Hidden Cottage (32 page)
‘But you’re not, are you? You’re letting this . . . this man decide your life for you. He’s got you so under his thumb you can’t see things clearly.’
Still clutching the loaf of bread to her as if it was a shield, Daisy stepped away from her father and went and stood next to Scott. ‘Please don’t ever talk about the man I love in that way, Dad. If you do, I swear I’ll never talk to you again. Please don’t make me do that.’
‘I’m not the kind of man who has casual affairs with married women,’ Owen said. ‘I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me.’
They were lying in bed, on their sides with Mia’s back against his chest, their bodies curved together, a natural fit. Her coming here today had totally surprised him. He still couldn’t believe she was actually here in his bed. When he’d kissed her for the first time and she had kissed him back leaving him in no doubt how she felt, he’d taken her by the hand and led her wordlessly inside the house and upstairs. If at any stage she had hesitated he would have stopped, but she hadn’t.
‘And I’ve never cheated on my husband before,’ she said, ‘so it’s a first for both of us.’
Winding her silky-smooth hair around his fingers, he said, ‘I kept looking at you last night and wondering how on earth you’ve put up with that man for as long as you have. Did you ever love him?’
‘Yes. Even when he left me, I still did.’
‘Most women’s love would have turned to hate at that point.’
‘I’ve never hated anyone. I especially didn’t want to hate the father of the child I was carrying. What purpose would that have served? I don’t hate him now either. I might not like him at times, but hatred doesn’t come into it.’
He kissed her neck and thought about what she’d told him earlier, about bringing up Jensen on her own for the first few years of his life. He thought how tough that must have been for her. He chose his next words with care. ‘Weren’t there other men you dated who might . . . whom you might have married?’
‘I was hardly a catch with a young child in tow. And anyway, all my time was taken up with looking after Jensen and trying to hold down a job.’
‘What work did you do?’
‘I was employed by a cosmetics firm to translate their sales brochures into French. It was convenient in that I could do it at home, but it was slow and laborious work that I could only do when Jensen was in bed. I talked my way into the job, made out my level of French was a lot better than it really was; trouble was I then had to meet that standard. The pay was awful, literally by the word. I’d have earned more stacking shelves in the local supermarket. I might even have met someone, but stuck at home burning the midnight oil meant my social life was non-existent.’
She turned onto her back and looked at him. ‘I did love Jeff when I married him. Please don’t think it was merely a marriage of convenience. He was different then.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘But then so was I.’
‘What made you realize your marriage wasn’t working?’
‘When I realized that habit and duty had replaced any real feelings of affection. I kept telling myself that it could still work, that with a bit more effort it could be better. Or it could be enough.’
‘Bea and I did the same. We were surrounded by the fruits of our success, but the one thing we’d failed at, our marriage, we both refused to acknowledge. Although Bea was brave enough in the end to do it. If it had been left to me, I think I would have just carried on pretending it was no more than a temporary glitch.’ He raised himself up onto his elbow and kissed her. ‘What made you come here today?’
‘It was the look you gave me during dinner. And jealousy.’
Knowing exactly the moment to which she was referring, he said, ‘Hey, you can’t hold me responsible for that, that was all you. My God, the scorching way you looked at me I thought I was going to burst into flames. Or at the very least Muriel’s beef was going to get cooked.’
‘Not true!’
He laughed. ‘So what were you jealous of?’
‘Georgina. She looked so pretty and I was scared that you might view her differently. After all, she’s nearer your age.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t like being older than you.’
He traced a finger along the curve of her mouth. ‘A couple of years’ difference, that’s all. It’s nothing. And you can forget about me being attracted to Georgina. I like her, but nothing more, and so as you know, in case she mentions it at any time, she tried to kiss me when I took her home.’
‘Did she? Oh, poor Georgina.’
‘I just hope she was too drunk to remember what she did. And before you ask, I didn’t kiss her back.’
‘I was imagining something far worse. I had this awful fear that you might have stayed the night with her.’
‘Why on earth would you think that?’
