‘Not me. It’s all to do with mental willpower, force the challenge, take on the impossible. He could still climb, not the same as before, but small challenges, each one more difficult than before, and he could abseil, use his arm muscles.’
‘Kate Hampton?’
‘Why not? No harm done, and Mike, he doesn’t know.’
‘A regular occurrence?’
‘Once every few weeks. She tells him she’s off to see a friend for a long weekend, tells Mike it’s a female.’
‘He doesn’t realise?’
‘That’s up to him. I can’t give him sympathy, and as far as I’m concerned, he’s a nobody, blaming Simmons the way he did.’
‘Is it possible that Mike Hampton attempted to kill Angus on Cerro Torre?’
‘Not on the mountain. I told you, once you’re climbing, it’s a different mindset.’
‘Hampton thought Angus was having an affair with Kate before they went to Patagonia. Was it you?’
‘It could have been, but then I wouldn’t know if she had anyone else. Angus wasn’t much of a lover, so I’ve been told, but Kate liked him.’
‘Who told you about Simmons’s lovemaking?’
‘Kate. I’ve not thought about it before, but she was double-dipping, Angus and me, even Mike.’
‘Does that upset you?’
‘Should it?’
‘Rachel?’
‘She’s a whirlwind, that one, serious about climbing, lost a husband in the Alps, there when he fell, heard him scream.’
‘Her reaction?’
‘On the mountain, professional. Down on the ground, inconsolable, took her a year before she climbed again. She’ll not get emotionally involved, too hard on the soul, seeing someone you love die.’
‘Have you?’
‘Not me. Life’s a ball, enjoy it, don’t get stuck with a nine-to-five existence,’ Skinner said.
Likeable as Justin Skinner was, neither Isaac and Larry wanted his life. Isaac had Jenny and their son; Larry had his wife, and even though her social-climbing could be irritating, he still loved her.
Chapter 11
Charles Simmons met with his former wife, a woman he had once loved intensely, the mother of his only child. The meeting was tense: unspoken sorrow, unresolved issues, forgotten love.
‘You’re looking well, Charles,’ Gwyneth Simmons said. She had dressed for the occasion, remembering that the man she had once loved was a stickler for appearance, always dressing for dinner, no sitting around a kitchen table of a night, a bottle of wine on the table, a couple of plastic cups, a pizza from a shop around the corner.
Gwyneth had grown up in the Highlands, a subsistence farmer for a father, a mother who taught at a local school. She had loved them, yet abhorred their indifferent attitude to the world outside of the valley where they lived.
It was her father who was the more intractable, a legacy of his father returning home from the trenches, from the Battle of the Somme, missing not only his lust for life but also one arm and the use of one eye, blinded by a mortar.
The grandfather, bitter about life, had married his childhood sweetheart, a rosy-faced highland lass, seventeen years of age, who had borne him two children, one of whom was Gwyneth’s father, the other child dying in a German prisoner of war camp in 1943.
The McLoughlins, Gwyneth’s maiden name, were a hardy bunch but mostly unsuccessful. Her father barely made a profit from his farm, relying in no small part on the meagre stipend of his wife, Gwyneth’s mother. And then, her mother was dead, before her time, a reason never disclosed, not to the child, thirteen years of age at the time.
What happened to her father, Gwyneth never knew, for after the age of fourteen, fostered to a second cousin of her mother’s, she never saw him again.
As for Charles, life had treated him better. Incurious as a child, spoilt as he had been, then a good education, an apprenticeship with his father, soon rising through the company.
At the age of twenty-six, he had struck out on his own, purchased a half share in an agency mainly selling land and farms, some in Scotland, which is where he had met Gwyneth, two years younger than him, working on reception at the hotel where he was staying.
They were married within two months, living back in London one week later, and unbeknown to either, a child on the way.
At first, Gwyneth, the dutiful wife, eager to please, took care to dress well, went to the hairdresser’s, bought only the best clothes, ensured that her husband’s meal was on the table when he came in. But over time and with a child, the effort required to look after one outweighed the other. And then, Charles Simmons, a demanding man, strayed, returning one night reeking of perfume, his collar marked with lipstick.
Distraught, an inviolate trust broken, she had moved into another room in the house for two months, leaving Charles one night after the two had discussed the situation and returning to Scotland, back to her parents’ neglected home. In time, and with money from Charles, she renovated the house, built on an extension with two more bedrooms, a bathroom with hot water and a shower. She had the electricity connected, no longer reliant on an old diesel generator that was out of order more than it was in.
Angus Simmons had the outdoor life during holidays and weekends, a school in Edinburgh during the week.
Neither wishing to remarry, the parents occasionally met to discuss his upbringing and to attend school events. After Angus left school, forsaking university for challenges other than academic, his parents met less often, the reason so many years had passed since they had last seen each other.
‘I’m sorry about Angus,’ Charles said.
‘We always knew that his life would be short,’ Gwyneth said.
‘What a life, so many adventures, places he went, things he did, challenges conquered.’
In a rush of emotions, the two embraced, tears streaming down their cheeks.
‘I
