Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (42 page)

‘Yes.’

‘I seem to be rather more gullible,’ said Barty. ‘But why, Charlie? Why her, why not me?’

‘Barty, she was different from you. She was just an ordinary girl, her father was a pretty modest lawyer – modest by your standards, anyway – she was a teacher, not a tycoon, she didn’t need living up to, no one could have imagined I was marrying her for her money—’

‘Oh Charlie. Does it all matter that much to you?’

‘Of course it does, for Christ’s sake,’ he said, his voice low, a flush rising on his face now. ‘How do you think I feel, day after day, living off you, having to be fucking grateful for everything? Charlie Patterson, the failure, who managed to reel in a rich widow. All that’s bad enough without being Charles Donald, raised by charity, with a penniless slut of a mother and a brute of a father.’

‘None of that matters to me.’

‘Well, it does to me. And it would to a whole lot of other people.’

‘Other people don’t matter.’

‘To me they do. They would to you, if you’d grown up like I did. Being looked down on, sneered at, having no proper home, not even a room of my own, no possessions, sharing a few shabby old toys, wearing hand-medowns . . .’

‘I certainly know about being looked down on. Charlie, the only thing that matters to me is that you lied to me. So dreadfully. I – just don’t know that I can bear it.’

There was something familiar about all this; a sense of
déjà vu
almost. What was it?

‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s absolutely up to you. Of course. I was just trying – in my own, no doubt peculiar way – to cope with it all. It’s not easy, you know. It took a lot of courage to ask you to marry me. Loving you, making love with you even, that was all right. But marrying you, that was different. Quite, quite different.’

‘Were you ever going to tell me? Was there really no time when you thought you owed me – owed me your honesty? This person you’re supposed to love.’

‘Who I do love. Oh, Barty, I don’t know. Yes, I suppose I thought I would, one day. When I was really sure of you, when I felt really safe.’

She was silent, trying to take it all in, to make sense of it. Of being married to someone, sleeping with him, sharing the extraordinary day-to- day intimacy of marriage with someone who was not what she had thought, who was so competent a liar, so ruthless a deceiver . . .

‘I’m going to bed, Charlie,’ she said. ‘I’m terribly tired. I’ll see you in the morning.’

He looked at her; she saw him recognising what she was saying, that of course she was not going to sleep with him, that she might never sleep with him again, might not remain married to him, even, and that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes of course. Till the morning, then.’

He came over to her, kissed her very gently on the cheek; Barty flinched from him.

‘It was only because I loved you so much,’ he said quietly, ‘I couldn’t face the other way. The truthful way. It just got too late. I’m so, so sorry.’

She went then, without a word, to the other room, to her room, to Laurence’s room, and lay awake for most of the night, staring out at the vast starry sky, and thinking about John, the one other man in her life, the kind, sweetly straightforward, uncomplicated man who had wanted to marry her, who she had thought perhaps she loved but had finally turned away from, in order to be with Laurence. She seemed to have a lemming-like propensity for trouble.

CHAPTER 22

‘Good morning, my darling. What are you doing today?’

‘Oh – lots of things. Saturday things. Shopping. Cleaning. Going to the laundromat. Possibly doing some work.’

‘That doesn’t sound like a lot of fun.’

‘Life isn’t all about fun, Geordie,’ said Izzie primly.

‘Oh dear. You sound like Celia. Can I come and see you?’

She thought for a moment. She wanted some time to herself, to think, to plan. She had to do it: had to tell Geordie she couldn’t go on. However happy they were together, however wonderful it all was, it just wasn’t right. Every day she woke up feeling more confused, more anxious. It had to end before it was too late. But it wasn’t going to be easy. He wasn’t going to go quietly . . .

‘After lunch,’ she said, ‘how would that be?’

‘It wouldn’t be as good as before lunch. But it’ll do. ’Bye Izzie darling.’

‘’Bye Geordie.’

She was going to be saying that again – rather less light-heartedly – in a few hours. She was. She had to be. It was the only way.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. We are now preparing for our descent into Idlewild.’

