Two Loves (2 page)

‘You were careful not to reveal much. “I seem to be seeing the world differently now,” simply implies that you're older. Or at least less young.'

‘And the world does seem to be growing darker.'

‘This one is very impressive. “The valley has a claustrophobic air; the trees are human arms, waving for release.” How do you feel you've developed?'

‘I don't know what's happened or why. I look at the landscape much more than I used to. And I suppose one gets to a point where one sees one's own life reflected in it. I don't know. I don't have any theories about anything.'

‘Tell me something about your life since your husband's death.'

‘Would you like to come for a walk – as far as the head of the valley? We could talk as we go. I can lend you some boots.'

‘That would be great. Cheers.'

Rosamund led Ingrid into the kitchen which, along with an adjoining bathroom, had been converted from the second, smaller schoolroom. It looked like a normal country kitchen; an Aga, a pine table, dresser. Unlike the studio which was twenty feet high, the kitchen had a low ceiling, the open staircase behind the range leading to three bedrooms created from the roof space.

‘I'm sorry I haven't offered you any tea. We'll have tea and cake when we get back.'

They went through the kitchen to a long, low cloakroom.

‘This was the original school cloakroom. I often wish Anthony had left the partitions and the little pegs. Sometimes I can almost smell wet coats and hats and boxes of plimsolls. Isn't this a pretty window? Almost like a church window. If naughty children were sent out here they'd at least have a lovely view. The lavatories were over there by the rowan tree. Anthony had them taken down because they obscured the view. The children used to say, “Please can I go across the yard?” when they wanted to go to the lavatory.'

The boots Rosamund found for Ingrid were much too big for her, but she fetched her a pair of thick hand-knitted winter socks to fit inside them.

We look a strange pair, Ingrid thought as they started out. Dirty wellingtons didn't look too out of place with Rosamund's floral dress and beige cardigan; if she'd been carrying an ancient-looking pail, she'd have passed as a milkmaid in a Laura Ashley catalogue. But she, in a long-sleeved black dress, tight-skirted with side vents, and round black-framed glasses, looked ridiculous in her over-sized green boots.

For a time they didn't talk at all, Ingrid finding it more and more difficult to keep up with Rosamund who had a large stride and was used to hill country. Ingrid did very little walking.

‘Here we are,' Rosamund said, slowing down at last. ‘This is the highest point and the best view. I often paint from here. Shall we cross the stile and go down?'

‘No. I'm out of condition; tired already. I'm going to sit here for a moment. This is like looking at another of your paintings. But even more representational, I suppose.'

‘I can't get away from this damned landscape. It's here, it's on my doorstep, so I feel I must try to get to grips with it, all its moods and rhythms.'

‘“I feel I must get to grips with it, all its moods and rhythms”,' Ingrid repeated, a hint of mockery in her voice.

‘It may sound pretentious, but that's what I feel. Most of the time anyway.'

‘What about the rest of the time?'

‘I'd like to stop messing about and have more children. Two more at least.'

‘Any chance?'

‘Who knows. A handsome stranger may turn up some day.'

‘What's your son called?'

‘Joss. Have you got any children?'

‘No. I don't think I want any. Lots of my friends, all career girls, got broody when they reached thirty, but I haven't. And I'm thirty-five now.'

‘So am I. I thought you were about my age.'

‘Thirty-five last month,' Ingrid said.

‘And me! What date?'

‘The third.'

‘Oh, I'm on the nineteenth. I thought we might be twins.'

They laughed together like schoolchildren. What's your favourite colour? What's your lucky number? Can I be your best friend? was in both their minds; the questions eight-year-olds ask in order to get to know each other – and themselves. They were both silent for a few moments.

‘Well, what else do you want to know?' Rosamund asked at last.

‘That sounds as though you want to get rid of me.'

‘Not at all. Joss is going to my mother's after school today to give us more time together.'

‘What more do you want to tell me? I've got pretty well enough for my article now. I'll let you have a look at it before I send it in.'

