All Your Secrets: A taut psychological thriller with a NAILBITING finale Page 14

  ‘It’s not a problem.’

  He releases me and I go back into the room, breathing shallow. He follows me and closes the window. The room feels stuffier at once, more closed-in.

  I start to unpack my rucksack without looking at him. A small pile of fresh clothes and underwear, deodorant, perfume, make-up, toothbrush and paste. I feel shaky, which is downright silly. He’s right. I was perfectly safe the whole time out there on the balcony. I’ve never been very comfortable with heights, but it’s not usually this extreme a reaction.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

  Robin takes off his leather jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair. Then he kicks off his dusty boots and throws himself down on the bed. He hooks his hands behind his head, watching me unpack in silence. After a few minutes, he sighs again, audibly.

  ‘Why don’t you leave that until later, Caitlin?’ He sits up, and shrugs out of his T-shirt. His bare chest is bronzed, dark with coarse hairs. ‘Come and lie down with me. Let’s get comfortable.’

  The suggestive drawl makes me smile. I can’t help it.

  ‘I thought we were going out exploring?’

  ‘We got two days here to explore the town. And it was one hell of a long ride from the coast.’

  ‘True.’

  His intent gaze locks on mine. ‘You know, I was going crazy on that bike. Feeling your body rubbing against mine the whole time, and not able to do a damn thing about it.’

  ‘Well, now you know how I’ve felt for years,’ I say, without considering the implications.

  There’s a moment hesitation. Then he says lightly, ‘Is that so?’

  I hold my breath and consider lying. Trying to turn my stupid comment into a joke. But I’ve gone too far down that road now to turn back.

  Anyway, part of me wants to know how he feels. If he feels the same way I do about him, or if this is a throwaway relationship for Robin. A fling, only something to pursue while I’m here in France.

  A salve to his wounds, in the wake of Emily’s passing.

  There are suddenly tears in my eyes.

  ‘I fell in love with you that night in the chateau,’ I tell him hoarsely, and hate myself for stammering. For looking and sounding so vulnerable. ‘You know that, Robin. You must know that. Otherwise what are we doing here?’

  He swings his legs off the bed, and comes towards me. ‘Honey …’

  ‘Don’t.’

  I’m holding him at arms’ length.

  ‘I do know that,’ he says.

  ‘Then why put me through this?’ I swallow hard. ‘Just say it, for God’s sake. Do you feel the same? Did you ever feel the same?’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘This can be. Do you love me, Robin?’

  ‘Of course I love you.’

  So smooth, so easy. I shake my head at him.

  ‘But are you in love?’ I demand, and my voice sounds unfamiliar now, almost shrill. More like an ultimatum between enemies than a declaration of love. ‘I’m in love with you, Robin. I always have been, since the first time we …’ My gaze flashes to the bed, to where we will sleep together tonight, where we will make love again. ‘But I don’t know what happened since then. I don’t understand why you cut all contact with me, ignored my letters …’

  ‘Hush, baby.’

  I have ended breathlessly, gulping back my tears, and his arms come round me at once, protective, containing.

  He’s shaking his head now. ‘Swear to God, I didn’t get any letters.’

  ‘What?’

  He finds a tissue in his pocket and hands it to me. ‘I had no idea you’d written to me. Are you sure you sent them to the right address?’

  I glare at him.

  ‘Okay, yeah, sorry. That was dumb.’ He seems to think for a moment. His brows twitch together. ‘It must have been my dad. Who else?’

  ‘What are you saying? That your father intercepted the letters?’

  ‘I can’t see how else they failed to reach me. I would never have ignored any letters from you, baby. I’d have written back in a flash.’

  ‘Would you?’

  He seems genuinely hurt by the question. ‘Sure I would. Come to think of it, I did send you a Christmas card that first year. With a letter attached. Quite a long letter, as I recall. Pouring my heart out.’ He nods, thinking. ‘I handed the envelope to Emily myself to pass on to your aunt. They were sending a family parcel home to England, and I didn’t have your address.’

  ‘It never reached me.’

