Fear In The Sunlight Part 9

'I meant Marta.'

'I know what you meant.'

'And?'

'I'm not sure.'

'Of course you're sure. Don't play that game.' His frustration with her evasiveness was obvious, and he tried to soften it. 'The answer might come with complications but the question's very easy. Do you love Marta?'

'Yes.' It was less a declaration than an admission, and Archie wondered if her hesitation signalled a need to come to terms with her own feelings or a desire to protect his. 'Yes, I love Marta.'

'And have you told her?' She shook her head. 'Then do it now, Josephine. For G.o.d's sake give her some hope.'

'How will that help? As you say, it's complicated. We can't be together, so telling her how I feel will only make it worse.'

'Shouldn't you let Marta be the judge of that?' he asked gently. 'She's not stupid. I've learnt that to my cost in the past, and I get the feeling that she knows exactly what she's taking on by loving you.'

'You make it sound like such a trial.'

'Well, it is. Not many people would put up with your nonsense.'

'I'll ignore that, but only because you've bought me half a racehorse.'

'If it means I can be truthful with you, I'll buy the other half as well. Honestly, Josephine a have you any idea how infuriating you can be? Sometimes I want to pick you up and shake you, so I can only begin to imagine how Marta must feel.'

She tried to glare at him, but didn't make a very good job of it. 'I think I preferred it when you two hated each other. This uneasy truce you seem to have come to makes me feel very vulnerable.'

The rebuff was half-hearted by Josephine's standards, and he guessed that his words reinforced something she had just realised for herself, or at least had only recently allowed herself to acknowledge. 'Well, love can force some strange alliances,' he said, matching her tone, and then added more seriouslya 'Knowing how you feel might at least make Marta believe that there's a point to it all. You know what it's like when you're trying to guess how someone really feels about you a it tears you apart. You become obsessed by it until you lose sight of yourself completely.'

'You're not talking about Marta, are you? You're talking about us.'

He ran his finger idly up and down the stem of his champagne gla.s.s while he decided what to say. 'I've been doing a lot of thinking lately,' he began, 'and I suppose I've realised that worrying too much about what someone else thinks can also be an excuse not to look too deeply at your own feelings. It's time I looked at my life and what I want from it.' He caught her expression and smiled. 'Not because of Bridget; because of me. And you need to do the same. Be honest with yourself about what you want, and find a way to make it work.'

She put her hand on his cheek. 'When did you get so wise?'

'Somewhere around forty,' he said. 'With a bit of luck, it should hit you at any minute.'

6.

Bella sat at the desk in the royal suite and sealed an envelope, obscuring the mermaid who decorated Portmeirion's distinctive letterhead. Without warning, the door crashed open behind her, startling her as it knocked over a chair, and she turned round angrily to see who it was. Her brother stood in the doorway. The barely contained anger in his face jarred sharply with the quiet of the room. Without acknowledging him, Bella turned back to the desk and calmly addressed the envelope.

Her silence only provoked him more, as she had known it would. Even when they were young, she had been able to wind him up to breaking pointa and old habits died hard. 'Why didn't you tell me I had a child?' he demanded furiously, slamming the door behind him. 'You must have known.'

It wasn't the question Bella had been expecting, but she hid her surprise well. 'Of course I knew. Grace told me.'

'Did it never occur to you to mention it?'

'You made it clear to me that you'd left here for good, so what would have been the point?'

'I had a right to know, that's the point.' He walked over to the desk and looked down at her. 'G.o.d, you're a cold b.i.t.c.h. I don't know why I'm surprised that you should side with Gwyneth. You're two of a kind.'

Bella smiled. 'There was never any love lost between Gwyneth and me, but she didn't deserve youa and she wouldn't have thanked me for sending you back when she'd finally managed to get rid of you. Anyway, a marriage is privatea and it wasn't for me to interfere.' She stood up so that her face was level with his, determined he should never know that, deep down, she had always been a little afraid of him. 'It's a shame you didn't respect that when you came cras.h.i.+ng into mine.'

'Change the record, Bella. How is your failure of a marriage my fault? Maxwell Hutton was making his money out of dirty films long before I met him.'

'But I didn't know about it, G.o.ddammit.' She slammed her hand down on the wood. Talking about Max and her illness had left Bella vulnerable to the darkness that coloured her thoughts more each day, and she struggled to regain her composure, helped by the sly smile which crept across his face when he saw she was upset. 'And what you don't know can't hurt you.'

'So not telling me that my child is buried up there in those woods like a dog was an act of kindness, was it?'

'Buried in the woods?' Bella stared at him. 'Who told you that?'

He seemed to think her astonishment was an act and brushed her comment impatiently away. 'Come off it. That waitress you're so friendly with told me she thought Gwyneth's missing kid was in the cemetery.'

Bella had no idea if that were true and wouldn't have told him if she had. 'There's a certain irony in that, don't you think?' she said quietly.