‘Why don't you bring it here and stay for the weekend?'

‘Lovely idea. But…'

‘You have better things to do.'

‘No. I'd love to come again sometime. But not next weekend. I'm flattered to be asked, though. Thank you.'

‘You could bring your boyfriend with you, if you'd like to.'

‘No, I'd rather come on my own. Soon … Listen, there's a bit more than I've told you. About those letters, I mean.'

Rosamund glanced at her, but made no response.

‘Ben's paper didn't feel they could publish either the poems or the letters as they stand. They're a respectable paper and it's not the sort of thing they do.'

‘So she went to the other sort?'

‘No. They suggested that to get the sort of money she obviously felt she should be entitled to, she'd have to get her autobiography published, which could, of course, include the poems and letters. Following that, the paper could pay her for certain extracts from the book.'

‘That seems a pretty roundabout way of doing things.'

‘It's the way it's done, apparently. And the thing is, Ben, as the one who first answered the phone to her, or at least the first one to take her seriously, was the person she chose to ghost her autobiography for her.'

‘I see. But, no, I don't quite see what it's got to do with me.'

‘It's just that I don't want to keep anything from you.'

They walked on in silence for a minute or two. ‘I don't know,' Rosamund said, then, ‘but I find it difficult to believe that you haven't any ulterior motive in all this.'

‘Well it would help Ben if he had your good will; I suppose I'm aware of that.'

‘Why? I've never even met Erica Underhill. It all happened thirty years before I got to know Anthony. I could be of no help.'

‘But you must still have some of his private papers and so on.'

‘Did he ask you to sound me out on all this?'

‘No. It was he who suggested I should try to get a commission to write about you, but I think that was simply for my sake. Because I've been short of work lately. I don't for one minute believe he'd think me capable of being much help to him.'

‘He sounds a real bighead,' Rosamund said. ‘Let's go home and have some tea.'

‘The thing is, you've always intrigued me,' Ingrid said, after they'd walked another few yards. ‘Ever since reading your late husband's obituaries – with the inevitable photograph of the two of you with your baby son. I knew we were about the same age and I was extremely curious about you. I wanted to get in touch with you then, but I couldn't think of any excuse – I wasn't even a journalist at that time. I was obsessed by you for months, and when all this came up, I could hardly believe it and couldn't bear the thought of you being hurt by the letters.'

‘And it was simply a coincidence? Your boyfriend getting involved with Erica Underhill?'

‘Absolutely. He works in the newspaper's features department and by chance her call was put through to him. When he told me about it a few days later I was able to tell him something about you; that you were an artist, and so on. And that you were still young, only about my age.'

‘I can't see why you were so struck by that. Lots of girls marry much older men.'

‘Not these days. Not unless they're multi-millionaires, anyway. You can't have been in love with him … Oh, I'm sorry!'

‘That's all right.'

‘But I mean, you were twenty-four, twenty-five or something when you got married and he was over seventy. You were an art student when I was at University. How could you have given it all up? I mean, going to gigs and parties, trying out men, all that tremendous …
fun?
'

Ingrid's voice faltered. Rosamund was striding ahead; she wondered if she was even listening to her.

Was there a definite reason, Rosamund asked herself. There was certainly a man I was madly in love with in my first year. And when it didn't come to anything, I lost my confidence, I think, what little confidence I had. I suppose I really floundered after that, afraid of any commitment. And that was it really. No, I didn't have much fun.

‘I'm sorry,' she said, slowing her steps. ‘You asked how I could have given it all up. I'm not sure I ever had very much to give up.'

‘But why?' Ingrid asked, almost aggressively. ‘You're very attractive. You seem very normal. I mean, what was the matter with you? That you opted out at twenty-four? It worries me. I mean, why?'

