Thanks for your encouraging reviews! Now, let's dive a little deeper into this! Enjoy and let me know what you think!
Chapter 2 - You ruin me
Matthew was running as if the devil was chasing him. He usually exercised in the morning, before he went to work, but tonight he found the only way to get rid off his restlessness was running until his lungs started burning and he was too tired to think. His favourite route led him along the River Thames. He passed other joggers, pedestrians, cyclists, and boats with tourists who enjoyed themselves with drinks and party music. Their laughter and party music reached his ears while he finally reached the stage of exhaustion. He stopped near the National Theatre in South Bank and bent forward, unsure if he was going to be sick.
He checked his smart watch. Ten miles. Not his best result, but at least he had stopped feeling like killing anyone.
Mary. She was the thorn in his side, the one that made it hard to breath, the reason was angry with himself and the world. He had hoped his return to London would be different. He knew he was fill-in for the fallen Patrick Crawley, but just as Patrick, he was family. He deserved his place in the office and the family.
His mother had encouraged his move to finally become partner in the law practise and Robert was doing his best to make him feel welcome while the rest was hesitant to welcome him. Charles Carson had looked at him as if he were a black, fat bug and Mary had almost completely ignored him. He should have known she would feel overlooked, but, as always where Mary was concerned, he had hoped for another outcome.
Physically exhausted and heavily breathing he sank on one of the benches and stared at the dark river.
It was time to accept that they had messed it up. He and Mary had thrown away their chance of happiness a long time ago as students in Oxford. Wasn't it time to move on?
He was back in London, back in the office, but that didn't mean they had to be bitter about their past. Life was full of changes and this was just another one.
While his pulse was slowing down, he made a decision. He would talk to Mary first thing in the morning. It was time to move past old regrets.
When Violet returned to her white pillared house in South Kensington it was almost time for dinner. After the cold and rainy beginning of the day, the weather had changed for the better and rewarded the Londoners with a beautiful sunset.
Violet, however, wasn't in the mood to admire the evening light. She was waiting for a visitor, the one who used to arrive when she didn't expect him. This morning he had woken her up with one of his rare telephone calls. He had announced himself for tonight, had asked for an appointment with a lawyer she trusted, and after Violet had read the morning paper she had started to understand the haste behind it all. It wasn't like him to call for her help, which could only mean he was desperate. Desperate was the one adjective that never came to her mind when she thought about Igor Kuragin, Russian Ambassador and problem solver extraordinaire. He was the man who solved problems not the man who needed help fixing them.
A bit mawkish Violet remembered her first meeting with Igor almost forty years ago. While Violet had never cared much for a vacation abroad, her late husband Patrick had loved travelling. They had spent many vacations at the Cote d'Azur and in 1981, their first trip without the children, they had attended a cocktail party in Nice. The weather had been obnoxiously hot and the champagne already warm and stale when she first laid her eyes on the elegant Russian with the dark, roaring voice. Violet who had always considered herself to be level-headed and rational, had fallen for the man before she knew what had happened to her. She had never believed in love at first sight and though she considered her husband the companion for life, she had found herself unable to resist Igor Kuargin and the buoyant lust he awoke in her. Their affair had started during those summer days in the south of France and it lasted until this day. Over the decades there had been times when their relationship had cooled off, but in the end one of them had always sought the other one out. After her husband's death over ten years ago Violet had finally given up her attempts to end their affair and Igor had pulled some strings to be appointed in London to be closer to her.
Tonight she would see him for the first time in almost two months and she was as nervous as this was their first secret rendezvous.
Her housekeeper, Gladys Denker, had already left and Violet was glad she didn't have to make small talk with her nosy servant. As efficient as Gladys was, she was also a busybody. As ordered the housekeeper had prepared dinner for two which stood in the fridge. The only thing missing was the bottle of red wine Violet had picked from her not so humble wine cellar. Disappointed she wrinkled her forehead and when she heard someone clearing their throat behind her, she knew where the wine was.
"Why did I give you a key?" She wondered aloud.
"You once said it's easier for me to get into the house without being seen," Igor Kuragin answered dryly. She turned. He leaned against the door frame, sipping the wine. "An excellent vintage as always."
"I'm glad you're already enjoying yourself!"
"Don't worry. I left a glass for you and brought some more."
He went slowly towards her and she took the glass from him. "You surprise me."
"Do I?" he chuckled. "How's that?"
"I haven't heard from you since Christmas," she said, trying to sound not as hurt as she was. There was no doubt that Irina's death and its consequences were the reasons for his temporary absence in her life.
"I know I've shamefully neglected you," he said. "And I'm sorry for it, but it couldn't be helped. I had to keep my distance."
She returned the glass and he emptied it without explaining himself any further.
"You sound more like an afraid husband and not like a widowed one." She meant to mock him, but failed miserably. Suddenly weary he placed his glass on the marble worktop. "I've been afraid," he admitted. "But not for me or my reputation."
"What are you talking about? Don't make this mysterious to distract me."
"I'm not trying to distract you. I'm serious. Irina's death was no a suicide and it certainly wasn't an accident. She was killed and the people who did it won't refrain from killing again to get what they want."
She felt cold. Igor was always blunt and never sugarcoated anything. It was part of what attracted her to him, but the cold seriousness in his voice shocked her.
"Did someone threaten you?"
"There was no need to threaten me," he said. "When I found Irina I knew who had killed her."
"Do you care to tell me more about it?" Violet longed for a large glass of alcohol - and for him to stay. "Or did you just want to drop off this bomb and run away again?"
He shook his head. "I don't want to run and I haven't told anyone where I am."
"So?"
He crossed the kitchen and and cupped her face with his strong, warm hands. It was a tender, yet possessive gesture that made her shiver. He kissed her longingly and she allowed herself to give in, fully accepting the fact that he probably wouldn't tell her the whole truth about Irina's death.
