Lipstick Confessions #03: Forbidden

FORBIDDEN

LIPSTICK CONFESSIONS SERIES

FORBIDDEN

CLAIRE WRIGHT

WITH

G.P. TAYLOR

Copyright © 2012 G.P. Taylor and Claire Wright

18 17 16 15 14 13 12 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

First published in 2012 by Authentic Media Limited

52 Presley Way, Crownhill, Milton Keynes, MK8 0ES

www.authenticmedia.co.uk

The right of G.P. Taylor and Claire Wright to be identified as the Authors of this Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron house, 6–10 Kirby Street, London, EC1N 8TS

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the

British Library

ISBN: 978-1-78078-020-7

Cover Design by David Smart

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Chapter One

‘David? David!’

The man stared at himself in the mirror, bracing himself against the basin with both hands. The clasps of his cufflinks dug painfully into his wrists, and his jacket was too tight. He shook his head irritably. The chairman of a multinational oil company skulking in a bathroom? It wouldn’t do. There was a sharp knock on the door.

‘David, come on. They’re waiting.’

‘Just give me a second.’

Concentrating on his facial muscles, he forced his face to adopt a relaxed, peaceful expression. It was nowhere near happy, but it would do. What would they all expect anyway? A second knock on the door.

‘You can do this.’

David sighed. Of course he could do it. He gave speeches every day of his life. Besides, he thought wryly, drying his hands on the scratchy towel by the basin, what choice did he have? Half the crowd was Italian and hardly known for their reserve. If he didn’t go out there they’d charge the toilet, drag him out and consider it all part of the entertainment. He’d never known such a bunch of jokers. David screwed his eyes shut as thoughts of his wife’s frequent practical jokes flashed into his mind. The year she’d sewn his trouser legs up on April Fool’s day, and howled to see him stumbling about the bedroom, unable to find his feet; the exploding pen she used to hand him when he least expected it; even the old breakfast trick with an empty eggshell upside down in its eggcup. Time and time again he fell for them, and she never tired of the tricks. David shook his head, trying to clear the residual melancholy from his brain. That way lies danger, he reminded himself. There was no point in delaying any further.

‘Right.’ He threw the door open, causing the tall, thin man outside to jump violently. ‘Come on, Nathan,’ David said, striding out of the shaded porch at the entrance of the church onto the sleepy village street. ‘Let’s do this.’

Nathan straightened up to his full height, towering a whole head above David, and clapped his old friend on the shoulder. ‘Right you are,’ he said, bracingly. They crossed the road, heading for an enormous marquee in the field beyond. ‘The worst part’s over now,’ Nathan offered by way of encouragement. David kept his eyes on the delicately draped entrance to the marquee, through which the throng of guests was visible, humming and buzzing like bees in a hive.

‘You think so?’

‘Certainly.’ David didn’t believe him, but he appreciated the vote of confidence. The friends passed through the wooden barred gate, garlanded with primrose-coloured ribbons for the occasion. David’s feet felt leaden, dragging over the freshly mown grass. I can’t do this, he thought desperately, panic increasing with every step. I need my wife. His back itched, the morning suit weighing so heavily on him that even the expensive cotton shirt irritated his skin in the June heat, and he wished that his daughter, Sofia, had not insisted on the top hat. No matter what he did, it refused to stay put on his head. If he crammed it on with any degree of force the damned thing exacted revenge by trying to scalp him when he removed it, leaving large tufts of his hair standing upright at most unnatural angles. Nathan gave him a surreptitious nudge.

‘Here come the heavies.’

‘What? Oh, no,’ groaned David. A small Italian woman had emerged from the marquee and was bearing down on them with unmistakeable purpose, a fringed violet flapper dress swishing about her knees as she ran. Proportioned with roughly equal height and width, she ought to have looked ridiculous. To David she appeared as she always did to him, with the authority of a Roman general, her grey hair streaming behind her like the plume of an officer’s helmet. Was it the Latin blood, he wondered, or that intangible gene common to mothers-in-law the world over?

‘Save me, Nathan.’

‘No chance.’

‘Please!’

‘I’m a senior advisor in Globe Oil, not your bodyguard.’

‘You’re off duty and you’re my oldest living friend.’

‘The answer is still no,’ Nathan grinned, falling back a little as the old woman beckoned furiously at them. ‘Besides,’ he said, mildly, ‘my Italian is rusty. I’d only cause offence.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ growled David.

‘Hey, any time.’

David raised his hands towards his mother-in-law in a gesture that managed to combine both apology and surrender. ‘Sorry, Maria.’

‘Hurry!’ she hissed, taking his arm and dragging him towards the marquee. ‘They are all waiting.’

‘Sorry,’ he repeated, marvelling at her uncanny knack of putting him on the back foot. Here he was, arguably one of the most articulate men in the UK oil business, and all he could do was mumble like a surly teenager. How did she do it? Maria glared up at him, her bright eyes piercing his discomfort like a hot needle. ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.

‘I, er . . . er . . .’ David fought for composure, acutely aware of Nathan beside him, silent amusement rolling off him in waves.

