The Last Kiss Goodbye (5 page)

‘Blimey. Bit of an odd match. The playboy adventurer and the firebrand feminist,’ she said thoughtfully.

‘Do you think she’s still alive?’

‘She’s probably not that old,’ said Abby, doing the mental maths. ‘Mid-seventies?’

‘You should track her down. Invite her to the exhibition.’

As Abby returned to the basement, she was stopped by Mr Smith, who was holding an enormous bunch of flowers.

‘These were just delivered for you, Ms Gordon,’ he said with a hint of embarrassment. He held them out to her; when she didn’t immediately clasp them to her bosom, he added uncertainly, ‘There is a card.’

She felt
a sinking feeling in her stomach. She opened the envelope and read the message.

I will always love you.

She stared at the flowers sadly. They were beautiful: a delicious arrangement of peonies and lilies from her favourite – and usually too expensive – florist in South Kensington.

She closed her eyes and steadied her resolve. It was a trick, a bribe, an empty gesture of flattery . . . She wasn’t going to fall for this. Not today.

She removed the card and handed the flowers back to Mr Smith.

‘I think there’s been a mistake. They are for Lauren Stone in the library.’

‘That’s not what the man said . . .’ said the security guard, looking confused.

‘Please,’ she said softly, and Mr Smith nodded as if he understood.

By the time she got back to the archive, Lauren had already called her extension.

‘I got flowers,’ she said sounding as if she was hyperventilating. ‘Alex sent me flowers.’

Abby cursed herself for not thinking that one through, panicking at the idea of her friend calling Alex Scott to thank him for flowers he had not even sent.

The truth was on the tip of her tongue, before she heard the joy and excitement in her friend’s voice.

If Lauren called Alex Scott and he was interested in her, it would sort itself out. If he had no romantic intentions, then at least the flowers would make Lauren look popular. It was a win-win situation, thought Abby, deciding to keep quiet and let the flowers make somebody happy.

Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was lunchtime. The basement was feeling stuffy and lifeless again. She had to get out; she needed to breathe fresh air, see trees and people and . . .

She recognised him instantly, even before she was through the revolving doors of the Institute. She almost spun herself back into the building again, but this was it. Time for confrontation.

‘Hello, Nick,’ she said brusquely.

‘Happy anniversary, Abby.’

Chapter Four

He was still as handsome as ever.

Part of Abby was hoping that in the past six weeks he’d have aged a decade. That his thick dark hair would have turned thin and grey and those deep green eyes lost their sparkle. But no. He still looked bloody gorgeous. A little slimmer in the face, perhaps, but he even had the cheek to have a tan.

‘Please, Abby, talk to me,’ said Nick, trotting to catch up with her. ‘We owe each other that.’

‘I owe you nothing,’ she replied, not even looking at him, surprised at the venom in her voice, a venom she hadn’t thought she was capable of possessing.

She willed herself to stay calm. She had to do this. She had to remain mature and composed; businesslike, she decided quickly. Yes, she should see this as a professional conversation. As if she were phoning the photo lab to order a set of silver gelatin prints or arranging a venue for the exhibition.

‘Did you get the flowers?’

‘Thank you,’ she said, finally stopping in the middle of the pavement.

‘Six years. Twelve years really. Twelve years of being together.’

She nodded tightly, thinking back to that hot, lazy summer after their first year at Glasgow University. Exams were finished and a group of her friends had arranged to go to Glastonbury. Glastonbury! She still couldn’t quite believe she had agreed to go. Quiet, sensible Abby Bradley, whose CD collection consisted of rom-com soundtracks and whose sole drug consumption over her first third of university life was a quarter of an e during Freshers’ Week.

But after months of studying hard and working almost every holiday and weekend, Abby was determined to have some fun, and being the organised sort had prepared accordingly. A pink and white floral tent had been purchased from Millets, waterproofs borrowed from more outdoorsy friends. She’d bought a flask, spare socks, and a camping stove, only becoming mildly anxious when her flatmates had stuffed a packet of Rizlas and a box of condoms in her rucksack. She knew they were right. She had to prepare for all eventualities.

She’d met Nick Gordon within an hour of getting to Worthy Farm. He was another Glasgow University student, from Leeds, a friend of a friend of her housemate’s, and had turned up to Glastonbury without a tent. It had been stolen at Central station, he’d explained to his adoring audience of new female friends, most of whom immediately offered their sexy, witty new acquaintance a place in their own tent for the weekend.

Later Abby found herself alone with him. Her friends and his had disappeared to see some band she had never even heard of, and she lost track of time as she drank cider, talked and laughed with him, surprised at how much they had in common, thrilled that such a good-looking guy with that dry, northern sense of humour, was paying her so much attention.

