Sleeping Arrangements (21 page)

'Oh yes. It is.'

'Hugh . . .' She shook her head. 'You're being ludicrous. It's been fifteen years, we're both with other people . . .'

'So what?'

She could feel emotion rising in her once again, and fought to quell it. What was happening to her? she thought frantically. Why was she even listening to him?

'We can play safe,' said Hugh. 'Or we can take the biggest risk of our lives and end up with the . . . the most perfect, wonderful happiness.'

'I'm not a gambler,' said Chloe, clenching her fists by her side, trying to regain control of herself. But her chest was hot, her throat tight.

'Everyone's a gambler,' said Hugh inexorably. 'How certain are you that you'll still be with Philip in ten years' time? Ninety per cent? Eighty per cent? Less?'

'A hundred per cent!' said Chloe, feeling a flash of anger. 'But I wouldn't put as much on you and Amanda.' She looked at him for a few silent seconds, then turned and walked quickly away, stumbling slightly as she went. Hugh's voice followed her over the dry, stony ground.

'Nothing's ever a hundred per cent, Chloe.'

From her vantage point on the balcony leading from her little back room, Jenna watched Hugh as he stared after Chloe. He looked fairly wound up, she thought. Not surprising really.

She hadn't been able to hear the conversation—but it was fairly obvious the way it had gone.

Jenna took a drag on her joint and looked again at Hugh. He was standing, staring through the lemon grove, a rigid expression on his face. Oh, for God's sake, thought Jenna.

Get a grip, you wuss.

There was a knocking sound from inside and without moving her head she yelled, 'Yeah?'

'Jenna?' Amanda's voice was clipped and polite, the way it always started off in the morning. 'The girls have had their breakfast. Are you ready to start?'

'Absolutely,' said Jenna, calmly stubbing out her joint under her sandal. She turned and looked through the glass balcony doors, to see Amanda standing deliberately on the very threshold of her room, not a millimetre over the mark. That was Amanda for you. Never knowingly informal. She played by the rules, old Amanda, thought Jenna. She played by the rules, and she expected everyone else to, as well.

Staring at Amanda's unaware face, Jenna felt a pang of unexpected sympathy for her.

The woman might be a pain—but she wasn't bitchy. She wasn't two-faced. Just uptight. And she had no idea what that drip of a husband was up to.

Jenna glanced again at Hugh, and a disparaging expression crept over her face. It would serve him right to be caught out, to be put on the spot.

'Come on in!' she called, and beckoned to Amanda. 'I was just out here enjoying the view.

You should come and have a look!'

After a moment's hesitation, Amanda entered the little room, scrupulously avoiding looking at any of Jenna's belongings.

'It's really lovely out here,' said Jenna encouragingly.

'Yes,' said Amanda, standing at the balcony doors and peering out at the distant mountain peaks. 'Yes, it is nice, isn't it?'

'If you come to the edge, you can see the lemon grove really well,' said Jenna innocently.

She darted a look back at the grove, at where Hugh was standing, in prime view.

But even as she was looking at him, he started walking slowly away. Just as Amanda reached Jenna's side, Hugh disappeared completely from sight.

'Typical,' said Jenna, rolling her eyes. 'They never stay put in the wild.'

'What's that?' said Amanda, frowning. She stared down at the lemon grove, a blank look on her face.

'Nothing to worry about.' Jenna smiled at Amanda, then looked at the big brown package in Amanda's hand. 'Going to the post office?'

'No, actually, this parcel arrived this morning from England,' said Amanda.

'Really?' said Jenna in surprise. 'Is it work stuff for Hugh?'

'No,' said Amanda. 'It's a complete set of swatches and samples for the house. I ordered them to be FedExed over before any further work was done, so I can at least know what we're talking about. I've discovered three discrepancies in colour tone already, would you believe it?'

'Criminal,' said Jenna sympathetically.

'And I haven't even got to the upstairs rooms yet,' said Amanda. 'So I'll need some peace and quiet this morning to go over them by the pool.'

'No problem,' said Jenna. 'I'll take the girls off for a walk or something.'

'Well, don't do anything too energetic,' said Amanda. 'It's even hotter today. Almost unbearable!' Rubbing her brow, she took a step towards the balustrade and peered over the edge. 'You do get rather a good view from here, don't you? I suppose it comes from being up so high.'

'Perfect for spying on all of you,' said Jenna, and beamed happily at Amanda. 'Joke!'

