Dark Blue: Study in Seduction, Book 1 (27 page)

“I’m not sure. I might have to take a rain check.”

“Are you sure? A game would do you good.” Rana dropped his sports bag in the boot. “Mate, can I say something?”

“Of course. If it’s about my game, I was crap. I’m sorry, I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“I can see that. Is there anything bothering you? God knows you’re not the most talkative of men, and I like that, frankly, but you’ve been like a bear with a sore head. And if you don’t mind me saying, you look like a bag of shit.”

Alex had to smile. “Late nights. Early mornings.”

“Is that all? Want to tell me about it?”

“Not really.”

“Then it must be this woman.”

“Yeah…”

“I hate to say this, but I did warn you it would end in tears.”

“I know you did, and as usual I wouldn’t listen,” Alex said and then realised he was glad he hadn’t listened to his friend’s advice. Even the pain of losing Carla was better than the emptiness of never meeting or loving her at all. The loving and losing of her had filled his life with feeling so that he really knew he was alive, not just existing.

“Rana, can I ask you a question?”

“I wish to fuck you would, though I can’t guarantee to give a helpful answer.”

“Any answer might help me, the way I feel now. When did you know you were ready to have kids with Erika? When did you feel the time was right to be a father?”

Rana shoved a hand through his hair. “Fuck me, I suppose I could go into the human impulse to procreate, man’s egotistical need to recreate himself in his own image, or just the excuse to have a hell of a lot more sex.” He smiled. “The real answer is I didn’t know, but Erika did, and that was good enough for me. Once we started trying, then I wanted it as much as she did. I never truly have been ready. Every day is as new for me and Erika as for my kids. We’re all making it up as we go along and hoping. That scares the shit out of me and makes me want to shout with joy too, because I love the unpredictability.”

Alex had to smile. Rarely, if ever, had he heard his friend so passionate about anything. “I suppose you’re trying to say that I’m overanalysing the situation.”

Rana patted his shoulder. “Some things in life defy analysis, and I don’t mean women. I mean us, Alex. Men. You might just have to shake off that security blanket and hand the reins to your emotions—and this woman, if you really think she deserves to hold them.“

“I’m not a risk taker.”

Rana raised his eyebrows. “What about the bike?”

“I’m a controlled risk taker.”

“And banging a student is a safer option?”

“It’s more than banging her. Worse than that. I think I love her.”

Rana blew out a breath. “I still stand by what I said, that if she is one of your undergraduates, you’re crazy. Any woman who’s got to Alex Lemaitre this badly must be worth taking some kind of risk for. You need to decide how much of a risk. Has any of what I’ve just said helped or confused you even more?”

“I don’t know yet. That’s the problem. I’m not sure I’m ready to take the risk of committing to her. I mean really committing to a home together, kids and all that, but this woman deserves total certainty and truth, not promises I might not be able to keep.”

“No one can promise anyone total certainty, no matter how much they love each other. All you can do is try.”

Alex shot back a reply. “Trying’s not good enough for her. I want to give her everything.”

“Wow. She must be one hell of a woman. Look. Call me if you want to or come round the house. I’m in charge tonight while Erika goes to an awards dinner, but I can rustle up a mean fish fingers and smiley faces.”

“Daddyyyy!”

Rana’s face, a moment ago so intense and concerned, lit up with pleasure as two small children hurtled around the corner towards him, followed by a slim, raven-haired woman.

“See you next week,” said Alex as the children flew at his friend, bombarding him with questions. Erika kissed her husband and mouthed a
hello
at Alex.

Alex felt envy, emptiness, a Carla-shaped hole. A life-shaped hole. A life he only had to find the courage to grab, if it wasn’t too late.

“Call me!” Rana shouted through the passenger window. “And the offer about the fish fingers stands.”

Alex climbed onto the Triumph. “Thanks, but I think I need to be somewhere else right now.”

It was midafternoon when Carla watched her parents drive off, with a promise to go to Sunday lunch before she finally went back to Oxford. She shut the door behind her and went to arrange the flowers properly as they deserved. It was a short-term goal she could achieve, one tiny step forward on the long road ahead.

She’d finished and was admiring the result when she heard a rattling noise from the front door. Her heart rate took off at ninety miles per hour. She knew it might be one of the neighbours or a parcel courier or a charity collector.

Or it might be Alex.

Wiping her hands on her jeans, she took a deep breath to steady herself and tried to walk calmly into the hall. There was no figure visible through the frosted glass, and her shoulders slumped in disappointment. It wasn’t Alex. It wasn’t even a parcel courier, just a piece of junk mail shoved through the letterbox.

Back into the kitchen, she leaned against the countertop. Her wild reaction had shown her what a knife edge of feelings she was. She’d wanted it to be Alex at the door like she’d spotted an oasis in the desert—then found it was a mirage.

This wasn’t life-saving water. It was only a bloody letter, for God’s sake.

She pushed herself off the countertop, her pulse rate rocketing again.

Only a letter.
A letter in a manila envelope.

Sweat broke out on the small of her back. Oh fuck.
Not now. Not on top of everything else.

Steeling herself, she went back into the hall and pulled the envelope out of the slot.

The message was written in capitals this time, with some of the words underlined, as if the sender had reached a new level of anger or perhaps, new depths of desperation. It was written on a small sheet of notepaper with cartoon characters from a children’s TV series in the corner.

WHY ME?

WHY AM I THE ONE LEFT ALONE?

For a few moments, Carla stood frozen in shock and disbelief before wrenching open the front door and dashing onto her driveway. The sender might still be outside, running away or driving off. It had only been a couple of minutes at most since she’d heard the letterbox rattle. She might catch the stalker in the act.

