Читать книгу Kathleen Tessaro 3-Book Collection: The Flirt, The Debutante, The Perfume Collector - Kathleen Tessaro, Kathleen Tessaro - Страница 32

Without turning on the lights, Olivia walked into the empty house. It was late. The stifling, Indian summer day had faded into a warm, close evening. Light from the street lamps streamed in through the open windows. It was so hot. She was stiff and tired. Pushing a damp strand of long blonde hair back from her face, she kicked off her sandals, walking across the cool marble floor.

There was a note on the hall table.

Guest room appalling. Have checked into the Dorchester for foreseeable future.

Arnaud

It was in Gaunt’s handwriting. Arnaud had obviously dictated it to him.

She crumbled the paper into a ball and let it drop to the floor.

She was exhausted, worn out from his scenes and tantrums. What did it matter who saw it now?

Climbing the stairs, she made her way to her room.

There was the bed, their bed; beautifully made with expensive linens, piled with elaborate needlepoint pillows. But true to his word, everything of Arnaud’s was gone; his books and papers were no longer stacked on the bedside table, his dressing gown no longer hung on the back of the bedroom door.

Olivia opened the wardrobe; a rattle of empty hangers greeted her.

Nothing, not even a stray shoelace was left.

She looked round.

His absence was as tangible as his presence had been. The room felt not just empty but unexpectedly bereft.

There was something else …

Near the window, the old overstuffed armchair Arnaud loved was gone. There was a clear plastic Philippe Starck Ghost chair in its place. He’d obviously appropriated the other one, had this put in its place. Light and transparent; it seemed flimsy in comparison; insubstantial; a joke.

She sat down on the edge of the bed.

Clothes were one thing but furniture signalled something more permanent. Was this the beginning of a larger rift; first separate rooms then separate houses? Had things really progressed so far? Dread gnawed at her heart.

Dinner with Pollard.

How many times this week had he had dinner with Pollard?

And then she knew.

Getting up, she padded downstairs, a mounting sense of inevitability pulling her towards Arnaud’s study.

The evidence was easy to find. There they were, in neat piles with the other household bills, waiting to be filed on his desk. He hadn’t even bothered to hide them – receipts for jewellery she hadn’t been given, the hotels she hadn’t enjoyed, the restaurants she’d never been to. He’d simply assumed she was too stupid, too trusting even to look.

He was having an affair.

Olivia’s knees gave way beneath her. She crumpled, cheek pressed against the cool wood floor.

Cut loose like a bit of flotsam; she floated, weightless and numb.

Night pressed in around her, airless, thick and black.

Juan was waiting for Leticia by the nurse’s station. He was shorter than she’d remembered and looked older; conservatively dressed in a navy windbreaker and jeans. The vision of him as a flamboyant Brazilian wild child was instantly smashed.

‘Where is he?’

‘Near the window’ He took her arm, leading her onto the ward.

They stopped in front of the bed. Juan gently pulled back the curtain. Leo was asleep, a drip in his arm. Monitors beeped reassuringly but his breathing was laboured, skin pale and forehead damp. His legs looked like two sticks under the sheets.

‘When did you find him?’

‘This afternoon. He’d fallen. Luckily I had a set of keys. Usually, I check on him twice a day.’

‘I see.’

He’d been his carer, not his lover. Leticia felt sobered, ashamed. Leo had needed a nurse and she hadn’t even realized.

‘I called an ambulance. He’s got pneumonia and a bad kidney infection. They’re giving him high doses of antibiotics.’

‘But how? How did it come on so fast?’

‘When the system is weak to begin with …’ his voice trailed off.

‘He was sick before? I mean really sick, not just a cold?’

Juan was silent.

‘He was sick before,’ she said again, remembering the prescription bottles.

‘Yes. He has been unwell for a while.’

How could she not know?

She touched his hand. It was clammy. ‘These blankets aren’t warm enough. Look at how thin they are!’

‘He has a fever. Too many and he will only kick them off.’ He smiled. He had a nice smile. ‘You know Leo.’

He offered her a chair. ‘I’ll get you a cup of tea. With sugar. You’ve had a shock.’

She watched as he headed down the hall then looked round. The ward was filled with other old people, dying, alone. Terror gripped her.

Leticia sat down and took his hand again.

His eyes flicked open.

‘Emily Ann!’

She squeezed his fingertips.

‘Here I am.’

‘Emily!’

‘It’s all right, I’m right here.’

His voice was hoarse. ‘I … I must tell you something …’

‘Yes?’ she leant in.

‘That look doesn’t suit you, darling.’

He smiled.

She kissed his fingertips. ‘Neither does yours.’

He closed his eyes again. ‘It seems we’ve let ourselves go.’

He slipped back into the thick fog of sleep.

His hand went limp in hers.

She was alone.