CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER NINE
W ITH ITS GRAY sheets of rain and a persistent dampness that crept into the innermost regions of even the most waterproof jackets, London had risen to the occasion for the Flight 0718 memorial with weather that matched Desmond’s mood perfectly.
He’d attended this memorial service without fail every single year since the accident. It was always held here in the little gray church in Croydon.
This was the first time he’d ever come with someone, he realized. The first time in all that time he hadn’t wanted to be alone. It was strange to have to give context, to explain what all the other attendees already knew.
“One of the passengers was the vicar here,” he whispered to Val. “He would have been serving here twenty-two years, had he lived.”
Val made a soft sound in response, and reached out and placed one of her hands on his arm. He resisted, with some effort, the urge to shake her off as they entered the church’s dim interior. She began following an usher who smiled and offered her a hothouse orchid—the favorite flower of another victim of the crash, who’d been a florist in Kent—but Desmond shook his head.
“Back here,” he mouthed, and gestured to the corner of the last row but one on the left-hand side. They sat and Val blew on her hands to warm them; wordlessly, he dragged off his gloves and handed them to her.
The vicar’s eldest son, a tall, broad, tow-headed twelve-year-old, read out the same passage from the Psalms that was read every year. He’d been a mere toddler in his mother’s arms at that first, horrible service. Val fixed her eyes on the boy and did not look at Desmond, for which he was grateful. He worried the program until the cover page sliced into his thumb; Val gently took it from him.
He watched the blood trickle down his finger with an odd sense of detachment. He was glad for the sting; it would keep him centered. He barely reacted when Val produced a pristine handkerchief from her handbag, pressed it into his hand.
Candlelight flickered on the walls, which were worn soft and gray from years of worship. Desmond knew already that after the service the families of the victims would hug each other, chat, perhaps even laugh; nearly ten years of shared grief lent an intimacy to the occasion. Some of them were friends now and met outside of this yearly memorial. Some brought new partners to the service, more and more each year. Babies had been born; children had finished school, or gotten married.
For Desmond, though, each service might as well have been the first one. And he regretted with every minute that passed giving in to Val’s offer in his moment of weakness.
He clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw ached. Candles were lit for every lost victim, while the congregation breathed the damp, frigid air in the silence of remembrance.
Every year since the accident he’d mourned alone, but tonight Val tugged off her borrowed glove, then slipped her hand into his. And, desperate for something to anchor him down, he held on and closed his eyes.
Afterward it was a little easier, but not by much. He stood a little way from the throng, close to the door, Val’s hand still folded in his. He didn’t speak to anyone, other than cursory nods or greetings when he was approached.
No one ever came to Desmond for more than a few seconds; his presence at the memorial was acknowledged, but there was no warm welcome for him as there was for the others. A couple of people eyed Val with curiosity, but he had no relationships here that would lead to any introductions. And Val, bless her, was quiet and unobtrusive. She’d somehow managed to read the situation, even though he hadn’t had the words to explain.
He’d lost his father, yes; his only parent, the man who’d raised him alone. But his father was also responsible for the loss of the many who lay dead.
And that, they could not ignore, even though it was not Desmond’s fault. Desmond had a right to grieve as much as they. But his presence here today, and every other time, was…complicated.
No one ever invited Desmond home for a cup of tea, or to the pub where they had a customary drink afterward, or to the weddings and christenings of the relatives of the deceased. No, Desmond would usually wind his scarf around his neck, set his shoulders, and move silently into the rain alone, the first one out of the church; breathing hard through his mouth and blinking the rain out of his eyes; swallowing hard over and over again, harder and harder, and counting his breaths until the thing that threatened to break past his stoicism settled back deep inside him, where it belonged.
But this year was different. Val’s small figure was beside him, resolute, gripping his hand as if their lives depended on it. Eventually the last guest had filtered out onto the stoop, exclaiming over the rain and arranging a rideshare in a loud hearty voice, and they were alone. It was only then that she finally looked at him. And from her expression he could tell that he hadn’t been very good at hiding his emotions after all.
“Oh, Desmond,” she whispered, and then she was on her toes, cradling his face and kissing him on the cheek. He couldn’t respond. His body, his mind, his lips—they were all frozen.
“We should go,” Val whispered, tugging at his hand. Her eyes had kindled with something that hadn’t been there before, something frightening in its intensity.
He nodded and followed her out into the rain.
He should have pulled away from her, made some dry comment about the folly of kissing in a church, or something—anything to bring them back to normal. But he was just so numb, and so cold, and so absolutely burned out. It’d been exhausting, keeping up this facade for so long.
But he’d be back at it tomorrow; he didn’t know any other way to be.
He shouldn’t accept her pity; he shouldn’t accept her comfort. He didn’t deserve either. He hadn’t asked for it from the other people in the church. It would have been an unbearable cruelty to seek that from them.
After all, his father wasn’t the only one responsible, and Desmond had been hiding behind the protection of a dead man all this time.
The Notting Hill address that Desmond gave to the taxi driver through chattering teeth meant nothing to Val, who only knew of the area from movies. The trip was ruinously expensive and Val saw their driver peering at the bedraggled pair in his rearview mirror, as if wondering who they were. Desmond certainly hadn’t given him a hint. After handing over the address, he didn’t say a word, just leaned back on the seat with a sigh and closed his eyes.
