Mark Burnell - Chameleon

‘Probably,’ Boyd conceded.

‘In the end, all I did was not change. There was no real decision. Instead of Alexander, there was money, although it wasn’t about the money. It was about the work. The day-to-day existence; rejecting contracts, accepting contracts, planning them, executing them, getting away with it. Attention to detail in all things.’

‘What were you looking for?’

‘Mechanical perfection. I wanted to be a machine. To feel nothing at all.’

‘And did you succeed?’

‘I think so. For a while …’

Beyond the cattle-grid, the road was tarmac with grass on either side, sheep roaming freely. In the distance, at the tip of the headland, Stephanie saw a small building, a look-out tower with black and yellow squares painted on the walls. An old Ministry of Defence facility, Boyd told her, with a concrete helicopter pad. Useful for air-sea rescue.

As they approached it, the incline grew steeper. Dozens of rabbits ran wild. Stephanie walked to the cliff’s edge and peered at the two-hundred-foot vertical drop. She watched raucous waves hurling themselves onto the rocks below, cracking, foaming, receding. She felt the vertiginous pull, as familiar to her as the desire to succumb to momentary madness and to make the leap herself. She leaned further over and sensed Boyd tensing beside her.

‘Why did you stop?’ he asked.

She described Bilbao. ‘I don’t know why it happened. It just did. In the first few weeks after it, I thought it was some kind of nervous breakdown. But now, when I look back at it, I think it was some kind of break through . I think the nervous breakdown came before Bilbao. And after Malta.’

‘And lasted for two and a half years?’

‘Yes. I think my whole independent career as Petra was one long nervous breakdown. And that Bilbao – well, Arkan, to be specific – was the snapping point.’

Boyd was placing squares of peat onto the dying embers of the fire. He stood up and collected his glass from the mantelpiece. When he turned round, he found Stephanie at his side. She took the glass from his hand and returned it to the mantelpiece.

‘Are you going to tell Alexander what I’ve told you today?’

‘Not if you don’t want me to.’

‘He’ll want to know.’

‘He wants to know whether you’re up to scratch.’

‘And am I?’

‘You’re more vulnerable than you used to be.’

‘That’s not an answer. Am I up to scratch?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid you are.’

She kissed him and tasted Pomerol. Boyd had produced a dusty bottle of Clos René at dinner. Stephanie had looked surprised and he’d said that he’d been saving it for a special occasion.

‘You mean like finally getting rid of me?’

‘No. Nothing like that.’

‘What, then?’

‘You work it out.’

She’d blushed instead.

Now, Boyd broke the kiss. But not by much. The only sound was the crackle of flame on peat.

Stephanie whispered, ‘I want to make love with you.’

‘No.’

‘This isn’t like before …’

‘I know.’

He was still holding her. Stephanie looked him straight in the eye when she asked, ‘Is it because of Rachel?’

‘In a way, yes.’

Slowly, reluctantly, she began to move clear of him. ‘Then I’m sorry. I don’t want things to be awkward between us.’

‘There’s nothing to feel awkward about, Stephanie. I just don’t want to get into that position.’

‘What position?’

He turned away from her and collected his glass again. ‘I was in love with Rachel. We both thought we had a long future ahead of us. But we didn’t.’ Stephanie watched him drain the last of his claret. ‘The world you’re about to go back to … we both know what the score is. I’ve already lost somebody I loved. I don’t want to allow myself to get into the position where I might have to go through that a second time.’

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.