At the end of the summer, we moved from the flat I’d been renting since my argument with Harry. I hadn’t seen him again. You begged me to apologise but I wasn’t sure he’d forgive me. Instead, I handed in my notice behind his back and then I left, collecting our stuff from the flat while he was at work. When I think about it now, I’m so ashamed of my behaviour back then. But the love I felt for you made me crazy, made me do crazy things.
I have a confession to make – do you remember that earlier that year, I took you to Devon for a week? Well, it was because I wanted to see if you liked it there. And you’d loved it. We’d toured around, staying in B&Bs, exploring the beautiful beaches and the surrounding countryside and it was all part of my plan. When I began looking in estate agents’ windows, you’d been enthusiastic about me buying a property there. Then you found the cottage, only a few minutes’ walk from the beach in St Mary’s. I bought it and let you choose the furniture, so that you would feel the cottage was yours too. Do you remember how we laughed when you ordered a double bed so big that it took up most of the bedroom? And still my feet hung out the end of it.
When I first suggested that we move there permanently you’d been hesitant, as I knew you’d be. So I promised that if you didn’t like it, we’d move back to London. Those first months in St Mary’s were so happy. We never tired of each other’s company and would walk for miles along the beach. For the first time, I felt as if I had a home. One of my greatest pleasures was seeing our shoes in the hall, your little size fives next to my enormous thirteens. I loved it when you slipped your shoes inside mine, because they easily fitted. To me it was physical proof that I was carrying you through tough times. Except that when life had got tough, I hadn’t carried you at all.
That winter in Devon was difficult for you, I know. Maybe it reminded you of the winters on Lewis, because it came in so suddenly and angrily; the wind whipping relentlessly against our faces as we walked on the beach, the sky heavy and grey. And whenever a postcard arrived from Ellen – a different view of Lewis each time – you became so sad I thought at first she was reprimanding you for staying away for so long. But when you read them out to me, I saw that she was only happy for you in your new life, and decided that what you felt was guilt at leaving her behind, not sadness.
Once Christmas had been and gone you became restless, and I began to worry that you would hold me to my promise and ask to return to London. In an effort to distract you I booked a ski trip in Megève. Harry and I had rented a chalet there several times, and I hoped the break would give you the space to love Devon again. All I wanted was for you to be happy, which is why I asked if you would like Ellen to join us.
I suggested that she came for a week, offering to pay for a local nurse to look after your father. But you said that Ellen wouldn’t come and became angry, so that in the end I wished I’d never suggested it. In an effort to understand, I asked if you felt guilty that Ellen was stuck on Lewis while you had escaped. Do you remember your answer? ‘Escaped?’ you said. ‘I escaped from Lewis and now, here I am, stuck in a backwater in Devon.’ You’d smiled, wanting to take the sting out of your words, but I heard the reality behind them and promised that when we came back from Megève, I’d take you anywhere that you wanted.
But I never got the chance.
THIRTEEN
Now
I can’t stop analysing the emails. My feet pound the rough river pathway but I can’t lift the pressure I feel, no matter how fast I run. I googled Rudolph Hill earlier; there are hundreds of Rudolph Hills, all of whom seem to live in the US. Not one of them lives in the UK.
I double back through the wood, and by the time I reach the house, my leg muscles are screaming from the exertion. I have a cold shower and head out to my office. I check how Villiers’ investment funds are doing, then reread the emails from Rudolph Hill. Suddenly impatient, I pull my keyboard towards me.
Who are you? I type.
A few seconds later, an email arrives in my inbox, from the Rudolph Hill address.
Who do you think I am?
I stare at the message, astounded at the rapidity of the response. It’s as if the sender has been sitting at the computer since yesterday, waiting for me to get back to him.
Who are you? I ask again.
You have my email address
I sit back in my chair, thinking hard. Why ‘you have my email address’, why not, ‘you have my name’? As I suspected, Rudolph Hill is an alias. I stare hard at it, puzzling it out, rearranging the letters, and find myself gasping in shock. If I need proof that Ruby is behind the emails, it’s right here on the screen in front of me, the first two letters of her name followed by ‘dolph’. Dolphin. Ruby has dolphin necklaces, dolphin bracelets, she even has a tattoo of a dolphin on her ribcage. I shake my head in disgust at her weak attempt to disguise her identity, hating that she’s taken me for a fool.
My fingers slam down on the keys.
Don’t play games with me, Ruby!
A reply comes back.
Who is Ruby?
I give a harsh laugh. Well, she would say that, wouldn’t she? I drum my fingers on the desktop. What to do? Nothing, reason tells me, do nothing. She obviously didn’t get the message yesterday so I’ll carry on taking Ellen to The Jackdaw until she does.
‘Again?’ Ellen asks doubtfully, when I tell her we’re having lunch at The Jackdaw. ‘I know Ruby was happy for us when we saw her yesterday but maybe we shouldn’t rub her nose in it too much.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ I reassure her, so at one o’clock we walk to the pub with Peggy and have a repeat of yesterday, except that Ruby doesn’t open champagne and I have the spicy lamb curry instead of the pie. I watch her, waiting for a slip-up. But there’s nothing, nothing at all in Ruby’s behaviour to show that she’s less than pleased to see us, and all I can think is that she’s an exceptional actress.
‘I’m glad Harry’s agreed to give me away,’ Ellen is saying as she toys with her salad. ‘I was afraid he might refuse.’
It takes me a while to realise that she’s talking about our wedding. ‘Why would he?’
‘Well, he didn’t like Layla very much.’
I look at her, perplexed by her logic. ‘No, he didn’t, not really. But he does like you.’
She raises her green eyes to mine. ‘Do you think so? I mean, I’m never quite sure.’ Her voice trails away. ‘It’s just that when you told him we were getting married, he seemed a bit shocked. I thought maybe he didn’t approve because of who I am.’
‘I think he was shocked – in a nice way – at being asked to be best man,’ I say, although I had registered Harry’s momentary shock too. I might not have been married to Layla but in some people’s eyes, the fact that I lived with her amounts to the same thing. Therefore, I shouldn’t be marrying her sister. I hadn’t expected it to bother Harry, though. ‘Harry adores you – maybe a bit too much,’ I go on, reaching for Ellen’s hand across the table. ‘It’s a good job I’m not the jealous kind.’
‘He’s coming for lunch on Sunday, isn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ I say, because Harry always comes for lunch on the first Sunday of the month.
‘Good, I’ll be able to show him my Russian dolls. He’ll be pleased I’ve got a full set at last.’
‘Does he know the story then?’ I ask curiously. ‘About how you lost yours as a child?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I remember telling him. I wonder what he’ll make of it.’
There’s something about the way she says it that tells me she’s hoping to find an ally in Harry, as if she knows he’ll side with her and for some reason it annoys me. Much as I’d hoped that Harry would like Ellen more than he’d liked Layla, I sometimes wish he didn’t like her quite as much. A thought pops into my head – that if Layla hadn’t disappeared, we might have become a foursome, me and Layla, Harry and Ellen. Mortified, I chase it away.