Persuade Me (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Eight o’clock on Friday morning, and the first of Rick’s daily phone calls from Lou. He’d tried ignoring them earlier in the week, but she kept on ringing until he answered. He supposed he should be flattered by her persistence.

He let her voice wash over him, his thoughts elsewhere.

‘… And I wish I could get out of this Pony Club thing tonight, but I can’t. It’s their anniversary year and Mum’s giving a speech.’

‘Mmm?’ The word ‘anniversary’ caught his attention. In a couple of weeks it would be Sophie and Ed’s fifth wedding anniversary; maybe he’d get back into Sophie’s good books with a special present …

‘I just want to be with you –
now
. And the thought of waiting until tomorrow is driving me crazy.’

‘Deferred gratification’s good for the soul,’ he said, forcing a laugh.

‘And how come a quiet little weekend, just the two of us, has turned into a bloody group outing?’ Her mood had changed abruptly; she sounded sulky and cross. ‘I knew it was a mistake when you invited Charles. Now we’ve got Mona, Henrietta and Anna as well–’

‘What the–?’

‘Didn’t you know? Mona’s asked Henrietta along and Charles has retaliated with Anna. I’m bringing Henrietta tomorrow, but the others will get there this evening. Lucky you.’

So, this evening they’d meet for the first time since that phone call. How would she react? Would she even speak to him? He cursed his own stupidity; he was building her up into some sort of threat, when she was just someone he used to know …

Lou went on, ‘Although for once Anna played hard to get.’

‘What do you mean?’ Something made him add, ‘Did her boyfriend object?’

‘Boyfriend? Hasn’t got one as far as we know, seems to prefer her men to stay between the covers of a book, especially if it’s a nineteenth-century Russian novel. I’m not sure she’s had anyone serious since Charles – hang on, won’t be a minute, I just need a word with Mum before she goes out.’

While he waited, he mulled over this new information. Anna had gone out with Charles in her first year at Oxford – but was it before she’d tried to email him, or after? And what did the email say? ‘I’ve got someone else, and I’m over you’? Or ‘I’m not interested in anyone else, because I still love you’?

And did ‘serious’ mean ‘sleeping with’? How many men had she slept with? He knew he’d been her first, that weekend on the boat …

Something stinging at the back of his eyes; he shut them, tight.

‘Which is half the problem, if you ask me,’ Lou was saying in his ear. ‘Makes Charles think Anna’s at his beck and call – Rick, are you still there?’

‘Yes.’ He opened his eyes again. Better now. Back to normal, in fact.

‘But this time, when he asked her to come along and look after Mona – who’s on the way to becoming an alcoholic, in case you hadn’t noticed – Anna refused. She changed her mind in the end, though, when Mum put her oar in. Anna’s far too soft-hearted for her own good.’ She giggled. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t have to entertain them on your own, by the time they arrive at Lyme you’ll be in the pub with Ben. Anna’s got a hair appointment in Bath – or is it the dentist? Anyway, Charles and Mona aren’t picking her up from wherever it is until six o’clock and he reckons it’s a two-hour drive at that time on a Friday.’

When at last she rang off, he let out a long, ragged breath. If only Charles hadn’t invited Anna. What should have been a straightforward weekend had become more … complicated.

The journey from Bangor to Lyme Regis took even longer than expected, as a result of road works on the M5. He passed the time chatting to Dave; or rather, punctuating a seven-hour monologue on model railways with appropriate questions. Strange that he’d uncovered the man’s secret passion with a random comment about his misadventures as a student on the North Wales Coast trains. And strange that he couldn’t recall the last time he’d talked about anything with as much enthusiasm as Dave.

Inevitably his thoughts returned to that summer in France, when he’d had several passions on the go and none of them secret. He’d worn his heart on his sleeve – about teaching kids how to sail dinghies, about conserving marine life and about wanting Anna Elliot. Especially about wanting Anna Elliot. He’d known from the start that she was different from the others, but he’d thought it was simply because she was younger and more innocent. So, until that weekend on the boat, it had been a slow burn of a summer … Especially as they had no privacy; he shared a dormitory with three others and, although she had her own room, her cousin’s kids were always around.

In the end, he was so focused on physical self-restraint that he completely underestimated the other effects Anna had on him. Like the way the sun only seemed to start shining when she came to the sailing club; or the urge he had in the middle of the night to phone her, just to hear her voice. And he only realised all this when it was too late, when he was in too deep …

They reached Lyme Regis just before five and checked into the hotel. It was situated up a hill on the outskirts of the town and called – optimistically, given the blanket of mist – the Cobb View Hotel. Rick took an instant dislike to the proprietor, Evan Pargeter, a long-faced stork of a man with black greasy hair and an oily smile.

