Third Time Lucky (18 page)

After my unscheduled ‘dip’ this morning – and the sex that followed – we spent the day in St Ives, visiting the Tate and the Barbara Hepworth Sculpture Garden. The little fishing town is a work of art in itself, with its higgledy-piggledy streets and clotted-cream sand. It’s
also true what they say about the ‘pure’ quality of the light there, and the moment we arrived I could see why it has inspired generations of artists. We had lunch overlooking the surfing beach, came home to bed and then walked over the cliffs for drinks in the next bay.

Our planned barbecue dinner on the beach sounded very romantic, but in the end we ate in the house and came down to the sands to have ‘dessert’ while the sun goes down.

‘I’m surprised you haven’t gone for the tinder and flint method, just to impress me,’ I say as he sets fire to the driftwood pile in the centre of a rock circle with a match.

He shoots me a look and drops more matches into the fire, blowing on it and sheltering it with his hands until it starts to burn.

Once it’s alight, I hold out my hands to the flames, grateful for the warmth of Alexander’s Puffa jacket. The sleeves are rolled back, of course, but my funnel coat wasn’t enough, despite the warmth from the fire.

He hasn’t shaved today and the fledgling growth of stubble suits him. I never thought I’d see him toasting marshmallows; I never thought I’d see him so relaxed, so at ease with his surroundings. He hands me a skewer threaded with marshmallows – my idea.

He squats by the fire while we toast them, and the glow of the embers lights his face with a pink glow. I waft mine in the breeze to cool them and then we take the soft sweets from the skewers with mouths and
fingers. The sweet smell of the marshmallows blends with the smoky tang of the driftwood fire.

Alexander pulls a hip flask from the pocket of his Barbour and offers it to me.

The alcohol leaves a hot, bittersweet trail in my mouth and throat as it slips down. ‘Mmm, nice. What is it?’

He smiles. ‘Armagnac. Good?’

I sip some more. ‘Uh-huh.’

We sit by the fire, drinking, while we watch the waves rolling up the beach and the sun setting. By now, the combination of Armagnac, the fire and the coat have given me an inner glow to match my outer one.

‘It’s truly beautiful here.’

‘I’m glad you like it.’ He picks up the skewer and draws circles in the sand, not meeting my eyes. ‘We stayed here the last summer, you know, my mother, Emma and me. When we got back to Falconbury at the end of the summer holidays, my mother had to take me back to school. I didn’t want to go, of course. I had to start a new form and I’d been in a bit of trouble before the holidays …’

‘I can’t believe that.’

He gives a wry smile. ‘I’d been caught smoking and drinking cider with some other boys in the attics. Lucky I wasn’t expelled, but the head told me I was on “licence” and that the staff would be watching me closely. So I was pissed off at having to go back, and upset at my father going away on a tour again and, though I’d never have
admitted it, I was going to miss Mum and Emma like fuck. So I …’ He prods at the sand with the skewer, pushing it down until it almost disappears. ‘I took out my frustration on Emma, teasing her until she started to cry. Mum kept telling me to shut up and then she turned round and shouted at us. That’s when she lost control of the car.’

He looks at me. ‘It
was
my fault; Dad was right.’

‘You were thirteen. You were just a boy.’

‘I was old enough to know better.’ He pulls out the skewer and tosses it on the sand. ‘So you see why I have mixed feelings about this place. I haven’t been here since my undergraduate days. We came after Finals to have a party and before you ask, I’ve never brought Valentina.’

‘I wasn’t going to ask. I already guessed this isn’t really her scene. Too cold.’ I smile.

‘True, but I never gave her the choice either. I don’t think she even knows it exists.’

‘I’m glad I do. Thanks for inviting me.’

Thinking over his ‘confession’, I warm my hands over the embers. ‘This is like being kids again. Daddy built a fire sometimes, when he had a few days to visit us at the beach house, though it was often just me and my mother and a few schoolfriends, or maybe one or other of the grandparents. When I was at Brown, we rented a house on Rhode Island for the spring break one year.’

‘We?’ he asks.