A satisfying flicker of fear crossed her brother's face, and his tone became suddenly more placatory. 'Tell me about the child, Bella. What happened to him? Or her? Christ, I don't even know if I had a boy or a girl.'

'It's Gwyneth you should be talking to,' she said. 'Why don't you go and ask her?' He hesitated, and she addeda 'You won't get anything out of me, so you might as well leave.'

'Why were you talking to that girl?' he asked. 'Were you telling her not to say anything to me? Because if you were, you're wasting your time. I know how to get round her sort.' She saw his eyes travel down to the desk, trying to read the name on the envelope. 'What else don't I know about my own life, Bella?'

She threw back her head and laughed. 'Dear Henry. You never were the brains of the family, were you?'

'Don't call me that,' he snapped. 'Especially not here. My name is Leyton Turnbull now. I left Henry Draycott behind a long time ago.'

'Oh, don't worry. I'm no keener for people to know we're related than you are.' She shook her head in disbelief. 'You really don't know who she is, do you?'

'What do you mean? She's a waitress with a mouth on her. What else is there to know?'

'That's you and women all over. Try looking above the waist, Henry. Look at who she is rather than what she can do for you. That girl's been writing to me for years, begging me to help her find her mother.'

'I don't understand. Why would she do that?'

'Because she's Rhiannon Erley's daughtera and she thinks her mother abandoned her to run off with my brother.' She watched, satisfied, as the realisation finally sank in. 'Except she didn't, did she? Rhiannon Erley never left here at all.'

'Of course she did. I told you what happened.'

'It was a pack of lies. You killed her, Henry.'

The certainty in her voice must have told him that it was useless to pretend any longer. He walked over to the bed and sat down, and she knew as clearly as if she were watching a film she had seen many times what his next move was going to be. 'It was an accident,' he said, word-perfect with the script she had roughed out for him.

'And that makes a difference?'

He shrugged. 'It makes a difference to me. I'm not a killer, Bella.' He waited for her to speak, but she said nothinga and he asked insteada 'How do you know what happened?'

'It doesn't matter how I know. It's what I'm going to do with the information that counts.'

'You wouldn't. The scandal would ruin you. Anyway, what do you care about Rhiannon or her daughter? You couldn't get away from your own family quick enough, so don't start banging the drum for someone else's. You only think of your precious career: that's why you'll keep quiet.'

'You're right in one sense,' Bella admitted. 'I don't give a d.a.m.n about you or your s.l.u.t, and if you'd learnt your lesson then I might be happy to leave it alone now. But you didn't, did you? You carried on, dirtying everything and everyone you touched, and you're still doing it. That girl needs to know what happened to her mother, and as you've never been capable of one decent thing in your life, the job seems to have fallen to me.'

'You haven't got any proof.'

'No?' She glanced down at Chaplin. The dog obviously remembered his encounter in reception because he kept a wary distance. 'I thought Chaplin and I might take a walk up to the cemetery later. He loves these woods. You know how it is a dogs and their bones.'

'You wouldn't dare.'

'Try me. Perhaps we'll look for your child as well.'

From nowhere, he lunged towards her and pushed her roughly to the wall, his hand around her throat, his body pressed hard against hers. The attack took her completely by surprisea and, in her panic, she cursed herself for underestimating him. Chaplin forgot his fear, but he was kicked easily awaya and Bella smelt her brother's aftershave, mixed with sweat and stale whisky; his physical proximity was abhorrent to her, worse even than the tightening in her throat and the pain in her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and back as he crushed her body with his own. As she struggled in vain to breathe, she felt herself losing consciousness a and suddenly, in her fear, she realised that this was the answer to everything; at least this way her death would count for something. She forced herself to meet his eye and smiled, willing him to squeeze harder, but for once he showed some self-control; just in time, he took his hand away and left her doubled over in pain, gasping for air.

'What the h.e.l.l's going on? Bella? Are you all right?'

She looked up as David Franks hurried across the room, horrified that he should see her like this. He put a hand on her shouldera but she shook it off and somehow managed to speak. 'What do you want, David?'

'Don't act as though nothing's wrong,' he said, glaring at them both. 'What are you playing at?'

'A bit of rivalry got out of hand.' From somewhere she found the strength to walk across the room and calm her frightened dog. 'That's enough, Chaplin. The gentlemen are just leaving.' She looked questioningly at David. 'Well?'

'Hitch asked me to invite you to dinner.'

Bella laughed. 'That's very kind of him but I don't have much of an appet.i.te.'

'Let me stay with you. I'll have something brought up.'

'Don't pity me, David. For G.o.d's sake, after everything that's happened, at least spare me that. Now get out a both of you.'

Her voice was calm, but it invited no argument. Reluctantly, David turned to goa but her brother lingered, his eyes resting on the note to Branwen. 'Come on, Turnbull,' David said, ushering him out of the room. 'I don't know what this is about, but you've done enough damage.'

Bella watched the two men leave, then sank exhausted onto the bed. She stared at her image in the dressing-table mirror and put her fingers to her throat, where the imprint of her brother's hand a red and livid against her pale skin a lay like a gauntlet of shame. 'You should have put me out of my misery, Henry,' she said softly. 'But you couldn't even do that, could you?'

