The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (6 page)

Marianne would not be placated, she was beside herself. She
banged the table.

“But I loved him, I’d have taken care of him. I didn’t need
to be protected, not to know how ill he was, not to be allowed to help.”

“Wasn’t to be,” Paul shrugged, keeping his tone level,
bending to pick up the pieces of china, mopping the spilt tea with kitchen
towel.

“But why keep it a secret, he deceived me, I can’t believe
he’s done this to me…” Her fury bounced off the walls.

Paul moved towards the door.

“Call me later when you’ve calmed down,” Paul’s tone had
changed, he was brusque. “When you can put things into some sort of
perspective, George was only doing what he thought best. No, you’re right, he
didn’t know he was going to die in that hideous car crash on the M1, but he did
know he was going to die some time soon, so he did his best to take care of the
one thing he really loved, you. Turns out, George really was a good bloke, but
you Marianne, you’re behaving like a spoiled brat.” He closed the door gently
as he left.

“Well, I…” Marianne plonked herself back at the kitchen
table, hands at her cheeks as if she had been slapped.

The sound of crockery smashing had long since signalled
Monty to his bed. Marianne sat still in the brightly lit silence until dawn.

She telephoned Paul as soon as she
thought he might be awake. He was still in bed. He had gone to the party, which
had turned out to be rowdier than expected and with good reason he considered,
had put himself the other side of two bottles of cheap red wine, a kebab and a
very large glass of port.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Hmmmm.”

“Sorry… Did I really piss you off?”

“Hmm hmm.”

“Sorry… I was feeling really sorry for myself.”

“Erm?”

“Sorry you had to bear the brunt.”

Silence.

“Really sorry.”

Silence.

“Will you come round later for a drink?”

“ I’ll never drink again…….” Said a thin voice. The line
went dead.

Marianne had heard this all before, so invited Paul round
for dinner anyway. As the day brightened, so did she. Her night-long vigil had
helped put lots of things into perspective. Last night she thought she would
never forgive George for keeping his illness a secret, feeling again that awful
gall, the gnawing of deceit, the fear that she had been taken in, betrayed. Yet
as a new day dawned, she knew she would forgive, had forgiven. 

George had considered he was doing the right thing, for the
right reasons. His was not a true deceit, just a delaying tactic while he tied
up loose ends. He would have told her, in his own time, when the time was
right. George had truly loved her, she had truly known love. George deserved to
be forgiven, unconditionally.

She sat up in the middle of her large, lonely bed and took a
long lingering look at the photograph of them in the silver frame, taken at the
National Media Awards, when they had first met. There they were smiling and
shiny at the very beginning of their love affair and here she was alone, at the
very end.

She touched George’s face with the tip of her finger. Monty
scraped at the door, he needed to go out. He looked at her, moving his tail
steadily from side to side in anticipation. She smiled. The velocity of his
tail increased, she had not stretched her face at him in ages.

Paul arrived at six sharp; fully recovered and back on speaking
terms. He brought wine, smoked haddock and olives. He also brought the latest
edition of the Chesterford Chronicle, presenting her with the entertainment
supplement; a social life was in dire need of restitution. The aroma of
furniture polish and fresh coffee mingled pleasingly, a real fire glowed in the
grate. It felt more like number seventy four, more like George and Marianne’s
home. It felt the best it had since George died.

Marianne gave him a huge hug. He was surprised. Since
George’s death she had withdrawn from all physical contact, if an embrace were
offered, she would just stand there, stiffly, being hugged but tonight she
hugged him right back. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her
eyes, eyes that were still sad but not as haunted. Looking into her eyes he saw
Marianne, not George’s ghost. He kissed her forehead, she was going to be
alright; the mist had started to disperse. 

Monty, sensing a lifting of spirit, snuffled carrier bags
excitedly, it was a long time since something approaching delicious had been
served in this house.

“We could go and see something hilarious, frivolous and
irreverent, the Comedy Festival’s in full swing,” Paul offered.

