Chapter Nine #2
I follow the signs to the centre of town and wind up, quite by chance, in front of the Brambling House Hotel.
I stand, staring up at it in amazement and relief.
But it’s not a hotel. It’s a private home.
And a beautiful private home, at that. Ulysses will be so jealous that I’m seeing it in its original splendour, freshly painted and gleaming white.
There are pink roses scaling the gorgeous Georgian facade, borders of leafy shrubs growing beneath the sash windows and potted bay trees either side of the door.
It’s sumptuous. How wonderful to live in a house as splendid as this one, and how sad that in the future, the very heart of it is ripped out so they can modernise and reshape it, without an ounce of taste or sensitivity to its heritage.
I wish I had a camera so I could photograph it for Ulysses.
Now I’m in familiar territory, the relief turns to a strange feeling of discombobulation.
It’s like a weird dream. The building is the same, but not the same.
I feel as if the world has turned upside down.
I wonder who lives here, for they must be very grand.
The mayor perhaps, or some other local dignitary.
Just then I hear the whirring sound of a car behind me.
I turn, expecting that woman in the hat and veil to accost me, but it’s not her.
She was driving a red car. This one is racing green, and the roof has been lifted like a lid, revealing a sumptuous pale leather and polished wood interior.
It draws up beside me. I glance at the man driving it.
He’s wearing a cream-coloured jacket, an open neck blue shirt and a straw trilby.
It takes me a beat to recognise the face behind the beard.
I look again. It can’t be.
Cavill?
‘Don’t look so surprised,’ he says. ‘Get in.’
I’m paralysed with astonishment. I stand staring at him like an idiot. He looks at me and frowns. ‘Well?’
I can barely contain my joy. So, I was right. I have drawn Cavill into my slide, or he has drawn me. Either way, we are here, together. I’ve been given a final opportunity to see him again. I’m overcome with gratitude and resolve to savour every second.
I hurry round to the other side of the car, while he leans over and opens the passenger door for me.
I climb inside and turn to him expectantly.
I’m aware that I’m grinning like a fool.
He doesn’t greet me like a long-lost friend, however, and for a second I’m baffled.
Then I remind myself that I’m no longer Constance Fleet, I’m Eddie Skipton, and I don’t know what the nature of our relationship is.
Nevertheless, his behaviour is that of someone who knows me very well. How well does he know me, I wonder?
I reach behind me for the seatbelt only to find there isn’t one.
Cavill doesn’t notice my blunder. He speeds off without another word, as if he can’t get out of town fast enough.
I turn to look at him. His profile is set in a serious expression.
He’s staring at the road ahead through the glass windscreen, his brow furrowed.
He looks nervous. One arm is resting nonchalantly on the rim where the window has been wound down, the other hand on the steering wheel.
But there’s nothing nonchalant about his demeanour.
I avert my eyes. Pixie Tate wants to take him in, every inch of him, but Eddie Skipton must be restrained.
He’s not looking at me, so I must not look at him.
I remind myself that he doesn’t recognise me Hermione, or me Constance – he certainly doesn’t know me, Pixie, at all. Oh, how I wish he did!
He drives on in silence, leaving the town for narrow country lanes that wind their way between thick hedgerows of mayflower and cow parsley.
I’m intoxicated with happiness that I’m here, with the man I love, even though he has no idea who I really am.
Right now, it doesn’t matter. I sigh contentedly, lean back against the head rest, and allow the sun to gently caress my face. I will this drive to go on forever.
I resist the urge to look at him, to reach out and touch him.
I know I mustn’t. But it’s all I can do not to give in to my impulses, and I turn my eyes to the sea which comes into view in the gaps in the hedges, and focus my attention on the role that I’m playing.
He must take the lead, and I must blindly follow, and hope that I can pull it off without letting myself, or Eddie Skipton, down.
The silence between us is killing me. I have so many questions, but I can’t ask them.
How come he is in Cornwall? When did he return from America?
Is Josephine here too? At last, he drives into a farm entrance and brings the car to a halt in the field behind the hedge.
