Cold Pressed (19 page)

"Oh dear. What will you say when she finally catches up
with you? She will, you can guarantee it."

"I'll deny all knowledge of running away, or claim
forgetfulness. I cultivate that air from first impressions. Sitting at the
wrong table, unable to recall people's names, searching for my glasses when
they're on my head. The dotty professor act."

"You didn't fool me."

"I didn't try to. What is this wine, please? It's quite
lovely."

Beatrice fetched the bottle and handed it to him. He removed
his glasses to read the label.

"Ah, a Portuguese Dão. I went on a tasting tour up the
Douro valley two years ago. Loved every drop. Have you been?" He looked up
at her. Lamplights reflected in his hazel irises and dark lashes framed his
eyes, surprisingly naked without his glasses. She returned to her seat, leaving
him with the bottle.

"No, but it's on the list. Last time we went
wine-tasting was to Hungary. That was a revelation."

"I'm sure it was. I've heard great things." He
sprang out of the chair in a supple movement and placed the bottle back on the
table. Whilst on his feet, he approached a print depicting a Greek fishing
village. He stood in front of it with his hands folded behind his back, in the
style of Prince Phillip.

"I must say guest suites certainly have the edge. Wine,
space, artwork and soft furnishings are all quite superior. But I suppose the
view is the same for us all. And what a view it is." He replaced his
glasses and walked to the window. Beatrice felt a peculiar sense of relief at
having a barrier between her and Oscar's eyes.

She joined him to gaze at the Palace of the Grand Master of
the Knights of Rhodes, as imposing a sight over the city as Castle Rock over
Edinburgh. They sipped their wine in appreciative silence.

"You said '
we
went wine tasting'. I presume
you're referring to Mr Stubbs?"

She shook her head and returned to her spot, tucking one leg
under herself, wishing the conversation would take another turn. “There is no
Mr Stubbs.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He sat in the armchair once more, waiting for her to
continue, his brogues keeping time with the Brahms.

"No, no. I meant we’re not married. Matthew and I have
been together over twenty years but never..."

"Got around to it?" offered Oscar.

"No, no. Made it official, I was going to say. I'm sure
marriage is a wonderful thing for some people. It just never appealed to
me."

The piano and cello reached a crescendo, as if attempting to
score the conversation. Oscar rested his chin on his hand and studied her. She
scratched her temple, swilled her wine around the glass and willed him to look
away.

He smiled, as if sensing her discomfort. "So that poor
man, besotted by this elusive and brilliant butterfly, proposes every year on
Christmas Eve, hoping in vain to capture the object of his desire. But no. She
flutters into his garden, accompanied by sunshine and rainbows, stays awhile,
but refuses to be netted."

The wine had gone to her head and she flushed. "I'll
tell him about that image. He'll find it hilarious. Especially the butterfly
bit. One of his daughters refers to me as Beatrice the Bull Elephant ever since
an awkward incident in a Totnes delicatessen. We were admiring a display of
exotic spices in a glass case. Unfortunately, a rather forceful sneeze took me
by surprise. My forehead hit the glass and it shattered, exploding colourful
spices everywhere. That was seven years ago and I still occasionally find
grains of turmeric in my ear."

Oscar threw back his head and laughed, a warm, deep sound.
His shoulders shook and his stomach bounced.

"If I could exchange all the money I paid for this
cruise just to have been present at that moment, I would do so twice. Those
shopkeepers are probably still telling that story."

"I wouldn't know. Unsurprisingly, we've never been
back."

Oscar got to his feet. "I feel duty-bound to have one
last glass of the Dão before leaving you to your rest. You will join me, DI
Stubbs?"

"I should coco. A wine like that cannot be ignored. Are
you peckish? There's nuts and whatnot in the cupboard."

He offered the wine and she held out her glass. He kept his
eyes on the carmine stream, only glancing at her as he finished. Again, she
felt the jolt of adrenalin. Danger, yes. But what kind? He settled back in his
place and refilled his own glass, still with a slight smile.

"Thank you, but after bolting three courses to escape
The Boston Badger, not even nuts and whatnot could tempt me. How about you? Did
Inspector Stephanakis enjoy dinner with the boss? Where did you eat?"

