Love on the Rocks (42 page)

‘Hannah . . .’ Molly’s chin was trembling. ‘It’s not that simple.’ She looked at Hannah, her eyes enormous in her heart-shaped face, which was white with anxiety. ‘I just need to stay here the night, if you’ll let me. But nobody else must know I’m here.’

‘Why not?’ An awful thought occurred to Hannah. ‘He’s not beating you, is he? The dad?’

‘No.’

Molly was so definite that Hannah was reassured.

‘His dad’s not around,’ Molly went on. ‘Which is why it’s been so tough, working here. I’ve had to bring him up on my own. It’s been a nightmare, Hannah. A real struggle. And I don’t know if . . . if I can cope any more . . .’

Molly had never come close to admitting defeat before, but she couldn’t pretend any longer. Suddenly she seemed to deflate, sitting down on Hannah’s bed, her head in her hands, her thin shoulders shuddering with a lifetime of tears that were suddenly unleashed. She desperately tried to contain her sobs, as she didn’t want to wake Alfie, but the more she tried to suppress them the more determined they were to escape, until she found herself positively howling.

Hannah very wisely didn’t press for any more answers. She sat on the bed next to Molly, wrapped her arms around her minuscule frame and held very tight until the crying subsided. Gently she stroked her hair, rocking her.

‘You shouldn’t have to cope on your own,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve got rights, Molly. Haven’t you heard of the Child Support Agency? You should let the father face up to his responsibility. They’ll backdate it, as well. You’ll get money from right back when Alfie was born . . .’

She looked at Molly, who was looking at her doubtfully. Hannah sighed inwardly. She suspected it was going to be a difficult job persuading her.

You’ve got to get tough, Molly. Not just for your sake. For Alfie’s. You don’t have to contact him yourself, if you don’t want to. They do it all for you. But you shouldn’t have to struggle. It takes two, remember?’

Molly shook her head. Hannah grabbed her by the arms, as if to shake her.

‘Don’t be frightened,’ she said urgently. ‘It’s your
right
.’

‘There’s just one problem,’ Molly replied, matter-of-factly. ‘His father’s dead.’

Hannah’s mouth fell open.

Molly closed her eyes. She felt so weary. All she wanted to do was to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, so she could be free from her troubles. But somehow she knew that the time had come to share her secrets. That if she was to find a way out of the mess she was in, she had to confide in someone. And she knew Hannah well enough to know that she trusted her. Hannah was calm and sensible. Hannah would know what to do.

‘Darling,’ murmured Victoria in George’s ear. ‘What an absolutely wonderful stunt. I wish I’d thought of it. You had the whole room eating out of your hand. They positively swooned with the romance of it all. Very clever.’ She leaned forward to kiss him. ‘And by the way, congratulations.’

George felt her hair tickle his cheek, then the warmth of her lips.

‘Thank you.’

The energy levels in the room had moved up yet another gear after Lisa had accepted his proposal. Champagne had appeared as if from nowhere; guests he didn’t know from Adam had toasted and congratulated him. Lisa was in the middle of the melee, laughing, glowing, accepting kisses from total strangers. She looked more radiant than ever, as if she had been lit up from within. Victoria was right. There was no way people wouldn’t leave this party and go on to talk about it. As a way of grabbing the limelight, it took some beating.

But that wasn’t why he had done it.

Victoria was bidding him farewell.

‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

The guests were leaving in dribs and drabs, clutching their tin goodie buckets, which Victoria had filled with seaside nonsense. A stick of Mariscombe rock, a copy of
Five Go Down to the Sea
, a bottle of suntan lotion, a pair of child’s Lolita sunglasses, a bag of pink, sugary candy shrimps. Clever, witty, stylish . . .

George watched as she drifted over to Bruno’s side. He had clearly been waiting for her. The two of them slipped out amongst a gaggle of chattering, inebriated guests. Typical Victoria, to slither away when the hard work was about to start. The unglamorous, thankless bit. But, as she was always quick to point out, she didn’t do washing-up.

It had been the only answer. Absolutely the only way to get Victoria out of his system. By betrothing himself to Lisa, he had put up an impenetrable barrier that would protect him from her once and for all. Otherwise, Victoria would have carried on haunting him. He might have been tempted. Correction: he
would
have been tempted. Just seeing her with Bruno had made him candescent with fury inside. While he was engaged to Lisa, he was safe. It was like a spell, a magic spell that would save him from himself.