‘Why did you come to Glastonbury without a tent?’ she asked him, as they walked away from the people and the noise.

‘Couldn’t waste my ticket,’ he replied. They found a spot on the outskirts of the farm overlooking the Somerset Hills and the Pyramid Stage in the far distance.

‘I’d have thought it was fate telling me not to go.’ She smiled, taking slow sips of warm cider, thinking how content she was just sitting there with him.

‘I don’t know. I think fate did bring me to Glastonbury this year,’ he said before he kissed her.

She couldn’t really remember being apart from him after that. Nick made her a better version of herself. A happier, more spontaneous Abby than the girl who had left her home town of Portree on the Isle of Skye.

They travelled back to Glasgow together, found a flat, moved in with each other for their second year, and if Abby thought it had been a rushed and rash decision, she needn’t have worried. They understood one another. Their relationship was easy, the sex was great and they never ran out of conversation. They decamped to London after graduation, bought a flat, not even contemplating the idea of living apart, and got engaged at twenty-five, the first of their friends to do so. Nick didn’t have to ask anyone for Abby’s hand in marriage. Abby had no family. No one close, no one who really cared. So there at the altar of the remote St Agatha’s Church in Yorkshire, six years after the Glastonbury weekend when they had met, Nick Gordon became her husband, her family, her everything.

‘Should we walk to the Serpentine?’

‘Fine,’ she said as she watched the muscles in his face relax.

They threaded their way through the people and traffic of South Kensington to the open green space of Hyde Park.

‘How are you?’ he asked, rubbing the sweep of stubble on his chin.

‘You mean how has the fallout from my husband’s infidelity been?’

‘I don’t know how many times I have to say I’m sorry, Abs,’ he said, pushing the dark tufts of hair anxiously from his forehead.

‘Say it again,’ she said sharply.

There was an awkward silence.

‘I love you so much, Abby.’

‘I think you’ve shown me exactly how much you love me.’

‘And I miss you.’

She didn’t want to tell him how much she missed him too. How she had never felt more lonely than that first night she had slept in an empty bed. And the six weeks since had seemed like an eternity, days bleeding into one, endless hours of feeling hollow and broken. It was as if she was locked into a suffocating twilight, like some Arctic winter’s day when the sun never rose and the thought of ever feeling warmth on her face felt impossibly distant. She missed him too. More than anything. But she wasn’t prepared to admit that now.

‘I was thinking, maybe we could go away for a couple of days. I rang Babington House, and they have a room next weekend. I thought we could go and talk.’

‘Is that where you think this is going, Nick? A mini-break in some boutique hotel where we have kiss-and-make-up sex in a four-poster bed. Is that how the script goes next?’

‘You said you always wanted to go to Babington.’

‘Not under these bloody circumstances.’

She sat down on a bench. She could feel her anger being slowly replaced by a sad, weary resignation.

‘How did we get here, Nick?’ she said finally. She looked at him closely and noticed pale lilac semicircles under his eyes.

‘I was an idiot.’

‘Yes, you were.’

It was another few seconds before he spoke.

‘We let it die, though, didn’t we?’

She turned round and looked at him in shock.

‘All this time, since the second I found out about you and that
woman, I’ve been torturing myself. Was I not beautiful enough for you, funny enough, smart enough? Anna, Ginny, Suze, they all told me I was being stupid, they all told me it wasn’t true.
You
had the problem, the wandering eye, the overactive libido, not me. But now you’re telling me this somehow
is
my fault.
We
let it die.’

‘Abby, I have never met anyone as lovely as you. I never will.’

His natural confidence, the easy-going intelligence and charm, had evaporated.

‘I was wrong to be unfaithful and I will never, ever forgive myself. But the last two years . . . the ovulation kits, the timetabled sex, clinics, doctors, acupuncturists . . . Everyone just treating me like a sperm donor. It got so mechanical, Abby. So joyless. We were trying so hard to have a baby that we lost sight of us.
You
lost sight of us.’

‘So you jumped into bed with the first slapper that batted her eyelashes at you in a hotel bar.’

She closed her eyes, the breeze brushed against her face, and instead of visualising her husband in bed with another woman, she could only think about the night that he had proposed. Christmas Eve in New York City. The first time she had ever been to the Big Apple. She had always wanted to go there at Christmas, and when Nick’s fledgling IT business had won a big client, he had decided to treat them to a mini-break. They’d had a room with a view of Manhattan and the park, and it had begun to snow. He’d stood behind her, arms wrapped round her waist, chin resting on top of her head, and they’d watched the snowflakes flutter past the picture window of their hotel room.

