‘Do you want to talk, Morgan?’
He looked up at her, and she thought perhaps she’d taken a step too far. His expression was blank, as if he’d used up his last hope and was resigned to whatever the fates might throw at him.
‘I’ll get you another tea,’ she said. ‘Something hot and sweet.’
Jesus, here Jones was, apparently on the point of mental collapse, and all she could think of was how to take advantage of it. How to play him along. It was what she was good at. It was her job.
She queued behind some office-type getting a tray of hot drinks to take out. Occasionally, she glanced over at Jones, who was still sitting, head bowed, looking as if he just received some devastating news.
The woman in front finally finished her order, picked up the cardboard tray and departed. ‘Hot drinks?’ the young man behind the counter said, in a tone that sounded like an instruction.
She ordered a tea and another small caffe latte, fumbling in her purse for change. As the young man busied himself with the espresso machine, she glanced back towards Jones.
The table was empty. In the few seconds since she’d looked away, Jones had upped and gone, presumably through the same rear exit he’d used earlier. For a moment, she wondered whether to pursue him. But Jones was nothing more than a joker, a lightweight. Most likely, all this was bullshit, Jones chasing some half-arsed agenda of his own.
The only certainty was that she hadn’t a clue what to do next. For a moment, she felt detached, weightless, light-headed. One of those dreams where nothing is solid, where everything changes in a moment.
‘Cancel the tea,’ she called to the young man. ‘And I’ll take the coffee to go.’
Chapter 11
Liam was propped against the metal rail, staring at the open sea. ‘Look, if you like, we can just stop now.’
Some acid response was in her mouth, but she bit back the words. It wasn’t the moment. She was too tired. And, anyway, she didn’t know what he meant. Stop what? Stop walking? Stop everything?
Christ, this had been a mistake. In the end, she’d decided to come back home for the weekend. She’d hesitated initially, wondering if there was a risk that she might be followed. But she knew, rationally, that it was unlikely. It was one thing to follow someone for a few miles across a city centre. It was quite another to remain undetected across two hundred miles or more, particularly if your target knew you might be there. Even so, she’d driven cautiously, taking a convoluted route out to the motorway. stopping repeatedly at service stations on the way down. She’d taken the M25 round to the east, over the Dartford bridge, and entered London from the south- west, again choosing an extended route to confuse any pursuer. If anyone had managed to keep up with her through all that, well, good luck to them.
In any case, she thought ruefully as she turned into the narrow streets that surrounded their home, if there really was a mole back at the ranch, there’d be much easier ways of identifying her. It struck her now, as she pulled up in front of the familiar front door, that there was really nothing she could rely on. Nowhere that was safe.
Still, she’d been glad to come back here. It would give her some space, she thought, provide an opportunity to think. And if something was about to kick off, if there was any truth in what Jones had claimed, this took her out of the immediate firing line. Only for a day or two, but maybe enough to get her head straight.
But it hadn’t worked. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Coming back here had been a strain for months now. It was partly the sense that she was drifting away from all this, that real life was elsewhere. But it was also that she and Liam were both trying too hard to overcome the suspicion that the best was past.
There’d been a familiar emotional pattern to these weekends. She arrived late Friday night, and they spent a tense evening, each taking umbrage at whatever the other said, spoiling for a fight. Usually they went to the pub for a pint or two. Sometimes that helped. More often it didn’t.
By Saturday morning, they’d be at each other’s throats. They’d have a blazing row, releasing all the tensions that had built up over the last two or three weeks. After that, things improved till, by Sunday evening, they’d recaptured something of the old warmth. And then it was time for her to go back.
That had been the way even during the best times. It went with the job. She knew that. If you spent a long time apart, it took a while to get back together again.
After she met Jake, the weekend pattern became more intense. It was her own guilt, and her resentment about feeling guilty. It was the sense that she ought to be able to have things both ways, that this shouldn’t be a big deal, and the knowledge that of course it was. It was the awareness that she didn’t know what she wanted, and that she didn’t see why she should have to decide anyway.
But, mostly, it was Liam’s fault. It was Liam making unreasonable demands, even when he said nothing. Especially when he said nothing. She had work to do, real work, while Liam just sat down here, disapproving of whatever she did. Playing the victim, indulging the hobby he called a job, sponging off her.
None of that was fair or true, of course, and her rational mind knew it. But it was a convenient mindset to fall into on a miserable Saturday when she was feeling knackered, tense and depressed by everything the world kept throwing at her.
Even so, they’d managed to come through. Even the worst of the weekends usually ended with the realization that the sparse time was slipping away, that they did want and need each other, that – once the dust had settled – they still enjoyed each other’s company. Even in the last few months, she had warm memories of Sunday morning lovemaking, lunch in some country pub, a walk along the coast if the weather was half- decent.
But this weekend it wasn’t working. It was her own anxiety, the fears she couldn’t begin to share with Liam – or with anyone. But Liam was changing, too, she thought. He seemed distracted, a shadow of the lively fun-loving man she’d once fallen in love with. He’d always been prone to bouts of depression, sometimes intense, usually short-lived, and she could see signs of that now. It was the illness, obviously. But it was also his work, the dreams still not close to fulfilment, everything now in the balance.
And it was her. Her job, her absence, her refusal or inability to provide the emotional support he needed.
She wasn’t sure if his condition had deteriorated since she’d last seen him. It came and went – relapsing and remitting, they called it. Most days he was more or less fine. Some days he could barely walk.
Today, he seemed OK, just a little below his best. He walked slowly, leaning on a stick, with a barely discernible limp. Occasionally a grimace crossed his face, so briefly that she wasn’t sure whether she was imagining it. She suspected that he was learning to conceal the worst of his condition, and that he was feeling more pain, or at least more physical stress, than he was letting on.
Whatever the cause, they’d both been in a foul temper all weekend. Sunday morning had brought no lifting of the cloud, just further sniping and irritation. In an attempt to dissipate the fog of their mutual ill-feeling, they’d opted for a drive down to the south coast, some lunch overlooking the sea, a walk along the promenade. It was just another seaside town, reasonably accessible from their South London home, perhaps a bit more upmarket than most, but it had been one of their favourite places. Early in their relationship, before they’d moved in together, they’d spent regular weekends down here, getting to know each other, feeling their way around each other’s hearts, minds, bodies, creating memories that sustained them through the difficult later months.
Today hadn’t destroyed those memories, but they seemed increasingly distant. They’d had a mediocre lunch in an over-priced seafront restaurant where the waitress had seemed even more pissed off than they were. The town seemed stale and dull, and she struggled to remember why she’d ever liked the place, with its endless tacky souvenir shops and uninviting cafes. Even the walk along the promenade felt like a chore, Liam dragging slowly along, drizzle and cold winds pounding in from the leaden Channel.
Now Liam was hunched over the metal railing, staring out to sea as if contemplating a watery suicide, telling her that he just wanted to stop. Well, who could blame him?
