Marriage Under Suspicion (16 page)

'Oh—he's away.' She looked down at the table.

'Really? Does that mean you don't have to rush home this evening—and you might be

free to have dinner with me?'

'I'm sure you already have plans.’ Kate spread her hands in deprecation.

'On the contrary, I'd be delighted if you'd agree to brighten up a lonely Monday evening.

You can't turn me down a second time.'

She could hardly tell him she had no intention of turning him down, Kate thought

ruefully. Or that her own plans didn't stop at dinner. She laughed. 'Well, I was planning

to open a very exciting tin...'

While he telephoned for a reservation, Kate went to the powder room.

She stared wonderingly at herself, reflected in the mirror over the basin. Saw the glitter in

her eyes. The spots of colour burning in her face.

What am I doing? she asked herself in sudden bewilderment. What am I actually

contemplating here?

But she already knew the answer to that. She'd been cheated on, and she was going to get

her own back. It was all quite clear and perfectly simple.

Ryan was going to find out that he wasn't the only one with a significant other in his life.

That the same sauce applied to goose and gander alike.

Besides, to all intents and purposes, her marriage was over, thanks to Ryan, and she was

now a free agent. A single woman again. And who was to say that Peter Henderson might

not become a permanent fixture in her new life? she thought, tilting her chin defiantly.

Like many other woman, she had to start fashioning a new life out of the ruins of the old.

But I loved my old life, she thought with sudden desolation. I want it back.

But that decision, alas, was not solely hers to make, and Ryan had made another choice.

The pain of it made her cringe inwardly, but, somehow, she had to surmount the trauma

of his infidelity. Survive and go on, whatever the price.

Starting tonight, she had to convince herself that she was still worthwhile—even

desirable, as Peter's eyes were already telling her.

That the loss of Ryan's love was not some black hole down which she was doomed to

fall, screaming, through all eternity, however much it might feel like it.

She had her pride. Maybe it was all she had. So, she wasn't going to be the little woman

waiting submissively to be told she was surplus to requirements.

She gave herself a fierce nod, and went back to rejoin her date.

'It's a new French restaurant,' Peter said in the cab. 'I've heard good reports about it.

Oh, God, Kate thought, her toes curling. Please— not the Amaryllis.

And for once her prayer was answered.

The signboard outside said La Riviere, and Kate found herself in a long, narrow room,

with a plain wood floor, and white walls enlivened by murals depicting scenes of some of

France's great rivers. Glancing round, she recognised instantly the turreted grace of the

Loire valley, the lie de la Cite on the Seine, the sleepy Dordogne, and the mighty Rhone

reaching the bridge at Avignon.

The food, she discovered, was equally appealing. They began with pate de campagne,

and moved on to a rich meaty cassoulet, bursting with flavour.

He was surprisingly easy to talk to. He knew about food and wine, and clearly enjoyed

them, without being pretentious. He liked books, too, and was a regular theatre-goer.

At one point, Kate found herself thinking, Ryan would like him and had to pretend to

retrieve her table napkin in order to recover her composure.

She hadn't expected to be able to eat a thing, but realised as the food was set in front of

her that she was actually ravenous.

Perhaps I'm going to be one of those people who turns to the fridge in times of trouble,

she thought with a sigh, as she finished her last mouthful of casserole.

'Is something the matter?' Clearly, he didn't miss much.

'Nothing at all,' she lied, smiling brilliantly at him. 'I was just thinking what a marvellous

place this is. I must tell...' She halted abruptly.

'Tell whom?' Peter prompted. 'Your husband?'

'No.' She flushed dully. 'I was going to say— Louie, my business partner.'

'What stopped you?'

She looked down at the table. 'Because I don't think the partnership will last much longer.

I—I imagine we'll be folding the company.'

'That's a shame.' He frowned slightly. 'Won't you feel lost without it?'

A month—a week—twenty-four hours ago even— she'd have said yes and meant it.

Now, in the light of all the greater losses she'd suffered, she shrugged.

'Not any more.'

'You surprise me,' he said lightly. 'I had you down as one of the new female entrepreneurs

who have it all, dividing your time effortlessly between marriage and being

Businesswoman of the Year.'

'There's nothing effortless about being married, believe me.' The bitterness overflowed

before she could prevent it.

'But it must have its compensations, otherwise people would give it up as a bad job.' He

passed her a dessert menu. 'The tarte tatin is excellent,' he added.

She shook her head. 'I really couldn't eat another thing.'

'Fine,' he said equably. 'My flat isn't far from here. I could offer you coffee, and a good

Armagnac'

So, this was it, she thought, swallowing. Cards on the table time. She was so out of touch

with current courting rituals that she hadn't even seen it coming. And, somehow, she'd

expected him to be rather more subtle, too, and she felt oddly disappointed.

But she didn't let it show. She made herself smile straight into his eyes. 'That would be—'

she held the pause quite deliberately '—very nice.'

And no marks for subtlety there either, she added under her breath.

He lived on the third floor of a handsome red-brick block. The flat was spacious, its

furniture a comfortable mix of the up-to-date with some antique pieces which she

guessed had come from his family.

While he was busy in the kitchen, she wandered round, her untouched brandy glass in her

hand, looking at things without really seeing them. Pausing at the window, she parted the

long green drapes a fraction, staring out into the gathering darkness.

Someone had once said that revenge was a dish best eaten cold, and it must be true

because she felt as if she'd been turned to ice.

'Come and have some coffee.' Peter had returned, and was setting a tray on the low table

in front of the sofa.