"Will you stay longer or do you care for a drink?" Isobel looked up from her file and looked at her watch. It was almost dark outside and it was later than she had expected. She took off her reading glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. Her companion Richard Clarkson was leaning against the door frame and smiled at her.
"I'm afraid I don't have time." She sighed and pointed at the file she had been reading. "Perhaps another time."
Richard shook his head and approached her desk. "You are working too much."
"No, I just shouldn't take excessive lunch breaks with Violet Crawley. I'm afraid it messed up my schedule for today."
"Are you sure you don't want a drink? I'm buying."
She smiled at him. It was the third time in two weeks he was asking to take her for an 'after work drink'. Under normal circumstances she would have agreed, but since she knew he wanted more than just a drink from her, she had to decline his invitation once more.
"Not today," she said, because she didn't know how to find the right words to tell that she wasn't interested in him as a man. He was a brilliant neurologist, a compassionate doctor, but not the man she wanted to share her private life with.
"All right." He was disappointed, but gave in. "I see you tomorrow."
"Good night," she said.
She watched Clarkson leaving and just as she wanted to return her attention to her file, she heard him clearing his throat.
"Isobel, there's a visitor for you." He sounded uncharacteristically cold and so she looked up. The visitor brought a smile to her face. It was no one else than Isobel's on and off lover Richard "Dickie" Merton. He hadn't returned any of her late calls and now he showed up in her office. She should be angry with him, but she saw him and her disappointment with him melted like snow in the sunshine.
"Dickie! What a surprise!"
As happy as she was to see him, his outward appearance was a shock. He was impeccably dressed as always, but the colour of his face reminded her about washed out linen and his grey eyes were surrounded by dark circles. His smile, though, was as genuine and loving as ever.
He pointed at the picnic basket on his arm. "I thought you might need dinner."
"How lovely!"
Richard Clarkson repressed a snore and turned to leave. "Good night then."
Once she was sure Clarkson was gone for good, Isobel crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Dickie's neck. He disposed of the basket and pressed her against him.
"I've missed you!" she said. "Why didn't you call me back?" She pulled back and caressed his pale cheeks with her thumbs.
"I know… , but there was so much to do and…"
"And what?"
He drew a deep breath, before he answered."I had to commit Ada into a psychiatric hospital. The boys were against it, of course, but there was no way we could keep her at home."
The news genuinely shocked her. Ada Merton, Dickie's wife, was a former patient of hers and she knew about her bleak diagnoses, but she hadn't expected this. "Oh no! When was that?"
"Yesterday." He took his hands into his. "She wanted to kill herself and when I tried to stop her, she tried to kill me. She was so confused that she thought I was a burglar. I had no choice but to commit her."
"Oh Dickie."
"I know I should have called you, but I didn't want to bother you. Ada's not your problem - at least not anymore."
She pushed him gently to one of the big armchairs. "She may not be my problem, but you need someone to talk to you as well. What did she do to you?"
"She got hold of a kitchen knife." He pulled up his sleeve and showed her the bandage on his left lower arm. "I was lucky, it was just a small wound."
"And what happens next?"
He shrugged. "I don't know."
She bit her lower lip. Ada Merton's mental health was the big issue in her and Dickie's relationship. His scruples to divorce a woman who was suffering from schizophrenic dementia were understandable. It didn't help that Isobel was the one who had made the diagnosis after Ada had consulted her right before she and Dickie had fallen in love with each other. Isobel had done the only right thing and had transferred Ada to another psychologist, but the transfer didn't help to diminish her feelings of guilt.
"I'm glad you're here," she said warmly. "I've missed you."
"I've missed you too."
"I called you, because I wanted to warn you."
"Warn me? Whatever for?" he asked puzzled.
"Matthew's living in my apartment until he has found himself a new place. I didn't want you to run into him."
"I see." He leaned backwards. "Is he still angry with you - or to say it more clearly - with me?"
"He's not angry… he's worried. He was a bit shocked to realize his mother is woman after all."
"Well, I can't blame him." He crooked a smile and took her hand. "I'm going to make this right, Isobel. One way or the other."
If she was honest, she wasn't so sure about that and she didn't want to think about it. She looked at picnic basket on the floor and changed the subject.
"Why don't we forget about all of this?" she asked. "I take it there is wine in there?"
He nodded. "All your favourites… Cheese, wine..."
She leaned over and brushed her lips over his. "And a blanket?" she whispered.
"Two blankets."
It was midnight when Mary looked into her bathroom mirror and wondered what she should do next. She had messed it up - once more and this time she was about to disappoint her grandmother, what was probably the worst scenarios of all. Violet had asked a simple favour of her and she had fucked it up.
"Fuck!" She stared at her reflection and punched it with her fist. The glass broke and finally she felt something like pain. The pain cleared her mind and she knew what to do next. Determined she wrapped a towel around her bleeding hand and went back inside her bedroom. The body of Kemal Pamuk lay in her sheets and didn't move.
She had taken Kemal Pamuk to her bed and now he was as dead as a doornail. Her mobile lay on the bedside table and started vibrating. Finally Anna was calling her back.
"I'm so sorry, Anna. I hope I didn't wake you up."
"No, you didn't. I was under the shower. What is it?"
Mary stared at the corpse in her bed and swallowed. "I need you to come over to my apartment. I know it's late, but it's an emergency."
One of the reasons why Mary liked Anna was that her assistant never asked unnecessary questions. She was quick, efficient, and knew when to shut up.
"I'm on my way," Anna said and hung up.
"Well, you're on your way out, aren't you?" Mary asked her dead lover and started to clean up her bedroom.
*******tbc*******