The Hollow Heart Part 6

It was Marianne's turn to take an angry swig of her drink. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes briefly. He pushed his hand through his hair. Whenever relationships were discussed, usually by Sharon who was always contemplating marriage and 'happy ever after' with her latest beau, Paul was firm, he wanted a wife and the standard 2.4 kids. Despite an appalling track record of one-night stands and a few dates with colleagues that went no further. She looked up from her gla.s.s, he was staring at her, his brow furrowed, pleading. Something unseen punched her in the stomach.

"You're young, you'll want to marry, have a family. You'd make a great father and I can't give you that, you need to find someone who can."

"No!" He grasped her hand on the table. "I want it with you. The age difference is irrelevant, lots of women have careers and then have children these days."

She gave him a watery smile.

"We could work something out, there are lots of options." He was momentarily hopeful.

"No Paul, not for me there aren't. I couldn't go there. Not now. I'm sorry."

She stood up sharply, but Paul was too far in to back down now.

"If you don't want to have children, we could always adopt."

She dragged her bag onto her shoulder wearily, taking up Monty's lead.

"Paul, I was adopted. My parents were mad about each other, devoted, they couldn't have children so they adopted me, they thought I would make them complete. I didn't. They were already complete." She looked straight through him and turned to go. He stood up to leave with her.

"Stay and finish your drink Paul. I don't want to be with anyone at the moment," she said evenly.

Paul was not ready to give up on Marianne. The conversation in the beer garden had revealed a side to her he had not seen before, a side that was vulnerable, crying out to be loved, nurtured and cared for. The side that George had no doubt seen, and had been determined to nourish and protect, in whatever way he could. Paul did not want a partner from among his peers, silly girls who seemed obsessed with shoes and cupcakes and spraying their skin varying shades of tangerine. Marianne was the woman for him.

He had been in love with her since he had first laid eyes on her, he could see her now, trademark spectacles perched on her nose, files piled in her arms, late for his first editorial meeting. He had watched her sit deferentially at the back of the room making notes, listening intently, nodding as ideas were discussed. He had been fascinated, as this slight little thing, with rabid chestnut hair had pulled her legs underneath her, like a pixie. Jack had turned to her.

"Marianne?"

She began, reeling off outline articles, features; ideas for photographs and graphics; reader responses and compet.i.tions. Each proposal cleverly ensuring that the editorial ethos of the publication ran parallel with commercial viability. Other contributions appeared ill-thought-out, amateur by comparison.

Jack had looked up from his notes.

"Right, we'll go with this, this and this." He had scratched three of Marianne's ideas on the white board, allocating tasks to the a.s.sembled scribes, photographers and designers. Deadlines agreed, they dispersed. Paul leapt from his chair and in a couple of strides was beside her.

"Hi, I'm Paul Osborne, I'm new here."

"I'm Marianne Coltrane, I'm old here." She gave him a grin and a firm handshake.

"Can I buy you a coffee?"

"You can buy me a beer."

It was love at first sip. He was besotted. Paul knew he was in love with her, he also hoped she was very slightly in love with him. After all they had been through together, he was sure given just half a chance, he could tip the balance.

His plan of attack for the following Sunday had been derailed. Sharon had given birth to a lovely baby girl since he was last at his desk and, in true Sharon style, had invited the world and his wife to the christening, including the three suspected fathers of the child, all very Mamma Mia. Sharon came from a large East End family, so the baby had to have a proper knees-up of a do. The christening had been a huge success and everyone had staggered home, bursting with cake and booze and humming Knees Up Mother Brown.

Marianne, having drunk a lot of champagne, made the stairs with surprising agility and removing her funky tweed suit, what remained of her makeup and her underwear, quickly disappeared beneath the enticing folds of her duvet. She closed an eye, which sent her giddy, so decided to read a couple of pages of her book, hoping that concentrating the mind might stop the room from spinning.

Paul had been more circ.u.mspect and, having paid the taxi driver, went into the kitchen to let Monty out and pour a nightcap for himself and his slightly intoxicated landlady. Her bedroom door was ajar. He pushed it open and stood in silhouette, the landing light behind him in the doorway. She looked up from her book. He was not in the room, yet filled it, every inch the Viking, his hair like a wild halo, his eyes intense under lowered lids. The air hung heavy between them. He held a gla.s.s in each hand.