“Great, nothing stuffy though, I don’t want to have to make
an effort, if we can wear jeans and drink beer, that would be perfect,” she
called from the kitchen.

Monty turned to face the hall. He padded to the doorway
giving Marianne the one yap and twitch of nose that meant there was a stranger
in the vicinity. She put the cafetière down as the doorbell sounded, signalling
Monty to stay.

Marianne’s former boss, the publisher, Daniel Jacobs, stood
in the hallway.  Marianne closed the door behind him; she had not seen him for
ages. He was immaculately dressed as always, yet today he looked a little
piqued, his usual sparkle diminished. Marianne was intrigued, she knew Daniel
well enough to know he would never arrive unannounced.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Marianne said lightly. She had
always admired him, they had been close colleagues. It was Daniel who had given
her the commission in Paris. It was also Daniel who had helped pick up the
pieces when she returned from France. A cup was laid against a saucer in the
sitting room, a soft chink.

Daniel turned to go.

 “You have company, I’m sorry.”

Marianne shrugged, she pushed open the door. Paul’s sandy
head was level with Monty’s as they wrestled on the rug, Monty grumbling as
Paul tugged at a rolled up magazine. Daniel nodded towards the neat bottom in
faded denims.

“Paul, Daniel.” Marianne announced. Paul turned quickly,
upending his empty cup on the hearth. He caught it and beamed at them both.

“We’ve met before,” he crossed the room in an easy stride,
“one of Marianne’s many awards dinners. I was very drunk and sang
My Way
badly after the band had finished.”

“I remember.” Daniel raised a brow, teasing him.

“Wish I didn’t.” Paul laughed and so did he.

He clocked Marianne’s death stare.

“Just taking Monty for a spin in the garden, leave you to
it.” He left with the little dog trotting beside him, perfectly happy with the
arrangement.

Marianne poured her ex-boss a glass of wine. Daniel took a
sip, standing at the fireplace, taking in the room.

“You have such lovely taste, Marianne. Artistic. Where did
that come from?”

“A lot of it was George, once you cleared away the clutter,
he had some lovely pieces.” She joined Daniel in a drink, and waited.

“It’s Claude.”

Marianne stifled a sigh.

“He’s very ill. I saw him just a few hours ago, he was
asking for you. He’s been trying to get in touch with all of us, to say
goodbye.”

Just out of range, Marianne thought she saw the edge of a
blade, looked like a scythe. Oh, hi death, you still here? Always comes in
threes, she heard in her head.

Marianne polished off her drink.

“Oh Daniel, Claude’s nothing to do with me, hasn’t been for
a hundred years.”

Daniel took a deep breath and put his glass down. The past
divided them, yet united them at the same time. In another life, while working
in Paris, Marianne had fallen for Daniel’s best friend, Claude. The match,
Marianne, a hungry young journalist, and he a well-known photographer, had been
the talk of the town.

For Marianne it had been a terrible mistake, although fun at
first, Claude had quickly reverted to his old ways, spending money like water
and conducting a series of affairs with a string of models. Claude had given
Marianne more than just heartache.

Nevertheless, Marianne had adored him and, believing his
promise of marriage, stood by him, until the evidence of his unfaithfulness was
irrefutable in the form of a very pregnant, young assistant. Distraught and
desperate to distance herself from the shame of a failed relationship, despite
the many warnings and the inevitable pity of friends and colleagues, she left
the sprawling Left Bank apartment they shared, abruptly. As a celebrity
photographer, she had hoped Claude’s PR would quash any leaks to the press but
on hearing the news, one of his ex-conquests decided her career needed a boost
and went to the media with sordid tales of drug-fuelled, sex romps. To witness
at first hand the rancour of the media and see your private life sordidly
splashed across the centre pages, had deeply affected Marianne. She vowed there
and then to use her skills as a journalist only for good, to campaign for justice
and expose wrongdoing wherever and whenever she could.

Marianne returned to England, taking the first job offered,
convincing herself that sometimes it was just as easy to let go; see which way
the wind blew and where fate would take you if you just let it. She had found
it quite easy to reinvent herself as an ambitious, unattached, workaholic. A
new career, in a new town, where no-one knew she had been the girlfriend of a
glamorous celebrity.

