Darkest (9 page)

He glances at me, a wry smile on his unsuspecting face as he buttons up his jeans. Has he no fucking idea…?

“Certainly sounds like it.” He turns as Rosie trots back in carrying a half-full glass of water. “Has she been here long, Rosie?” Decency preserved, he’s now ambling about the room assembling socks and a T-shirt. Calmly rummaging in the bottom of his wardrobe for some trainers, he has the sheer idiocy to wink at me.

Rosie is less hesitant now that the Big News has been broken, and happy to fill in the gaps. “A little while. You were still in bed and she said not to wake you because it was very early.”

“A little while…?” He sits on the bed alongside me, and, taking my chin in his palm, drops a quick kiss on my forehead. “It’s fine. We’re fine.” His reassuring murmur is lost on me, sadly. What does he know?

His head cocked to one side, he pulls his old trainers on, watching Rosie carefully as she squirms under his unwavering gaze. “How long have you been up, Rosie?”

“A little while, like I said. Barney wanted to wee so I got up to let him out the back door. It was seven o’clock then. But it was light so I thought it would be all right. It was morning already.” Her earnest, pretty little face is tilted up at her daddy, hoping she’s done the right thing but still not entirely sure.

“The gate-bell was buzzing so I looked at the screen and saw a car. A taxi. And the lady in the pink dress was ringing our bell. So I pressed the button to let her in.”

Pink dress. Yup, sounds like my mother all right.

She’s evidently feeling a little more confident now that her daddy doesn’t seem especially put out by his early morning visitors, and apparently oblivious to my continuing stunned silence, punctuated by occasional gasps of ‘Oh Christ’ and ‘Bugger!’ Wisely ignoring me, Rosie scrambles onto the bed to press on with her account.

“I went out the back door and walked round to the front with Barney and said hello. The taxi drove away. The lady said she was Mrs Byrne, and looking for Evang… Evangel. It was you, Eva. I said it must be you but that you weren’t up yet. I said I’d come upstairs and get you but she said not to, and asked if she could wait. So I let her wait in the kitchen. With the professor. But he wanted to take some pictures so he went out, for a walk.”

“The professor?” Nathan sits alongside us both on the bed, tying his laces.

“He’s nice. He likes Barney. And he takes pictures.”

“Pictures? I see.” Turning to look her full in the face Nathan has adopted his stern look—a look I’ve encountered once or twice myself. “Rosie, you know you’re not supposed to let strangers through the gate unless I tell you it’s okay. Or Mrs Richardson. Or Eva now.” Nathan is gentle with her as always, but firm. Especially where her security and safety are concerned. Rosie knows the rules. Her lip quivers a bit. Nathan pulls on a black T-shirt as he regards her firmly.

“I’m sorry, Daddy. But the lady
is
Eva’s mummy. She looks just like her.”

“I don’t care how pretty she is, you know you should have asked them to wait at the gate and come and told us as soon as they arrived.”

I glance up, warmed by the careless compliment despite my growing horror at this unexpected visitation. Then an optimistic thought hits me—maybe we can limit the damage. She doesn’t need to know about me and Nathan. About us. And I can’t help but sympathise with Rosie, facing her daddy’s displeasure. I’ve been there a time or two. Slipping my arm around her shoulders I give her a little squeeze.

“What exactly did you tell her, Rosie? Where did you say I am?”
Hope springs eternal.

“I told her you were still in bed. With my daddy. That you get very tired so you spend a lot of time in bed with my daddy.”

Or not.

Nathan chuckles, the rat, as I disappear back under the duvet. “Come on, Princess, let’s go meet your visitors then.” I feel the bed shift as he picks her up, and I hear his footsteps crossing the floor.

“Time to get up, Sleeping Beauty.” He flings back at me. “Come downstairs and face the music.”

Half an hour later, freshly showered and dressed in my smartest casual outfit of black slacks and my favourite bright red blouse, I pad along the corridor towards the kitchen. I can hear voices, and—astonishingly—laughter too. I stop in the doorway to see Nathan seated at the kitchen table, Rosie perched on his knee. Tom is here as well, lounging on a chair, his long legs slung out casually in front of him. He’s still got his work boots on—a fact that seems to have escaped Mrs Richardson’s watchful eye. Rosie is chattering away to my mother, who appears to have developed a genuine interest in violin lessons and the intricacies of hatching chicks. Pristine and elegant as always, my mother’s hair is smoothed back into her customary chignon and her slim figure encased in a peach knee-length dress and boxy grey silk jacket. Her dainty perfection contrasts sharply with the workmanlike casual jeans and checked shirt of Tom, and the dark, easy confidence of Nathan.