"I'm not his boss. We're equals on this one. We went to
The Sizzling Grill. We both had the ribs but with different sauces. I never
want to eat anything else. Ever."

Oscar's face creased into another laugh. "My wife used
to say the same thing. After every holiday, every memorable meal, every concert
she'd enjoyed. Always vowed to move there, or eat, drink and listen to nothing
else." He gazed into his wine, his face soft in recollection.

"If you don't mind my asking, how did you meet
her?"

Oscar looked up in surprise. "Many people start a
question the same way, but they want to know about the end, not the beginning.
As always, Beatrice Stubbs is different." He raised his glass in an ironic
toast, then sipped.

"She was a mature student. Not one of mine, I stress. I
had rules about that sort of thing. But she assisted me at a couple of conferences.
One evening, I wanted to return to my hotel room to prepare some slides. She
challenged me. Language, she said, is a living thing. You cannot study it from
behind a microscope. Come out in the city with me, let's listen and talk and
get Jane Goodall with the natives. She bullied me out of the library and into
an all-night cafe in Copenhagen. We continued adventuring for sixteen years
until bowel cancer took her in 2007. Without her, I have regressed to my
natural state. Playing it safe."

The CD came to an end and silence swelled to fill the space.
Beatrice realised she had deflated the mood.

"I'm sorry you lost her so early. I'm also glad you
found someone so remarkable and enjoyed her company for many years."

His smile was that of a weary child. "Yes, I know how
lucky I've been. The problem is that she showed me the joy of life. Now I'm
back behind the microscope, observing but not getting involved. My daughter
despairs of me and still holds out hope that someday I'll meet someone to break
through the glass. Good Lord, we've turned maudlin. I'd best cede the floor to
you as your spice cabinet mishaps are far more entertaining."

"Mishap. It was only the once. Thank you for being so
honest and I'm sorry if I dragged up old wounds. Shall I tell you the story of
the time a bee flew up my trouser leg?"

He smiled but shook his head. "Fair's fair. I told you
mine. Now I want to hear about Not-Mr-Stubbs. How did you meet?"

The words were out of her mouth before she'd decided to
speak.

"I stole him."

Chapter 21

Beatrice looked at her wine glass as if it had
betrayed her. Several well-rehearsed fabrications lay at her disposal, and
other than those directly involved, few people knew the reality. She'd not even
told Adrian. So why this sudden impulse to share the less palatable elements of
her past with a near stranger? After twenty-four years, the burden of truth
didn't get any heavier. If James were here, he would ask her to examine her
motives before saying any more. But he wasn't here. It was just her and Oscar.

He set down his glass, crossed his legs and folded his hands
around his knee. A patient listener. She took a large swig of wine and began.

"I grew up in the Gloucestershire countryside. Stone
walls, quaint towns and charming hedgerows. Quiet, just the way my parents
liked it. They had accepted their childlessness and I believe they had begun to
enjoy it when I came along. I was a solitary child; content to read, listen to
adult conversation or play with an elderly Labrador called Horace. On my first
day at school, I sat next to a pretty blonde girl called Pamela Pearce. Without
even asking my name, she informed me she was an only child and her two
favourite things were steamed pudding and picking scabs. With so much in
common, we naturally became immediate friends. Ersatz sisters, I suppose,
throughout our school days.

“When we got older, she attended my graduation ceremony and
I was her bridesmaid. She was the first person I called when I was accepted
into the CID. She made me godmother to her eldest. While I thrived on the daily
battle that is life in London, she was content to be a housewife and mother in
the country, joining the school committee and all that. Her husband was a
university don and a lot older than us, but he seemed pleasant enough. Pleasant,
if rather dull. I liked visiting for the occasional weekend, seeing the girls,
enjoying Pam's company, although I was always relieved to get back to my little
flat in the East End. Pam travelled up to see me once and was terribly anxious
the whole time. What's the phobia where you are afraid of crowds?"

"Agoraphobia."

"Is it? I thought that was open spaces. Well, she had
the most awful time and we both agreed it was better if I did the
visiting."

