Chapter 29

Half an hour later, I'm composed, standing – actually it's more like leaning as I grip the back of garden chair – making small talk with the couple from next door who are younger than the Dereborns and seem quite nice. The garden has really filled up now and in the mid-afternoon sunshine, it's really quite pleasant. Except as I look around the garden and the well-heeled people standing chatting with glasses of wine in hand, I realise that it's all surface and that beneath, it isn't pleasant at all.

Tom finally comes over, bringing a glass of wine for me and we move away to a spot by a magnificent rose bed. My heart turns over with that slow free-fall of love as I watch him approach. I can't help myself, even though I know that none of this has meant anything to him. I smile sadly at him. I've got my pride. I'm not going to rake over all the things he said. He must be furious with me for letting the cat out of the bag about his film.

‘You can yell at me, if you like,' I offer.

‘I don't need to do that,' he says, his voice so scrubbed clean of emotion it hurts. I've seen too much to ever be easy about him again. The injustice of his father's treatment is like an open wound. I want to comfort him but I have no idea where to start. Suddenly the divide between us seems wider, deeper and longer than the Grand Canyon.

‘I really am sorry. I had no idea that they didn't know. They don't deserve you, you know,' I say, my voice quiet and honest.

Now, he finally looks up. ‘Leave it, Lydia. You don't know anything.'

I should leave it there but I can't. Maybe it's as much for me as for him that I have to say something. I know what it's like to feel undeserving of love, to feel that you'll never be enough for anyone. It's a lonely place to be. I can't bear for him to be there.

‘I do know,' I declare. ‘And I promise you, you are worth being loved. For yourself.'

‘And what do you base that marvellous supposition on, Ms Smith?'

My heart hurts at the way he's closed off again. Not for myself but for him. This is what love is – what they write about in songs and poems – and now I finally understand it. Love is selfless. He might not feel the same way but I need him to know that he is loved.

It's like stepping off a cliff edge when you know there is no parachute, no crash landing mat, no miracle waiting to catch you. ‘Because I love you.'

Tom's face registers a brief flash of emotion before it goes blank again. ‘We've been through an intense few days. I think maybe it's a bit like Stockholm Syndrome. We got close but it wasn't real. I think … that … we should leave here in the next half hour and get a train and get to Trafalgar Square.'

‘Okay.' I'm not going to beg or plead. Strangely I feel quite calm. I'm not angry with him. If anything I feel liberated by saying the words out loud, by knowing that I can fall in love with someone. It feels like I've crossed a divide. How he feels about me is his problem. I'm not going to solve it for him but what I will do is help him achieve his goal. Suddenly, reclaiming my grandmother's house doesn't feel so important now. It won't change my life. I've changed my own life by being the person I am. The house is a symbol of a time I remember being happy, but living there again won't necessarily make me happy. I make my own happiness – it's not defined by a thing. Whereas for Tom, making that film will change his life. It will help define him. Winning the money will give him the freedom to do what he wants.

‘Ah, Tom.' His parents approach us with another man in tow, the social veneer well and truly back in place. ‘Do you know George? He's the chairman of the Institute of Chartered Insurers.'

The introductions are made, although I'm pointedly ignored by Nigel, treated rather like a trophy wife, albeit a slightly tarnished one, but George is one of the good guys.

‘Lydia,' he says with a naughty twinkle in his eye. ‘How lovely to see you. I didn't know you knew Nigel.'

‘I don't,' I say with equally blithe delight. ‘Tom and I work together.'

‘Lucky Tom,' says George. ‘Lydia's one of the highflyers at BHCA. I'm still hoping you'll join our committee one day. We could do with someone of your calibre. How many times do I have to ask you?'

Nigel suddenly warms up. ‘I hear you were at Cambridge,' he says to me.

‘Yes.' How the hell does he know that?

‘Our niece Annette was there,' Nigel says to George. ‘She's a doctor, you know.'

‘Ah, talk of the devil, there she is.' Nigel bellows across the lawn, ‘Annette, come join us.' When she arrives Nigel says, ‘I understand you two know each other.'

Annette beams at me. ‘Nice to see you again, Lydia. It's been a long time. How are you doing? How's your shoulder?'

