Darkest (11 page)

“Hey, I’d have told you sooner if I’d known you’d be so demonstrative. I didn’t like the thought of you driving around in that death-trap. If I couldn’t get you to dump the monster—and you clearly wouldn’t be doing that—this seemed to be the next best option. I’m glad you’re pleased.”

“Pleased! I don’t know how to thank you. Really!”

“Oh, I think you’ve got a good idea how I’d like to be thanked…” His wry, sexy smile hovers over me as he shoves me back onto the springy grass.

“Is it time for more makeup sex?”

His grin is sexy and wicked, and I know this is going to be very, very good. “Oh yes, I think it is.”

Chapter Seven

“I don’t want to go back. I didn’t back then, and now I definitely don’t. I want to stay here.”

We’re strolling back down the hillside, hands loosely linked, discussing our immediate and longer-term future.

“Why not? Ben seems nice enough, and your work’s fascinating. Isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose so. But I want to stay here.”

“It’s not so simple. I understand you’re under contract. You can’t just walk out halfway through the job.”

I stiffen, my heart sinking. I honestly never even considered this possibility. I look up at Nathan nervously, hoping he’ll have the answers. “Contract? I guess so. Shit! But there must be some way out, some loophole?”

“Possibly. I’ll ask my legal team to have a look, if you like. But don’t rely on that as your exit route. My guess is that Oxford University have trodden this path enough times—they’ll have come across this situation before and their paperwork will be pretty tight.”

“Oh no. Oh God. What if they sue me? I’m not going back there. No way.” I’m really starting to panic now, but Nathan squeezes my hand, calm as ever in my moment of crisis.

“Tell me why you think you can’t go back.”

“Because, because—it’ll happen again. I know it will. It was being there, being locked in there that triggered whatever it was, whatever went wrong…” I can hear the old panic in my voice, I know I’m babbling, not making sense. I’m running on pure emotion now. The only thing that’s absolutely crystal clear is my terror at the prospect of being forced to return to Oxford and face that situation again.

Nathan’s voice is calm, authoritative. “It won’t. You don’t have to go back, we’ll work something out. But, Eva, if you did ever decide to return, there’s no reason to think you’ll have another episode like that. Why would you?”

“I would. I know I would.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Because you’re a fast learner. You’d spot the signs and get help. Or Ben would. Or your mother would. Or I would. You didn’t talk to anyone before, had no chance to understand what was happening. It’ll never be like that again.”

“But I don’t know what caused it. If I don’t know why it happened, I can’t stop it happening again.”

“Stress caused it, like it always does. Too much adrenaline surging around and nowhere to use it up. When neither fight nor flight’s an option, maybe you just turned it on yourself. I’m no psychiatrist, but I do know this is an illness like any other so it can get better. It can be cured. You’re well again now, and we’ll help you stay that way. And if you’re determined not to work in Oxford again you’ll need to do some sort of a deal with Ben.”

“What deal? I’m not going back to Oxford.” I can feel my heart rate spiking at that very prospect of being forced back into my old life.

“I don’t think he expects you to. He just wants you to finish the project you started.”

“But how can I…?”

He squeezes my hand again, this time pulling me to a stop to face him. “Eva. You must know better than anyone that you can work anywhere. It doesn’t matter where you’re based, you can connect to your department online, work remotely. You can live here, or anywhere else for that matter, and still complete your contract. You just need to talk to Ben about it. Work something out. Negotiate.”

“I’ve never been any good at negotiating.”

“Well I am, so I’ll do it for you. With you. It’ll be fine, love. We’ll work out a compromise.”

* * * *

“Yes, you can stay here. No problem. We’ll need to involve an associate faculty in a university in this area, one of the Russell Group preferably. Leeds would do. Or Manchester. You’d need to check in there quite frequently, and keep in regular touch with me as the project leader.”

We’re all three of us seated at the kitchen table, the scene of so many of my most dramatic moments of late, a pot of tea between us. Very civilised. Ben’s been incredibly laid-back about this change in plans. I suspect Nathan’s right—his main priority is to ensure that his flagship project is completed. He could probably invoke some contractual commitment as a last resort, but he’d much prefer my willing participation. So he’s ready to make a deal.