As Hugh slowly made his way back towards the villa, he felt a pulsating energy; a growing, determined optimism. Perhaps Chloe had rejected him in words, but in everything else—in the flush of her cheek, in the sheen of her eye, in the tremble to her voice—she had shown him that she wanted him. Of course she wanted him. They had always wanted each other.

When he'd woken that morning and seen Chloe's face in front of him, it had been like a sign. He'd felt a surge of exhilaration, of almost awed joy. There was his angel, his redeemer.

The solution to everything. He'd had a glorious vision of them together, sharing every morning. Spending the rest of their lives together, with Sam and Nat, and maybe a baby of their own . . . True family happiness, for the first time in his life. Hugh was not a religious man—nor was he into the New Age crystals and astrology rubbish that Amanda's sister spouted on every visit. But this was meant. He felt it more strongly than he'd ever felt about anything. He and Chloe were destined for each other.

He had seen for himself the raw emotion on her face yes-terday. He had felt her shiver, had heard her cry. . . . He knew the way it was. She was denying those feelings today; retreating into the safety of her marriage. But she couldn't deny them for ever. She surely couldn't hold out for ever.

Hugh trudged up the steps into the garden, screwing up his eyes against the bright sun, and saw Nat, sitting on the grass, colouring in a picture. Nat looked up, smiled an innocent eight-year-old smile, then bent over his drawing once more. Hugh stared back at him, at his dark eyes and silky hair flopping over his forehead and felt a sudden curiosity, a sudden desire to talk to this child.

Walking towards Nat he was aware at the back of his mind that he was also, in an obscure way, testing himself. If he could talk successfully with Nat, if he could somehow bond with him—then it meant something. It had to mean something, didn't it?

'Hello,' he said, and squatted on the grass beside Nat. 'How're you doing?'

'Fine,' said Nat. He put down a blue pencil and reached for the yellow. 'I'm drawing that lemon tree.'

Hugh looked down at the page, then, for form's sake, followed Nat's gaze. To his astonishment, he found himself looking at an almost identical, real-life version of the tree on Nat's paper.

'That's incredible!' he exclaimed. 'Goodness.' He looked at the page again, and back at the tree. 'Well, you can obviously draw, can't you?'

'I suppose,' said Nat, shrugging slightly. He continued shading, and Hugh gazed at him silently, feeling a strange emotion rising; a memory tugging at his thoughts.

'Your mother can draw, too, can't she?' he said abruptly.

'Oh yeah. Mum's really good,' agreed Nat. 'She had an exhibition in the church, and three people bought one. And they weren't friends or anything.'

'She drew me once,' said Hugh. As he met Nat's dark eyes he felt a flicker of exhilaration at the risk he was taking, sharing such a secret memory with this child. 'She drew a sketch of me, with a pencil. It only took a few seconds . . . but it was me. My eyes, my shoulders . . .'

He paused, lost in memories. His bedroom, shaded from the afternoon light. The frisson as Chloe's eyes had run over his body; the sound of her pencil on the paper. 'You know, I'd completely forgotten about that until just now,' he said, attempting a light laugh. 'I don't even know where the picture is.'

'Mum draws us all,' said Nat, his voice polite and uninterested. 'She drew loads of pictures of me when I was a baby. Instead of photographs.'

There was silence save for the scratch of Nat's pencil.

'Does she draw your father?' Hugh heard himself asking. Immediately he loathed himself, despised himself for asking—yet he waited for the answer without breathing.

'Sometimes,' said Nat casually, and reached for the black pencil. 'She drew all three of us last Christmas.' He paused in his drawing and looked up with a grin. 'Dad was so funny—he waited until she wasn't looking, and put on a false moustache. And then Mum turned round, and she knew something was wrong, but she didn't know what.' Nat started to giggle, and Hugh forced a stiff smile. 'And then Mum saw the moustache, but she didn't say anything, she just kept drawing. Then when she'd finished the picture, we looked at it, and Dad had this huge great moustache, and great big ears . . .'

Nat broke off into gurgles of laughter and Hugh exhaled sharply, feeling like a fool. What had he expected, for God's sake? What had he wanted to hear? Stories of marital dishar-mony? Hints that all was not well? Well, he had got what he deserved, hadn't he? He had got tales of happy families, of jokes and laughter and God bless us every bloody one.