‘Some
of the girls in my sorority house.’

He breaks into a grin that I can scent means trouble. ‘That sounds … interesting. It is true about the hazing rituals? Is it all enforced nudity and paddling each other like in the movies?’

I roll my eyes. ‘What kind of movies have you been watching?’

‘One or two. We got hold of them in the sixth form at school, but I’m deeply disappointed that it’s all a myth.’ He pulls a sad face.

‘I wouldn’t say it was
all
a myth …’

He brightens. ‘Tell me more.’

My cheeks warm at the memory of my hazing ceremony, when I ended up naked in a fountain. ‘Actually, our sorority did own a paddle, but only for a joke.’

‘That sounds worse than my school – or a lot better.’

I shake my head. ‘Now I know you’re kidding. They haven’t done that kind of thing for years at British schools, and I’d have thought the enforced nakedness and harsh treatment were more in your line of work.’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘You want to discuss it?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘That sort of thing turns you on, does it?’ he jokes.

I can’t tell whether it’s the fire, or the brandy or the teasing that’s making my cheeks burn.

He tuts. ‘I think I’d better get you back to bed for a debriefing, Ms Cusack.’

‘Ha, ha. If you’re thinking of going into comedy, Mr Hunt, I’d advise you to think again!’

He
gets up and throws sand over the fire. ‘Oh, what I’ve got in mind for you isn’t funny … Come on – bed.’

Just before dawn, I’m woken by what I thought was a storm … and it is, but there’re no thunderclaps and lightning. This storm is raging inside Alexander’s mind. I kneel on the bed next to him, ready to move in case he lashes out at me again.

‘Alexander, it’s OK. You’re safe. You’re here.’

He’s quieter now, and his lips are moving but there’s no sound. Gradually, his cries have subsided, but the frown etched on his brow and the silently moving lips show the pain he’s going through. I keep my distance, wanting to wake him, but still wary. He opens his eyes and looks at me, but I’m not sure if he’s fully conscious. My body is as taut as a wire because it was in a semi-coherent moment such as this that he grabbed my wrist so hard my eyes watered.

Slowly, I reach out and touch his bare chest. ‘Alexander. Are you awake?’

‘Yes,’ he says groggily.

‘Do you know where you are?’

‘Sorry,’ he says. Since most of his words are about guilt when he’s having one of these terrible dreams, I’m not reassured by his answer.

‘What are you sorry for?’

‘Making a fool of myself again. Have I hurt you?’ He
winces when he pushes himself up the pillows, but at least I know he’s properly awake.

‘You haven’t done either,’ I say, noticing the sheen of sweat on his chest. ‘You got a little animated, but nothing serious’

‘Christ, what was I saying?’

‘Stuff.’

‘What stuff?’ he snaps.

Even though I feel sorry for him, I’m not going to take his brusqueness. ‘Hey, don’t blame the messenger. Does it matter what you said?’

‘Depends. Try me.’

‘The usual. That you were sorry and it was your fault. I guess being back here and our conversation about your mother can account for that.’

‘Maybe. What else?’

I hesitate, knowing he won’t like an honest answer. ‘Other stuff.’

‘To do with the op?’ he asks.

‘It could have been, but I have no idea what any of it meant so there’s no need to interrogate me.’

Some of the things he said are etched on my mind. They remind me that beneath the polite facade and polished manners is a man who’s almost been killed and has almost certainly killed others. Even if it’s for some cause he – or his government – think is just, it scares me.

‘Fuck.’ He slides his hands through his hair. ‘I’m sorry you had to hear any of it.’

There’s
a pause before he goes on, not looking at me again, talking to the wall. ‘I’ve been in trouble before …’ He laughs tersely. ‘But this time was a close shave … Some of us were captured and obviously we were where we shouldn’t have been, and the people who caught us were
not
happy bunnies.’

So he does want to tell me … ‘Go on,’ I say cautiously.

‘Understandably, they wanted to know what we were doing in their neck of the woods and we didn’t really want to tell them, so they decided to give us a little encouragement.’ So he
was
tortured? My skin prickles at such a horrible idea, but it must be true.

