Silent Truths (11 page)

These past three weeks had been the most peculiar time of her life. Nothing had ever affected her like this, not even the loss of her babies. There was so much that she no longer understood. It was as though she’d stepped outside of her normal self into a confusion of persecution and paranoia – and endless, persistent questions from Bruce, Giles Parker and the police. What had really happened in Sophie Long’s flat that day? Why was Colin denying the murder when even he couldn’t argue with the facts? They were convinced he was holding something back, and if she knew what it was, she must tell them. But what reason would he have to hold anything back? Surely if there was anything that might clear his name he wouldn’t even hesitate to tell.

The police were leaving her alone now, but Bruce and Giles Parker had increased the pressure. They didn’t seem to hear her answers. Why would she hold back
anything
that would help him, she’d asked them. He was her husband, she loved him, and she’d give anything in her power to turn back the clock. They kept asking
her
why he was refusing to see her, or speak to her, when they should have been asking him. Bruce still hadn’t brought home even so much as a message, and no visiting order had been issued either. If Colin had any idea what his silence was doing to her, he either didn’t care or it was what he intended. But why would he want to torment her like this? What reason could he have for pulling away when he
surely needed her more now than he ever had? Since Bruce was asking her the same questions she was inclined to believe him when he claimed not to know why Colin was behaving this way.

‘He just says it’s for the best,’ he told her each time she asked why Colin didn’t call or let her visit. ‘He won’t discuss it any further than that.’

So now, in an effort to deal with a rejection that actually felt worse than all the others, Beth was trying to detach herself too. In the past, whenever she’d tried to move forward alone, her resolve would crumble the instant she saw him. But now she must consider only the extraordinary coincidence, and indeed blessing, of how Ava Montgomery’s existence had achieved its first recognition a mere few hours after Colin had lost his freedom. There must have been some exceptional universal power at work that day, she thought, and all she could do was thank it, for in giving her Ava it had given her something to hold on to – some small chance of survival.

‘Miss Montgomery?’

She looked up into the pale, quizzical eyes of a middle-aged man with dark wavy hair and florid cheeks.

‘Robin Lindsay,’ he said, smiling and holding out a hand to shake.

Ava rose gracefully to her feet and took the hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ she told him, using a deeper, sultrier voice than Beth’s. She wanted to be this person, Ava Montgomery, whom she saw as a confident, talented woman, with thoughts, behaviour, maybe even a look all her own. Ava should be an almost separate entity so that people
wouldn’t think of Beth Ashby when they saw her and feel pity, or discomfort, or worse.

‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ he assured her, standing aside. ‘Let’s go through to my office, shall we? Would you like some coffee? Tea?’

‘What, no champagne?’ she teased.

He laughed, seeming to like the suggestion, while inwardly Beth was startled, though amused, by Ava’s audacity.

Halfway down the drably carpeted corridor he popped his head in through an open door and spoke to a well-groomed woman in her early forties. ‘Ruth, you wanted to meet Ava Montgomery,’ he said.

The woman’s face lit up. ‘I most certainly do,’ she declared, coming out from behind her desk.

‘This is Ruth Pembroke,’ Robin told her. ‘She’s already a fan.’

‘Congratulations,’ Ruth said, shaking her hand warmly. ‘What you’ve achieved is stunning. Quite unique.’

‘Thank you,’ Beth responded in Ava’s contralto. Pleasure was rushing through her like a river. ‘I’m so glad you like it.’

‘I love it,’ Ruth corrected. ‘And I’d love to discuss it some time, if you’re willing. Maybe I’ll catch up with you later, before you leave.’

‘I hope so,’ Ava replied.

Robin was smiling like a proud father. ‘Come along,’ he said, putting a hand under her elbow. ‘My office is at the end here. I’ll just introduce you to my secretary, Caroline, then we can get down to business.’

A few minutes later Ava had discarded her hat
and overshirt, and was relaxing on a hard leather sofa, a glass of champagne in one hand while the other lay limply beside her. Robin Lindsay, who was sitting in an armchair beside a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, was doing all the talking, never calling her anything but Ava, even though he knew very well who she was. She’d had to tell him in advance in order to avoid him spending time dealing with the shock of it when she got here. This way, he’d had the chance to assimilate the knowledge, and now the scandal of Colin Ashby’s crime and arrest weren’t impinging. So, for this brief hour at least, she could be Ava Montgomery the writer, not Beth Ashby the murderer’s wife.

