‘It means I’m listening.’
‘Good. This isourstory, Alastair, our very own story, which onlywecan write. We must not allow anyone else to try and dictate the narrative, or the ending.’
‘What are you saying?’ he asked, concerned. ‘That you already know how it ends between us?’
Now it was Valentina’s turn to laugh. ‘No one knows that. What I am trying to say is that it would be very easy for your friends to start writing our story for us, particularly your part in it. Trust me, they will not want to let me take you away from them.’
‘You’re not taking me anywhere. I’m taking myself, and willingly.’
‘They will not see it that way, and you know that in your heart. I’d like to say I won’t fight them for you, but I would be a liar. I shall fight them every step of the way. I don’t like losing and I don’t intend to lose you. I am very determined. You should know that about me, it’s important.’
‘I’m the same,’ he said, ‘so maybe you need to accept that you’ve met your match when it comes to stubborn determination.’ And with his words Orla came flooding back into his mind, together with the memory of him saying something similar to her in the early stages of their relationship. Without warning, the familiar hard lump of guilty torment wedged in his throat. He fought hard to stop himself from thinking the unthinkable, that history was repeating itself. Valentina was nothing like Orla. She was different. That was why he had fallen in love with her. She was refreshingly uncomplicated and free of artistic insecurities. With her he could relax and enjoy the simple pleasure of being happy again. Truly happy. Something he didn’t think would ever be possible.
‘Alastair, are you still there?’
He took a deep shaky breath. ‘Yes,’ he managed to say through the tightness in his throat.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You don’t sound it.’
‘It’s nothing. Just a memory that came into my head.’
‘A painful memory of your wife?’
He grunted something that passed for an assertion and stared out of the window, down the length of the lawn that was sodden from the rain that had fallen that afternoon. On the other side of the river, he saw his new neighbour leaning against the wooden rail of the uppermost level of the mill. He knew from having been up there many times over the years that the view from the balcony, which wrapped itself around the mill, gave an amazing 360-degree view of the river and surrounding reed beds and marshland.
Since he had introduced himself a couple of weeks ago, the woman had become a regular sight on the balcony of the mill. Her name was Laura Manning and she was renting the mill for a few months from the owners, who were friends of friends. Similar in age to him, she gave the impression of a woman who was entirely comfortable with being alone. After all, if she craved company she would have chosen to stay somewhere more densely populated, not at Linston Mill which, given its location and limited access, had a definite sense of isolation to it. He had said that if she needed help with anything, he was just across the water. ‘We tend to be quite neighbourly in these parts,’ he’d explained, ‘but hopefully not in an intrusive way.’
‘It’s okay,’ Valentina said in his ear, prompting him to turn his back to the garden and river. ‘You don’t need to hide Orla from me. I’m not so fragile that I will fall apart at the mention of her. Of course you still have feelings for the woman who was your wife for so many years. As do I for my Ivan, even though he was not the greatest of husbands.’
My Ivan …Valentina’s use of the possessive pronoun sounded odd to Alastair. He would never have said ‘my Orla’. Whether it was no more than a subtle language difference, he knew with absolute certainty that Orla would not have countenanced ownership of herself; she would have had none of that. In contrast she had owned him, mind, body and soul.
Thinking how serious the conversation had become, in particular the manner in which Valentina had spoken of his friends, he wondered if she was more worried than she was letting on. Did her declaration that she would fight for him stem from doubts that had crept in since they had been apart? Did she now feel the need to convince herself they were doing the right thing?
‘You’re not having second thoughts, are you?’ he asked nervously.
‘I never have second thoughts,’ she said adamantly, ‘never.’
He smiled to himself, picturing perfectly the flash of her piercing blue eyes, the tilt of her chin and the set of her mouth, pursed and determined. Deciding it would be better to change the subject, and remembering the couple who were coming in the morning to view the house, he said, ‘Have you had any more ideas about where we’re going to live? I think we should start narrowing down our choices.’
This all-important decision had yet to be made and he had to hold firm against the dangerous thought that was beginning to make itself known – that if Valentina would only consider making Linston End her home with him, life would be so much easier.
Chapter Eighteen
‘I mean, come on, your father is the last man on earth ever to attack anyone, he’s as malicious as a marshmallow.’ Rachel gave a short laugh. ‘I’d sooner believe it of my dad, or even Mum, but never Danny. He’s much too gentle in his nature.’
‘Well, this awful woman is trying to make out he’s a vicious bully,’ said Jenna. ‘And it’s not right.’
‘As I said before, I reckon my dad’s bang on the money; this woman is a pro. Next thing she’ll be claiming harassment in the workplace and hoping to grab herself a tidy bit of compensation.’
‘Everything good here, ladies?’
‘We’re fine thank you,’ said Rachel, wishing the waiters would stop butting in every five minutes. Fair enough it was nice to have some attentive service, but this was getting ridiculous. That was the trouble with these super-hip places, they tried too hard, from their steam-punk interiors and uncomfortably hard chairs straight from the school room, to the waiters who were so casually dressed in jeans and a shirt that you couldn’t tell them apart from the customers. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, once the waiter had moved on to bother somebody else, ‘we had a similar case at work, a woman accusing a co-worker of sexual harassment, but after some judicious digging we discovered she had made a similar complaint some years back with a previous employer. I bet you anything you like, the same will happen with this woman. She’s nothing but an opportunist.’
‘In the meantime Dad’s going through hell,’ Jenna said flatly. ‘Mum too.’