“I’ll send you back to the hotel, once we get there and get you dried off.” And that was all he said, the whole hour-plus drive back through the heart of London. When they pulled up to the enormous detached house, Val barely registered red brick, darkened by the sky, electronic parking with two sleek, covered cars atop an elevated platform or the dark shapes that seemed to indicate a garden. Most of the details were obscured by rain. Desmond punched in a key code and there was a tinny sort of beep, and then he shouldered his way through the heavy black door.
Val found herself blinking rapidly in the soft light of an entryway flanked by floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows that would look magnificent in the daylight. She slipped out of her sodden pumps, feeling awkward about dripping on the floor. Desmond fetched her a towel of such softness and absorbency that she caught her breath a little as it touched her skin. She luxuriated in it for a moment, and when she looked up Desmond was unbuttoning his shirt, his jacket and coat already on the floor.
“You need to get out of those wet things,” he said.
“What, here?” she squeaked, realizing how silly she sounded. Desmond had already seen her naked from every imaginable angle.
And he didn’t seem to notice her statement. He was grimly unbuttoning the dark suit trousers he wore. He stood there, shadows dancing across lean muscle, his skin gleaming with water, drops trickling down and disappearing into the waistband of his black boxers. He stared down at her, looking grimmer still, with a completely indecipherable expression on his narrow, hard face. It was completely at odds with the laconic, smooth-tongued businessman she’d spent yesterday evening with; this was a silent, hollow-eyed stranger.
Yet, Val still felt an impulse to reach for him, to touch him—
He turned from her and walked with his usual easy gait over tiles that were as clear and as reflective as glass. Heated, too, possibly, if the warmth circulating from the soles of her feet upward were to be believed.
“Come,” was all he said,
She glanced behind her at the abandoned entryway with its sad little pile of discarded clothing; he hadn’t said a word about calling that cab to take her back to The Ritz. She probably should—
“Val!”
She draped the towel around her neck and hurried after him.
“Welcome,” he said, throwing out one arm to the side in a half-hearted attempt at a grand gesture. It was the first hint of his old self she’d seen in hours.
The space opened up into a long, wide hall with glowing walls the color of fresh cream on which enormous paintings hung, gallery style; she recognized Andy Warhol, Kehinde Wiley and others that looked vaguely familiar whose names she could not place.
But she could not slow down to enjoy them because her host was stalking impatiently forward. Almost in a blur, she saw glimpses of a sitting room with a large fireplace, a room with a faded Persian carpet and a massive dining table, and a sunroom that looked as if it ran round the entire western perimeter of the house. In daylight it must be stunning. The house was like Desmond, in a sense—luxurious without being ostentatious, stylish without being flashy. Understated. Elegant. Relaxed.
They reached the end of the hall, where the enormous doors of a lift were covered with slabs of the palest pink marble gleaming beneath the lights. There were no buttons, just a panel that Desmond, still half-naked, let his finger hover over.
The doors slid open smoothly and he stepped in, as if it were a portal to another kingdom. He looked over his shoulder but said nothing.
She swallowed and stepped in beside him. His presence filled the entire space; the sweet spiciness of his skin seemed to have been amplified by the rain. The air between them was so very charged, full of pent-up energy built from the tension of the evening that she had no idea what to do with.
She wanted to rest her head in the hollow between his shoulders. And it wasn’t just about sex, either—it was about closeness; something she suspected he needed.
Desmond was the only person who’d tempted her for so long. And here she was, in his home. After knowing him for only two days. Wanting to comfort him.
Perhaps, she thought, knotting her hands in the towel clutched tight round her shoulders, it was the pain she’d seen weigh him down this evening. It was the pain of loss, but something more, too. He had the look of a man who knew he couldn’t fix what was wrong.
That, she understood, if nothing else.
“I’m taking you to one of the guest wings,” he said as the lift doors opened. First floor. This hallway was also lined by paintings, though she didn’t recognize the artists of these. The ones downstairs were meant to impress; these were meant to add atmosphere. “You’ll find everything you need there. Have a hot shower if you want, and get out of your wet things.”
Despite herself, the words were finding their way under her skin, warm and sinuous.
“Will you—?”
“I’m going to do the same. Do you think you can find your way back down to the main floor?”
She nodded.
“Great. Meet me there. Half hour.” And then he was gone, leaving just a faint suggestion of warmth, sweat, rainfall and cloves.
Val stood there silently for a long moment, wrapped in her towel. It was so quiet in the house.
In the bathroom, she stripped off her soaked clothing and quickly showered to warm herself up. She got out and wrapped herself in a crimson dressing gown that had been folded on the foot of the bed and which smelled faintly of mint and eucalyptus. The silk fabric was light and luxurious, the sleeves rolled back into heavy, embroidered cuffs. She wadded the hem in her hand to keep from tripping as she went to the vanity to inspect her hair. It had frizzed completely, haloing her face with soft dark fuzz.
“Get it together,” she hissed to her reflection. Her eyes looked wide and questioning, and the fabric clung to her body. She barely recognized herself. Val straightened to her full height and left in search of the lift.
When she stepped out onto the main floor, Desmond was there, his hands folded behind him. His hair was wet and coiling tightly against his head, and he wore a simple black crewneck and knit trousers hanging low on his narrow hips. He was more casually dressed than she’d ever seen him.
He’s beautiful.
The thought came without her permission.
“Hey,” he said.
She looked up.
It was a mistake. She could feel heat suffusing her face. This was too intimate. She’d barely had meaningful human contact in years, and she’d shared so much with this man in only two days.
Silence thronged between them for one second, two, three…
“Thank you,” was all he said when eventually he spoke.
She nodded, her mouth dry.
“Shall we get something to eat, then?”