  ‘Jesus.’ His eyes search my face. There’s shock in his voice. ‘So that’s why I never heard back from you. I thought you must have forgotten about me once you got home.’

  ‘Far from it.’ My own voice is shaking now, as though I’ve caught some emotional virus from him. ‘I was distraught when you never wrote back. I nearly … I nearly killed myself.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  I feel awful now, and wish I could take those words back. ‘I was a kid,’ I whisper, as if by way of explanation. ‘You know what kids are like. Always blowing things out of proportion.’

  ‘All the same, that’s … I’m so sorry, Caitlin. I don’t know what else to say.’ His jaw hardens. ‘But it sure sounds like someone didn’t want the two of us getting together.’

  ‘Someone?’ My heart is thudding as I consider what he’s told me. The hidden ramifications. ‘Or two someones?’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Your father,’ I say delicately, not sure if I should be saying any of this, or how he will react, ‘and my aunt.’

  ‘But why the hell … ?’

  ‘They were lovers, remember. Maybe they felt you shouldn’t be involved with me because I was such a close relation.’

  His eyes widen, watching me. ‘Or with Emily.’

  ‘Especially not with Emily.’

  ‘Because it would have felt too much like … incest.’

  I nod.

  Our eyes meet on a wave of terrible understanding. And a question, unspoken so far, but impossible to ignore. My chest hurts, I can hardly breathe. Robin is still holding me, his gaze dark and curiously intent. I try not to look at his mouth but I can’t help it.

  His hands tighten on my shoulders, and he draws me nearer. ‘We’re not related, Caitlin,’ he says flatly, addressing the horrible question in both our minds. ‘Never were.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Besides, my father’s dead now.’

  ‘And my aunt refuses even to discuss those days.’

  Assuming she can even remember them, I add grimly in the silent turmoil of my thoughts.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ he asks me.

  ‘How shit everything is.’

  ‘This is one thing that isn’t shit.’

  He bends his head and kisses me. His fingers twine in my hair, pulling my head back, exposing my throat.

  ‘Oh Robin.’ I close my eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  We head out to explore the town early the next morning, heading further uphill towards the ancient, deserted city. Once a magnificent stronghold overlooking the vineyards far below, I could see from the road when we arrived that the fortress lies in ruins now, transformed into a museum for tourists like us to wander through its dusty streets.

  Over a quick continental breakfast in the hotel bar, warm croissants and coffee for both of us, I read aloud from the Les Baux guide book. Robin nods and smiles as though he’s listening. But I can tell from his expression that his attention is elsewhere. Probably watching the news on the television screen.

  I glance that way with little interest. It’s in French, of course, and though I can follow some of it, the pictures mean more to me. But he’s practically a native speaker now, having lived here for so long.

  Greyish-black clouds of smoke billowing across the road, fire engines with their lights and sirens going, people running about.

  ‘Bad news?’

  ‘Forest fires,’ he says, nodding sombrely as
he watches. ‘They catch quickly in this dry heat. It’s that time of year.’

  ‘Oh God, those poor people.’

  ‘They think it may spread further inland if the wind doesn’t change direction soon.’

  ‘Near here?’

  He looks away from the television. ‘No, it’s miles away. In the hills above Cannes. We’re safe enough here.’

  ‘What about Chateau Tamsin?’

  ‘These guys know what they’re doing. It’ll get put out before it gets anywhere near the coast, don’t worry about it.’ Robin looks down at our empty plates, the coffee cups holding only dregs now, the cheerful red plastic tablecloth covered with flakes of croissant pastry. Then he smiles, reaching for my hand across the table. He laces his fingers with mine. ‘Looks like breakfast is over. Shall we head out?’

  I shiver deliciously, a frisson running through me at the intimacy of his touch. It’s hard not to keep remembering how we spent last evening, and most of the night too, naked in each other’s arms, learning about our bodies and how far we could push them.

  ‘I’d love that.’

  It’s incredibly bright and hot outside. Too hot for bare heads. I buy a wide-brimmed, pale yellow straw hat for myself at the gift shop next to the hotel, and a black felt trilby for Robin.