Chapter Two

Though Ingrid Walsh had been enthusiastic about her work – the first person for a long time – Rosamund was far from happy after she'd left. Ingrid had seemed to feel she was some sort of freak. Had she really opted out of life? ‘How could you have given it all up?' she'd asked, more than once. ‘All the excitement; being young and in the centre of things?' Was her life so abnormal, then? Until recently, Rosamund had thought of herself as fairly contented; she had a son whom she adored, a very supportive mother living nearby, a lovely house and almost enough money.

Her painting wasn't much more than a hobby, she'd always realised that, but it gave her a certain amount of satisfaction and enough money for treats – extravagant Christmases and holidays abroad. She exhibited twice a year with a local art society and always sold three or four paintings.

It was true she didn't have much of a social life; she was invited to certain functions, the occasional party, but had never enjoyed standing about with a drink and a plate of indigestible food, making small-talk. And none of the men who'd shown any interest in her had seemed worth pursuing. A few years ago she'd met a young doctor at a charity ball; he'd persevered in his attentions for a while, but they had little in common. Going out with him often seemed rather an effort even though her mother was always ready to babysit, and after a few months' desultory courtship he'd stopped ringing her and later phoned to say he'd got engaged to a nurse at the local hospital. She'd run into them soon afterwards. His fiancée looked about eighteen, was very glamorous and had succeeded in bringing him to life as she herself had never been able to do.

Rosamund was slightly peeved at being supplanted, but only her mother was really disappointed: ‘He was so fond of you, dear.'

‘Joss didn't like him,' Rosamund had said firmly. ‘He had no rapport with children, so it wouldn't have done, would it?'

Joss adored Thomas, not that that made any odds, because he wasn't available; less so now than ever.

Rosamund sighed. Thomas's son, Harry, had been Joss's best friend since they were in nursery school together, so of course she and Thomas had been thrown together for years; he was always around, returning Joss from their house in the village or fetching Harry from the schoolhouse. They were comfortable together, liked each other, got on well, and three years ago had become lovers. Neither of them had planned it, but after it happened, it had seemed natural, almost inevitable.

She sighed again. He was also very nice-looking. She wished that didn't make as much difference to her as it did; it seemed the trait of a very superficial person.

Thomas's wife, Eliza, was a career woman who seemed to have little time for him; that's why Rosamund didn't feel as guilty about their relationship as she otherwise would. Occasionally she fantasised about his leaving Eliza and coming to live with her and Joss, but knew it was impossible because he was a devoted father – with three sons of his own – and a dutiful husband. He was husband material, warm and loving rather than exciting. Whenever they were able to snatch an hour together, she felt, not dazed by love, but comforted, more reconciled to life, more completely human.

It had taken her some months to realise that it was much easier for her than for him; he was the one torn between two women, two lives. She started noticing the deep frown lines between his eyes when he got out of her bed and the way he held his body as he got dressed, his elbow tight in against his ribs as though deeply uneasy by what he was involved in. He was a nicer person than she was.

And then the previous year, Eliza had become pregnant again. Rosamund was surprised and rather shocked when Thomas broke the news to her; she'd somehow assumed that they didn't have sex together, though Thomas had never said so. She'd suggested at that point that they should give up their affair, but they hadn't, though their meetings had become more infrequent. And they'd hardly seen each other at all since the baby was born the previous month.

Then just over a week ago, she'd called on Eliza, taking her a present for the baby. She'd felt uncomfortable about going, but thought it might seem strange if she didn't, since they were neighbours and their children friends. Also she was longing to see the new baby.

She didn't know Eliza well, or particularly like her; she seemed to have no time for those she obviously considered lesser mortals. At one time Rosamund had felt slightly aggrieved to be so often asked to pick Harry up from school and to keep an eye on him until his father fetched him at five or five-thirty. Especially since Eliza seemed to assume that she couldn't possibly have anything more important to do, and never phoned to thank her. She'd never bothered to find out what exactly Eliza did as a business consultant, but it was probably very high-powered and certainly well-paid; the family had a large new BMW every year and the children had every conceivable gadget and a roomful of computers, which wouldn't have come from Thomas's salary as science master at the local comprehensive.