Never Tell

‘What?’ said Moira. James ignored her.

The peroxide girl sat at their table too now, very deliberately kissing a beautiful Asian boy who had just leaned over her chair, her lithe body snaking round and up towards him. The tall girl had stopped talking and was staring at them aghast. After a few minutes, she slammed her chair back and flung herself out of the pub.

‘Oh dear,’ said James with glee. ‘Lena’s not happy.’

The other girl winked at him and turned back to the boy, but her eyes were on Dalziel the whole time.

‘Why’s it a secret?’ I persisted, my second pint making me bold. ‘What’s the big deal?’

The boy slipped his hand into the peroxide girl’s top. I looked away, embarrassed and, if I was honest, a little envious. I hadn’t heard from Ralph again, which was rather mortifying as I’d spent the whole of August agonising over whether to give him my virginity. Finally I’d awarded him with it, sure it would be the start of something great. To my undying disappointment it had been painful and deeply unromantic, my head knocking against his mother’s coffee table, fluff from her sheepskin rug tickling my nose, a carpet burn on my calf: all that, and I was still awaiting his call. Apart from the rugby players, I hadn’t met anyone yet who’d shown any interest in me since I’d arrived. I was too quiet, I knew that; I hung back, too diffident, too shy.

‘Just – please, leave it for now,’ James shook his head at me. ‘I’ll – one day, you might find out. I just …’ he trailed off unhappily.

‘OK.’ I was a bit hurt. I saw the inclusion I’d glimpsed slipping away. ‘I get the message.’

‘I think I might have to go, actually,’ Moira slurred. She looked a little green.

‘It’s not like that, Rose,’ James tried to explain. ‘It’s just—’

‘I’ll come with you, Moira.’ I finished my drink and stood, noticing that Dalziel had broken away from his companions and was waiting to be served at the bar.

‘Please don’t get offended,’ James was saying. ‘It’s just not my place to—’

On a sudden whim, I crossed to the bar, somewhat unsteadily.

‘Hello,’ I said shyly to Dalziel, and promptly dried up. His skin was like a girl’s, so smooth it glowed, and he was the kind of natural blond people paid hundreds to simulate. I stared up at him, fascinated.

‘Hello,’ he replied, obviously amused, and offered me a hand. ‘I’m Dalziel.’

‘I know.’ I took the hand. His skin was very cool.

‘Right. And you are …?’

‘I’m Rose.’

The barmaid was there. ‘A bottle of best white,’ he informed her.

‘Don’t get the Soave.’ I wasn’t quite sure how to say it so I pronounced it ‘suave’.

‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he assured me. ‘I said best – and anyway, I never drink Italian. Sancerre, please,’ he said, flicking through the list. A dog-eared copy of Milton’s Paradise Lost lay beside him on the bar.

‘I’m studying that next,’ I said shyly. ‘It’s difficult, isn’t it? All the old language.’

‘It’s twenty pounds a bottle,’ the barmaid sounded weary. ‘The Sancerre. Are you sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure.’ He didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Greatest text ever written.’ He shoved the Milton in the back pocket of his tight black trousers. ‘Darkness visible, and all.’

I was impressed. James appeared at my shoulder, and I found I was irritated. Surreptitiously I tried to turn my back on him, but he was persistent.

‘Your friend had to go,’ James said. ‘She’s not very well.’

‘Ah, so you’ve met my old mucker,’ Dalziel said. Next to him James looked like a burly farm-boy, I thought drunkenly.

‘Have you read Scott Fitzgerald?’ I was staring again. The heat of the pub was making me feel sleepy.

‘Of course,’ Dalziel shrugged languidly. ‘The Beautiful and Damned. Most apt.’

‘You remind me of someone, you know.’

James snorted. ‘Great line, Rosie.’

‘It wasn’t a line.’ I was flustered.

‘It might not have been, sweetness, but I could certainly do with one.’

‘One what?’ I was lost.

‘One great line.’ Dalziel took the money from the barmaid idly and then folded a five-pound note into her pudgy hand. ‘Or more. For you, my angel.’

I gaped at him; not even my father tipped so extravagantly. Dalziel picked up the bottle and motioned for James to bring the glasses.

‘So, Jamie, my love,’ he threw over his shoulder, heading towards the table where we’d been sitting, ‘what do you think?’

James looked unsure. ‘About what?’

‘A Rose between two thorns, hey?’

I looked into Dalziel’s eyes. Later, I realised I’d never really known what colour they were. Amber perhaps.