"A nightcap?"

Marianne could feel her heart start to pound.

"Lovely." She put the book down.

He walked slowly towards her, placing the gla.s.s with a c.h.i.n.k on the bedside table.

"Thank you," she whispered, holding his gaze, unable to tear her eyes away. He looked brooding and determined. She shivered, despite the warmth of the room.

"Anything else required?" he asked. She could see he was aroused and felt her body responding, "Anything at all?"

She sat up, pulling the duvet around her nakedness.

"No thank you. That's lovely..."

He threw her a look that made her skin tingle and walked back to the doorway. He turned to face her.

"Are you absolutely sure?" He dropped each word carefully, leaving s.p.a.ce between them.

Marianne's head was really spinning now, she could feel a rash of emotion burning across her chest. She closed the book, placed it on the table and, counting to ten, in one movement flung the quilt back, slid out of bed taking three bold strides to where he stood. His eyes were all over her, taking in the still red-raw gashes on her shoulders, her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the white scar across her belly. His hand was on the door handle. She took a deep breath, she could smell him, heat and s.e.x. She placed her hand on his, and then determinedly removed it finger by finger, to push him gently out onto the landing, closing the door quietly and firmly between them.

"Quite sure, thank you Paul," she said as soberly as she could. She pressed her body against the closed door. He did not try the handle again, he made no plea or protest. She heard him walk slowly back to his room. She clamped her nose and mouth with her hands. She shuddered, stifling a sob of sheer, physical longing.

'No, it would be wrong, so wrong,' she tried to convince herself, climbing back into bed and wrapping the duvet around herself like a coc.o.o.n.

Autumn seeped on, oozing greyness, turning cold and wet and murky taupe. No bronze sunsets streaked with ribbons of molten gold, no backlit iridescent blue skies tinged with purple. Grey to dark grey, to black. Winter loomed gloomily, threatening to swamp them all in a damp, pewter pit. The last of the leaves swashed against the back door, the porch smelled of decay. Number seventy four Oakwood Avenue was desolate.

Marianne and Paul remained outwardly friendly. He was in charge of housekeeping and sustenance. She was responsible for lively office gossip, reports of Jack's dourness and Sharon's madcap parenting. Despite the veneer, Monty went off his food, touted a dry nose and took to gazing into the distance for long periods of time, ears pressed against his skull.

Marianne took him to the vet. A charming man with a Northern Ireland accent and runny eyes, he smiled kindly, he had known George well and in fact, had found Monty for George to give to Marianne. Monty co-operated with a full examination, which was unusual in itself.

"Has anything changed, his routine, his food? Have you moved his bed? Cut down his exercise? Taken something away?" Marianne shook her head. Monty looked pleadingly at the vet.

"He seems, well almost, depressed."

"Really?" Marianne scratched behind his ears, his tail thumped once, listlessly.

The vet took some blood for tests and suggested grilled chicken and scrambled egg, fresh air and maybe a change of scene. It was a recommendation he hoped they would both consider. She bundled Monty into her arms, his snout poked out from the tartan rug, she kissed it and he closed his eyes. The vet touched her shoulder as she left.

Carrying Monty in through the back door, Marianne was surprised to find the kitchen untidy, food wrappers, dishes and empty wine bottles littered the surfaces. She heard m.u.f.fled voices, laughter. She put Monty down and went into the hall, straining to listen up the stairs. Monty was out of his rug in a flash, yapping as he took the stairs at a gallop. A door opened on the landing. She withdrew, closing the kitchen door behind her. Fl.u.s.tered, she started to clear up. Paul tumbled into the room. He pulled his t-shirt down at the back with one hand and tried to smooth his hair with the other.

"Hi ya, okay?" He was flushed, breathless.

"Tests. Nothing obvious."

"What?"

"Monty, remember, vet."

"Oh, yeah, good, er Marianne."

A blonde head appeared behind him.

"h.e.l.lo," it beamed.

Lovely smile. Marianne blinked.

"And you are?"

"Sorry, Cheryl. Cheryl Ward," the smiling face extended its hand, "nice to meet you. I've heard so much."

