Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (13 page)

twenty-seven

“And you believe him?”

We were in the kitchen. Music oozed through the speakers. Crowded House was singing a depressing song about tears and slow turning pain.

I spread my hands. With the pressure off, and from the safety of my Devon nest, I endeavoured to view things through a less narrow perspective. I could afford to be magnanimous. I could feel sympathy for Stannard. A bit.

Voice raised, arms crossed, Chris remained resistant. “The cops are useless. We both know he won't give up that easily.”

“We
don't
know anything.” Chris's ire might have been overwhelming had I not been schooled in wrath. He'd been edgy and moody from the time I'd stepped through the door the previous evening. I'd tried to jolly him out of it and failed. This was the unattractive side of his personality that pissed off our friends. I felt at a loss how to help, particularly as he appeared to be glued to his mobile. It was as if there were three of us in the room, not two. Chris was not even sufficiently cheered by his purchase of a sleek black Alfa Romeo Brera.

“Look,” I said, making one last attempt to get through to him. “I'm dazed. I want to believe it's all over. I need to believe, do you see? It's the best I can hope for. From your point of view it's not so easy.”

“Not easy?”

“You haven't had time to catch up with the shift in events,” I pushed on. “I appreciate that. In a way I've got the advantage.”

Chris fixed on me, an unyielding expression in his eyes. To deflect him, I did what I'd learnt to do a long time ago: I smiled. Then I explained, “Because I've experienced all this
first-hand
.” I also believed, but didn't say, that men were less able to process
risk-assessment
when it came to their nearest and dearest. Either they were in
hackles-up
,
full-on
defence mode, or they were shooting the breeze, oblivious. As a child, I'd experienced fierce overprotectiveness and
spine-tingling
neglect.

“Have you forgotten yesterday?”

I clenched my jaw, felt a vein pulse in my neck. Seeing Stannard's face had given me an unwelcome insight into how others might view me. I shook my head.

“I can't get the sound of your fear out of my mind. You seemed so crushed, so very frightened. I've never heard you like it before.”

“Did I? I don't think …”

“Have you any idea how crap that makes me feel, how powerless I am to protect you? He could come along at any moment, when he chooses, and I can't do a damn thing about it.” Weary, he drew up a chair at the kitchen table and sat down. “Maybe you're right. I just …” His voice tailed off. Sleeves rolled up, he clawed at a bare arm. I caught his despondency and, for reasons I couldn't pin down, I didn't think it was remotely connected to me.

“What?” I reached over, stayed his hand.

He hooked me with his haunted eyes. “This is changing both of us. We mustn't let it. We have to get our lives back.”

“And we can.” I tried not to show fear. When bad things happen to couples or families, it doesn't always unite. Sometimes it shatters. I knew this for a fact. Dad had sought solace with other women; some who wanted me to call them mother. My brothers, that much older, had concentrated on exams and work and, in Luke's case, carving a career. I could see how, rather than bonding us, Stannard had split Chris and me into different camps.

I gave his hand a gentle, hopeful squeeze.

His face relaxed into a smile. “We will be all right, won't we?”

“Of course.” My voice tentative and faltering, I said, “Maybe now is the time to make changes. Good changes, I mean.” I couldn't discern whether Chris was still looking at me with apprehension or expectation. “Perhaps,” I gabbled, “we've both got a bit too comfortable in our own spaces. Maybe we've become selfish and set in our ways, complacent even. I mean,” I said, searching for the right words when all I could find were the wrong ones, “are we always destined to live apart?”

The silence screamed in my face. His expression was unfathomable. I didn't dare move. Then, as if remembering that he was supposed to respond, his face softened. He gave my hand a gentle tug. I got up and edged my way around the table, let him pull me down onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around me, buried his head into my neck.

Yet he didn't utter a single word.

twenty-eight

“Crikey,” Charlie exploded.

Claire looked stunned. “And it's all over?”

“Yes.” It better be.