‘My forever girl,’ he’d whispered into her hair. And she had never had a reason to doubt him. Nick and Abs. Abby and Nick. Everyone said they made the perfect couple, and she had wanted to believe it. Until now.
My forever girl
had been a lie.

‘I should go. I need to get some lunch.’

‘I bought you a sandwich,’ he said, thrusting a Pret A Manger bag at her.

‘The grand gesture,’ she muttered, remembering her conversation with the girls yesterday.

‘Abby, please. Give me a chance.’

‘A chance? To do what?’

‘To make it better, to make it right, to show you how much I love you.’

‘My forever girl,’ she said softly.

‘What?’

‘You don’t even remember,’ she said, shaking her head.

Tears were collecting in her eyes and she didn’t want him to see her cry.

‘You should know I have instructed a solicitor,’ she said, trying to save some face.

It wasn’t strictly true, but Matt Donovan’s business card was sitting there in her purse.

‘And that’s what you want?’ he asked slowly.

Fight for me
, she said silently, willing him to do something, anything, knowing that this was the moment, crunch time, the fork in the road for their future. It couldn’t end like this. In Hyde Park, holding a sandwich.

Time seemed to stand still. She looked at him, beautiful and unbearably forlorn, and finally she nodded.

Chapter Five

A smile. It wasn’t an expression that Abby was used to seeing on Stephen’s face. Disinterest, frowning distaste or a smug, airy sort of arrogance were his default states, depending on whether he was being asked to deal with the modern world – the media, the general public, lunch orders – or the world contained within the archive.

‘It is rather splendid, isn’t it?’ he said, a nervous hand sneaking up to tug at his collar. Stephen had dressed up for the exhibition’s opening night, and Abby suspected it had sent him into something of a panic. She had never seen him in anything but his comfortable cords-and-cardigan combo, but tonight, he looked like Oscar Wilde. A bottle-green velvet jacket and a purple knitted tie over bright red cords and suede brogues: he clearly fancied himself as a romantic poet or classicist painter. Abby was just happy to see him in a good mood.

‘Yes, I think you’ve done a wonderful job, Stephen,’ she smiled.

‘Oh don’t be so modest, Abigail, it was a team effort,’ said Stephen. Magnanimous, too? thought Abby. What next? Group hugs?

Still, Abby was proud of what she had achieved here. The MINA gallery on the ground floor of the Redstone Tower on London’s buzzing South Bank wasn’t a huge space, but it was modern and glamorous, with glass walls at either end of a whitewashed and stripped-oak room. She knew that Stephen would have preferred a more traditional gallery, with wood panelling and creaky floors, but she had stood her ground; the whole point of the exhibition was to bring these long-forgotten photographs to a wider public. If they’d been hidden away in some fusty establishment in Mayfair, they would have stayed forgotten.

She had quietly persuaded Stephen by bringing him down to the MINA and pointing out that the tower stood on the site of Spanish Wharf, a quay from which clippers and square-riggers used to sail, returning with loads of tea and spices, along with new maps, drawings, artefacts and stories of the outside world. ‘There’s no other location in London – in England, in fact – that better represents the notion of heading into the unknown and bringing back knowledge.’

She had heard him repeat her words dozens of times over the past few months as they had hit the phones to drum up interest among collectors, academics and – she could almost picture Stephen shivering – the press. But it had paid off.

The gallery was filling up already, and it was only 7.30. Men in suits and open-necked shirts, women in short dresses and high-heeled shoes, all laughing, sipping the free wine and gazing at the beautifully framed photographs and artefacts.

‘Is that the man from the
Chronicle
?’ said Stephen from the corner of his mouth.

‘Not sure,’ said Abby honestly. ‘Lauren’s on the door and I told her to tell me as soon as he got here. But the woman from the
Times
has arrived, and I got a call twenty minutes ago to say that
Vogue
is sending a photographer.’

‘
Vogue
? Really?’ said Stephen, pulling himself a little more upright.

‘I should go and check the guest list,’ said Abby, wanting something to do. She was not particularly comfortable at showy social occasions, or skilled at making chit-chat as Stephen had been encouraging her to do.

‘Go get ’em,’ he kept whispering if they saw anyone lingering more than thirty seconds in front of a photograph.

But while the thought of giving the hard sell to any of these sophisticated-looking guests made Abby feel a bit sick, it hadn’t been necessary. They had sold a dozen prints already, keeping her busy with the orange dot stickers she was using to indicate a sale.

She smiled with satisfaction as she looked around the room. In recent weeks, throwing herself into the organising of the exhibition had been a way of dealing with her sadness. But now the success of Great British Explorers was a genuine source of pleasure.

