Sleeping Arrangements (23 page)

He took another sip and closed his eyes, feeling his head protesting against the intake of fluid. His body didn't want what was best for it. What would have done even better than water was an Alka-Seltzer. But he had been unable to find one as he had rootled around Gerard's expensive kitchen cupboards—and he wasn't in the mood to ask anyone. Besides which, in some strange way, he was enjoying sitting here, with a throbbing head and shaky hands, feeling exactly as ill as he deserved.

The villa seemed a strange, dreamy place this afternoon. The silence was, of course, partly attributable to the absence of the three younger children—and of Amanda, he acknowledged to himself. Somehow her presence added a fraughtness to proceedings.

Chloe had retired to the bedroom with a headache. She had looked pale, almost sick, and had turned away when he tried to put an arm across her shoulders. Still worrying about Gerard, perhaps. Philip took a thoughtful sip. He wasn't sure what to make of Sam's theory and he couldn't see it mattered. They were all here now, and they were having their holiday, and surely that was all that counted? The villa was so huge, they could probably even have fitted a third family in without causing anyone too much distress.

Philip took another sip of water and reached for a bowl of pistachios which somebody had left on the counter. As he began to crack them open he felt a faint sense of satisfaction. Contentment, even, despite the throb in his head. Finally, he was starting to unwind. If Chris was right, nothing would happen until next week. He felt he had been given a few days of reprieve.

Whether the alcohol had obliterated his nerve endings, or whether the enforced idleness was slowing down his whole system, he felt calm and relaxed. For the first time on this holiday, he felt as though he was on holiday. His stomach did not go into spasm every five minutes; his thoughts did not keep returning to Britain and the bank and his fate.

He had come across a stack of leaflets while searching the kitchen for pain relief. There were all sorts of outings and excursions he could take the boys on. He picked up a brochure for an aqua park and imagined himself hurtling down a giant slide on a vast rubber ring, while the boys looked on, aghast at their embarrassing dad. The very thought made him chuckle.

That was what they should do. Get out, do things, enjoy themselves.

The phone echoed sharply round the marble kitchen, making him jump. He didn't feel inclined to answer it. Not while he was feeling so contented. On the other hand, it was soon obvious that nobody else was going to. After a couple more rings he picked it up and said cautiously, 'Hello?'

'Hello,' came a woman's voice. 'Could I talk to Hugh Stratton, please?'

'Absolutely,' said Philip. 'I'll just have to go and find him . . .'

'Or maybe I could leave a message?'

'Well . . . yes,' said Philip. 'I'll just get a pen.' He glanced idly around the room and spotted a pot full of hand-painted pencils standing on a carved wooden ledge. 'OK,' he said, coming back to the phone. 'Fire away.'

'If you could say that Della called . . .'

'Yup,' said Philip, writing the name down.

'. . . to say that Philip Murray is at the East Roywich branch.'

Philip's pencil stopped moving. Bewildered, he stared down at the words he had just written. 'Della—Philip Murr'.

Was he still drunk?

'I'm sorry,' he said eventually. 'I don't think I heard that quite correctly.'

'Philip Murray, M-u-r-r-a-y, works for the East Roywich branch of National Southern. As branch manager.'

'Yes,' said Philip. 'I see.' He rubbed his face, trying to make the tiniest bit of sense out of this. 'Could you . . . Who exactly is this?'

'Della James. I'm Mr Stratton's secretary,' said the woman. 'Sorry to bother you on your holiday. If you could just pass the message on—and say I'm faxing through the relevant pages of the report for him. Thanks very much.'

'Wait!' said Philip. 'Where . . . where are you calling from?'

'From Mr Stratton's office. So sorry to bother you. Goodbye!'

'No, wait!' exclaimed Philip. 'Where exactly . . .'

But the line had already gone dead. He looked at the receiver in his hand, then slowly replaced it.

Was someone playing a trick on him? Was this Sam's idea of a joke? He looked around the silent kitchen, half expecting somebody to pop out, giggling. But the units stood motionless; the marble gleamed silently. Everything was still.

Then a very faint sound attracted his attention. It was coming from somewhere else in the house, and it sounded like . . .