‘Can I ask why you chose the name Ava Montgomery?’ he said, taking a sip of champagne.

Her eyes sparkled as she said, ‘Ava Montgomery sounds like the kind of person who knows how to have fun.’ It was the answer she’d given Georgie when she’d asked, and it seemed to amuse Robin Lindsay just as much.

‘Have you written anything before this?’ he asked.

‘Nothing that’s complete.’

He nodded, as though it was an answer he’d expected. ‘As I told you on the phone,’ he said, ‘your style, the story, are both highly unusual and compelling. I take it you know the Italian lakes well.’

‘Not as well I’d like,’ she confessed. ‘I’ve only been once.’ Once, with Colin, just the two of them, to a small, family-owned hotel on the western shore of Lake Maggiore. It was the one and only time she’d met Carlotta, the dark, mysterious
woman who’d become the focus of Ava Montgomery’s existence, and the nourishment of Beth Ashby’s soul.

His eyes were watching her over the rim of his glass as he took another sip. ‘The characters,’ he said. ‘Might they be drawn from people you know?’

‘In some aspects.’

‘Carlotta?’

Her smile became sphinxlike. ‘Carlotta is an amalgam of the modern woman in reality and history’s dreams in perpetuity. In other words, she exists today, even though she died two hundred years ago.’

He nodded slowly. He’d read the book, so he understood her meaning. It was a story like no other, for the fluidity of its journey between a created heaven and hell, through a world of brutal mortality and into a universe of temporary death, was as shocking as the violence it occasionally depicted, and perhaps even more powerful than the pain. Then there was the love, so unbearably sweet and intense, torturous and, in the end, as indestructible as time. He wanted to ask how much of the story was real, whether she had shared any of those potent feelings or experiences with her now infamous husband, if Carlotta had ever truly lived, or if it was all merely the creation of an extremely gifted writer’s mind. But he didn’t know her well enough yet, and, being a gentleman, he was too polite even to approach the boundaries he sensed she had drawn.

Caroline, his secretary, put her head round the door. ‘You wanted me to let you know when Stacey Greene called,’ she said.

‘Ah, yes.’ Robin glanced at his watch. ‘Ask her to hold on for a moment, will you?’ When Caroline had gone he said, ‘Stacey Greene’s an editor at Buchmanns. I’m sure you’ve heard of Buchmanns Publishing?’

Only Ava could have been capable of such composure as she nodded and smiled, for inside Beth was flustered with excitement.

‘Stacey doesn’t know that you’re here with me,’ he told her, ‘but I wanted to speak to her now so that I can tell you right away what she has to say about your book. That’s how confident I am that she’ll love it.’

This was a wildest dream coming true. Beth’s heart was singing, as Ava’s cool, subtle voice said, ‘She doesn’t know who I am?’

He shook his head. ‘Not yet. I kept my promise. No one will know who Ava Montgomery really is until the sale of the book has been finalized. I understand you want to know that you’ve achieved this on the book’s merit, not because of your … shall we say fame?’

She liked this man. He was warm, understated and insightful. ‘If possible,’ she said, ‘I’d like to keep the secret right through to publication.’ She almost added
if it gets that far
, but those would have been Beth’s words; Ava wasn’t insecure.

‘That will be harder,’ he warned, ‘but certainly we can try. Now, if you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll go and speak to Stacey.’

He took the call at Caroline’s desk, leaving Beth, Ava, to reflect on the way she was being eased from the protection of Colin’s shadow into a warm, glowing space of her own. Not that she in any way
courted fame – if it were at all possible, she’d prefer it never to be known that Beth Ashby was the true identity of Ava Montgomery. To the world at large Ava Montgomery should be a name unconnected to the scandal. To the public Ava’s face should remain a mystery, unknown, unrecognizable. All they had a right to was the novel she had written,
Carlotta’s Symphony of Love and Death
, the work that had brought her here, into the office of this high-powered agent. At least she would always know that Robin Lindsay’s response to her work was genuine, for he’d had no way of knowing who she was until she’d called to tell him.

