Persuade Me (15 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

Sir Walter Elliot lay face down on the crisp white linen sheet and abandoned himself once again to old and not entirely forgotten sensations.

Ah, the exquisite pleasure of a woman’s touch! Irina had massaged his shoulders whenever he demanded, but she usually took advantage of the situation to ask him awkward questions about their finances; hardly conducive to relaxation. Whereas Cleo’s only agenda seemed to be his well-being, in mind as well as body.

Of course, the massages had been going on for some weeks now; almost from the beginning Cleo had used ylang-ylang oil, which she described as a stimulant. And in her strong, warm, capable hands, it certainly was. Naturally, only he was aware of its effects, since he remained face down and partly clothed throughout. Since they’d arrived in Bath, however, Cleo had proposed a change to this routine in the form of a bath massage. At first, after a witty little aside about having baths in Bath, Walter could see nothing but drawbacks in exposing himself – literally – to this new experience. But gradually, as her hands worked their miracles on his back, her words worked with equal skill on his mind. And soon he became obsessed with that higher level of youthfulness which Cleo promised a bath massage would bring – something to do with her working on his sacral chakra, whatever that was.

At this point, perversely, Cleo postponed the longed-for moment. When he asked her why, she simply said in that mysterious way of hers – so utterly
French
– ‘Ah, Sir Voltaire, for everyzing zere is ze right time and ze right place.’

Hearing her address him as ‘Sir Voltaire’ always gave him an agreeable little frisson. He recalled vaguely that there were one or two books in his library by someone called Voltaire; obviously an intellectual heavyweight since Irina used to quote him frequently. What was her favourite saying again? ‘Love is a canvas furnished by Nature and embroidered by imagination.’ He’d never quite understood that one.

But then Irina had been a highly educated woman. Initially, that had been part of her appeal; as the years passed, however, he’d found it more and more intimidating – he never knew what she was going to come out with next. He was sure it was one of her casual little remarks, another quotation no doubt, that had caused the rift with Dottie Dalrymple. Something about prejudice being opinion without judgement, which he feared dear Dottie had taken personally.

Cleo, on the other hand, had the uncanny gift of articulating his innermost thoughts! What had she said the other day? ‘You weel ’ave ze pick of ze ladies, zey weel all be fighting over you. Such an ’andsome man wiz a title and in eez prime – irresistible!’

It was true that he attracted attention wherever he went in Bath. Modesty – and that slightly-less-than-perfect eyesight – prevented him from knowing the details, but he had no doubt that he was on the receiving end of many admiring glances. Hardly surprising when he looked around – for such a fine city, the place had a real shortage of elegant men. Yes, he must appear to the women of Bath like an oasis shimmering in the desert.

And it was especially gratifying to find that he was attracting the attention of one of them in particular – old Dottie Dalrymple herself. It had been a touching reconciliation, even if she’d initially mistaken him for someone else. And it was already bearing fruit: she’d invited them all – including Anna – for drinks one night next week, in her suite. Just a few steps along the garden path, but a giant leap in terms of his rehabilitation with her.

So, all things considered, life here was divine. He felt like a god, worshipped for simply being himself – Sir Walter Elliot, 8th Baronet of Kellynch. And gods could make anything happen, couldn’t they? They could even father sons with mere mortals … although he still preferred to think of such possibilities as more of a concept than a reality. Reality could be horribly disappointing.

As if reading his mind yet again, Cleo paused in the middle of her long rhythmic strokes down his back and said softly, ‘Eet weel be soon, ze bath massage, I zink. And of course eet weel be ze bath for me, too.’

Walter’s heart gave an alarming little flutter; but whether this was from an understandable interest in seeing Cleo without her white coat or the prospect of coming face to face with reality, he had no idea. ‘What do you mean?’ he croaked.

‘I weel join you in ze bath,
au naturel
. ’Ow else can I attend to ze sacral chakra?’

‘But what about Lisa? She might wonder–’

‘I will book ’er a full afternoon of treatments – I do not zink she weel spare us a zought.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Walter stirred uneasily. ‘It’s just – well, I’m still not sure that a man in my position–’

‘
Au contraire
,
cher
Sir Voltaire,’ she purred, resuming that delicious stroking, ‘eet eez as you yourself ’ave said –
noblesse oblige
.’

Chapter Thirty-Two

On the journey back to Lyme Regis, conversation in the Jaguar was minimal until they arrived at the Cobb View Hotel. Then there were practicalities to discuss: Rick decided to wait in the car with Dave while Anna and Henrietta went to pack and check out. He took the opportunity to phone Guy and tell him to cancel the next day’s event at Bournemouth. When Guy asked why, he gave the reason as ‘personal’ and refused to elaborate.