‘Another little convert for us? And an English student too. Are you well read?’

‘Reasonably,’ I mumbled. ‘I’m getting there.’

‘Perhaps you can help with my Union debate about God and the Devil.’

I was overwhelmed with gratitude and excitement; surprised because he didn’t seem the godly type – but if it meant spending time with Dalziel, I would have converted to anything. For the first time since I’d arrived in Oxford, I was glad to be there. But then, I had no idea what was in store.

Chapter Three GLOUCESTERSHIRE, MARCH 2008

The morning after I’d tried to help the wailing girl at the garage, I dropped the twins at nursery and drove homewards through the green Cotswold lanes, fighting a sudden longing for a cigarette. Xavier was still waiting to hear from me; and Lord Higham’s face was staring at me impassively from the morning paper on the passenger seat. Images I’d blocked for years flickered remorselessly through my head until I had to pull onto a farm track. The rain had finally stopped during the night and the hedgerow sparkled with moisture, but I felt strangely bleak. I’d always known it was a risk coming here. It was too close for comfort; it always had been.

But during my last pregnancy four years ago, James had been recovering from a serious bout of depression. His record label had narrowly missed a takeover bid, thanks to his business partner’s bad accounting, and the incident seemed to prompt the return of the nightmares from university days. He’d been haunted again, resulting in drugs and drink to counter endless sleepless nights. In the end he’d said the countryside was what he needed, he’d practically begged: and I’d craved peace myself, too exhausted to question his motives.

I sat in the car for a long time, thinking.

‘Oxford 15 m, London 53m’ read the quaint white fingerpost. Wearily I rested my head on the steering wheel as Mick Jagger bemoaned ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’. I felt utterly confused and suddenly torn. London and Xavier lay in one direction; my family and my home were in the other. And somewhere suddenly in the middle were these memories, the cold clamp of the past pressing around me, the hideous misadventure James and I had fought to leave behind.

I restarted the car, startling a lugubrious cow peering over the hedge, and I saw it was already time to collect the twins. They were so pleased to see me, running into my knees with euphoric cries of ‘Mummy!’ like I was the best thing since ice cream or Father Christmas, that the guilt I felt was savage. I shouldn’t write about anything other than giant marrows: that much I owed my children. But my soul was aching for the thrill of the hunt. I took them home and kissed and hugged them until they told me to go away, and eventually deposited them in the garden sandpit with sandwiches and juice whilst I sat on the stone bench and watched them.

After a while I went inside and unearthed my notebook from the tidy pile, peeling an ancient half-eaten Twix from the front, and took it outside. Sitting on the bench in the spring sunshine, watching Effie’s sand-cakes grow ever wetter, and Fred sampling some tasty mud, I scribbled for a while. When I’d finished, I closed the book and fished my phone out.

‘So’, I said carefully when he answered, ‘if I do it, can I have carte blanche?’

‘Don’t be silly. You’re not Kate bloody Adie, darling.’

‘Not quite, no,’ I said. ‘I’m a bit Northern but not nearly as posh.’

‘And you’re prettier. Well, marginally.’

‘Yeah, OK, Xav. Don’t go overboard.’

‘Listen, something else has just come through on the wire from Qatar about Kattan. It might be nothing. But I wanna be first if it’s there. Specially after the fucking Telegraph stealing our ten-p tax thunder. I’ll send everything over.’

‘OK.’

‘And, Rose, one thing. Be careful of interesting angles.’

‘Funny,’ I said shortly. I’d nearly been sued by the South African government the last time I’d written for Xav. Thankfully my instinct had been right, but it had been scary there for a while; the court costs mounting into six figures, me envisaging utter ruin.

‘You’ve got a week.’

‘OK.’ I hung up. Effie looked up at me and then carefully poured some sand into her red plastic cup.

‘Cup of tea, Mummy?’ she asked earnestly, holding it out to me.

‘Do you know what, my angel,’ I lowered myself into the sandpit between them, ‘I don’t mind if I do.’

I had meant to discuss my plans with James that evening, though secretly I was dreading it. He was happy with me doing one day at the local paper: returning to a national would be entirely different.

But by the time the children were fed and bathed and I’d thought of all the right things to appease him with, James’s partner in crime, Liam, had arrived for the night. Unsurprisingly, he had a new girlfriend in tow, a tiny jolly redhead with see-through skin and an over-inflated bosom.

Lord Higham was being interviewed on Radio Four when they arrived. I was desperate to listen but turned it down hurriedly as James walked into the kitchen. I knew he’d freak if he so much as heard the name.