Nathan is sipping his coffee, smiling occasionally as he listens to the chatter between his daughter and the mother of his thoroughly fucked girlfriend. He doesn’t seem in the least disturbed at being caught in bed with the elegant Mrs Byrne’s one and only daughter, in sharp contrast to that same daughter whose pulse is hitching up to an alarming rate. I remember the breathing trick Nathan taught me and start to concentrate on the steady in and out.

Grace is among the group at the breakfast table too, in her shiny new wheelchair, and Nurse Amy is at the worktop pouring boiling water into the teapot. She turns to take it back to the table and catches sight of me.

“Morning, Eva. Earl Grey for you, is it?”

All eyes swivel in my direction. I stand there, a rabbit caught in headlights, all thoughts of deep breathing scattered. Nathan stands and drops Rosie onto Tom’s knee before coming across the room to me. He stands in front of me, tips my chin up to meet his eyes, and kisses me lightly. The statement is clear.
Mine.

“Your mother’s lovely. Like you.” The words are whispered into my ear, for me only. I smile and he takes my hand and tugs me over to the table, pushing me towards the spare chair next to his. I sit, looking around me at this most unlikely combination of people in my life, suddenly thrown together in the same unlikely place. I cast a guarded look at my mother who smiles warmly at me. Surprised at her apparent approval, or at least lack of disapproval so far, I smile back. I’m starting to think that just maybe, just perhaps, this could all work out all right. Maybe Nathan’s obvious charm offensive has done the trick for me.

Before I can get a word of greeting out, the door opens and Professor Benson, my old boss from St Hilda’s, steps into the kitchen. At just turned forty he’s relatively young to be heading up a prestigious faculty in one of the world’s top universities. He’s a brilliant scholar and a man for whom I have the utmost respect. And on top of all that, he’s just plain nice and my pleasure at seeing him here is genuine. He smiles amiably around the room before taking off his jacket.

“Mr Darke?” His glance shifts between Tom and Nathan, obviously wondering which is which.

“I’m Nathan Darke.” Nathan stands, his hand outstretched.

My old boss steps forward and grasps Nathan’s hand firmly. “Delighted to meet you at last, Mr Darke. I’m Graham Benson. From St Hilda’s College in Oxford. But most people call me Ben. We spoke on the phone.”

What!

Nathan nods, smiles his welcome. And sits down. He gestures to Ben to take the one remaining seat. Nurse Amy pours him a cup of tea. We are all so very cosy. And it’s all so very, very wrong.

What? When? How have Nathan and my old professor ever spoken on the phone?

Ben turns his attention to me. His intelligent eyes are friendly, as ever. I realise how much I’ve missed him.

“It’s lovely to see you again, Eva. You’re looking very well, I must say. Country air obviously agrees with you.”

“Thank you. I
am
well.” But enough of the small talk—it was never my forte in any case. Bewildered, I ask the one question pounding away at my brain. “Did you say you spoke on the phone…? To Nathan? How? When did you…?”

“It was a few weeks ago now…” Ben looks at Nathan for confirmation.

His eyes never leaving mine, Nathan fills in the gaps. “The weekend we were in Leeds. When I asked about why you left Oxford and you refused to tell me. When I went out on the Saturday afternoon.”

The day we had had that massive row and he’d stormed out, telling me to get out, to be gone before he came back. I think back to that dreadful day, when he’d completely lost his temper with me, thrown me out of his house and his life because I wouldn’t tell him why I left Oxford and why I couldn’t return there. He had thought the worst of me, jumped to all the wrong conclusions. I’d never known where he went that afternoon, never asked. I was just so glad he had come back, ready to trust me. But it seems no ‘trust’ was needed. He’d obviously found some way to check up on me, somehow managed to contact my old boss. I stare at him, stunned. The words, the accusations pour out unchecked.

