Chapter Forty-One
CHAPTER
41
When Kit stands to adjust the umbrella that keeps the sun off our table, a woman takes his photo with her phone. And he’s only just sat down again when the restaurant manager, who greeted him profusely at eleven this morning before showing us to a table with a view of the ocean, bustles over to apologise, telling us he should have anticipated the direction of the sun and adjusted the umbrella himself. The man is barely out of earshot when Kit, sitting opposite me, finds my leg under the table and bumps his against it.
‘We should have got room service.’
‘At least we got to sleep in.’
‘I like to sleep with you.’
‘It’s not like you’ve had anyone to compare me with.’ When he smiles into my eyes, I rub my calf against his. ‘Can I ask you something personal?’
He holds out his hand and I take it. ‘We are personal.’
‘How often …’ He gets to the point and I should too. ‘How many nightmares do you have every night?’
He stills for a moment, opens his mouth and shuts it. Then, ‘I had another one?’
‘Not a proper one. I woke you up.’
‘I disturbed you.’ A small frown. ‘We can go back to the villa. You can sleep.’
Shaking my head, I check my watch. ‘You meet the vice-chancellor in an hour.’
‘I hate polite conversation.’
‘What did Elizabeth Bennet say? I’m not good at playing the piano, but only have myself to blame for not practising enough.’
‘Who is Elizabeth Bennet?’
When I laugh, his eyes fly to my mouth. ‘She said there are some things we might not be naturally good at, so we should work at getting better at them.’
He pushes his plate out of the way and puts his hand on the table. When the tips of our fingers connect, a million nerve endings sparkle and fizz.
‘You’re getting used to the camera.’
‘That’s not to say I like it.’
‘With a camera, I can do my job more effectively.’
‘People change how they behave to protect what you care about.’
‘Documenting your family’s commitment to Summerfield opens minds to a different way of thinking. You speak honestly. People respect that.’
When the wind blows my hair around, I push it behind my ears. I fumble for the band in my pocket and tie it back.
‘I don’t like the attention.’
‘Turn away.’ He raises a middle finger. ‘Tell them to fuck off.’
‘You don’t do that.’
‘I think it.’
‘You know what you want.’
‘I want you to trust me.’
‘I want …’ When I look around, a number of people stare back.
‘Ignore them.’ He taps the table. ‘What do you want?’
‘Do you have a middle name?’
He hesitates. ‘Kit is my middle name.’
‘What’s your first?’
‘Aragorn.’
‘Like in The Lord of the Rings ?’
‘Don’t tell anyone.’ He mocks a frown.
I grasp his hand. ‘I liked Aragorn.’
‘So did my mother.’ He smiles, but then he turns serious. ‘You’ll stay tonight, won’t you?’
‘If I call Grandpa, he’ll tell me he’s okay even if he isn’t. In an hour, Frances will be on duty. I’ll ask her.’
He lifts a finger, presses it down on one of mine. ‘Can I see Gordon again?’
‘You’re asking me this time.’
‘Your family.’ He hesitates. ‘This is difficult.’
‘I’ll ask Grandpa if it’s okay.’ When a woman walks purposefully to our table holding out a piece of paper, Kit turns his back, takes my hands and pulls me to my feet. We’re partially hidden by the umbrella. Should I kiss him? Kiss him in the way he kisses me?
Passion. Certainty. Possession.
When I free my hands and lay them on his chest, he puts his hands over them. He lowers his head and I lift my chin and—
‘Darling!’
I rock back on my heels. My chest cramps.
‘Mackenzie! Kit!’
My mother is rarely on her own and today is no exception. She peels away from a man and woman and, after adjusting the long white ribbon on the crown of her broad-brimmed black hat, she walks gracefully towards us. Her dress is long and zebra striped. Her Hermès Birkin bag has an orange toggle and a shimmering golden padlock.
The handful of people who didn’t seem to be aware of Kit before now look our way. A middle-aged woman leans across a table and pokes her partner’s arm. He looks towards us before quickly turning away. The manager hovers behind my mother, not sure how best to accommodate her.
As Mum presses one cheek then the other against mine, I focus on what I can trust. Her bag is alligator, white and matte. Her shoes are calf, tan and suede.
‘Clementine.’ Kit nods formally.
She kisses both of Kit’s cheeks. ‘I enjoyed the interview you did yesterday morning so very much, I called my agent and asked her to meet me here for lunch.’
