Chapter Twenty-Two
I sat in my car and moped for five minutes, thinking about my father. Then I looked at my watch and realised that I had to be at Donadoni’s in Cardiff Bay in two hours. And, normally, it took two hours to wash my hair. There was no time for self-pity. I fired the engine, put the car into gear and sped towards my humble home.
I dived into the shower and washed my hair. Then I dried it with a hairdryer. Sometimes, the hairdryer makes my hair go frizzy, but there was no time for a towel-dry today. At my kitchen table, I applied some make-up – a light, peachy lipstick and a touch of eyeliner; I blush at the drop of a hat, so blusher is never necessary. I grabbed my tongs and crimped my eyelashes. I applied some mascara, but not too much, because I didn’t want to give the impression that two tarantulas had landed on my eyes – do men really find spider-like eyelashes attractive? With my war paint on, I wandered into my bedroom to get dressed.
What to wear...I spent the next ten minutes staring at my underwear drawer. We’re not even going to get there, Samantha, so why are you wasting precious time? At some point during the eleventh minute, I settled for a fresh from the packet set of underwear and slipped into that – as my mother used to say, you should always wear your best underwear when going out, in case a bus knocks you down; my mother was not one of life’s great optimists. A squirt of perfume, some Coco Chanel Mademoiselle, but not too much – we don’t want him reaching for the smelling salts – then it was the big decision, which dress should I wear. Thankfully, my wardrobe is limited and given the time of year, the weather conditions and the occasion there could only be one choice – my black knee-length dress with its gold rose corsage trim. But first, a new pair of tights. Careful with the fingernails – they’re a mess, they need filing – don’t ladder your tights. Safely on. Sigh. Mop brow in relief. Comb hair. Again. Now the moment of truth, the bedroom mirror. Dare I risk a peek? A swish to the left, a swish to the right. A half-turn here, a half-turn there. A smile. See, Samantha, you can look quite pretty when you put your mind to it. Now go out there and enjoy your evening – hold that thought and have a good time.
I arrived at Donadoni’s five minutes late, a woman’s prerogative, and found Dr Alan Storey sitting by a table with a view of the waterfront. Needless to say, he looked very handsome in a tan, lightly checked suit, white shirt and paisley tie.
As I approached the table, Alan stood and drew a chair back for me. “You look stunning,” he whispered into my ear.
“Thanks,” I smiled, while making an effort to feel comfortable with the compliment; it didn’t come naturally, but on this occasion it wasn’t too much of a strain. As we sat at the table, I leaned over and murmured, “You look quite dishy too.”
Alan grinned. He looked very happy and, as usual, very relaxed. He glanced around the crowded restaurant and observed, “Everyone is looking at you.”
I stared straight ahead and pulled a face. “Yikes, I hope not; I hate to be the centre of attention.” He laughed, and I added, “Maybe I’ve got lipstick on my nose.”
“You’re lipstick is perfect. Everything about you is perfect.”
I shook my head because I knew that to be a lie. I tapped the side of my head with my index finger. “If only you could see what’s going on inside here.”
“I’m a psychologist,” he winked, “so maybe I can.”
I bit my bottom lip. Maybe he could read my mind. I’d have to be careful with my thoughts, especially the erotic ones.
“Let’s eat,” Alan suggested, offering me the menu. “I think I’ll have the stracotto. What about you?”
“I’m a vegetarian – I don’t eat anything with a face.” I studied the menu and plumped for raviolo aperto con funghi – open ravioli with mushrooms in a white wine sauce.
Alan asked, “Would you like some wine?”
I shrugged with embarrassment, aware that I was coming across as uncouth and bashful. “I’m an ignoramus when it comes to wine.”
“Not to worry,” he smiled, “I’ll choose something for you. Maybe a little Frascati, a wine favoured by the Roman clergy and nobility.”
The waiter served our food and Alan sampled the wine. He gave a nod of approval and we settled over our plates to enjoy our meal.
As I sipped my wine, I asked, “How’s Derwena?”
“Not good. She’s back on the drugs and drink. I received a call just before I left my office, so I popped over to the castle to see her. She persuaded Woody to give her some cocaine and Milton relented on the vodka. It’s a potent cocktail and she’s doing herself no favours. That said, going cold turkey is difficult, and with the murder investigation and new album to complete this is not a good time. Also, the castle is not the ideal environment for freeing yourself from drugs.”
“Maybe she needs a clinic.”
“Maybe. I’ll call on her again tomorrow and discuss the implications of her lifestyle, on her health and career.”
