Fast Friends (78 page)

‘I know,’ he admitted gently. ‘I know what you thought. I
felt
the same way myself, yesterday. But
angel,
think
about it. You’re
Nico’s wife and I’m his friend. I’m
not a complete bastard, you know. I do have some scruples.’

The confusion and sense of disappointment were almost too
much for Caroline to bear, coupled as they were with the searing
all-too-familiar pain of rejection. Tears glistened
in her eyes
and she turned away
towards the half-shuttered window,
clenching her fists at her sides and
willing herself not to cry.

Oh shit, not tears, thought Paddy. He
drained his glass,
poured
himself another large Scotch and wondered what he’d
do if Caroline simply took him at his word and left.
Failing now
would almost be funny, if only he
didn’t want so badly to get
laid.

‘
Don’t cry,’ he said,
moving over to stand behind her and
placing his hands on her quivering
bare shoulders. ‘I’m very flattered, angel, but I hate to see you crying.’

Caroline spun suddenly round to face him, her jaw tense.
He saw the tendons sticking out on her neck. ‘Nico has affairs,’ she said, and
it was almost a plea.

‘I’m sure he doesn’t.’ Paddy was really beginning to enjoy
himself now. She was one of those rare women whose looks weren’t marred by
tears. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that.’

‘
But he does!’ persisted
Caroline. ‘He’s been seeing this
woman called Camilla for God knows how
long –’

Sshh,’ he soothed, pulling her into his arms to comfort
her.

Desperate now, Caroline pressed
herself against him, reach
ing up and
finding his mouth with her own. Her hot tongue slid between his lips and Paddy
groaned as if weakening, trailing his fingers down her back until they came to
rest upon the firm swell of her buttocks. When he realized that she wasn’t
wearing anything at all beneath her dress he sighed with pleasure. Thank God he
didn’t really have to turn her down.

‘
Angel, we mustn’t,’ he
protested weakly, when he at last
pulled away. ‘You don’t know what you’re
doing to me.’

Caroline smiled, her confidence renewed, her determination
now unassailable. ‘Oh, but we must,’ she said huskily, lightly
touching the front of his trousers where his
arousal was so
clearly evident. ‘And I do, I do, I do.’

Piers O’Donoghue was genuinely
besotted with Camilla;
she was everything his Irish upbringing had taught him a
wife should be, and at the same time
everything his own wife was not. He had married Juliet three years ago,
believing that
he
was doing the right thing. There were fast, flirty young
girls with whom one enjoyed brief
affairs, his father had
explained at regular intervals throughout his life, and then
there was the other kind of girl,
whom one married. Juliet
Russell
came from an excellent family, she would take her
responsibilities seriously and she had good childbearing hips.
Her
personality was pleasant, her temper even and her looks average.

Piers had observed the marriages of
his peers and known
that his father was
right. Those of his male friends who had tied the knot with beautiful, sparky,
witty girls were either divorced within a couple of years or suffering all
kinds of difficulties, whereas the few who had made ‘sensible’ matches seemed
far
more content. A good wife was a definite
asset and besides,
there were always plenty of less suitable girls eager
to supply excitement when it was needed.

Juliet was
perfect marriage material and he had never, until now, regretted making her his
wife.

Until now.

Until he had met Camilla who was, in
his eyes, perfect in
every
way. Beautiful, capable, sexy and a devoted mother, she
encompassed all the best qualities of both kinds of women, and
since meeting her, he had been unable to prevent
himself
comparing her with Juliet. Juliet wore clothes which didn’t suit
her. She seldom bothered with make-up, no
longer shaved her
legs and hadn’t been to a hairdresser for months. She
had put on over a stone in the past year. She could carry on a conversation
about which he would later remember nothing. She never joked, or teased, or
giggled.

And in three years those good childbearing hips had failed
to fulfil
their promise.

Chapter 55

’You’re married,’ said Camilla, and he saw the pain and
anger in her eyes, heard it in her low voice, and felt his own happiness begin
to crumble. He couldn’t lose her, he
couldn’t .. .

‘
Separated,’ he corrected easily, whilst his mind raced on
ahead. How had she found out? Laura knew, of course, but
she
and Christo were still away on their
honeymoon. ‘My wife and
I are separated, darling. Surely that doesn’t
bother you?’

Camilla, searching his face for the
truth, shook her head.
Unable to
remain sitting, she jumped up and began pacing the
room with halting, uneven steps. ‘You told me you were
divorced. It was a lie. And now I don’t think you’re
even
separated . . .’ She hesitated;
that wasn’t what she had meant to
say. She
knew —
didn’t she —
that he was still living with his wife?

The significance of that brief hesitation wasn’t lost on
Piers.
He decided to bluff it out. Assuming
control, he said bluntly,
‘Well, you’ve
been misinformed. Camilla, maybe I was wrong
to tell you that I was
already divorced, but my wife and I have
been
living apart for so long that I feel divorced. It simply 
didn’t occur
to me that you’d react like this, and as for thinking
that I might not even be separated, well . . . if that’s what you
think
then
maybe there’s no point in our seeing each other
again. If we don’t have
trust, what
do
we have?’