Oscar listened with complete attention, not even touching
his wine. Beatrice took another swig and pressed on. The story seemed desperate
to be told.

"In 1988, Professor Matthew Bailey gave a series of
weekly lectures at The British Museum. Pam pleaded with me to look after him. I
think she was projecting her own experience, because he was perfectly at ease
alone in the city. He actually preferred his own company. I made excuses the
first couple of times, but then caved and took him to the Docklands. A bunch of
art students had put on an exhibition in the Port Authority Building. I thought
he'd hate it. He didn't."

"You mean...?"

Beatrice brought herself back over the decades and focused
on her companion.

"Yes. No one had any idea how significant it would turn
out to be, least of all me. Anyway, I bought him fish and chips and felt I'd
done my duty. Of course, his typical old school manners meant he had to return
the favour, and pretty soon it became a weekly event. He'd come up on the
train, give his lecture and then we'd do something cultural and argue about it.
It's hard to explain. He was so different. You see, my life was made up of
answers. Matthew was all about questions."

She fell silent, recalling how reluctance, by imperceptible
degrees, shifted to anticipation and eagerness.

Oscar's voice almost startled her. "You fell in
love." His tone was comprehending and sympathetic, with no hint of
judgement.

"Yes. It sort of crept up on me. One evening, as we
said our polite goodbyes at Green Park, I saw the same thing in his eyes.
Nothing happened. No passionate kisses in the rain or a tearful flight across a
photogenic bridge; it wasn't a bloody Richard Curtis film. I just looked at him
and knew this was it. The best and worst thing in my life. I'd fallen in love
with my best friend's husband, so my choices were destruction or
destruction."

Oscar stood and poured a little more Dão into her glass.
"An impossible position. What did you do?"

Beatrice realised she was scratching at the scar on her
wrist. She laced her hands in her lap. She had to finish the story and get
Oscar to leave. Her desire for solitude whined like the spin cycle of a
washing-machine.

"I stopped seeing him. I told him I was too busy,
volunteered for overtime, spent every waking hour at work, refused his calls,
the whole five yards. It was agony. His lecture series finished and I thought I
was in the clear. Then Pam invited me to Marianne's first communion."

"Your god-daughter?"

"Yes. I couldn't refuse. I spent weeks counselling
myself and practising detachment. The second I saw him, everything fell apart.
I was so jumpy Pam even asked if I was taking anything. Can't recall anything
of the communion, just a blur of white dresses, singing, fizzy wine, ribbons
and this pulsing presence I had to ignore. Matthew was supposed to take me to
the station. He said nothing but drove us instead to a beauty spot by the
river. We sat on a bench and talked. He loved me, I loved him and neither of us
had done it on purpose, but there it was. A few days later, he told Pam, and
then the girls. He moved out to a cottage nearby. I stayed in London and we
gave the relationship a trial period, just seeing each other at weekends. That
trial period has lasted twenty-four years."

"And Pam?"

An ancient pain, like a once-sprained muscle, flared into
life.

"She never spoke to me again. After a period of
ugliness and spite, things settled down. Now we take turns at family events.
The girls ensure our paths never cross. I always intended to build a bridge
once the dust had settled. But what words do you use to say 'I'm sorry I had to
ruin your life to find mine'? I'm still searching."

Oscar rubbed his forehead, pushed himself out of his chair
and stood at the window, facing the view. Beatrice joined him, her stomach
inexplicably fluttery.

"Look, I'm sorry about all that. I normally lie when
people ask me that question. Other than those involved, you're only the third
person I've ever told all the details. And one of those was paid to listen.
Tonight, it just all whooshed out, for some reason. I have no idea why."

Oscar kept his eyes on the lights of Rhodes but a faint
smile smoothed his face. "I think I can hazard a guess. This is a genteel
form of sabre-rattling. You are fluffing your feathers, shaking your quills or
baring your teeth. The entire display, possibly not even on a conscious level,
is designed to make me retreat. The message here is two-fold. Firstly, you
belong to another. And secondly, you want me to think badly of you, as The
Other Woman. Either way, your unusual candour is a warning. I understand. And
I'll back off."