It dawned on her that she was entering a whole new phase in her life. Up until now, she had been first a child, with natural restrictions placed on her freedom. Then she’d become a mother, a state that necessitated complete selflessness. And lately she had been a carer, helping and comforting James through his final weeks. But this morning, she realised, apart from her never-ending role as mother, she was freer than she had ever been in all her twenty-nine years. Free to live as she wished, make her own decisionsandlive with the consequences . . .
Although Art had left before eleven last night, and their lips had only met in a chaste kiss goodnight, she’d woken feeling wrapped up by love in the calm, contented way that one associated with a night of satisfying sex. They had barely touched, yet even the brush of his jacket against her side had sent desire tingling through her body.
When he’d arrived, they’d sat down in the sitting room and talked – at first both shy and uncertain, but soon relaxing into the easy intimacy of two people who had once known each other well. It had always been that way with Art, from the very beginning. While others around him treated him with deferential uncertainty, Zoe had seen his vulnerability, his humanity.
She remembered when they had first met, at a trendy smoke-filled club in Kensington, Marcus insisting they celebrate her eighteenth birthday with her first legal drink. Marcus had promised their grandfather that he would look out for Zoe, make sure she got home safe, but that had extended as far as Marcus buying her a gin and tonic, and pressing some cash into her hand – ‘For the cab home. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!’ And he’d melted into the crowd with a wink and a grin.
At a loss, she’d sat down on a bar stool and looked around her at the gaggle of people on the dance floor, laughing loudly and wrapping their bodies drunkenly around each other. James had always taken care to shield her while she was growing up, so, unlike most of her boarding school friends, she didn’t have wild stories of nights out or experimenting with drugs in dimly lit toilets. Clutching the sweaty twenty-pound note Marcus had given her and feeling so uncomfortable that she decided she wanted to go home, she was just standing up from her stool when a voice had stopped her.
‘Oh, are you leaving? I was just about to ask if you wanted a drink.’
She’d turned around to look up into a pair of dark green eyes, framed by a fringe of straight blond hair that seemed incongruous alongside the fashionable longer hair sported by the other young men in the club. He looked vaguely familiar to her, but she couldn’t place him.
‘No thanks,’ she’d said. ‘I’m not much of a drinker, really.’
‘Me neither.’ He’d broken into a relieved grin. ‘I’ve just shaken off my . . . er, friends. They were more keen on this place than I was. I’m Art, by the way.’
‘Zoe,’ she’d said and had awkwardly stuck out her hand. He’d taken it in his and squeezed it briefly, sending a frisson of heat through her.
Looking back now, Zoe wondered whether, if she had recognised him then for who he really was, she would have left well alone? Would she have refused him when he’d asked her to dance with him again and again – the feel of his body pressed against hers sending all sorts of strange and wonderful sensations through her own . . . ? Then, finally, as the club was closing, allowing him to kiss her, swapping numbers and agreeing to meet again the following evening?
No, Zoe thought firmly. She’d have made exactly the same decision.
Last night, they’d both steered clear of the past. Instead they had talked of nothing and everything, simply savouring each other’s company.
Then Art had glanced at his watch regretfully. ‘I have to go, Zoe. I have a meet-and-greet in Northumberland tomorrow. The helicopter leaves at six thirty. You say you’re filming in Norfolk for the next few weeks?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can easily be up at our place there for a couple of nights. In fact, how about next weekend? Do you know yet where you’re staying? I can have a car pick you up on Friday evening and bring you over.’
Zoe had walked to the bureau and pulled out details of the small hotel where she’d be staying for the next six weeks. She wrote the information on a piece of paper and handed it to him.
‘Perfect,’ he’d said with a smile. ‘I’ll give you my mobile phone number too.’ He took a card out of his breast pocket. ‘Here. Please call me.’
‘Bye, Art. It was lovely to see you.’ Zoe had felt awkward, not sure how to end the evening.
‘And you.’ And then he’d reached down for the briefest kiss. ‘See you next weekend. We’ll have more time then. Goodnight, Zoe.’
Eventually, Zoe got out of bed, showered and dressed. She went shopping for groceries and came home having forgotten half of the things she’d gone out to buy. Dreamily, she played a record dating back ten years that she’d not put on the turntable since. She closed her eyes as the strains of Jennifer Rush’s ‘The Power of Love’ filled the room, the words as familiar to her now as they had been a decade ago.
On Sunday afternoon, she took a long stroll through Hyde Park, enjoying the snow-covered trees and walking on the white grass to avoid the treacherous icy paths. Returning home, she called Jamie at school. He sounded very perky, having just won a place in the under-tens’ rugby A team. She gave him the number of the hotel she was staying at in Norfolk to pass on to Matron in case of emergency, and discussed where he and his friend Hugo would like to go for lunch in two weeks’ time when she came to visit him. That evening, she packed much more carefully than she usually would for location filming, thinking about what she might need for next weekend. ‘Good underwear,’ she giggled, packing the La Perla set a friend had given her for Christmas, and which had never yet seen the light of day.
In bed that night, she allowed herself to consider the consequences of what she was beginning all over again. And the raw fact that, as before, there was no hope of any future.
But, Zoe thought sleepily as she turned over,I love him.
And love conquered all, didn’t it?
On Monday morning, Joanna waved Simon off to work, relieved at his departure. After The Kiss, there’d been none of their usual easy banter, and tension had hung thick in the air. Perhaps a week apart would help, and she prayed they could settle back quickly into their old, comfortable friendship.
Joanna closed her mind to how she had felt about last night’s kiss. It had been a very difficult few weeks and she was vulnerable and overwrought. Besides, there were other matters to attend to. And she’d been presented with the perfect opportunity: she had two whole days off.
As soon as Simon left, Joanna grabbed her rucksack and pulled out the photocopy of the letter, the programme and the note from Rose. As she did so, her hands touched cold metal and she retrieved the gold fountain pen. She’d forgotten all about it, what with everything else.
She turned it over in her hand, studying it.I. C. S.. . .
The initials rang a vague bell, but Joanna could not think from where. She sat cross-legged on the sofa bed, studying both the letters and the programme. If Simon thought she was going to curtail her interest in this whole business, then he was wrong. Plus, he’d seemed agitated and nervous on Friday night, most unlike his usual self. Why was he so dead set on her not following this up?
