True Colours (6 page)

‘
No, you can’t, don’t be silly.’

His hand was still on her arm, ‘What’s silly? We were going the same way.’

‘
But you can’t...I don’t even know you.’

‘
Don’t you?’ He looked at her like he knew exactly what was going on in her mind, that he knew she wanted to know more, and knew exactly why. ‘Have dinner with me.’

‘
Oh,’ Caroline could feel her eyes opening wide. She should say no. A voice inside her screamed loud and clear, SAY NO! You’re engaged, you’re getting married. He’s a complete stranger...

‘
I’ll pick you up at eight.’

‘
Oh.’ It sounded weak and hopeless.

A moment later he had unclipped his seatbelt and slipped out of the car, was standing holding her door open.

‘
Thank you...I.’

Getting out of the car she found herself facing him, her face inches from his chest, the earthy tones of his aftershave catching her somewhere low down like she’d been punched.

Obviously amused by her confusion, he pushed her door closed and opened the front passenger door, climbing in. ‘I’ll see you at eight.’

The cab pulled away leaving her standing there, aghast.

He was coming back at eight, and she hadn’t said no.

SEVEN

By 6.30 pm, St Vincent’s was manic, the two-hour evening visiting period at the huge university hospital the busiest of the day. And, to top off her marvellous day, Alex couldn’t find a parking space. To make matters worse, every time she rounded a corner on her circuit of the car park, her mind yo-yoed back to the moment when she had turned to see exactly who was sitting behind that huge desk. To that moment of mind-numbing shock when she had found out who was running Venture Capital Ireland. Cringing, her shoulders bunching with tension, humiliation curled her stomach so tight she felt like she was dying inside.

Sebastian Wingfield.

How could she have been so STUPID? Ever since Marina had mentioned opening an office in Dublin, ever since the contract with the Spanish Cultural Institute had been confirmed, the dread that they might meet had been at the back of her mind. She had known his family had business interests all over the city, that he might be on the board of directors of any number of companies, but somehow she’d been sure he would have followed his dream and become the architect he’d trained to be. Never in a million years had she imagined that he might be the managing director of a venture capital company, a company that bought and sold failing businesses, moving in and turning them around for huge profits. She kicked herself again – how many first-year university students did she know who had followed their dreams, who had held onto their schoolboy ethics when they got out into the real world? What a fool. She could have looked him up of course, years ago, could have Googled Wingfield or Kilfenora and found out exactly what he was doing now. Should have done. But that would have meant coming face to face with him again, even if it was only on the computer screen, and she knew she couldn’t have faced that, couldn’t bear to see those blue eyes one more time. It was easier to pretend that he didn’t exist than to dwell on what might have been.

Pulling around yet another corner, faced with the lines of parked cars forming solid rows like brick walls on either side of her, she suddenly felt like she was trapped in a tunnel. A long dark tunnel, the past behind her – there was no going back there – the future lying ahead, a pinprick of light at the end And the only way out was blocked by Sebastian, his face thunderous, arms crossed tight across his chest, eyes shooting white-hot shafts of accusation right into her heart.

In fact, she hadn’t been able to shake his image from her head all day – but the picture that had haunted her before, the ephemeral spectre of him running ahead of her through the forest, his red Coca-Cola t-shirt like a warning light flashing between the trees, laughing, calling to her over his shoulder, had changed. Now, the face was real, flesh and blood, and she could visualise the creases around his cold blue eyes, the tension in his jaw, almost felt like she could reach out and stroke that scar on his chin, cradle his face in her hands like she used to. If he didn’t spit at her first.

She’d spent most of the afternoon on the site of the new Spanish Cultural Institute, gripping her notepad and hard hat, trying to stop her mind reliving their entire encounter. Shown around the raw concrete structure by a site manager who had been so wrapped up in his steel girders and shuttering that, thankfully, he’d hardly noticed the blank look in her eyes, her unusual silence. And then, with her heart pounding like a battlefield tattoo, she’d gone to the wholesalers, spending what was left of the day trying to match Venture Capital Ireland’s corporate logo to paint samples and bold monotone prints. Whatever else was going on, she was going to make damn sure Sebastian Wingfield, with his fabulous aftershave and red hot…her mind strayed to his kiss, to the feel of his hand in her hair, to the feel of his body, hard, against hers…to his red hot temper… was going to be blown away by the transformation Impromptu Design brought to his company headquarters.