Besides, he told himself, it was the right and proper thing to do. After all, he and Lisa would be under the same roof, sharing the same bed, for many years to come. It made sense to make it official. And he did love her. He felt a glow of pride at the thought of having her as his wife. Added to which, there was another thought at the very back of his mind, the thought that Mariscombe would be a wonderful place, a very wonderful place, to bring up children . . .

George watched as Victoria and Bruno walked across the drive. He saw her slide into the front seat of his car, then they exchanged a few words and a smile, before the car swept out of the driveway.

In the end, Molly told Hannah everything. She was too tired to work out what to leave out.

‘Joe Thorne,’ breathed Hannah in amazement. ‘He’s a legend. People still talk about him. But I don’t get how you managed to keep it a secret.’

‘You never met Joe,’ said Molly wryly. ‘If you had, you’d never believe he would bother with someone like me. Joe could have anyone he wanted.’

‘You poor, poor thing.’ Hannah couldn’t take it all in. ‘Did you . . . did you love him?’

‘Love?’ Molly was brusque. ‘I thought I did. Till I had Alfie. And now I know what love really means.’

She turned to look at Alfie, who was sprawled on his back, long lashes curved over his cheeks. Hannah reached out a hand in wonder to stroke the back of his hand and his fingers twitched in his sleep at the contact.

‘You’ve got to tell Bruno,’ she said.

‘No.’ Molly sprang to her feet, her eyes blazing. ‘Hannah – you don’t understand. They mustn’t find out. They’ll blame me . . . they’ll blame me for his death.’

‘How? Why? I still don’t understand why you had to keep it a secret. I mean, we’re not living in Victorian times. No one can throw you in the workhouse.’

Molly was silent for a moment. There was just one bit of the story she’d left out. A rather crucial detail. It was weighing like a huge stone on her conscience. Sometimes she couldn’t breathe with the pressure of it. Maybe to share it would ease the burden just a little. To tell someone else would be such a relief, even if it merely confirmed her belief that she’d done something dreadful. She took a deep breath in.

‘After I saw Joe with Tamara that afternoon, I didn’t just tell him we were finished.’ This was the story she’d given Hannah. ‘I told him I’d had an abortion.’ Tears began streaming down her face. ‘That’s why he drove off the cliff, Hannah. Because I told him I’d killed our baby. It’s my fault he died. It’s my fault . . .’

Hannah hugged Molly, trying to make sense of what she’d just told her. Privately, she was shocked by the horror of it all. The way two young people had played with each other’s lives until one of them had died. But Molly was still alive. Molly and Alfie. She had to do her best to get Molly to see sense; salvage what she could of the situation.

‘Molly – you weren’t to know what he was going to do. He’d treated you like dirt. Anyone might have done what you did to teach him a lesson. Anyway, he was drunk. He’d had a massive row with Bruno. It all came out at the inquest. It wasn’t just because of what you’d done.’ Hannah had heard the story a thousand times. It was legend in Mariscombe. And no matter how many different versions you heard, there was one thing that remained constant: Joe was crazy, a loser. Hannah didn’t say it, but she felt certain that the story wouldn’t have had any prettier an ending if Joe had lived.

‘Anyway,’ said Molly, sniffing hard. ‘That doesn’t matter now. Thanks to my useless family, I’m homeless.’ She fell back on the bed, looking up at the ceiling in disbelief. ‘How do you manage to live such a normal, sane existence, Hannah? I don’t know how I drew so many short straws.’

‘You’ve got a very beautiful baby,’ said Hannah softly.

Molly sat up suddenly.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re right. And, actually, he’s all that matters.’

There was a small pause.

‘Which is why I still think you should tell Bruno,’ said Hannah.

Victoria lay on the zebra-skin rug, feeling Bruno’s six-o’clock shadow brushing against her thighs.

Bruno heard her take a sharp breath in; felt her fingers raking through his curls, her muscles tense.

He smiled. That was the art. Starting and stopping. Teasing. Prolonging the agony. It made for a more powerful crescendo in the long run.

He moved up her body, kissing her, his lips still bearing her scent. By the time he got to her mouth, she would be begging. Only then would he give in to her pleas. Only then would he give her himself.

He was level with her eyes. But she wouldn’t meet his gaze. She was away on her own journey somewhere. She didn’t seem to want to share the experience. Maybe looking at him would imply some sort of commitment; perhaps it was a level of intimacy she didn’t want to go to.

