The Guilty Secret (2 page)

It was the thought of Mary's companionship that had decided me. That and the faint worry that Aunt Harriet's words had left. What could be causing Mary so much anxiety that it was ageing her prematurely? Aunt Harriet wasn't prone to exaggeration. I wondered if it was Tom and then dismissed the idea. No-one could possibly be unhappy married to Mary. She'd obviously been overworking and of course the trial and its aftermath had left its mark on her as it had everyone else close to me. It would be a long time before I forgot the agony on Phil's face. As for Aunt Harriet's … I reached for my handbag and tablets. I could wait no longer for the oblivion they brought. If I could have slept through the day as well as the night I would gratefully have done so.

The sinking rays of the sun filled the room with smokey light. In coming away I had intended to determine my future. So far it was as hazy as ever. I could never go back to St Thomas's and nursing. The thought of a new job, of interviews, of explaining away the gap in my life that the trial had left was too daunting an ordeal. There was always Phil's alternative. The tablets were already beginning to work and I felt my stomach muscles slowly relaxing, my eyes gently closing. Phil had recently asked me to marry him. Drowsily I thought of marriage to Phil. It would be a pleasant existence. We had always been together. Phil was insistent that we always should be together. We wouldn't have much money, but I didn't care about that. Besides, we would have a home. The cottage in Templars Way that Phil's parents had left to him, and he had a brilliant future. He was only twenty-four …

The only marriages I had seen at close quarters had been Mary's and Rozalinda's. Neither of them had encouraged me to take the same step. True, Mary was happy, but I knew that I could never be at someone else's beck and call as Mary was at Tom's. All that mattered to Mary was that Tom was happy, no matter what her own wishes and desires were. It seemed to me rather an unequal arrangement. As for Harold and Rozalinda … There it was completely the other way round. Harold's eyes followed Rozalinda's every move with dog-like devotion. And I knew Rozalinda well enough to know that without his money Harold wouldn't last a day. He hadn't earned his million for himself but had inherited it, and though he was kind and pleasant, he was also a rather stupid man who had even on occasion managed to bore the patient Mary. No, Rozalinda's marriage was no encouragement to anyone. There had been gossip some months back that Rozalinda was having an affair with her latest leading man. Gossip that Harold's public relations man had been quick to squash. Still, it was news that would have surprised no-one who knew her. The thought of Rozalinda being a faithful wife needed a definite effort of imagination. And that she should be faithful to Harold, who was thirty years older than her and who had nothing to offer in the way of looks or personality, seemed downright improbable. But Rozalinda was careful. She had planned her own career with alarming single-mindedness. She wouldn't lose Harold and his millions for a passing love affair, no matter how handsome the face. When we had been in our teens it had been Phil who had been the centre of her attention. I'd often wondered if, had she not left Templar's Way when she did, she would finally have wormed her way into his affections. She had made no secret of the fact that she wanted him, and what Rozalinda wanted she usually got. Phil had been totally immune to her advances. He didn't even seem aware of them. His sole preoccupation was his music. If there were two sexes, Phil had shown no knowledge of the fact. Then had come the film parts and Rozalinda had left the village, moving out of our orbit and into the more exciting world of Harold's. Yet even now, whenever she looked at Phil there was something in her eyes that I couldn't quite define. I imagine he was the only man Rozalinda had ever wanted and failed to get. A perpetual challenge to her self esteem. I only hoped she didn't try to rectify the situation when Phil reached Ofir. Rozalinda might be a sex symbol to the Western world, but to Phil she was Rose Lucas who whined when she didn't get her own way and had no appreciation of his musical talents. They were friends, and only friends and Phil wouldn't hesitate to tell her so. Tact wasn't one of his qualities and after the unadulterated adoration she was used to, I imagined any home truths from Phil would be very ill received.

Sleep was beginning to drift over me in waves. Aunt Harriet would be happy if I married Phil. Phil would be happy too. Perhaps Phil was right. Perhaps we should get married.

With none of the past men in my life had I felt so at ease as with him. I came round to full consciousness with a rush of realisation. I was mad! How could I think of marriage after what had happened? How could I contemplate marriage to anyone? I covered my face with my hands, and for the hundredth time began to cry myself to sleep.

