Never Tell

‘Shh,’ he said nervously, sliding his eyes towards Dalziel.

‘What?’ I frowned at him. Moira came back from the loo and sat heavily between us. James looked even more worried.

‘It’s – I’m not – I shouldn’t have mentioned it really.’

‘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 (#u5f91f007-643d-57f4-be2c-c586f858bc95)

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.