One Secret Summer (33 page)

‘It’s quite simple, dear girl,’ she said when she had finished. ‘You’re in love. Oh, I don’t mean that you
love
him – how can you? You barely know him. But the attraction’s there and that’s what matters.’

‘B … but I can’t be,’ Julia stammered. ‘I’ve hated him for as long as I’ve known him.’

‘Oh, fiddlesticks. Love, hate … practically the same thing if you ask me. I’m always mixing them up. No, the thing is,
you’ve met your match. Very dangerous, especially for a woman. What you want, my dear girl, is someone considerably
weaker
than you.
If
you want an easy life. If you don’t, well, that’s another matter altogether …’ She lifted her hands helplessly.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Men are simple creatures, Julia. They’ll try
endlessly
to persuade you otherwise, but the truth of it is, they’re creatures of habit and instinct, I’m afraid. The problem lies
with us. We’re the ones who complicate everything. Especially your generation. The
demands
!’ She put a hand to her throat. ‘Impossible!’

‘Wh … what demands?’ Julia was truly bewildered.

‘Oh, they’ve got to be
caring
as well as strong. Good at listening
and
good at talking. I read the magazines, you know, all the latest ones. The problem is, you can’t have both. They’re either
talkers
or
listeners; very rarely will you meet a man who can do both. And yours – what’s his name again? Aaron? Classic product of
overachieving parents, if you ask me. Poor boy’s struggling to live up to their expectations of him. What a strain. But give
it time, dear girl. He’ll come to his senses soon enough. All you have to do is sit tight and wait.’

‘Wait? For what?’

‘For him to make the next move, of course.’ Lady Barrington-Browne seemed surprised at the question. ‘You’ve got to give him
time to work it out on his own. I know
you
know what’s happening between the two of you. Of course you do. You’re a very clever girl, Julia. But don’t be
too
clever, there’s a dear. Don’t want to frighten him off.’

‘But I’m not trying to catch him,’ Julia protested.

‘Of
course
you’re not. What a dreadful thought. Still, from what you’ve said, men like Aaron don’t pop up all the time, do they? Just
sit tight, my dear. Now, shall I call about that tea?’

Despite laughing about the conversation later that afternoon with Dom, Julia did feel calmer after speaking to Lady Barrington-Browne.

‘She’s actually really perceptive,’ she said to him as they
walked down towards the lake at the bottom of the hill. The pale stone façade of the Great Hall dissolved in the late afternoon
mist just as dusk began to waver away the cool blue surface of the lake. The air was chilly; she wound her scarf around her
neck and tucked her arm into Dom’s. ‘I’m always surprised by her.’

‘Yes, she is,’ Dom agreed. ‘I mean, I suspect she knew about me before even I did. Not that she’d ever say, of course.’

‘Does she mind?’

Dom was quiet for a moment. ‘I don’t know, to be honest. I mean, yes, in the sense that she’d love to see me settle down with
a nice Home Counties girl and produce tons of heirs … but she’s always wanted me to be happy, too.’

‘And are
they
happy, d’you think? Your parents?’

‘Oh, they get along. I think Mother would say it’s not a relevant question. She loves it here at Hayden. That’s what makes
her happy.’

‘It all seems … I don’t know, much simpler for them, somehow.’

‘Don’t you believe it. They have their problems. I just don’t think they place such a premium on happiness, that’s all. I
mean, there’s duty and responsibility and all that. Why d’you think I gave up the law? Does running Hayden House make me happy?
No, not really. But it’s my responsibility, and without sounding unbearably noble about it, there’s some measure of satisfaction
in that.’

Julia was silent. As often happened when she came to visit Dom, she felt the presence of the house and the weight of its history
like someone standing behind her. She looked out across the lake to the trees beyond; the strange shyness of their friendship
reasserted itself and she found herself unable to speak. Everything had turned over in the barrel of the world since her unexpected
encounter with Aaron Keeler, but coming to Hayden had steadied it again. She gripped Dom’s arm with a sudden uprush of affection.
‘Come on. Race you to the bottom!’

NIELA

London, February 1997

‘Mind how you go, love.’ The shopkeeper smiled at her and handed over her groceries. ‘Still raining, is it?’