‘It’s not that much of a stretch. You’re a single, commitment-free man; you can go to bed with whomever you want.’
‘From the day I met you there’s only been one woman I wanted to go to bed with, and that’s you.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘OK, I’m exaggerating. But I did mean what I said in the boat that day when you came here with your family. I really didn’t expect to meet someone as unexpected as you when I moved here.’
Her expression suddenly serious, she said, ‘Are you absolutely sure this has nothing to do with your girlfriend ending things with you? You’re not just using me to—’
He pressed a finger to her mouth. ‘If things had been right with Nicole, I would have wanted her here with me. But it didn’t work out that way.’ He picked up Mia’s hand, the one that bore her wedding ring, and kissed her fingertips, one after the other. He wanted to ask what happened next between them, but decided they’d talked enough. He brushed his lips against hers, lightly at first and then deeply. She kissed him back with equal strength, her hands sliding over him, pressing him to her. He shifted his position and placing his hands either side of her, her legs and arms wrapped around him, he looked down into her face, his eyes on hers. The intense expression in them made his heart thud and his breath quicken. At once nothing mattered more to him than this moment, his wanting her, her wanting him. The desire she instilled in him was electrifying. Before, when he’d brought her upstairs and undressed her, tossing aside her wet clothes, they’d tumbled onto the bed and made love in a frantic and breathless hurry. Now he held himself in check, wanting to be more measured, to explore her body more, to get to know it and to discover what pleased her. He wanted her to be in no doubt what she meant to him. This was no passing fancy on his part; this was so much more than a mere affair. He knew it with all his being.
After they’d made love, they slept. When Mia woke, it was to feel Owen’s arms around her, his lips gently kissing the nape of her neck.
‘It’s still raining,’ he said.
‘So it is.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Starving,’ she said.
‘Me too. I’ll go and get us something to eat.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Don’t you trust me to do it alone?’
She turned and faced him. She kissed him on the mouth. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to be apart from you.’
‘Not even for ten minutes?’
‘Not even for five.’
He held her close.
Down in the kitchen, wearing Owen’s shirt, Mia sat on a stool and watched him putting a snack together on a tray. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, and not just because he was dressed in only a pair of boxer shorts, enabling her to admire his strong, muscular physique. Everything he did fascinated her, every little movement, every little gesture. All of it she took note of, as if committing it to memory – the way he tilted his head from side to side as he decided what to put on the tray; the way he clicked his tongue when he’d made his decision; the way he suddenly turned and smiled at her. Perched on the stool, bringing her knees up to her chin and hugging them, she felt so happy and carefree. Young, too. Ridiculously young. The thought made her suddenly laugh out loud.
‘What’s the joke?’ he asked.
She threw her head back and flung her hands in the air. ‘I feel so happy. Like I could dance around the room. It’s as though I’m a little drunk.’
He came to her and, scooping back her hair from her face, he kissed her. ‘That’s how I always want you to feel.’
‘Drunk?’
He smiled. ‘
Happy
was more what I had in mind.’
Back upstairs in bed they ate and talked some more.
‘How long can you stay?’ Owen asked.
‘I’m yours for the rest of the day. Just so long as I leave when it’s still light. I don’t fancy cutting through the woods in the dark.’
‘I could drive you home.’
‘You could. But we might be seen.’
‘We were seen last night.’
‘You know what I mean. The two of us seen alone together is bound to cause more interest than if we’re part of a group.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I don’t want to sneak about and turn what I feel for you into something cheap and grubby.’
‘I don’t want that either.’
‘Then leave him, Mia.’
She swallowed. This was it. Once she said these words aloud there would be no going back. ‘I plan to,’ she said. ‘But please don’t push me too hard. It’s what Jeff’s always done. Or more specifically, it’s what I’ve allowed him to do.’
‘Don’t ever compare me to your husband,’ he said with feeling, ‘I’m nothing like him.’
She could see that she’d hurt him. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. But you have to let me do things my way. When Daisy’s gone to Australia and when Jeff’s recovered from the shock of her going, I intend to ask him for a divorce.’
‘When did you decide this?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘About an hour ago.’