‘When it became clear we weren’t going to tell them, they tried another tactic and …’

He glances up, startled by the window rattling in the wind. I wait, fighting a macabre compulsion to hear the gory details – or to shut my eyes and stick my fingers in my ears.

He gives a smile best described as sardonic. ‘Let’s just say they weren’t setting up the video camera so we could Skype our families.’

I squash down a shudder. ‘You mean they were going to
execute
you?’

He shrugs. ‘Who knows? It was probably a bluff, and we all knew the score and what to expect. They wouldn’t achieve much by actually going through with it, but none of us had any desire to star in our own YouTube
video so we decided to get out or die trying. We created a distraction and managed to get free. We were already out of the door when I went back for … something I thought could be useful.’

‘What? You’re crazy.’

‘Of course I am. It’s a prerequisite. Anyway, one of the guards caught up with me and that’s when I got stabbed.’

I don’t dare say anything, I don’t want him to stop talking. I hardly dare breathe as he continues.

‘Occupational hazard. It was my choice to go on the op, and in the end we were incredibly lucky to get away with it.’

‘It’s a miracle you didn’t lose that arm.’

‘Good fortune, maybe, but not a miracle. The whole unit is trained in first aid and the medic patched me up on the ride home. But there was a delay getting me back here and the wound started to bleed out by the time we reached the UK.’

I stay silent because I don’t know what to say. Maybe he’s forgotten – or wants to – that he had to be rushed back into surgery.

‘I know this is tough – on Emma most of all …’ he says. ‘But I can’t simply up and leave tomorrow, no matter how much attention I need to give Falconbury and how much I want to give Emma peace of mind. The army allowed me leave to do my master’s and I have another year to serve after that. Even if I hadn’t,
how can I leave the regiment when there’s still so much work to do? Why should I be the one to be safe at home when others stay on?’

‘After this tour, you’ve done your duty, more than most others will ever do, and you said Emma needs you …’ I swallow. This is the closest we’ve come to talking about anything beyond exams.

‘She won’t believe a word I say after this time.’

‘So maybe you should be honest with her from now on. She’ll be eighteen at the end of the year and she can do whatever she wants.’

He pulls a face. ‘Jesus, what a horrifying thought.’

‘She could join the military if she wanted to.’

‘Over my dead body.’

‘Yes, but she
could
and you’d have to accept it.’

He snorts. ‘Emma? In the army? She’d be court-martialled within five minutes.’

‘And you’re the yes-man who always does as he’s told?’ I tease.

‘That’s different.’

‘How?’

‘Lauren!’

I smile that I’ve finally made him bite.

‘You see what we’re up against?’ he says, stroking my thigh. ‘It hasn’t been simple so far and it won’t get any easier any time soon.’

‘Like I say, simple is vastly overrated.’

What am I saying? What am I doing? Not only have I walked right back into his world, I’ve done it while
waving a big banner saying: ‘Bring it on, baby, complicate my life, why don’t you?’

The thing is, whenever I get within a yard – a foot – of him, my brain cells seem to sizzle like a moth hitting a candle flame.

‘You don’t really mean that, Lauren, do you?’ he teases, running a finger down my cleavage. Because I don’t know how or what to reply, I close my hand around his and guide it slowly down my body, before moving my hand to the part of his anatomy that would distract him even from an earthquake. He’s already hard, and he thickens in my hand, uttering a moan of pleasure that makes me just as hot in return. We are soon lost in each other, any thoughts of reality or responsibilities banished.

All too soon the weekend is over and I’m back in Oxford, my memories of the time at Spindrift already fading. I try to capture them, but they seem to run like sand through my fingers. The Sunday was idyllic, spent reading and drinking wine on the beach in the shelter of the rocks, with the spring sunshine warming our faces. I can understand why Lady Hunt loved to escape to the house with her children, and I can’t help wondering if she was relieved rather than unhappy that her husband spent so much time apart from her.

