A Twist of Fate (22 page)

‘We've discussed this already. I didn't mean what I said.'

‘So how come I've got a load of photographers camped outside?'

My heart sank. I'd prayed they wouldn't cotton onto Rupert. ‘Oh shit.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Have you been out?'

‘Yeah. Felt like the bloke in that
Forty Shades
film.'

‘Fifty.'

‘What?'

‘Never mind. Did they get a picture of you?'

‘Of course they bloody did!'

‘Was it clearly you?'

‘What? What was I supposed to do, Callie? Go out with a balaclava on?'

‘Don't get annoyed.'

‘Well, it's a bit weird being the boyfriend who isn't really actually the boyfriend.'

Guilt threatened to upend me. ‘I'm sorry.'

Silence.

‘Where are you?'

‘At home,' I lied.

‘Alone?'

I moved further down the corridor, almost to the front door so that I couldn't even sense Paul. ‘Rupert …' I sighed.

‘Can I come over?'

‘Not right now.'

‘Later?'

‘Umm … OK. Three?'

‘Three. I'll be there. What if I'm followed?'

‘Don't worry about it. I'll see you later. Bye then.'
End call.

That was it. I headed back to the kitchen. ‘That was …'

‘Randolph.'

‘Rupert.'

‘Oh yeah, him. Bear boy.'

I gave Paul a weary look. ‘How can you possibly be jealous after all we've just been through?'

He raised his eyebrows innocently. ‘I'm not. Just think he's got a stupid name.'

‘I'll have to see him. He's seen the papers, saw the show. He's confused.'

‘I bet he is. Put him right, Cal.'

‘I will. He just doesn't seem to take the hint.'

‘You don't want to be giving him hints. Tell him it's over for good.'

‘But with all the media stuff and … It's such a bloody mess. The only time I feel safe is when I'm with you. Wish I could just be stuck to you all day. Wish I could carry you around with me all day.'

‘That I could get used to. Being inside you all day.'

‘I didn't mean that.'

‘No, but it sounds good, doesn't it?' He came up and wrapped his arms around me.

‘Uh-huh,' I murmured.

We were soon doing it again on the kitchen floor. By the time we'd peeled ourselves off the oak boards, brunch was ruined.

Twenty-five

I had to go at some point. I figured I could make it from Battersea to Chiswick in half an hour if the Tube was running smoothly. With a sausage inside me, I kissed Paul goodbye, only able to leave in the knowledge that I'd see him later – he was coming round to the flat.

I dashed home and immediately rushed about, tossing cushions around and making tea only to throw half a mug away to make it look like I'd been there drinking from it. The doorbell rang five minutes later.

Rupert stood there, his hands in pockets of trousers which barely clung to his gracile hips. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted faintly in the air. ‘Hi,' I said.

He pulled a hand through his hair. ‘They followed me. Probably hoped I'd come here.'

‘Well … let's not stay in anyway. We'll go to Toscana.' The little café was around the corner.

‘Sure that's a good idea? They'll see us together.'

I shrugged. ‘I can't hide away forever.' And if they saw us, it could deflect attention from Paul.

I reached for my bag and keys and paced out, slamming the door behind us. ‘Come on.'

We walked into the street. Immediately, I heard cameras clicking, voices calling my name. ‘What's his name, Callie? Is that Rupert? Where's Paul today? Have you seen him? You looked great on
Jack Northam
! Over here, Callie!'

I kept my head down but made no attempt to distance myself from Rupert.

‘Bloody hell, Cal. This is crazy,' he spat, disdainful of the media circus.

‘Just keep walking.'

Toscana wasn't far. Far from being resentful, I could only admit that I found it all quite exciting, and as I turned into the coffee shop I found myself giggling. ‘What's so funny?' Rupert asked, not giggling.

‘Nothing. It's just a bit silly really, don't you think?'

His face was grim. ‘I'm not enjoying it like you, Callie, especially as I don't even know where the hell I stand.'

My head fell. Paul had told me time and again not to lead him on. I was flooded with guilt. ‘I'll get you a coffee. What do you want?'