I heard his car early the next morning. I was sitting beneath the scarlet awning that shaded my bedroom terrace, eating warm rolls and grateful for the strong coffee that cleared my mouth of the stale taste the tablets left, when there came the high pitched whine of a car engine beginning the twisting ascent to the hotel. For several minutes I listened as he changed gears, the tree shadowed bends twisting with increasing steepness. Through the heavy foliage I caught my first glimpse of the car. It was a Lamborgini with a GB plate and at the speed he was driving I was glad the hotel was so sparsely inhabited he was unlikely to meet anyone coming in the opposite direction. The road curved round to the rear of the hotel and the main entrance so that I was unable to get a glimpse of the driver, but when I went down to reception a little while later to telephone Aunt Harriet and put her mind at rest as to where I was, I saw him clearly. The large, sunny dining-room had only three occupants. Two of them German businessmen who had arrived two days earlier. The third the Lamborgini's driver. My brief glance told me he was somewhere in his late twenties, with the most amazing shock of sun-gold hair I had ever seen on a grown man. He glanced upwards and I hurriedly averted my eyes, walking quickly across the marbled entrance hall towards the telephone, but not before I had seen a disturbingly attractive face with strong jawline and hazel eyes. It was the eyes that held my attention as I struggled to get through to Ofir and Aunt Harriet. There was something familiar about them yet I hadn't seen him before …

Aunt Harriet was understanding but brisk:

‘You
did
hire a car, didn't you?'

‘Yes, I've no transport problems.'

That was part of the therapy recommended by my psychiatrist. One of the ways in which he thought I could regain self-confidence and emotional stability. I hadn't the heart to disillusion him.

‘That's good. It's only half an hour's drive down here from Viana, but for goodness sake be careful of the cows.'

‘Cows? It's the main motorway south. What do I need to be careful of cows for?'

‘Because the motorway is a deteriorated Roman road, with the added benefit of being like India. Cows are everywhere. Side of the road. Middle of the road and they've no traffic sense. Tranquil creatures, cows …'

‘Yes Aunt Harriet,' I interrupted before she got too side-tracked into bovine virtues. ‘ I'll be with you in another few days. I just thought I'd do a little sight-seeing up here first.'

‘Well, if you're sure that's the only reason for your delay.' Aunt Harriet didn't sound sure but then she knew me very well. ‘Mary and Tom are here
and
Rozalinda and Harold. I'll tell them you'll be here later this week.'

‘Yes, do that. And take care of yourself.'

‘Bye, God bless.' Aunt Harriet said as I slowly put down the receiver.

I knew now why those hazel eyes had looked so familiar. The colour was different, but the expression in them was identical to that in my own. They were the eyes of someone who had suffered and had built a wall around themselves. From the very fist I knew that the golden-haired Englishman was seeking sanctuary in the same manner I was.

Idly I swung the stand of picture postcards round, finally selecting one that showed the Hotel, the small red canopies that fluttered over its balconies giving it an air of nineteen-thirtyish grandeur. Carefully I wrote the name of Doctor McClure and the address of the psychiatric clinic I had just been discharged from, then I stopped, staring at the blank space for the messages. What did one write to a man who had been alternately kind and cruel, patient and furious in his efforts to get me back to so called normality?

Wish you were here? Hardly.

Having a lovely time? I could imagine his comments to that.

In the end I simply scrawled ‘Jenny' in large letters across the space, and handed it over to the dark eyed boy on reception to post. For the first time since I had booked into the Santa Luzia, I did not return immediately to my room. Doctor McClure
had
instilled some confidence into me. I might have found some of his forms of therapy futile but I was certainly in far better shape when I had left the clinic than when I had entered. For that I had to give him some credit. My daily retreats into my room, locked with myself and my memories, spending whole days at a time in brooding, was the most dangerous thing I could do if I wanted to recover fully. McClure had been adamant.

‘Get a car. Meet people. Work. Travel. Open your mind to fresh experiences. Have an affair. Anything. But don't creep into the haven of your bed each day. You'll only slip backwards, Jenny.'

