Blood Ties (16 page)

There’s something large and sticky in my throat, choking my words, making me swallow too much and now the hot tears are overflowing. The photographers go into a flashing clicking frenzy and Andy puts his arms around my waist. I hear someone call out, ‘That’s it, get close to your wife, Mr Varney,’ and then loads more flashing so that my eyes hurt and all I can see are thousands of electric blue dots, as if I’m spinning through the universe.

The room, the noise of everyone in it, gradually falls silent. I let my eyes close and allow my body to relax into Andy’s grip. Vaguely, I can hear questions being fired at me but I can’t be bothered to answer. My world is filled with beautiful sparkles – perhaps what Natasha saw when she gazed up at the crystal mobile I’d hung above her cot.

Silence now as I head towards the centre of the starlit vortex. In the middle, there is nothing; complete blackness and emptiness and escape from all my pain. Then, at the very centre, I see Natasha, all wrapped up in her pretty baby clothes, gurgling and smiling and waiting for me. She isn’t crying at all. I hold out my arms to my baby and beg her to forgive me.

 

Even though it’s time for Sarah to go, I can tell she doesn’t want to. My usual signals of glancing at my watch and stacking the empty cups on the tea tray haven’t worked. I should probably just tell her that our session is over and she owes me twenty-five quid but I haven’t got the heart. And she’s got a baby inside her. One that might not be wanted.

‘I don’t have any other clients today.You can stay and keep me company, if you like.’ It could be shame for not really knowing what her future holds or a desire for company. Either way, the thick guilt that I’m wearing must be visible and flashing green neon to Sarah although she doesn’t hesitate in accepting my offer.

‘Sure. But only for an hour or so because my father and brothers have their meal at six and I haven’t even begun preparations yet.’

Something about her voice tells me that she is dolefully resigned to her lot in life. She, too, is wearing a suit of guilt, for killing her mother as she slid into the world, for shaming the family by carrying a child when she is only a child herself.

‘What about your school work?’ I pick up the tray and beckon her to follow me into the kitchen. Kitchens are good places for talking. I should see all my clients in the kitchen. I dump the crockery into the sink and put on my rubber gloves. Sarah sits at my wooden table. She is far more relaxed now.

‘I’ve never bothered to study hard. Since I was little, my father has always talked of the man I will marry and how happy and well-set-up in life I will be.’ Sarah pulls a face, one that tells me she wishes she could tell the future. ‘But now that I’m going to be a single mum, exams suddenly seem important because I’ll need a job.’

She rests her constantly mobile fingers on her belly for a moment, pulling her cardigan taught over the bump. Suddenly, I long to touch it again, to feel the hardness of her skin, perhaps the jut of an elbow or heel. ‘I doubt if anyone will give me a job now though. Or marry me. What
am
I going to do?’ Then she drops her head to the table and, within the privacy of the long dark hair that curtains her face, Sarah sobs for nearly two hours.

When she’s finished, I wash her face with a flannel soaked in warm water and lavender, make her another cup of tea and send her on her way feeling a whole lot better. She even manages a laugh when, at the front door, I bend down and plant a little kiss on her belly.

The M23 was a solid ribbon of cars. Multicoloured metal stitched permanently to the hot tarmac. Robert turned off the engine and stood up in his seat to see if he could spot the problem up ahead. He considered putting the roof up again, to shield himself from the sun that at only ten thirty was baking everyone’s anger and frustration rock solid. The radio, which had only been on in the background, suddenly interrupted Robert’s thoughts with a local traffic alert announcing that the M23 was closed southbound at junction 10A due to a jack-knifed lorry having dumped its load across all three lanes.

The car in front moved forward six feet. Only when the car behind hooted did Robert bother to start his engine and also move forward six feet. He couldn’t be bothered with road rage, not today. He studied an alternative route on the satnav. There was a junction coming up ahead although it would most likely be gridlocked with desperate motorists trying to find an alternative way around the mess.

