Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [174]
MILNTHORPE
CUMBRIA
They’d passed a wretched night together. Deborah knew that Simon wasn’t happy with her. They’d had a desultory dinner in the Crow and Eagle’s restaurant, an establishment that wasn’t exactly within breathing distance of being awarded a Michelin rosette. He’d said very little at the meal about the matter of open adoption, which Deborah knew was the source of his displeasure, just a quiet, “I’d have preferred it had you not phoned David quite so soon,” and that was it. What he meant, of course, was that he’d have preferred it had she waited until he could talk her into something that she did not want in the first place.
Deborah had not replied to this at first. Instead, she’d made conversation with him on other matters and waited until they’d returned to their room. There, she’d said, “I’m sorry you’re unhappy about this adoption situation, Simon. But you did tell me the girl wanted to know,” at which he’d observed her with his grey-blue eyes so assessing in that way he had. He’d said, “That’s not really the point, though, is it?”
It was the sort of remark that could make her miserable or fire her anger, depending upon which part of her history with Simon she went to in order to receive it. She could hear it as the wife of a beloved husband whom she’d inadvertently hurt. Or she could hear it as the child who’d grown to adulthood in his house and under his gaze, recognising the disappointed-father tone in his voice. She knew the former but at the moment, she felt the latter. And sometimes it was such a pleasure just to let one’s feelings fly.
So she’d said, “You know, I really hate it when you talk to me like that.”
He’d looked surprised, which added fuel. He’d said, “Talk to you like what?”
“You know like what. You are not my father.”
“Believe me, I’m aware of that, Deborah.”
And that had set her off: that he wouldn’t allow himself to be roused to anger, that anger simply wasn’t part of who he was. It maddened her, and it had always done so. She couldn’t imagine a time when it would not.
Things had developed from there in the way of all arguments. From the manner in which she’d put an end to this matter with David and the girl in Southampton, they’d found themselves examining the myriad ways in which she had apparently long required his benevolent intervention in her life. That took them ultimately into the manner in which he’d dismissed her in the car park during their conversation with Tommy. This was a primary example of why he was required to watch over her, he’d pointed out, since she could not see when she was pigheadedly putting herself into harm’s way.
Of course, Simon hadn’t used the word pigheadedly. That was not his style. Instead, he’d said, “There are times when you don’t see things clearly, and you won’t see things clearly. You have to admit that,” in reference to her insistence in the car park that the route to investigate had everything to do with Alatea Fairclough’s possession of a magazine called Conception. “You’ve reached a conclusion based on your own inclinations,” he said. “You’re letting your judgement become clouded because of what you want instead of relying upon what you know. You can’t do that and be effective in an investigation. And none of that has any importance anyway because you shouldn’t be involved in this matter at all.”
“Tommy asked me— ”
“If this is going to come down to Tommy, he also pointed out that you’ve served your purpose and there’s danger likely if you go any further.”
“Danger from whom? Danger from what? There is no danger. Oh, this is absurd.”
“I agree completely,” he replied. “So we’re finished here, Deborah. We need to return to London. I’ll see to it.”
This positively made her erupt, as he’d known it would. He’d left the room