Suddenly, he found his appetite had gone. The idea of screwing Victoria suddenly seemed sordid, whereas moments ago it had been a wild need. She was leaving the day after tomorrow, she’d told him that earlier. Why the hell was he indulging in a one-night stand? Sex meant more to Bruno than just physical contact. He had to be emotionally engaged. Was he emotionally engaged with Victoria? Absolutely, definitely not. He thought she was stunning, sexy, witty . . . but he didn’t think for a second that she was after anything meaningful.

She looked up at him, confused by his hesitation.

‘Sorry,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t think I can.’

‘It’s OK,’ she said, a dullness in her tone.

Outside, the moon gazed through the glass at them, an eerie silver disc.

‘I think I’ll go,’ said Victoria.

‘I’ll drive you back.’

‘No.’ She pulled her sweater back over her head. ‘I could do with a walk.’

Her head was held proudly. Bruno felt guilty.

‘It’s not you,’ he said gently. ‘It’s me.’

‘Sure.’ She managed to say it without a trace of bitterness.

Hannah pulled her duvet up the bed and tucked it firmly around Molly and Alfie. The two of them were snuggled in together, fast asleep at last, looking more like brother and sister than mother and son. In the end, Hannah had persuaded her that what she needed was a good night’s sleep, that things would make more sense in the morning, and Molly had agreed. She’d fallen asleep within seconds.

Hannah herself was exhausted, yet felt wide awake. She’d made up a bed for herself on the floor with a sleeping bag and a spare pillow. As she tried to get comfy, Molly’s revelations whirled round and round in her head as she tried to find a solution. As well as that, she was beginning to feel butterflies over her impending operation. She shut her eyes but her brain was whizzing at a million miles an hour, leaping from one subject to the next. She decided she’d go to the kitchen and make herself some hot milk to help her sleep.

Frank was standing at the sink drinking a glass of water, wearing nothing but a pair of white boxer shorts. His back was a mass of scratches.

‘What have you done to your back?’ Hannah was horrified.

‘I got thrown off my surfboard,’ Frank replied quickly. ‘Should have had my wetsuit on.’

Hannah looked at the marks doubtfully. They looked like fingernail marks to her.

‘You should put some antiseptic on. You don’t want them going nasty.’

She went over to the first-aid box and pulled out a tube of Savlon.

‘Come here. Turn round.’

Frank turned his back to her obediently as she squeezed out some of the soothing cream and rubbed it gently into his skin. It was like running her hands over a sculpture, the muscles chiselled out by a master craftsman. She could feel each sinew, each tendon, each knot under her fingers. Each scratch was like a blemish on a marble statue. It was sacrilege. This must be Caragh’s handiwork, thought Hannah. How could she inflict such damage upon him? How could she want to rip apart his smooth golden skin? If he was hers, thought Hannah, she would want to kiss and caress every glorious inch of him.

Frank gave a little groan of appreciation.

‘That feels great. Don’t stop.’

‘Why do you let her do it?’

Immediately she felt Frank’s muscles tense underneath her fingertips.

‘Who? What?’

‘Caragh. Why do you let her hurt you?’

Frank moved away from her suddenly.

‘I told you. I fell off my surfboard. Thanks for the cream. I’ll . . . see you tomorrow.’

He strode out of the room. Hannah watched after him longingly, admiring his broad shoulders, his slender waist. He deserved to be worshipped, not mauled.

Victoria stood at the water’s edge, her trousers rolled up to her knees, her shoes in her hand. She wondered about walking in. Walking and walking and walking until the waves closed over her head. Someone had once told her drowning wasn’t all that painful; that once you had made up your mind to succumb . . .

She kicked at the water petulantly. Who was she trying to kid, making some kind of melodramatic gesture? For a start, she was too much of a coward. Secondly, she didn’t like the thought of a bloated corpse. And thirdly, she thought self-pityingly, who would the gesture be
for
? Who would care?

Actually, she couldn’t afford the luxury of the last objection, because obviously Mimi would care. Very much. Which was why her mawkish wallowing was totally pointless. And there was a fourth snag, which was that her three-hundred pound Nicole Farhi linen trousers wouldn’t take kindly to sea water, and if she failed in her bid to drown herself she would have ruined one of the key items in her wardrobe, and she couldn’t afford to abuse her garments any longer. Once a red-wine stain or a tiny tear would have meant relegation to the bin or the charity shop. Now she was having to
manage
her wardrobe.