Adele smiled happily. She had managed to sleep quite a bit on the plane, thanks to her wonderful pills. New York was bathed in sunshine; Geordie was down there, more work was down there, Saks Fifth Avenue was down there; it was all too good to be true.

Barty had decided she had to stay for the weekend; the girls would be so disappointed if she didn’t. They had prepared so carefully, so sweetly for her visit. A picnic packed, a bag with towels and swimsuits sitting by the door, a ride booked, a barbecue arranged, steaks and burgers in the fridge . . . she couldn’t let them down.

She was woken from a two-hour sleep by Jenna, bearing a tray of tea.

‘Hi Mother. What are you doing in here?’

‘Oh – I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to read.’

‘You OK now?’

‘Of course. That tea looks awfully good.’

‘Breakfast’s ready when you are.’

‘Is – is Charlie down there?’

‘He was.’

A stab of hope; maybe he’d gone back to New York, given her a breather.

‘He’s gone for a walk. He says we’ll leave for Sag Harbor whenever you’re ready.’

‘I see.’

He walked into the kitchen as she toyed with the fruit salad Cathy had made for her, picked up a bagel, spread it with cream cheese, avoiding her eyes.

‘You OK?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘It’s a lovely day. Perfect for sailing. We could go across to Fire Island. Picnic there.’

‘Sure.’

He looked at her then; the relief in his eyes was intense.

‘I’ll go and fetch the life jackets,’ was all he said.

Adele checked in at the St Regis at noon. It was very hot and bright in the street, but her room was cool and dim. She thought of phoning the Algonquin right away, to see if Geordie was there, or at least leave a message, but decided to have a rest first. She did feel rather tired. She ordered some iced water – it was so wonderful the way everything in America was iced – and a club sandwich and lay down on the bed. It was very large. She looked at the empty pillow beside her thoughtfully. Maybe, just maybe, Geordie would be sharing it with her before she went home. You never knew . . . Adele fell asleep.

Geordie arrived at Izzie’s apartment just after two.

‘It’s my time now. You said after lunch. This is after lunch. My goodness, it all looks very pristine.’

‘Doesn’t it? I worked very hard on it.’

‘You’ve still got the picture of Noni sitting there I see.’

‘Yes.’ She’d left it there, as an instrument of torture for herself: to remind herself how wrong it was, what she was doing, to strengthen her resolve.

‘I’ve brought you a present,’ he said.

‘Oh, Geordie, no, you mustn’t, I—’ she was about to say it there and then, or at least hint at it, but somehow she couldn’t. Not just then. It was a big box: he watched her unwrap it.

‘Tiffany! Oh, Geordie, you are naughty, whatever – oh my God!’

How could you tell a man you didn’t want to see him any more, when he’d just bought you an utterly gorgeous Tiffany lamp, when he was looking at you in a mixture of triumph and anxiety, lest you didn’t like it, when he had remembered so precisely what you’d said you wanted, the shade a mixture of reds and blues.

‘It’s so beautiful. I love it, I absolutely love it. Thank you so, so much.’

‘Let me put it in place for you. There. Isn’t that glorious?’

‘Absolutely beautiful. But you—’

‘No buts. I thought you might like to show me your appreciation. In the usual sort of way.’

‘Oh Geordie—’ The very thing she had resolved so absolutely not to do: no more lovemaking, no more anything. Just – goodbye Geordie. Before any real harm was done.

‘Please, Izzie! I want you so much.’

She wanted him too. For the last time, the very last time, she told herself, she would agree. And then—

It was very lovely, their lovemaking, that hot afternoon, with the sun shafting in through the blinds, the noises from the street as background, children laughing, people talking, birds singing in the trees, the occasional rather sleepy-sounding car lurching along. She found herself concentrating absolutely on every moment, every movement, every word, every response, etching it in her mind so that she would never, ever forget it; it made the experience still more intense, sweeter, richer.