“You checked up on me. You bloody well tracked down my old boss and checked up on me. How the hell did you do that? Why did you do that?” I’m standing now, my eyes wide, angry, glaring, and so bitterly disappointed in him. And totally humiliated. He knows. All these weeks he’s bloody well known my deepest, darkest secret. He’s pried and poked and gone behind my back to find it out. The one thing I wanted to bury forever, keep completely to myself, never ever to let it see the light of day again. All thoughts of dancing tactfully around my mother’s sensibilities are forgotten as I bristle, make ready to go on the attack.

Always quick on the uptake, Nurse Amy takes hold of Rosie’s hand and leads her firmly towards the door. “Time you were getting dressed, poppet.”

That leaves just five pairs of startled eyes, all trained on me. Well, four pairs, probably. Nathan isn’t startled in the least. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees and his face a mask of perfect composure as he starts to explain.

“When I left you that Saturday I went down to my office in Darke Associates, fired up a computer and started Googling you. I homed in on your career at Oxford, and found out about the research programme you were involved with. I found references to Professor Benson, Ben, who is heading it up so I connected to him on LinkedIn. I always knew social networking would come in useful for something besides family photos. I emailed Ben, and as luck would have it he was at his machine when the notification came through. He emailed me back straight away, I replied asking for a phone number, and within a few minutes we were talking. He explained to me all about your work. And about your… Your what? Your illness? Your sudden decision to resign? And he also told me that he’s never passed your resignation email on to the university HR department—as far as they’re concerned you’re an employee on long-term sick leave. And that he’s been waiting for you to calm down, to recover and come back to work. That he’ll be delighted to have you back.”

So that was it, his worst fears dispelled. I hadn’t been fired, I hadn’t left under a cloud. Apparently I hadn’t left at all. And I was welcome back. What glowing testimony. What a bastard! And what a stupid bastard if he didn’t appreciate the real implications of what had happened, that he’d got himself involved with some sort of headcase, a freak. Mortified, I stand there, listening as he goes on, laying bare the me I’d tried so desperately to keep private. Here, in front of pretty much everyone in the world who matters to me.

Nathan continues, his voice quiet, “Very impressive your research is, too. If I’ve understood correctly, you were using your linguistic abilities, coupled with your expertise in computing sciences. Before you became ill you were close to developing software that will enable computers to learn and use any language under the sun. The diplomatic and military implications are staggering, not to mention the commercial uses. Your unique talents are irreplaceable. No wonder the government is so keen that you rejoin the programme. I expect Ben’s here to ask you to complete your work.” He glances across at Ben for confirmation, who nods agreeably.

My head is pounding. ‘Before you became ill’. He passes it off as though it was no more than a bout of flu, a touch of food poisoning, perhaps. And all I can think is that he let me down. I thought he came back that day because he realised he should trust me, because he’d decided to give me the benefit of the doubt. But there was no doubt. He didn’t trust me because he didn’t need to. He’d checked. He’d bloody checked and got a glowing reference for me! Then, as the awful implications of some of his other words start to sink in, my old panic starts to reassert itself. Apparently Ben thinks I’ll be back, ready to start work again sometime soon. In fact, there’s no way, no way at all I’m going back to Oxford. Not ever. No way am I ever risking feeling so low again, so desperate and so alone. I’m safe here, nowhere else.

But there’s more. More rot eating away at me, more stones to upturn. My fists clenched at my sides, I ask the one question I still need an answer to. “Would you have come back that day if you hadn’t known? Hadn’t spoken to Ben?”

“No, probably not.”

“You bastard!”

“Eva…” His warning tone is lost on me as I launch into my tirade, oblivious to the mixture of shock, embarrassment and amused interest around the room.

“You let me think you believed me. I trusted you, trusted you enough to, to…” His eyebrow lifts, interested in what I’m about to spill. And he doesn’t appear to care. Leaning back in his chair he makes no further attempt to stop me. I feel the tears pricking my eyes. Our private, intimate world. The wonderful things he’s shown me, made me feel, persuaded me to do. With him. And his prying, his relentless, unashamed intrusion into my privacy. Tears are streaming down my face now. “Why couldn’t you just trust me? I slept with you because I thought we had trust.”

His tone is exasperated, curt, cruel. “You slept with me because you were desperate to get laid.”

“Desperate! You conceited pig. You asked me, you pushed and pushed until I gave in.”