Since I'd left the clinic I'd done exactly that. The only positive thing I had done was to hire the car, and if a quick uninterested drive through France and Northern Spain could be called travel, then I had travelled. But not in the way Doctor McClure had meant. Not with my senses open to fresh experiences. Not with any anticipation of enjoyment. Well, I wasn't prepared to follow all his advice. I wasn't going to go back to work as yet. And having an affair wasn't exactly as easy to do as hiring a car. Besides, affairs meant confidences shared, past experiences recounted. I definitely wasn't playing that game with anybody. It was bad enough friends knowing about me. I wasn't going to broadcast the news to any new man who should walk across my path. But I could travel in the way McClure had meant. Become a tourist instead of a hermit. I took a steadying breath and went out into the hotel grounds to the car.

I took the winding road, drenched in the overhang of greenery, far more slowly than the Englishman had. For a brief moment the car swung out of the trees and onto the small promenade that fronted the Igreja Santa Luzia and gave photographic enthusiasts a one hundred and eighty degree view of the Portuguese coastline and the valley of the river Lima. A couple of cars were already parked. I swept past them diving down once more into cool greenness, the road curving snakelike till it emerged onto the main road into Viana. Minutes later I was parked in the main square, looking every inch the typical English tourist. It was an easy accomplishment. The rest of the female population dressed completely in black, shawls over their heads as they chattered loudly, their baskets of shopping over their arms, or more usually, piles of washing or sacks of grain carried with ease on their heads. Certainly a fresh experience. I selected a reasonably clean looking street cafe and ordered coffee, sitting out on the pavement and watching this totally new world go by.

On the street corner nearest to me, a cheerful, middle-aged woman wearing knee length socks and wooden clogs was selling fish from a barrow. This entailed a lot of gesticulating and loud laughter with her customers and a lot of nods in my direction and then more chatter and the words ‘Inglese'. It seemed I was one of the first tourists of the year and though I didn't look wealthy would probably spend a lot of money in the shops around the square. Most of the shops'stock seemed to be displayed outside the premises. Pots and pans, gaily decorated pottery, hand knitted sweaters and brightly coloured rugs hung from doorways and walls, was spread out on the pavement. Around the ornate fountain a group of men gathered, deep in conversation, occasionally spitting with great gusto, hands thrust into their baggy trouser pockets as their women folk scurried up and down on the square with huge weights on their heads, their hands free to grasp at straying toddlers. The Lamborgini came as I knew it would, skidding to a halt amidst a cloud of dust on the far side of the square. He slammed the car door shut, locking it and then looking around him without much interest. He was tall and slim, and when he finally moved, it was with loose limbed grace but there was nothing effeminate about him. Rather the opposite. He gave the impression of strength and aggression being held on a very tight chain. The men at the fountain turned to watch him as he strolled slowly along past the shops with their profusion of goods and souvenirs then they turned back into their tight little group, muttering. I could well imagine what they were saying. The tourist was not a man to pick a fight with. There were no smiles from them as he passed closely, though the women smiled, but then I imagined that most women would. He was the sort of man by whom any female, sophisticate or peasant, would like to be noticed. He disappeared into the dark depths of a cafe on the far side of the square, emerging minutes later with a bottle of wine and a glass. He sat at one of the deserted metal tables, leaning back easily on his chair, pouring what looked like a tumblerful of wine.

I watched intrigued. Was the stranger's great secret to be nothing more interesting than alcoholism? Somehow I doubted it. He looked like a man who had himself very firmly under control. My presence, even at the distance across the cobbled square must have been obvious to him, but he didn't look my way. I didn't have to be vain to know that I was a girl men stopped twice to look at. My problem in life had been fighting off unwanted admirers, not encouraging them. But as far as the Englishman was concerned I didn't rate a second glance. And he knew I was staying at the same hotel, and from my colouring it must be equally apparent that we were the same nationality. Despite myself, I felt interested. I ordered another coffee, settling myself comfortably in the warmth of the morning sun, letting my imagination run over the list of possibilities that caused his eyes to hold the same deadened expression mine did.