A Week in Winter(103)
‘Mark?’ Freda was bewildered. The look on his face alarmed her. What on earth had happened?
‘What did you think you were going to do?’ His eyes raked her face. ‘Stand up here and make accusations? Wreck my chances?’ His voice sounded clipped and furious, though his face wore a forced smile as he continued to steer her towards the door.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said with spirit, trying to free her elbow from his grip. ‘I don’t know what’s gone wrong, but why don’t I call you tomorrow, and we’ll fix that nice relaxed evening we were going to have for tomorrow night instead? Right?’ Her voice sounded doomed and hollow inside her own head. ‘Or perhaps you could come round to my place later tonight and tell me what this is all about?’ She hoped she didn’t sound as if she was begging.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said derisively. ‘It’s too late for all that. Sending your friends to spy on me! Why couldn’t you leave things alone? You fool, you stupid fool . . .’ He was hardly able to get the words out. ‘How could you have been so stupid? You’ve wrecked everything. And when I think how much I loved you, and the risks I took for you.’
She was frightened now. ‘Tell me, what is it? What did I do? Whatever it was, it was a horrible accident. And whatever I did wrong, I’m sorry . . .’
By now, they had reached the front door of the hotel. Freda was distraught, but Mark’s face was cold as he half dragged her outside.
‘Do not contact me again. Don’t call, don’t text, don’t email. Stay out of my life. And don’t you or your friends ever come near my wife and child again . . .’
Freda watched him, mute and hopeless, as he turned and walked away from her, back into the hotel. The door closed.
She passed the line of taxis without seeing them. Her eyes were blurred with tears. Then, out of sight of the hotel, she stopped and leaned on a railing to cry properly. She stood there in Eva’s black beaded jacket and wept.
Passers-by looked at her, concerned. Some even stopped to ask could they help, but Freda just cried more. Then she felt an arm on her shoulder and realised that it was the IT man she’d been talking to earlier.
‘Have you anyone to go to?’ he asked kindly.
She was fine; it was only something personal and silly, she would get over it, she reassured him through her sobs.
Did she want him to call someone for her?
And even though she always thought of herself as someone surrounded by friends, tonight there was literally nobody she could ring.
He put her into a taxi; later, she realised, he had paid the driver. In the back of the cab, she sat staring ahead of her for twenty minutes. In her little flat, everything was perfect: candles arranged carefully on tables and in the grate that would barely take minutes to light; the food and wine in the refrigerator, a big bowl of scented lilies on the windowsill.
A warm and welcoming place. It mocked her for all her hopes and confidence.
Then the walls seemed to be closing in on her, and it was as if she couldn’t breathe.
Sometimes when she woke suddenly at night, she wondered had she imagined the whole thing. Maybe it was all a dream, a fantasy, everything about that night at Holly’s Hotel. She thought she had known him so well. He was gentle, funny and loving. He could not have been with her all this time unless he did love her as he swore he did.
Eventually, the story had emerged from Eva and from Lane. The day out, the lunch, Mark, the blonde woman, the child. The child. He had a daughter. She turned over in her mind all the visions she had tried to repress: at no stage during these visions had there been any sight of a daughter. But then she had seen his wife, hadn’t she? The blonde woman in her vision really was indeed his wife. Freda had seen her and done nothing.
Over the days that followed, Freda lost weight and her face became drawn and lined.
Eva was seriously worried, and turned from sympathy to bewilderment and then to genuine concern. ‘I feel so powerless to help you,’ she said sadly.
‘I have no idea what to do,’ Freda wailed. ‘I loved him so much. I thought he loved me. How would I know what to do?’
‘You are full of guilt,’ Eva said. ‘You probably don’t need to be, but you are. You are trying to make amends, to make things right somehow, but you can’t. You have to look to the future now.’
Eva made a decision. Freda needed to get away; she needed a change of scene. She needed to be somewhere where she wasn’t reminded of Mark every day, where she could see clearly once again. She made two phone calls: one to a Mrs Starr at Stone House in the West of Ireland to change her reservation, and the other to Miss Duffy. Freda wasn’t feeling very well. She was going to need a few days to recover . . .
As she drew near to the house, Freda wondered had she made a great mistake. This place would do her no good at all. She knew nobody here; all she could do was think about the time she had felt so happy and then so devastated. Why was she here? There weren’t any ghosts to lay. Just very real memories of her great love.
Mrs Starr was very welcoming. She showed Freda to a pretty room at the side of the house, and said that Eva had said to be sure to mention all the birdwatching opportunities. Freda stared dully out of the window and watched as the wind caught the branches of the tree outside her window. Holm oak, she thought, sadly. Holly oak. The memory of her humiliation came flooding back.