We were sitting in the shade on the small terrace outside the kitchen, overlooking the creek. Blades of sunshine played off the water.
Iridescent-looking
insects hovered above the
glassy-green
surface. I'd opened champagne in a feeble attempt at celebration, my conversation with Chris, or rather the lack of it, seriously undermining my confidence. I couldn't rule out the niggling fear that he didn't want me to move to Devon on a permanent basis. Perhaps my regular absences were part of the appeal of the relationship and that, I realised, meant that Chris was the one with the power. I'd heard a theory that whoever declared their love first was always at a disadvantage thereafter. I couldn't remember who said what and when at the beginning of our love affair. I'd never considered it before, but now it needled me. Stannard had turned things
upside-down
, infiltrating both our lives in a way never anticipated.

We ate a light mousse of freshly caught Salcombe crab followed by crisply glazed duck breasts seared by my new culinary toy. I'd spent the afternoon getting the hang of using the blowtorch, sealing meat, skinning tomatoes and peppers, caramelising sugar and fruit and anything else that moved. My childhood accident ensured an almost phobic fear of fire and heat, but it wasn't so bad as long as I could control it—gas flames on a hob were okay, likewise irons and fires in grates as long as there was a guard in front—but I wouldn't venture near bonfires, and the thought of burning buildings almost induced a panic attack. That afternoon, in the sanctity of my own kitchen, it took nerves of steel to conquer my intrinsic fear. But I did. From an early age, it was what had always been expected of me. Get a Grip should have been my surname.

Over coffee, Charlie and Chris discussed the merits of various cars, talking torque,
electro-hydraulics
, and cylinders. It took a lot of effort on my part not to feel drawn in.

“Why didn't you tell me about him, Kim?”

I looked at Claire. “Stannard?”

“Yes.”

I saw hurt in her eyes and Claire was the last person I'd ever wish to offend. “If I talked about it, I risked giving it oxygen. It would make it all too real.”

“As though he'd won already?”

“Something like that.”

She let out a sigh.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Nothing
meant something. I attempted to force the issue, but Claire simply said, “I only wished you'd told me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I knew something was up the night of the dinner party.”

“Yes, but it's over now, thank God.”

After a brief uncomfortable silence, Claire asked if I'd seen anything of Molly and Simon.

“I went round for dinner recently.” It felt like a confession. After all, I'd discussed Stannard with them at some length before I'd even mentioned him to Claire. I decided to change the subject and asked after the Chadwicks.

“I received a
thank-you
phone call from Lottie and an invite to a drinks party next month. I think we were asked out of a sense of guilt,” Claire confided with a laugh.

“Are you going?”

“You must be kidding. I'd rather walk barefoot through nettles. Anyway, I don't think I'll be feeling much in the mood.” I observed the accompanying shy smile. There was something familiar in her expression. I'd witnessed it three times before.

“You're not …”

“Four months gone,” Claire beamed.

“Oh, Claire,” I said, reaching over and kissing her on the cheek.

“She's been suffering badly with morning sickness this time, so we're hoping it might be a girl,” Charlie said, breaking off from his conversation with Chris.

“Bound to be, they're always the source of trouble,” Chris laughed, slapping Charlie on the top of his arm. “You're building up quite a brood.”

Claire wrinkled her nose in delight and looked lovingly at her husband. “We always wanted a big family, didn't we?”

I watched my friends with a stab of envy. They looked so content in that rare way when two people are clearly meant for each other. Looking at Claire's face, soft and serene in the candlelight, I longed for what she had: a lasting relationship that was solid and stable. It didn't diminish how I felt about work, which
was
important to me, but I needed more. With a rush of
self-knowledge
, I realised Chris and I were living a
make-believe
existence. It was as if we'd never progressed past that first early mad stage of falling in lust, the enforced absences prolonging the mystique and conveniently concealing the flaws. I glanced over to Chris and smiled. He met my eye, held my gaze, then looked down. I creased with disappointment, felt the sparkle fade from my eyes, the sensation cruelly familiar to me. Too often, I'd experienced losing.

The phone rang as soon as Claire and Charlie departed. Chris raced to get it. I slipped off my jacket and watched his face. His monosyllabic response indicated that he was unimpressed by the late-night intrusion. Perplexed by his constant dalliance with the phone, I stood as if spot-welded.

