‘No,’ said Rachel, turning towards him. ‘Smell my breath.’
She took a step forward so that their faces were inches apart and the space around them seemed to contract until it was just the two of them standing together, breathing the same jasmine-scented air. And
then, without thinking about it, she was kissing him. His lips felt warm and soft against hers, like a piece of a jigsaw slotting perfectly into place, and he tasted delicious. Of sun and salt, a taste that was both familiar and exotic. And as she felt him respond, pushing his body against hers, she felt a warm rush of desire, happiness, relief wash over her. A relief that it was sorted. That she wouldn’t have to feel threatened by pretty girls in bikinis or sexy diving instructors ever again. Because they loved each other and finally he was hers.
‘Now I know you’re drunk,’ he said as he slowly retreated from her.
‘You think I have to be drunk to kiss you,’ she smiled, looking up at his deep blue eyes.
‘No . . . Look . . .’
Her instincts began to twitch. His move away from her was more deliberate this time. Like a cold slap across the face. She knew what was coming and she didn’t want to hear him say it; those awkward, pitying words telling her that this was a bad idea. He’d let her down gently, of course. She was drunk, emotional; they worked together. But what he really meant was that he didn’t like her like that. Not enough. It was the only reason why something hadn’t happened between them before now.
She felt her back stiffen and she steeled herself. She wasn’t going to let him crush her. Not tonight. Not this week when her mind was all over the place about Julian and Diana.
‘I know, I know. This is not a good idea,’ she said, taking a step back in the sand and pre-empting his next words. ‘I lied. I’ve had about five beers and I’m just feeling a bit emotional . . . I’m sorry for taking it out on you. ’
‘I wouldn’t quite call it taking it out on me,’ he said quietly. His gaze met hers and she felt a swell of emotion as strong as the tide. Tell him you love him, cried a little voice in her head. But already her barriers, her protective shell had gone up. She knew the only way out of this was with a joke.
‘Promise you won’t do me for sexual harassment,’ she smiled, wrinkling her nose, staying strong, hard, impervious.
‘Come here,’ said Liam, drawing her into a deliberate hug. Her face was squashed into his shoulder, and she smelt the same sun and salt on his T-shirt that she had tasted on his lips a moment earlier. She knew it was like a forbidden fruit, something that she had tried but would never again enjoy.
For a few moments they didn’t speak. She would have given anything to climb into his head and find out what he was thinking, but she didn’t have the courage to risk it. Sadness made her shudder.
She could feel his breath on the top of her hair and knew it was too dangerous to stay like this.
‘Thanks for being my friend. Promise you’ll always be my friend,’ she said, listening to his heartbeat through his chest. Fearing any further intimacy, she pulled away from him and slapped his back three times, as if she was sending someone off on to the football pitch, hoping that it gave out the right message of platonic forgiveness. ‘I’d better go home and get my secret hangover remedy ready.’
‘I think we should talk,’ he said, his eyes searching hers.
‘Liam, there’s nothing to talk about.’ She was good at making her voice sound casual. ‘I just want to go home.’
‘Then I’ll walk with you.’
‘No, no, it’s fine, honestly. We’ll talk about the staff thing tomorrow, okay?’
She turned and fled before he could reply, feeling her cheeks burn, wanting to cry, wanting the ground to swallow her up, but most of all wanting him to call her back.
But when she got to the bend in the beach and turned back, there was only an empty space where he had been.
5
The funeral was to be a private affair. Under the circumstances, it was the best thing for everyone – at least that was what Julian’s father had said. ‘Let’s keep it quiet, Diana,’ he’d told her. ‘No fuss, no press, do what has to be done without people peering over the wall with their camera phones and long lenses.’ Of course, they would hold a more formal memorial service at a later date, when the fuss had died down and the Denver PR machine had had a chance to work on rehabilitating Julian’s image. Plus it would give all those global statesmen and business leaders time to clear their diaries to pay their respects. That was the important thing, wasn’t it? Everyone wanted to remember Julian the way he was: perfect husband and son, a formidable force in business, the life and soul of every party. Apart from that last one, perhaps.
Diana looked out of the window of the black Mercedes limousine that was taking herself, Charlie and Sylvia to the funeral. It had been decided that the service should take place at the church in the village adjacent to Ralph and Barbara’s estate on the edge of the Cotswolds. It was a beautiful fifteenth-century honey-stone building with medieval stained-glass windows and wisteria climbing around the door, but Diana couldn’t help but think that she had let things run away from her. She could hardly complain if Elizabeth and Ralph had taken control of the arrangements – someone had to do it, and she just couldn’t get her brain to function properly; it was like she was being held back by a thick fog. But as they approached the church, she began to panic that the service would not be the sort of occasion that Julian would have wanted. She had sent Elizabeth a list of names – friends, people from his climbing club, the manager of a record shop he loved to visit in Notting Hill – but she had no idea if they had been invited. She suspected not.
‘You all right, Mum?’
Charlie was sitting opposite her in the car, looking deceptively grown-up in a black suit and tie. He had confided that he had cut his own hair for the occasion – which had been one of the few things to make Diana smile all week, although her mental note to take him to the hairdresser’s for a proper cut had been forgotten.
She nodded enthusiastically. A little too enthusiastically, reminding her that she was still hung-over. Without the arrangements for Julian’s funeral to occupy her, she had sought distraction in Somerfold’s magnificent wine cellar. It had been easy to liberate a few bottles of good Chablis without her mother, Charlie or Mrs Bills noticing, and that final one last night had not been a good idea. Diana didn’t drink. Eighteen months earlier, during the ‘big push’ for a child, she had recruited the services of Danesh Sitri, a macrobiotic practitioner, who had encouraged her to cut everything from alcohol to gluten from her diet.
Someone else she had disappointed.
There was a curve in the road ahead of them, and Diana could see the hearse stopping outside the church gates. They had been relegated to the second car and had to wait a few moments as the Mercedes carrying the Denver family came to a halt.
‘Are you sure you can do this?’ She sat up and touched Charlie’s knee.