Half-an-hour later, Anna and Henrietta returned and they set off again. Henrietta seemed a little better; at any rate, she started talking to Anna in the back of the car and even reminded Dave of the best route to Uppercross, despite the satnav’s confident directions.

Then, out of the blue, she said earnestly, ‘Rick, please don’t blame yourself. I’ve been going over and over it all in my mind and, believe me, you couldn’t have prevented what happened. When Lou’s determined to do something, you can’t reason with her – she just does it.’

Rick felt the blood drain from his face. Now the chain of cause and effect was crystal clear. He hadn’t just let Lou fall, he’d driven her to jump in the first place. On the walk at Uppercross, leaving aside those ill-advised kisses, hadn’t he praised her for being resistant to pressure, compared her to a nut? Oh, she was a nut all right. And so was he …

‘Rick?’ Henrietta prompted, obviously expecting some response. ‘Are you OK?’

Such a stupid,
stupid
question that it didn’t deserve to be answered.

‘Leave it, Henrietta, maybe he can’t talk about it just yet.’ This from Anna, slipping easily into the role of peacemaker.

Except she hadn’t preserved the peace very well that time between him and her up-his-own-arse father, had she? She’d added just enough fuel to the fire to send it exploding out of control.

Didn’t she realise that this whole sodding mess was her fault, too?

Anna wasn’t sure exactly what was eating away at Rick: guilt, frustration, genuine feelings for Lou – or a potent combination of all three.

And now they were pulling up outside the Great House. Should she offer to break the news to Barbara and Roger, or give him a chance to recover some of his self-esteem, as she’d done on the Cobb?

Before she could say anything, however, he was out of the car and marching up to the front door. Inside the house the dogs erupted into noisy barking, then subsided to low growls at Roger’s reprimand. Lights came on and Barbara appeared; Henrietta burst into tears and rushed from the car into her mother’s arms.

By the time Anna followed with Henrietta’s case, they were all in the kitchen – even a wide-awake Ollie in his Spiderman pyjamas.

‘And I hold myself responsible,’ Rick was saying quietly. ‘If I’d been paying attention, it wouldn’t have happened. As it is–’

‘I’ve told him it’s not his fault!’ Henrietta wailed, looking up from Barbara’s shoulder. ‘Mum, you know what she’s like–’

‘Shhh, that’s enough.’ Barbara stroked Henrietta’s hair and gave Rick a wan smile. ‘You’re a lovely, lovely man, standing by her like this. She must mean an awful lot to you.’

Rick flushed and said nothing.

Roger said shakily, ‘You say you’ve heard nothing more from Charles? I’ll give him a ring, see what’s what, then I’ll go straight down to Dorchester.’ He glanced at Anna. ‘Do you want a drink, my dear, or something to eat?’

She hesitated and looked across at Rick, but he was staring at the floor. She suspected that he was anxious to be back at the hospital, so she said, ‘No thank you, we’d better get on our way. You’ll let me know as soon as you hear anything, won’t you?’

Barbara and Roger quietly assured her that they would. She gave them and Henrietta a hug, then knelt in front of Ollie. ‘Mummy and Daddy want you to be specially good while they’re away. Do you think you can do that?’

He nodded brightly, clasped his arms fiercely round her neck and whispered, ‘Isn’t that the shark wrestler? Will he tell me about his adventures?’

She whispered back, ‘He’s not feeling like talking just now, maybe next time.’

A kiss on the little boy’s warm downy cheek, then she was out of the kitchen and walking quickly to the car, tears pricking her eyes. She couldn’t remember when she’d last seen the Musgroves so subdued. She was vaguely aware of Rick only a few steps behind her, but she didn’t turn round. As before, she got into the back of the car and he got into the front.

They’d hardly pulled away from the house when he said bleakly, ‘God, that was awful.’

She waited, in case the comment was addressed to Dave, not her; after all, since he’d arrived in England Rick must have spent more time with him than with anyone. But Dave was too busy adjusting something on the dashboard, so it was up to her to give reassurance.

‘It could have been worse,’ she said slowly. ‘At least they want you to be involved. Some parents would have–’ She stopped, realising too late just where her good intentions were leading her.

‘Told me to stay away, because I wasn’t fit for their daughter to wipe her feet on?’ His voice was dangerously soft.

After that, she made no further attempt at conversation, except to give Dave her postcode for the satnav.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Saturday night in Bath, and the road into the city was buzzing. They headed for the centre, a labyrinth of lights and one-way systems. As soon as they turned into a street of tall terraced houses, Anna said, ‘There won’t be anywhere to park, so you can just drop me here.’

An unfortunate choice of words – maybe in retaliation for his earlier dig at her father? But Rick thought not; she’d never been one for scoring points.