He confirmed arrangements with Dave for the next day – there was an event at eleven-thirty in nearby Dorchester – then inspected his room. The second best in the hotel, Pargeter assured him; only an earlier booking by another ‘celebwity’ had deprived him of the best, known as the ‘pwesidential suite’. Rick’s room was certainly a good size, although the decor was a bit too flowery for his taste. A quick shower and a change of clothes, and then it was time to meet Ben.

Dave had the night off and anyway, after the long journey, Rick needed a walk. He set off at a brisk pace, following the directions Ben had given him, and by six o’clock was ringing the doorbell of a neat little terraced house. The smart, bottle-green door opened tentatively and a curly-haired, snotty-nosed child – three or four years old, he guessed, and of indeterminate sex – stared up at him as if he’d just landed from outer space.

‘Hi there,’ Rick said, slightly disconcerted by the blood-curdling yells from upstairs. ‘Is your dad in? Or your mum?’

The child just gawped.

And then someone else came to the door; a face he knew, although not one he was expecting.

‘James!’ Rick groped for the few details passed on by Ben over the years about James Benwick, a contemporary of theirs at Bangor. Teaching at some poncy boys’ school in Sussex; presumably English, his degree subject. Engaged to Julie, the girl he’d immortalised in excruciatingly bad verse all those years ago in the student magazine; it only got printed because James was the editor. And he recalled that James was still writing poetry and now publishing stuff on the Internet; Rick hadn’t yet steeled himself to look at the website.

‘Good to see you.’ James’s response was muted, but that could have been due to the deafening noise from above. ‘Ben won’t be long – the twins had simultaneous bowel movements, so he’s changing one nappy and Megan’s doing the other. Cassie, let Uncle Rick in.’

The child – Cassie – shuffled aside and Rick stepped into the tiny hall. It was surprisingly free of clutter – thanks, he assumed, to the neat array of cupboards lining one wall. And the same in the sitting room; just a small pile of toys in one corner that Cassie scampered to defend, as though Rick had designs on her dolls.

He grinned at James. ‘Good to see you too, Ben didn’t say you were coming.’

‘Didn’t know myself until a few hours ago, just needed a weekend away.’

‘How’s Julie?’

James’s face darkened. ‘Ben obviously hasn’t kept you up to date – she’s run off with the art teacher.’

The bitterness in his voice made Rick wince.

At that moment Ben came in, a matching baby in each arm and an apologetic grin on his face; he’d obviously heard James’s last words. ‘I was hoping to tell you about that as soon as you got here, but the twins conspired against me. Anyway, how are you, mate? Here, James, take Joshua.’ He thrust one of the babies at James and shook Rick’s hand for several seconds.

Rick answered automatically, ‘Fine, thanks.’ But he wasn’t; he was stunned by James’s news. In their university days, he’d mocked James and Julie for being too wrapped up in each other. Then, in France, he’d experienced for himself that all-consuming need to share every moment with another person. He’d decided to apologise to James and Julie when he next had the opportunity; now it seemed he never would.

Ben gave him a shrewd look. ‘Megan’s having a few girlfriends round to watch a film so I thought we’d eat at the pub up the road, since we’re going there anyway. Do you want to let your mate know?’

Just as Rick was texting directions to Charles, Megan came downstairs. He’d met her only once before, when she and Ben had visited him in Australia a few years ago. She didn’t seem to have changed much; still those frequent, amused looks at Ben and that infectious laugh. He couldn’t help comparing this couple – with their well-organised house and relaxed, team-based approach – to Charles and Mona.

Once they got to the pub and downed a few drinks, Rick started to feel better. He and Ben did the talking; James sat hunched over his pint and gave monosyllabic replies to their questions. Towards eight o’clock the pub started to fill up and Ben suggested getting ready to order the food as soon as the others arrived. No menus, just a neatly written list on a blackboard by the bar. Rick went over to take a look and glanced discreetly at his watch. Anna could walk in any minute now; he’d keep his distance, behave as if that strained phone call had never taken place, avoid any further conversation beyond the basic courtesies. What was there to say? That chapter of his life was closed and, now that the potential pregnancy issue was out of the way, he had nothing to reproach himself for.