She had known that the photos had the potential to capture the imagination, but people were really staring at them, leaning in to look at a face or a detail. Usually at these affairs people came for the free bubbly, but today they were actually looking at the pictures, actually enjoying themselves.

‘Abby, Abby,’ said Lauren, running over. ‘He’s here. The guy from the
Chronicle
. Him over there,’ she said, pointing to the back of a man.

Abby looked around for Stephen, but he had gone to talk to the director of the gallery.

‘Go and introduce yourself,’ encouraged Lauren, giving her friend a gentle nudge.

‘Do I have to?’ whispered Abby, feeling panicky.

‘You’ll thank me for it,’ grinned Lauren, rushing back to her station at the door.

The man was bent over a cabinet reading the letters sent between Captain Scott and his wife, but Abby could see that he was tall, with dark blond hair cut short, and elegantly dressed in dark trousers and a pale blue open-necked shirt. She took a deep breath.

‘Mr Hall?’ she said. He looked up, and she was momentarily taken aback by his good looks.

‘Yes, sorry,’ he replied. ‘I was miles away – the Antarctic, actually.’ He grinned, and his eyes, almost the same blue as his shirt, twinkled mischievously.

‘Abby Gordon,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘We spoke on the phone?’

‘Abby, of course,’ he said, shifting his wine glass to his other hand. ‘Elliot Hall, from the
Chronicle
, but then you know that, don’t you? Sorry, I seem to be making a terrible first impression.’

I wouldn’t say that, thought Abby, immediately dismissing the thought. He was handsome, in a slick, public-school sort of way, if you liked that sort of thing – and I most definitely do not, she scolded herself.

‘Looks like the exhibition is a success.’

‘Early days, but yes, people do seem to be engaging with the images.’ She winced at herself. Her words had the charisma of an automated phone message.

‘Well, I’m not surprised,’ said Hall, nodding towards the photo of Dominic Blake and Rosamund Bailey. ‘That’s an amazing shot. Usually these collections are as dry as the Gobi, but that really brings the thing to life, especially as you’ve placed it next to Scott’s letters. I felt a tear come to my eye.’

Abby looked at him, trying to work out if he was mocking her. Typical posh-boy journo,
she thought, taking the mickey out of everything. Well, as long as he gives us a good write-up . . .

‘I found that photo buried in the archives. I just thought it was too moving not to be included.’ They moved across to the photograph and Elliot put his finger against the six orange dots.

‘Selling well. Your instincts were right.’

‘There’s an amazing story behind it, too,’ said Abby babbling nervously. She took a glass of orange juice from a passing waiter and sipped at it. ‘That was the last time they ever saw each other. He disappeared on the expedition, presumed dead. No one ever found out what happened to him.’

‘The last goodbye,’ said Elliot quietly.

‘That’s exactly what it was,’ said Abby, feeling a swell of admiration for the way he had described it.

There was a moment’s silence, and Abby felt compelled to fill it.

‘Actually, I tracked down the woman in the shot. We didn’t mention it in the notes, as my boss thought we should just concentrate on the explorers, but she is quite interesting too. She was a famous journalist in the seventies and eighties. Rosamund Bailey. Appears to have dropped off the radar lately, though.’

‘Rosamund Bailey?’ repeated Elliot with surprise.

‘Yes, do you know her?’

Hall shrugged. ‘Not really, a little before my time, but her name was mud at home. My dad didn’t get along with her, not surprisingly. She was the star columnist on one of the rival papers, and she seemed to delight in attacking him.’

‘Your dad?’

‘Andrew Shah.’

‘Lord Shah? The press baron? I mean, the media mogul, uh . . .’

Elliot laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve heard much worse. I believe his nickname at the time was “The Butcher of Fleet Street”. Wasn’t exactly a model father, either, but that’s another story.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Abby. ‘I didn’t mean to . . . I should have known.’

‘Seriously, it’s fine,’ said Elliot. He held her gaze for a fraction longer than was necessary, and Abby could feel her cheeks flushing with colour.

‘I took my mother’s name for a nom de plume for that exact reason. Dad tends to polarise opinion, which can be both a blessing and a curse in my business, as you can imagine.’

‘Does that make you a lord too?’ she asked. ‘Or will you be when . . . ?’

What kind of question was that?

Elliot shook his head.

‘Afraid not. It was one of Thatcher’s political peerages, lifetime only. Besides, I have an older brother, so he’s the one who will inherit the estate, the vast debt and the two hidden mistresses.’

‘Really?’

