Dying to Write (29 page)

I was sitting naked on my bed wondering how long make-up might stay on in the heat when someone tapped on the door. I slung my dressing gown on and held it round me while I opened the door. I didn't want to embarrass any passing policeman.

But it wasn't Chris. It was Hugh.

My dressing gown fell open of its own accord. His shirt and trousers took a couple of minutes of delightful fumbling. He'd even brought condoms – had intended, perhaps, a pastoral seduction under some Eyre Park trees.

But a bed, even the hard, narrow variety, was probably more comfortable.

OK, it was lust. But it was very high-quality lust.

He was a considerate and expert lover, as careful not to assault my damaged places as he was to give pleasure to the others. Perhaps the earth didn't move for either of us, but there was a sense that it might next time. We sat naked on the floor while we recovered: it was too hot and sticky to lie in each other's arms, but he would touch my hair or my skin, very gently, from time to time, as if in appreciation. I felt like a contented cat, and smiled back at him, wondering whether it was too soon to prompt that beautiful body of his back into action again. I suspected it wouldn't take much coaxing. For the moment, however, we played an interesting game of tracing into all sorts of delightful places little trickles of each other's sweat.

And then he saw the
Financial Times
open on the desk. His
Financial Times
. His glance was uncomfortably hard.

‘What I can't understand,' he said, starting his car and turning on the air conditioning, ‘is why no one thought of asking me. A medical problem and they send for Gimson. All these Asians sloshing round the country kidnapping my woman and no one bothers to mention it to me. Damn it it all, I've more information on Southeast Asia in my office than the average library.'

My woman. I wasn't sure about that. Not yet. But it sounded good, and I liked the tenderness with which he touched my hand as he said it.

‘They think of you as a poet, not an expert on international relations,' I said mildly, waving to the PC on duty by the gates.

Hugh prepared to pull away, but the PC flagged us down and walked round to my side. I looked for the window winder but, of course, the windows descended electronically in response to a touch on another button.

‘Just wondered how you were, miss. You looked a bit of a mess last night.'

‘Fine. All patched up now.' I raised my hand as evidence. ‘Look, some of your colleagues have the idea that messages are best transmitted mystically between those concerned. I've told everyone I could think of I'm going into the city with Mr Brierley to look up material on our Asian friends, but now I'm telling you too, and if Chris Groom dashes round like a headless chicken when he finds I've left Eyre House, you will tell him I'm OK, won't you?'

He gave a half-salute. Hugh put the car into gear, and I screamed, ‘Sidney! Hugh, stop! I think that was Sidney!'

Hugh stopped.

We all threshed around in the undergrowth for four or five minutes, but in vain. Possibly it hadn't been Sidney at all. Or possibly all our efforts had merely scared him away.

We were both silent as we set off again. Apart from my sneezes and wheezes: a hedgerow is an excellent source of allergens.

‘You really do care for that rat, don't you?' said Hugh eventually.

‘I suppose I do. Funny really – I'm not so keen on animals in general. But despite his smell, he has a certain charm. And I suppose I see myself as his guardian in Kate's absence.'

‘Absence or –'

‘Absence. I still think she's alive. Hope, perhaps, would be a better word. Hence, after all, this expedition to town on an afternoon that could be much more pleasantly spent elsewhere.'

He took my hand again.

‘Sophie, I have an air conditioned office. And very thick carpets.'

I was grateful for both.

I was sitting on the floor of Hugh's office, surrounded by old-fashioned paper files. He was at his desk – a suitably huge executive one – poring over computer files, tutting occasionally in irritation.

It was a very smart office. I'm used to William Murdock, remember, probably the most grossly underfunded college in the country. We have a foyer, true, and a reception desk, but there the resemblance ends. Our potted plants expired years ago, under a steady deluge of empty Coke cans and fag ends. Hugh's flourished almost as thickly as the carpet. It comes to something, too, when the corridors of your companion's office are infinitely better carpeted and furnished – pictures on the wall that might well be original, and none of them covered in graffiti – than your staffroom. And there was none of the tedious business of hunting for your key – no, everything done by electronics. Hugh's personal sanctum opened to the sound of his voice.

