Betrayal (22 page)

France? I repeated stupidly.

She was serious. She was waiting for my answer.

Well, I said hurriedly, it would be great, of course it would, but the boat’s not really in commission. And I’m not sure I am, either. I mean, I haven’t been sailing for a long time.

Her fluid lips had taken on a brooding look. It would be so nice, she said. And she gave the ‘nice’ an enticing quality.

My heart pulled with long-forgotten excitement. I knew I would agree. The thought of leaving my muddled life behind for a couple of days was irresistible.

I don’t know, I said, putting up a last pretence of reluctance. I could ask the yard to look at the boat, I suppose. They could probably get her ready in time.

Her smile seemed to say: You see how easy it could be.

I hope you can navigate, I said, only half joking.

Sylvie frowned. Don’t you have GPS?

It’s installed, yes.

She flashed her eyes at me. Well, then.

I don’t know how to work it, I admitted.

But
I
do, she said.

I shook my head and laughed. Can you organise the food? I asked.

She repeated with mock horror: Food? as though she never deigned to touch the stuff.

I laughed again because her ploy was so outrageously transparent and because I was soaring with a feverish elation.

Where would we go? I asked.

She drew on her cigarette and blew out a long plume of smoke. Cherbourg.

Cherbourg? I said. But it’s always so crowded.

She looked away. Oh, there’s a good restaurant there. And I want to buy some shoes.

Shoes!

She gave another sniff. Yes, shoes. And now it was her turn to laugh.

I tried not to remember how easy it was to get to Cherbourg but how very hard it was to sail back against the prevailing winds.

We could leave on Friday? she asked.

We’d have to, I said, to be sure of getting back on Sunday.

That’s good, she said.

We wouldn’t have very long in Cherbourg.

Who cares? It’ll be wonderful! And she gave a low chuckle, a mischievous smile.

I looked at that smile and suddenly my desire for her expanded into something so intense that it seemed to grip my heart, to rob me of breath. But if in that moment my longing sharpened into something more passionate, it also darkened into something more possessive. Even then, before our affair had begun, I was haunted by the thought that she would leave me.

Tell me what you’ve been doing all these years, I asked her.

She waved her cigarette dismissively in the air.

I pressed her: No, really – where have you been? What have you been doing?

The past, she shrugged. It’s over. There’s nothing to tell.

Come on, Sylvie, I remonstrated lightly.

But she wouldn’t tell me, not much anyway. All she would say was that there had been good times and bad times. She had travelled a bit – she tilted an upturned hand towards what might have been far-off places – then she had lived in Paris, then the Midi. Then . . . She shrugged. Really, she said, the past is past. The important thing is that I’m here and I’m going to do my sculpture and I feel so happy and free. She repeated: So happy and free! And languidly, in a gesture that contained an element of self-parody, she laughingly raised her arms as if to embrace the sun.

I had no reason to think that this lazy extravagant rapture was anything but an expression of genuine pleasure. I did not glimpse the determination in her eyes, nor the singlemindedness.

She turned back to me. You look bad, she said.

Thanks for your encouragement, I laughed.

Isn’t anyone looking after you? she asked in mock surprise.

No one knows I’m here.

She came closer and peered at me. Have you taken anything? she said. I have this herbal stuff that cleanses the bloodstream.

Anything that does things for my bloodstream must be good, I said.

Shall I bring some food, too?

I thought you refused to have anything to do with food.

Ha, ha, she said. But you’re sick, aren’t you?

And that’s different?

That means I’ll take pity on you. She poured me a glass of water as if to prove it. Coughing suddenly, she pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose.

You don’t sound so good yourself, I said.

She brushed this thought aside with a flip of one hand.

Will you eat with me? I asked.

Her lips formed an arch of uncertainty, her shoulders rose slightly, not so much a shrug as a granting of possibilities. What would you like to eat? she asked.

I’m not too hungry at the moment.

But you will be later. She was already moving towards the windows.

Will I?

Oh, I think so, she said, and there was a subtle but deliberate duality in her voice that made me laugh again.

Grinning back, she fluttered her fingers in farewell and was gone.