She must have been anxious about him being in combat, as I am about Alexander, though I’d never admit it to his face, but from my experience of General Hunt, I can’t imagine she got much affection when he was home. Was there ever a time when the general was like Alexander? They definitely share the stubbornness and emotional repression, which worries me … but Alexander is also passionate and generous under the cool facade. Is that his mother’s influence?

A squall of rain rattling the window snaps me out of my thoughts and when I look down at my laptop, the screensaver has cut in. I guess I should cut myself some
slack if my mind has drifted. Since we arrived back on Monday afternoon, we’ve both been hard at work because Emma is coming over to the Oxford house for the weekend. We’re going to a production of
Much Ado About Nothing
in St Nick’s gardens. Emma’s doing the play for A level and she also wants to check out the costumes.

I close down my laptop and decide to get some air, having been up late last night and working since six a.m., trying to put in as much time as I can to make up for my weekend away. I’m just wheeling my bike from the sheds when I get a text from Scott:

I’m puzzled by the brusque tone but quickly text back.

I’m still wondering about the text as I cycle up the High and turn into St Aldate’s. The text was … kind of tetchy by Scott’s standards and my suspicions are confirmed when I find him already waiting in the street outside. There’s a brief but unmistakeable look of tension on his face before he breaks out the usual laidback grin.

‘Hi, Scott. Sorry I’m a little late.’

‘It’s fine. It’s really busy on the terrace and I was worried I might miss you so I decided to loiter round the gate.’

He
brushes my lips with his, briefly, a sort of semi-kiss that hovers between friendship and something more. I give him a mock reprimanding look but as always he just grins and ignores me.

‘Everything OK?’ I ask after I’ve chained my bike to some railings.

‘Yeah. Why shouldn’t it be?’ His voice is light, teasing and yet …

‘Nothing except that when you say “we need to talk”, I start thinking that really means “we need to have a full-scale fight”.’

‘No need for a fight … Let’s order a drink first, then we can talk properly.’

Eventually, we managed to carve a path to the bar – and out again. Scott places his pint of Guinness on the end of a trestle table, miraculously just vacated by a couple. It’s a cloudy, sticky day but balmy enough to have half of the city outside, with everyone desperate to catch some air. The river next to us seems equally crowded, teeming with scullers and motorboats.

Scott drinks deep of his Guinness. I can smell the malty aroma from here and it makes my nose wrinkle. I’m glad I stuck to a Blackberry Pimm’s.

‘So, what do you want to talk to me about?’ I say lightly.

‘Nothing scary, other than I heard that our mothers have been engaging in covert negotiations …’

‘Oh, you mean the Ross Foundation. It was very thoughtful of your mom to put my name forward.’

‘Yeah,
I guess, but I want you to know it wasn’t my idea.’ His words are as close to being curt as Scott ever gets. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m interfering in your life choices or trying to make you return to the States if that’s not what you want.’

‘Hold on. I never thought you had anything to do with the job offer and if anyone’s interfering, it’s my mother. Except I really don’t mind the fact that Donna Ross is offering me –
may
possibly be offering me – the chance to work as her assistant. So stop feeling guilty about something that’s a) not your fault, and b) nothing to be guilty about. It’s an amazing opportunity.’

‘Good … So if the job is so amazing, I assume you’re going to take it?’ He looks at me carefully.

‘I still haven’t decided.’ I sigh. ‘I really should, if I get offered it. It’s not the kind of thing you can turn down, really.’

‘Don’t be rushed into anything, or feel obliged to take it because you feel you owe it to my mother.’

‘Anyone would think you didn’t want me to go back to Washington.’

‘I don’t mean that!’ he cries, then, seeing my amused face, says: ‘You’re winding me up, as they say here.’

‘Only a little. I’m grateful to have the opportunity and I promise you, I’ll make my own mind up about it. You know me well enough now.’

Seeming mightily relieved that I’m not mad at his mother’s ‘interfering’, he takes a long draught of his Guinness.

‘So
you haven’t kept to the training regime and diet?’ I tease when he wipes the froth off his top lip.