More plants, vertical blinds, furniture that looked as if it might be wood. And space. At William Murdock we'd have had to fit six or eight people into the room: Hugh was able to work in splendid isolation. What did disconcert me a bit was the way he swept a couple of things from his desk before I could see them; but I suppose that he didn't yet know me well enough to trust me absolutely, and if there was money to be made in exports, there was no doubt money to be lost, too.

Eventually he poured two plastic beakers of water from a chiller and came to join me. He pulled me to my feet and led me to the air-conditioner vent. The current was strong enough to ruffle our hair, and he lifted and played with a tendril from near my ear. But it seemed we were to talk business for a while. I would have to try very hard to concentrate.

‘Recap,' he said. ‘Just what do we know?'

I ticked off the items on my fingers. Japanese visitors to our relaxation class. Japanese abductors who were courteous to the sick. Less polite visitors (possibly Vietnamese?) who'd been rude to me and Shazia. Kenji's sudden inadequacy. (‘Why not phone him from here?' Hugh put in.) Nyree's husband, about whom I knew little except that he'd been a diplomat who liked his golf.

At this point Hugh abandoned my hair and reached for his jacket. But he didn't put it on.

‘Were are you going?'

‘We. We're going to Eyre House, of course. For our supper and the exciting students' reading. They tell me there'll be a party afterwards.'

‘Hugh? Why now?' What I wanted to say was what my body was already saying, quite urgently. That it wanted Hugh, now.

‘Because I think I may have some ideas. I think I may – here, give me those papers. Did you keep them in order?' He started to stuff them back into the filing cabinet.

‘I think so.' I padded over to the computer. ‘Did you find anything?'

‘Do you know anything about golf?'

‘Absolutely nothing. My cousin tried to teach me, but I found hunting for that stupid little ball interrupted my country walk. And I couldn't deal with the clothes.'

He laughed, locked the cabinet, and came back and kissed me.

‘Golf is as addictive as sex,' he said, peeling off my T-shirt and undoing my bra. His shirt and trousers and my jeans rapidly joined them on the floor. Our pants entwined on the top of the pile. ‘Once you find you like it, you can't get enough.' He kissed my breasts, making my nipples stand to attention. ‘Like sex,' he said, bending for his trousers again and burrowing in the pocket, ‘golf is big business. I'm into business, and thus, almost by necessity, into golf. Golf courses, to be precise.' He pushed aside his computer and lifted me so I was sitting on the desk. ‘Hmm. Hole in one.'

And then he did not speak for a few minutes. Neither of us did. But I moaned so satisfactorily I afterwards hoped the room was soundproofed.

The discovery that his office furniture included a fridge was unexpected, but then I was hardly surprised at all when I found it contained champagne. The glasses were there chilling beside it.

‘We'll get some more on our way back to Eyre House,' said Hugh. ‘I must say the idea of a party with that lot doesn't grab me. I suggest we adjourn somewhere comfortable for our own little party.'

We were naked in that wonderful cool air again. It meant we could hug and caress without sticking together.

‘Seems a bit mean to leave Matt to cope with them all,' I said, without enthusiasm. The thought of an all-night party – waking up to find Hugh still beside me – woke up my nipples again.

‘Into troilism, are you?'

‘Let him cope,' I agreed.

Eventually we'd torn ourselves away from each other and from the air conditioning, and had plunged through the canyon of heat that was Hugh's car park into the air conditioning of his car. We said little until he'd found an off-licence, whence he returned with three bottles of Moët. When he stroked my hair back and lightly tickled my cheek, I was ready to purr.

But I had to be firm with myself; there were questions I had to ask. I hoped he'd be ready to answer them.

‘Tell me about golf, then, Hugh,' I said, smiling contentedly at the memory of his hole in one.

‘You mean golf-the-game or golf-the-business?'

‘Whichever is more relevant to Nyree.'

‘How much do you know?'