Because I emailed you in the October and you never bothered to reply.

He closed his eyes briefly, then flicked them open and gave his full attention to the blackboard. The seared salmon with a lemongrass-honey sauce sounded good, as did the slow-cooked pork and red cabbage–

To his left, the door of the lounge bar swung open and three people entered. Charles, looking harassed and scanning the room anxiously. Mona, turning her discontented face to the mirrored alcove opposite and checking her make-up. And Anna, staring down at the floor. A subtly different Anna, yet startlingly familiar; dark hair now cut short, drawing the eye to the slender neck that, once upon a time, his mouth had traced and tasted on its slow, sweet journey to the base of her throat …

He twisted blindly away and elbowed a path across the room to the door marked ‘Gents’.

Chapter Twenty-Two

‘Odd that Rick’s not here,’ Charles said. ‘I’ll ring him.’

Anna touched her hair nervously. She usually just had it trimmed, but today – on some mad impulse – she’d asked for something more drastic. Now she was regretting it; Rick might think she was trying to recapture the past.

A mobile trilled behind her and, as if she sensed his approach, she whirled round and saw him. She felt her heart start to race, just like it used to at the sailing club whenever she had that first glimpse of him and couldn’t believe her luck that he singled her out for his smile. Caught off guard, she looked straight at him, willing him to do the same.

His gaze slid skilfully past her to Charles and Mona. ‘Hi there, was that you calling me? Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived – what would you like to drink?’

‘A glass of Shiraz for me,’ Mona put in; then, with a smirk, ‘Actually, make that a bottle – I’m sure Charles and Anna will help me drink it.’

‘I’d rather have a pint of bitter,’ Charles said heavily. ‘What about you, Anna?’

‘I’m fine with the Shiraz,’ Anna replied, resigning herself to her role as Mona’s minder. She’d have preferred a longer, more refreshing drink too; but that would leave Mona with the whole bottle to herself – the first of several, if she could get away with it.

Rick fidgeted with the cuff of his sweater and still didn’t look at her. ‘On second thoughts, having seen the queue at the bar I’ll take you to meet Ben and James first.’

He led them through the crush to a table in the far corner, where two men were sitting. One – short brown hair, tanned face – glanced up with a welcoming smile; the other – dark, shoulder-length hair and a smattering of stubble – stared fixedly into his pint.

While Rick made the introductions, Anna took off her jacket, sat down and wondered how soon she could get away to the solitude of her hotel room.

Then she heard him say, ‘And this is Annie.’

Oh God, he’d only ever called her that in bed …

He quickly covered up his mistake, his tone almost dismissive. ‘Anna, Mona’s sister.’

From under lowered lashes she watched him hurry off to the bar. But
she
couldn’t escape. She had to sit there, praying that no one noticed the colour flooding her cheeks, and remembering … Remembering the last time they’d made love – not that they’d realised it was the last time – and how afterwards, after he’d said ‘Annie’ over and over in that breathless way that she loved, after their bodies had stilled, he’d kissed the damp skin at her throat and told her that he couldn’t live without her …

He’d just called her Annie. Didn’t that mean he was remembering, too?

‘Are you all right?’

Shit, the miserable-looking man had noticed. She’d thought she’d be fine tucked next to him; it was opposite Mona and well away from the other end of the table, where she reckoned Rick would sit. Charles and Ben were there, already deep in discussion about fishing, and Mona – predictably – wasn’t bothering to hide a yawn.

Anna gave the man a bright smile. ‘I’m fine, thank you. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’

‘James Benwick. I’m staying with Ben for the weekend, I know him and Rick from university.’ A half-hearted shrug. ‘Didn’t mean to intrude, it’s just – well, you looked exactly how I feel.’

Her smile froze. ‘Which is?’

‘And is this what you wanted, to live in a house that is haunted, by the ghost of you and me?’ He spoke the words with a curious lilting reverence that made her think it must be poetry. Too close for comfort, whatever it was.

She stared at him, debating how to respond; in the end, all she could manage was, ‘Is that a quote from somewhere?’

‘It’s a Leonard Cohen song.’

‘That explains it. I don’t know any of his, apart from “Hallelujah”.’

James’s eyes gleamed. ‘Want to listen to him on my iPod?’