‘Double espresso.'

‘That'll calm you down,' I sighed sarcastically.

‘Yeah … well …'

We didn't talk as we waited in the queue, except for me asking after his parents.

We sat halfway down the café, not too close to the windows – my conscience had by now got the better of me.

‘So … what the hell?' he said.

‘What do you mean?'

‘You're not with him, but everyone thinks you are, you're not with me, but you tell everyone you are.'

‘I didn't tell anyone I was with you.'

‘You said you had a boyfriend.'

‘I wanted Northam to stop pestering us.'

‘Us?'

‘Me and Paul.'

‘Oh, right.'

‘I didn't mention any names. I didn't say it was you. I'm sorry they found out about you. They must have been asking friends.'

‘So you lied about having a boyfriend?'

‘Yes. You knew that. I told you.'

‘Bloody hell, Callie. How fucked up are you?'

‘Don't!'

‘Just tell me where I stand. Tell me about us.'

‘OK.' I looked him in the eye and waited for a second's beat before delivering it. ‘I don't want a relationship with you now, Rupert.'

‘Right.' His leg was jiggling frantically under the table. It made a tattooing sound that reverberated into me. ‘Does that mean you'll never be interested in a relationship?'

I stared at him, his lovely, English face, so languid and lean. I'd loved him once, I really had. I'd pictured that face so often, imagined our future, staring out at me from wedding photos, both of us smiling, on the beach with children snuggled between us, around the Christmas table with champagne glasses in hand. Was I to throw all that away?

I squirmed in my seat. The ache in my bottom panged. I felt that guilt again, like I did when I'd done something wrong at school. I thought of Paul pulling the trigger and killing the Afghan father.

I didn't know what to say.

‘Tell me, Callie! Don't you owe me that at least?'

‘I can't, Rupert.'

His face crumpled. ‘Is it this Paul guy? Christ … You and him on that fucking show!'

‘What about the show?'

‘You looked like …' He pulled at his hair almost frantically. His espresso cup was already empty.

‘What?'

‘You looked like you're shagging each other's brains out. You were just so fucking … hot for each other.'

I didn't answer.

‘Are you?'

I caught a glimpse of the photographer waiting outside.

‘Of course not. Don't be silly.'

Don't be silly
. It was my stock phrase. I'd got it from my mother. If in doubt, put the onus on everyone else, make them feel the stupid one, most useful when said in a condescending tone, as if speaking to a three year old.

‘Well, you know what, Callie? I don't know what the hell you want, so … I'm off. That's it. I'm sick of waiting.' He stood up. He actually stood up. I stared blankly. ‘When you came back I really thought we'd make it work. God, I love you, Callie. I love you so fucking much, but I'm not going to waste my life hanging around for you to get your head together.'

‘Rupert, don't be like that.' My stomach turned over so violently I thought I'd be sick. This wasn't right. It was supposed to be me doing this. What had happened to my control? He couldn't do this to me. If anyone was going to end it, it would be me.

But Rupert was doing it. He just had. He stood up and shrugged on his coat. My first thought was that if the photographers saw him leaving without me with a scowl on his face, they'd have ammunition.

‘Rupert!' I stood up. ‘Don't go like this.' He pursed his lips and turned away. I walked after him, trying to keep as close as I could, sort of smiling in a mawkish, gruesome way. He didn't abandon me completely but neither did he smile or turn to me. I felt like a naughty puppy who'd piddled in the corner and was tagging along guiltily.

The cameras clicked away. It was like being in some sort of mad hell. I wanted Paul back inside me, nothing else worked.

We reached the door of my flat, which Rupert had to walk past to get to the Tube.

‘Do you want to come up?' I offered.

‘No.'

‘Rupert, I … Look, it's for the best, but … don't be like this.'

‘I think you're shagging him.'

‘Well, don't think that.' Could I get away with that? Was it ambiguous enough without another outright lie?

I noticed the photographers and quickly reached up and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Goodbye. Still friends?'