Everyone is staring but I focus on my mother. ‘What interview?’
‘Didn’t you see it, darling? Kit was on breakfast television.’ She dramatically extends her arm, taking in the ocean and sky. ‘He was down on the beach. It was glorious .’
Kit’s hand touches mine. But then he turns back to my mother. ‘We have no appointment.’
‘Yet!’ Mum trills a laugh. ‘Would you care to join us for lunch? My agent and publicity director would love to meet you both.’
‘Why are you here, Mum?’
‘I’m here for work, darling, in the same way I understood Kit would be.’ Mum’s perfectly shaped brows disappear under the brim of her hat. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were dating?’
‘We’re leaving.’ When Kit reaches for my hand, I step away.
‘You came all this way to see Kit?’
She raises her hands, presses them together as if praying. ‘I concede I was hopeful.’
‘Mackenzie …’ Kit’s smile is stiff. ‘Let’s go.’
Even before Mum opens her mouth, it’s clear she’s weighing up options. After a small nod, she looks from me to Kit.
‘When we had lunch last week, you didn’t mention you were intimate with my daughter.’
Kit’s face is set. ‘It was irrelevant.’
I force words. ‘Why did you have lunch?’
‘Didn’t he tell you, darling?’
‘Patently not.’
Another lift of her brows. ‘Oh dear.’
‘Mackenzie.’ The pulse in Kit’s jaw beats double time. ‘Don’t—’
‘I want to know!’ The manager looks towards us, rapidly looks away. I lower my voice. ‘Why did you have lunch together?’
‘As it turned out, Kit and I agreed to disagree.’ Mum’s hand hovers over my arm, but she doesn’t dare touch me. ‘We met to discuss your father. He shouldn’t have a role in the documentary. It’s not appropriate.’
‘Kit.’ My throat constricts. ‘Why didn’t I know about this?’
He frowns. ‘We’ll talk later.’
I turn back to Mum. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘The truth,’ she says mildly. ‘The way your father took you away and neglected you was a form of abuse, but that wasn’t all. You were denied opportunities to realise your potential. Samuel doesn’t deserve the respect the documentary will give him. I wanted to save you embarrassment.’
‘It’s been thirteen years.’ My eyes sting. ‘Why can’t you leave him alone?’
‘Clementine made other claims.’ Kit glares at my mother. ‘I got involved. Also Astrid.’
‘I made statements, not claims.’ Mum tucks her handbag under her arm. ‘Samuel was in debt. He was desperate. That’s why he killed himself.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘You appear …’ Only two tiny lines mar her forehead. ‘Defensive.’
Forget Joseph. Forget Angelo. ‘If I’d ever believed Dad had committed suicide, I’d have accepted it.’ My voice crackles. ‘I don’t think he died in that way.’
‘Clementine threatened to go to the media,’ Kit says. ‘Astrid and I convinced her not to do so.’
‘Behind my back!’
‘Come back to the villa.’ He lifts a hand but just like my mother, he’s afraid to touch me. ‘I’ll explain.’
A crowd—singles, couples, families—gathers at the entrance to the restaurant but just like I did when I was a child, I make myself as small as possible and squeeze past. ‘Excuse me … Sorry … Excuse me.’ Ahead of me on the path two men hold hands as they walk towards the beach. Newlyweds? Honeymooners? I sidestep onto the grass to get around them before rejoining the path and taking the turn-off to the villas.
I repeat words with my steps. I need to get home to Summerfield and Grandpa and Keith Urban and the saddlery and the life that I know. I need to get home to Summerfield and Grandpa and—
‘Mackenzie!’ Kit strides alongside me. ‘Slow down.’
I bite my lip, release it. We pass the first villa, the second, the third. A woman douses a toddler with sun cream and ties a bonnet under her chin. Another villa, another. When we walked to the restaurant, we were hand in hand. Now? I want distance between us. Kilometres. Hundreds. Thousands. How far away is Norway?
I stop at the bottom of the steps, shove past him when he opens the door. When we were walking to the beach yesterday afternoon, he hadn’t yet talked about tonight and tomorrow and next week. I wasn’t sure whether I could stay. I didn’t know whether I could trust him.
I shouldn’t have trusted him.
Blinking back tears, I slam the bathroom door and lock it. I clean my teeth without looking in the mirror because the last time I was in here, Kit was here too and …
I choke a breath, spit out, shove my toothbrush in my toiletries bag. I press the heels of my palms against my eyes. Time to go home.