She was about to refuse, when Rick returned with a tray and distributed the drinks; his hands looked so strong and sure, yet she knew just how delicate their touch could be …

Great, she thought, even listening to Leonard Cohen must be less depressing than this. She nodded at James; instantly he brought out an iPod, took one of the earphones and passed her the other. She wouldn’t have minded if he’d let her listen in peace, but he kept up a running commentary above the music. Something about him and Julie and how much he still loved her, how much he still hoped, even though almost five weeks had passed. She felt her fragile spirits spiral further and further down, until at last she couldn’t stand it any longer.

‘Have you got any other music on here?’ she said, more loudly than she’d intended, judging by the way everyone stared at her. It was only now that she noticed Rick sitting beside Mona, opposite her and James. And she saw that there were three glasses next to the bottle of Shiraz – hers full, his and Mona’s half-empty. And, amazingly, he was looking at her. She ventured a smile; he immediately looked away.

James was saying, ‘Probably, but I prefer listening to stuff that matches my mood.’

Anna waited until the other conversations had started up again – although what Rick was finding to talk to Mona about, she daren’t imagine – then took out her earphone. James did the same, with obvious reluctance.

She smiled encouragingly at him, kept her voice low. ‘It’s so tempting to do that, isn’t it? But if you’re not careful you never move on.’ A pause. ‘We can’t change what’s happened – but we can accept it, and learn from it.’ That sounded awful – a cross between clichéd and self-righteous.

He returned her smile, but only briefly; then it was back to his comfort blanket of gloom. ‘I’ve tried, of course I have, but what makes it worse is that I’m a poet, which means I’m always writing about my darkest moments. I’ve got my own website,’ in a burst of animation, he fished out a little card from his pocket, ‘so you can have a read and let me know what you think.’

She studied the card: his name, website address and a few words about his latest collection, ‘Come Up and See My Retchings’. ‘I will,’ she said, fighting a sudden urge to giggle, ‘although I tend to read novels more than poems.’

He gave her a pitying look. ‘If you fill yourself up with bread, there’s no room for cake.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’ She slipped his card into her bag. ‘Call it an occupational hazard – I teach nineteenth-century Russian literature. Some poetry, Pushkin for example, and of course there’s Chekhov with his plays. But it’s mostly novels.’

Another smile; this time it lingered and reached his eyes. ‘I teach too, English, in a boys’ school. And that’s all novels, apart from a few First World War poets and a bit of Shakespeare. I prefer poetry, though, don’t you?’

‘Not usually. Too much emotion, without any moving on. Whereas a good novel always has a resolution–’

‘A happy ending? How many of us believe in those any more?’ His hollow, ringing laugh cut the other conversations short.

‘You two OK?’ Ben said, casually.

James rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t nursemaid me, I’m fine. Just beginning to enjoy myself, actually.’ He turned back to Anna. ‘Sorry, I interrupted you.’

Apparently reassured, Ben continued talking to Charles; Rick and Mona, however, remained silent. Anna wondered if they were each contemplating their own chances of a happy ending.

She took a deep breath and said, ‘Resolution doesn’t necessarily mean a happy ending – or, at least, not for everyone – but it is about moving on.’

‘That’s a very practical point of view. I’m more of a romantic, as you can probably tell. I write what I feel, and – believe me – I feel a
lot
.’ He moved closer, lowered his voice. ‘You see Rick over there? He writes about the sexual activity of little rubbery creatures lying around at the bottom of the sea, whereas I’m helping people understand human suffering. Funny thing is, he’s the celebrity, and I’m unknown! How does that happen?’

Anna sipped her wine. Mona was busy texting; but she was pretty sure that Rick was listening. ‘Do you want to be a celebrity?’ she said quietly.

‘Not really, I just think it’s ironic – why are celebrities treated like bloody heroes when they can’t even cope with everyday life?’

Rick’s head jerked up. ‘The media haven’t exactly treated me like a hero in the last week. And, believe me, I’m quite able to cope with everyday life.’ But his tone suggested otherwise – stressed, almost angry.

On impulse, Anna said, ‘Heroism comes in different forms, though, doesn’t it? Pechorin, for example–’ She interrupted herself with an embarrassed laugh. ‘Sorry, I almost launched into a lecture on the superfluous man in nineteenth-century Russian literature.’

A broad grin from James. ‘I bet your lectures are fascinating. Who’s Pechorin?’

She ignored the clumsy compliment and focused on the question. ‘Have you heard of
A Hero of Our Time
, by Lermontov? Pechorin’s very much in the Byronic tradition–’

‘Byron? That’s more familiar territory.’ He stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Pechorin’s a man of contradiction, then?’

