‘What’s this about?’ he said, when they were all standing in the kitchen. ‘Is it to do with the woman who set fire to my friend’s house?’ He indicated Danny at his side.
The officer who had spoken before looked confused. ‘No, sir, it’s nothing to do with that. I’m afraid there’s been a serious road accident involving a Mr Alastair Lucas.’
Chapter Sixty-Two
Two months on, and following a police investigation as to the cause of the accident, a post-mortem and finally the coroner giving permission for the burial to go ahead, it still didn’t feel possible. Alastair dead. His once handsome and virile athletic body soon to be laid to rest alongside Orla’s. Just as Orla had wanted, Alastair having left no specific instructions as to how he wanted to be disposed of.
That was how Sorrel kept picturing him, as the young man she had first known. Was it an unconscious desire on her part to turn back the clock to a time when they believed themselves to be immune from something as commonplace as growing old, or immune even from death itself?
She watched Simon approach the lectern, his head bowed, his shoulders drooping. Danny had just given a reading, now it was Simon’s turn to give the tribute. Sorrel had no idea what he planned to say, and she found herself holding her breath when Simon raised his head and gazed out at the congregation seated in the pews of the medieval church of St Peter’s.
He began by honouring the friend he and Danny had known since childhood, saying how they had taken an instant liking to each other. ‘We formed a triumvirate,’ he explained, ‘to which we swore undying loyalty.’ He paused to clear his throat, and even at this distance, Sorrel could see his hands were shaking. ‘I’m sure Danny would say the same,’ he went on, ‘that the three of us were as close as brothers. Somebody a lot smarter than me once said that we have as many personalities as we have friends, and I’d like to give Alastair the credit for shaping my personality, for without him, I would not be half the man I am—’ his voice cracked and he lowered his head again, his hands gripping the sides of the lectern.
It was a while before he could continue, and in those long agonising seconds, Sorrel couldn’t bear to look at him. His sorrow was destroying him, taking him apart bit by bit, just as her own grief had been dismantling the protective armour with which she had equipped herself for far too long.
In the days and weeks after they had received the news that Alastair’s Range Rover had skidded off the road on the A11 and hit a tree head on, Sorrel had moved through each day as if in slow motion. She had so many regrets. So much for which she blamed herself.
Had Alastair lost concentration behind the wheel of his car because he had been so upset by her cruel desire to expose him as a liar and a cheat?
Had the accident happened because he was devastated by Simon’s refusal to let him in, and for which she was responsible?
Had he crashed because Sorrel had destroyed his relationship with Simon and Rachel and Callum?
These were the questions that kept her awake at night. And then there were the if onlys that spun around inside her head.
If only Orla hadn’t died.
If only Alastair had never met Valentina and invited her to stay at Linston End.
If only Sorrel’s jealousy had not turned her into a monster hell-bent on revenge.
If only Sorrel had not broken her promise about their affair.
This was her punishment. Knowing that she had been instrumental in causing Alastair’s death. Knowing too that Simon must blame her. How could he not?
For years she had fed the ravenous beast that was her jealousy, and only now did she realise the effort and energy she had put into keeping it under control, and what a bitter and petty woman it had turned her into. It had coloured her every thought, her every action.
It had not always been her intention to wreak havoc like some power-crazed avenging god. In the immediate aftermath of her affair with Alastair, she had been too humiliated by his casual ending of things with her to want to add further pain to her bruised emotions by admitting to anyone what they had done. She had felt emotionally defiled, reduced to wanting to pretend it had never happened. But gradually, oh, so gradually, the need for revenge, to put right the wrong he had committed, had grown within her, and then Valentina had arrived at Linston End, and had ripped open the unhealed wound of Sorrel’s profoundly hurt pride.
Roused from her thoughts, she realised Simon had resumed speaking, and he had put away the piece of paper he had been reading from.
‘Alastair was not perfect,’ he was saying, ‘and he’d be the first to say that of himself; after all none of us is. But he was damned near as perfect a man as I had the good fortune to call my friend. I just wish that the last time I saw him, it could have been different, that we had not—’
At that, Simon’s words broke off once more and he almost fell against the lectern, knocking it over. It was clear he could not carry on, and with the backs of her eyes pricking with the threat of tears, Sorrel watched Callum and Danny step forward to help him back to his seat in the pew next to her. Her heart, which she had believed now to be incapable of emotion, was full of compassion for him, and she tentatively reached out to take his hand, not knowing how he would respond. There had been so little contact between them since that awful day that had led to Alastair’s death.
There had been no talk of divorce since they’d been informed by the police that Alastair was dead. It was as if they had no appetite for discussing their future, as though now it was irrelevant. And maybe it was.
With Danny and Frankie living with them while the lengthy process of sorting out their cottage dragged on, they somehow managed to be civil. They slept apart – Simon sleeping in Rachel’s old room – and circled around each other guardedly.
Her eyes now blurred with tears, she felt Simon’s warm hand wrap around hers. And in that moment she knew that despite it all, despite every accusation, every petty grumble, grievance and resentment, every jealous thought, or spiteful word, she did love Simon. It was just that she had loved Alastair too.
Just as his father regretted he had not had the chance to apologise to Alastair, so too did Callum. It weighed heavily on his conscience and he’d give anything to change things, but it was a wish he would never be granted.
He was still shocked by the revelation that Mum and Alastair had had an affair, and whenever the image of the two of them together came into his mind, he had to rid himself of it fast, before it could gain a proper footing and poison every good memory he’d ever had of his parents, and of Alastair.
Their affair had made him question so much about his parents’ marriage, but as Danny had said to him, no one knows the truth behind a marriage except the husband and wife, especially not the children. Frankie had tried to explain that all marriages have their strengths and weaknesses, and their honest and their dishonest parts.
‘Even yours?’ Callum had asked.