By the time I open the bathroom door, Kit is facing the window and looking out to sea. His hands are deep in his pockets. Sunlight shines through his hair. When the bathroom door clicks shut, he spins on his heel. He puts his hands behind his back.
‘Can we talk?’ His words are brusque.
‘I know enough.’
He searches my face. ‘Please.’
My jaw is clenched so tightly that my teeth ache. ‘Outside.’
There are six chairs around the table and I take the one closest to the steps. Kit, after carefully considering his options, makes a conservative judgement, sitting two chairs away at the end of the table. Slowly and deliberately, he lays his hands on the top. To prove he’s unarmed? No spear or axe or knife or sword?
‘You had no right to talk to my mother about me and my father.’
‘She called last week. She said if I wouldn’t see her, she’d—’
‘Talk to her journalist mates. It wouldn’t be for the first time.’
‘You and me, the documentary. They would be more interested now.’
‘There is no you and me.’
He swears under his breath. ‘I told Clementine I’d brief Astrid and Erik on her views. We needed time.’
‘For what?’
‘Astrid talked to lawyers. They warned your mother not to make accusations about anything she was unable to substantiate. Clementine backed down.’
‘Why keep that from me?’
‘Clementine wanted to talk about your father’s death, the way he died.’
The tightness in my chest ramps up. ‘She hasn’t taken that angle before.’
‘Many months ago, when we spoke about the coroner’s report, it upset you.’ He leans forward, slides his hands towards mine. ‘I didn’t want you hurt.’
I shake my head. ‘What did she say about me?’
‘I didn’t believe her.’
‘Tell me.’
‘She questioned your paternity.’
I turn to face the ocean, watch the waves rush to the sand. The toddler and his mother are sitting on the edge of the break, scooping up whitewash as the surf rolls in.
‘I’m not …’ My voice wavers. ‘I’m not the daughter my mother wanted, but that works both ways.’
‘Antitese.’ He frowns. ‘Antithesis. She mimics emotion. You’re sensitive, empathetic. She doesn’t understand you.’
‘She didn’t understand my father either.’
‘Clementine is jealous because you chose him over her.’
My chest is tight, my throat clogs up.
‘I should have told you,’ he says. ‘I regret that I didn’t.’
‘You didn’t get the chance to know my father.’
‘It’s different in my family. I’m learning that. I was wrong, Mackenzie. I’m sorry.’
He made a mistake. He’s apologised. He wants me to trust him. Can he trust me? When my eyes sting, I blink furiously.
‘I was going to tell you something about Dad, but what’s just happened has shown me …’ I swallow. No tears. Not yet. ‘Like I said, you didn’t know him. I have to get my facts straight.’
His irises are particularly blue. Would they ever not be so bright, even if I saw them every single day and—
‘Mackenzie?’ He frowns but not in anger. ‘What is it?’
‘Something that’s important to my family and the documentary. I’ve been putting off facing it, but now I see I have to.’
‘Tell me.’
‘It’s personal.’
‘We’re personal.’
‘This is different.’ I link my hands, order my thoughts. ‘I have to do it by myself.’
He considers my bag at the door. ‘Running isn’t different. Don’t do this.’
‘I have to get to Summerfield. I was always going to go back.’ The ocean and the sky blurs. Kit blurs.
‘I could come with you.’
‘No.’
‘You’ve been forced to be alone, to be independent.’ He rubs between his brows. ‘I don’t want to change that. I don’t want to change you, but you have to talk to me.’
‘When will you be back in Summerfield?’
‘Thursday.’
‘To film?’
He shakes his head slowly. ‘To see you.’
The sun through his hair, waves on the shoreline, the rustle of the wind through the leaves in the trees. When I walk around him, he keeps his hands by his sides, but then he steps sideways, blocking my path.
‘Will you kiss me goodbye?’
I take a step back. ‘Why?’
‘You kissed me last night, this morning.’
‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘This is hurting.’
I put my hand on his shoulder, stand on my toes and press my cheek against his. Do I turn my head? Does he? Within a heartbeat, his mouth is on mine. I grasp his shirt; he cups my face. It’s a bruising, harsh, relentless kiss. A tender, sweet, remorseful kiss. Then all of a sudden, he lifts his head. He opens his arms.
‘Four nights.’
I promised to keep him safe. But …
‘I’ll see you on Thursday.’