‘Call of nature,’ Nathan put in.

‘There are perfectly good toilets behind the marquee,’ she snapped.

‘Yes, but they’re . . . you know . . .’ Nathan wrinkled his nose. ‘Portaloos. The church has a proper toilet.’

‘I sent you to fetch him back,’ she accused.

‘I did!’

Maria rolled her eyes at him and turned away. ‘And you!’ She smacked David on the arm as though rebuking a naughty child. ‘Why so fussy? You English and your toilet habits. I will never understand.’ She halted abruptly at the entrance to the marquee and looked them up and down. ‘So,’ she sniffed. David realized he was feeding his top hat through his hands in anxious circles and forced himself to stop. Maria jerked her head towards the marquee. ‘Inside. We are running behind. The staff are waiting to serve the cake.’With that, she strode off.

David glanced at Nathan. ‘Shut up.’

‘I didn’t say a word.’

‘Shut up anyway.’

He squared his shoulders, took a long, slow breath, and followed her in.

As a general rule, Nathan disliked the use of marquees as venues for wedding receptions. True, his opinion was grossly skewed by memories of his own wedding reception, much of which had been spent huddling around the braziers for warmth while the guests queued repeatedly for the chance to stand near the hog roasting spit in the hope of thawing their fingers out. One of the first post-university weddings all those years ago, the disastrous shoestring budget reception had become the stuff of legend among their friends. He and his wife, Jenny, laughed about it now, but Nathan had retained an abiding hatred of marquees ever since. However, he reminded himself, theirs had been a winter wedding. June was far more suitable and today’s guests could have no complaints about the venue. Young Sofia had worked wonders with the décor here, swathing the covered cream chairs with chiffon swags in primrose yellow and cornflower blue. Large circular bowls of floating candles in the centre of each table added subtle ambience, while simple miniature vases of mixed wild flowers positioned by every lady’s place setting doubled as table decorations and charming favours. Tasteful without being the least bit flashy, Nathan thought, making his way unobtrusively round the edge of the marquee and sliding back into his seat. More importantly, nobody was liable to get frostbite as the evening progressed. Stuck at home with their three small children, Jenny would be eagerly waiting to hear all about the day, down to the tiniest detail. Nathan dutifully did his best to take it all in for her benefit.

Table six was a good spot, close enough to the action but far enough from the top table to be safe from Maria’s merciless gaze. A stocky man with a thatch of sandy hair reached across the table with a bottle of red wine as Nathan took his place. ‘Top-up?’

‘Never more needed,’ said Nathan gratefully, pushing his empty glass forward. The man lowered his voice and leaned in as he poured. ‘Alright, is he?’

Nathan kept his face neutral. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said with the bland smile normally reserved for the press and colleagues he mistrusted. Being neither of these, the man looked hurt.

‘Come off it, Nathan. It’s me asking, not some journo hack.’ Richard Hampton, a geology geek and until a few years ago a die-hard field development explorer and petroleum engineer, off hunting for new resources of crude oil, had known David and Nathan for over twenty years. A couple of years ago David had headhunted him for the post of Vice-President of Technical Services, and Rich had reluctantly shelved his geology books and accepted the inevitability of a desk job.

‘Sorry, Rich. Force of habit.’ The art of dissembling and deflecting questions had become so ingrained in Nathan during his own scramble up the career ladder it was difficult to switch off, even in the most trusted company. Nathan took a deep gulp of wine and sat back, scanning the faces round the table. Company didn’t get much more trusted than this, the old Oxford crowd. He realized Rich was still watching him patiently, waiting for a real reply. ‘What can I say, mate?’ he sighed, one bony shoulder lifting in a characteristic half-shrug. ‘He’s holding it together, but – well. You know the score.’ Rich nodded sadly, his eyes suddenly downcast.

‘Yeah,’ he said, softly. ‘I know it. I can’t believe it’s been two years.’ He had loved David’s wife like a sister. They all had. Nathan sighed. Bright, beautiful Carlotta had left a hole in many hearts, including his. Seeing his friend fighting tears, he swiftly changed the subject. Rich didn’t do public emotion.

‘How’s Beth?’ he asked, knowing that talk of Rich’s new wife was guaranteed to swing the conversation into a brighter sphere. ‘What a shame she couldn’t make it.’

Rich’s face brightened instantly. ‘She’s great,’ he replied. ‘She really wanted to be here, but she had a shoot. Tried to get out of it, but the agency insisted on her.’ His voice radiated the pride he felt in his wife’s achievements. By all accounts, his pride was not misplaced, Nathan reflected. At 35, Beth was one of the most sought-after photographers in the magazine industry, having abandoned early modelling opportunities for a career behind the lens. That was no small accomplishment.

‘Has she met David yet?’ he asked casually, though he knew the answer.

Rich shook his head. ‘We can never get a date when everyone’s free. He missed the wedding, of course, and now either I’m away, or Beth’s off on location, and David’s schedule is –’

‘Insane?’ Nathan suggested.

