I stare at him. Where are the words when I need them? He has this way of taking coherent thought and rubbing it out before I can articulate it. Do I know him? I know his face. I think I could reproduce every line, every eyelash, every shadow now, if you gave me a pencil and paper. But can I interpret the commentary behind those black eyes? I’m not so sure.
When I don’t reply he sighs. ‘Well, we may not have the time. My priorities for this visit are to get the house cleared and sold and off my hands.’
I can hear the harsh chord of bitterness as he speaks.
I clear my throat. ‘So tough for you, when you so love this place.’
‘This particular spot, yes. She’s killed my affection for the house and the land. Oh, I’ll still manage my investments from here. And maybe I’ll buy another property over the border in Italy. A ski lodge, maybe. What do you think? Or a house on one of the other lakes.’ He squeezes his knees to urge his horse a couple of paces nearer the edge. I stifle my squeal of horror. ‘But this is the last time we’ll ever set foot or hoof on this part of the mountain.’
‘We?’
He is turned from me now, his hair hiding his face, and doesn’t respond. I decide it was a slip of the tongue. This setting just proves how far removed his life really is from mine. There can’t possibly be a ‘we’. Can there?
I follow his glance. Far below us the lake is a smooth looking glass. I can see one or two of the slim ferry boats spitting their white triangular wake over the water. The tiled Lombardy roof tops glow red as the sun retreats. The mountains become shadowy silhouettes as it drags its train of fire behind them, leaving embers of shredded pink cloud.
I am sharing Gustav’s love of this amazing vista. We are sharing it.
I turn my horse across the plateau, hoping he’ll follow me. The mountain rears above us. I tip my head back dizzily to see the summit. It’s been obliterated while we’ve been up here, the dark grey clouds anxious to dump their load of snow. I’m just about to aim my camera at the sunset when I see, tucked in a little grove and surrounded by an incongruously twee picket fence, a little white Bavarian-style chapel, its elegant spire adorned with an iron cross. The one Dickson pointed out to me earlier.
That’s the chapel where they were wed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I try to halt my horse, cursing under my breath but even though I tug on the reins she ploughs on. The chapel is closed, the high doors bolted, the arched painted windows shuttered. But I can just picture them, Gustav and Margot Levi, newly married, emerging from the wooden interior to a shower of confetti and well-connected applause, he dark and victorious in his morning suit or perhaps a traditional Swiss jacket, she with features and colouring I can’t decipher, but nevertheless stunning and smug and dancing along the path in a beautiful white dress, one hand holding his and the other clutching a sweet bunch of white edelweiss into which she mock-shyly dips her nose.
The pain of the image winds me sharply as if someone has kneed me in the stomach.
‘No wonder this is your favourite location, Gustav. But I’ve suddenly gone off it.’
He turns from his reverie. I see his face like the sky transforming from thoughtful to thunderous. He kicks his horse over and grabs the reins of my horse.
‘Forgive me, Serena. Of course it’s not the church that draws me up here. I barely give it a thought, and nor should you.’
‘You married her in there, Gustav. How can I ignore that?’
‘Ten long years ago. I was a different person then. Blind, clueless. Now I’m seeing clearly and that’s thanks to you. Five years ago I was divorced. Serena, don’t look at me as if I’m gabbling in a foreign language. Everything was different then!’ He shakes the reins, and my horse stamps her foot, jolting my balance. ‘None of it applies any more. You’ve got to believe me.’
‘I don’t have to do anything! It still happened. You still married her. It all feels horribly real to me!’ I can’t help it. I’m shouting, and angry. ‘Oh, let’s just get back.’
He drops the reins and backs his horse away, lowering his eyes. I can see the muscle working in his jaw as his face goes tight. But I’m too upset to forgive him. I’m too furious with myself for giving myself away, for being gripped by this fresh fist of jealousy just when I thought it was safe to go back into the water. Or up the mountain.
Gustav clicks his teeth and the horses’ ears prick up. So no apology then. With no sign from me my horse quickens into a trot. Their hooves ring out smartly on the hard plateau as we turn our backs on the little chapel and the fading sunset. We barrel back into the darkness of the forest, and then Gustav lowers himself over his horse’s neck and kicks her into a gallop. My horse copies. There’s nothing for it but to adjust my seat, grip with my knees and press myself down low into the saddle as we swerve and rush break-neck through the trees, through the tunnels of spiny trees, slithering down the vertiginous narrow paths, leaping over fallen branches.
Gustav’s steed is faster, and soon he’s several corners ahead of me. Sobs of panic escape me as my horse stampedes after him. It’s getting dark, and now the ground is descending ever more steeply. I am just beginning to tire of gripping on for dear life when far ahead Gustav swerves through a curtain of ivy and vines and vanishes.
‘Hey! Gustav! Wait!’
I gallop through the curtain. My horse rears up and whinnies as she trips over a huge twining root. We are in a coppice overhung with branches like a tent. All sounds, including hooves, are extinguished in here. It is curiously warm and sheltered. The fading light can’t penetrate.
I think I see Gustav’s horse flickering through the stark winter shadows up ahead, obviously knowing perfectly well which way to go. They disappear from view. I try to kick my horse to go after them, but she wheels round and stops dead, lowering her head so suddenly that without warning I shoot down her neck, over her ears, and onto the hard cold ground. My ankle is twisted awkwardly underneath me.
It hurts like hell. I didn’t hear a snap, but I remove one boot carefully, knowing I must do that in case the ankle swells.
‘This is all I bloody need!’ I yell to the elements as I roll my sock down and see the blooming palette of blue and purple, the flesh bulging already around the ankle bone. I burst into tears.
There is only the strange, dry creaking of the trees accompanying my furious weeping. That same church bell tolls the next evening hour, and my naughty horse stamps and snorts. At least she hasn’t run away. She is investigating some bright green shoots over on the far side of the copse. The wind has died down completely which sheds an eerie silence over everything. The twilight has nearly closed in.
I hold myself very still, hugging the ground. Logic tells me that I’m not totally lost. That only happens in nightmares, or horror films. The horse will know her way home. But then again, she might only understand German instructions, or Italian. She might take me further into the forest. Or bolt with me down to the lake and gallivant with me in front of all the sophisticated Swiss residents sipping Glühwein in the cafes.
The first time I was lost like this I must have been about five years old. Why they brought me up on Dartmoor, climbing the craggy outcrops around Hay Tor when it was threatening snow, I have no idea. The adults were always too far away. I remember running and tripping to keep up. I was wearing wellies with no socks. Why no socks? Did they expect me to put them on myself? Did they give me a few seconds to do so, sitting on the bottom step of the steep dark stairs, then get impatient with waiting and bundle me into the car anyway?
The wellies were too big, and rubbed the skin on my feet into blisters. I fell over, into some kind of bog. I was knee-deep in mud. I knew I’d be in trouble for messing up my clothes. And when I got back to my feet everyone had gone. There was nothing