So now, after the day from hell, exhausted, and with a headache pounding behind her eyes, she was orbiting St Vincent’s Hospital car park like a rocket in a comic book, her frustration at the whole day fuelled by not being able to find a space manifesting into an anger that she was sure was whooshing out behind her in a trail of sparks that would have left Denis the Menace in awe.

How could she have been so stupid? How could she have gone into that office without doing her homework? And how could he have kissed her like that? After everything, after all this time…and how could she let herself be kissed? What had she been thinking? That he’d forgiven her? That he’d got over her abandoning him all those years ago and didn’t hold a grudge? She shivered – she knew him better than that. He was the one who had gone on and on that whole summer about some guy who’d fouled him on the rugby pitch – he hadn’t let that one drop, had spent hours mulling over how he was going to get his revenge on what had he called him? Knuckles Murphy?

Crawling along yet another line of parked cars, something else hit Alex, something hard and sharp and sudden. Hadn’t Jocelyn Blake said something about wedding invitations? Was he getting married? With the shock of their whole encounter, their conversation was only coming back to her now, and despite everything that had happened, despite the fact that she knew it was totally irrational, the thought of him with someone else, the thought of him making his vows to someone else felt like pins being stuck into her.

For a moment she thought she was going to cry, her eyes burning with the salt of unshed tears, fear and shock and anger replaced by despair as quickly and easily as she had slipped out of his life.

Easily? It had been easy to book the ticket, but to actually go, to know she’d never see him again, that hadn’t been so easy. And all those years ago, had she really thought about the future, really understood how she would feel if she knew he was with someone else? Over the years she’d wondered what he was doing, who he was dating, but seeing him again, being faced with it in the flesh, was like a slap in the face. And it stung like hell.

Suddenly the white tail lights of a car reversing flashed ahead of her. At last – a space. Her sigh was deep, audible. Relief. Plain and simple. At least one thing was finally going right.

Inside the hospital, zigzagging through the crowds in the corridors, conscious that the two-hour visiting time was slipping rapidly away, Alex paused before she pushed open the door to her father’s brightly lit ward. Overhead fluorescents trapped the occupants in a bubble of timelessness, of steel tubing and marbled white linoleum tiles. With the sea green curtains partially pulled on either side of his bed to give him some degree of privacy, she could just see her dad lying back, eyes closed, earphones firmly plugged into his ears, one finger tapping the shiny black case of the iPod she had given him.

He looked tired, so different. And, yet again, it gave her a jolt like an electric shock. He had aged ten years since the accident, suddenly looked so vulnerable. And it didn’t suit him – he was a military man, normally fit and tanned, a career soldier since he was seventeen. He’d never had a day’s illness until he’d caught a stray bullet in the Congo, his blue UN beret not enough to protect him against a teenager high on home brew and testosterone. Invalided out of the army, reluctantly taking his pension, he’d looked for another job, had tried a few, but adjusting to civilian life was harder than any of them had expected. Driving her mother mad at home reorganising the kitchen, then the shed, he had been up a ladder painting the ceiling of their tiny living room the day she collapsed, the pain in her breast she had so cunningly hidden finally becoming too much for her. And it had been during her first stay in hospital that he’d bumped into an old army buddy and discovered that the gamekeeper at Kilfenora was retiring, that Lord Kilfenora, whose army issue boots he had once had been in charge of polishing, was looking for someone reliable to take over on the estate.

But that was almost eighteen years ago and now Tom Ryan’s grizzled hair was definitely a shade greyer than it had been, his weather-beaten face, which normally glowed with health, pale. Too pale. New lines etched by pain.

Taking a deep breath, trying to still the emotions that whirled together like they were being mixed by a determined three-year-old with a sharp stick, Alex pushed the door open.