Alan sampled his wine. He drank slowly, I noted, savouring the wine as he consumed his food. I sensed that he was a light drinker, someone who would unwind with a glass of wine in the evening, or with a meal. He was in his early forties, but he still had a powerful, muscular physique. Obviously, he looked after himself in terms of physical activity and alcohol consumption; given my track record with Dan and my mother, the latter was important to me.
After Alan had digested a forkful of beef, carrots and juniper berries, he asked, “What about your sleuthing; how are you getting on?”
Whenever anyone asked me about my work, I tended to become nervous, mainly because the people I encountered usually used a light, disbelieving tone, as though not taking my work seriously. Consequently, I gave Alan a stern look over the rim of my wine glass and blurted, “Are you mocking me?” He merely smiled as he sampled another forkful of beef and I was left to stare into his dark brown eyes and conclude, “No, you’re not, you’re not mocking me. You understand, don’t you?”
He nodded, then sipped his wine. “Maybe not the full reasons as to why you’re involved in this line of work, but I appreciate that being an enquiry agent means a lot to you.”
Alan returned to his plate and a thin strip of ham while I, relieved and relaxing more and more with each minute, regaled him with my tale of Mansetree House and its assortment of suspicious characters.
When I’d finished my tale, Alan asked, “When are you going to hand it over to the police?”
I devoured the last of my pasta, dabbed my lips with a napkin and explained, “I need a few more facts first, hard evidence. Then I’ll contact Sweets.”
“Sweets?” Alan frowned, tilting his head to his left to reveal a small, light mole on the right of his neck, just above the collar of his shirt.
“Detective Inspector MacArthur, my tame copper.”
And after that explanation, we moved on to dessert. Alan had zabaglione with chocolate sauce while I settled for a rather yummy tiramisu. I was tucking away a week’s supply of food in one sitting. After the wafer-thin mint, I feared that I would split the seams on my dress.
I was feeling relaxed, enjoying the occasion. I wiggled the toes on my right foot and experienced no pain – I was wearing soft ‘sensible’ shoes, just in case. I sensed that one or two men in the restaurant were eyeing me, but I felt no discomfort. Maybe it had something to do with the wine. Or maybe it had something to do with Alan’s presence. I was feeling good about myself, but Alan was frowning. He leaned forward and put his thoughts into words.
“Look, I don’t discuss this with many people, but I hope we’ll do more of this and so it would come up at some point. I’d like to talk about it now, if I may, for my sake, if not yours.”
“Talk about what?” I frowned, a trifle concerned.
“Elin, my wife.”
“Okay.” I sat back in my chair after placing my napkin on the table. “Talk away, I’ll listen.”
“Elin died seven
years ago, you know that. It was a climbing accident. In our student days we were both keen mountaineers and walkers and that is how we met. Seven years ago, we were with a group climbing near Ben Nevis. It wasn’t a dangerous crag or particularly high climb. But Elin’s rope failed. As someone said at the inquest, it was one of those things.”
There was raw emotion in his voice and a glazed look in his eyes. My heart bled for him. Surreptitiously, I moved my hand across the table. His hand covered my hand and our fingers entwined. We squeezed, then held hands.
“We knew the dangers, we took precautions, but fate intervened that day and I lost my wife.”
“And Alis lost her mother.”
He nodded. His face was grim, troubled, but his emotions were under control. “That was the really hard part. She was only nine years old. Of course, that day has scarred her, but she’s strong, like her mother, she’s helped me through, and I hope I’ve helped her.”
“I’m sure you have.” I squeezed his hand and he smiled. He took hold of my fingers and brushed them lightly against his lips, a gesture of thanks.
I returned my hands to my lap and gazed at the empty plates on our table. It was my turn to look reflective, and recall thoughts that weighed heavy on my mind.
“Yesterday, you asked me about my father...” I looked up from the table, and gazed into Alan’s eyes. “You see this knotted ball of confusion sitting opposite you at this restaurant table, well I’m such a mess partly because of him.”
Alan leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. With an inquisitive look on his face, he made a bridge with his fingers, then placed his fingers to his chin. “Explain.”
