CHAPTER THIRTY

Gemma was the first to waken. Guy lay turned away from her, the sheet thrust down across his legs, and she drew her hand lightly over his brown back. He did not stir and she rolled over, her arms beneath her head, wondering how it was that her adventures with other men never diminished her need for Guy. Perhaps it was because she didn’t fall in love with them: she assessed them physically, as one might appraise a partner for a dance or for a game of tennis, and their other qualities or failings were unimportant to her.

She smiled to herself as she reviewed the performance of her most recent partner, remembering how they’d met just before Sophie’s marriage to Henry Corbett, whose family had farmed on Exmoor for generations. It had been fun, looking forward to being Sophie’s matron of honour, meeting up again with another of their school-friends, Marianne, who was to be a bridesmaid. During school holidays, and even up until the time of Gemma’s marriage to Guy, Marianne had regularly spent a few weeks each summer on Dartmoor, sharing her time between Gemma’s family and Sophie’s. Her boyfriend, Simon, was one of Henry’s oldest friends.

‘It’ll be great to be living near Marianne,’ Sophie had said at the small thrash she’d thrown a month or so before the wedding. ‘And here’s Simon who’s going to be the best man. This is Gemma, Simon. You’ll have to look after her but watch out for her husband, he’s a jealous man.’

Simon, eyebrows raised appreciatively, had taken her outstretched hand. ‘And who shall blame him?’ he’d asked. ‘Hello, Gemma.’

It was odd, she thought as she lay, warm and relaxed beside Guy, how she’d known straightaway that Simon was an adventurer like herself. They’d exchanged mobile numbers on the pretence of his keeping her in touch with the wedding arrangements and she’d seen him when he’d brought Marianne to a fitting in Exeter for their dresses and taken the three of them – for Sophie had been there too – out to a pub afterwards. All through lunch his glance had crossed hers, sliding away again quickly, and he’d touched her once or twice on the shoulder or the arm when passing her a glass: so exciting, those snatched moments, with Marianne sitting beside her, talking to Sophie about the great day and quite unaware of Simon’s preoccupation.

How much more difficult on the day itself, with Guy in attendance, to exchange those tiny signals: much more difficult but even more thrilling because of the danger. Knowing that Guy was not at his best in social situations, that he had no ease of manner, no natural gregariousness, Sophie had paired him with Henry’s sister, a straightforward young woman who was the junior partner of a lawyer’s practice in Taunton, who’d had no difficulty in keeping him entertained. Gemma, seeing them in earnest conversation – arguing a point, forcefully exchanging ideas – had been pleased that he was so well looked after and had given her attention more fully to Simon.

Towards the end of the day he’d extracted her promise that she’d meet him for lunch: a promise she’d been very willing to make. His family owned a company that supplied agricultural machinery and he travelled all over the South-West, visiting farms and markets, so it had been quite easy to meet in out-of-the-way pubs once or twice, but soon Simon was pressing her to agree to a less public meeting. This trip had been a gift from the gods but, even so, it was very risky. Sophie could no longer be relied upon to cover for her as she’d done so often in the past. Once she’d chuckled at Gemma’s escapades, admired and envied her attractive, charming friend, but ever since the birth of Gemma’s twins, and especially now that she was a married woman herself, Sophie had suddenly become rather strait-laced and Gemma knew that she wouldn’t approve of this little fling with Simon.

Frowning as she stared up at the ceiling, Gemma felt the chill touch of fear icing her skin.

‘Guy’s a tad scary,’ Sophie had observed. ‘I was crazy about him once, d’you remember, but I’m not sure I’d be able to cope with him when he has sense of humour failure. You have to be on your guard, don’t you? I can’t imagine how you get away with it, actually. You seem to be on a kind of permanent Tom Tiddler’s ground with him.’

‘Oh, Guy’s OK,’ she’d answered lightly. ‘I know all the no-go zones.’

‘Sounds more like negotiations with a foreign power than a marriage.’

Sophie had laughed it off but Gemma knew exactly what she meant: there was a fastidiousness about Guy, which ruled out certain areas of behaviour. When Guy’s puritanical streak was roused his face grew expressionless, his lids drooped almost menacingly over his eyes, and he withdrew behind a barrier of almost unapproachable austerity. As yet she’d always been able to break through that barrier, talk herself out of trouble, and, because her love for him was always in evidence, he’d been prepared to admit that he was over-ready to be judgemental.

During these brief excursions into extra-marital adventures she never lost her grip on her relationship with Guy and, so far, he’d found no grounds on which he could base his easily roused suspicions. To do him justice he’d worked hard to be more broadminded, to recognize her friendly, affectionate nature for what it was, and occasionally she felt guilty when she was deceiving him. Yet Sophie was right: Guy was not easy to live with and she needed her fix of irresponsible fun just as he needed those long hours alone at sea. And it was a fix: an addiction. She was incapable of resisting the opportunity to seize her pleasure and the prospect of a new, exciting partner was as tempting as the chocolate had been – just out of reach in the cupboard – in childhood. She could not concentrate on other things, could not forget its invisible presence: the vision of it was always there, pressing at the edge of her thoughts. Sooner or later she must drag the stool across the floor, climb up and reach into the cupboard for it so that she might feel the smooth stickiness on her fingers and taste the sweetness as it burst upon her tongue.

