Elizabeth George - A Suitable Vengeance

'Yes, you do. Tell me why.' 'I don't know.'

'What a conquest I would have been. Thrown over by Simon, my life in a shambles. The last thing I wanted was an involvement with anyone. How on earth did you resist a challenge like that? What a chance it was to prove yourself to yourself. What incredible fodder for your self-esteem.'

He placed his glass on the table, turned it beneath his fingers. She watched his profile and saw how fragile a thing was his veneer of control.

'I expect you were different,' he said.

'Not at all. I had the right equipment. I was just like the others – heat and pleasure, breasts and thighs.'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

'A woman, after all. Easily seduced, especially by an expert. But you never tried with me. Not even once. That sort of sexual reticence doesn't make sense in a man whose sole interest in women revolves round what they have to offer him in bed. And I had it to offer, didn't I, Tommy? Oh, I would have resisted at first. But I would have slept with you eventually, and you knew it. But you didn't try.'

He turned to her. 'How could I have done that to you after what you'd been through with Simon?'

'Compassion?' she demanded. 'From the man bent on pleasure? What difference did it make whose body provided it? Weren't we all the same?'

He was quiet for so long that she wondered if he would answer. She could see the struggle for composure on his face. She willed him to speak, knowing only that he had to acknowledge his sorrow so that it could live and rage and then die.

'Not you,' he said finally. She could tell the phrase cost him dearly. 'Not Deborah.' 'What was different?' 'I let things go further.' 'Further?' 'To the heart.'

She crossed the room to him. Her hand touched his arm. 'Don't you see, Tommy? You weren't that man bent on pleasure. You want to think you were, but that wasn't the case. Not for anyone who bothered to take the time to know you. Not for me certainly, who was never your lover. And not for Deborah, who was.'

'I wanted something different with her.' His eyes were red-rimmed. 'Roots, ties, a family. I was willing to be something more to have that. It was worth it. She was worth it.'

'Yes. She was. And she was worth grieving over as well. She's still worth that.' 'Oh God,' he whispered.

Her hand slid down his arm, closed over his wrist. 'Tommy dear, it's all right. Really.'

He shook his head blindly, as if by that movement he could shake off his terrible desolation. 'I think I shall die of loneliness, Helen.' His voice broke horribly, the sound of a man who hadn't allowed himself to experience a single emotion in years. 'I can't bear it.'

He started to turn from her, to go back to his desk, but she stopped him and closed the remaining space between them. She took him into her arms.

'You're not alone, Tommy,' she said quite gently.

He began to cry.

Deborah pushed open the gate just as the street-lamp in Lordship Place lit for the evening, sending delicate sprays of light through the mist that fell on the garden. She stood for a moment and gazed at the warm burned sienna bricks of the house, at its fresh white plasterwork, at its old wrought iron hand rail that forever rusted in spots that forever needed paint. In so many ways, it would always be home to her, no matter how long she managed to stay away – three years, three decades or, like this time, a month.

She'd managed avoidance through a string of fabrications which she knew her father didn't believe for a moment. Setting myself up professionally, Dad. Working very hard. Appointments here and there. Showing my portfolio around. Shall we meet somewhere for dinner? No, I can't come to Chelsea. He'd accepted the excuses rather than quarrel with her again.

No more than did she, her father didn't savour a repetition of their row in Paddington, a week after her return from Cornwall. He had wanted her to come home. She refused to consider it. He didn't understand. To him, it was simple. Pack your things, close the flat, come back to Cheyne Row. In effect, as far as he was concerned, return to the past. She couldn't do so. She tried to explain her need for a time that was solely her own. His response was a nasty castigation of Tommy – for changing her, destroying her, distorting her values – and from there the row grew, ending with her wresting from him a bitter promise not to speak of her relationship with Tommy ever again, to her or to anyone else. They had parted acrimoniously and had not seen each other since.

Nor had she seen Simon. Nor had she wanted to. Those few horrifying moments in Nanrunnel had exposed her to herself in an unforgiving light that she could no longer ignore, and for the month that followed she'd had to examine and admit to the lie she'd been living for the last two and a half years. The lover of one man, bound in a thousand different ways to another. And yet bound forever to Tommy as well in ways she could never allow him to know.

She didn't know where to begin to undo the damage she had done to herself and to others. So she had stayed in Paddington, working as an apprentice photographer for a Mayfair studio, spending a long weekend in Wales and another in Brighton. And she had waited for her life to take on a semblance of peace. It had not done so.

So she had come on this visit to Chelsea, not exactly knowing what she could accomplish, only knowing that the longer she stayed away, the more difficult a reconciliation with her father would be. What she wanted from Simon, she could not have said.

Through the mist, she saw the kitchen lights come on. Her father passed the window. He went to the stove, then to the table where he disappeared from her view. She followed the flagstone path across the garden and descended the stairs.

Alaska met her at the door as if, with that preternatural sensitivity inherent to felines, he'd known she'd be arriving. He twitched one ear and began a stately crisscrossing through her legs, his tail waving majestically.

'Where's Peach?' she asked the cat as she rubbed his head. His back arched appreciatively. He began to purr.

Footsteps came out of the kitchen into the foyer. 'Deb!'

She straightened. 'Hello, Dad.'

She saw him looking for signs that she'd come home -a suitcase, a carton, an easily movable item like a lamp. But he said nothing other than, 'Had your dinner, girl?' and returned to the kitchen where the rich smell of roasting meat was scenting the air.

She followed him. 'Yes. At the flat.' She saw that he was working at the table, that he'd lined up four pairs of shoes to be polished. She noted the heaviness of their construction, necessary so that the crosspiece of his brace could fit through the left heel. For some reason, the sight effected a blackness in her. She looked away. 'How's work?' Cotter asked her.

'Fine. I've been using my old cameras, the Nikon and the Hasselblad. They're working for me well. They make me rely on myself more, on knowledge and technique. I find I like that.'

Cotter nodded, applied two fingertips of polish to the top of a shoe. He was nobody's fool. 'It's forgotten, Deb,' he answered. 'All of it, girl. You do what's best for you.'

She felt a rush of gratitude. She looked round the room at the white brick walls, the old stove with three covered pots sitting on it, the worn worktops, the glass-fronted cabinets, the uneven tile floor. A small basket near the stove legs sat empty.

'Where's Peach?' she asked.

'Mr St James's taken 'er out for walk.' Cotter gave a glance to the wall clock. 'Absent-minded, 'e is. Dinner's been ready these last fifteen minutes.'

'Where's he gone?'

'The Embankment, I expect.'

'Shall I fetch him?'

His reply was perfectly noncommittal. 'If you fancy a walk. If you don't, it's fine. Dinner'll keep a bit.'