‘After six months of deprivation? You have to be kidding! Of course, I
ought
to be on the wagon again and living a blameless life because I’m rowing for St Nick’s in the Summer Regatta next week. St Nick’s just missed out on getting Head of the River last year and the Master is under some kind of misguided impression that I can help us go one better this time.’

‘I guess a blameless life with no distractions is vastly overrated …’ I say, hoping to initiate a conversation about Lia, but not really knowing how to subtly find out if he’s still ‘seeing’ her.
I want him to be happy, honestly
, I tell myself.

‘It is.’ He looks at me. ‘Neither of us is without distraction, I’m guessing, particularly at the moment.’

So, is this
his
subtle way of finding out what’s going on with Alexander? ‘No,’ I say.

‘We have to make the most of being bad while we can then, he says.

‘I guess so …’ I stop myself from twirling my hair. Not only is it a bad habit, it looks suspiciously like flirting. ‘How’s Lia?’ I ask, deciding on the direct approach.

He looks at me hard; he
must
know I’m fishing. ‘She’s fine. Working hard, of course. She puts me to shame.’

‘I’m sure she puts me to shame too,’ I say, thinking of all the distractions over the past few months.

‘She’s
planning on going to Africa on an elective as part of her grad medicine degree.’

‘Really? That sounds … amazing.’

‘She
is
amazing.’ He grins and I suddenly feel uncomfortable and feel again that pang of something close to jealousy that I know I shouldn’t feel. Scott spots my expression, leans across the table and puts his chin on his hand. ‘So is Alexander still amazing?’

I laugh. ‘If you mean does he constantly astonish me, then yes, I guess so.’

‘Still no idea what will happen?’

‘None whatsoever,’ I say firmly but inside my stomach tightens. It’s doing this a lot more as the end of term races towards me, the end of my year at Oxford. No matter how much I tell myself that the wobbles are exam nerves, I can’t lie to myself any more. It’s the reality of having to leave here; to leave Alexander.

‘I love art and I want to make a proper career out of it, earn my own money and make a difference. Alexander and I really haven’t talked, but he’s got so many ties here,’ I shrug, and bat the ball back into his court. ‘What are
your
plans?’

‘Careerwise? I’m not sure, but I have seen a role with one of the big international charities in East Africa. They need someone to help develop a new fresh-water project.’

‘Wow, that sounds awesome,’ I say, while also realizing I don’t especially like the prospect of him going
away so far either. He’s been a wonderful friend; he makes me laugh, he’s gorgeous … Wow, I want to cry; I’m going to miss him – I’m going to miss everyone – and I suddenly realize just
how
much. He looks at me, and I wonder if he can sense the words I dare not say, in case he – or I – take them the wrong way.

With an amused quirk of the mouth, the old Scott is back. ‘You see Water Policy isn’t quite the walk in the park you think.’

‘No,’ I agree, grateful for the light tone. ‘Saving the world does make studying Klimt feel a little lightweight, although my tutor would probably have a heart attack if he heard me say that.’

He laughs. ‘Well, I haven’t decided yet. I may leave the Superman costume in the closet after all. Let’s just say I’m considering a number of options. Maybe you could visit me in deepest Africa?’

‘Yes, maybe I will.’ The scratchy feeling in my throat is alarming; why don’t I feel more excited by all these plans?

He sips his pint. ‘So, you’ll come down to support me in Eights Week?’

‘I’m not sure if supporting St Nick’s over Wyckham isn’t tantamount to treason.’

‘You could cheer quietly.’

‘True, and Immy’s already mentioned that Wyckham has a party at the boathouses most nights. I’m sure you’ll see me there. Email me the schedule and we can meet up afterwards if you’re not too exhausted.’

I
register that Scott is looking great today and I notice envious eyes trained on us. ‘I’m never too exhausted for you, Lauren.’

I wag my finger at him, enjoying the banter while knowing I probably shouldn’t be. ‘I know you’re testing me, but I’m not going to bite,’ I promise.

‘Ah, but you’d like to though. Bite, that is,’ he says, reaching across the table and laying his hand on mine.

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Not even a nibble.’