Rupert's face twisted. ‘Jesus Christ, Callie. Get some help.'

And he turned and walked off.

I just about made it into my flat before I burst into tears. They didn't stop for nearly an hour. It was the first time I'd cried properly since being on the island.

Twenty-six

When Paul came round later, I nearly felt like letting him come in through the front. Perhaps that's what he wanted. Perhaps it would be best, rather than this ridiculous game of hide-and-seek, the game where my heart hid from my head.

But he made his way through my garden and into the kitchen. I had the whole ground floor of a Chiswick townhouse, yes, subsidised by the Bank of Mummy and Daddy. I could tell that was exactly what Paul was thinking when he looked around. ‘Nice place.'

‘Thanks.'

‘You all right?' he asked, coming over and searching my face.

‘I told him.'

He visibly slackened with relief. ‘Good on you, Callie.'

‘Well, actually, he told me.'

‘Ah.'

‘Didn't go exactly how I intended.'

‘But you got what you wanted in the end.'

I looked at him. He was smiling down at me, just like he had on the plane that day, wonky and sexy as hell. Only this time he was mine, if I wanted him.

‘Yes. I got what I wanted.'

Much kissing, steak, salad, more kissing, summer pudding, and a great deal of sex later, Paul Mason was asleep in my bed. I watched him for a while, how his eyelashes dusted his face as he slept, how his hair always mussed up in a particularly erratic way, how his stubble grew almost visibly as I watched. And then, wondering what the hell I'd ever worried about, I was asleep next to him.

The next few days were happy. Completely happy. We saw each other nearly every night. If I had moments of unease during the day – having to turn down an invitation to go out with the girls and lie about why – as soon as Paul showed up, I was good again. A few pictures had appeared of me with Rupert, but the press was unconvinced. In all of them he was referred to as my ex-boyfriend. My little show hadn't worked. Some sort of divine retribution seemed to have been exacted; I had attempted one thing and achieved the exact opposite.

I discussed it with Paul, who tolerated my insecurities about revealing our relationship. The Rupert issue had gone away, and as long as we could see each other he was happy to support my efforts to maintain our secret.

But what happened that Monday morning was still fucking horrible.

I was in Dean Street, having done a radio show about music that had helped me in difficult times. It was a show I'd listened to and enjoyed and I was happy to do it when they asked me. I'd started to repay my parents for my townhouse subsidy with the money I'd earned from my media appearances, easing my conscience and setting me on a new path of determined independence.

I texted Paul after the radio show but didn't hear back. He would be busy with work. Fewer paparazzi were around and life was beginning to seem relatively normal again. I would be back at school in a few days, and the rigour of dealing with lesson plans, admin, and the bustle of bright, hormonal teenagers would soon force me back to reality.

I found myself outside a coffee shop and went in. I could use an infusion of decent Arabica.

There was a queue and I took out my phone while waiting. Still nothing from Paul.

‘Oh, it's Caroline!'

I turned to the familiar voice, one which spoke my name with immediate condescension. It was Dawn Turner. And sitting opposite her was Paul.

I stared from one to the other. Paul just looked back at me, his face impassive. My immediate reaction was to hit him, not so much for the fact that he was with her, but that he didn't say anything or even react to my presence.

‘Caroline? You remember me?'

Of course I remember you, you stupid bitch
. That's what I thought. What I said was, ‘Yes, of course. How are you?'

‘Great. Things are really, really good at the moment.'
Spare me the self-congratulations
. Dawn grinned predatorily at Paul. ‘Look who I've managed to coax out of his hole. You're not the only one he'll come out and play for.' She smiled at me and then winked. She actually winked. I switched my urge to hit someone from Paul to her.

‘Dawn and I are having coffee,' said Paul, so unnecessarily it was almost comical.

‘Yes. I can see that,' I replied, ice crystals forming on my words.

‘Just coffee,' he said, as if I needed to be reassured that they hadn't been boffing wildly on the table just before I came in. ‘Can I get you one, Callie?' he added as an afterthought.