‘Hey, babe,’ Liam kissed me. ‘This is Star.’

‘Wow.’ I suppressed a smile. ‘Hi, Star.’

‘That’s a funny name,’ Alicia said. ‘It’s like being called Moon.’

‘Or Bum-bum,’ said Freddie with a joyful snigger.

‘No it’s not, silly,’ said Alicia. ‘It’s not like Bum-bum is it, Mum?’

‘No it’s not,’ I said, trying to keep a straight face. ‘It’s very silly, Freddie.’

‘Bum-bum,’ Freddie repeated, his eyes round at his own daring.

‘Anyway you shouldn’t say that, should he, Mum? It’s rude.’

‘No, he shouldn’t,’ I agreed solemnly. ‘It is very silly, Freddie.’

‘Bum-bum!’

‘That’s enough, Fred,’ his father warned.

‘It’s not my real name actually – Star,’ Star offered in rather vacant Northern tones. ‘I wish it were, but it’s not.’

‘Oh.’ Alicia, disappointed, took a moment to absorb this. ‘What is it then?’

‘Sarah. But you don’t meet many film stars called Sarah, do you? It’s dead dull.’

‘Are you a film star then?’ Alicia’s eyes widened. ‘A real live one?’

‘No.’ Star shook her head sadly. ‘Not yet. I’m a podium dancer. But I will be one day.’

‘What’s a – a podion dancer?’

‘Well, my darling,’ Liam’s eyes lit up, ‘it’s a lady who—’

‘Alicia, have you finished your homework?’ I cut across James’s friend and partner, throwing him a warning glare. ‘We should do your reading, shouldn’t we? Do you need a hand?’

Liam was now swinging Effie wildly over his shoulder to screams of huge delight.

‘My turn, my turn …’ Freddie hopped up and down like a small jumping bean. ‘My turn, Uncle Liam!’

James pulled a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and three glasses out of the cupboard. ‘We’re going through to the studio.’ He winked at me. ‘All right, petal?’

It wasn’t a question.

‘Come on, Liam, put her down. You’ve got to listen to this new mix. And Don’s sent the new plans through. They’re fucking wicked.’

‘James!’ I admonished, but he just gave me a look.

‘Why don’t you all have some dinner first?’ I offered hopefully. I could do with the company. I wanted to hear Liam’s news and Star’s views on podium fashion and world politics – anything, really, rather than be stranded high and dry with my own thoughts. The radio stared at me malevolently.

‘You must be hungry. Did you eat on the way? I could knock up some pasta, if you like.’

‘That’d be grand,’ Liam began, but James glowered at him.

‘No time to eat, mate,’ he said. ‘No rest for the wicked!’

Liam shot me a look that said he wasn’t arguing. My heart sank. I knew this was the last I’d see of James till at least midday tomorrow. I made a final attempt.

‘Oh, come on, guys. You must be starving after your trek up the M40.’ I was almost pleading. ‘It’s no trouble. How about a nice carbonara?’

‘Rosie, love.’ James kissed me on the cheek, his voice dangerously low. I could smell whiskey on his breath. ‘I don’t think you need any more slap-up feeds right now. Know what I’m saying?’

I turned away quickly before they caught the glint of tears, knocking my notebook off the counter by mistake. I used to be at ease with my body, like Star seemed to be – once, before I’d had the children. James picked the notebook up. Idly he flicked it open at the last page, the page I’d scrawled on earlier, and began to read aloud in a stupid voice.

‘“I feel savage, and I can’t be, not here. I am confined by the honey-coloured stone, the sheer niceness of it all, the pretty houses, the postcard perfect village, the cricket green shorn to within an inch of its life, the twitching net curtains that are snowy white. It’s all perfect and yet I am not. It is perfect and it’s killing me.”‘

‘James, please,’ I said, trying to grab it back. Mortified, feeling like I’d just been horribly exposed, I couldn’t bear to look at the others as James held the book out of reach high above his head; with sinking heart, I saw he was poisonous with drink.

‘Oh dear, Rosie darling,’ he pouted. ‘Bit bored? Poor you. The perfect idyll and you’re suicidal.’

‘I’m not at all suicidal.’ I was flushing violently now. ‘It’s just an idea for a story.’

James chucked it down on the side. ‘Don’t give up the day job,’ he said with malice. ‘Oh, that’s right, you don’t have one any more.’

‘Come on, mate,’ Liam muttered. Star seemed oblivious, thank God.

