Sleeping Arrangements (19 page)

The phrase echoed round her mind so clearly, she wasn't sure if she was repeating it out loud. I don't know what I'm going to do.

For a few moments she sat perfectly still as the words faded and her mind gradually came to rest. Then, as though from a great distance, she heard the sound of footsteps. Footsteps, she realized belatedly, which were coming towards the study. In panic, her eyes darted fruitlessly around the room searching for a place to hide. But it was too late. Whoever this was would find her here, like a soft creature in its shell. She sat transfixed by fear, her heart thumping, her hands sweaty in her lap.

When the door opened and Philip walked in she stared at him in speechless fright. What did he know? What had he guessed? She felt unguarded; unable to dissemble. If he asked her straight out if she had made love to Hugh, she would be incapable of answering anything but yes.

'I wondered where you were,' he said easily. He walked over to the window and perched on the window seat. 'I thought you'd still be swigging back the wine!'

'I . . . I've got a bit of a headache,' said Chloe after a pause. 'I just wanted to come in and be quiet for a bit.'

'I thought you weren't quite yourself,' said Philip in concern. 'Can I get you anything?'

'No,' said Chloe. 'No, thank you. I'll be fine.'

There was a pause. Chloe stared at the floor and saw a small red beetle making its careful way over the tiles. Where did it think it was going? she wondered, half wanting to laugh, half wanting to cry. Did it have a plan? Did it realize quite how far away it was from its own little world?

'I wanted to give you this,' said Philip. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a paper bag. 'Just a little souvenir.'

He handed over the bag and with trembling fingers, Chloe opened it. As she pulled out the slender gold chain, she felt ridiculous tears coming to her eyes. She wound it slowly round her fingers, unable to put it on; or to look up and meet Philip's eyes.

'I got it this afternoon,' said Philip. 'I just wanted to . . . I don't know. Make it up to you. I know I've been a miserable bastard these last few weeks. And this holiday hasn't exactly gone to plan, either. I know you wanted us to have some time alone.'

'Yes,' said Chloe. 'I wanted the two of us to . . .' She broke off, unable to continue.

'Chloe . . .' Philip frowned. 'You're not upset by what Sam said, are you? You don't really think Gerard set us up?'

'I don't know,' said Chloe, feeling tension creep over her. 'Don't you think he did? I thought you hated Gerard.' Philip stared at her for a few moments, as though organizing his thoughts.

'Gerard's not my favourite guy,' he said at last. 'But the idea that he would deliberately stage something like this . . . Chloe, you must see it's ridiculous! Sam's just let his imagination run away with him.'

Slowly Chloe turned her head.

'You really think so?'

'Of course I think so! Gerard's your friend, isn't he? Don't you trust him?'

'I don't know,' said Chloe, winding the gold chain even more tightly around her fingers. 'I don't know if I trust him. I just don't know any more.'

Philip watched her, an anxious frown on his face.

'Love, why don't you go and have a lie-down?' he said. 'You look like you need it. Maybe you had too much sun today.'

'Yes,' said Chloe, and closed her eyes briefly. 'That must be it. Too much sun.' She stood up and walked to the door, then turned back. 'Thank you for this,' she said, gazing down at the gold entwined in her fingers.

'I hope you like it,' said Philip, giving a little shrug. 'It was just a thought.' Chloe nodded silently. She could feel Philip's eyes running over her; could sense his awkward concern.

Couldn't he guess what was wrong with her? Couldn't he see it?

'Is that a new dress?' said Philip suddenly. 'It's nice. Different.'

Chloe's chin jerked up, as though she'd been slapped.

'Yes,' she whispered. 'It . . . it is a new dress.' Abruptly, she swivelled away and walked towards the stairs.

Philip watched her go for a few moments, debating whether or not to follow her. But something in the hunch of her shoulders warned him to leave her alone. She would take a long bath, read a little and then fall asleep, he thought. She probably needed the rest.

As Chloe reached the stairs he turned and headed out of the front door. The air was warm as he stepped outside, and the sky a deep indigo blue. Tiny swallows were wheeling about in the air, silhouetted first against the sky, then against the stark white of the house. From somewhere he could hear the faint cry of a cat.

He walked down towards the swimming pool, breathing in the warm, scented air. As he neared the pool, he thought the place was empty; that the entire wine-tasting had disbanded.

Then with a slight jolt he saw Hugh, sitting alone in the dimness at the wrought-iron table, wine glass in hand.