‘Understatement of the year.’ She frowned slightly. ‘He’s cynical, but wants to believe in something. Intelligent and talented, yet can’t find personal fulfilment. So he becomes Action Man – seeking danger, taking risks, just for the hell of it–’

‘Sounds rather like Rick.’ A shout of laughter from James. ‘Fighting off sharks one minute, women the next – from what I read in the papers.’

Anna glanced across; Rick was fidgeting with a beer mat, his face expressionless. She said softly, ‘I find Pechorin rather intriguing–’

‘But not good relationship material,’ James put in. ‘Who, out of all the heroes of Russian literature, would you most want to be with?’

She took another sip of wine to collect her thoughts. If James would let her finish a sentence, she might be able to communicate directly with Rick, establish some sort of truce after Tuesday’s phone call. This blank, black mood of his worried her …

‘It would have to be a hybrid,’ she said at last. ‘Action Man Pechorin, because I’d never be bored, combined with the good qualities of Prince Myshkin–’

‘Where’s Prince What’s-his-name from?’ James again, when it was Rick she was really talking to.

She forced a smile. ‘
The Idiot
– Dostoevsky. The Prince is thoughtful and kind, a man of honour and–’

‘An honourable Action Man.’ James gave a forlorn sigh. ‘Maybe I should get down the gym, I used to be–’

‘Why’s it called
The Idiot
?’ Rick said abruptly, his eyes drilling into hers.

She stared back, trying to detect some warmth in his gaze; OK, maybe the truce idea was a non-starter. ‘It’s more a comment on society,’ she began; then noticed that Mona’s seat was empty, and so was the wine bottle. It didn’t take a genius to work out that she’d gone after more Shiraz; the question was – how much more?

‘Excuse me, I have to find my sister.’ With something like relief, she stumbled to her feet and made her way to the bar.

Rick knew he’d drunk too much when he heard Anna implying he was her ideal man. Huh, how likely was
that
after all these years?

He must have imagined it. Or, if he hadn’t, it was pure coincidence that she’d used the words ‘Action Man’, and ‘thoughtful’, and ‘kind’. Words she’d once written about him in the hot summer sand, during a game of ‘Guess Who?’ with Katya and Alyosha. Words she’d later turned into kisses …

So, when she reappeared with Mona and another bottle of Shiraz, and they ordered the food, it irritated him that she chose salmon, like him. And, as he responded automatically to Mona’s chatter and shared out the wine, he was annoyed that it was
her
voice he listened to most. She and James were discussing American literature now, something about Edith Wharton. He had to admit that James was looking the better for it, like a dog who’d glimpsed the possibility of a walk.

When their food was served, it was after nine o’clock; by the time they’d finished eating, it was nearly ten. Ben suggested calling back at his place for a coffee and, as it was just down the road, Charles left his car at the pub. At the small, tidy, terraced house with the green door, peace reigned; Megan’s friends had gone and the kids were in bed.

Rick sipped his good – but extremely hot – black coffee and looked around the sitting room. Ben had managed to give Charles the slip and was talking to Anna; from his gestures, Rick guessed he was describing his next DIY project. Charles was enthusing about fishing to a silent James, while Megan seemed to be making equally slow progress with Mona on the subject of playgroups.

It was only natural, then, that his gaze was drawn back to Ben and Anna; to the dark neatness of her hair, the contrasting pallor of her face and neck and hands, the large expressive eyes, the slightly parted lips. Only natural that he found the breath knocked out of him by an explosion of memories. Only natural that his heart slammed against the tight bands of his chest at the thought, however impossible, of making those memories real again …

Later, in the back of Charles’s Range Rover, he was only inches from her – and yet separated by an emotional chasm. Throughout the short journey back to the hotel, he felt weighed down by ifs. If her family hadn’t interfered, if they hadn’t quarrelled, if he hadn’t stormed off, if he’d got her email … they might still be here, in this car. Except that it would be so different; right now they’d be holding hands, and in a few minutes he’d be taking her in his arms and–

They turned into the Cobb View Hotel’s floodlit parking area. He got out of the car as soon as it stopped, flinging ‘Goodnight!’ at the others before they could even hint at a nightcap in the bar, taking the steps to the front entrance two at a time. No Pargeter lurking at Reception, thank God, just a far-too-cheerful young girl. He managed a smile in her direction, then made for the stairs and the sanctuary of his room.

It wasn’t until he switched his mobile off ‘silent’ – and noticed the missed calls – that he realised he hadn’t given Lou a thought all evening.