She had blotted out Claude and the memories, because when
she did think of him and their brief happiness, she could not help but relive
the pain of packing her possessions into boxes, remembering how she had felt,
as the boxes filled and she had emptied. Now he was dying. Marianne remained
untouched. The girl he had betrayed gone forever. She had moved on, developed a
shell, the legacy of their relationship a half-forgotten nightmare, an echo of
another time.

“I really don’t think…” she said quietly. Besides it was
ancient history, Claude had married his assistant and they had children now, he
had another life too.

“I understand,” Daniel was abrupt, moving out into the
hallway. “You’ve been through too much lately, losing George and everything.
But Claude’s one of my closest friends Marianne and he specifically asked to
speak to you, so I said I’d try.”

The Grandfather clock chimed.

“Does he want to speak to me now?”

“There’s very little time, I’ve come straight from the
airport.”

Marianne caught his pain. She called to Paul in the garden.

“I’m going into the study with Daniel, we have some
important business to discuss. We’ll be a while.” Dusk was falling. Monty was
in Paul’s arms as he sat on the swing tied to the chestnut, growing
precariously close to the house. He nodded and waved.

“I’ll walk Monty and make a bit of supper for later, no
worries, will Daniel stay and eat?”

“Not tonight.” Marianne replied.

“Seems nice,” Daniel said, as they made their way to the
study, “young, but nice.”

“It’s not like that with Paul,” Marianne sniped, and was
immediately sorry for her sharpness. “Not like that with anyone now,” she ended
softly.

Daniel went to pick up the landline.

“Where is he?” Marianne asked.

“In a hospice, outside Paris,” Daniel replied.

“What’s it like, so I can imagine it when I speak to him, I
won’t know what to talk about.”

“It’s very pleasant, his room is filled with flowers and
soft music, not in the way of funeral parlours, but more like a home from
home.”

“A home to die from,” she said.

Daniel continued.

“It looks directly onto the garden, there’s a fountain in a
courtyard. His bed is large, and piled with cushions; drawings by the children
are stuck on the walls and there’s a cluster of some of his best photographs,
in frames, on a table where he can see them. There’s a beautiful picture of
you.”

That hurt, for some reason.

“Is there a pretty young nurse?” she asked.

“Of course,” Daniel replied.

“Good, okay dial the number.” She stood by the desk,
fiddling with a strand of hair.

She closed her eyes trying to remember the Claude she had
fallen in love with; his dark green eyes, flecked with gold; eyes that always
reminded her of a majestic cat; eyes that lit up whenever he saw her. She tried
not to imagine this dying stranger, this poor man she did not know or care
about. It took ages to finally get through.

 “You rang, thank goodness you rang,” he whispered dryly,
although the voice racked with illness, was not his, “how are you?” he hissed.

“Good,” she whispered back.

“I bet you still look good, you always did.”

She left the air blank.

“Thank you for ringing, I’m so happy to hear your voice, you
have no idea what this means to me.” His words were rasping; his breathing
laboured.

“Take your time, Claude. I’m not going anywhere. Are you
okay? Are you comfortable?”

“I’m fine, absolutely fine and happy now that we have this
chance to talk. I have meant to speak to you so many times, and now there’s not
much time.” He stopped, breathless, she heard him take a drink. She sat on the
edge of the desk, Daniel had moved away, discreetly reading a book in a corner.
Her hands were trembling; she had forgotten his beautiful accent; the perfect
English with the hint of France.

 “Claude, I’m so sorry,” she said.

“No, no Marianne. I’m sorry. So sorry, you’ll never know.
That’s why I asked Daniel to make sure I could speak to you. Please believe me.
I’m really sorry, for everything,” he gasped, and then silence. He took another
drink.

“It was a long time ago, Claude.” It was all she could think
of to say.

“Marianne, I need you to forgive me,” he said, louder this
time, with a cry in his voice, “Say you forgive me.”

She did not answer.