Suddenly, looking at Nat, still giggling, he felt worse than a fool, he felt like a child mo-lester. Talking to this innocent boy under false pretences, asking bright, clear questions with a murky, slippery subtext.

'So, is this in aid of anything in particular?' he said, gesturing to the picture. He smiled at Nat. 'Or just for your artist's portfolio?'

'It's for my holiday scrapbook, actually,' replied Nat. 'We have to do a diary of our holiday, for school. My dad said if I did a bit each day, I wouldn't even notice doing it. Twenty minutes a day.' He looked at his watch. 'I've nearly finished, actually.'

'Very sensible,' said Hugh. 'Little and often.'

'I've been collecting things to stick in,' said Nat. He picked up his picture and withdrew the dark green leather folder he'd been leaning on. 'Like my boarding card, and a postcard from Puerto Banus, and I've drawn a picture of the villa . . .'

'Very good,' said Hugh, in jovial, schoolmaster tones. 'Let's have a look at it, then.'

He reached for Nat's green folder, glanced down at the cover and stopped still as he saw the familiar PBL logo printed on the front. For a few moments he stared at it, disoriented. The logo of his own company. How on earth had the boy come across this? It looked like one of his own presentation folders. Had Amanda perhaps given it to Nat? he wondered. But then—where would Amanda have got it from?

'Nat . . .' said Hugh casually. 'Where did you get this folder?'

'From my dad,' said Nat, looking up.

'Your dad?' Hugh stared at Nat's open, unsuspecting face. 'What do you mean, your dad?

How did he get it?'

'My dad,' said Nat in surprise. 'He got it from work. He works for National Southern Bank.'

Something seemed to fall down inside Hugh's mind. For a few seconds he couldn't operate his mouth. The sun seemed to be getting hotter and hotter on his head.

'Your . . . your father works for National Southern,' he echoed.

'Yeah.' Nat reached for a red pencil. 'There was a walkover, so Dad's got lots of stuff which says PBL on it. Pens, and everything.'

'Takeover.'

'Yeah.' Nat blushed. 'That's what I meant. Takeover. PBL is on the Internet,' he added, starting to shade with the red. 'But we don't use them, we use Fast-Serve. And they have computer shops, as well. And they sell phones—'

'Yes,' said Hugh, trying to conceal his agitation. 'Yes I . . . I know. Nat . . .'

'What?' Nat looked up at him with dark, friendly eyes, and Hugh gazed speechlessly back.

'It doesn't matter,' he said at last, and attempted a smile. 'I'll see you later, all right?'

As Hugh walked away from Nat, he felt unreal. Light-headed, almost. He bypassed the swimming pool and walked into the cool, dark villa, trying to anchor his whirling thoughts.

Philip Murray was a National Southern employee. He was on fucking holiday with a National Southern employee. It was unbelievable. It was appalling. Why hadn't he known? Why had nobody said?

There was a sound from the stairs above him, and quickly Hugh cut into Gerard's study, closing the door behind him, then exhaling in relief. He didn't want to see anyone just yet; there were a few things he had to find out first. He felt like a fox just ahead of the hunt: any moment now he would be tracked down and discovered. It didn't make sense, he thought, walking over to the desk, breathing fast. It just didn't make any bloody—

He stopped dead. A framed photograph of Gerard had caught his eye. Gerard in a dinner jacket, holding a wine glass up to the camera, his face flushed with pleasure.

Gerard, thought Hugh, feeling suddenly sick. Fucking Gerard.

A fresh deluge began to hit his mind. He remembered Gerard in that City wine bar, questioning him about the takeover; about the implications for National Southern employees; about Hugh's role in it all. Gerard's eyes, gleaming with curiosity. He hadn't thought anything of it at the time. Everyone was interested; everyone was curious. Gerard's questions had seemed entirely innocent.

Oh Christ. Oh Christ.

Sitting down at the desk, he realized his heart was pounding inside his chest. He reached for the phone and dialled Della's number.

'Della, it's Hugh.'

'Hugh!' said Della. 'How are you? Having a good holiday, I hope?'

'Great, thanks,' said Hugh, rubbing his tense face. He had practically forgotten he was on holiday. 'Della, I want you to do something for me. I want you to find out which National Southern branch someone called Philip Murray works for.'

'Phil-ip Mur-ray,' repeated Della carefully.

'That's right. Philip Murray.' Hugh exhaled slowly. 'And when you find out, I want you to look up what John Gregan's team recommended for that branch. Phone me back on this number.'