I love her immediately, making out that we were equals at university and that she knows me.

Thankfully the Dereborns move off just then to find new victims to patronise with their largesse and hospitality.

‘How's the leg?' asks Annette, catching me shifting my weight from foot to foot.

‘Okay,' I say, wishing that I could sit down. It's bloody agony today. Standing on it is the complete red hot pokers experience. She gives me a sceptical look.

‘Shall we go inside and I can take a look?'

I nod but as we're crossing the lawn Annette and Tom are grabbed by his parents. ‘Someone you must meet.'

‘Why don't I see you inside?' I say. ‘I need to get my things ready. I've left my rucksack upstairs.'

‘We'll see you in the front room. The door off to the right in the hallway,' says Tom.

I pack up my toiletries and lug the rucksack down the big staircase, careful not to bang it against my leg or the pristine white paintwork. Leaving it in the hall, I step into the front room. It's a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and even one of those fancy ladders you see in films. With a rub at my sweaty forehead, I take a breath. I really don't feel great. My vision is a little blurry. Shit! Orange. Warning signals go off like fireworks in my brain.

Someone appears in the doorway just as I'm squinting at the big hedge surrounding the front garden. My gut twists. I can see an orange vehicle roof.

It's Annette.

‘Let's take a look at this leg, then,' she says with a stern I'm-not-taking-any-shit-from-you look.

‘It's fine. Honestly.' I glance back through the window, listening intently. No car doors slamming.

‘Bollocks. Sit down.'

‘I thought I liked you.' My words are glib but my mind is elsewhere. Is it an orange Land Rover? I'm desperate to check.

‘You do. Never bullshit a bullshitter. Now sit.'

She's too much like me to argue with. I'll get nowhere and it'll be quicker to agree.

I sit and pull up the pretty layers of the long maxi skirt.

‘Fuck, Lydia. You moron.' She puts a hand out and tenderly touches the hot, puffy skin. My ankle is double its normal size and there's no definition between it or my calf. My leg is one solid column and the surface of the skin is tight and shiny.

She puts a cool hand on my forehead. ‘You're burning up. I'm sorry but you need to go straight to A and E. You need antibiotics, preferably intravenous. I don't have anything on me. The nearest emergency room is Watford General.'

‘Okay,' I say and I can tell I've surprised her with my instant acquiescence. ‘I'll just grab my things and I'll get Tom and we'll go straight there.'

‘No. Sit here. You need to keep that leg elevated. Unfortunately, I don't work in this area, so I don't know any of the medical staff there. I can't speed things up for you but if you explain at the front desk that you've got a severe infection, which could possibly result in sepsis, they'll see you quickly. We could call for an ambulance but God knows how long that will take. It's better if you get someone to drive you straight there. I'll go and find Tom and he can sort something out. He can drive his brother's car if need be.'

The minute she leaves the room I haul myself up the first few rungs on the ladder by the bookshelves. Across the street is an orange Land Rover emblazoned with the words Fleeing for Your Life. Two men are sitting in the front seat. They're sipping from thermos mugs.

I jump off the ladder, suppressing a small scream as pain jars my leg. It's as if Annette's diagnosis of infection has now given me permission to feel the full extent of pain. I rush out of the room. Luckily Tom meets me in the hall.

‘Where's Annette?' he asks. ‘Has she seen you?'

‘They've found us. They're sitting in a car outside the house opposite, drinking coffee.'

‘You're kidding me.'

‘No, I wish I was. We need to go. How did they find us?'

‘What did Annette say?'

‘Annette?' I pretend it was so insignificant I've forgotten already.

‘About your leg? Remember?'

‘Just a bit swollen. I'll need to get some antibiotics and she hasn't got any on her. Is there any way out of the back of here? Back to the train station. We need to go now.' I look anxiously around. I don't want Annette coming back and we do need to make our escape. We're so close, we can't get caught at this stage. Neither can we give up. I can go to hospital later.

Thankfully my sense of urgency communicates itself to Tom.

‘There's a gate through the garden into next door's garden. They're on the corner, so we can get out onto a different street. They won't see us. Let's go.'