‘Because you know if you even have a taste, you’d want the whole thing?’

I tsk. ‘You flatter yourself, Scott. My willpower’s stronger than that.’

‘Is Alexander’s?’

‘Now you know I won’t go there.’ I pull my hand away and seek refuge in my Pimm’s, a little warm of cheek. I also glance around to see if anyone heard our conversation and might go telling tales to Alexander, as Rupert did in our first term. Then I feel annoyed with myself for worrying what people might think or say, especially an asshole like Rupert.

Scott drains his glass and points to mine. ‘Another?’

‘No, I have to get back. I have … stuff I need to do.’

‘Stuff? Important stuff?’ he teases.

I shoulder my bag. ‘Maybe I’ll bump into you later. A bunch of us are coming to the play at St Nick’s.’

‘I know. I’m helping out front of house.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes.
One of Lia’s actor buddies roped me in to selling programmes and playing usher.’

‘Cool.’

‘Not really, but at least they didn’t get me into a codpiece.’ He does a mock shudder.

I laugh and pick up my bag, grateful that we are back on safer ground. ‘See you at the play then.’

Back in my room that evening, I’ve just finished doing my ‘stuff’ when Immy calls round.

‘Hi. You ready?’

‘Almost.’

‘Hard day working?’

‘I had a drink with Scott and I worked on the laptop.’

‘Not a completely tough day then. Scott definitely counts as pleasure.’

‘You know that job with the Ross Foundation I mentioned?’

‘Yes, I do,’ she says patiently.

‘I’ve just emailed my application and CV.’

‘Well, if it’s what you want …’ Immy looks dubious, which makes me feel a little annoyed with her and annoyed with myself for feeling annoyed. Gah …

‘Well, I haven’t decided what I really want yet but I’d be nuts not to find out more.’

‘OK, as long as you’re sure,’ says Immy lightly.

‘I have to take control of something in my life. It scares me that I’ve even contemplated not taking this chance.’

She
flops on to the bed and sighs. ‘It scares me that I might commit to anything. I don’t know what I want to do so I’ve decided I’m definitely going travelling for a year.’

‘Really? Sounds awesome. Where?’

Immy picks at the cushion my grandma sent over for me. Some of the embroidery has long since unravelled now – we’ve both given that cushion some angst over the past year. I feel relieved; I was probably reading more into her comments than she intended. We’re all tired and edgy at the moment.

‘Probably Australia or New Zealand, via the Far East. I’ve only started thinking seriously about it in the past week or two.’

‘It sounds so exciting.’

She hugs my cushion. ‘I think so. I’m hoping to make more specific plans but I need to get my degree first.’

‘You’re still coming to the play though?’

‘With all that free Pimm’s and the codpieces? Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away.’

Alexander picked Emma up from school earlier and has brought her straight to the play. She hugs me. She’s still coltish but she looks brighter, her cheeks are pinker and she doesn’t look so tired. ‘How are you?’ I ask discreetly while we’re waiting for the play to start.

‘I’m
fine’ she insists. ‘By the way, who did you say the guy on the gate was?’

‘Which guy?’

‘The big blond American who handed out the programmes. He seems to know you very well.’

‘Oh him; that’s Scott. He’s a friend from home.’

‘He’s lush.’

‘He has a girlfriend,’ I say firmly, pleased that Emma’s moved on from Henry but dismayed that Scott’s come on to her radar.

‘Serious?’

‘I – uh – don’t really know.’

She holds up her programme. ‘I’ll have to find out then,’ she announces breezily.

Fortunately for everyone, the production keeps us all quiet for the next hour or so.
Much Ado
is my favourite Shakespeare play; I never tire of the sparring between Beatrice and Benedick, nor the moment they finally fall for each other.

At the end of the play, we all pile out of the temporary stands and mill about by the outdoor bar, drinking. Emma’s been allowed a Pimm’s and is fizzing like champagne in a glass, probably because Scott has joined us.

Emma turns to him with a flirtatious smile. ‘Would you like to introduce us to the cast, Scott? Lauren said you know most of them.’