“Well, he couldn’t very well help it, could he? I was there when she rang.” Reluctantly, Gemma added, “Although … I suppose he did ask me to go with him.”
“You suppose?” Hazel asked, amused. “And I suppose you climbed on your high horse and refused?”
“I’d promised Toby we’d visit Mum and Dad today. You know how they look forward to our coming.” It sounded a weak excuse to Gemma even as she said it—she could have easily postponed the visit a week.
Hazel didn’t offer any encouragement. “So who are you really angry with, him or her?”
“Her, of course,” said Gemma, incensed. “Of all the nerve, after the way she treated him.” She raised her cup to her lips again, more gingerly this time, then stopped as she saw Hazel’s expression. “Oh, all right. I’m bloody furious with him, if you want to know. He was such
Hazel took a bite of strudel and chewed it. “Well, what
Gemma shrugged and went back to flaking off bits of strudel with her fork. “Just that she left him without a word.”
“Has he said why?”
“He
“So if he’s not blaming her—what’s her name? Victoria?—then why are you? Surely you don’t wish she hadn’t left him?” Hazel grinned impishly. “Then you might have some real competition.”
“No, of course I don’t wish that.” Gemma pushed her coffee cup away. “Can we open that wine after all?” She watched as Hazel went to the fridge and retrieved the bottle.
“What’s so complicated about it?” Hazel asked as she brought the bottle and two glasses to the table. “Why do you feel threatened by his relationship with Victoria?”
“Vic. He always calls her Vic.”
“Vic, then.”
“I don’t feel threatened,” Gemma protested. “And I’m not jealous. I don’t go about thinking he’s going to chat up every woman he meets.” She accepted the glass Hazel filled and handed to her. “It’s just that… I don’t know where he stands with her.”
“Why don’t you ask him how he feels? Tell him that the situation makes you uncomfortable.”
“How can I?” Gemma choked on the wine she’d been sipping and coughed until her eyes teared. When she could speak again, she added, “I’m the one who insisted we not set those kinds of limits on each other, because I didn’t want to feel suffocated. And how could I possibly say anything after he was so bloody about it?”
“Has it occurred to you that he might have been reticent about his visit because he was worried about
“I did, didn’t I?” Gemma said disgustedly. “I’d been stewing all weekend, and tonight I waded into it at the first opportunity. Sometimes I think I should have been born with my foot in my mouth.” She shook her head. “So what do I do now?”
“Grovel?” suggested Hazel kindly. “Look, love.” She leaned towards Gemma, elbows on the table. “Just for once, forget your dreadful ex-husband; ignore all those little red flags that pop up at the mere suggestion of setting parameters. One of the reasons you and Duncan work so well together is that you communicate.” She jabbed her finger at Gemma for emphasis. “Why not extend the same honesty to your personal life? You’ve been tiptoeing round this ‘we don’t make demands on our relationship’ crap for how long now—since November? That was all very well in the beginning, but relationships are about demands, and obligation, and commitment. If this one is to continue, one of you is going to have to step up to the net.”
The storm had passed through, leaving the air cool and cleansed. Vic tightened the belt on her dressing gown and stepped from the terrace into the dark garden so that she had an unobstructed view of the stars. She’d never managed to learn the constellations, and as she looked up she felt a sudden longing to put names to the clusters, to match them to the sticklike drawings she’d seen as a child. Perhaps she’d buy Kit one of those glow-in-the-dark sets she’d seen at the bookshop in Cambridge, and they could learn them together.
Poor Kit, she thought with a sigh. Since Ian’s disappearance, her parents had taken it upon themselves to fill the gap in Kit’s life, and had succeeded in giving his hostility a new target. The more he resisted, the harder they pushed, and Vic was finding the contest more and more difficult to referee. Today they’d met him off the King’s Cross train, determined to take him to an exhibition at the British Museum, while Kit had been equally determined to cajole them into visiting the Piccadilly Circus video arcades.
He’d come home sullen and disappointed, of course. Vic had known his wishes wouldn’t stand a chance against her mother’s agenda, but she’d made him go because she hadn’t been ready for him to meet Duncan. Not yet, not until she was sure about him, sure he hadn’t changed in the things that counted.
Turning, she looked to the north, where Nathan’s cottage stood out of sight just round the bend in the road. She’d meant to ring him, perhaps even to slip away for a glass of wine and a half-hour’s visit before the fire in his sitting room. But Kit had needed her attention, and her guilt had dictated she spend the evening with him in front of the telly, watching some awful action film he’d begged to see.
Now it was too late to ring anyone, but she felt restless, unable to settle. She ought to be in bed, but she knew she’d only lie awake, wide-eyed, replaying the afternoon’s conversation with Duncan in her head. Did she say too much? Did she say enough? Did he take her seriously, or was he merely humoring her?
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself drift in the dark, then turned and let herself quietly back into the house. There must be something she’d missed, something conclusive that she could show him. Making her way by touch down the dim corridor, she slipped into her office and stood staring at the clutter of papers illuminated by her desk lamp. She would simply start again, from the beginning.