‘I love you,’ she heard him say, somewhere outside the tumult and the crying out that was her orgasm, and ‘I love you too,’ she said, as she fell slowly into the deep sweet peace of afterwards.

Adele woke feeling very confused. Her head ached and she couldn’t work out at first where she was. She rang for some tea, and sat sipping it, while the St Regis receptionist tried to connect her with the Algonquin.

‘Algonquin Hotel. Good afternoon.’

‘Oh – yes.’ Why did she feel so nervous? ‘May I speak to Mr MacColl, please?’

‘I’ll try his room for you. Please hold the line.’

A long silence; then, ‘I’m sorry, he doesn’t appear to be in. May I take a message?’

‘Yes, please. Er – do you have any idea when he might be back, did he say?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ The voice sounded just slightly disapproving.

‘Very well. Could you say that his – that is, Mrs MacColl rang. And would like to speak to him.’

‘At which number, Mrs MacColl?’

‘I’m at the St Regis.’

‘Very well. Thank you, Mrs MacColl.’

How frustrating. Now what was she going to do? She really hadn’t expected this. She had somehow thought Geordie would be there, that he would be totally available for her: how stupid. He was no doubt seeing some journalist or publisher even now.

On a Saturday? Surely not. She felt her mood begin to sink; felt very alone, suddenly, in this strange city. With no one to talk to, no one to say come round here, we’d love to see you. Just a lot of receptionists and waiters and maids and—

Don’t be silly Adele, this is your own fault. This is your blow for your own independence. You wanted to arrive unannounced, you could have had Barty greet you at the airport, Izzie inviting you round for dinner. It was your idea to surprise everyone. How could they all be expected to be in on a sunny Saturday afternoon? Geordie had probably just gone for a walk. Or to meet some friends or something. He would surely be back in time for dinner. And even if he was having dinner with someone, maybe she could join them.

Meanwhile, she could amuse herself, for heaven’s sake. She could go and take some photographs: New York street scenes, perhaps. But you needed quite a lot of energy to do that, and she was rather tired. And it was very hot. Maybe she should go and do a bit of the shopping she had promised herself. There was no great rush, after all, to see Geordie. As long as he was still in New York – which she knew he was – tomorrow would do. Or even the next day. She suddenly wondered if he might be away for the weekend. Away with Barty, even, in the Hamptons. Now, that would be a pity. Well . . . Adele stood up, brushed her hair, reapplied her lipstick, picked up her bag and set out determinedly for Saks Fifth Avenue.

It was a perfect day for sailing; brilliant, with a strong breeze. Barty watched Charlie as he pushed
Southern Lady
along, tacking easily and skilfully across the wind, concentrating absolutely on his task. The girls were leaning out over the side, hair whipped by the wind, faces wet with spray, their bare feet tucked under the strap, squealing with excitement and pleasure.

She looked up the length of the sail, up to the blue sky and the scudding clouds, feeling the sun and the water on her face, wishing she could also feel the happiness such a day demanded. Instead of alternately angry and dully miserable, exhausted with the sheer physical effort of smiling, chatting, remaining upright, even. What she really longed for was to be lying somewhere, somewhere preferably dark, dark and still and quiet, where she could think about it all. About Charlie, about Charlie lying to her, so consistently and over so long a period; they might not actually amount to much, those lies, they were not fraudulent, not strictly speaking, at any rate, not dangerous even, but they were of a deeply important nature. Presenting himself to her as someone he was not; upgrading himself, denying his past, denying his parentage, all for what? To impress her? To ingratiate himself with her? To make himself more acceptable to her?

Whatever his motives, she was horrified; that he could have gone into their relationship in a deception so wilful, so careful, so beautifully rehearsed, that only by a very slight quirk of fate had she discovered the truth about him.

She felt stupid as well as hurt, mortified as well as angry; she had known Charlie for almost three years; and in all that time had watched and listened to this presentation of himself and suspected nothing in it. Looking back now, of course, there had been clues: the lack of friends, the fact that his well-to-do parents should have left him nothing; but she had cast only glancing suspicions at them.