Simon was fun: he knew of a quiet, private place, a sunny, grassy patch screened by high banks of furze, where he’d spread his rug on the close-nibbled turf before opening a bottle of wine.

‘What makes me think you’ve done this before?’ she’d asked idly, leaning on one elbow as she watched him.

‘Me?’ He’d pretended surprise, indignation even. ‘Perish the thought.’

Yesterday, she’d hurried to meet him again, giving Bertie a walk along the way, parking beside his Land Rover Discovery, which blocked any glimpse of their secret place from the road. This time she’d taken her own rug from the car, laying it on top of his so as to make their bed more comfortable. She’d brought a picnic, which they’d shared, and later, much later, she’d lain in his arms, her fingers threading through his hair. It was fair and rather dry, soft to the touch, and a memory fleetingly distracted her.

‘You remind me of David,’ she’d murmured and he’d answered sleepily, ‘David? Who’s David? I thought his name was Guy. Oh, and, by the way,’ he’d roused himself, ‘Marianne knows you’re here on holiday. Sophie told her.’

‘Did she?’ She’d felt languorous and contented in their sheltered corner, so hot that the sun seemed to melt her bones and suck caution from her brain. Bertie lay stretched in the shade of the furze, panting. ‘Should I phone her, d’you think?’

He’d frowned. ‘What would you say to her? I thought we’d agreed that you wouldn’t see her.’

‘But then I didn’t know that Sophie would be so quick off the mark to spread the glad news. It would be difficult anyway, wouldn’t it, to see Marianne? With her being at work in Taunton all day?’

‘Mmm. I suppose it would look a bit odd if you didn’t get in touch with her, though. Tell you what: if you telephone home between nine and six you’d get the answering machine and you could just leave a message.’

‘It’s fortunate,’ she’d replied, ‘that everyone who knows Guy wouldn’t expect him to want to spend his evenings socializing, otherwise it might be natural to assume that we’d get together as a foursome.’

He’d grinned, making a comical face. ‘That might be tricky. I doubt I could be quite that cool. If Marianne suggests it I might have to invent a few late calls this week. Luckily, in my job I don’t have a routine.’

‘Don’t worry. Marianne will quite understand that Guy wouldn’t be easy to persuade. He’s having to make a couple of appearances at Michaelgarth, which is stretching his good temper. I think we’re quite safe.’

Now, as she turned her head to look at Guy, she felt a pang of remorse at the way she’d described him, although it was true enough.

‘Do we have to go to supper again on Friday?’ he’d asked. ‘We were there on Sunday.’

‘Oh, but I want to see my big brother,’ she’d protested. ‘It would be a pity to miss him and we have to be away on Saturday morning . . . Are you sailing with Matt again tomorrow?’

She’d noticed his guilty frown with amusement but he’d shaken his head.

‘I thought it would be a bit much to desert you for three days on the run,’ he’d admitted. ‘We could have tomorrow together, go for a walk over the cliffs and have a pub lunch somewhere.’

She’d been clever enough to greet the idea with enthusiasm. ‘I’d love that,’ she’d answered, letting him see her pleasure at his suggestion, ‘though I don’t want to spoil your fun. Perhaps you could go out again on Thursday or Friday?’

‘The tide’s making it more difficult to get out early but Matt did suggest a few hours after lunch on Friday.’ She’d watched him, seen the moment when he’d realized that a little give and take was in order here. ‘Of course I’d be back in plenty of time for supper at Michaelgarth.’ He’d added casually, ‘It’ll be good to see Saul.’

‘That’s fine then,’ she’d said easily – and he’d fetched the map so as to plan their walk.

Simon had been philosophical about it. ‘I’ll cram my appointments into Wednesday and Thursday,’ he’d said, ‘and keep Friday free. Usual place, about two-ish?’

She’d been relieved but not surprised to hear his ready acceptance, realizing that their little affair was nearly over and knowing that they would part good friends.

It was important, she told herself, that no-one should be hurt.

Unbidden, an image of Marianne’s face as she’d looked on Sophie’s wedding day presented itself before her inner eye: she looked so happy, seizing Gemma’s arm, smiling at Sophie in her bridal gown and crying, ‘Doesn’t she look gorgeous?’: happy and trusting. And now Tilda appeared beside her with that direct look, those amazing cornflower eyes, and Gemma heard her saying: ‘I miss him so terribly but here at Michaelgarth I feel that he’s close to us.’

She shut her eyes as if to blot out these images and rolled over quickly, pressing herself against Guy and hiding her face against his back.

‘Wake up, darling,’ she said, rather desperately, and he stirred, groaning, and turned almost automatically, still half asleep, to take her into his arms.