Deception and Desire (51 page)

The last of Mike's resolve ebbed away. The hell with it! he thought – and kissed her.

It was some time before they left the car and went into the cottage, and by the time they did they both knew what was going to happen. But it was so inevitable now, and so good, that Maggie found both the shadows and the guilt slipping away until they no longer mattered. Ari and Corfu were a world away, the tensions and shocks of the day were relegated to the periphery of awareness, vaguely unreal, totally unimportant. She was living now only through her senses and each one of those was heightened to a pitch that was sweetly, burstingly unbearable.

She clung to him as he unlocked the door with her key and put the lights on, not wanting to let go of him for so much as a single second.

Mike. His name was a soaring aria in her heart, synonymous with the glow and the sharp singing desire. I love him, she thought, and she wanted to shout it from the rooftops, only his mouth was covering hers again, so instead she repeated the words with every fibre of her being, sliding her arms around his neck, twining her body to his and feeling the instant response.

His lips left her mouth, running a line of kisses down her chin and neck and her skin seemed to tingle with sharp awareness wherever they touched. With a swift movement he lifted her as easily as a child, carrying her into the sitting room, setting her down on the chintzy sofa and kneeling beside her. Then they were kissing again with all the fervour of two people who had wanted nothing else almost from the moment they had met.

For a little while, lost in the joy of allowing themselves at last to indulge that desire, it was enough. But not for long. Soon his hands were on her breasts, sliding up beneath her loose cotton sweater, and she moved only to allow him to begin to undress her.

Oh, the touch of his hands on her sensitised body! Oh, the feel of his back beneath her fingers, broad, smooth, muscular. Her head swam. She was not thinking now, only feeling, and every one of her senses was full of him.

Afterwards, when she remembered the glory of that first time, savouring every detail, every delight, Maggie was surprised to find that she had only a hazy recollection of how she had come to be lying on the hearthrug, totally nude. She supposed he must have lifted her there, or perhaps she had moved of her own volition, still in the circle of his arms, so that it was no more than a fluid progression, but she could not be sure. What she did remember with arousing, sensual clarity, was the urgency and the wonderful sense of calm; the look of his body as he lowered himself to the rug beside her – the hard lean body of a man who plays a great deal of sport, tanned from the open air; and the feel of skin against skin as they reached hungrily for one another, burrowing closer, closer, until they were one. That she would never forget; that she would remember for ever. His weight upon her, making her feel both trapped and submissive, and at the same time gloriously free, the first moments of utter stillness when they lay, afraid to move in case it ended before they had savoured the joy of completeness, and then the fevered activity of lovemaking that would not, could not, wait a moment longer for fulfilment.

In spite of that mutual postponement it was over too soon. If she were to die now, at this moment, it would scarcely matter, Maggie thought, because she held the whole world within her arms and her body. For long wonderful seconds she floated, high above the summit of the tallest mountain, then gently descended to a plateau where once again thought was coherent, if contented, a lovely languorous state of complete satisfaction and happiness.

Reality was encroaching, yet still it did not matter. Ari, Ros, Brendan were there once more, yet they were shadow figures. Only Mike was real, still holding her in his arms. She trailed a finger from his shoulder to his chest, twining it into the mat of dark hair, and pressed her lips to his skin, touching, tasting, replete with love.

‘Maggie,' he said softly, and she found her own voice.

‘You won't go, will you, Mike? You won't leave me?'

And his voice was rough but also totally comforting.

‘I won't go, Maggie. I won't leave you. Not tonight – not ever.'

They slept that night in the narrow bed in the spare room. It was less than comfortable, for Mike was a big man, but sleeping together in Ros's bed was one thing they could not bring themselves to do. The cramped conditions and the unfamiliarity of being in one another's arms made for a restless night but neither of them minded. They made love twice more, once in the small hours when they woke to find themselves already almost at the point of union, warm, sleepy, yet already aroused, and once in the first rosy light of dawn with the birds chorusing in the trees outside the window and the early sun streaming in through a gap in the curtains.