He weighed up his options: do as she suggested and drive straight back to Dorchester? Or see her to her front door, make sure she was all right, then stretch his legs? That way, he could give Dave a decent break – time to find a parking space and get himself something to eat.

As the car came to a halt in the middle of the street, Rick made up his mind. He jumped out, retrieved Anna’s small case from the boot and tapped on Dave’s window. In an instant, it was all arranged: Dave would take a break – he reckoned half-an-hour would do it – then phone Rick and find out where to pick him up.

Anna looked as though she might object; but after a few seconds she got out of the car, thanked Dave for the lift and set off along the street. Rick followed in silence, debating whether he’d done the right thing. At the far end she stopped and held out her hand for the case. Instead of passing it to her and walking off, he heard himself say, ‘I’ll bring it inside for you.’ She hesitated, then withdrew her hand, rummaged in her bag and produced a key.

While she unlocked the front door, he studied the house where she lived. In the patchy outside lighting, it seemed well cared for; and adapted for wheelchair access, judging by the ramp and grab rail. His next impressions were of a good-sized hall, its plain walls relieved by stained-glass pictures; the tangy aroma of dinner cooking; a snatch of canned laughter from a distant TV. A ten-second trailer for other people’s lives.

Anna led him up several flights of stairs to the top floor. On the tiny landing, they stood close together while she unlocked another door. Then, without any discussion – as if by mutual consent – he entered her private space.

As she flicked on the light, shrugged off her coat and moved away, he stopped and looked around. He was in a square living room, all cream and white and saved from being clinical by touches of vibrant colour – sofa and curtains of deep earthy terracotta, beaded cushions of sparkling sea green, a rug in a chaotic but pleasing pattern of burnt orange and turquoise, a big bold painting and a couple of small watercolours. Three – no, four doors opened off it: kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, he guessed, and – where she was hanging her coat – a full-length cupboard.

He put down the case, struggling with the realisation that this flat reflected the woman who lived there: small, and neat, and perfectly self-contained. Yet once, for almost three whole days, they’d revelled in their need for each other – and hers had been just as urgent as his. Need? What a short, understated word for something so amazing, so all-consuming. Never – before or since – had he touched those heights, that beautiful sense of belonging, that place – emotional and spiritual, as well as physical – where he could simply
be
with a woman.

He let out a long, steadying breath. ‘Where do you want your case?’

She came out of the first door on the right – the kitchen, judging by the glimpse of rustic tiles – and replied, ‘In the bedroom – here, I’ll take it.’

Just as she reached down for the handle, he did the same. For one brief, electric moment their fingers touched, and he felt his heart start to pound. No, this was insane. With Lou’s future in the balance, the last thing he should be doing was stirring up the past.

He grabbed the case first and pulled it away.

‘Where’s the bedroom?’ Not that he needed to ask – there were just two doors left to choose from – but it seemed only polite. And that was how he had to be with this woman – polite and distant.

She gave him an odd look. ‘Door at the end. Do you want a coffee?’

‘OK.’ That would keep her occupied for a few minutes.

He opened the furthest door as wide as possible to let in the light from the living room and did a quick stock take. Double bed, fitted wardrobes, laundry basket; under the window, a desk with a laptop and a comfortable-looking armchair. He couldn’t imagine having a computer in his bedroom – too much a reminder of work when he wanted to focus on sex or sleep; but, from what Lou had said, Anna had one less competing priority. There was certainly no evidence here of a man’s presence – occasional or permanent. No clothes or toiletries or magazines – nothing obvious, anyway.

Another steadying breath. Now that this strange urge to see her bedroom was satisfied, what next? Bathroom inspection? Kitchen survey? Or a cosy post-mortem of their previous relationship over coffee?

He put the case down and made to leave, then caught sight of a book lying on the desk. Recalled Lou’s comment about Anna preferring her men to stay between the covers of a nineteenth-century Russian novel. Listened for sounds from the kitchen – and, reassured, stole across the floor.

On the book’s cover a single word in large Cyrillic letters, presumably the title, jumped out at him:
Идиот
. He fixed it in his memory for further investigation; it would be interesting to know which hero she was fantasising about at this precise moment.

But right now he’d better get out of this room before she wondered what he was doing.

When Anna came out of the kitchen, Rick was pacing the living-room floor.

She handed him the mug of coffee, on edge in case their fingers touched again; he made sure they didn’t. ‘Black, no sugar – is that still how you take it?’

‘Yes. Thanks.’

‘What about something to eat?’

‘No thanks.’

He stopped his pacing, but didn’t sit down; just stared silently at the floor. She wondered why he’d come in if he had nothing to say. Maybe he wanted her to tell him that everything would be all right? But she couldn’t do that; she wasn’t one for empty promises, whatever he might think.