Hugh looked up and saw Philip, then seemed to stiffen. He stared up at him with a wary expression on his face, and Philip gazed back, puzzled. Then, as though realizing something, Hugh relaxed.

'Have a drink,' he said, in slightly slurred tones, and patted the chair beside him. 'Come and have a drink. Everyone else has pissed off, and there's five bottles of the bloody stuff to drink up.'

An hour later, bottles B and C were empty, and they had moved on to bottle D. Hugh poured for both of them, then sniffed at his glass, eyes closed. 'Mmmm. A delicate bouquet, redolent of . . . old boot polish and cat's pee.' He took a gulp. 'Yes, this'll do.'

'Cheers,' replied Philip, raising his glass and taking a swig. He had become very drunk very quickly, he thought with detached interest. Perhaps Spanish wine was stronger. Or perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he had eaten nothing since half a plate of chips in Puerto Banus. He took another swig, and gazed ahead into the deepening, glinting colours of the swimming pool. There was a strange atmosphere in the air, he thought; a tension he couldn't quite place. Perhaps it was simply the enforced nature of the situation; strangers finding themselves in positions of unexpected familiarity. Perhaps it was the heat, which showed no signs of abating, even though night was falling. Or maybe, like Sam, he was imagining things.

'This wine-reviewing lark,' Hugh said suddenly, looking up. 'It's bloody piss-easy work, isn't it?' He gestured vaguely with his wine glass. 'All you need is a case of wine and a bloody whasscalled. Thesaurus.'

'And taste buds,' said Philip after a pause. Hugh shook his head.

'Not required. Gerard certainly doesn't have any. This stuff is shocking.'

There was silence and both men drained their glasses. Hugh refilled them, rather inaccurately. He took a slug of wine, leaned back in his chair and looked at Philip with slightly bloodshot eyes.

'So, what do you think about all this?' he said. 'Do you think Gerard set us up?'

Philip stared into his glass for a few moments.

'I don't know,' he said eventually. 'I do think it's possible. Gerard has got a pretty warped sense of humour.' He looked up and met Hugh's gaze. 'He'd probably think it was incredibly funny. Each of us thought we were getting the villa to ourselves. Then we end up having to share. And we can't possibly complain because the whole thing was a favour.'

'You think it's just that?' said Hugh. 'A practical joke?'

'I guess . . .' said Philip. 'I mean, what else could it be?'

'Nothing,' said Hugh after a pause, and looked away. 'I don't know.'

There was silence for a while. A bird flew down and eyed them for a second, then took off again.

'But as it turns out . . . it's not so bad,' said Philip. 'Is it? I mean, the house is plenty big enough—and we all seem to get along well enough . . .'

'Yes,' said Hugh, without moving his head. 'Yes, we do.'

'In fact, if Gerard could see us, he'd probably be mighty disappointed,' said Philip, laughing. 'He was probably hoping we'd be at each other's throats. He was probably hoping for bloodshed.'

Hugh was silent for a few moments, as though struggling with some internal problem.

Then he looked up.

'But what about you? Weren't you hoping to get away for a bit of privacy?'

'Well . . . we were,' said Philip. 'But you can't always have what you want, can you? That's just life.' He took a sip of wine and looked up to see Hugh staring at him. 'What?'

'Nothing,' said Hugh. 'It's just that your . . . Chloe said something very similar to me.

Something about not getting what you want.'

'Well . . . we think alike, I guess,' said Philip with a laugh. 'Comes of being together too long.' Hugh looked up, alert.

'Do you—' He stopped.

'What?'

'Do you really think you've been together too long?' He stared intently at Philip as though genuinely interested in the answer, and Philip had a sudden flashback to Amanda, lying on her lounger, talking sadly about the separate lives she and Hugh led.

'No,' he said with a laugh. 'Of course not. We have problems . . . but we make it work.

That's all you can do, I reckon.' He stretched his legs out in front of him and stared up at the warm, inky sky.

'What is it you do?' asked Hugh, pouring wine into Philip's half-empty glass. 'For a living, I mean.' Philip laughed.

'That's against the rules. I'm not supposed to be talking about work this holiday,' he said.

Hugh clicked in annoyance.

'That's right. I'm sorry, I forgot.'

'It doesn't matter,' said Philip. 'I'll tell you.' He gazed into his wine glass for a long time, then looked up confidentially. 'Actually, I'm an airline pilot.'

