooding his brain, he thought hard, his future seeming to depend on finding the answer. What could Marina know? How much could she know? In the train he took out his phone again. He had forgotten to charge it. The signal was weak, but it worked. He cancelled his two appointments in London then called Julie at her office. Speaking normally – he hoped – he told her he had to make a flying site visit to Bonplaisir. He'd be back in a couple of days.

‘Will you be back before we all go over again for the opening?'

‘Yes, yes.' And then: ‘Julie, just for interest – have you by any chance told Tom about us, in one of those telephone conversations?'

‘I don't know, I don't remember…'

‘You must remember something like that.'

‘Well, yes, I did say something, but nothing very private or personal, just so that he wouldn't worry that I was too lonely or anything. I hope you don't mind. I'm sorry if you think I shouldn't have.'

‘It doesn't matter now.'

‘Martagon – please don't go to France today! Please!'

This was not like Julie.

‘But I have to. It's work. Just a couple of days. Speak to you later.'

Martagon leaned back in his seat. He was not thinking about Julie. She had no significance for him at that moment.

Only you, Marina, only you. Only you.

He could guess what had happened. The exact sequence. Tom Scree told Orford Mulhouse, who had taken such a benevolent interest in Julie, that she had a new boyfriend, and who it was.

Why did Scree do that? Easy. Malice and guilt.

Then Orford Mulhouse told his wife Nancy. Or perhaps Scree told them both together, over drinks on a terrace in bloody Biarritz, knowing that Nancy Mulhouse would pass it on to her niece Billie – who, last night at supper, told Marina. Acting sincerely out of concern for her, no doubt. Such kindly people. Scree, Nancy and Billie had already known that he was involved with Marina.

He could murder the lot of them.

*   *   *

His passport was where he always kept it, in the zipped compartment inside his briefcase. He boarded the next available flight to Paris, where he changed planes. At Marseille he hired a car – a red Ford Ka – and slowly, his mind a blank, took the familiar route to Cabrières d'Aigues and, beyond it, to the farmhouse. Up the track, through the wood, over the bridge, past the orchard where the trees were hung with clusters and festoons of ripe cherries, glistening in the early-evening sun like baubles. Then on, between the lines of olive trees, to the long, low little house in its garden. So lovely, so familiar. It was going to be all right.

Marina was on the terrace, in the sphinx chair. She did not rise to greet him.

‘What a silly little car,' she said.

‘It's very nippy, pretty good, actually,' he replied, going towards her to embrace her. She avoided him, walking ahead into the house.

*   *   *

‘How could you? How
could
you?'

‘I owe you an explanation.'