So she sank on to the sofa and made conversation, while he drank his coffee. Talked about her work and her students, dwelling on the highs rather than the lows. About her friends and her social life, which sounded more exciting than it actually was. About Bath and its many attractions, as if she was after a job at the bloody Tourist Information Office.

At last he put down his mug. ‘Thanks.’

If he said ‘thanks’ one more time, she’d scream. ‘Henrietta’s right, you know. You mustn’t blame yourself for what happened – Lou’s very single-minded.’ There – she’d got that off her chest.

‘I know. But the fact remains that if …’ he paused, and cleared his throat, ‘if I’d behaved differently, she wouldn’t be in hospital now.’

He looked so forlorn that she didn’t stop to think, just jumped up and slipped her arms around him. Not inside his coat – safely on top, so that she couldn’t feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt. And he didn’t flinch; he simply sighed, and she felt his body relax against her. It seemed perfectly natural to press her cheek to his chest – where, even through the thickness of his coat, his heart drummed in her ear.

Except, once upon a time, it would also have been perfectly natural for him to put his arms round her. And he didn’t.

After a moment she stepped back, turning away so that he wouldn’t see her embarrassment. ‘Sorry, I thought you needed a hug.’

Behind her, she heard him say, ‘You have no idea what I need.’

It wasn’t just the words, it was the harshness of his tone that made her gasp. The door clicked open and shut – she spun round, but it was too late. He was nothing but the muffled clatter of steps on the stairs, the distant slam of the front door – then silence, settling like a shroud.

He’d been here barely twenty minutes, but he’d destroyed ten years of self-preservation. She picked up the mug, still warm from his touch, and stumbled into the kitchen.

You have no idea what I need.

It was nothing personal, she told herself. He wasn’t getting at her; he was exhausted, and worried sick about Lou.

But all the excuses in the world didn’t stop the tears from falling.

He’d walked round the same circular road God knows how many times before Dave rang. And then, of course, he couldn’t tell him where he was – he’d been in a blind fury when he left her flat. Because … because he’d just realised how much he’d screwed everything up.

As soon as he mentioned a circle, Dave said, ‘That’ll be The Circus.’ Very appropriate; he felt exactly like a caged animal.

By the time Dave picked him up, he didn’t feel in the mood for small talk. So he avoided the passenger seat and got into the back of the car, at the side where she’d sat. Huh, it was as though he couldn’t keep away from her; just why had he gone up to her flat, snooped round her bedroom, drunk her coffee?

But all that was as nothing compared to the moment when she’d held him close. He’d been a breath away from taking her in his arms and pouring it all out – every detail of his irresponsible behaviour towards Lou, the overwhelming sense of guilt and obligation, this bewildering need to be here, with her, in her little flat, away from the real world.

Thank God he hadn’t. She’d hugged him because she was a caring person, simple as that. And she’d also made it clear that she was completely content with her life, a constant stream of lectures and tutorials and evenings out with her arty-farty friends – God, he felt like he’d been on a tour of every bookshop, bistro and theatre in Bath.

But, unexpectedly, something in her flat – that stark reflection of a life without him – had disturbed a distant memory. He closed his eyes and concentrated on what he’d seen. The bedroom? No, nothing familiar there. The living room, then? He visualised it – the sofa, the rug, the bookcase in the corner – maybe they shared the same tastes in reading, assuming she ever got beyond her security blanket of Russian literature? Above the bookcase, slightly to the left, there’d been that large abstract painting, oils on canvas. An oblong of cyan, split horizontally by a string of angular shapes in white and orange and brown, with splashes of red and yellow and green; and, across the bottom right-hand corner, a thin curving silver-grey line. As he stood drinking his coffee, listening intently to her words without appearing to, he’d focused on that painting, trying to make sense of it – and of so much else.

Now, in the car, the pieces slotted into place. The cyan was both sea and sky. With a bit of imagination, the string of shapes became a coastline of cliffs and sandy beaches and hotels and houses, ending in a small harbour and a white lighthouse with a distinctive green band. The curving grey line looked very like the handrail of a boat.

He could have left it there, as a nice little exercise in art appreciation.

Except that this was a view he’d actually seen.

And so he found himself sucked under by a riptide of emotions. He recalled the exhilaration of borrowing the Jeanneau and sailing south towards the Côte d’Amour. The first night, he’d dropped anchor opposite a resort called Pornichet. Oh, that first night he hadn’t noticed the view at all … But early the next morning he’d stood on the deck and gazed out at this very place, framed by a cyan sea and a cyan sky, each of its colours burnished by the sun, like the dawn of a new world.

Then he’d turned to the girl beside him, kissed her wonderingly on her soft red lips and said, ‘Anna, I think I’m in heaven.’