Valentina didn’t know whether to condemn the woman for that futile persistence, or admire her for it. It struck Valentina that maybe she was facing something similar – the battle to prise Alastair away from his previous life and have him entirely for herself, or admit defeat and accept she could never have him heart, body and soul.
Alastair had not lived a nomadic life as she had as an adult, where home was merely where she happened to lay her head. Linston End was very much his home; it was a part of his being, she now understood.
But she was confident that once she got him to the south of France, and they saw the house in Sainte Maxime together, things would change. In the meantime, she would fight Linston End, and his friends, to possess him. Her father used to say that once she was set on a course of action she was like an extreme force of nature, capable of sweeping aside all those who were foolish enough to try to stop her.
Turning away from the sketches, she looked at the daybed against the wall. A cream cotton throw with tassels at the corners covered the mattress, and a pile of cushions lay at one end. Had Alastair lain on that with Orla? Had they made love on it? Or had this been a strictly private retreat for Orla, a sacred place designed to keep the world out, even Alastair?
She went over and sat on the edge of the mattress, and looked at the river through the window. Her lips twitched with a smile. To hell with this being a sacred place! The first opportunity she had in the coming days, she would find a purpose to come here with Alastair and they would make love on this daybed. It would be a satisfying way for Valentina to make her mark on this place, and to banish Orla further from Alastair’s mind.
Or would it?
So far their lovemaking had not been entirely successful here at Linston End. She blamed the house, the connection it had to Orla. It was obvious that Orla was present at every turn and that was another reason she had to get Alastair away.
Through the window she could see a boat passing on the river, followed by another. Realising that it was Alastair with Danny and Frankie returning from fetching the motor cruiser left in the broad last night, she got quickly to her feet, locked up and retraced her steps along the path towards the house. What happened next would be crucial in determining just where Alastair’s loyalty lay. With the past, or the future.
To some Valentina may have appeared unmoved by Rachel’s near-drowning, but that was just her way. She was not the sort to fall into the trap of becoming hysterical. And anyway, it was not her child who had nearly died; she scarcely knew the girl, so why would she be overly upset? Her nature was to be wholly pragmatic. A cool head was of far more use in a crisis than one full of panic and melodrama.
It was a very cool head she had employed earlier when dealing with Nikolai and Irina. Very quietly, and while everybody else was downstairs, she had taken them to task, particularly Nikolai. ‘You are too much like your father,’ she had said, ‘you drink too much and get yourself, and others, into trouble. You cannot go through life doing this! What if that silly, simpering girl who couldn’t take her eyes off you all evening had died?’
As he so often had in the past, Nikolai made a fulsome apology and swore he had learnt his lesson. And just as she had so many times before, including that time a week after his father’s death when he had borrowed her car in Paris without asking her and crashed it, she absolved him. Because that’s what a parent does. Even a step-parent. And that meant she would fight like a tiger to ensure the finger of blame was not pointed at him, or Irina. Loyalty and family pride meant as much to her as it did to Alastair and his friends, and she would not tolerate any criticism levelled at her stepchildren.
Irina had wanted to pack up her things and leave immediately, but that was not Valentina’s way; running away was the act of a coward and, in this instance, it would insinuate guilt. She had been adamant that they stay out of the way under the pretence of sleeping off their hangovers, and then present a united front, before leaving tomorrow as originally intended.
It was annoying that this turn of events had occurred, but she would not let it derail her campaign to win Alastair.
Only when she was back up at the house did she realise that she’d left the key for Orla’s studio in the door. Oh well, no matter, nobody would think it was she who had gone there.
Chapter Forty-Four
It had been hard for Alastair to revisit Linston Broad. Not since Orla’s body had been found there had he returned. He simply hadn’t had the courage.
Danny had proposed he and Frankie should do the job of fetchingSwallowtail,but Alastair had known he had to face his demons and brave the waters that had claimed the life of his wife, and very nearly Rachel’s. He had also needed something to do, something that stopped him thinking of the barrage of unthinkable what ifs …
What if Rachel had drowned?
What if Jenna had drowned in her attempt to rescue her friend?
What if his friends had lost both their daughters and blamed him?
The way Simon had looked at him when he’d put Rachel in the car to take her to the hospital had rocked him, had left him in no doubt that Simon would want retribution for nearly losing Rachel.
Taking the launch out with Danny and Frankie had been a distraction from the awful waiting for news about Rachel. He had left numerous messages on Simon and Sorrel’s mobiles, but had heard nothing back from them. He was convinced they were deliberately ignoring him. Danny had tried to reassure him that he shouldn’t read too much into the prolonged silence; neither he nor Frankie had heard anything either. But what if the silence was because the news was the worst kind to deliver, that Rachel had suffered permanent and maybe life-threatening side-effects as a result of nearly drowning?
It was while entering the broad, and with Alastair consciously trying to think of anything but Orla and the nightmares he suffered so frequently – of his ineffectual attempts to save her, and those taunting words of hers, that it had been nothing but a prank on her part – that Frankie had received a text from Jenna saying Rachel was now home and appeared to be okay.
Relief had made Alastair want to reach for his own mobile and ring Simon, but he’d decided to wait until he could speak to him face-to-face. The relief of hearing the good news had served to make him momentarily forget Orla.
Now, as he and Danny finished securing the boats in the dyke, he could only hope the worst of Simon’s anger had cooled, that relief would make him understand that no one was to blame; it was an accident. He also hoped that Valentina had not minded him leaving her alone. He hadn’t wanted her anywhere near him when he was in the broad where Orla had drowned.
Walking up the garden towards the house with Danny and Frankie either side of him, he suddenly felt like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Nothing was as he thought it would be. Returning from his time away, so full of hope and renewed energy, the prospect of a new life spent with Valentina had seemed so wonderfully uncomplicated. And so right. As though his whole life had been leading to meeting this extraordinary woman.
Was it nothing but a sharp dose of reality he was now experiencing? Had he been a fool to think it could be as easy as he’d imagined, that two very different lives could be brought together without a few hitches along the way?
He came to an abrupt stop. ‘Do you think I’m making a mistake?’ he said.
Danny and Frankie stopped walking and looked at him, both visibly startled at his candour.
‘Tell me honestly,’ he said, when neither replied, but glanced briefly at one another. ‘Why do I get the feeling it’s all turning to shit?’