Niela nodded. ‘All day,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘It feels as though it’ll never stop.’

‘Oh, it will. Just when you think you’ve forgotten what the sun looks like, it’ll pop up again. You’ll see.’

‘I hope so.’ She paid for her groceries and left the shop. She opened her umbrella and hurried down the street. The shopkeeper
was right, in one sense at least – she
had
forgotten what the sun looked like. It had been six weeks since her return from Djibouti and there’d been no word from Josh.
Nothing. Not a single phone call or a message … nothing. It was as if they’d never met. As if it had never happened. Perhaps
it never had? She thought with a mixture of disbelief and embarrassment of the three nights they’d spent together. Why had
she imagined it would mean any more to him that that? Enjoyable, yes – his body had made that clear, even if his words hadn’t.
But memorable? It wasn’t his fault that she’d had so little experience of the sensuality he’d managed to coax from her and
that she would find it impossible to forget. ‘You’d
better
forget it,’ was Anna’s grim advice when it became clear there would be no follow-up. ‘This kind of thing can eat you up,
believe me. I know. Just forget it. Forget him.’ Niela had looked at her in a kind of numbed disbelief.
Forget
him? How could she? But as the days lengthened into weeks and the silence deepened, she had no choice but to conclude that
Anna was right. Forget it. Forget Djibouti. Forget him.

She opened her front door. The smell of last night’s meal still hung in the air. She took the groceries into the kitchen and
opened the window. It was still light, despite the grey pall of rain. It was February; two more months of long nights and
closed-in days. The damp, cold air curled around the windowpane. She unpacked the milk, bread and yoghurt, stowing them away
in the small fridge. The flat was quiet; even the neighbours, whose noisy fights came through the walls as if they were there
in the room with her, were silent. She folded the plastic bag, her movements neat and deliberate, and stowed it under the
sink. She looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 8 p.m. Almost midnight in Djibouti. Her mind raced ahead to him out
of habit. She wondered what he was doing at that very moment – was he still at the camp? She had no idea. He’d said so little
about himself, where he would go or where he called home. She knew his parents lived in London but she had no idea where.
After Djibouti he would probably take another contract somewhere in Africa or the Middle East. That was it. The slimmest,
barest facts. Nothing to go on once he was no longer there.

She walked into the small living room and turned on the television. She needed something to distract her thoughts. It was
ridiculous. She’d known him – if that was the right word – all of a month. Why should she care where he was, what he was doing,
who he was doing it with? The latter thought slid into her mind unawares, making her wince. Was he with someone else? Someone
new? She caught her lower lip in her teeth, nipping painfully down on the soft flesh, distracting her momentarily. She couldn’t
afford to start thinking about
that
. The television flickered dully in the corner; the newscaster’s voice filled the room. A train accident somewhere in France.
She gave herself up to his voice with relief. In a while she would get up and make herself something to eat. She’d had nothing
since breakfast but her appetite had vanished. A line she’d read somewhere a long time ago suddenly came to her.
Eat without hunger, mate without desire
. That was her, now. She had no appetite for anything, least of all food. No, the sentence wasn’t quite true, she thought
to herself as she watched the news unfolding on the small screen in front of her. She was full of desire. Full. There
were mornings when she woke almost choking on it. Come
on
, Niela, she whispered to herself, half in anger, half in despair. Three nights. That was all; that was nothing. What on earth
had he said or done to make her think it could be anything more?

‘Three bodies have been recovered from the wreckage of the carriage.’ The disembodied voice of the presenter flowed over her.
‘Although fears are growing that there may be many more.’ That was her, she thought to herself. A body pulled from the wreckage
of something she had yet to understand.

JULIA

London, March 1997

The venue for the Annual Law Society Spring dinner was the Great Hall at Gray’s Inn. Julia walked down the gravel pathway,
glad of her shrug. It was March but it was freezing. She was nervous. It had been over a month since her conversation with
Lady Barrington-Browne – not that it had made the slightest bit of difference to her frosty relations with Aaron Keeler –
but the annoying upshot of it was her increased awkwardness around him. If there was one thing she hated, it was women who
made fools of themselves where men were concerned … and now she seemed in danger of doing the same. She pulled the shrug around
her shoulders as if it might protect her from more than just the cold.