With a spurt of adrenalin, Philip got up and hurried to the kitchen door. As he entered the hall, he paused and listened again for the sound. It echoed again through the marble hall, strangely prosaic amongst all the splendour. A fax machine, cutting paper.

His heart beating fast, Philip followed the sound to the study. The fax machine was on the desk—and curled up beside it were several creamy-coloured rolls of paper. He picked up the first, unrolled it and stared in disbelief at the heading.

From the office of Hugh Stratton, Head of Corporate Strategy.

And above it, three distinctive intertwined letters. P. B. L.

Chloe lay alone in the darkened bedroom, staring into the pale, cool dimness. She felt confused, chilly and emotionally wrought. Her headache had gone. It had not been much of one anyway—merely an excuse to get away from them all. From Hugh with his persistent, searing gaze; from Philip with his loving, unwitting concern. She had wanted solitude and time to think.

But the more time she spent alone, trying to think rationally, the more uncertain she felt.

Hugh's voice was constantly in her head, pulling at her thoughts like a helium balloon. She kept feeling the lift of that magical, illicit exhilaration. Part of her was desperate to recapture that excitement, that magic. To feel his eyes on her face and his hands on her body. Hugh Stratton, her first real love. The love she had lost.

And, below the thrill, the romance—something else, far harder to deal with. The pain at seeing what she had missed out on all these years. The realization that she still liked and respected this man. That she could see his flaws—but understood them, probably better than his own wife did. Hugh hadn't changed so much from the twenty-year-old boy who had laid his head on her naked breasts, talking into the long nights with her. She had known as much about him then as anyone could hope to know about another human. And although years had put layers of strangeness and sophistication on him, she still knew his essence. She could still speak and understand his language, it was not forgotten. And the more she was with him, the more fluent she became.

Hugh was right, the fifteen years was nothing. They worked together as they had always done. To have him back again was like a miracle; a fairy story.

And yet . . . And yet.

Real life was no fairy story. Reality was the knowledge that a secret passion in isolation was one thing—but conducted among the mess of broken families, it was quite another. Reality was the knowledge that some pieces of perfection simply weren't worth the price. Her desire for Hugh stemmed as much from nostalgia as anything else. He had seemed like a passage out of her present tension and worry, back into the golden, easy past. She had closed her eyes and felt the thrill of his body against hers and had become twenty again, free of re-sponsibilities and full of hope; starting out in life. For those magical few hours, anything had seemed possible. She had lost herself completely. But now . . .

Chloe stretched out a hand above her and stared at its textured skin dispassionately. This was not the hand of a twenty-year-old. She was not starting out in life. She had already chosen her path. It was a path in which she was contented. More than that—happy. She loved Philip. She loved her sons. To wrench all their lives apart for a selfish passion was something she could not do.

Hugh and I had our chance, she thought. We had our time; we had our cue. But now that cue has passed, and it's too late. Other people have filled up the stage, and we have to dance alongside them, now.

She sat up and buried her head in her hands. She felt vulnerable and close to tears. The resolve inside her was strong but not invincible, and suddenly she wanted cosiness and familiarity and reassurance. Above all, reassurance. She felt anxious to gather her family around her, like ballast, like sandbags. She had to remind herself of what she was holding onto—and why.

Abruptly she got out of bed. She looked at her pale reflection for a moment, then left the room and headed outside. The whole place was unusually quiet, and she remembered that Amanda had taken the children out for a day trip. The kitchen was empty; the swimming pool was empty. She hesitated, gazing down into the vivid blue water—then turned and walked towards the field. She turned her face up to the sun, letting its rays soak into her chilled face.

She wanted flushed cheeks and warmed blood. She wanted her internal, uncertain chill to thaw into a hot, holiday happiness.

As she entered the field she heard sounds of scuffling. A few moments later, some way across the grass, Sam sat up, his hair rumpled, his face flushed. He was followed by Jenna, who had two spots of colour high up on her cheeks, and a distracted expression. Chloe stared at them in silence, trying to conceal her shock. But of course. Sam was sixteen. It was only a matter of time . . . if not already a fait accompli. The thought made her feel almost faint.

