‘A photo of you and Ros surfaced in an RCI exhibition. There was some interest in it and the Chronicle followed it up.’
Dominic held the back of an old leather chair to compose himself.
‘What did the article say?’
‘It accused you of being a Soviet spy.’
‘And you chose not to tell me about this?’ he replied, feeling a shot of anger. ‘You could have warned me. You should have warned me.’ He could hear his voice trembling.
‘I didn’t tell you because I knew it would make you want to seek out Rosamund. And I didn’t think that would be helpful at this point in your life.’
‘And don’t you think that was for me to decide?’
There was silence for a few moments.
‘The woman researching the story. The story of your disappearance. She wouldn’t let it go and was causing all sorts of trouble. She even recruited a hacker to tap into my calls, my email . . .’
‘And this was all for the Chronicle?’ Dominic asked, hearing his old heart thud in his chest as he waited anxiously for his friend to answer.
‘It appears that she was helping Ros.’
He thought he felt something inside him dance.
‘I have always wanted what’s best for you, Dom. I didn’t tell you because I wanted to protect you.’
‘It’s not your place to play God, Jonny.’
‘I know. I realise that now,’ he said. ‘So I told Ros. I’ve told her everything.’
Dominic felt his palms grow sweaty.
‘I should see her.’
‘We’re coming. We’re coming as soon as we can sort out a flight.’
He closed his eyes, a thousand memories firing around his mind like bullets. He could see her now, laughing and splashing in Victoria Harbord’s pool in Antibes, the beautiful, elegant woman who had held his hand in Paris, the girl full of passion and promise and delight who had stormed into his office and demanded his resignation, the girl with whom he had pretty much fallen in love on the spot.
Another memory popped into his head unbidden. A more recent memory, but still one that belonged to another lifetime. Rosamund on her way to a literary event in Dublin, 25 October 1969. He remembered that date so well because it was the day that really had change
d his life for ever. Not the evening of Vee’s party when Eugene Zarkov had told him about Russia’s true nuclear capabilities. Not the night of his own engagement bash, when Jonathon had revealed that Eugene had been found dead in mysterious circumstances. Not even the day he had waved goodbye to Rosamund in the Amazon and set off to fake his own disappearance.
No. It was 25 October 1969 when his life has been set irretrievably in another direction, when he had finally closed the door on his old life, and broken his own heart in the process.
For Dominic Blake had never intended to disappear for ever. He had known that his life was in danger, agreed with Jonathon that he had to drop off the grid for months, even years, until the risk of assassination had passed, and at first, everything had gone to plan.
The timing of his trip to Peru had been fortuitous. It was a dangerous expedition to a place where people really did go missing. Two mercenaries known to and trusted by Jonathon had helped Dominic escape north out of the Amazon into Colombia and then Central America. A new identity was arranged for him, and the next five years were spent moving around the United States and Canada: Idaho, Wyoming, Nova Scotia; big empty spaces where English-speaking loners could blend in and not be noticed.
Throughout this period he had kept in very sporadic contact with Jonny Soames – anything more was risky – and by the late sixties, his friend had reluctantly agreed that he could find somewhere more permanent to settle down. They had chosen the remote west coast of Ireland, close enough for it to feel like home, far enough to be out of any possible danger, and after twelve gloriously uneventful months in Connemara, Dominic had begun to dream that he could make contact with the woman he loved, the woman he had never forgotten about, even though Jonathon had warned him that she had moved on, found a job, a good job, a boyfriend, and that it was foolhardy to make contact with her directly in case she was being tracked.
He would have taken the chance and gone to London anyway, but she had come to Ireland. He had read in the Herald that she was speaking at a prestigious literary event in Dublin, and even the cynical journalist in him couldn’t help but think that it was a sign, a sign that it was time to stop hiding and start living, because even though he had dodged the assassin’s bullet, he had felt dead inside since that moment he had kissed Rosamund Bailey goodbye and disappeared into the Amazon jungle.
It had taken him seven hours to travel from Connemara to Dublin by bus. He had a letter in his pocket and had worked out how to get it to her in the course of the evening. They were the most important words he had ever written, explaining his decision and his reasons for leaving her, but setting out a plan for how they could be together. How he remembered her dream of living in a cottage in Antibes with a bowl of peaches in the window and a view of the sea, and although Connemara wasn’t exactly the South of France, he could glimpse the ocean from his bedroom and there was nothing quite like the simple pleasure of collecting mussels from the beach and cooking them for lunch.
He had stood opposite the theatre where she was due to appear for over half an hour, waiting for her to show up. It had been raining and at first he couldn’t make out whether it was her, stepping out of a taxi on to the street. She had turned to face the vehicle, and when she had smiled, he had thought for one glorious moment that she had seen him, and that her smile had been for him. But someone else had got out of the taxi. A man, who snaked his arm around her waist and then kissed her lightly on the lips as she giggled and touched his face in a way so warm and tender that Dominic had barely been able to watch them for a moment longer.
Right then, he had understood the true meaning of love. It was not the way your heart fluttered when you saw the object of your affection, how their conversation could make you feel alive, or their absence make you desperate with longing. No. True love was simply the desire to make that person happy, no matter the cost to yourself. And right there, on that cold, wet street in Dublin, Dominic knew that Rosamund Bailey would have a better life, the life she deserved, without him in it.
‘Are you still there?’ Jonathon’s voice shook him from his thoughts.