Читать книгу Reunited: Marriage In A Million - Liz Fielding - Страница 8

SHOPPING was not Belle’s usual method of displacement activity, but when she’d finally woken on Sunday the reality of what she’d done, of being alone—not just alone in her bed but alone for ever—had suddenly hit home and the day seemed to stretch like a desert ahead of her.

Finding herself sitting at her computer, waiting for an email with news of Daisy, leaping on an incoming message, only to discover it was some unspeakably vile spam, she forced herself to move.

She didn’t know how the Adoption Register worked, but it was the weekend and it seemed unlikely she’d hear from anyone before the middle of the week at the earliest. More likely the middle of next month.

For the moment there was nothing more she could do and, besides, she had a much more immediate problem. She had nothing to wear for work on Monday.

Clearly, she rationalized, the sensible thing would be to call Ivo and arrange to go and pick up at least part of her wardrobe. She had a new pale pink suit that would show off her tan, look great with her new hair colouring. And she had to have shoes. There were a hundred things…

Or maybe just one.

Last night she’d felt so utterly alone. She had yearned for that brief flare of passion in Ivo’s eyes. To know that there was one person in the world who needed her, if only for a moment.

Pathetic.

But if she went back today, if he launched another attack on her senses when she was at her lowest, she suspected she would not be strong enough to resist. And what then?

If, by some miracle, she found Daisy, she would be torn in two. She would have to deny Daisy a second time or tell him everything. Tell him that, far from being up front and honest with him, she had lied and lied and lied. That he didn’t know the woman he’d married.

And she’d lose him all over again.

At least this way she retained some dignity, the possibility that if, when, the truth came out, he would—maybe—understand. Be grateful for the distance. Even be happy for her.

Which was all very well and noble, but it still left her with the problem of what she was going to wear tomorrow.

Since she needed to get out of the flat before she succumbed to temptation, she dealt with both problems in one stroke and called a taxi—no more chauffeur on tap—and took herself off to one of the vast shopping outlets that had sprung up around London and lost herself among the crowds.

She had been told often enough that the golden rule was to change your hair or change your clothes but not both at the same time. As she flipped through the racks of clothes, she ignored it. She was done with living by other people’s rules.

She fell in love with an eau-de-nil semi-tailored jacket. Exactly the kind of thing her style ‘guru’ had warned her not to wear. She wasn’t tall enough or thin enough to carry it off, apparently. On the contrary, she barely made five and a half feet and her figure was of the old-fashioned hourglass shape. But all that cycling had at least had one good outcome—she was trimmer all over. And with her hair cut short she felt taller.

She lifted the collar, pushed up the sleeves and was rewarded with a smile from the saleswoman.

‘That looks great on you.’ Then, ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you look a lot like Belle Davenport?’

‘No,’ she said truthfully. Then, ‘She wouldn’t wear something like this, would she?’

‘No, but you’re thinner than her. And taller.’

Belle grinned. ‘You think so? They do say that television adds ten pounds.’

‘Trust me, you look fabulous.’

She felt fabulous, but she was so accustomed to listening to advice that she had little confidence in her own judgement. But the other jackets—neat, waist-hugging ‘Belle Davenport’ style jackets in pastel colours—that she’d tried were more expensive, so the woman had no incentive to lie.

‘Thank you,’ she said. And bought its twin in a fine brown tweedy mixture that looked perfect with her new hair and matched her eyes. Then she set about teaming them with soft cowl necks, classic silk shirts, trousers—she always wore skirts on air—and neat ankle boots.

More than once, as she browsed through the racks, she saw someone take a second glance, but her new haircut and George’s brilliant streaky blend of light brown through to sun-kissed blonde—his very inventive interpretation of cheerful mouse—fooled them. She couldn’t possibly be who they thought she was.

There was an exhilarating freedom in this moment of anonymity and when she spotted a photo booth she piled in with her packages, grinning into the camera as she posed for a picture so that she could share the joke with Claire and Simone.

Then she passed an interior design shop.

She wasn’t the only one that needed a make-over and if time was going to be hanging heavy on her hands she might as well make a start on the flat.

When she was done there, she was so laden with the in-house designer’s print outs, swatches, carpet squares and colour charts that she had to call it a day and take another taxi. At which point she wondered about buying herself a car.

One of her very early ‘make a fool of Belle’ projects for the television had been a driving course. Not that much of a fool, actually, since she’d taken to it like a duck to water and ended up doing an off-road course, a circuit in a grand prix car and driving a double-decker bus through a skid test. And earned herself another contract.

She’d bought a little car then, but once she’d married Ivo there had always been a chauffeur in town and there had been no point in keeping it.

The taxi driver was a mine of information on the subject and by the time he delivered her to her door he’d made a call arranging for her to test drive a zippy little BMW convertible the following afternoon.

‘You did what?’

She hadn’t long been home from the studio on Monday afternoon when the doorbell rang.

Her first thought was that it was the press who, following up her appearance on the television that morning, would be clamouring for the story behind her ‘new look’. Since neither her agent nor her PR consultant could answer their questions—she hadn’t talked to either of them yet—the gossip columnists would have called the house, which meant they would now have a much bigger story.

That she was no longer living with Ivo. That the ‘perfect’ marriage was over.

Of course it could be her agent—he kept a television on in his office so that he could keep an eye on his clients—demanding to know what on earth she thought she was doing, messing with success. Ruining the image he’d gone to so much trouble and expense—he always took expenditure personally, even when it was her money he was spending—to build. Anxious to arrange interviews, a photo session so that he could ‘sell’ her new look. Wanting to know what spin the PR guys should put on the fact that she’d moved out of the family home, since, like the press, he’d go there first.

A new romance for her? Positive, upbeat, radiant…

A cheating husband? Sympathetic, brave…

A marriage that had collapsed under the strain of the pressure of their careers? Very sad. Still good friends…

She’d seen it all a hundred times.

The light on the answering machine had been flashing when she’d got home. She had ignored it, just as she now ignored the doorbell.

Instead, she was glued to her laptop, anxiously checking through the messages to see if there was anything from the Adoption Register.

Nothing. Instead she clicked on the site she’d bookmarked, the one with personal adoption stories.

A second longer peal on the bell warned her that whoever was at the front door wasn’t about to go away and, knowing that she would have to face the music sooner rather than later, she picked up the entry phone.

‘Yes?’ she said, her voice neutral.

‘Belle…’

She caught her breath, almost doubling up with shock at the sound of Ivo’s voice…

No…

It was the middle of the afternoon. He should be in his office, all of London at his feet, both figuratively and metaphorically. He didn’t do ‘personal’, not in office hours. Not ever…

She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, just buzzed him up, taking the time it took for him to walk up to her flat—an old converted town house, there were no lifts—to recover. Taking those few moments to put herself back together before she opened the door.