'Hi . . . hi, Mum,' said Sam, staring at the ground.

'Hi there, Chloe,' said Jenna, a beatific smile on her face.

Chloe looked from one to the other, wondering what exactly they'd been getting up to—or, more accurately, how far they'd got with it. Sam's hair was a mess and there were bits of dry grass all over his T-shirt. As she met his eye he looked away, a surly, embarrassed scowl on his face. Jenna was dressed only in the skimpiest of black bikinis—the top of which, Chloe noticed, was untied at the back. Was that really suitable attire for a nanny? Chloe found herself thinking—aware that she was beginning to sound worryingly like Amanda. But then, maybe Amanda had a point.

She noticed that Jenna's hand was lying casually on Sam's leg, and felt a surge of hostility so strong it startled her. Get your hand off my son, she felt like snarling. Instead, she said, forcing a brisk tone, 'Sam, I want to do some washing. Can you go and sort out yours and Nat's, please?'

'In a minute,' said Sam.

'Not in a minute,' said Chloe. 'Now.'

'But Mum . . .'

'Maybe he could go later?' said Jenna, and smiled at Chloe. 'We were just sunbathing . . .'

'I don't care what you were doing,' said Chloe, smiling viciously back at Jenna. 'I want Sam to come and sort out his washing now. And then tidy up that room. It's a disgrace.'

She stood silently, refusing to lose a millimetre of ground, while Sam slowly, reluctantly, got to his feet and dusted himself down. She was well aware that he was shooting miserable looks at Jenna; that the two were clearly trying to communicate in a coded way; that she had probably disrupted some approximation of teenage heaven. But she didn't care. Sam would have to wait.

I'm not going to surrender my lover and my son to other women in the same day, she thought, her smile broadening tightly across her face. I'm simply not going to do it. Sam will have his chances. Sam will have his moments in the future. But this is my moment. I need my family around me, and that's what I'm going to have.

'Come on, then,' she said to Sam, ignoring his murderous expression, and they began to walk back across the field, Sam slouching grumpily, kicking clods of earth and scrappy bushes. When they reached the villa and started climbing the stairs, Chloe smiled at Sam, trying to make amends.

'After we've sorted out this washing,' she said, 'we could play a game. One of those board games in the living room.'

'No, thanks,' said Sam sullenly.

'Or . . . we could cook a pizza. Watch a video together . . .'

'I'm not hungry,' snapped Sam. He reached the top of the stairs and turned to face her.

'And I don't want to play any crappy games. You've already messed up my afternoon, I don't want it messed up any more. All right?'

He swivelled round, strode along the corridor and into the bedroom he and Nat shared, then slammed the door with a crash that echoed round the villa.

Chloe stood staring after him, feeling shaky and close to tears. She edged towards an ornamental chair and sat down on it, trying to keep control of herself. But there was a pain growing inside her, which threatened to burst out in a sob or a cry.

What am I giving up for you? she felt like screaming at him. What am I giving up? She buried her head in her hands and stared down at the marble floor, her breath coming short and fast, her face taut and expressionless, waiting for the ache to pass.

Hugh had found a shady little terrace on the far side of the villa, well away from everybody else. He had waited for Della to call back for about an hour, then had given up. She must have been delayed—or gone out for one of the two-hour shopping sprees she called lunch.

He had put on his bathing trunks and gone down to the pool, thinking a swim would clear his head—but had doubled back when he'd seen Chloe walking along in the distance. Now he sat at a small wrought-iron table, sipping wine from a bottle he had found in the fridge, trying to calm his thoughts.

He had been put in a quite appalling situation. Appalling, there was no other word for it.

Philip Murray was a National Southern employee. He was on holiday with a National Southern employee—who had no idea who he, Hugh, was. It was like some sick joke; the kind of 'What would you do if . . .' poser that junior staff occasionally e-mailed round the company. Here, in the flesh, was one of the nameless branch managers whom Hugh had spent hours discussing in PBL conference rooms. One of the middle-ranking employees whom he had represented on an integrational structure chart by an icon of a man in a bowler hat. Philip was one of those fucking icons. It was surreal. He almost felt that one of his chess pieces had come alive and started talking to him.