‘My—'

‘I'll get it,' he says.

‘It's in the hall. I just need the money in the sock.'

‘Bloody hell, Lydia. Are you sure?'

I muster up a smile. ‘I know where you live.'

A second later we're hurrying out of the French doors at the back. Luckily this section of the garden is separate to the area where all the guests are and there's no sign of Annette. Tom leads me to a gate in the fence.

Next door's garden is nowhere near as well kept and we hurry across the uneven lawn towards a set of double gates. I'm doing my best to keep up with Tom, even though my leg is on fire, every step compounding the pain.

We stop and peer through the gates.

‘We're only round the corner from the station,' he whispers and we both look upwards for drones.

‘I think we're okay,' I say. We walk slowly, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves.

We turn the corner and there's the back entrance of the station. We made it. We're home and dry. My whole body sags with relief and the sudden release of tension makes me a bit wobbly as it's all that's been keeping me going.

‘Shit,' says Tom and suddenly yanks me backwards.

At the end of the tunnel under the platforms, beneath the sign for the ticket office, is a familiar figure. He's on his phone and he has his back to us.

‘Mark,' I say in a shocked voice. A wave of nausea overcomes me and I have to lean back against the wall. Lightheaded, I take a couple of breaths.

‘Are you okay?' Tom gives my face a concerned appraisal.

‘Yeah, just a bit shocked. How do you think they found us?'

‘Probably staked out our homes. I should have thought of it. I don't think of this as home. For obvious reasons,' he adds with a bitter twist to his mouth. Without thinking I touch his arm.

He glances down at my hand and his mouth tightens.

‘Is there any other way of getting to London from here?' I ask.

‘If we could get to Chesham we could get on the underground. They probably wouldn't think of that.'

I think for a moment. I'm not giving up now.

‘Presumably they have taxis here.'

‘Yes, but on the front forecourt. If Mark is there, he's not alone.'

‘Look at me.' With one hand I tug at my hair and the other flounce the skirt of my dress. ‘They're not expecting to see a girl in a dress with curly hair. I could walk along the road under the tunnel to the front and get in a taxi and come and pick you up.'

Tom looks at me. ‘It's risky.'

I think of his father. ‘You want to make films, don't you? You're not going to give up now.'

He scowls. ‘Hell, no.'

‘Then it's worth the risk. We're so close.'

‘Are you sure? I don't like to think of you … on your own.'

I glare at him. ‘I managed to look after myself just fine before you came along.'

My heart is banging so hard as I walk through the railway tunnel along the road. I'm walking right into danger. I have a woozy moment but it's cool in the tunnel and when I put my hand on the cold stone wall, it grounds me. With gritted teeth I keep walking. When I step back into the sunlight I turn right and there is the station forecourt. Another orange Land Rover is parked on the double yellow lines. Oh for a traffic warden when you want one.

There's a line of four taxis but to get to the head of the queue I have to walk right past the passenger window of the Land Rover. I falter for a second but then remind myself that might catch attention, so I force myself to keep walking, hoping my pronounced limp isn't going to draw unwanted attention. I pin my gaze to a point beyond the vehicle. I recognise the ninja driver all in black. It's Teasedale. I only saw him once briefly. If I recognise him, he's going to know me. My hands are so clammy I want to wipe them on my skirt. I'm three steps from the car. He glances up, just as the wind tosses my hair across my face. I almost freeze. The urge to turn and run is so strong. His gaze slides off me and back down to the phone in his hand.

With my pulse doing the light fantastic I keep walking and go to the taxi driver.

‘Taxi to Chesham underground please.'

He frowns. ‘Is there a problem with the trains?'

‘No.' I shake my head and grab the handle of the back passenger door.

‘Okay,' he says, clearly puzzled. I slide in. He starts the engine.

‘And can we just go to the back entrance to pick up my partner.'

‘Sure,' he says with the sort of indifference that suggests if the customer is paying the money he's happy to take it, no matter how odd their request.

I sneak a quick peek at Teasedale as we drive past. He doesn't even look up. I let out the breath stuck fast in my lungs for the last thirty seconds with a small silent whoosh. Now I just have to stay conscious until we get to Trafalgar Square.