  ‘No, I insist,’ I tell him when he protests. ‘You need a hat in this heat, trust me. You can pay me back when we get home.’

  When we get back outside, he puts on the trilby hat at a rakish angle, and laughs at his own reflection in the shop window.

  ‘You look very sexy,’ I say.

  He helps me with my straw hat, tidying my hair. ‘So do you,’ he says, and I catch a sudden flare of hunger in his tone. But his hands only brush my bare shoulders, then he steps back. ‘Come on, before I’m tempted to ravish you again.’

  ‘Here in the street? Wouldn’t people stare?’

  ‘Some of the men might even try to join in,’ he says drily. ‘Which is why we need to get moving. Unless you want to start a riot.’

  We wander together up the narrow, cobbled streets in too-bright sunlight, walking slowly, hand-in-hand. I do not mean to go slowly. But the shops are too fascinating to resist. I keep stopping to admire window displays, and even drag Robin inside a few times, looking for suitable gifts for Dad and Tamsin.

  There are dozens of small boutiques set into the rocky walls, cool and shady out of the sun, selling wine and cheese and local delicacies, as well as loose-fitting clothes and scarves in colourful fabrics.

  ‘Perfect,’ I say, and linger over the chocolate boxes at the back of one large souvenir shop until Robin reminds me how hot it is outside.

  ‘They’ll melt long before you get them back home.’

  ‘Oh God, I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘How about some wine?’ he suggests, halting by the sample table. He reads the labels, then tastes a thimbleful of dark red wine from one of the local vineyards. ‘Hm. Not bad.’

  ‘Dad would love some wine. Bit too hard to carry on the bike though.’

  ‘Ah yes, good point.’ He turns to look at a colourful selection of soaps. ‘Okay, so how about these soaps? They look perfect for Tante Tamsin.’ He bends and sniffs at one bar cautiously. ‘Wow, strong perfume.’

  I pick one up and sniff it myself. ‘Mmm, heavenly.’

  He laughs.

  ‘Tamsin adores scented soap. Look at these … Lavender, honey, thyme, lemon …’ I hesitate, then select a box of delicately scented soaps carved into intricate sea-shapes: dolphins, seahorses, starfish. ‘So beautiful.’

  ‘She’ll love them,’ Robin agrees as we wait for the woman behind the counter to wrap the box with meticulous care, finishing the package off with a silver bow and giving it to me in a small plastic bag with the shop name on the side. ‘Memory works better with scent, have you ever noticed that?’ When I smile, our eyes meeting, he grins, and adds, ‘But of course you have. Me too, darling.’

  ‘Merci,’ I tell the woman politely, and we duck our heads as we head back out into the sunshine, both of us laughing. ‘Au revoir, madame.’

  ‘Did I embarrass you in there?’ he asks softly at my ear.

  ‘You’re a beast.’

  His eyes crinkle with laughter. ‘It has been said.’

  We reach a tiny crossroads in the pedestrian area and stop there, looking about. All the alleyways look the same and there are no signs. Same white walls, same dusty cobbled streets, same blinding sunshine overhead. A sudden wind gusts, taking me by surprise. My hat is blown off and and my hair whips up wildly around my face.

  Robin runs after my hat and brings it back, grinning.

  ‘Thanks.’ I try to tidy my hair, then put the hat back on, this time holding onto it with one hand. ‘Okay, which way?’

  Robin turns and points up the hill without any hesitation. ‘This way,’ he says, his tone completely confident.

  ‘I thought you said you’d never been here before?’

  ‘The old castle was a fortress, yes?’ I catch a hint of amusement behind his reply. Poking fun at me again. ‘At the top of the town. We need to keep moving upwards, in other words.’

  I feel like an idiot, but say nothing.

  He stops again, and bends under the wide brim of the straw hat to kiss me on the lips. ‘Come on, honey, it can’t be far now.’ He points at a cracked bone-white wall just visible above the winding maze of alleys. I follow the gesture, looking into the sun, and the light dazzles me. It’s close to noon, and so high above sea level, the breath catches in my throat. Even the air smells dusty here. ‘That looks like part of an old city, don’t you think?’