He saw her
weaken.

‘But . .

‘
Tell me,’ he demanded more gently, ‘why you think that.
The
explanation will be so simple you’ll wonder why you ever even let it concern
you.’

Please God, he thought in desperation, let it be something
he could explain. He couldn’t lose Camilla, couldn’t bear to even contemplate
the possibility.

In reply she nodded towards the walnut table beside the
sofa upon which he sat. Following her gaze, Piers saw his wedding-ring and
almost laughed with relief.

‘
Darling, I was married!
I haven’t worn that for almost a
year. Where on earth did you find it?’

‘Marty. He was in your car. You know what a magpie he is.’
But she sounded only fractionally less tense and Piers, realizing that more was
to come, braced himself.

‘Last night Loulou phoned your house in Bath and spoke to
your wife,’ she said slowly. ‘She asked to speak to you and your wife said you
weren’t at home at the moment.’ The emphasis on the last three words was
unmistakable, but Piers was gaining in confidence now. He smiled and relaxed,
rising to his feet and taking Camilla’s cold hands in his own warm ones.

‘
My darling,’ he said
tenderly, ‘is that what’s got you into
this state? Of course Juliet said
that, she always says that when
she’s alone
in the house.
I
was the one who explained to her
how burglars —
and worse — operate. A woman alone is in a vulnerable position, but if she
makes it sound as though her husband’s due home at any moment they’ll certainly
think twice before paying a visit. And if you don’t do the same,’ he added
seriously, stroking her wrists as he spoke, ‘then you certainly should. There
are some pretty nasty people out there, you know.’

‘
Oh Piers,’ sighed
Camilla, burying her face against his
shoulder so that he wouldn’t see
her tears of relief and
swallowing hard as
his hold tightened. ‘You were right, there
was a simple explanation, and
I’m just so
glad . .

Triumphant, and equally relieved that for now at least he
had successfully quashed her doubts, Piers kissed her damp cheeks
and realized how very fond of Camilla he was in
danger of
becoming. If he was honest, it had already happened, and if he
had been the forward-planning kind he would be thinking ahead to what might
happen in the weeks to come.

But he never did plan ahead, allowing
instead each day to
spring its surprises.
Less than a week ago it had sprung Camilla
into
his life, after all. He would cope with the next problem
when it arose
and meanwhile enjoy what he already had.

‘
I have to be in the
office by nine thirty tomorrow,’ he said,
his lips moving to her earlobe and then to the sensitive area
below
it. ‘But I could stay here with you tonight if you like, and drive back early
in the morning.’

‘I do like,’ murmured Camilla, winding her arms around his
neck and giving him her most irresistible
smile. ‘I’d like that
very much indeed.’

Sitting bolt upright at the kitchen table clutching a mug
of tea
which was no longer even vaguely warm,
Juliet continued to
stare at the
clock on the wall. Nine o’clock. Thank goodness
she had had the
foresight to take the phone off the hook – the thought of having to listen to
one of Piers’ rambling, convoluted excuses was more than she could stomach at
the moment.

Glancing around at the pristine beige
and white kitchen,
every surface
gleaming, not so much as a teaspoon out of place,
she wondered what more Piers could possibly want of her. Did
he even begin to realize the extent of the torture
she suffered
each time he ‘amused’ himself with another woman?

Deep down, however, she knew he was
aware
that she
knew. That was what
hurt more than anything else. She was
supposed
to be grateful to him for being discreet and accept
the situation with ladylike good grace, silently
acknowledging
it as a necessary part
of their life together. It was the done
thing, apparently; men had affairs and their wives arranged
flowers.

As the thought rattled through her
mind, Juliet’s gaze fell
upon the bowl of flowers adorning the Welsh dresser. Their
heady scent mingled with the dusty aroma of pot-pourri and
the
more clinical odour of Ajax floor
cleaner. In a frenzy of
hyperactivity
she had risen at five thirty and scrubbed the
already gleaming quarry
tiles on her hands and knees.

The house
was perfect, and Piers hadn’t come home.

But this time, thought Juliet with
bitter triumph, this time
she knew
where he was.

Pushing back her chair so that its
legs grated raucously
against the scrubbed stone floor destroying the oppressive
silence, she crossed to the dresser and selected a
medium-sized, bone-handled knife from the top left-hand drawer.

Then, with systematic thoroughness,
she beheaded each of
the
flowers, scattering them on the floor she had scrubbed so thoroughly earlier.

So men had affairs and their wives arranged flowers, she
thought idly, staring at the scattered petals and
running the
blade of the knife
experimentally across her hand. Well, this
wife had arranged flowers for
long enough.

Surfacing slowly, unravelling her
legs from the tangled duvet
and savouring its seductive warmth, Camilla half opened her
eyes and realized that she was smiling. The memory of last
night had stayed with her in sleep; when
Piers had left at six
thirty he had taken her into his arms and kissed
her with such spine-tingling tenderness that she had been tempted to pull him
straight back into bed.