“Leeds would be convenient,” I agree. Nathan nods, looking distinctly enthusiastic. The prospect of spending more time in Leeds, together, is not unattractive.

“Leeds is good,” agrees Ben. “I know the Chair of Linguistics there, and their School of Computing Studies is one of the best in the world. Yes, Leeds will do very nicely. I’ll get in touch with them and set up the meeting. Are you available next week at all?”

And so, yet another of my apparently insurmountable problems is settled with a few words over a pot of tea. Amazing.

In the event it took three weeks to set up the meeting with the Faculty of Computing Science at the University of Leeds. The chair of the department was away scuba-diving in the Seychelles and her secretary insisted on waiting till she returned to work before making any arrangements.

Ben stayed with us a couple of days then headed back to Oxford. I expected my mother to be anxious to get back to the bright lights of London too, but apparently not. Nathan invited her to stay as long as she liked, and much to my amazement she said she thought a little holiday in the countryside would be very pleasant. She moved into my old room, tactfully offering no comment as to the reasons for its being available for her to use, and she seems set to stay there indefinitely. And despite all my misgivings I am enjoying spending time with her. We’ve talked more this last three weeks than I think we have in the last ten years.

We’re frequently left to ourselves as Nathan has had to go into his office most days and the rest of the household have their own stuff to get on with. So, sitting around Nathan’s kitchen table, nursing mugs of Earl Grey, we’ve talked a lot about me, my life, my aspirations, my dreams.

In the past I’ve been secretive and evasive because I always expected her to have a view. A strong view. To want to mould or direct me, convince me I ought to do things her way. Or, failing persuasion, just to insist that I do. Now it seems that she just wants to listen. To understand. To be included in my plans. Maybe that’s all she ever wanted. Whatever—I daresay I can manage that.

And we’ve discussed her dreams too. I never knew she was nursing a secret ambition to tour the USA in a mobile home. We’re making plans to go, and wondering if we could persuade Nathan to let Rosie and Grace come with us—and Amy if she stays—make it a real girls’ road trip.

And we’ve talked a lot about my dad. Listening to my mum’s side of it, it’s clear that their marriage was rocky from the start. He was a lovely man in many ways, and I adored him. He was a wonderful father, but a crap husband. I can see that now, especially his infidelities, which were pretty much a permanent feature of their married life. My mum adored him, too, at the beginning, and I now understand how hard she tried to make it work, for her sake and for mine. She was patient, long-suffering, loyal. She’d thought he’d change, settle down to family life. Especially after I was born.

But he didn’t. She turned a blind eye for years, not fancying the prospect of single parenthood, but was at the end of her tether by the time he was killed. She was on the point of leaving him to preserve her own self-respect and delivered her ultimatum. They had a massive row about it just before he left to fly that final time. Ever since she’s been convinced he was distracted by the problems at home, and particularly by the prospect of losing me, and wasn’t concentrating. And she’s lived with that guilt all these years.

I told her about Nathan’s suggestion that we should visit his grave, together—get some sort of closure. She’s agreed that that would be the right thing to do, the healing thing to do. But there’s no grave. He was cremated, and his ashes just scattered in the crematorium grounds. So we’ve agreed to try to locate the spot where his plane came down in Scotland, the place where he died. Nathan’s set his investigator chap off on a quest to identify the exact location, and maybe we’ll approach the current landowner about placing some sort of memorial there. A garden, maybe. Both me and my mum quite like the idea of a memorial garden.

Rosie has taken to my mum, and so has Grace. But the real surprise is how my formidable mother has hit it off with Nathan. I thought she’d hate him, especially when it was so obvious we were sleeping together. Not a bit of it. They were on first name terms by the first lunchtime. “Call me Victoria,” she insisted. “All my friends do.” She was already warming to him in the kitchen that first morning before either Nathan or I got up, having had an hour of Rosie singing his praises. And mine, too, it would seem. I gather her good opinion faltered somewhat when he was such an arse to me and I slapped his face, although, Hiroshima moment or not, I suspect she would have stopped short of gouging his eye out with her heel as he had feared. But her faith was restored by the way he charged after me and rugby tackled me in the backyard. She tells me she always was a sucker for a forceful man. If only she knew. Best not to dwell on that, though—maternal forbearance has its limits, I daresay.