‘James!’ I mumbled. ‘Please, don’t.’

As quickly as he switched, he switched back again.

‘I’m only teasing, darling,’ he said, stroking my face. His eyes were black with something. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it. Come on, guys.’

‘You’re gorgeous, babe.’ Liam squeezed my hand as he left the room. ‘Ignore him. He doesn’t know he’s born.’

‘I like your house,’ I heard Star saying as they disappeared in James’s wake, off to the studio built in the old garage. ‘Is it real?’

As the door shut on them, I opened the biscuit tin and crammed two Jaffa Cakes down in defiance before sharing the rest with my delighted children. I wasn’t gorgeous any more, if I ever had been. I knew that.

‘Right, you lot. Bed.’

We’d moved from London just after I’d had the twins. I’d been in a stupor of sleep deprivation and cracked nipples, and possibly undiagnosed post-natal depression, worrying about Alicia and whether she felt pushed out, worrying that I didn’t have enough time or love to split fairly between three children. I did have enough love, it turned out – more than enough – but I didn’t have enough time. That had become clear quite quickly.

My mother had come to stay for the first month, unpacking boxes, heating bottles and washing an endless rotation of small babygros. My father watched the golf; sometimes I slumped beside him on the sofa, wondering how a woman who’d once partied for England, ridden in army helicopters above battlegrounds and regularly flown into places like war-torn Sarajevo for work could be so utterly pole-axed by two tiny babies and a boisterous three-year-old. Occasionally I also wondered what the hell I was doing in the middle of the Cotswold countryside, pretty but reminiscent of the rural life that I’d left behind in the Peak District as a teenager – and far too near Oxford for my liking. But I was victim of James’s whim after he’d shot a music video at Blenheim Palace and fallen in love with the place – apparently. Worried about the nightmares and the depression, I’d let myself be roller-coastered by his enthusiasm.

I’d given up everything for my kids, willingly; one of us had to and there didn’t seem to be any question that it would be me. I’d certainly never argued. I’d simply switched off my computer and left the paper, my city friends and my beloved flat in Marylebone for my children and the country air they needed. There wasn’t enough room for the pram on the pavement any more and, crucially, I didn’t want to foist them onto a nanny whilst I continued tearing round the world unmasking controversy in often dodgy situations. It was time for domesticity, I’d accepted that quite readily. I was tired of running – that was the truth.

When the children were asleep, I sat at the kitchen table and poured myself a small glass of wine. I opened the laptop, attempted to write something about Edna’s allotment – but giant marrows kept popping into my head. I saw myself through James’s eyes: I was just like a benign shepherd. Not even that, a well-trained and obedient sheepdog. I rounded my children up and chased them gently through the day, and even when they or I were asleep, one ear was always cocked, one ear pinioned by my duty. Gone were the days when I went leaping to the challenge of a good story. Now my role was to stay close, although James was apparently still free to roam, and I was too exhausted to argue.

After about twenty minutes of desultory typing and deleting, typing and more deleting, I checked my emails for distraction.

There was one from Xav with biog details of Hadi Kattan, which I perused quickly. He was a fascinating man. He was born in Iran. His parents and sister had been incarcerated under the Shah’s regime; he was the only survivor from his immediate family, thanks to being away at school in Britain. After their deaths he’d stayed here for some time, under an uncle’s wing, educated first at Rugby and then Cambridge. He had famously denounced Islam in his thesis, part of which was published to great acclaim and controversy in The Times, after which he’d rejected the literary career so many had predicted and had gone on to make his reputation as a brilliant but ruthless trader on the London and New York stock exchanges. He briefly headed the Equities division of the World-Trident Bank before moving into the art world and retiring early with a huge fortune. His wife, Alia, had died five years ago, leaving him two children. The rumours of political intrigue, and an al-Qaeda connection seemed unlikely to me, given Kattan’s political and religious background.

Below Xav’s email was another, forwarded from Tina at the Chronicle.

‘ASH KATTAN: HOPE FOR THE FUTURE,’ the header said, and there followed a message from Tina: ‘Hadi Kattan is hosting a party at his place on Tuesday to mark the launch of his son’s political campaign: we’re invited. Perfect opportunity to ingratiate ourselves. Grab that lovely husband of yours and get a babysitter.’

I contemplated it for a moment. I felt the adrenalin begin to course through my veins, and I knew, as I’d known all day, that I wasn’t going to be able to resist chasing the story.

UNIVERSITY, OCTOBER 1991

Sweet roses … Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made.