Afterwards, as they showered and shared breakfast, the glow of newly discovered love was still with them, suffusing everything, even the ever-present problems, in a soft haze.

‘I wish I didn't have to go to school,' Mike said, drinking freshly-brewed coffee from Ros's big French-style earthenware cups.

‘I wish you didn't have to.'

‘I'll get away from school as early as I can and see you at home this evening.' They had already decided that she should move in with him – one night in the narrow bed had been romantic, too many would be exhausting. ‘Will you be all right?'

‘I'll be fine. I'll make my way over when I've cleared up here.'

But when he had gone, driving off along the lane, she experienced a moment's utter loneliness and for a moment the shadow of the nightmare was there again, hanging over her like the sword of Damocles. When the engine of his car had died away into the distance the quiet of the morning was unbroken, with not even the usual sounds of the countryside to disturb it – no birds singing now, no cows coughing or mooing, just the occasional sharp rustle of movement in the hedges to prove she was not the only living thing in this strangely silent world.

She went back into the cottage. The clutter of used breakfast things on the table was comforting – the sight of two cups and saucers, two plates made her feel as if Mike was still there with her. She washed up, then went upstairs to attend to the bedroom. It seemed to her that the aura of love was still in the small sunny room, the sheets still warm from where their bodies had lain entwined, the dent made by Mike's head still evident in the pillow. Warmth flooded her, a soft weakness in the pit of her stomach, and she sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, remembering and enjoying.

How could she feel like this – so totally blissful – when she had been so sure that if she gave way to her emotions she would feel nothing but guilt? How could she be so utterly happy knowing she had betrayed both Ari and Ros? But she did. They were still oddly unreal; only Mike loomed large, filling the horizons of her world, and she thought: Don't question it now. There will be time enough later for guilt and recriminations. Enjoy it while it lasts, store up every single blissful moment against whatever the future may hold.

She stripped the bed, took the sheets and pillowcases downstairs and bundled them into the washing machine. She turned on the radio, singing along with the music as she worked, but when the news headlines came on on the half-hour she turned it off. She didn't want to hear Brendan's death mentioned – and they were sure to mention it. She didn't want the shadow of reality to encroach on her fragile happiness.

While the washing machine was working she packed the things she would need to take to Mike's into her suitcase – practically everything she had brought with her since she had travelled light – clothes, toiletries, her nightdress, though somehow she could not imagine she would need a nightdress, if last night had been anything to go by. Another warm glow suffused her body at the thought. Already she could hardly wait to be in his arms again.

She had almost finished when the telephone rang. She ran down the stairs eagerly, part of her hoping it might be Mike, though common sense told her he would be teaching by now.

‘Hello?'

‘Margaret? It's me, your mother.'

Her heart sank. ‘ Oh hello, Mother.'

‘Margaret, have you seen the papers?'

‘Oh.' Back to reality with a jolt. ‘You mean … ?'

‘Brendan. Margaret, it is too awful! I mean, I never did like the man, but this …' Her voice tailed away. ‘It's all over the front page of the
Western Daily Press
. And Rosalie is mentioned too.'

‘What does it say?'

‘That she is missing. That no one knows where she is. And you are quoted as saying you are very worried about her. They even seem to know you are over here from Corfu. How did they know that?'

‘It's a long story. We thought, Mike and I …'

‘Yes, Michael is named too. Rosalie's current boyfriend, they call him. Really it is most embarrassing! I only hope not too many of our friends read it. Most of them take the
Telegraph
, of course, but just the same …'

As always Maggie felt her irritation beginning to mount at what she considered her mother's shallowness. Ros was missing, Brendan was dead, and Dulcie was worrying about what her friends would think!