He held the receiver away. “For you.”
Alexa
, he mouthed silently.

Feeling guilty for harbouring suspicion, I stifled a moan and took the phone. “Hi.”

“Is Chris all right? He seemed a bit short.”

“We've just cleared up after dinner and it is quite late.”

“Is it?”

I glanced at my watch. “It's nearly one o'clock in the morning.”

“
Uh-huh
.” She sounded distracted, as though she didn't know where she was.

“Alexa, has something happened? Are you all right?”

“Brooks has been seeing someone else, has done for some time.”

I plumped down on the nearest chair and signalled to Chris to leave me to it. Despite the hour, I could tell this was going to be a long phone call and I didn't have the heart to blow Alexa off. I was starting to think that she phoned me only because she'd alienated everyone else. We weren't even close friends, after all.

An hour later, I put the phone down, yawned, and stretched. Chris was already asleep by the time I showered and climbed into bed. I lay awake listening to his steady breathing, my mind returning to Stannard and the extraordinary effect of seeing him in the flesh—his twisted looks, the way his eyes shone like burning flames in his skull. I'd been afraid, almost to the point of paralysis and, yes, for a strand of time, I'd fallen under his spell. He must have been magnificent. I wondered about the tragic hand of cards he'd been dealt, and the details of the story behind them.

Stories. Every person had one. Not the
once-upon
-
a-time
variety, or tales of the daily round, but
this is what happened that changed me
story. It might include a single event, tragic or otherwise, or an important influence, a parent or lover or mentor. Every day I listened to my client's life histories, replayed them, interpreted, reworked, and retold them. Stories of loss and loneliness, of jealousy and false expectations, of crippling fear and rage. But I hadn't listened to Stannard's story. I'd refused. I'd done what was expected of me. I'd done as I was told. Don't talk to him, they said. Don't engage. Walk away. And I had. But really I'd fled for my own reasons, because when I looked at Stannard's face, I recognised a piece of my own narrative.

And I saw a cruel reflection of my past.

twenty-nine

Heat crushed me. Through
the crack in the curtain, I glimpsed the sun floating high. I heard the splash of water, the low burr of unfamiliar voices, then the sound of an engine spluttering into life and the nasal whine as a boat sped off along the creek.

Aroused by his touch, I'd responded sleepily like I'd done many times before when we'd enjoyed slow, languid sex. But this time was different. This time there was desperation and recklessness. He pinned me down as if he needed to break flesh and bone. There was determination; no violence, but Chris fenced and parried my every move. Not like this, but like that. I felt as if I'd had an affair and been forgiven, and this was his way of repossessing me. Events blurred. Teeth clashed, limbs collided, nails tore, skin on sweaty skin. Stubble rasped against my chin. My lips itched and swelled and bruised. I didn't dare shut my eyes. I moved into another zone where words didn't count or matter, only acts.

He caught hold of me and forced me in front of a long antique mirror that had belonged to my father. Kicking my legs apart, I feasted my eyes on him as he went down on me. My legs trembled as he bent me over and fucked me from behind. Dazzled by the undulating contours of our bodies, I felt revered and dirty, like an actress in my own porn movie. The computerised image flashed into my mind. I snuffed it out. Afterwards I lay there spent, letting the silence seep in.

“Like a drink?” Chris said.

Vodka, I thought. “Fruit juice,” I said.

He pulled on a robe and went downstairs. At that moment I felt a million miles away from Stannard. No longer a nameless, unknowable, frightening entity, he was simply a disfigured man who, for a short period of my life, had shouted for my attention. Sex that morning had reset the boundaries. Like it always did.

I rolled over onto my stomach, one arm outside the bed, the tips of my fingers trailing the polished wooden floor, and heard the sound of voices accompanied by a sudden torrent of laughter. Mystifyingly, I caught a silvery female tone. I rolled out, pulled on a pair of knickers, threw on Chris's shirt, and went downstairs.

Andy sat in the kitchen. A wide smile split his face.
Self-conscious
, I rolled up the collar, did up another button, and briefly wondered what they'd been laughing at, what I'd interrupted. Two men, one woman, I shivered, remembering the painting in my flat.