* * * *

It’s early September and we are all gathered in the sitting room at Black Combe watching some tacky reality TV show. Nurse Amy and Tom are with us, engaged in one of their relentless games of chess. They’re both keen players and both pretty good, but Tom mostly wins. Rosie, as ever, is begging to play the winner. That match won’t last long.

“Is that piano tuned up, love?” My mother’s question breaks into the companionable near-enough silence around the room.

I look up. “Yes, I got a bloke in to tune it soon after I came here. While Nathan was away abroad.” It had seemed a pity to me to leave such a lovely instrument in poor repair and I’d thought maybe Rosie might like to learn.

“So, play for us then. Please. It’s been a long time since I listened to you playing the piano.”

“Not that long, mum.”

“Long enough. Please, love.”

“Please, Eva. Please, please, please.” Rosie has thrown her pester power behind my mother’s request, and Nathan’s interest is obviously piqued too. I suspect I know why, and his response to my playing may well not be suitable for mixed company. Any sort of company.

That’s his problem. I love to play the piano and don’t take a lot of persuading. I shrug my agreement, rolling off the settee where I’d been snuggled up in Nathan’s arms. I stroll over to the piano and lift the lid, feeling confident. I’m good on the violin, not at all bad on the guitar once I get into it. But piano? Concert standard.

I tinkle a few keys, listening for the tone, flexing my fingers. Then I sit down on the padded stool, position myself so my feet can reach the pedals. I run my fingers along the keyboard a couple of times before looking around. The chess players have taken time out, the TV is turned off. Seems I’m centre stage.

“Any requests?” The usual question is met with the customary response.

“No. You choose.” Nathan has followed me over to the piano and is leaning on the wall behind me. He straightens and leans forward to whisper in my ear, “Choose something sexy, sensual, life affirming. You know the sort of thing…” He kisses my neck as I nod dumbly. I do indeed know the sort of thing.

I suspect, though, that he doesn’t expect church music to fall into that category. I know better. The first strains of
Lord of the Dance
capture everyone’s imagination, get most feet tapping. Rosie leaps to her feet to demonstrate her approach to Irish dancing, and out of the corner of my eye I catch Amy, efficient as ever, moving to shift the teacups from the coffee table before the lot goes flying. I glance up at Nathan, who is smiling at me, happy, relaxed. And there’s pride there too. He’s proud of me.

Yes, this is definitely life affirming. My fingers fly across the keys, the melody speaking of resilience, struggle, triumph, and I think of my own journey over recent months to come to this. The strains die away to clapping, whooping, whistling from around the room. Cries of “More”, “Encore” and “Again, again” from Rosie.

I think for a moment, and decide on something a little more spiritual this time. A particular favourite of mine, a difficult but in my view absolutely beautiful piece,
Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring
by good old Johann Sebastian Bach. Not so well known perhaps, but not short on sensuality. Nathan’s hand is on my shoulder as the delicate melody unfolds, the notes trickling from the keyboard like a waterfall, flowing and fluid and haunting. His fingers tighten, and it’s almost painful. As before, as with
Bolero
, I know I have him. And as before, I’m playing just for him now, only dimly aware of the presence of others around us. I lean over the keys, my eyes closed, concentrating on the music, on building and releasing the harmonies. No one moves, no dancing now. Just listening as the music takes over, reaches its crescendo, then drops away.

Eventually the last strains fade and the room is silent. I lean back, sensing rather than feeling Nathan who is still behind me, his hands on both my shoulders.

My mother breaks the silence. “
Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring
. I always liked that one.”

Nathan tightens his grip on my shoulders, leans down. His words are murmured, for my ears only. “This particular man’s desiring just hit danger levels. Let’s take this upstairs.”

* * * *

After three weeks of cooling my heels, hill walking, violin duets, piano solos and bonding with my mother, the middle of September sees Nathan and me heading back to Leeds. Rosie went back to school a couple of weeks ago, keen to show off her new musical talent, and was invited to play to her whole class. She was positively glowing with pride as she told us all about it at the tea table that day, and her happy chatter has been full of her new teacher, Miss Andrews, the redoubtable Miss Snow’s replacement.