Читать книгу The Faithful Wife - Diana Hamilton - Страница 6

PROLOGUE

CHRISTMAS morning.

Bella leaned towards the mirror and stroked bright scarlet onto her lush mouth. A flag of defiance? Or an attempt to remind herself that she was still alive?

She recapped the lipstick and dropped it into her bag, then shrugged a soft leather jacket over the misty-heather sweater that matched her worn denims. She breathed irritably through her nostrils as her hair caught beneath the collar. Grabbing the long, silky black length of it in both hands, she secured it punitively in an elastic band.

It had once been her trademark—or one of her trademarks. Her silky jet hair, her lush scarlet mouth and the startling contrast of water-clear silver eyes had earned her the envied, yet oddly unenviable position of top photographic model of the decade.

A position of make-believe, of clever camera angles, exotic backdrops and the wizardry of the makeup artist—a position she’d gladly jettisoned when she’d married Jake. Preferring reality, as she’d perceived it then. The reality of being the wife of one of the most successful financial brains to work in the City, the sexiest, most charismatic, strong-minded man she had ever met. Jake Fox.

But the reality had been his, not hers. The real world had proved a hard place to live in when his reality had been his inability to give her what she wanted.

They had met and married in a breathtakingly short space of time. For him, she now knew, it had been lust at first sight. For her something different—so different that it meant a meeting point was impossible. She pushed that thought out of her head.

It was over. She had to keep that stark reality to the forefront of her mind.

She wouldn’t think about anything else—the might-have-beens or if-onlys. Not now. Not until she could begin to hope to cope with it.

Snatching up her hastily packed case, she walked from the bedroom where memories of their lost and glorious passion seemed to echo mockingly from the very walls. She dared not risk a backward glance because if she did she feared she might change her mind and stay until he decided to come home, then beg for the chance to try again, and resign herself to a life of shattered dreams.

But she had too much self-respect for that. He had proved himself incapable of giving her what was her due. She couldn’t allow herself to live with that.

Her chin lifted with stoic determination as she walked through to the elegant sitting room, avoiding the state-of-the-art kitchen where last night’s celebration meal was cold and congealing in delicate bone china serving dishes.

Her fingers were shaking as she took the note from her bag. She’d written it in the early hours, after he’d walked in unexpectedly on her and Guy; after that blisteringly savage word he’d thrown at her; after he’d walked out to heaven only knew where.

It was to have been their third wedding anniversary celebration, and it had turned into a wake.

When he’d phoned from the States four days ago she’d begged him to wrap up his business meetings and get home for their anniversary. A quiet celebration for two. She’d told him they had to talk and find a way through to each other. His tone had been gentler, more loving than she’d heard it in ages, when he’d assured her he’d be home in good time—as if he, too, knew they had to cement the cracks instead of blindly papering them over; as if he too needed to draw closer, reaffirm their vows.

But he hadn’t come. All day she’d waited, made preparations, planning the perfect menu, choosing his favourite wine, dressing herself at last in the little black silk creation he always said made her look sexy enough to short circuit his brain. All the time listening, ears straining for the sound of him walking through the door, her eyes flicking repeatedly to her tiny gold-banded wrist-watch, her pulse rate quickening with mounting anxiety.

By ten she’d just about given up hope, given up entirely on the spoiled meal. And when she’d heard the phone ring out half an hour later she’d picked it up, almost sobbing with relief. She’d been convinced it was Jake, letting her know he’d been delayed, apologising, letting her know he was on his way.

When it had turned out to be Guy Maclaine, business associate and long-time friend, calling to wish her merry Christmas and tell her his wonderful news, she’d gone to pieces, angry tears flooding down the phone lines because Jake had obviously forgotten his promise to be here. And because her relationship with Guy went back years, was very special, he’d come straight round. And half an hour later—wouldn’t you know it?—Jake had walked in.

By then, of course, it had been too late.

She propped the note against the empty wine bottle on one of the glass-topped tables where he would be sure to see it—if and when he returned. It, the bottle and the single glass were the only discordant notes in what was otherwise a perfect room. It took some doing, as much courage as she had, because that farewell letter was so final. It ended their marriage.

But she did it. She had no real choice. And took several moments to compose herself, standing by the great sweep of the windows that looked out over the Docklands development.

Everywhere, as far as the eye could see, amidst the sprawling tense unseen family gatherings, then a stiffening of her spine. This was the worst Christmas Day she had ever had to face. But she wouldn’t think about it.

Bella took up her case and walked out.