He looked at her, staggered. ‘Wow, I didn’t see that coming. You are full of surprises today.’
Feeling a bit dazed, she smiled. ‘It feels good.’ She leant in to kiss him. ‘But it’s important to me that I do things in the right order and for the right reasons. I don’t want anyone, especially my children, to think badly of you. Which means for now I don’t want anyone knowing about us. We must be careful. Do you mind?’
He reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I’ll be patient.’
A week. Seven whole days since Eliza had been at the airport waiting for Serene and discovered the humiliating truth about Greg.
A week. A lifetime. It was as good as the same thing.
What shamed her most, apart from the debilitating self-pity she had been consumed by, was that she had been unable to function properly at work. Work had always come first for her and no matter how bad she’d felt, she’d never allowed anything to keep her away from what needed doing. Taking time off because she couldn’t stop crying was anathema to her.
Now, however, she was trying to make up for lost time. It was Sunday afternoon and she had spent the greater part of the day working on the client progress report that needed presenting the day after tomorrow. With it now finished to her satisfaction, she tidied away the empty packet of Kettle crisps and two cans of Red Bull that had constituted her lunch, and awarded herself a small pat on the back. A job well done.
But as she tried to cram the rubbish into the overflowing bin and realized that it just wasn’t going to fit, and what was more that the contents of the bin stank, anger flashed through her. She looked around her small kitchen, which was usually immaculate, but today looked a hideous mess: dirty plates, bowls and mugs piled in the sink, a pan left on the hob that she hadn’t bothered to soak after cooking scrambled eggs in it for her supper last night, crumbs scattered over the worktops, and a used teabag lying in a revolting brown puddle on the draining board.
Was this what she had been reduced to? Living in squalor? No more! It had to stop. Pushing her sleeves up, she got on with putting the kitchen to rights.
When it was all done, having expected to feel a righteous glow of satisfaction, all she felt was a sense of pointlessness. What was the point in any of it? Why bother about the kitchen? Moreover, why slave away on her day off to prepare a report that would be read by the client and then probably have coffee spilled over it and thrown away?
No, she told herself. There was a point. Her work was important. What she did counted. It mattered. And as if to prove there was value in everything she did, she immediately set about her next task with speed and efficiency.
The ironing board in position, the iron switched on, she fetched the overflowing washing basket from the airing cupboard. Ironing, like everything else in her life, was usually a well-ordered activity that was slotted into her busy schedule at a specific time, enabling her to keep on top of everything. It was how she had always been. Boarding school had taught her that: to run her life smoothly and efficiently and according to a strict timetable.
She soon slipped into a steady rhythm with the iron – collar first followed by the sleeves and the back of the blouse and then the two front panels. It was mindless but in its familiar ordinariness, it was strangely comforting. Before long she had a dozen immaculately pressed blouses – all identical – ready to put away. Simon often teased her about the uniformity of her work clothes, and if he was ever to see her work wardrobe, where there was nothing but these blouses and a row of black and charcoal-grey skirts and jackets, his worst suspicions about her would be confirmed – that she was woefully uptight and suffered from some kind of OCD. Which might well be true, but if it was, it stemmed again from her school days and she didn’t have a problem with that. She was who she was. Why pretend otherwise?
In contrast, Simon was probably the most relaxed person she knew and, of his own admission, threw on the first thing to hand in the morning. Unlike her, he didn’t do his own laundry – he used a firm that collected and delivered his washing once a week. He had urged her to do the same, saying she could spend her time better, having fun. He was always saying things like that, that she should be more like him and have more fun in her life.
All finished, she switched off the iron, placed it on the worktop to cool down, put the ironing board away and began carrying the blouses through to her bedroom and her work wardrobe, which was her one and only guilty pleasure – her
secret
guilty pleasure. She hung the blouses on the rail and fine-tuned the hangers so that everything was evenly spaced. Below on the floor of the wardrobe, her black work shoes – comfortably flat or with a sensible low heel – were equally perfectly placed; she hated things that didn’t line up exactly. Anything out of kilter jarred with her.