There was no sign of anyone other than a neighbour mowing his lawn and a couple of young guys working on a car, so she ran to the end of her drive. Other than the usual people she saw every day, there was no strange vehicle roaring off or anything else out of the ordinary.

The frustration of missing the woman—because she was now almost certain it was a woman—made her want to weep, but it also filled her with fresh determination.

The cartoon animals grinned back at her from the sheet like they were mocking her, and she felt sick to her stomach.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

It wasn’t possible, it couldn’t be true, and yet as the note shook in her hand, she was convinced that it was Stephen’s mistress, Rose, who had sent the letters. The messages had been sent to Carla, not to Alex. That line,
“Why am I the one left alone?”
held so much bitterness and desperation, Carla thought it could only have come from Rose.

The woman must be desperate; either that or deranged—but why wait so many years to make contact, and why in this spiteful way? It must be a cry for help, Carla thought, or perhaps Rose wanted money, or had something happened to suddenly make her act like this?

Whatever the reason, Carla wasn’t going to put up with the uncertainty or the sick game any longer. Upstairs at the back of the closet, she found the boxes where she had stashed away her most precious—and painful—memories of Stephen. In a plastic bag near the bottom of one of them, she dug out the receipts and photograph that had first told her Stephen had been having an affair.

In the picture, Stephen still had one arm around Rose, as he always would, and Rose’s mouth was open in a laugh. The sun shone behind them over some nameless beach, lighting up Rose’s long, blond hair as it blew around her face.

Carla threw the photo and receipts on the bed and reached for the phone directory.
 

This must be it.

Carla looked out of the window of the car at the neat front garden of Rose’s cottage. In fact, the whole place looked well-cared for and smart—but what had Carla expected? A crumbling ruin that might match its owner’s state of mind?

It hadn’t taken her long to find Rose’s address from an online directory. There weren’t many Rose Hewittsons listed and only one of the right age living alone within any reasonable distance from her home.

Now, her skin prickled with nerves as she sat outside, aware that she was the stalker now, turning up at this woman’s home.

What would Alex say? He’d be worried and disturbed for sure, but he wasn’t here.

Carla locked the car and walked up the drive to Rose’s front door. After a brief moment of hesitation, she rang the bell, wondering what the hell she would do if she was wrong and the sender wasn’t Rose or the woman denied it.

Five minutes later, her resolve was crumbling too. There was no answer. Rose wasn’t home, but Carla wasn’t ready to give in yet, not when she’d steeled herself to confront the woman. If she drove around a bit or walked around the block, she reasoned, then Rose might return from some shopping trip or errand.

Not knowing or caring where she was headed, she crossed the road and headed for a patch of trees at the end of the street. Shouts and laughter drew her to a gate in the hedge that led into a public park. The voices had come from a play area, and even though the shadows were lengthening, there were still a few families left.

She pulled her jacket tighter round her as leaves swirled around her ankles. Then her heart almost stopped.

A mother and son played on the swings.

The little boy was screaming with delight as his mother pushed him higher and higher. The strawberry-blonde woman, about Carla’s own age and height, was dressed in jeans and Ugg boots. Her little boy had a shock of straw-coloured hair and was as unmistakable as his mother, even though Carla had never seen him before.

Her hand flew to her mouth, and she knew instinctively that he was Stephen’s son.

 
She wanted to howl with shock at finding that her husband had fathered another woman’s child, but forced herself to walk toward the pair.

“Mummy, why have you stopped? I want to go faster,” the little boy called to Rose, but all her attention was focused on Carla.

“It’s late, Fergus,” said Rose, bringing the swing to a standstill. “We need to go home. Please, get down.”

Fergus slipped off the swing, his face crumpled in disappointment. The shock of fair hair and the straight, strong nose were the image of Stephen’s, and Carla’s stomach twisted in knots. Had he known about his son?

“But, Mummy…”

Carla found a voice from somewhere. “You’re Rose…”

Fergus shrank closer to his mother.

Rose pulled him tight against her, whether for his or her own protection, Carla didn’t know. “How do you know that? Did Stephen tell you about me?” Her voice was shrill.

The urge to say yes and let this woman know that Stephen had shared all his secrets with his wife before he died was almost overwhelming, but Carla was done with lies. “No. I found out after he’d gone. There was a photograph of the two of you among his things.”

Rose clamped her hand over her mouth in shock, then shook her head before replying. “Oh my God. I’m sorry.”

“For Stephen or for the notes?”

For a split second, Carla thought Rose was going to deny having sent them, but then she threw her hands over her face again. In shame? Guilt?

Too late for that. Years and years too late.

“Mummy?” Fergus’s lower lip trembled as if he was going to cry.

Rose bent down to Fergus. “It’s all right, darling. This lady is a friend of mine.” Carla winced but didn’t interrupt. “I need to have a chat with her. Shall we go home? It is getting a bit cold.”

“Can I have chips for dinner?”

Rose ruffled his hair. “Of course we can, darling.”

Fergus skipped ahead as Carla’s feelings leapt around as crazily as popcorn in a pan. Every emotion had landed on her at once. The hurt of Stephen’s betrayal, misery of losing Alex, relief that Rose had finally admitted to sending the notes—and guilt at confronting the woman in front of her innocent child.

A child that she and Stephen might have had. That she wanted to have, one day, with Alex.

She gulped in the cool air, fighting to stay calm as she walked beside Rose down the street.

“You must think I’m a complete bitch,” said Rose, still unable to look Carla in the eye.