She felt something else, too, something strange, something unexpected: a fierce jealousy that Meg, his first wife, the mother of his child, had known all this, had lived with the truth, had been married to the real Charlie, while she had married a fake one, and lived with him in ignorance, foolish, foolish ignorance . . .

‘Mother! Wake up. Charlie says can you take the tiller?’

‘Sorry.’ She jerked back to concentration, took the tiller, steered the boat in the direction Charlie was indicating; and then as they reached the lee of the land, as the wind dropped, watched herself in awe as she jumped out, laughing, swam right into shore towing the
Lady
behind her.

And still more in awe as she sat on the rocks at the back of the cove, eating cold chicken and drinking Coca-Cola and chatting and laughing with the girls, fussing over Jenna burning, Cathy’s forgotten sunhat, a graze Charlie had got on his knee as he scrambled up the rocks and slipped.

‘You’re such a good sailor, Charlie,’ said Jenna, biting into a piece of French bread. ‘Where did you learn?’

‘Oh – on the coast off Maine. When I was at college. I used to vacation down there, bummed my way through the summer. I had a friend with a boat, not unlike this one.’

‘It must have been fun,’ said Jenna, ‘did you spend all the vacations down there?’

‘Yes, I did. And it was fun. I worked some of the time, when I ran out of money, worked behind bars, that sort of thing. But there was still plenty of time for beach picnics and sailing.’

‘Like this?’

‘Pretty much like this.’

He smiled at her. Barty felt sick. This was how he had done it, it was a perfect example, nothing quite false, nothing quite true either, just a careful making over of the facts . . .

‘I’m going to swim,’ said Jenna, ‘you coming, Cathy?’

‘Sure.’

He waited until they were out of earshot: ‘Barty—’

‘No, Charlie,’ she said, ‘not now. Later, when they’re in bed, I don’t want to spoil their day.’

‘Of course.’ He had brought some wine, had drunk quite a lot of it. He waved the bottle at her; she shook her head.

‘No thanks.’

‘OK. I think I’ll go and swim too.’

She watched him as he ran into the water; he was very slim, very fitlooking and his Madras cotton shorts emphasised his tan. He plunged in, surfaced underneath Jenna, pushed her up on his shoulders; she shrieked with pleasure.

Whatever else, he was very, very good with her; he showed Cathy absolutely no favouritism whatever. It couldn’t have been entirely easy. She had that, at the very least, to be grateful for.

Adele returned to the St Regis at five; she had had a good afternoon. She had bought herself a red linen suit with a cropped jacket (not a style she had seen a great deal in London, but much in favour in New York) and a very pretty black silk cocktail dress with a low-cowled back and high waist. She thought she could wear that this evening if Geordie – or Barty of course – invited her to dinner. There was a hairdresser at the hotel; she could get her hair done, it was looking pretty frightful, what with the flight and the heat.

She walked into her room, checked for messages. None. The excitement of her afternoon ebbed a bit; taking a deep breath, she phoned the Algonquin. No, Mr MacColl had not returned. Yes, of course they were sure, and of course her message would have been passed on to him. Adele began to feel a little odd. Lonely. Very alone, actually. She almost –
almost
– wished she had let her mother come with her.

She wondered whether she might go down to the bar and have a cocktail, but it was very much the mark of the single woman, drinking alone in a bar. And she wasn’t single. She was just waiting for Geordie to come back to his hotel. Then, at the very least, they would have a drink. She was quite sure of that.

She ordered a Martini from room service, drank it as slowly as she could. She wasn’t actually supposed to drink with her pills, but she had discovered that as long as she limited her intake carefully, and didn’t bolt the alcohol down, it was all right. Goodness, it was actually time for her pills. She rummaged in her toilet bag, found them, took two. She had been very careful, as Dr Cunningham had told her, to watch the change of time, to make sure she didn’t miss any. Or take too many for that matter.