As Joanna was touching down at Cork airport, Marcus lay in bed. It was already midday, but he couldn’t see much point in getting up. This had been pretty much the pattern since he’d been booted out of Joanna’s flat. He was utterly devastated, both by the loss of her and the fact that he had no one to blame but himself.
He hauled himself out of bed and wandered into the sitting room, deciding to put his feelings for her down on paper. Picking up an unfamilar gold pen from the side table, his heart twisting as he realised it must be Joanna’s, he then began to write her a letter. As he closed his eyes, he saw her appear in front of him, as she had a hundred times since he’d woken up that morning. He’d fallen in love properly for the first time in his life. It wasn’t lust, or obsession, or any of the peripheral feelings he’d had for women before. This went way deeper, down into his gut. His head and heart ached for her like he had an illness – he could think of nothing else. He even hated his precious film project – the reason he had taken the money from that idiot Ian in the first place . . .
Later that evening, he took a bus up to Crouch End and walked to Joanna’s flat. Seeing it was in darkness, he posted the letter to Joanna through the letter box, praying that she would read it and contact him. Then he went home and back to bed, cradling a bottle of whisky.
Just before midnight, the doorbell rang.
Marcus jumped out of bed, like a rabbit free of a trap, his hopes high that Joanna had responded to his heartfelt letter. He opened the door expecting to see her. Instead, he recognised the tall, burly frame of Ian Simpson.
‘What do you want this time of night?’ Marcus asked him.
Ian stepped inside without asking. ‘Where’s Joanna Haslam?’ he demanded, his eyes darting around the living room.
‘Not here, that’s for sure.’
‘Then where?’ Ian walked towards him, his height imposing.
‘I really don’t know. I only wish I did.’
Ian stood so close to him that Marcus could hear his uneven breathing and smell the alcohol fumes coming off him. Or perhaps it was his own stench of whisky, he thought, pushing down an urge to be sick.
‘We were paying you to keep tabs on her, remember? Then her mate Simon tipped her off.’
‘Si . . . what . . . ?’
‘Simon, you idiot! Your sister’s bodyguard.’
Marcus took a step back and passed a hand over his bleary eyes. ‘Look, I did my best to find you that letter, but Joanna’s left me high and dry, and—’
Ian grabbed Marcus by the collar of his shirt. ‘You know where she is, don’t you, you lying shit!’
‘I really don’t. I . . .’ Close up, Marcus could see that Ian’s eyes were bloodshot. The man was off his head with anger and booze. ‘C-can you let me go and we can talk about this rationally?’
A punch in the stomach sent Marcus reeling towards the sofa. His head hit the wall and he saw stars.
‘Steady on, mate! We’re on the same side, remember?’
Ian laughed. ‘I hardly think so.’
Marcus struggled upright and watched as Ian paced around the room.
‘She’s gone somewhere, hasn’t she?’ Ian demanded. ‘She’s on the trail.’
‘What trail? I—’
Ian advanced towards him and landed a kick in Marcus’s groin, which sent him rolling around on the floor, howling in pain.
‘It would be a good idea if you told me. I know you’re covering up for her, protecting her.’
‘No! Really. I—’
A kick in the kidneys produced further yells of pain and Marcus vomited copiously.
‘What were the two of you planning? Tell me?’
‘Nothing. I . . .’ Marcus could take no more and he searched his mind desperately for something to tell Ian in order to get rid of him and put him off the scent. Then he had a brainwave. ‘We were going to Ireland this weekend. I told her that’s where I thought Sir James originally came from.’
‘Where in Ireland?’
‘County Cork . . .’
‘What part?’
Ian crouched down and peered into his face, his fist at the ready. ‘Just tell me, mate, because I can do a lot worse.’
‘I . . .’ Marcus struggled to remember the name of the place. ‘Rosscarbery.’
‘I’ll make some calls. If I find out you’re lying, I’ll be back, do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ Marcus gasped.
Ian made a snorting sound that could have been laughter, pity, or a mixture of both. ‘You were always a coward at school. You haven’t changed, Marcus, have you?’ Ian aimed the tip of his toe at Marcus’s nose. Marcus cringed as the toe swung wide and hit a cheek. ‘Be seeing you.’
