‘Because I’m in love with somebody and if I’m honest, at times the pain of it far outweighs the pleasure.’
‘Are you saying it doesn’t make you happy? Because if so, take it from me, that’s not love.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
St Gertrude’s College, Oxford
November 1962
Romily
Early the next morning Romily greeted the day with drained relief.
All night she had drifted like the tide in and out of sleep, one hectic dream following another. But the most unnerving dream was the one that saw her back in Palm Springs. She was lost in the desert and with the light fading she caught the sound of her name being called. It was no more than a faint whisper carried on the cool evening breeze. But she recognised it instantly. Yet rather than be pleased that Red had come to rescue her, she hid behind a large rock until he was gone, and she was again alone in the dark and rapidly dropping night temperature. Shivering with cold, she had suddenly felt unutterably bereft. The feeling was with her still, giving her the sensation that she had lost something of great value. What irked her more was the irrational feeling that she was entirely to blame for getting herself lost in the desert.
It was only a dream, she told herself as she slipped out of bed and went to run herself a bath in the adjoining bathroom. But adding some scented bubble bath to the water before stepping in, she reluctantly acknowledged that, as Freud and Jung would say, there was no such thing as just a dream.
Logically she could work it all out. What had gone on between her and Red was that on a subconscious level there had been a spontaneous and mutual attraction, which, when reluctantly realised, had surprised and rattled them both, and for differing reasons. Or maybe for similar reasons. Perhaps they each had become too used to being autonomous and doing things their own way without ever being challenged.
She could go on theorising ad infinitum, but her time in Palm Springs was of no matter now. She had more important things with which to occupy herself following dinner with Annelise last night. It would appear that a lot had gone on in her absence from Island House. Which only came to light when, and as if opening the floodgates, Annelise had let it all pour out.
Firstly there had been Annelise’s worry about Hope, which Romily felt was not misplaced. After what she had witnessed herself, she had been tempted to speak in private to Edmund, but had decided against it. What went on between a husband and wife was nobody’s business but their own.
Stanley had his problems too, it now transpired, and that upset Romily hugely. More shocking though was what Annelise had told her about Evelyn, that she had received an anonymous letter implying Kit wasn’t Pip and Em’s father. Not only that, somebody with whom Evelyn had clearly been close had shown up at the party – and that somebody just happened to be called Max who had worked with Evelyn during the war.
Max Blythe-Jones. It had to be. Romily just knew it. And could it really be possible that Evelyn had had a relationship with Max, a man who had what could be politely called a colourful reputation when it came to women?
Before Romily met Jack, Max had flirted outrageously with her whenever their paths crossed at some party or other in London. It went without saying he was an attractive man, and Romily, even though she was a few years older, had enjoyed flirting back with him. But after the war she never came across him again. Last night, when Annelise had confided in her, was the first time in years she had thought of Max Blythe-Jones.
Romily had always suspected that the work Evelyn did during the war was not of the straightforward clerical variety, as she had claimed. With Evelyn’s fine mathematician’s brain, she would have been put to far better use than merely shuffling papers. Romily’s closest friend, Sarah, had a cousin who worked at Bletchley and he had dropped a number of hints at what went on there, that it was a hothouse of top-secret activity. It would have suited Evelyn and Max perfectly.
Just as she had considered speaking to Edmund about Hope, Romily now wanted to talk to Evelyn as soon as she left Oxford and returned to Island House. But again, was it any of her business?
But what concerned Romily most about everything Annelise had told her last night was her being involved with a college professor. She had clearly fallen for him badly and had shyly taken out a photograph from her handbag to show Romily.
‘His name’s Harry,’ Annelise had said, ‘and I’m afraid I’m very much in love with him, despite him being married.’
The full story told, every protective instinct in her made Romily want to confront the man. She would guarantee he had no intention of leaving his wife – he would have done so by now if he was serious about Annelise. The sooner she realised that, the better. No wonder the poor girl spoke of the pain of being in love.
Much as Romily wanted to intervene, she knew she had to leave well alone. But it was hard not to throw herself into the fray and fight Annelise’s battles for her. She was not, as she often had to remind herself, some kind of saviour. It was not her job to fix everyone else’s problems. But a wily voice inside Romily’s head whispered that it did stop her from thinking too deeply about her own mistakes.
Seldom did she waste her emotions on worrying about doubts and regrets, seeing it as futile. Which was what she had kept telling herself during the journey home from Palm Springs. What was done, was done. In her parting conversation with Gabe and Melvyn she had made a point of not blaming Red in any way for her declining the offer to collaborate on a film script.
‘What if we found another writer?’ they had suggested. She had refused that too, because otherwise it would look as if Red was the problem.
She was very much of the opinion that there was a lot more going on inside his head than he cared to reveal. Perversely she almost wished she had stuck around to dig a little deeper, to find out what he was hiding.
There she went again, always trying to fix things! When would she ever stop meddling and take a moment to consider that Red St Clair was not the only one to be hiding something?
She took a modest breakfast with Annelise in Hall, then leaving her to prepare for a tutorial, Romily returned to her own room to go over the notes she’d made for the talk she was giving that evening in Blackwells on the Broad.
The event had only been arranged a couple of days ago when her agent was approached to beg a favour of her. Could Romily, always such a good stick, be persuaded to step into the shoes of Ngaio Marsh who had been forced to cut short her book tour and return to New Zealand due to a family emergency? Romily had readily agreed to fill in, seeing it as a chance to spend some valuble time with Annelise.
She was currently between novels, having finished one before her trip to America, and was now playing around with a few ideas before knuckling down to work. She wasn’t like Hope who hardly drew breath between finishing one book and starting another. They were very different in their writing habits. Romily had a more relaxed attitude, perhaps because she enjoyed the creative process so much and didn’t like to rush it. Hope wrote as though her life depended on it.