As the car to the left of him moved forward, Robert pulled on the wheel and swerved his car into the nearside lane. He ignored the flashing headlights from behind and instead put his own headlights on main beam and set his hazard lights flashing. He drove his vehicle at the hard shoulder and accelerated towards the junction up ahead. He had to get to Brighton, which meant getting off the motorway. His nerves simply wouldn’t accommodate any further delay. The hard shoulder was for emergencies, he knew, but to Robert this was an emergency. He was going to save his marriage.

Robert’s instincts, fired up and on red alert, told him that Crawley was going to be congested from the still-stranded rush-hour traffic so as he approached the roundabout at dangerously high speed with his lights flashing and his horn blasting, he headed east and then south where, directed by the GPS, he eventually found open roads followed by deserted country lanes.

After twenty minutes, Robert pulled over into a field gateway and turned off the engine. Completely off course, he sighed and pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and let his head drop back onto the seat. The heat had frazzled his nerves and shrivelled the determined spirit with which he had left home that morning.

He’d kissed Erin briefly, more of an accidental swipe of lips, as she’d left for work, without mentioning his planned trip to the south coast. Then he saw Ruby safely on the school minibus. Nothing out of the ordinary so far; he just prayed that neither of them would need him today. Explaining that he wasn’t around because he was in Brighton would ruffle Erin’s curiosity and suspicion enough to require him to lie about a business meeting and then they’d be as bad as each other. Both liars.

He pulled the cap off a bottle of water and sucked until it was nearly gone. He got out of the car to stretch his legs and gather his thoughts. Knowing what to wear to meet his wife’s lover had proved difficult. He’d dressed in his usual dark business suit with a short-sleeved summer shirt underneath but as soon as Ruby and Erin had left the house, he changed. He decided on jeans and loafers with a loose shirt and dark sunglasses. He wanted to leave behind as many years as possible because he had a foreboding that Baxter would be about ten years younger and far better looking.

He brought down his fist on the car bonnet and instantly regretted it. A dent in the silver metal reflected the glaring sun. At that moment he could have hated Erin for her lies, for her easy concealment of the truth but most of all for doing this to Ruby who would, after all, suffer the most. But it didn’t stick, the hate, so instead he hated himself for sneaking off to Brighton.

An hour later, Robert slipped the Mercedes into a space along the Promenade. The beach was spotted with pink and stripped bodies basking on the smooth pebbles. He locked the car and snorted, thinking that if he couldn’t locate Baxter then he would buy some shorts and take a dip in the sea to cool off.

He took a piece of paper from his back pocket and studied it. He had searched for King’s Flowers on the internet and printed off a street map. It was only a couple of blocks away from the seafront and within a few minutes of entering the darker lanes of historical Brighton, Robert had located the quaint shop on Market Street. The cream and green painted façade sported fashionable gold lettering advertising ‘King’s Flowers, Blooms for all Occasions. Proprietor: Baxter King’.

A quick scan of the window display told Robert that the flowers and other decorative goods for sale were very expensive, even compared to Erin’s London shop. But it was the minimalist sprays of twisted bamboo and fiery orchids, the roughly painted wooden palettes used to display bold arrangements of anthurium and bear grass, oriental lilies strewn horizontally over sand and beach stones – all of it sprayed with sugar water to make the whole scene appear as if it had woken up to a spring dew – that caused him to take a sharp breath. Erin’s shop window in London was virtually identical.

Robert leaned against a lamp post, hardly able to look at the frontage of King’s Flowers. Had Baxter King copied his wife’s ideas or was Erin so besotted with the creative Mr King that she had reproduced the Brighton display in London? Either way, Robert felt nauseous when he realised just how close they must be. Opposite the flower shop was a café bar. Robert took a table in the window and ordered a strong coffee while he mulled over what to do next.

King’s Flowers was obviously very popular. In fifteen minutes, Robert counted a similar number of customers leaving the shop, all with beautifully wrapped arrangements. Inside, he could see two young women wearing jeans and short tops with dark green canvas aprons slung low on their hips. They chatted and busied themselves with the customers and the blonde one took off her shoes and climbed into the window display with a pump spray to douse the arrangements. Robert had seen Erin do the same thing many times. He supposed she had picked up the tip from Baxter King. He wondered where the man was. Too important to be bothered with the everyday running of the shop, he supposed. He might not even catch sight of him at all, in which case his journey would have been wasted. Robert was keen to study him from this perfect vantage point before making himself known. Knowledge is power, he told himself, swirling the last of his coffee around the cup.

