The Society Wife (15 page)

Her voice was as jagged and cruel as broken glass, her movements swift and vicious. Her hips arched up towards his, grinding against the hardness of his arousal as her hands grappled with the buttons of his shirt until impatience got the better of her and she tore it open, exposing his bare chest to her fingernails, raking the flesh as he pushed up her skirt and tugged at her knickers, tearing the silk before entering her with a single powerful thrust that made her cry out in fierce triumph.

He drove into her with a relentlessness that made her dried and shrivelled heart sing, and with every hard push she felt the twin demons of anger and grief receding. Heat was spreading inside her, sending out bright tongues of flame to the furthest extremities of her body and building to a core of white brightness at a point in the cradle of her pelvis.

She closed her eyes, focusing on the light, and the movements of the muscles under his skin as she held onto his shoul
ders. He was carrying her, holding her and she was going to shatter…

She let go, crying out and throwing her head back so that it banged against the door, opening her eyes and looking at him through the fiery haze of sensation that claimed her.

And then she felt herself crashing down, spiralling back to earth.

Her heart stuttered and stopped and she felt the heat in her veins turn to ice. With a final shuddering thrust Tristan bent his head and hid his face in her hair, but not before she'd seen the expression of extreme suffering it bore.

They stood, motionless, still locked together as their breathing steadied. Staring into the melting remains of the day, Lily's eyes stung with tears she couldn't shed. Tristan's head was heavy on her shoulder. Then he seemed to gather himself, straightening up as if it hurt him. Wordlessly he picked her up and carried her to the bed.

Ecstasy and despair, balanced on a knife edge, she thought numbly. After the pleasure, the pain.

Except for him there had been no pleasure.

Duty.

That was all.

Always Duty.

 

The moment he placed her down on the bed, Lily rolled away, lying with her back to him and tucking her knees up against her body. Tristan felt the ever-present guilt harden inside him, mixing uneasily with self-loathing.

How could he have been so crass?

He had wanted her so badly, but that was no excuse for behaving like an animal, taking her standing up against a wall, for God's sake. When he had brought her here he had intended it to be like closing the circle. A new beginning. Instead he had only ended up hurting her even more.

Dios
.

‘Lily, I'm sorry.'

She didn't move. Only the barest nod of her head, rustling her hair against the pillow, showed that she had heard him. He sighed and raised himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, his back to her.

‘I didn't mean for that to happen. I came after you to tell you that…' He paused, remembering with a cold, sickening feeling what she'd said.
I don't want love or tenderness or a happy ever after any more…
‘I just came to tell you that the answer is yes. I'll help you with the…the adoption.'

‘You don't have to. I shouldn't have asked.' There was a note of resignation in her voice that turned him inside out.

He got up stiffly. ‘No. You should. It's fine.' He looked down at her for a moment, feeling the knife in his gut twist. ‘We'll work out some way of…being together.'

For a long moment their eyes held and a fathomless sea of unspoken words swelled between them.

‘OK,' Lily said very quietly. ‘Thank you.'

‘It's the least I can do.'

He went over to the chair that stood against the wall and sat down.

‘What are you doing?' she said in a small voice.

‘I'll sleep here tonight.'

He hadn't expected her to argue, but it still hurt that she didn't. She lay down with a soft sigh and turned her back towards him, reminding him unbearably of the time in the hospital. In the soft grey light he watched her, until the delicate ridge of her spine, her creamy shoulder, the pale undersides of her narrow feet had faded into the gathering darkness.

‘S
O,
M
RS
R
OMERO…
It's all right if I call you Mrs Romero, is it? Only I don't think your full name, or—er—your
title
would fit on the forms.'

‘No, no, of course. That's fine.' Lily caught the sharp, critical edge in Miss Squires's voice, but forced herself to ignore it. She could call Lily whatever she damn well liked as long as it brought her closer to getting a child at the end of all this.

They were sitting in the Primrose Hill garden in the shade of the cherry tree. Laying the little French café table with a polka dotted cloth earlier Lily had hoped that Miss Squires would be won round by the rectangle of lawn that would be perfect for kicking a ball around, and the cherry tree that was crying out for a pram beneath it. But that was before she'd met Miss Squires. She looked as if it would take a lot more to win her round—a lifetime subscription to an ecological group and a fondness for knitting, for a start. Lily watched as she busily ticked boxes on the paper in front of her, trying not to let her heart sink.

‘Please forgive me for asking,' said Miss Squires with a little laugh. ‘We don't have a huge number of marquesas applying for adoption. Your husband would say the same about the title, would he—
if
he were here?'

‘Absolutely. My husband never uses his title. It's really an irrelevance.'

Miss Squires's thin brows shot up beyond the rim of her
glasses and she quickly wrote something on the paper. ‘So, where exactly is he, Mrs Romero? It is usual for us to see both partners at a home assessment meeting, you know.'

‘I know,' Lily said quickly, ‘and he sends his most sincere apologies. He got held up at work, but he'll be here any moment now.' Tristan had telephoned half an hour ago to say that he'd just landed the helicopter at London City Airport and was on his way. The bit about apologising sincerely was a slight overstatement.