“Basically, I don’t know who he is. My birth certificate says that my father is Samuel Smith, the man my mother married. But Samuel died in the Falklands War, at Port Stanley, on June the 13th, 1982. I was born on the 1st April 1983 – ‘April Fool’. This means that I was conceived around the 1st July 1982. The dates don’t add up. On some days, my mother would insist that Samuel was my father, on others she would ramble on about being impregnated by an American soldier who was stationed at St Athan. I’ve found no evidence of this man, but I believe that he is my father. I know nothing about him, though I’ve searched through my mother’s papers and made enquiries whenever I can. I know there are dozens of logical reasons as to why my dad didn’t stick around to care for me – maybe he knew nothing about me, though my mother would often talk about him holding me in his arms. Maybe he too was killed in action – could I be that unlucky? Yeah, I guess I could, it would fit the pattern of my life. But I like to think that he’s still alive. Maybe he was stationed somewhere else after St Athan, maybe he was sent to Germany, or somewhere in Europe. Maybe he went back to America. Maybe he has a family in the States. But what hurts me, more than my mother’s illness, more than the beatings received from Dan, what hurts me is, he saw me then left me. He held me and abandoned me. Why? Am I really that horrible? Did he look into my eyes and see a monster? Why did he run away? He never sent me a birthday card or Christmas card. He never visited or phoned. He made no effort to contact me whatsoever. Why? Why didn’t he love me? Don’t I deserve to be loved?” I stared into my lap, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “Sorry,” I mumbled, “My ramblings will give you indigestion.”
“No they won’t. And anyway, I’ve got medicine in my cupboard for that.”
I looked up and offered Alan a wan smile. “Have you got any medicine for me?”
“You talk, I listen. That’s the best medicine.” Alan placed his chin on the bridge made by his fingers. His face became thoughtful, pensive, reflective as he gazed into my eyes. “I’m sure you’ve thought about your father many times over the years and you’ve rationalised that his reason for leaving, for not getting in touch, may have nothing to do with you and everything to do with his circumstances.”
“I have. But if you loved someone, you’d make an effort to contact them. I know you would. Most people would. But he made no effort to contact me. Conclusion – he didn’t love me. My own father didn’t love me. My mother couldn’t love me because she was too drunk. How can anyone love me when I don’t know what love is, when I don’t know how to give love? And when I reach out to someone and try, love hurts. Big time.” I placed my hands on the edge of the table and prepared to push myself to my feet. The pleasure of the early evening had given way to acute discomfort and embarrassment. I glanced towards the restaurant door and prepared to leave. “I’m sorry; I’ve ruined your evening; just tell me to sod off, I won’t get angry or make a scene.”
“No you haven’t, Sam. You haven’t ruined my evening. This might sound trite, or inconsequential to you, but I know what you’re saying. I understand your hurt, both from a professional and personal point of view.”
I glanced up, dragging my gaze from the tops of my shoes. I looked into his eyes and of course, they held a measure of understanding. I should have known that by now. I must learn how to control Stroppy Sam and not let her assert herself.
“You do, don’t you; you do understand. We only met a few days ago, but already I sense that you know me better than I know myself.”
“I don’t know about that,” he smiled, “but I do know that you are a very beautiful woman and that I am becoming very fond of you.”
On top of the ravioli and mushrooms, the tiramisu, and the wine, that took some digesting. But I tried to gulp it all down as Alan, generously, paid the bill.
“I’m sorry...” He glanced at his wristwatch. “I have to go. I have to pick up Alis.” He walked me to the restaurant door. “May I see you to your car?”
I smiled. His compassion and understanding had helped me and I found my spirits lifting. My life had always been something of a rollercoaster and I’d come to accept that every day I’d go through a myriad of moods. Even so, I longed for stability, for a period of calm in my life. Dare I even think that I could find calm and stability with this man?
It was raining and Alan opened an umbrella. The lights from the waterfront revealed themselves in the puddles, offering a shimmering rainbow of hues. People scurried past, eager to get out of the rain. Let them hurry. I was all for getting wet and for the evening to sail on forever. I suppose that meant something profound, but I was too stupid to realise it at the time.
As we walked towards my car, Alan leaned towards me and asked, “One question. If you found your father, do you think it would take some of the hurt away?”
I nodded. “I’ve always assumed it would, yeah.”
“Even if he supplies you with answers you don’t want to hear?”
“I want answers, whatever they may be. I want to know why he didn’t love me.”
Alan twirled his umbrella. A few raindrops splashed on to his suit, but he didn’t seem to care. Then, to my surprise, he looked nervous. While twirling his umbrella, he asked, “Can I see you again?”
I pulled a face, giving him my goofy look. “You want to meet me again, after an evening like this?”
“It’s been a beautiful evening. I want to meet you again, more than ever.”
“Okay,” I smiled brightly, warming to the thought, wondering what dress to wear. Maybe I could buy a new dress for the occasion...
“I’ll phone you tomorrow and we’ll arrange something.”
“Okay.”
Alan held my car door open as I slipped on to the driver’s seat. He grinned, “You’re something else, do you know that.”
Did he mean he liked me, or did he mean I was a freak? He smiled when he said it so I was inclined to think that he liked me. And I liked him, a bit. In fact, he was all right, for a man. Okay, if I can’t be honest with myself, I’ll be honest with you – I liked him a lot. And he really was quite dishy, more than all right.