What do you mean?
You’re going to marry Ellen My fingers pick out letters of their own accord so it’s only when I’m about to press send that I realise what I’ve written. Snatching my hands away, I push my chair back abruptly, putting distance between me and the keyboard. I take a moment, then reach down with one finger and press the delete button until the three little words – No, I’m not – disappear. I need to reply something, but what? Something benign.
How are you? Are you OK?
Maybe we should meet
I feel a prickle of something like danger. Or maybe it’s excitement.
When?
I’ll let you know
I stare at the screen in frustration. Maybe it’s the fact that she suggested we meet but suddenly I miss her, I miss the Layla I knew twelve years ago. I miss the way we were together. It’s so different from the way I am with Ellen. With Layla, there were highs and lows, with Ellen, everything is constant. There are no ups and downs. We never argue – but we don’t laugh either, not like I laughed with Layla. I tell myself it’s because we’re older but I know that it isn’t. Ellen is more – I search for the word and when I realise I was going to use boring, I quickly substitute it for serious, ashamed at myself. I’ll be alright once I’ve seen Layla, I tell myself. When I see her, I’ll explain that I’m now with Ellen, that it’s Ellen I love, and everything will be alright.
Another email comes in. I open it, thinking she’s going to tell me when we can meet.
I’M WEARING YOUR RING, FINN
TWENTY-NINE
Layla
The words went round and round in my head and the train picked them up, taunting me with them as it trundled along – there’d been no need to run that night, there’d been no need to run. If I hadn’t disappeared, it would have been alright. But I’d thought he was going to kill me.
I should never have told him that I’d slept with someone else. But he knew something was wrong and he kept trying to find out why I’d been so quiet since my return from London. At first he thought I was homesick, or missing Ellen, and the mention of Ellen had made me cry, because of course I was missing her. But it compounded the guilt I felt, because Ellen would have been horrified at what I’d done. If she’d met someone like Finn, she would never have betrayed him, she would have loved him and cherished him and thanked God every waking moment that she’d found a good, kind and decent man, as different as possible from our father in every single way. At least that’s what I’d thought, until I saw a side of him I hadn’t known existed.
I knew that he’d had a fight with Harry, that he’d beaten Harry quite badly, but I had no idea how explosive his temper could actually be until that night. It all happened so fast. One minute I was sitting next to him in the car at Fonches, a little scared at what I’d just told him but proud that I’d been honest with him, the next I thought I was about to die. I didn’t recognise the man who dragged me out of the car and shook me until my teeth rattled. The look in his eyes as he yelled he would never forgive me, and my inability to reach him, to break through his rage, was terrifying. I didn’t see him, I saw my father, and when he drew back his arm and I saw his clenched fist, I felt myself being dragged into some dark and sinister place. Maybe I passed out through sheer terror because the next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground next to the car. There was no sign of Finn, and I was so convinced he was going to kill me that I thought he’d gone to look for a weapon – a branch from a tree, a discarded iron bar – to finish me off with. And so I ran.
I know the reason for his anger now. I know what happened with Siobhan, his girlfriend in Ireland, he explained it in his letter. I also know that he would have forgiven me for what I did. The desolation I felt was terrible. If I hadn’t run away, we would be together. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get past the fact that the last twelve years had been for nothing. NOTHING!!! Scared that the despair I felt would take me back to where I’d been before, I tried to rein it in. I took deep breaths, told myself that everything would be alright. But how could it be when Finn was with Ellen now?
It had never occurred to me that he would marry Ellen. I didn’t doubt that he loved her but I didn’t believe he loved her as much as he’d loved me. I felt betrayed. I reminded myself that I had betrayed him first. Finn had moved on and I needed to accept it. But I couldn’t; memories of the life I used to have wouldn’t leave me alone. I wanted that life, not the one I had now. By rights, Finn was mine. MINE! Layla’s, not Ellen’s. Not Ellen’s, Layla’s. I felt feverish, sick. Now, more than ever, I needed Finn to know I was back.
I started sending him emails. I didn’t use my name because if I had, Finn would have thought they were coming from someone pretending to be me. He did anyway. I was stunned that he hadn’t understood the significance of the email address – I’d chosen it especially so that he would know my true identity. The Russian doll that I managed to leave, at huge risk, on the plate at The Jackdaw, only compounded his belief that someone was pretending to be me. And I realised that the only way he would believe I was back was if I lured him to the cottage and he saw that the letter had gone.
I could have told him that I’d found it, and saved him a trip. But then I realised that he still wouldn’t know it was me, because sometime over the past twelve years, anyone could have got hold of my keys and taken the letter. It was imperative that he worked out the email address by himself, that he got to the truth by himself. I made a pact; if he couldn’t work out what Rudolph Hill referred to, I would disappear again and let him get on with his life with Ellen. But if he worked it out – well, it would be the start of a whole new chapter.
THIRTY
Finn
I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at Ellen’s clothes through the open wardrobe door, noticing for the first time that almost everything is grey – different shades of grey, maybe, but grey nonetheless. There are a few items in other pastels but nothing like the vibrant colours Layla used to wear. My eyes drop to Ellen’s shoes, neatly arranged in two rows at the bottom of the wardrobe, all of them with the same-sized heel, and I feel suddenly stifled at the uniformity of it all.
Ellen is downstairs so I take out my phone and look at the latest email I received from Layla. I haven’t replied to it yet. It’s a tough one. I mean, what am I meant to reply when she asks if I’m happy she’s wearing my ring?
The truth is, I feel a bit emotional at the thought of her wearing it. But I can’t tell her that.
It’s yours, I bought it for you, I reply.
Did you buy one for Ellen?
I think of the little silver knot ring I gave to Ellen after I asked her to marry me. I hadn’t bought her a traditional engagement ring because that wasn’t who she was, unlike Layla, who’d loved anything that glittered. Nevertheless, I decide to side-step her question.
Do you still want to meet?
Is Ellen wearing your ring?
Yes. Do you still want to meet?
I shouldn’t have come back
What do you mean?
It’s too late
No, it isn’t. It’s never too late.
It is. You’re with Ellen now
We need to talk, Layla.
But she’s gone, leaving me as she’s left me before, hoping she’ll be back, not knowing if she will be.
I go down to the kitchen.
‘I’ve made porridge,’ Ellen says, looking up from the saucepan she’s stirring.
‘No, thanks,’ I say shortly. ‘I’ll make myself some bacon.’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘It’s fine.’ I move to the oven, take the grill pan out and clatter it onto the side.
‘Is everything alright?’ Ellen asks. ‘Everything’s fine.’
‘It’s just—’
‘What?’ I snap.
‘You seem on edge.’