We won’t be seen from the road. The air of adultery intensifies.
I give a quick thought to Eddie’s poor husband, but just as quickly dismiss it.
Whether or not she commits adultery is really none of my business, and it’s not my place to judge.
Cavill turns to face me, and I suddenly notice how much he has aged.
The crow’s feet at his temples are deeper and those that furrow his forehead are more pronounced.
His hair is still thick, but fair has darkened to grey, and his skin is rugged now, although much of it is concealed beneath his short beard.
Eleven years have passed since I last saw him and even then he was no longer the young man I fell in love with, but a man of mature years and greater experience that I loved still.
He’s in his mid-sixties now, and it shows, not just in his appearance but in the weight of his personality, which seems heavier with gravitas, as if he carries a hefty sack of troubles on his back.
However, he’s still handsome. He will always be handsome to me.
His blue eyes gaze at me and as I fall into them, I see him in his depth. In his soul. And I suffer a pang of dread, for how can I sever so unique and profound a connection? How can I bring myself to do it? How will I?
He takes a steady breath. He’s had the drive to think about what he’s going to say and yet it takes him a while to find the words.
‘I know why you didn’t come,’ he says at last. I make a stammering attempt at answering, but thankfully he cuts me off.
‘No, let me explain, Eddie.’ There it is.
Those three words. So, the letter was from him.
He glances out of the window then back again. He gives me a bashful smile as if about to apologise for something about which he doesn’t feel remotely guilty. ‘I kissed you last night because I wanted to.’
I blush, not with embarrassment, which is how he’ll interpret it, but with the surprise of finding myself in this extraordinary position. It’s as if the Universe has conspired to give me exactly what I want.
If he kissed Eddie once, might he kiss her again?
‘It must not have come as a surprise,’ he says. Then chuckles and looks at me fondly. ‘You knew that was the way it was going, didn’t you? We both did.’
‘Well … I …’
‘I know I’m married,’ he says.
Now I’m really surprised. He’s married? To whom? My heart sinks, although, I don’t know why it matters. I’m here for a short time only – to end it – why should a wife make any difference to me?
But it does.
‘It is I who am in the wrong.’ He sighs despairingly.
‘Oh, Cavill, don’t …’
‘You have been a widow long enough, Eddie. You deserve better than me.’
So, Eddie Skipton’s husband is dead. No wonder Mrs Crocker looked perplexed when I was opening cupboards in his dressing room. I’m relieved I don’t have to deal with a Mr Skipton. Eddie is free to love Cavill, but Cavill isn’t free to love her. Sod’s law.
I take his hand. It’s premature, I know.
But I can’t stop myself. It feels warm and familiar in mine.
We knit our fingers as if we’ve knitted them a thousand times before.
‘I deserve no one but you,’ I reply, and gaze at him with all the longing that has been building up over these achingly lonely months.
He cannot imagine what I have gone through. There’s so much I want to tell him.
He’s thrown off. He wasn’t expecting this. But he doesn’t withdraw his hand. ‘Oh, Eddie. You don’t know what you’ve done to me. You’ve brought light into my life after so much darkness. What a fool I’ve been.’
The expression in his eyes changes and I respond to it without thinking. I follow my heart, its will is very strong. Too strong. It seems that I have lost control of it. I’m no longer Eddie Skipton, but Pixie Tate, leaning forward to kiss him.
He presses his lips to mine, and I close my eyes and savour the sensation of being pulled into his arms and kissed deeply. I can hardly believe that I have slid into the body of a woman he loves, and who is free to love him. How is that possible? Have I somehow manifested this?
I inhale the familiar scent of his skin, even though the feel of his beard is novel. I bask in the familiar intimacy, the familiar energy, the familiar touch. Everything about him is familiar. It’s as if I’ve come home.
He cups my face and gazes upon me with such affection that my stomach overturns.
He no longer looks nervous or troubled, but peaceful, as if he’s been released of that hefty sack, at least for the moment.
‘If I explain myself now, will you listen?’ he asks softly. I nod. He pulls away. ‘Let’s walk.’