7.

'That b.l.o.o.d.y shower! First I couldn't get it to work at all, and then it only had two temperature variations: hot or scalding. I had to sit on my bed for half an hour before I could come down. Otherwise, I'd have lit up the restaurant single-handedly.' Ronnie sat down next to Archie, and Josephine noticed that, despite her protestations, she was the only person on the terrace whose elegance remained unaffected by the heat. 'Anyway, Bella Hutton was having a blazing row with someone in the next room and I had to wait to find out who it was.'

'And?' Lettice asked.

'Leyton Turnbull. I couldn't hear the details,' she admitted, antic.i.p.ating her sister's next question. 'And I was hardly dressed to go and loiter in the hallway. But I did happen to poke my head round the door as he was leaving, and he seemed in a terrible state. There was another man with him, too a very good-looking but I didn't recognise him.' She accepted a gla.s.s of champagne and smiled round at everybody. 'What have I missed?'

'Nothing much,' Lettice said nonchalantly, stabbing at an olive. 'Josephine's all but signed a deal with the Hitchc.o.c.ks. Archie's rekindled a lost love from twenty years ago. And I've talked Bella into letting us handle the wardrobe for her next five movies.' She paused, enjoying the expression on Ronnie's face. 'That last point is a lie, by the way. Relax and enjoy your drink.'

If anything, Ronnie looked even more incredulous. 'You mean the other two are true?' She pointed at Josephine. 'I'll deal with you in a minute. What lost love, Archie?' she demanded, poking him hard in the leg. 'Why don't I know about this?'

Archie looked uncomfortable, but made a gallant effort. 'Sorry,' he said. 'Stupid of me, but I didn't realise that I had to run my love life by you. Anyway, Lettice is exaggerating. It's just someone I knew during the war. I b.u.mped into her earlier. She's an artist, and she's doing some work for Clough.'

'She seems very nice,' Marta said, winking at Josephine.

'Yes, I thought so, too.'

'Actually, her name sounded familiar,' Lettice continued, 'but I couldn't place it. Don't we know a Bridget Foley?'

'Bridget Foley?' Ronnie's eyes widened and she stared at her cousin with a new respect. 'We know of a Bridget Foley. Does yours live in Cambridge?'

Archie nodded defensively. 'Yes, but she's not my . . .'

'Don't you remember, Lettice? It was while we were there in the spring, doing the costumes for the Ibsen at the Arts Theatre. Everyone was talking about it.'

'Yes, of course. Bridget Foley! Fancy your knowing her, Archie.'

Josephine was dying to find out what was so memorable about Archie's old flame, but it would have been unfair of her to ask in front of him. Instead, she tried to think of something sufficiently interesting to lure Ronnie onto another subject, but she was saved the trouble. Lydia came back from the cloakroom and sat down next to Marta. 'Why on earth is there a nun at the Hitchc.o.c.ks' table?' she asked.

'A nun?' Josephine echoed her astonishment. 'Are you sure?'

Lydia gave a wry smile. 'They're quite hard to mistake.'

'I didn't mean are you sure it's a nun. I meant are you sure it's their table?'

'It must be. It's the only one apart from ours that's set for more than four people. Unless the Hitchc.o.c.ks are dining in a private room and we're sharing the restaurant with a Catholic convention.'

Lettice got up to see for herself, taking an unconvincingly casual stroll across the terrace to peer through the dining-room windows. 'Well, it's definitely a nun,' she confirmed. 'A Sister of Our Lady of Sorrows, if I'm not mistaken.' She caught Josephine's bemused expression and explained: 'We designed Measure for Measure recently, so I know what their costumes are like a it's all to do with the wimple. I've no idea what she's doing there. She must have sat down at the wrong table.'

Ronnie smiled. 'She's in for a shock, then.'

'They are Catholics,' Marta said. 'Alma converted to marry him.'

'Even so, you don't take your religion on holiday, do you? I'm a well-brought-up Church of England girl, but if I took the vicar of St Martin's off to the South of France with me whenever I fancied it, he'd never have time to deliver a sermon, let alone write one.'

There was a queue to take issue with Ronnie's claim, but Archie got in first. 'If you took a vicar to the South of France, he'd be in no position morally to do either,' he said, smiling sweetly at his cousin. 'You're a menace, even to the most spiritually certain among us.'

'Just because I don't wait twenty years between romances . . .'

'Perhaps. .h.i.tchc.o.c.k has insisted on fancy dress,' Josephine suggested. 'From what you were saying earlier, that's just the sort of thing he'd find funny. The next time we look, we'll probably see a vicar, a tart and someone dressed as Dracula.'

Marta looked over to the next table, where an unattractive middle-aged man was leering at a waitress, delivering a monologue which she seemed professionally obliged to endure. 'I think one or two of them have arrived already,' she said. 'It's like something out of Nightwood.'

'What?'