‘Harry says the whole thing is disgraceful,' Dulcie continued. ‘He feels the implication is that Brendan might be connected in some way with Ros's disappearance. It's ridiculous, of course, not to say libellous …'

‘I don't think one can libel the dead, Mother,' Maggie said, her tone sharper than she intended. ‘And if the publicity can do something to help find Ros, then I think it's worth a little embarrassment.'

Dulcie bridled. ‘ There really is no need to take that tone with me, Margaret. And I still think it is ridiculous to suggest that anything dreadful has happened to Rosalie. I wish you would put such an idea out of your head.'

‘Mother …'

A ring at the doorbell. Maggie jumped at the chance to end the conversation.

‘There's somebody at the door. I am going to have to go. I'll phone you back.'

‘Very well. I shall be out this afternoon, though. It's my day for the Townswomen's Guild.'

‘I'll catch up with you sometime.' She replaced the receiver and went to the door.

‘I wondered if I could have a chat with you, Mrs Veritos.' It was Sheena Ross, the reporter from the
Western Daily Press.

‘Oh yes. Come in. Would you like a coffee?'

‘Love one. Look, I'm sorry to just descend on you but I think we need to talk.'

‘Of course.' Maggie made the coffee and Sheena sat down at the kitchen table, open pad in front of her.

‘You've heard about Brendan Newman, of course.'

‘Yes. And I understand you've run a front page on the story today.'

‘Have you seen it?'

‘No, but my mother has. She was just telephoning me about it. She's not happy.'

‘Sorry about that. I thought you wanted publicity. And in any case, Brendan Newman is still news, though he's not the public figure he was. How do you feel about his death?'

‘Shocked.'

‘Understandably. What do you think made him do such a thing? Always assuming it was suicide, of course.'

Maggie was aware of alarm bells beginning to ring. On Saturday the publicity had seemed like a good idea; now she was not sure exactly what sort of demons she was unleashing.

‘I honestly don't know.'

‘You don't think it might have been guilt?'

‘I told you – I don't know. To be honest I can't tell you any more than I told you on Saturday.'

‘Then perhaps you could fill in some background details about your sister,' Sheena said, shifting tack. ‘What sort of a person is she? And her job – she works for Vandina, I understand.'

‘Yes.'

‘Tell me about it.'

Perhaps some of her mother's discomfort with the situation had rubbed off on her, Maggie thought, for she now felt curiously reticent. How could it possibly help find Ros to have all kinds of personal details plastered over the press? But since she had been the instigator she did not see how she could back off now. She answered the reporter's questions giving as little away as possible.

‘What about the boyfriend?' Sheena asked.

‘Mike?'

‘Yes. They have a good relationship?'

‘Oh … yes …' Maggie flushed slightly. ‘As far as I know …'

The reporter's sharp instinct picked up the slight hesitation.

‘There wasn't any trouble between the boyfriend and the ex-husband? Jealousy – that sort of thing?'

‘Brendan was always jealous. There was nothing new in that. But he and Ros were divorced. She had every right to new relationships.' She glanced at her watch. ‘To be honest, I don't see where this is getting us. Have you got everything you want?'

‘For the moment.' The reporter closed her notebook with a snap. ‘I'm on my way to the police station now. If I need anything more I'll be in touch. And likewise, no doubt you'll let me know any developments?'

‘Yes.' Maggie wondered if she should tell the reporter she would be contactable only at Mike's and decided against it. She didn't want to encourage speculation on that front. Just the smallest hint could be very damaging. Dealing with the press was all very well but it was a little like having a tiger by the tail. You never knew what they would make of something, how far you could trust their discretion and even whether or not what they printed would be accurate.

The washing machine had finished its cycle and as the day was warm with a fresh breeze Maggie decided to hang out the sheets and get them at least partially dry before leaving. There was no hurry, after all. Mike would be at school until four o'clock. Maggie put the sheets on the line then pottered about the cottage, her mind butterflying over the momentous and varied events of the last days.