“I told him his timing was crap,” Chris said in mock despair.

I exchanged a glance. “I didn't hear you arrive, Andy. No camper van?” Andy's mode of transport was a running a gag between us.

“We cycled here.”

“We?” I looked around the kitchen as though someone was about to pop out of a cupboard.

“Jen and me. She's in the loo.”

“Must be mad,” Chris said, handing me a tumbler of juice. “Haven't you got anything better to do at half past ten on a Sunday morning? Newspapers to read, a car to clean, a woman to screw?”

“Leave Jen out of it, and how do you know what we were up to first thing?” Andy grinned.

“Leave Jen out of what?”

I followed the voice. Jen was exactly as Andy described and more: big eyes, big lips, big breasts. Andy carried out the introductions. I apologised for my state of undress.

“Don't worry about it, maid.” Jen pulled up a chair close to Andy. “We're not bothered, are we, babe?” she said, squeezing Andy's meaty thigh.

“Coffee?” Tight at the intrusion, I smiled in a vain effort to conceal it.

Andy nodded.

“Shall I be mother?” Jen said, making to get up.

“No,” I started, swiping the kettle and filling it with water. “Wouldn't dream of it,” I added, forcing a smile. Wasn't Jen's fault she used an expression I couldn't actually stand. My father had once had a fleeting relationship with a
big-breasted
woman fond of the phrase. She was fond of him too and hadn't lasted five minutes.

Jen made herself at home. “Mine's black, two sugars.”

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Chris leant back and linked his hands behind his head.

“We're having a drinks thing in the garden next Saturday,” Andy said.

“You haven't got a garden.”

Jen let out a screech of laughter. “He's right, And.”

“Yard then,” Andy continued, unabashed. “We'd like you both to come.”

I prayed Chris hadn't forgotten.

“Sorry, mate. We can't. It's Kim's birthday.”

“Shit, I forgot, stupid of me.”

“But that's brilliant,” Jen said, eyes popping. “Come to ours on Saturday and we can make it a real party.”

I turned away to mask the expression of frozen horror marching across my features. Andy's bashes were surreal affairs—loads of alcohol and desperate people with nothing discernible in common. Above the clatter of mugs, I heard Chris say four magic words.

“Made other plans, mate.”

I glowed inside. What and where? “What a shame,” I smiled, stamping four mugs of coffee on the table, like bullet points on a PowerPoint presentation.

“Spoilsport.” Jen pouted pink lips. I didn't know her well enough to spot whether it was mock disappointment or the genuine article. “We should go out for a girls' night.”

“I'll check my diary,” I said, with what I hoped was a convincing smile.

“Like the new motor,” Andy said to Chris. “Any chance of a spin?”

“I'll give you a ride on Friday to celebrate six weeks of unfettered freedom.”

Andy grinned and made a passable stab at the chorus of Alice Cooper's “School's Out For Summer.”

Jen gave his arm a playful slap. “You're such a laugh,” she shrieked.

I did my best to turn down the volume. “Andy said you teach at Totnes Leisure Centre, Jen.”

“S'right, keeps me in shape.”

“Certainly does that.” Andy cast her a lascivious grin.

“You should try it, Kim,” Jen said, her gaze locking on to my neck. “It's a good little confidence booster.”

“Not something she needs,” Chris said, smiling at me with an intimacy that made me thrill. Feeling impossibly grateful, I questioned what on earth I was doing standing in my own kitchen in such a state of undress. Fortunately, with curvy Jen in such close proximity, Andy seemed blissfully oblivious. He took a slurp of coffee and asked if I'd got any holiday planned.

“Three weeks,” I said.

“Bloody Norah, and there's you going on about us teachers. What are you two going to get up to?”

“That's the beauty of it,” Chris said with another warm smile.

“Nothing at all,” I agreed, catching his vibe. Yes, things were going to be fine.

“Us girls should get together,” Jen said, returning to a favourite theme.

Maintain the smile, I thought. “Well, I …”

“Better still, we can make it a foursome.”

“Fabulous,” I lied.