‘And where does he work?'

‘Barcelona.'

‘I see.' Miss Squires' tone suggested she'd been to Barcelona and not enjoyed the experience.

‘In a bank,' Lily added desperately, as if that made it better somehow. She sup pressed a sigh of sheer frustration and sprang to her feet. ‘Let me just get some more biscuits,' she said, picking up the empty plate and going towards the house. Anything to buy a few moments of breathing space. She had understood that the process would be difficult, but already she felt as if she were taking part in some kind of examination where the questions were in code.

The kitchen was quiet in the buttery late morning sunlight. A salmon she was mari nading in the hope that it might make it look as if she and Tristan often shared cosy dinners at home lay on a dish on the side. As Lily arranged the last of the biscuits—home-made that morning; was that good or did it show she had too much time on her hands?—on the plate she had the feeling its glassy eye was looking at her critically.

Get a grip,
she told herself shortly. After all, if she, with her commitment to the programme, couldn't cope, how the hell could she expect Tristan to?

Miss Squires looked up as she came back outside into the sunlight. ‘I can see from my notes that you haven't been married very long, Mrs Romero. Just a year. That's a very short time compared to other couples on our waiting list. I think I
remember reading about your marriage in the newspapers. It was rather sudden, wasn't it?'

Lily's heart plummeted as she set the biscuits down on the table.
Oh, God. Our adoption process is being handled by someone who reads the tabloids.
For a split second it crossed her mind that Miss Squires was not actually a local au thority social worker but an undercover journalist out to get to the definitive story on the Romero marriage. The press interest in this subject had been intense over the past few weeks, and Tristan had an unfailing instinct for courting it to perfection, with the result that a rash of pictures had appeared in papers of them walking hand in hand on Primrose Hill, or kissing outside the house.

Seeing these pictures always cut Lily to the core.

Forcing her mind back to the question, she attempted what she hoped was a confident smile.

‘Not really' she said, resisting the urge to cross her fingers. ‘I'm afraid the papers don't always know the full story.'

Miss Squires looked a little piqued at this, and Lily realised she'd scored a hollow victory. ‘I see. Would you say that press attention is a major issue for you and your husband?'

‘Yes—I mean, no.' Lily felt the heat rise to her cheeks. There was no point in trying to hide the truth over this—the woman would have had to have been an illiterate Martian not to have been aware of the paparazzi interest in their marriage and Tristan's reputation as a reformed playboy, but she sensed it would not go down well to be too honest. ‘Obviously we both have a reasonably high profile, so it's something we have to live with, but we're planning to move out of London in the near future, which will give us a lot more privacy.'

‘I see. And where are you planning on moving to?'

‘We've found a house in Cornwall, by the sea. It's deep in the countryside, miles from anywhere really, which should keep the paparazzi away.' Lily couldn't stop the smile from spreading across her face as she spoke. Dolphin House was perfect—closer to her childhood dream than she had ever dared to hope, with a yard at the back for chickens and a little sunny
paddock where they could keep a pony. It also came with a mile of private beach. Miss Squires didn't have to know that what it didn't come with was Tristan, on any long-term basis anyway.

Lily dragged her mind away from the edge of that particularly lethal chasm, back to what the social worker was saying.

‘…very isolated. We find our children thrive in communities where there is access to support groups and social workers and other families coping with similar issues. You might like to reconsider a move away from London at this stage. We recommend that change is kept to a minimum during the adoption process, since it inevitably disrupts things. For that reason we also insist that, whatever fertility problems you may have had, you resume using contraception. What method would be best for you?'

Lily couldn't stop a bitterly ironic laugh from escaping her. ‘I can assure you there's no need for any method at all,' she said in a low voice. Tristan hadn't touched her since the night in the tower at Scarlet's wedding.

‘Mrs Romero? Experience shows that even in couples who have experienced years of fertility difficulties, pregnancy can still occur, and for obvious reasons this would instantly eliminate you from the adoption procedure. Unless you're telling me that you and your husband have no sex life at all…'

She gave a little conspiratorial laugh at this, indicating that the idea of being in a sexless marriage with a man as gorgeous and famously sexy as Tristan Romero was utterly preposterous. Lily felt her nails digging into the palm of her hand.

She was right.

It was preposterous.

‘I'm telling you that after I lost my baby the doctors had to operate to stop the bleeding,' Lily replied tonelessly. ‘I had a hysterectomy. So you see, pregnancy would be a physical impos sibility.'

‘I see. And was Mr Romero supportive during that difficult time?'

Lily dropped her gaze to where her hands twisted the flowersprigged cotton of her designed-to-look-wholesome skirt. From inside the house came a noise, like a door slamming.

‘Yes,' Lily said quietly. Any minute now God was going to strike her down for all these lies, but in this case the truth wasn't really an option.

The older woman's face softened a little. ‘What was it that first attracted you to him?'

Lily looked her straight in the eye. ‘His strength. I don't mean physically, but he has this sort of aura about him that tells you you're safe. That he'll look after you, and somehow, no matter what, everything will be all right because he'll make it all right—'

‘Why, thank you,
querida
.'

