She would not think about Henry. That part of her life was over. But what was happening to her life? What was she doing here? Who was she? What was the reason for driving home to a house that stood dark and empty? She did not want to go home. She did not want to go back to Strathcroy. But where? Somewhere perfectly gorgeous, a million miles from Archie and Isobel and Edmund and Lottie and Pandora Blair. A place of sunlight and calmness and no responsibilities, where people would tell her she was marvellous, and she could be young again instead of about a hundred years old.
Leesport. That's it. She was driving to an airport to catch a jet to Kennedy, a limousine to Leesport. It wouldn't be raining there. It would be Long Island autumn weather, with blue skies and golden leaves and a crisp breeze blowing in over the Bay from the Atlantic. Leesport, unchanged. The wide streets, the crossroads, the hardware store and the drugstore, with the kids outside, wheeling about on their bicycles. Then, Harbor Road. Picket fences and shade trees and sprinklers out on lawns. The road sloping to the water, the yacht anchorage a coppice of masts. The gates of the country club, and then Grandma's house. And Grandma in the garden, pretending to rake leaves but in reality watching for the car, so that she could be out on the sidewalk the moment it drew up.
"Oh, honey, you're back." The soft, wrinkled cheek, the scent of White Linen. "It's been too long. Did you have a good journey? What a treat to see you!"
Indoors, and the other smells. Wood-smoke, sun oil, cedar, roses. Braided rugs and faded slip-covers. Cotton curtains blowing at open windows. And Grandpa coming in from the sundeck, with his glasses on top of his head and The New York Times under his arm…
"Where's my sweetheart?"
Through the murky gloom, clusters of lights now shone ahead. Relkirk. Back to reality, and Virginia now realized that here she was going to have to stop for a little. She needed to go to the loo, freshen up. Find a bar, have a drink, be made to feel human again. She needed warmth and the syrupy comfort of Musak and low lights. No reason to hurry home because there was nobody there to hurry to. A sort of freedom, perhaps. Nobody to care how late she was, nobody to worry about what she was doing.
She drove into the old city. Cobbled streets were awash, rain shimmered in the street lights, pavements were crowded with shoppers and workers, booted, mackintoshed, carrying umbrellas and bags, all hurrying home to the comfort of their firesides and tea.
She made for the King's Hotel because it was familiar and she knew where to find the Ladies'. It was an old-fashioned edifice and in the middle of the town, and so had no car-park of its own. Instead, Virginia found a space on the opposite side of the road and parked the Subaru there, beneath a dripping tree. As she locked the door, a taxi drew up outside the hotel. A man got out, wearing a raincoat and a tweed hat. He paid the driver off, and, carrying a grip, went up the steps that led from the pavement to the revolving door. He disappeared. Virginia paused for traffic to pass, and then ran across the road and followed him inside.
The Ladies' was on the far side of the foyer, but the man had paused at the reception desk. He had taken off his hat and was shaking the rain from it.
"Yes?" The receptionist was a sulky-looking girl, with fat pink lips and frizzy straw-coloured hair.
"Good evening. I have a room booked. I called about a week ago, from London."
An American. His voice husky but lightly pitched. Something about it caught Virginia's attention, as though a hand had tugged at her sleeve. Half-way across the floor, she paused to glance at him. Saw a tall, broad-shouldered back view, dark hair streaked with grey.
"What name did you say?"
"I didn't, but it's Conrad Tucker."
"Oh, yes. If you'd like to sign here…"
Virginia said, "Conrad."
Startled, he swung around to face her. Across the space that divided them, they stared at each other. Conrad Tucker. Older, growing grey. But Conrad. The same heavy horn-rimmed spectacles, the same indelible tan. For a second his expression remained blank, then slowly, incredulously, he smiled,
"Virginia."
"I don't believe this…"
"Well, I'll be god-damned."
"I thought I recognized your voice."
"What are you doing here…?"
The boot-faced girl was not amused. "Excuse me, sir, but would you mind signing?"
"I live near here."
"I never knew…"
"And you…?"
"I'm staying…"
"And how will you be paying, sir?" Boot face again. "By credit card or cheque?"
"Look," said Conrad to Virginia, "this is hopeless. Give me five minutes and I'll meet you in the bar and we'll have a drink. Can you do that? Have you time?"
"Yes, I have time."
"I'll get settled, wash up, and then join you. How's that?"
"Five minutes."
"No more.
The ladies' room, frilled and chintzy, was mercifully empty. Virginia had shed her grotty old Barbour, been to the loo, and now stood at the mirror gazing at her own reflection, and feeling more disorientated than ever by the astonishing unexpectedness of her encounter with Conrad. Conrad Tucker, not seen nor thought of for twelve years or more. Here, in Relkirk. Come from London, and for what reason she could not imagine. She only knew that she had never been so glad to see a known face, because now, at least, she had someone to talk to.
She was not dressed for socializing. Blue jeans and an old grey cashmere sweater with a muffler of a collar. Her appearance was scarcely better. Hair lank with rain, her face clean of make-up. She saw the lines on her forehead and at the corners of her mouth, and the dark bruises beneath her eyes, evidence of her sleepless night. She reached for her bag, found a comb, fixed her hair, fastened it back from her face with an elastic band.
Conrad Tucker.,
Twelve years. She had been twenty-one. So long ago, and so much, since, had taken place, that it took some effort to recall the details of that particular summer. But they had met at the country club in Leesport. Conrad was a lawyer, in business in New York with his uncle. He had an apartment in the East Fifties, but his father owned an old house in Southampton, and Conrad had come from there to Leesport to play in some tennis championships.
So far, so good. How had he played? That was lost in the mists of time. Virginia simply remembered that she had watched the match and cheered for him, and afterwards he had sought her out and bought her a drink, which was exactly what she had intended should happen.
She searched in her bag, in vain, for a lipstick, but found scent and splashed it on.
It had been a good summer. Conrad turned up in Leesport most weekends, and there were midnight barbecues and clambakes on the Fire Island beach. They played a lot of tennis, sailed Grandpa's old sloop out onto the blue waters of the Bay. She remembered Saturday nights at the club, and dancing with Conrad on the wide terrace with the sky full of stars and the band playing "The Look of Love."
Once, mid-week, she had driven up to the City with her grandmother, to stay at the Colony Club, do a bit of shopping, and take in a show. And Conrad had phoned, and taken her out to dinner at Lespleiades, and after that they had gone on to the Cafe Carlyle and stayed until the small hours listening to Bobby Short.
Twelve years. Light-years ago. She picked up her bag and her Barbour and went out of the room and up the stairs and into the bar. Conrad had not yet reappeared. She bought herself a whisky and soda, a packet of cigarettes, and carried her drink to an empty table in the corner of the room.
She drank half the whisky at a single go, felt at once warmed, comforted, and marginally stronger. The day was not yet over, but at least she was being offered a little respite, and she wasn't alone any longer.
She said, "You start, Conrad."
"Why me?"
"Because before I say a single word, I have to know what you're doing here. What has brought you to Scotland, to Relkirk? There has to be some logical explanation, but I can't think what it is."