  The bag containing the soaps bangs against my leg as we climb the hill. I hope he’s right and Tamsin will be pleased with the gift.

  ‘Why do you always call her Tante Tamsin? She’s not your aunt, after all.’

  Do I imagine his hesitation?

  ‘I don’t call her that, not always.’ Robin shrugs. ‘Just a habit, I guess. Left over from when we were kids. I’ll try not to do it if it bothers you.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  A few feet on, he stops in front of another souvenir shop. There’s a display of hunting knives in the window. Carved handles, long wicked blades.

  ‘They look dangerous.’

  ‘Good for skinning rabbits,’ Robin says coolly. He grins at my distaste, and we walk on by mutual consent. ‘You haven’t bought anything for your dad,’ he points out.

  The mention of my father sobers me.

  ‘I’ll buy something for him before we leave tomorrow, when we’ve got more time to browse. Maybe one of those books about the fortifications here. He loves medieval history.’

  Robin looks at me approvingly. ‘You’re close to your dad, aren’t you?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Why didn’t he come to the funeral too?’

  I hesitate, then explain carefully about my father’s illness. The cancer that’s been eating him alive from the inside-out without anyone being aware of it. I don’t discuss how short a time he may have left though. That shocking knowledge is still too raw a wound.

  ‘Please don’t mention it to Tamsin,’ I finish.

  He looks at me strangely. ‘She doesn’t know he has cancer? Her own brother?’

  ‘I know how that must sound. But Dad’s a very private person. He hates people fussing over him. He was the one who insisted I had to fly over alone, otherwise I might not have come to the funeral at all. It was awful, lying to my aunt about why he couldn’t pay his last respects in person. Yet what choice did I have?’

  I make a face, remembering Tamsin’s disapproval at her brother’s absence. ‘I don’t think she’s forgiven him. Missing his own niece’s funeral.’

  ‘I bet she was real mad.’

  ‘God, yes, I hated telling her he wasn’t coming over. She looked so unhappy. But Dad made me promise not to admit how seriously ill he is. I expect he’ll call her soon though, have that conversation.’

 
; ‘Not easy.’

  ‘Far from it. In fact, I think he’ll find it even harder to tell his little sister than it was to tell me. And now that she has dementia, who knows if she’ll even remember the conversation later?’ I smile sadly. ‘He’s very protective of Tamsin, even though they haven’t seen each other in years. Old habits die hard, I guess.’

  We’ve reached the entrance to the old city museum. I pause to examine the various signs. There has been a settlement at Les Baux since about 6000 B.C., according to one of the wall displays, humans taking advantage of its natural fortifications, the immense height of these chalk-white cliffs, to keep out potential attackers.

  Robin stops, still holding my hand. His eyes meet mine. ‘Need any help with the translation?’

  I shake my head.

  Beyond the turnstile, I can see an intriguing array of tiny, sun-baked streets, heading ever upwards towards the summit of the hill. There’s more of a hush here, and fewer people milling about. But it’s getting near mid-morning, and most sensible people are probably staying in the shade.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, and take out my purse. I ask the woman behind the counter inside for two tickets, and she gives me the usual patter in French, trying to sell me an additional guide book on top. With Robin’s help, I manage to explain that we already have a guide book, and take the two tickets with a small map to the old city, and thank the woman before pushing through the turnstile.

  ‘So how serious is it?’ he asks on the other side.

  I put away my credit cards, glancing around. There are numerous other tourists hanging round the entrance, studying various wall maps and displays. I’m reluctant to discuss my father’s condition in front of strangers, even in English.

  ‘Caitlin? How serious is your father’s condition?’

  I don’t answer him at first. Instead, I choose the steep, rather uneven path leading up to the old chateau and start walking up the hill. After about a dozen rocky steps, I turn to look back at him.

  Robin is following slowly, the black trilby tipped forward lazily over his forehead. The upper part of his face is in shadow, almost invisible. It gives me an awkward feeling of being watched without being able to see him in return. But I heard the concern in his voice before, and know he is far from detached.