In the circumstances, perhaps that was to be expected, thought Valentina. She regretted now that she hadn’t gone with them to the station, but she had felt as if her skull was having a hole drilled through it.
She hadn’t wanted Nikolai and Irina to leave, not when it gave the impression that they felt responsible for that wretched girl nearly drowning and were cowardly running away, but Nikolai had been adamant. ‘We’ve hardly been made to feel welcome here,’ he had said, ‘and after that scene during lunch, I’m surprised you don’t want to get the hell out as well.’
Naturally whatever Nikolai said, Irina agreed with, because that was how they were; she always followed her brother. Nikolai was as headstrong as their father had been, so Valentina had known it was futile to expect them to change their minds and leave tomorrow morning, as originally planned.
Valentina had seen the relief on Alastair’s face that they were leaving and that had irked her. Worse than that, it had disappointed her. But she’d be damned if she let anyone see that, or showed less than her full support for her stepchildren. Her mother had brought her up to believe that family loyalty was all; it came with being Russian. Russian blood, so her mama said, was thicker than any other type. It was nonsense, of course, blood was blood, whoever’s veins it ran through.
Yet as much as Valentina believed in family loyalty and held it closer to her heart than almost anything else, she was starting to appreciate that Alastair and his friends had a loyalty to each other that she had severely underestimated.
Similarly, she had miscalculated having Nikolai and Irina here with her; their presence had backfired badly. If only Nikolai hadn’t flirted with Rachel, but then he never could resist leading a girl on. His father had been the same. At a restaurant, or a party, his eye had always wandered. He would do it because he knew the effect he would have on the recipient; he enjoyed the power it gave him. Nikolai was the same. Valentina had never objected to the games Ivan had played; she had known that if he strayed he would come back to her.
Infidelity was nothing to get worked up over in her opinion. She too had strayed while married to Ivan, and she now suspected that Alastair had too. With none other than Sorrel. Now that did surprise her. She guessed it would be a surprise to Simon also.
It was another disappointment to Valentina that Alastair hadn’t been honest with her. She had believed him when he’d said he didn’t want there to be any secrets between them, and she understood now that she had wanted that to be truer than she realised. She had wanted to believe that Alastair was different from other men, that she had found somebody special. But he wasn’t. He was just like any other ordinary man. The surprise to her was that it bothered her so much.
But what did Sorrel hope to gain by outing Alastair and revealing their guilty secret? Did she think that would alter things between Valentina and Alastair? Or was Sorrel so full of bitterness that she was prepared to sacrifice her marriage, as well as the respect of her friends and children, for the sake of shaming Alastair? Did she care so little for her husband’s feelings that she would do all that? And what of her own self-respect?
But if Sorrel went ahead with exposing Alastair as an adulterer who had betrayed one of his best friends by sleeping with his wife, then it would have the satisfying effect of driving a very large wedge between the group of friends, and would push Alastair further into her arms. As if they weren’t doing that already with their constant bickering amongst themselves, and their ridiculous attempts to remind him of the good old days. Did they really think they could compete with the life Valentina was offering him?
Mulling this over, she felt the tension in her head dissolve and her old courage and confidence return. Alastair was hers. Nothing was going to stop her taking him away from this dreary backwater to the dazzling future that awaited them both. She would not be thwarted! She would not have all her carefully made plans destroyed. She planned to marry him and nothing would stop her from making that happen.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Simon had found the key in the lock of the door for Orla’s studio, which surprised him. Had Alastair left it there? Had he been here to feel closer to Orla in some way? To check in with his wife and reflect on the mess he was making of his life without her, as well as contemplate the other lives he was wrecking into the bargain? Probably not. More likely he’d brought that couple who had viewed the house ealier to see the studio.
Once inside, Simon closed the door, as if needing to cocoon himself in this quiet oasis of calm where nothing could touch him. He sat on the daybed, his shoulders slumped, his head bent. What the hell had happened to them? How had they reached this state of acrimony?
If only Orla hadn’t died. If she were still here, nothing would have changed; they’d be the same people jogging along quite happily, pushing whatever they didn’t want to confront discreetly under the rug, just as they always had. Just as everyone did.
Orla’s death had been the catalyst for where they now found themselves, with Simon feeling he was pitched in battle with Alastair and Valentina, and now Sorrel who was refusing to speak to him, as though he were to blame for everything!
Was he? Was that what she thought, that it was somehow his fault that their daughter had very nearly drowned? As if he were to blame for—
He cut himself short. He could not say the words, even inside his head. He simply could not bring himself to admit what Sorrel had been on the verge of saying in the kitchen earlier.
But the truth was, hewasto blame. He’d been a fool to think his actions would not have consequences, that Sorrel wouldn’t retaliate and pay him back. He’d kidded himself all these years that she hadn’t known, that he’d got away with it, but he hadn’t. He knew now with a gut-churning certainty that his drunken fumble with Orla, on this very daybed, had inevitably come back to haunt him.
It had only happened once, about fifteen years ago, when they were both sloshed. Thank God, and just in the nick of time, they had come to their relative senses, but only because he’d killed the moment by falling over while trying to rip off his trousers. Orla had clutched her sides, roaring with laughter at the unedifying spectacle of him scrabbling about on the floor in his underpants. He had been appalled at what they’d almost done and had begged Orla not to tell Alastair. His disloyalty to his best friend was immense, and he hated himself for what he’d done. To his shame, it was his loyalty to Alastair, and not Sorrel, that had concerned him first.
‘You’re so funny,’ Orla had said, when he’d said how profoundly sorry he was, ‘of course I won’t tell Alastair. Besides, there’s nothing to tell. Just two pie-eyed old friends acting like a couple of randy teenagers.’
But had Orla told Sorrel? Perhaps even taking delight in doing so? After all, there had never been much love between them, despite the pretence.
If so, was that what had led Sorrel to exact her revenge, a case of two can play at that game? It was logical and wholly rational that she would, especially as she and Alastair had a shared history. How better to get back at Simon than to sleep with Alastair?
There. He’d said it. At last. That was the ugly truth of what Sorrel had come so close to saying at lunch; a truth which had been lurking all this time – like the perilous weeds at the bottom of Linston Broad where Orla had drowned – just waiting to ensnare and drag them down.
Simon had no idea when Sorrel and Alastair may have slept together, but he’d lay odds on it happening after his drunken escapade with Orla. What he did know for sure was that ever since, he had collaborated in the lies they’d told each other. Anything rather than rock the boat.
For the first time ever, he gave himself permission to consider the possibility that Orla had found out about Sorrel and Alastair. Given how possessive she was of him, had she been unable to live with his betrayal, and gone out that night inSwallowtailwith the sole intention of ending her life?
Suicide.
It was such a desperately tragic thing for anyone to do, to believe that life wasn’t worth living. If only Orla had confided in him.If only … If only …
But this was why he had doggedly clung to the belief that it had been a tragic accident, because to accept the truth was much too painful. Better to believe that in a confused and emotional state from drinking too much, Orla had inadvertently fallen overboard. Going out alone at night in a boat was not an unusual occurrence for her; she liked the darkness and the solitude. So really, death by misadventure was highly plausible.
But equally, so was suicide.