‘I know the Japanese – with the exception of Kenji, by the way – are fanatics. I've seen pictures on TV of golf ranges teeming with men practising their drives.'

‘Get you: “drives”! Got the jargon already!'

‘And I know they have silly terms like “birdie” and “eagle”.'

‘Almost as silly as “square leg” and “gully”.'

‘
Touché
. And I know from your
FT
that the Japanese are keen on making money – or would you prefer the term “overseas investment”?'

‘Same thing in their case. But it's not always a bad thing for the country invested in. Where would the British car industry be without Japanese investment?'

I smiled to acknowledge the hit. ‘But I take it they want to invest in other countries too?'

‘Of course. Wherever there's a chance of getting a good return on their money. China, Vietnam – the Pacific Rim countries. Some of my colleagues are busy trying to persuade the Chinese, for example, to buy prestige cars. I'm more interested in something a little more permanent. I want them to buy golf courses.'

‘Buy golf courses?' I repeated.

‘Buy them. You don't suppose a golf course is a natural phenomenon, do you? Funny clothes apart, golf involves all sorts of other things. Take grass, for example.'

‘Grass is pretty natural,' I objected. ‘It's green, isn't it? The sort of thing I have in my lawn.'

‘Is yours bent or fescue?'

‘It needs cutting every week.'

‘Sophie, Sophie, this is science we're talking. Science and money. There's work being done at Sheffield University – we're thinking of sponsoring it – on the bounce of golf balls. What balls bounce on –'

At this point we started to giggle, and the lecture ended.

But it occurred to me, with a vicious, insidious niggle, like a tooth that doesn't quite need filling, that if the Japanese and Vietnamese might consider using force to persuade people to do business with them, Hugh might do the same. Plainly you don't inhabit offices like his without a certain amount of effort, possibly even ruthlessness. How ruthless would he be? Any moment now, I would have to ask whether it was him I'd seen driving swiftly from the main gates, he who had explored the derelict farm.

And I wasn't especially looking forward to hearing the answer. But for the time being I was spared.

There was so much activity outside the gates, I thought for a moment that Chris hadn't received a single one of my messages. Then a couple of police cars shot out. Cursing mildly, Hugh had to pull right on to the verge to let them pass. They looked very full, come to think of it, but I couldn't see more than that. Plainly the drivers didn't expect the passengers to be waving graciously to bystanders.

As we parked, a policewoman in shirtsleeves bounded over with a message from Chris. Would I be kind enough to pop into the stables for a couple of minutes? It was possible there might be something to celebrate.

Slowed by the bruises and some muscles in my lower back protesting about a position they hadn't been called on to use for some time, I staggered rather than sprinted to where Chris was waiting, like a benign Victorian father, beaming at the stable door. Perhaps he was less keen to see Hugh reaching a hand to steady me, but he was too polite, too professional, to switch off his smile.

And then the sober side of his professionalism asserted itself. He invited us in, found us chairs, yelled for someone to make tea and finally seated himself with that air of authority I'd liked in him before.

‘The name Nguyen mean anything to you?' he asked briskly.

‘Most of our Vietnamese students are called Nguyen,' I said.

‘Brierley?'

Hugh shook his head. ‘Wrong bit of Asia for me. I'm a Chinese-mainland man. But I do have some contacts who might …'

I thought of that office, those files. Damn right Hugh would have contacts.

Chris nodded.

Ian came over with the tea – a repeat order of the lunchtime Earl Grey. Hugh looked at it, then at Ian, with disbelief. I grinned up at Ian. One day I'd like him to talk sherry with Hugh. And then I found myself smiling. This was the first time I'd projected my relationship with Hugh into the future.

I looked up to find Chris's eyes on my face.

‘OK,' I said. ‘This 'ere good news, Chris. These 'ere celebrations we've heard so much about. Come on. Give.'

He shuffled a couple of papers back into their file, and then looked at me again.

‘You remember the morning – dear God, was it only Tuesday? – I came into the lobby and found you having a little difficulty with an Asian gentleman?'