"Indeed? Wish I could say the same."

The girl removed her hand from mid-air where Marianne had left it.

"I met Cheryl in hospital."

Marianne resumed wiping the counter top.

"Were you in the attack?" She thought she would have remembered such a fresh, angelic face.

"No, I'm a nurse."

"Ward Sister, Ward," offered Paul, trying to make a joke of the girl's name, Marianne looked straight through him.

"I'm just taking Monty for a walk, we could do with the air. Help yourselves to anything you like." She looked them both up and down.

It was dark when she returned. The kitchen was spotless, the washing machine on. Cheryl had gone. Paul offered her a drink. She declined, angry at Paul, furious at herself.

"She seemed nice."

"I wanted to tell you."

"Is it serious then?" She examined her fingernails.

"I think so."

"Good. I'm pleased for you, pleased for you both."

"Marianne..."

"Hey, we're friends. We've always been friends, always will be. Nothing's changed."

But everything had.

Jack Buchannan did not take the news at all well. Isabelle berated him for his selfishness. He ignored her, pouring his guest a whiskey and himself vodka. He had been told to cut down on the gin. Grouchy and discommoded, he joined them at the table. Marianne pleated her napkin. Catching Isabelle's eye, she shrugged.

"You have to let me go, Jack."

He pushed the plate away. It was Isabelle's cla.s.sic Aberdeen Angus stroganoff. He had barely touched it. In the candlelight he looked more liverish than usual. Isabelle tutted as she took his plate.

"Paul's a bairn. Nay the gift," he said to his placemat.

"I'll be back. I just need some s.p.a.ce. A break."

"But six weeks?"

Marianne was ent.i.tled. She had been with the company long enough for a career sabbatical, she was permitted to take three months leave in any given twenty-four month period.

"Well, work while you're away. What about a Travelogue? What about a series of retrospective articles about the attack. Aye, while you are away, that would be the time to write it, flashback style, contrast with return to normality. We could syndicate it."

"Maybe."

None of their group had written a single word about their experience on that vengeful night, no interview, no report, no discussion, not even between themselves. They had sewn their bodies back together, plastered over the cracks and returned battered and bruised to their respective lives. Jack was seriously p.i.s.sed off that not one, but two of his own writers had the inside track on what was a world-shattering event a bestselling story of carnage and tragedy. Yet there seemed to be this debilitating, unspoken pact and neither of them had written a d.a.m.n word.

"Well, why not do some follow-ups on the 'babies for sale' scam. You have a few more reunited through the website there must be stories there?"

"Early days, really."

"You know we're losing money hand over fist, Marie," said Jack; the shortening of her name, a sign of his affection. "More and more regional dailies are becoming weeklies. What about the Bath Chronicle? You know what happened there, a weekly after being published daily since 1760. Sign of the times, blidy internet."

"Progress, change, embrace it, Jack."

He guffawed, deep in his chest.

"Too late f'me but no f'you. You're the bridge between my era and the future. I need someone to hand over to. I thought it was what you wanted?"

She reached across the table and squeezed his clump of a hand. Calloused, tobacco-stained fingers gripped his now empty gla.s.s.

"Weren't you told to cut down on the drink?" She asked.

"Were you not told to cut down on your lip?" He replied. They grinned at each other.

Isabelle returned with cheese and fruit. Jack sliced a wedge of crumbly Stilton.

"Our paymasters are highly political. Don't be away any longer, I'm warning ye, lots of bright young things queuing up in the wings, promotions because of connections, not ability."

Marianne nodded. Isabelle sneaked some of the cheese off Jack's plate.

"Good, that's settled then. Are we looking after Monty, while you are away?" she asked.

"No. Thanks Isabelle, but he's coming with me. He could do with a break too."

Although he had accepted Paul, Monty was still sniffing every man who came to the house, plumber, builder, electrician, in the hope that it might be George, returned. Marianne had decided the vet's advice could apply to them both. She was in the middle of packing when Paul announced his imminent engagement to Cheryl.

"I'll have moved out by the time you get back." He was over-chirpy.

"Take as long as you like, not sure when we'll be back." She gave him a stiff smile, continuing to stuff items of clothing into her bag.