Marcus listened for the door closing behind Ian, then rolled onto his knees, moving his jaw from side to side and cursing with the pain. He managed to heave himself upright and sat slumped against the sofa staring into space, his face, his groin and his stomach throbbing.
‘Jesus!’
Thank God he’d managed to come up with the Ireland line. Of course, Ian would be back when he discovered Joanna wasn’t there – it was the last place on earth she’d go if she thought there was any chance of him being there – but at least he’d be prepared. Maybe he should go and stay with Zoe for a while until this blew over . . .
Then a sudden surge of fear settled on Marcus’s already painful chest. What if she did go . . . ? No . . . After all, why would she? On the other hand, Ian had said she was still on the trail . . .
‘Christ!’
Had he just unwittingly thrown Joanna to a mentally unstable and drunken lion? Marcus dashed to the kitchen, and rifled through the pile of papers to find the telephone number for the hotel he’d booked them into, then picked up the receiver.
Simon whistled along to Ella Fitzgerald as he drove down the motorway towards Berkshire and Jamie’s school. The few days he’d had off waiting for instructions had been long overdue. He felt rested and calmer than he had done for a while, even if the spare time had given him the opportunity to think about Zoe. On the upside, he knew that the spectre of Sarah had been washed away. On the downside, he knew those feelings had been transferred and magnified a thousand-fold. Even the fact that he was seeing Zoe’s son in half an hour’s time filled him with illicit pleasure, because it was contact by proxy with her.
Having made sure to locate a restaurant that purported to serve excellent Sunday lunches, Simon drove Jamie towards it, along the narrow country lanes. Confused at having been taken out to lunch by Simon, Jamie was quieter than he had been at home in London.
‘I’ll have the beef, I think.’ Simon perused the menu and looked at Jamie. ‘You?’
‘The chicken, thanks.’
Simon ordered the food, a pint for himself and a Coke for Jamie.
‘So, how’s your week been?’ He couldn’t help noticing how similar Jamie was to his mother. The same startling blue eyes, thick blond hair and delicate features.
‘Fine,’ Jamie said uncertainly. ‘How long is Mumma away for?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I think she’ll probably be back sometime next week.’
‘Oh. What kind of work is it?’
‘Some TV commercial, I think. I’m not sure.’
Jamie took a sip of his Coke. ‘Are you staying at the house in London?’
‘Actually, tomorrow, I’ve decided to go do a bit of touring. Scotland, maybe Ireland. How’s school?’ Simon moved the subject on.
‘Okay. You know, the same.’
‘Right.’
Simon was grateful when their food arrived. Jamie picked at his chicken, answering most attempts at conversation in monosyllables. He refused pudding, even though there was homemade apple pie with ice cream on the menu.
‘I remember always yumming everything up when my parents came to take me out for lunch from school. You sure you’re okay, old chap?’
‘Yes. Do they have boarding schools in New Zealand?’
‘I . . . yes, of course they do. If you’re miles away from anything, on a sheep farm, you have to board in the city,’ Simon invented. ‘Sure I can’t tempt you to a pudding?’
‘Positive.’
Simon was relieved when it was time to take the boy back to school. Jamie sat in the car staring out of the window, humming to himself.
‘What’s that you’re humming?’
‘A nursery rhyme, “Ring a Ring o’ Roses”. Great-James used to sing it to me all the time. When I got older, he told me it was all about people dying of the Black Death.’
‘Do you miss him, Jamie?’
‘Yes. But I know he’s still looking after me from heaven.’
‘I’m sure he is.’
‘And I still have his roses to remind me of him on earth.’
‘Roses?’
‘Yeah. Great-James loved roses. He has them on his grave now.’
Simon brought the car to a halt in front of the school and Jamie opened the door to climb out. ‘Thanks for lunch, Simon. Safe journey back to London.’
‘Any time. Bye, Jamie.’
Simon watched as Jamie raced up the steps and inside the school. Sighing, he drove the car back along the gravel drive and out of the school. When he arrived back at his flat an hour later, there was a message on his answering machine.
‘Report to me at zero eight hundred hours tomorrow morning.’
Knowing his short break was well and truly at its end, Simon made himself a Caesar salad, then showered and took himself off to bed, trying not to imagine Zoe together with her prince in Spain.