When will you be back? I called after her, suspecting, quite rightly, that I would get no reply.

I dozed again, but fitfully. My sleep was disturbed by a recurring dream in which I was waiting endlessly for Sylvie aboard
Ellie Miller
, only to look up and see her on the white cutter, sailing away with her friends. In the way of such dreams I opened my mouth to yell to her but no sound came.

The telephone woke me and took me unsteadily across to the desk. It was Ginny, wanting to know if I was all right. I told her I had flu and would be heading back at around noon the next day. If I hadn’t been feeling so rough I would have remembered that mention of flu was bound to be a mistake. Ginny would fret, she would urge me to hire a driver to take me home, and, though she wouldn’t mean to, she would be unable to leave the subject alone and then, despite my best intentions, I would become brusque and impatient until, finally, we both retreated, bruised and hurt.

But you can’t drive with flu, she said.

I’ll be all right by tomorrow.

But have you still got a temperature?

No, it’s gone. I’m sure it’s gone.

But Hugh, you mustn’t even
think
of driving while you’ve got a fever.

I really do think it’s gone.

But you must be very weak.

Honestly, darling—

A movement caught my eye and I looked round to see Sylvie moving silently into the room with a bag of shopping under one arm.

She put a finger against her lips, making conspirators of us both, and I felt a lurch of guilty excitement.

Really, I’ll be fine, I said to Ginny as I watched Sylvie disappear in the direction of the kitchen. If not, I’ll catch a train.

Promise?

Feeling a twinge of remorse, I said: I promise. And it didn’t make me feel any better to know that remorse alone wouldn’t stop me from going to France with Sylvie the next weekend.

Ashamed of my capacity for duplicity but unable, it seemed, to suppress it, I did not interrupt Ginny’s repeated expressions of concern, I took time to reassure her. Yet the moment I had put the phone down I pushed thoughts of loyalty and conscience to the back of my mind and hurried towards the kitchen, my heart beating absurdly.

Sylvie was standing by the kettle, waiting for it to boil.

It tastes disgusting, she said.

What does?

What I’m going to give you.

I creased my nose. I’m not very brave, I said.

I think you talk nonsense. And she used that tone of intimacy again, the one that suggested we might still be lovers.

Do I have to? I said.

Things that are good for you are always hard to swallow.

Always? I said, assuming a roguish expression. Oh, I do hope not!

I thought I was so witty, I thought I was so dazzling. But that was the effect she had on me; she made me feel attractive and clever again, and in restoring my self-esteem gave me a new sense of my own possibilities.

I inspected the meal she had brought. A tin of soup, a tin of sardines, a few tomatoes, a couple of bread rolls, two apples.

A banquet, I said facetiously.

She lit a cigarette and held it between thumb and forefinger, like a screen gangster. I didn’t have any money, she said.

You should have told me!

She smiled her cat-smile. Why? Would you have given me some?

I cast my eyes heavenwards in mock despair.

Are you nice and rich? she asked, and, being Sylvie, it was a direct question.

Rich is a relative word, I said. But I’ve got enough to take us to France at any rate, and give us a good meal when we get there.

She considered this with the pretence of gravity, and gave a characteristic sniff. Well, it’s a start, she said. And she tilted me an expression of mock disdain.

A start? I said, thrilling to this game of words. A start of what? A start to where?

But she turned away as the kettle boiled and, pouring some hot water into a mug, stirred in some grey powder. She lifted the potion to her nose and pulled down her mouth in a show of disgust before handing it to me.

That bad? I said.

Let’s see just how brave you are, she said, and her eyes issued all sorts of challenges.

The liquid was far too hot and, putting the mug to one side, I held her gaze for a long moment before stepping into the space that separated us and, reaching slowly up, rested the back of my hand against the softness of her cheek. Her eyes, which seemed at a distance to be almost black, glittered with a fierce amber light, and when I began to move the back of my fingers against her skin her lids drooped in bliss, like a basking cat.

I ran my palm down her hair and onto her neck and she let her head fall back as if to open herself up to me.

It was she who heard the sound first. She straightened her head and her eyes flashed a warning. Then I heard it too, the crunch of a car on the gravel.