The dry, husky voice behind her made Lily jump. Whirling round in her seat, she saw Tristan standing in the kitchen doorway. He was dressed for the office, but his tie was loose and his collar unbuttoned and he held his jacket over one shoulder. For a moment their eyes met, and Lily felt the usual shyness that assaulted her afresh every time she saw him. Then, remembering the presence of Miss Squires and its purpose, she got awkwardly to her feet.

Perhaps Tristan remembered at the same time, because as she went towards him he came down the steps to meet her, one arm outstretched to take her into an easy, loving embrace. He kissed her on the mouth, firmly, lingering just long enough to look like a husband who had been away and missed his wife.

Lily's heart turned over with gratitude.

And love, of course. But she was trying to wean herself off that particularly destructive habit.

‘Darling, come and meet Miss Squires. She's going to be our case officer now we're starting the process properly. I'll make a fresh pot of tea.'

Tristan leaned over and took Miss Squires's rather limp
hand in his own strong one, and before she turned to go into the kitchen Lily saw the older woman colour slightly. As he sat down Miss Squires rearranged her papers busily and quite unnecessarily. ‘So Mr Romero, I'm glad you could join us,' she said briskly. ‘I've already had the chance to talk a bit to your wife, so now it's time to find out about you. Why don't you start by telling me about your parents?'

 

‘What would you like to know?'

It was like being trapped in some private nightmare. An individually tailored version of his own personal hell, with every element hand-selected by sadists who knew his every weakness and wanted to expose his darkest fears.

And this particular sadist was disguised in a deceptively harmless-looking hand-knitted jumper and called herself a social worker. Tristan looked up at the leafy branches of the tree and made a conscious effort to relax, and not to show the tension that had suddenly turned his shoulders to granite. Lily's garden was lovely and usually he found the house in Primrose Hill oddly soothing after a high-pressure week in Barcelona or at one of the charitable projects, which he had now set up in two African countries as well as Khazakismir. Not today though. Right now even Tom's wedding reception seemed like a day at the seaside…

The voice of the social worker cut through his thoughts. She was looking at him steadily. ‘What sort of childhood did you have?'

Tristan gave her a bland smile. ‘Very privileged. I grew up in a big house with servants and a swimming pool. We were very lucky.'

‘We? Who's we, Mr Romero? You and your brothers and sisters?'

Tristan felt the smile die on his lips, but kept it there with some effort. ‘Me and my…brother.'

‘Just one?'

Lily came out of the house carrying a tray. She was wearing
a simple white blouse with little cap sleeves and a short cotton skirt strewn with daisies that made her look fresh and pure and sweet. Tristan felt his heart lurch.

He had to do this for her.

‘Yes,' he said, tersely. ‘Just one. Nico. He's ten years younger than me. He works in a charity based in Madrid.'

Miss Squires was writing everything down, and Tristan was glad that her eyes were directed at the paper in front of her rather than at him.

‘Not in the bank?'

‘No.' Tristan had made sure of that. He'd sacrificed finishing his degree and doing something he wanted in life to make sure of that.

‘What about your parents?' Miss Squires said, clearly deciding that Nico was of little interest. ‘Are you close to them?'

Across the table Lily's eyes met his. They were soft and sunlight dappled, and they reached out to him. Looking into them, holding on, he said tonelessly, ‘I see them quite often. I work alongside my father.'

Miss Squires looked up. ‘That's not really what I'm asking.'

Gently Lily placed a pale blue pottery mug of tea in front of him. Tristan rubbed his fingers wearily across his eyes. ‘Why do you want to know this?

‘This is the next part of the process, Mr Romero,' said Miss Squires slightly archly. ‘I think you've done the basic induction days, where you've heard a bit about some of the issues faced by the children in the adoption system?'

Tristan tried to keep the grimace from his face as he remembered the three grim Saturdays spent in a community centre in North London being told about the physical effects on babies born to mothers addicted to drugs or alcohol, the mental effects of neglect, violence or abuse.

Areas he was pretty much expert in already. At times he had felt like getting up and giving the talk himself.

‘Well,' the social worker continued, with a small shake of
her head at Lily's offer of sugar, ‘this is the time when we find out more about you. About what kind of person you are, which will help us match you to a child. We feel that the experiences people had when they were children play a crucial role in defining what kind of parents they'll end up becoming.'

No kidding.

‘It's important to be as honest as you can—things have a habit of coming out further down the line anyway. Were you close to your mother, would you say?'

This must be how it feels to stand on the gallows,
thought Tristan bleakly.
This realisation that there's no longer any possibility of running or hiding.
‘Not really,' he said stiffly. ‘My mother's only close relationship is with alcohol, and I was sent to boarding school in England when I was eight.'

Behind her glasses the social worker blinked. ‘How did you feel about that?'

‘Absolutely delighted.'

Miss Squires looked deeply shocked, as if he'd just admitted to a fondness for tor turing kittens. ‘Really? So you're in favour of sending children away to be educated in impersonal institutions, away from the family?'