‘Poor little sods.’
‘Lydia drew the line at having them as first names.’
‘She seems like a nice lady.’ Merrin was not surprised that he had settled for a well-spoken Lydia, she was far more in keeping with what Ma Mortimer would expect.
He nodded and again his smile faltered, as if this were straying into territory that was less than comfortable.
‘I want to say . . .’ He paused, and reached out almost, but she folded her arms. ‘I’ve wanted to say for the longest time that I’m sorry, Merry.’
She felt her spine soften and her lungs fill with something close to relief. ‘For what?’
‘What do you mean for what?’ His expression was nonplussed.
‘I mean’ – she looked along the corridor, checking she was still able to talk freely – ‘there’s so much for me to feel . . .’ She bit her lip, Come on, Merrin, you have had years to plan this conversation in your head, what do you want to say? ‘Shitty about.’ For the love of God, is that the best you’ve got?
‘I can imagine.’
‘No.’ She took a small step towards him, emboldened and picturing herself in her wedding dress being helped up on to the cart driven by Jarvis, as thick clouds gathered overhead and she didn’t care if she lived or died. ‘I don’t think you can imagine. It’s not only what you did, Digby. It’s how you did it.’ She let this hang. ‘You had every right to change your mind, defer our wedding, even finish things, those were all possibilities and none of those decisions would have hurt me any less.’ She paused, allowing this admission of pain to permeate. ‘But did you need to humiliate me like that? I’m a Port Charles girl and it’s a small place. Far, far smaller than it looks and feels. And not only did you throw me away like a thing you didn’t want any more, but you changed the way Port Charles sees me. I used to be Merrin Kellow, Ben’s girl, the one with the hair.’ She ran her fingers over her short bob. ‘But since that day, I am the one Digby Mortimer left at the altar, the one in the big dress with the fancy cart, all the trimmings.’
‘Merrin, I—’
‘No, let me finish! I moved away because I didn’t know how to live with the new shape you carved for me, the new version of me, and the worst thing was, I hadn’t changed! Not one bit! I still wanted to run barefoot, to sit on the harbour wall outside the cottage and drink tea as the sun came up and went down – that was all I wanted! Yes, I liked the idea of spending time in the big city with you sometimes and stretching my boundaries, but I always thought I’d travel on my terms and then go home. Home to settle down for good. But . . .’ She cursed the tears that pooled, wiping her eyes and sniffing. ‘What you did to me, it changed things for me. You broke my heart. You broke my heart, Digby.’ It felt hard to say out loud; her voice was thin. ‘It never healed quite the same, you know?’
‘I do know,’ he whispered, looking like he, too, might be close to tears, and for this she was strangely thankful.
She placed her palm on her chest. ‘It’s like I have a little fault line running through it of which I am overly aware. I doubt it would survive being dropped again.’
‘I’m sorry, Merrin. I was conflicted, and my mother—’
‘Merrin!’ Vanya called from the end of the corridor. ‘So sorry to interrupt you, but I’m swamped!’ She held up a clutch of room keys. ‘Could you help me with checkins?’
‘Of course, Vanya, on my way.’ She let her eyes lock with his and smoothed her jacket, before tucking her hair behind her ears.
‘I am sorry, Merrin.’ He searched her face, almost imploringly.
Standing straight, she took a moment, before speaking clearly. ‘“Words are easy like the wind, faithful friends are hard to find.” William Shakespeare said that.’
He smiled at her. ‘Did he? I’ll have to take your word for it.’
‘Goodbye, Digby.’
As she walked away, Merrin felt surprisingly calm. It felt good to have had her say, and to see the look of anguish in his eyes was a reward of sorts. Not that she wanted him to hurt, but she did want him to acknowledge the hurt he had caused. It had been strangely healing and today, on Valentine’s Day, as tears snaked down the back of her throat, she felt his eyes on her back and knew he was watching her walk away.
CHAPTER TWENTY
DIGBY
Digby sat at the small, leather-inlaid desk positioned at the bedroom window with a lovely view of the large cedar tree that grew outside. He thought this must be the perfect spot at Christmas, especially if they were lucky enough for snow.
‘Darling, I’m going to take the boys for a little amble in the grounds, wear them out a bit before supper. Do you want to come?’ His wife leant forward and kissed his scalp.
He reached up and touched her face, the smell of her as intoxicating as ever. ‘I think I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind. I have some correspondence to catch up on, and then I’ll shower. Really looking forward to supper.’ He smiled warmly at the woman he loved.
‘Me too!’ She kissed him again and turned to her sons, who sat side by side on the wide double bed, glued to a cartoon, the noise from which was infernal.
‘Daddy!’ Noah called, as Lydia grabbed their padded coats from where they rested on top of the overnight bag.
‘No, Daddy is hiding up here and will probably nap for twenty minutes and then make out he hasn’t so he doesn’t feel too guilty that I am in a permanent state of knackeredness and he is unfairly refreshed.’
Digby laughed. ‘Am I that transparent?’
‘Always.’ She beamed. ‘But I wouldn’t have you any other way. I like your transparency. I like knowing everything about you.’ He felt the cold bolt of deceit fire through his core, knowing this was not quite true; she didn’t know about Merrin Mercy Kellow, the girl he almost married. She blew him a kiss and trundled out of the room with the boys rushing ahead.
He opened up his leather folder and placed it open on the desktop before taking the fountain pen from its natty little holder against the central spine of the file and twisting off the lid. Next he turned the pad to an angle and stared at the blank white sheet of paper. It was hard to start, but strangely, once he did, his hand danced across the page with speed and a rare fluidity of communication.
Dear Mother,
I can’t remember the last time I wrote to you – from school, possibly, when we had to pen the obligatory monthly note home to reassure you that we were being well fed and that your fees were being wisely spent. Matron used to check every letter before it was sealed and so even if we had been living off gruel, among cold punishments and misery, it would have been hard to tell you. We weren’t, by the way; I was very happy at school. I liked almost every aspect of it.
I guess it feels easier to write to you rather than try and have this long-overdue conversation face to face, and so here we are. What was it Dad always said? A straightforward question deserves a straightforward answer? And so here goes.
I’ve asked myself what I want from this communiqué. What outcome? And the rather inadequate answer is: I’m not sure. Do I want a different life? No, not at all. So, what then? Maybe a little understanding? An acknowledgement that the decisions you have made on my behalf have not been without consequence? Recognition that every stone you have cast out in order to achieve your aims or to satisfy your drive has always caused ripples that I suspect you are quite unaware of?