I made a face and, leaving Sylvie where she was, crossed to the hall window to see David getting out of his car. I went back to alert Sylvie, but there was no sign of her in the kitchen and it wasn’t until I had looked into the study and the garden that I realised she had vanished.

David wasn’t too thrilled to see me, especially when I told him I’d been ill, because then he felt duty-bound to do doctorly things like taking my temperature and pulse. If he thought it strange that I should have come down on my own without telling him or Mary, then he didn’t comment on it. He had come to check the house and didn’t stay long. As soon as he had gone I went out into the garden and called Sylvie’s name but, though I waited hopefully, she did not return.

I called the boat yard first thing on Monday morning and they promised to go and inspect
Ellie Miller
within the hour. I should have remembered that for boat yards time is an elastic concept. When I chased them up on Wednesday they’d only just decided that
Ellie
’s fastenings looked a bit dodgy around the stem and she’d need to come out of the water for a week while they fixed them. I questioned the need for such drastic work, but I was only making noises to vent my disappointment. I had learnt enough from my father to know that fastenings were serious, and that you didn’t put to sea if they weren’t in good shape.

I sat through two interminable meetings that afternoon. Whenever the discussion flagged, my mind strayed to ways of salvaging the weekend. It would be difficult to stay at Dittisham – David dropped in at odd times to check the house and Mary was still clearing the attics – and I had the feeling that Sylvie’s cottage wouldn’t be suitable either, though I didn’t care to think too closely about why that should be. A hotel then? A weekend abroad? There would be a risk of discovery but, overruling my last shreds of judgment, I persuaded myself that it would be too small to worry about.

As soon as I had the chance I found a private phone and, my stomach tight, my palms damp, I called the pottery shop. A strange female answered and, overtaken by some guilty reflex, I put the phone down without speaking. Calming myself, I called again and asked for Sylvie, to be told that she wasn’t in and might not be in again until Friday. The woman wouldn’t give me Sylvie’s number but offered to take mine and pass it on. I didn’t leave my name, I just said it was about the weekend and gave the number of my direct line at the office.

But I couldn’t leave it there, it was all too indefinite, so I sent a letter by express delivery to the pottery shop with a note asking the shop to forward it urgently. In the letter I explained to Sylvie about the problems with the boat and suggested, with all the subtlety of a determined man, that a quiet weekend at a guide-recommended hotel on the northern edge of Dartmoor might be quite fun. Or else – trying to pre-empt Sylvie’s disdain for the mundane and predictable – a couple of days in Nice or Madrid. I asked her to ring me at the office as soon as possible, or, if all else failed, I would meet her at Dittisham on Friday at six.

She didn’t ring. I tried calling the pottery shop but it was always the same woman and I kept putting the phone down. On Friday I skipped a midday meeting and drove down early in a state of jittery anxiety.

I went past the pottery shop but it was closed. I opened up the house and waited until past six but she did not come. I poured myself a whisky and forced myself to wait for another half hour before climbing the stairs to David’s old room and going to the window.

I had to brace myself to look down river because part of me dreaded what I might see. The cutter was not at her mooring.

I topped up my whisky and forced myself to wait for another two hours. At ten, despite the evidence of the absent cutter, I went looking for her. I knew the pottery shop would be just as empty as before, but that didn’t stop me from driving past and peering into the darkened interior.

On the way back I examined every cottage I passed, as if their lights might provide some clue as to which was Sylvie’s. Several had cars outside, but I didn’t know if she had a car, let alone what make it might be.

I parked near the bottom of the village and went into the pub overlooking the ferry. As I made my way through the crowd to the bar I recognised some men from the boat yard, and with them an assistant harbour master named Horrocks who had known my father well. They were a jovial loquacious bunch, flushed with beer, and, after I’d bought them a drink, it didn’t take long to bring the conversation round to the white cutter. Oh, that lot! they cackled derisively. The hippies and weirdos! The boat was called
Samphire
, they informed me, and her owner was a dropout by the name of Hayden who had once been a professional skipper on a massive private yacht in the Med and now lived up Totnes way with no apparent means of support.