'Are you?' Hugh's face crinkled with surprise. 'Which airline do you—' he began, before Philip's expression made him break off and grin. 'An airline pilot,' he said, and took a slug of wine. 'Very good. I'm a . . . rocket scientist myself.'

'A rocket scientist,' said Philip. 'Sounds good. Any money in it?'

'Not bad,' said Hugh. He raised a finger as though in admonishment. 'What you have to remember is—the world will always need rockets.'

'And planes.'

'And planes,' agreed Hugh. He lifted his glass to Philip. 'So, here's to flying planes.'

'And here's to . . .' Philip paused. 'What do you rocket scientists do all day, anyway?'

'Top secret,' said Hugh, tapping the side of his nose with what seemed like considerable effort. 'I could tell you . . . but then I'd have to shoot you.'

'Fair enough,' said Philip, nodding. He took a slug of wine and felt his head lurch dizzily to one side. He felt as though he'd been slowly rising for hours—and had now suddenly tipped over the top of a waterfall into the rapids. If he didn't have something to eat soon . . . very soon . . . His train of thought wavered and he took another gulp to focus his mind.

He picked up bottle D and emptied the dregs into Hugh's glass.

'We could crack open another . . .' he said thickly. 'Or we could quit while we're ahead.'

There was silence. Hugh appeared to be considering the two options. He looked up with a tense, bloodshot gaze.

'I love your wife.'

There was silence. Philip stared at Hugh confusedly for a few seconds, as though trying to remember something very important. Then he smiled beatifically.

'Everyone loves Chloe,' he said. 'She's an angel.'

'Yes,' said Hugh, subsiding slightly. 'Yes she is. An angel.'

'Here's to the angel,' said Philip, raising his glass erratically into the air.

'The angel,' echoed Hugh after a moment's silence. He lifted his own glass and they both drank deeply.

'She's not actually my wife, of course,' added Philip as an afterthought, leaning back and closing his eyes.

There was a long, still pause.

'No,' said Hugh slowly. 'No, of course, she isn't.' He leaned back in his own chair and the two lapsed into a silence, broken only by the lapping of the water.

The next morning Chloe woke abruptly, her heart thumping. She sat up in a flurry as though late for a meeting, panic thudding through her, excuses ready to pour from her lips. 'I'm sorry .

. .' she actually got as far as saying, before she realized that she was in an empty room.

There was no-one to listen to her.

She looked at the other side of the bed for a few silent seconds, then slowly subsided back onto her pillows. Philip had not come to bed with her. Which meant . . . what?

He knew everything. He was on a plane to England. Everything was over.

Or he knew nothing. He had simply had one drink too many and fallen asleep in front of a movie.

Both seemed equally likely. Both seemed equally outside of her control. Lying alone in this pale, silent room, still half submerged in the confusion of dreams, she felt slightly numb. Dis-connected from the real world. Had yesterday really happened? Her mind was a maelstrom of images and memories. The pulsing music. The sunshine. The mellow red wine. Her eyes, meeting Hugh's. Her head, slowly nodding.

She had been a different person, for a few hours, she had been a completely different person.

Quickly she pushed back the covers and got out of bed. A large mirror was mounted on the opposite wall, and very slowly she walked towards her reflection. Her face was tanned a light golden brown; her hair lightened by the sun; from a distance, she looked again like the blonde stranger. The blonde twenty-five-year-old who had yesterday walked down the street in a tight black dress. Who had sat alone at a café table and accepted a strange man's invitation. Who had thought of nothing but herself and her own immediate wants.

But as she drew closer to the mirror, the indistinctness, the ambiguity disappeared; her own features fell into place. The allure of unfamiliarity was gone. She was not a blonde stranger. She was not a mysterious twenty-five-year-old. She was herself, Chloe Harding. It was Chloe Harding who had dressed up in black. It was Chloe Harding who had been unfaithful.

She had thought herself incapable of such a thing; above such a thing. She had thought herself stronger than that. But she had tumbled like all the others. The trap had been laid and she had run straight into it, as weak and silly as a teenager. As she stared at herself she felt a flash of anger—and a rush of hatred for Gerard, who had masterminded the whole thing. Who had seen her Achilles heel and set out to pierce it. How long had he been planning this encounter? she wondered. How long had he been feeling gleeful anticipation? Now she looked back, it seemed that every conversation between them in recent months had had some double meaning, some significant overtone. Gerard had known she would succumb. He had known her better than she had known herself. A hot humiliation flooded through her and she turned away.