Page 33 of One Summer Weekend
He went on, ‘To understand what I feel when I come here, you have to know how he died.’ A brusquer tone, as if to keep emotions at bay. ‘He worked at Sphinx for over twenty years, and in the end it killed him. Not directly – that happened to two other men, friends of his, an industrial accident that could have been avoided.’ His mouth pursed. ‘Bad decisions, cost cutting,the usual story of senior managers not doing their job well enough. And, of course, they looked for a scapegoat.’ A breath out, long and slow. ‘My father took the blame, and then he took his life.’
A stark epitaph; despite the warm evening, I shivered. Jack must have been no more than fifteen when this happened – a difficult age, even under normal circumstances. My thoughts swerved to myown father, a dependable yet remote presence in my mid-teens. Had Dad suffered from any bouts of depression? And would I have noticed if he had? Probably not. Of course, that’s what made the impact of suicide so catastrophic for those left behind: the shock and grief at an unexpected death, intensified by incomprehension and guilt.
For once, words failed me. The lonely, lost expression onJack’s face tugged at feelings I usually kept well-hidden. But which role was I playing here? As an executive coach, I’d never had to deal with the fallout from a suicide – or at least not to my knowledge. Outside work, it was the same. In this place, at this moment, with this man, I was out of my comfort zone as a coach – and out of my depth as a girlfriend, real or fake.
And yet … it wasthe girlfriend who prevailed. Even though in this swarm of strangers there was no need for romantic pretence, I put my arms round him and rested my head against his shoulder – an unguarded, unprofessional gesture of compassion. We stood without speaking in this one-sided embrace on the banks of Barrow Beck, while the tourists clattered and chattered past us.
After a while, he disengagedhimself and said, his voice cold and clipped, ‘So now you can have your next talk with Bill. But otherwise the subject’s completely off limits.’ Then he spun on his heel and pushed his way back to the parking area, forcing me to grab his arm to stay close.
In the car he wouldn’t look at me, concentrating all his attention – it seemed – on manoeuvring his way into the queue of traffic.
I bit my lip. ‘Jack, we need to discuss this in more detail. If it’s a hidden agenda for the Sphinx acquisition—’
‘Who says it is?’
The question hung between us as we edged forward. I stared out of the window, across the bustling bridge to the calm expanse of water beyond. Hours earlier, I’d looked down at the same lake, unaware of this personal tragedy, ignorant of a formativeinfluence on his life. Now the scene was subtly altered: a surface serenity, with deeper undercurrents.
Yet, for whatever reason, he had chosen to bring me here to share the story; I felt strangely privileged.
Sensing his need for space, I made small talk all the way to Keswick; luckily, the traffic had thinned and it took only ten minutes. He drew up outside a cheerful-looking restaurant,its window jumbled with red and gold Chinese lanterns, and turned to me. I saw with relief that his colour was better, his gaze direct once again. ‘It’ll be busy – do you mind keeping a place in the queue while I park the car?’
Once again I did as he suggested, resisting the temptation to observe that it had already taken us this long – why the sudden hurry? In fact, there was only one othercouple waiting; if I’d brought anything to pay with, I could have collected the takeaway while Jack simply drove around the block. Too late now. I explained the situation to the man at the counter, took a seat and thumbed through an ancient copy ofThe Keswick Reminder.
It was a good ten minutes before Jack arrived. ‘Took a while to find somewhere to park,’ he said, apologetically.
‘Really?’ I looked pointedly at the pink-and-white-striped bag scrunched up in his hand.
An enigmatic smile. ‘Sorry. I had a bit of shopping to do.’
When we were back in the car, he carefully stowed the bag behind his seat, so that I didn’t have a chance to speculate on its contents. But whatever he’d bought must have lifted his mood; on the way to Threlkeld he chatted and joked asif the last half hour had never been.
We ate outside again, with the sun setting on the tawny flanks of Blencathra, and Jack’s good humour slid predictably into flirtatious banter. At first I played the game reluctantly, my responses dark-edged as I watched the chance of any sort of private conversation with Bill evaporate in the soft evening air. But, as the wine flowed, I came to the realisationthat I didn’t actually care …
And then it was easy to gaze into Jack’s eyes from time to time, smile as if I meant it, let his fingers feather my bare shoulder. Like last night, he walked me through the garden; unlike last night, I didn’t trip. But, at the carport, on the higher of the two steps up to the motorhome, when he reached past me to open the door, I spun round – and found my faceinches from his.
Deep breath. ‘Jack … I’ve had such a lovely day, and I … I want to say … thank you.’
‘I’ve had a lovely day too.’ His face was in shadow, eyes unreadable, offering little – if any –
encouragement. Even so, flushed with wine – or something less definable – I curled my arms around his neck, and returned the kiss he’d imposed on me, in broad daylight at the topof Skiddaw, as a final proof to Midge that ours was a real relationship.
Except … we’re in the dark … there isn’t anyone to convince … and it’s not a kiss of affection. And you know what? I don’t give a damn.
He pulled away, but only after several long seconds; and his hands stayed warm and firm on my waist. Through the flimsy protection of my dress, his touch aroused something instinctiveand long-buried. I tilted my head back, but kept my arms where they were, almost in defiance.
‘What was that about?’ His voice was distant.
I clutched at the nearest straw. ‘You kissed me earlier—’
‘Not like that …Nothinglike that.’
‘Look, it was just a – a natural extension of this evening’s role play.’
‘Pity you didn’t have an audience, then. Even Midge can’tsee through solid wood, however much she’d like to.’ A pause, as he shifted one hand to the nape of my neck, drawing my head closer. ‘All the same, maybe we’d better finish what you started.’
My stomach fluttered and my hands fumbled onto his chest, a half-hearted attempt to push him away. ‘I think we should—’
Then his mouth covered mine, and I didn’t think at all. How could I? AllI wanted was to lose myself in the moment, go wherever his kiss would take me, and face the consequences later. Much, much later …
When he broke free, when he muttered a good night and walked rapidly away, it was almost a relief. Yet I stood like a statue, until his footsteps faded and I knew he wasn’t coming back. Only then did I remember how to move. Slowly, painfully, I switched on thelight, gathered up my pyjamas, and stumbled up through the house to the bathroom. Somehow I found my way back to Hermann, built my little wall of cushions and lay down behind it, next to the window.
Why did I kiss him like that? Why did he kiss me back? What the hell have we done?
For what seemed like hours, I watched the moonlight dappling the curtains and willed the tears not tofall.