Sonnet 54, Shakespeare

Despite Dalziel’s apparent – if rather lackadaisical – enthusiasm for my help in the pub that night, I didn’t hear from him again. I was hugely disappointed, but not that surprised. Along with the realisation my brief encounter with him had been just a drunken fancy of his, my nebulous hope of acceptance into the upper echelons slowly died.

The Student Union put on a do on Saturday for Hallowe’en; resolutely I bought my ticket. Moany Moira was going home for the weekend, and I saw my chance. I had to make some proper friends. The theme was ‘Spooky ‘60s style’; I eschewed the normal array of ghosts and werewolf costumes, and went for a pretty spectacular multicoloured Mr Freedom jumpsuit I found in the local Oxfam and some plastic fangs. After an hour or so of pretending I was having a good time with a few people from the Poetry Society, bobbing around to the Bee Gees and Mama Cass, James arrived looking rather handsome as a be-fanged vampire in a Beatles suit, a besotted freckle-faced girl dressed as Twiggy in tow. James waved but didn’t come to say hello, and I felt a faint lurch as I watched the pair kissing passionately beneath fake cobwebs in the corner.

Surprised at myself, I drank too much cider, ending up cornered by an over-enthusiastic rugby player, a tall sandy-haired boy called Peter whose long hair had a nasty slick sheen, and who was so drunk he kept calling me Rosemary. Eventually I relented and let him kiss me outside the girls’ loos, but when he started to paw at the zip of my jumpsuit with a large sweaty hand, I pushed him away gently.

‘Com’on, Roze-mary,’ he slurred, swaying dangerously. ‘You know you want to really.’

‘Actually, I really don’t,’ I insisted, but he was heavy and drunk, and horribly persistent. His breath a cloying mix of beer and peanuts, his wet pink mouth leered above my face before closing down on mine.

‘Please!’ I pushed him away harder this time, his lips leaving a trail of smelly saliva and peanut crumbs across my cheek. ‘Get off!’

‘Fucking Christ,’ he snarled. ‘You bloody plebs are all the same.’ He lunged forward, slamming me against the wall as he pinioned me there, so hard that I hit my head on the skeleton hanging behind me. ‘Little prick-tease.’

‘Ow,’ I clutched my head as the plastic bones rattled, a little stunned. Before I could move, Peter lunged forward again – and then, as if an invisible wire had pulled him, suddenly he flew backwards, landing on his arse on the beer-stained floor.

‘Didn’t you hear the lady?’

Startled, I gazed at a glowering James.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes. Fine, thanks.’ Together we stared down at the crumpled Peter. Greying Y-fronts were visible above his ill-fitting brown cords, large sweat-patches staining the underarms of his striped shirt. I shuddered. I was drunker than I realised.

‘I don’t think she was enjoying that very much.’ James was absolutely nonchalant, but his fists were both clenched. ‘Were you, Rose?’

‘Not much,’ I agreed, nervously.

‘Who the fuck … ?’ Peter scrambled inelegantly to his feet, a mottled red suffusing his clammy complexion. ‘Who the fuck asked you?’

‘No one,’ James shrugged pleasantly, turning away.

‘Oi!’ Peter pulled James round by the shoulder. ‘I said, who asked you, you jumped-up little twat?’

‘Let go, mate.’ I could feel the tension rising in James as he stared at Peter’s hand.

‘You’re one of those Society X morons, aren’t you? Licking bloody St John’s arse.’

James punched Peter square on the nose. There was a nasty crunch and an almost immediate spurt of blood. The taller boy crumpled forwards again, clutching his nose. James just stared down at him, and the blankness on his face chilled me.

‘James!’ The pale girl he’d been canoodling with in the bar stood in the doorway, her red beret pulled down over her curls, false eyelashes like spider-legs framing her huge shocked eyes.

‘Yeah, all right, Kate.’ James shook his hand ruefully. ‘Ouch. His nose was harder than it looked.’

I gaped at him.

‘You might want to think about leaving now,’ James said softly, propelling me back towards the bar. ‘We could walk you …’

‘James!’ The girl was scowling. She was very young, fifteen or sixteen maybe. Younger than we were. Peter groaned on the ground.

‘I’ll be fine.’ I sensed her hostility. I’d had enough aggro for one night. ‘Honestly. Thank you, though.’

As I left the bar, I glanced back at James. He was holding his companion’s arm, apparently soothing her as they gathered their coats to beat a retreat themselves. Catching my eye, he held a hand up in farewell. I was utterly confused.