Rich laughed. ‘I certainly wouldn’t like to be in charge of his diary,’ he agreed. ‘It appears to be a locked room with no windows.’

‘Email him,’ Nathan advised. ‘Jog his memory. They’d get on well.’ Privately, he knew that David had deliberately avoided a meeting with Rich and his wife. Not through bitterness, certainly. David was a man of enormous heart. He had been genuinely delighted that Rich had found someone after his long years as a bachelor. It was just that Carlotta’s death had delivered such a crippling blow that he was still patching himself up, and probably would be for years to come. Nathan’s opinion was that David feared to see a reflection of his own former happiness, lest the joy of others burst open the shoddy stitches of his own wounds. It was self-preservation, nothing more. That, Nathan knew, was why today was so hard for David. What could be closer to home than his own daughter’s wedding, the guest list peppered with Carlotta’s family and friends? It was testing his composure to the limit. Looking over to the top table, Nathan’s mouth went dry as he saw David stand and tap his glass for silence. Nathan offered up a fervent prayer that his friend’s great charisma would carry him through.

David looked slowly around the marquee, trying to meet the eye of a couple of guests on each table while the noise in the room gradually ebbed away. It was an old trick he’d been taught years ago by one of his English teachers. He couldn’t recall the man’s name, but a vivid mental image of him had stayed with David: a short, volatile man in a tweed suit, his thick, bushy eyebrows pulled into a frown of concentration as he sought to extract a passable poetry recital from David. Kipling or Yeats, David didn’t remember which. ‘Always take your time, boy,’ he’d insisted, jabbing a nicotine-stained finger into David’s chest when he stumbled over the opening line. ‘Don’t fear the silence. Use it, understand?’

‘No, sir.’ Exasperated, the man had gripped the young David by the shoulder and propelled him to the window, gesturing at the school grounds below them.

‘Do you skim stones on the lake?’ he’d demanded. David had eyed him nervously as the class tittered. Skimming stones was against school rules. ‘Answer me!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. And are stones best skimmed on calm or choppy water?’

‘Calm water, sir.’

‘Good. Now, then. Think of these . . .’ His arm swept out in a gesture that took in the entire class, ‘. . . as your lake. Words are your stones.’ The teacher had stared hard at David. ‘Concentrate, boy. If ever you have to speak in public, and I certainly can’t imagine you will,’ – more laughter from the class – ‘But!’ he barked. ‘If you do, then remember to wait. Wait for the lake to be completely still before you let those stones fly.’ David had gulped and nodded, wanting only to get through the required four stanzas and fade back in among his classmates. The teacher’s fingers had dug hard into his shoulder, making his eyes water from the pain.

‘Remember that, boy,’ he’d insisted. ‘Remember it. Some day you might thank me.’

Many times since that day, David had. It was arguably the most useful piece of advice he had ever been given, certainly in terms of furthering his career. When the silence was absolute, he waited a moment longer, smiled down at his beautiful daughter, and began to speak.

The bride and groom left at 11 o’clock to wild cheers and the traditional clattering of tin cans fixed to the back of their car. At midnight the party was still in full swing. After several hours of intermittent shuffling on the fringes of the dance floor while the younger contingent of guests strutted their stuff with admirable abandon, Nathan conceded defeat. He’d rather be tucked up at home with Jenny and a single malt. I won’t be old until I switch from whisky to Ovaltine, he told himself, glancing at his watch. Midnight was a respectable time to leave. After a swift circuit of the marquee to say his goodbyes, Nathan retrieved his jacket and stepped out into the dark. It was a beautiful, cloudless night, the constellations sharp and clear overhead. Nathan craned his neck to look up at them, a feeling of peace settling over him. Perhaps Carlotta was watching him from somewhere up there, he mused. It was a comforting thought.

‘Nathan?’ He turned as Rich popped out of the marquee. ‘I can’t find David,’ he said, his face flushed with concern. ‘Are you taking him home?’

‘Yeah, it’s OK,’ Nathan replied. ‘I know where he is.’

‘Right.’ Rich waited a moment but Nathan didn’t elaborate. ‘So, I’ll see you soon, I hope?’ he said awkwardly, stepping forward to grasp Nathan’s hand.

‘Count on it,’ said Nathan, returning the handshake firmly. ‘I’ll be in touch. Take care.’ He set off across the field, keeping his stride long and unhurried in case his friend was still watching. In actual fact, he didn’t know where David was. He might have seen Nathan on the dance floor and called a taxi, or taken up one of the offers of accommodation from old friends in the village. He could have slipped off to the local pub for a quiet drink and the chance to process the day’s events in peace, though the chances of him going unrecognized there were virtually nonexistent. In theory, there were any number of places David could be. In reality, only one place in this village, on this night, made sense. Nathan knew where to look.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, he left the field and crossed the road to the church where the marriage had been celebrated that afternoon. Quietly opening the gate to the churchyard, Nathan trod grubby remnants of confetti into the gravelled path as he made his way silently to the small plot of graves where Carlotta lay. Married and buried here, and now her daughter married here in her turn. There