As if he sensed her presence, Tom opened one eye, closing it again and holding up his hand before she could speak. Then, after a minute, a contented smile breaking out on his face, he pulled out the earphones and opened both his eyes, the familiar sparkle back, if only for a moment.

‘
My God girl, that was great. “Bohemian Rhapsody”. This iPod thing is only marvellous. I took your mum to see Queen in Slane you know. God I’ll never forget it.’

Alex laughed, her tension dissipating like an early morning mist. How many times had she heard about that concert?

‘
Told you it was worth a bit of perseverance. Modern technology’s not completely evil you know.’ His grin was wry – she knew he didn’t believe her, ‘Sorry I’m late.’

Pulling up a regulation grey plastic chair beside her father’s bed, Alex collapsed into it and, lowering her voice, said conspiratorially, ‘I couldn’t get any grapes I’m afraid, but I brought…’

His eyes alight with mischief, her father pulled the bag closer to him. His smile told her he knew exactly what she’d brought. ‘Fish and chips. With extra salt and vinegar.’

Ever since she’d been a little girl, fish and chips had been their favourite meal. Whenever he was home on leave, on a Friday night they’d pile into the car, which for years had been an enormous Volvo estate, a grill in the back to keep the dogs from romping into the front seat, and headed for Burdock’s in O’Connell Street, the best fish and chipper in Dublin city.

‘
Well done lass. The food’s like cardboard in this bloody place.’

She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, ‘Maybe that will teach you to be more careful.’

He returned her school-marmish tone with a withering look.

‘
Don’t go on, I do my thing, you do yours; haven’t you got anything else to worry about?’

Alex raised one eyebrow, if only he knew! Good God she had plenty to worry about, but right now, this minute, he was her main concern, and his slapdash approach to safety was one of her hobby horses.

‘
I can’t believe you said that. How can I not worry about you when you won’t wear a seatbelt in that heap of a Land Rover, or a hard hat when you’re felling trees. And God forbid you actually used ear protectors.’

He held up his hands, his face, slightly lopsided, lined like the bark of the oaks and elms he tended, ‘all right, all right, don’t nag, I…’

‘
You’re what?’ Alex cut in, ‘You’re fine? You’ll never have an accident? Or you know his Lordship will look after you?’ she found it impossible to hide the scepticism in her voice. ‘He’s not God you know Dad, he can’t protect you when you’re out on the estate. That’s why they brought in the Health and Safety at Work Act you know, for people like you, and him. For employers who don’t give a damn about their employees…’

His eyebrows rose at the bitterness in her tone. ‘He’s grand lass, he treats everyone equal. No favouritism and that’s how I like it.’

‘
I don’t think safety equipment is classed as favouritism Dad. God, the estate would be shut down tomorrow if anyone knew the risks he expects you to take. Look at you now. You didn’t end up in here from sitting behind a desk did you?’

Tom Ryan tried to shrug but failed, the dressings around his shoulder limiting his movement. ‘I told you, it was my own fault, just one of those things.’

She looked at him hard, ‘Mmm.’

He hadn’t told her anything, had been ridiculously evasive every time she brought up how the accident had actually happened, how he had ended up with a deep flesh wound to his shoulder and serious injury to his knee, so serious in fact that there had been talk of amputation. But he was a proud man, and she was sure he’d tell her the details when he was ready.

His hand inside the carrier bag, tearing open the paper, Tom pulled out a chip and popped it into his mouth, grinning. ‘So tell me about your day love, what have you been up to?’

For a second Alex was lost for words. Her day. Her nightmare more likely. How could she explain that she’s just bowled right into Sebastian Wingfield? How could she? Whatever about her father being evasive, she’d been fairly economical with the truth all those years ago, had shrugged off his questions about their relationship so that he would think her wildly enthusiastic about the move to Spain, about starting her dream degree, in Barcelona of all places. It had taken all of her energy to persuade him not to tell Sebastian, to pretend he didn’t know where she’d gone, that she wanted a clean break…