Biting her lip, she joined him, perching selfconsciously on the edge of the deep cushions,

watching him fill tall porcelain beakers from the cafetiere, telling herself he'd hardly

reach out and grab her if she was holding a cup of scalding liquid.

She took the beaker he handed her with a murmured word of thanks, casting round in her

mind for something else to say—something that would signal her availability to him—

and convince her that this was what she wanted.

But she couldn't think of a thing.

Maybe it would be better if he grabbed her after all. Made the decision, and all the

running too.

When he took the beaker from her hand and set it back on the table, she did not resist,

although she felt her throat close in fright. Instead, she allowed him to turn her gently to

face him. His lips as they touched hers were gentle too, almost tentative. They didn't

threaten a thing, and she closed her eyes, trying desperately to summon up a response—to

feel something other than totally numb—and failing.

All she could think of was Ryan, and the way her body had blossomed joyously and

urgently the first time he had touched her hand.

The only man she had ever loved. The only man she had ever really wanted. And nothing

could change that.

Peter said very softly, 'Ah.' Then let her go, and reached instead for his coffee. There was

a silence.

Eventually, 'What are you doing here, Kate?' His voice was still quiet.

She took a hasty sip of her own coffee, burning her mouth in the process. 'You invited

me...'

'But I didn't expect you to accept,' he said slowly. 'You're married, Kate.'

'What difference does that make?' she demanded defensively.

'A hell of a lot, I'd have said. Especially to someone like you.' Peter shook his head.

'You've been like a cat on hot bricks all night. In fact, you're so brittle that if I really laid

a hand on you you'd probably break.'

She tried to force a smile. 'You could always try— and find out.'

He shook his head again, slowly and regretfully. 'I don't think so. And it isn't because I

don't want to. It's because I know your heart isn't in this.' He paused. Sighed. 'But mine

could be, and I don't want it damaged.'

She put the beaker carefully back on the tray 'I— see.'

'No, you don't, because I hardly do myself. I only know this can't happen, and I was a

fool to think it might.' He gave her a fleeting, twisted smile. 'Now, drink your coffee, and

the Armagnac because you look as if you need it, then I'll take you home.'

She said stiffly, 'There's no need for that.'

'Yes, there is.' The contradiction was firm. 'Because in another time, another place,

another dimension, this could have worked for us.' He paused. 'As it is, I feel that I'm

caught up in something that's going on in your life, and I'm not prepared to take

advantage of your unhappiness.'

Kate bent her head. 'I'm so ashamed.' Her voice sounded stifled. 'I thought I could—I

meant to—but I can't. I'm—so sorry...'

'I know,' he said. 'And it's all right.' He hesitated. 'Do you want to talk about what's really

happening?'

She shook her head. A slow, scalding tear crept down her face. 'I can't do that either.'

'Ah, well.' Peter's tone was philosophical. 'Let's just say we had a terrific meal together,

and leave it at that.'

Her mouth trembled into a smile. 'You are such a truly nice man. I just wish...'

'No, you don't.' He pulled a face. 'That'll teach me to go poaching on someone else's

preserves.'

They didn't talk much during the cab ride home.

'Will you be all right?' Peter asked as he took her to the lift.

No, Kate thought. But at least I haven't made a bad situation worse.

She lifted her chin. 'I'll be fine. And—thank you for being so understanding.'

'They tell me it's my best feature.' His lips brushed her cheek, then he was gone.

Kate closed the door behind her, and stood for a moment, leaning against its panels,

listening to the silence, as a sigh shook her body.

On a scale of one to ten, the last forty-eight hours registered minus fifty or less, she

thought, wincing.

And her behaviour this evening didn't bear consideration.

Isn't it enough to be hurt and angry? she derided herself. Do I have to go stark, staring

mad as well? What the hell did I think I was doing?

If Peter Henderson had been a different kind of man, she could have been in real trouble.

A glance towards the answering machine told her that no messages had been logged. But

then, what did she expect?

Listlessly, she went into the kitchen, and made herself some herbal tea. It might calm

her—help her to sleep, she thought as she sipped it. It might even stop her thinking.

She couldn't face another night on the sofa. Besides, she had to start getting used to the

empty place in the bed, she told herself as she showered and put on her nightgown.

But that was easier said than done. She found she was lying, staring into the darkness,

trying to come to terms with a future that did not include Ryan.

And I thought we were so happy, she derided herself. I thought we had it all. Careers,

lifestyle, fulfilment.

And yet, looking back, she realised that Ryan's enthusiasm for the outward trappings of

their success had always been muted.

She had chosen their apartment, and he'd gone along with her choice. As he'd said, with a

shrug, he could write anywhere. But she could see now that he'd never regarded it as

home, in the same way as their old basement flat.

I wanted prestige—to send out signals to the world, she thought. Because I was happy, I

presumed Ryan would be contented as well. Only, he wasn't. He wanted a very different

kind of life—the one we'd always talked about—and I still wanted that, in a way. But

there was so much else going on, it seemed easier to postpone it. To think about it later.

To tell myself there was all the time in the world.

But—he got tired of waiting.

She wondered how long it would have taken her to realise what was going on without

that anonymous letter, which, she supposed, wincing, Louie must have sent.

When had their affair actually begun? It was small comfort to know that they had both

tried to finish it at some point. And had Louie even been the first?

Shuddering, Kate rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. Ryan's pillow, she thought

as she breathed the faint scent of his cologne. Another trace of his presence which she