He stood up and was about to leave the café but froze. A man, short and stocky, wearing a purple and yellow seventiesstyle shirt, strode into King’s Flowers and immediately embraced both of the shop assistants. He then ducked behind the counter and leafed through some papers before laughing with the women and pacing around the shop, making minute adjustments to the stock.

‘Baxter King,’ Robert said, slowly sitting down again, relieved that the man was about five feet six tall and possibly as wide. From where Robert was, and through two layers of glass that bounced the sun jaggedly across the narrow street, he could see that King had a red face with a patchy beard in yellow and brown and a smattering of grey-streaked hair that clung to a sunburnt scalp. Robert laughed and ordered another coffee.

The man was so unattractive he was unique. Robert wondered what it was that Erin saw in him. He had assumed, because Erin had chosen to marry him, that she went for more conventional-looking men – although Robert winced as he thought of himself that way. He knew his dress sense was conservative although he shopped in upmarket stores, and he had worn his hair the same way forever but he’d rather hoped that Erin viewed him as attractive and distinctive.

It suddenly struck him that maybe that wasn’t enough. Maybe the type of man Erin craved was like Baxter King – wild and outlandish without a care what others thought of him. The flower shop owner was drinking from a mug and holding the telephone to his ear with his shoulder. Maybe it wasn’t even Baxter King at all. Maybe he was really six feet tall, muscular and tanned and owned a yacht in—

‘Just go and find out,’ Robert snapped at himself, interrupting his ludicrous thoughts. Several customers in the café glanced his way. Robert paid and stepped out into the hot street. He pulled his sunglasses down off his head, pushed his fingers through his hair, breathed in and went through the door of King’s Flowers.

The sudden rush of chilled air prickled his tacky skin but didn’t unsteady him. He was in the other man’s domain now but felt strangely calm and composed. Perhaps it was the tranquil music that dripped from speakers in each corner of the shop or the cool polished marble underfoot that made him feel he’d come to see a friend. It could have been the blend of twenty different flower scents, all carefully chosen to relax the customer, that caused his shoulders to drop and his stomach to unravel.

Robert viewed the different displays – everything from beach flora through zesty tropical arrangements to perfumed English country wildflowers at their summer best. Robert knew that Erin would love every one of them, take sheer delight in studying the colours and textures of the different plants and props. He grinned, felt a pang of love, as he almost heard her exclaiming and clapping her hands together.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

Robert immediately tensed as he realised the blonde shop assistant was beside him. Up close, she was even more attractive than when he had seen her in the window. King obviously adored beautiful women.

‘I want to send some flowers to my wife.’ Robert could see, without looking directly at him, that King was still on the telephone behind the counter.

‘Do you have anything in mind?’ The assistant smiled, semi-flirting, probably on commission, and steered him to an array of what looked like herbs to Robert. ‘This kind of thing is very popular at present and really unusual. We can do a lavender-based arrangement or even rosemary and add other herbs to suit. Lots of ladies love these in the kitchen. Or you could go for something sparse, like the bamboo with oriental lilies, or something with lots of grasses?’ She waited for Robert to make a comment but he was busy watching Baxter King.

‘Freesias,’ he said, without looking at the assistant. ‘Two bunches.’ Robert approached the counter. He was only three feet away from his wife’s ridiculous lover and could smell his cologne. He tried to repel it from his nose, wondering if it had been a gift from Erin. At this distance, he could see that the skin on King’s face and neck was pockmarked and, down one side, it was white and blistered as if he had been badly burnt. He tried not to stare as King suddenly guffawed with laughter, exposing a rack of yellowed teeth. The shop assistant came to the counter and gently nudged King out of the way. She opened an order book and picked up a pen.