Looking down at her half-glass of champagne she couldn’t stop herself thinking of how desperately she wanted to be sharing this with Colin. He was the only other person, until now, who’d read the book, though even he hadn’t read the end. Nevertheless, his praise of her writing, the way she’d fleshed her characters, created a style and universe that was so unpredictable and unique, and her capturing of emotions that were so gently, yet powerfully consuming, had left him in no doubt that he was ‘married to a genius’. She remembered how she’d glowed and laughed when he’d spoken those words. Thinking of that time now, when he’d seemed almost overawed by her talent, made her want to weep for what had happened since. That night had been so full of passion, wine, romance, and the kind of togetherness and understanding that only came after so many years of marriage. He was so proud of her, so certain of her success. She truly believed he’d wanted it as much as she had for he’d offered to
introduce her to anyone she’d care to name. Even if he didn’t know them personally, he’d be sure to know someone who would. But in the end she’d decided to submit her typescript under another name, just on spec. He’d understood and was glad, he’d claimed, because she’d find out then just how right he was.

Her heart twisted with longing. He needed to share this with her. She wasn’t even sure at this moment if it meant anything without him. Yet it did. It had to. She must make herself believe that it was possible for her to exist as Ava Montgomery the writer she’d long dreamt of being, rather than as Beth Ashby, the wife who was trapped inside her own love and held back by her husband’s unexplained rejection.

Poor Beth Ashby, with her broken heart and shambolic life. That was Ava thinking – Ava, whose inclinations were slightly wild and impulsive, and who was electrified enough by this meeting to want to start moving on.

Then quite suddenly her mind swooped off in another direction – to Sophie Long’s infamous tights. Tights! Such an unexotic item for a mistress! One paper had asked, what kind of tights were they? She ran through some of the possibles: black Lycra, seamless, ten or fifteen denier, crotchless. Tights on the hands. Tights on the legs. Tights as a scarf. Her eyes closed. He was still swearing he hadn’t done it, but how could he deny it when he’d been caught right there and so far there was no evidence of anyone else being present? Maybe, as one reporter had half-heartedly ventured, it had been an accident. Asphyxia-induced orgasms had
been given an airing after that – how she and Georgie had laughed when she’d phrased it like that. And then there were the side-splitting moments as they’d tried to work out why he’d been wearing only a jacket, shirt and tie, no trousers. Thank God for black humour. It had to be the greatest antidote to loneliness and fear, for those hysterical moments bobbed like life rafts in overpowering tides of despair.

A siren was whooping down Piccadilly as Robin Lindsay came back into the room. Beth’s thoughts went to Georgie. She’d be on her way to the Ritz by now, where they’d arranged to drink cocktails while Beth recounted all the details of this meeting. She prayed silently that the siren had nothing to do with Georgie, and struggled to block out the horrible, gruesome images that were pushing their way into her mind. She’d become prone to these irrational fears since her world had turned inside out. She didn’t feel anything was to be trusted any more. Everything was going to be taken away, mutilated, ruined; destroyed beyond repair.

‘Sorry to have kept you,’ Robin Lindsay said, lifting the champagne bottle from its ice bucket and topping up her glass.

Beth’s, Ava’s, eyes were shining as she watched him return to his chair and fix her with a satisfied smile. ‘That call has just decided me on what we should do,’ he said.

She waited, allowing a touch of flirtation to beautify her smile.

‘I’d like to put your book up for auction,’ he told her. ‘Do you know what that means?’

Ava nodded calmly, while inside Beth became
almost giddy. ‘It means you’ll give it to several editors and the book will go to the highest bidder.’

He smiled, his ruddy cheeks turning redder. ‘I have five editors in mind,’ he said. ‘Stacey Greene has already put in an offer of one hundred and fifty thousand.’

Though Ava held steady, Beth’s euphoria was quietly erupting. It was true that Colin’s salary had always been substantial, but she herself had never had any real money of her own. In fact, since she’d left the nursery she’d been living on just over three hundred pounds a month, eking out a small inheritance from her granddad so that she didn’t have to go to Colin for all her needs, like make-up and tights! He wouldn’t have minded – he was generous to a fault, which was why they had no savings – but she’d just wanted to be able to pay for some things herself. She’d be able to do that now. One hundred and fifty thousand pounds was an unimaginable amount of money to someone who’d never earned more than twenty thousand in a year, and who until today had avoided even thinking about how she was going to manage in the coming months now she was homeless, husbandless and all but jobless too.