Whiteout - Ken Follett [68]
She told herself to stop being pathetic. I’m a grown-up, she thought, and grown-ups have responsibilities. Besides, Mother might not be alive for many more years, so I should enjoy having her with me while I can.
She found it harder to look on the bright side when she thought about Stanley. She had felt so close to him this morning, and now the gulf between them was bigger than the Grand Canyon. She asked herself constantly whether she had pushed him too hard. Had she made him choose between his family and her? Perhaps if she had backed off he would not have felt forced into a decision. But she had not exactly thrown herself at him, and a woman had to give a man a little encouragement, otherwise he might never speak at all.
There was no point in regrets, she told herself. She had lost him, and that was that.
Up ahead she saw the lights of a petrol station. “Do you need the toilet, Mother?” she said.
“Yes, please.”
Toni slowed down and pulled onto the forecourt. She topped up her tank, then took her mother inside. Mother went to the ladies’ room while Toni paid. As Toni returned to the car, her mobile phone rang. Thinking it might be the Kremlin calling, she snatched the phone up hurriedly. “Toni Gallo.”
“This is Stanley Oxenford.”
“Oh.” She was taken aback. She had not been expecting this.
“Perhaps I’m phoning at an inconvenient time,” he said politely.
“No, no, no,” she said quickly, sliding behind the wheel. “I imagined the call was from the Kremlin, and I was worried that something might have gone wrong there.” She closed the car door.
“Everything’s fine, as far as I know. How’s your spa?”
“I’m not there.” She told him what had happened.
“How terribly disappointing,” he said.
Her heart was beating faster, for no very good reason. “What about you—is everything all right?” She was wondering why he had phoned. At the same time, she watched the brightly lit pay booth. It would be a while before her mother emerged.
“Family dinner ended in an upset. It’s not exactly unknown—we do have rows sometimes.”
“What was it about?”
“I probably shouldn’t tell you.”
Then why have you phoned me? she thought. It was extraordinary for Stanley to make a pointless call. He was usually so focused that she sensed he had in front of him a list of topics he needed to cover.
“In brief, Kit revealed that Miranda had slept with Hugo—her sister’s husband.”
“Good God!” Toni pictured each of them: handsome, malicious Kit; plump, pretty Miranda; Hugo, a pint-size charmer; and the formidable Olga. It was a ripe tale, but what was more surprising was that Stanley should repeat it to her, Toni. Once again, he was treating her as if they were intimate friends. But she mistrusted that impression. If she allowed her hopes to rise, he would crush her again. All the same, she did not want to end the conversation. “How do you feel about it?” she said.
“Well, Hugo was always a bit flaky. Olga knows him by now, after almost twenty years of marriage. She’s humiliated, and mad as hell—in fact I can hear her yelling at this very moment—but I think she’ll forgive him. Miranda explained the circumstances to me. She didn’t have an affair with Hugo, just slept with him once, when she was depressed after the breakup of her marriage; and she’s been feeling ashamed of herself ever since. I think eventually Olga will forgive her, too. It’s Kit who bothers me.” His voice became sad. “I always wanted my son to be courageous and principled, and grow into an upright man who could be respected by everyone; but he’s sly and weak.”
Toni realized, in a flash of revelation, that Stanley