Elliot started to laugh. ‘No, Abby, not really. Not the mistresses, anyway. Dad’s far too busy playing with his Monopoly set to waste time on anything as real as passion.’

‘I invited Rosamund Bailey along tonight,’ said Abby, feeling a spark of conspiracy between them.

‘Is she coming?’ he asked with interest.

Abby shrugged. ‘She didn’t reply, so I suppose not.’

‘Or maybe she’s just not very good at RSVPing. Come on. Let’s go and look for her.’ He touched the small of her back, and she flinched nervously.

‘I should go and mingle,’ she said, stepping back as politely as she could.

‘Come and mingle with me,’ said Elliot with a half-smile. ‘If Rosamund Bailey is here, then it’s a brilliant human interest story.’

Abby paused, then nodded. Stephen had stressed the importance of getting as much press coverage as possible. ‘Press coverage means awareness. Awareness means sales. Sales mean a future for the Institute,’ he had impressed in a team pep talk before the start of the show.

She was about to suggest asking Lauren if Rosamund Bailey had been ticked off on the guest list when she looked towards the gallery door and saw an elegant and well-preserved woman arriving. She was smartly dressed in a grey dress and a beige mac. There was a string of chunky beads around her neck and low-heeled court shoes on her feet. Her brown highlighted hair was tucked neatly behind her ears. Shaking her umbrella, she left it in the corner of the room and handed her invitation to Lauren.

‘That’s her,’ Abby hissed. ‘I found a clip of her appearing on
Newsnight
.’

‘Then what are we waiting for?’ Elliot replied, making a move to go over.

‘No, just wait a minute,’ she said, touching his arm.

They watched Rosamund start to circle the room. She moved slowly but gracefully, pausing to take out a pair of glasses, which she put on before she began to inspect the photographs. Abby and Elliot watched her without speaking. Rosamund took great interest in each and every picture, but she looked increasingly anxious as she came closer and closer to where they were standing.

At last she stopped in front of the picture of herself and Dominic, and Abby felt her own breath freeze. She thought she heard Rosamund sigh. It was the tiniest sound, barely audible against a backdrop of laughter and clinking glasses. Then she bowed her head and Abby watched her eyes momentarily close.

‘The Dominic Blake expedition,’ said Elliot smoothly, taking a step forward.

Abby watched him, not sure how it was possible for one person to possess such natural confidence. She knew it would have taken her five minutes to pluck up the courage to speak to Rosamund.

‘One of the great sixties explorers,’ he added knowledgeably.

‘Really,’ said Rosamund, unable to tear her eyes away from the photo.

‘I think this single image says everything you need to know about this exhibition. Adventure, heroism, love.’

She turned to him, and Abby saw that her eyes were glistening.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Elliot with concern.

Rosamund blinked away her emotion and her mouth creased into a small smile.

‘I’m fine. It’s just that I’m the woman in the photograph.’

Abby knew that she couldn’t just stand there like a lemon.

‘Miss Bailey? I’m Abby Gordon from the RCI. I sent you the invitation.’

Rosamund extended her hand.

‘Thank you for thinking of me. How on earth did you track me down?’

Abby smiled, not wanting to admit to the subterfuge. The
Bystander
magazine, the internet trawl, the electoral roll search.

‘Champagne?’ she asked, deflecting Rosamund’s question by taking a glass from a passing waiter and handing it to her.

‘It’s an excellent show,’ said Rosamund, gesturing around the room. ‘You’ve included the Clayton expedition. Such a tragedy,’ she said pointing to a group of men at the bottom of a picture. ‘Three people died on that one. And they barely got a look at the summit.’

Abby was surprised. She had chosen the image because it was a little-known expedition, a failure by most standards but one that held an interesting story: Captain Archie Clayton, the climb’s leader, had sacrificed a clear run at the summit when one of his Sherpas had become sick. He had immediately taken the decision to carry the ailing man down, making him a laughing stock on his return to England. Few people knew enough about mountaineering to be able to identify the expedition from one shot.

‘You know your stuff.’

‘I loved a man who loved exploration,’ Rosamund said simply.

‘Elliot Hall from the
Chronicle
,’ said Abby’s new friend, introducing himself.

The old woman smiled knowingly at him.

‘The youngest Shah, I presume? You have your father’s cheekbones.’

‘My . . . cheekbones?’ said Elliot, clearly taken aback.

‘Oh, Andrew is an unmitigated shit, I’m sure you know that as well as anyone. But he was a handsome shit. I hope you have only inherited the former quality,’ she said mischievously.

‘I fear I fail on both counts, Ms Bailey,’ said Elliot, recovering his poise.

‘A charmer, you certainly have that going for you.’