She walked into the hall. The magnificent hammer-beam roof soared way above her head; the buzz of several hundred lawyers,
judges, academics and their invited guests floated all around. She wished with all her heart that Dom was there. He’d been
invited but he’d gone off on an illicit holiday with someone he’d met in a London nightclub. ‘Don’t tell me,’ Julia had protested,
laughing in spite of her disappointment. ‘I don’t want to know.’ Presumably Lady Barrington-Browne thought he was with her.
She accepted a glass of champagne from one of the waiters and wound her way through the crowd to a corner where a couple of
her colleagues stood, obviously and pointedly discussing everyone else.

‘Gosh, you scrub up nicely!’ James Harriman said as she approached. He raised his champagne glass.

‘Lovely dress, Julia,’ Katie Fitzsimmons agreed.

‘Thanks,’ Julia said, her cheeks reddening slightly. She hated being the centre of attention. ‘Quite a do,’ she added, looking
round.

‘Don’t look now, but there’s Banville’s wife,’ James said, pointing to the doorway with his champagne glass. ‘D’you see her?
The one with the concrete hairdo?’

Julia giggled. She liked James Harriman; he reminded her a little of Dom. The three of them spent a few minutes chatting about
the various partners and significant others of their colleagues and then a loud gong announced the beginning of dinner.

‘Who’re you sitting next to?’ Katie asked as they made their way to the Bernard, Bennison & Partners tables.

‘I don’t know. I hope it’s someone I can talk to. Where’s Daniel sitting?’

‘I don’t know. I told Liz to make sure I was next to James.’

Julia pulled a face. She hadn’t thought of asking Liz. ‘Oh well, so long as it’s not John Doyle. I never know what to say
to him.’

‘Oh, no one does, don’t worry.’

Julia was just about to say something when she saw Aaron Keeler cut across her line of vision, making his way towards them.
She couldn’t help staring. It was the first time since Balliol that she’d seen him in a dinner jacket.

‘Weren’t you two at Oxford together?’ Katie said suddenly, as if she’d read Julia’s mind.

‘Er, yes. But we weren’t friendly. In fact, we hated each other.’

‘Oh yes, I remember someone saying something … didn’t you chuck a bottle of champagne at him or something?’

‘It was a glass,’ Julia murmured, her cheeks scarlet. ‘And he deserved it.’

‘I’m sure he did. He’s awfully dishy but he can be the most annoying prick. Watch out, he’s coming this way. And he’s alone.’
She looked down at the place cards. ‘Good Lord! He’s sitting next to
you
.’

‘Good evening, ladies,’ Aaron said smoothly, sliding into the seat next to Julia. ‘What rotten luck, Burrows,’ he said. ‘You’ll
have to put up with me for most of the evening.’

Julia couldn’t think of a single even remotely witty thing to say. She shrugged and looked longingly at Katie’s back. Aaron
Keeler on one side, Graham Harvey on the other. It was going to be a long evening ahead.

All through dinner, Aaron was conscious of Julia’s perfume – faint, tangy, delightfully sharp. Rather like her, he thought
to himself as he tried unsuccessfully to make conversation with the wife of one of the senior counsel who was seated to his
left. Across the hall on the High Table with all the other law lords and important personages he could just make out Diana.
He caught her eye; she raised her glass to him in a silent toast and smiled. One day, she seemed to be saying, he too might
be sitting up there amongst some of the finest legal brains in Britain. The thought pleased him. It occurred to him suddenly
that he was already seated next to someone whose brain he admired, though he’d have sooner cut out his tongue than admit it.
Julia was deep in conversation with Graham Harvey – a man with whom Aaron had never found much to talk about. From the snippets
of conversation he overheard between them, it seemed Harvey had recently lost his wife. He was surprised to hear Julia sympathise
with him. Beneath the prickly exterior and the acerbic tongue, there seemed to be some compassion. Her father had been a trade
unionist, he remembered. That required a certain compassion, he supposed. Compassion for the common man.

‘Are you quite finished?’ Julia’s low voice brought him back to himself.