Читать книгу The Three-Year Itch - Liz Fielding - Страница 8

Two hours later Abbie, dressed in a loose-fitting pair of heavy slub silk trousers in her favourite bitter chocolate colour and a soft creamy peach top that glowed against her tanned skin and hair, bleached to a streaked blonde by the sun, was discussing the layout of her feature for the colour supplement of a major newspaper with her commissioning editor. Her photographs had been forwarded by courier and now the two of them were bent over the light box, deciding which ones to use.

‘You’ve done a great job, Abbie. This photograph of the mother getting into that tiny plane to fly up into the hills to start looking all over again—’

‘I tried to stop her. If only I could have gone with her …’

‘No. That’s the right place to end it. A touch of hope, bags of determination and courage. A mother alone, searching for her missing child. You deserve an award for this one.’

‘I don’t deserve anything, Steve,’ she said, suddenly disgusted with herself for being so pleased with the finished result. ‘I just hope she’s all right. Anything could happen to her up there and no one would ever know.’

Steve Morley gave her a sharp look. ‘You sound as if you’ve got just a little bit too emotionally involved in this one, Abbie. You were there to record what happened, not become responsible for the result. The woman has made her decision. It’s her daughter. And your story will make a difference …’

‘Will it? I wish I thought so.’

‘Trust me,’ he said firmly. ‘Come on, I’ll take you out to lunch.’

Trust. An emotive word. But without it there was nothing. Was too much time apart eroding that precious commodity between her and Grey? She would trust him with her life, and yet … and yet … There were too many gaps, too many empty spaces yawning dangerously between them. Baby or not, her mind was made up. She wouldn’t be going away again.

As they made their way down in the lift Steve distracted her by asking her where she would like to eat, and reluctantly she let go of her thoughts about the future to concentrate on more immediate concerns. ‘I’ve found this really good Indian restaurant,’ he continued, ‘but after two weeks on the sub-continent, I don’t suppose you’d be interested—’

‘You suppose right, Mr Morley,’ she interrupted, very firmly. Then she grinned. ‘Now, how good did you say that feature was?’

Steve groaned. ‘L’Escargot?’

‘L’Escargot,’ she affirmed with a grin. ‘Upstairs.’

Lunch was a light-hearted affair, with Steve bringing her up to date on what had been happening during her absence and offering several suggestions for future features.

‘How do you feel about a month in the States for us?’ He continued hurriedly as he saw she was about to object, ‘Human interest stuff in the deep South—Atlanta. It’s the sort of thing you’re particularly good at. Although since your charming husband got a decent price for his Degas at auction last week I don’t suppose you actually need the money,’ he added, with an offhand little shrug.

The Degas? Sold? Despite the whirl of conflicting emotions storming through her brain she wasn’t fooled by Steve Morley’s casual manner. He had hoped to take her unawares, provoke some unguarded response. If he thought the Lockwood family were in any sort of financial trouble he would want to know. It was probably the whole reason for this lunch. ‘You don’t normally cover the art market, do you, Steve?’ she asked, arching her fine brows in apparent surprise. ‘I mean, doesn’t that take brains …?’

He grinned, aware that he had been caught out, but was unrepentant. ‘I cover everything that has the Lockwood name attached to it, and if you’re ever seriously in need of funds, Abbie, I’m always deeply interested in brother Robert’s doings.’

‘I thought we had an agreement? You don’t ask me about Robert and I’ll continue to work for you.’

He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t hurt to remind you now and again that I’m always receptive to a change of heart.’

‘Forget it. And Atlanta. I’m not in the market for overseas work for a while.’

‘The old man getting a bit restive, is he?’ He had gone straight to the heart of the matter, and she had known Steve too long to attempt to string him some line.

‘Even the best marriage needs to be worked at, Steve.’

‘I won’t argue with that. I only wish my wife had been quite so dedicated.’ He shrugged. ‘And if the pretty piece I saw Grey having lunch with last week is anything to go by, I’d say you haven’t left it a day too long.’

‘Pretty piece?’ Abbie felt the smile freeze on her face.

Steve shrugged. ‘From what you said, I thought you must at least suspect something was up …’

‘Suspect something?’ It had been a moment’s shock, that was all. On top of everything else that had happened she should have been reeling. But if there was one thing of which she was absolutely certain it was this: if her husband had been lunching with another woman, there had to be some perfectly rational explanation. ‘Oh, Steve, really!’ she chided, even managing a small laugh to show him how ridiculous such an idea was. But she knew it would need more than that. Taking his hand between her fingers, she regarded him solemnly with large grey eyes. ‘Would you like me to tell you something that has just occurred to me?’ she asked. ‘Something rather amusing?’

Relieved that she was apparently not about to have hysterics, Steve smiled. ‘Fire away.’

‘It’s just that … well, I wondered what Grey would say if someone mentioned to him that they had seen me having lunch upstairs at L’Escargot with one of the best looking men in London.’ And she leaned forward and kissed him, very lightly on the lips, before releasing his hand. It was a reproach. A gentle one, but it wasn’t lost on her companion.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Point taken. I suppose I jumped to the most obvious conclusion because you were away … A bad habit. My only excuse is that I started out on a gossip column.’

‘It’s a bad habit that will cost you the biggest bowl of strawberries in this house,’ she replied sweetly.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, summoning the waiter, but somehow they didn’t taste of anything very much, although she forced herself to eat every one. And when Steve dropped her off outside her home, she didn’t go straight inside, but walked across the road to a small park, occupied in the middle of the afternoon by nannies, identifiable only by their youth and the expensive coach-built prams they wheeled before them in the sunshine, and middle-aged ladies walking small, immaculately groomed dogs.

Surely she was right? Grey was straight down the line. If he had found someone else he would tell her. He could never have made love to her like he had yesterday if he was having an affair, could he? Except that he had never before made love to her in that desperate, almost angry way. And then, afterwards, he had left her without a backward glance.

Oh, that was ridiculous, she chided herself. She was feeling bruised by their row, that was all. But even as she sat in the sunshine, convincing herself of the fact that he loved her, she wondered why she felt the need to do so. They were the perfect couple, after all. Teased by their friends because they were always the first to leave a party, envied for the freedom they were able to give one another, the almost transparent trust.

And yet were things quite so perfect? Grey’s willingness to co-operate with a career that took her away regularly had always, to her, seemed a demonstration of how much he loved and trusted her. She had always rather pitied friends who hinted they would never leave a man that good-looking on his own for more than five minutes, let alone five days. But now little things that hadn’t seemed important suddenly took on a new significance. Grey had had a series of late nights working on a difficult case just before she went to Karachi. Yet he had once said that the need to work late betrayed one of two things: a man incompetent at his job, or a man unwilling to go home to his wife. And Grey was certainly not incompetent.

She caught herself, unable to believe the direction in which her mind was travelling. The fact that Steve had seen him having lunch with another woman meant nothing. She was probably a client, or a colleague. Even if she was nothing whatsoever to do with his work she trusted him, for heaven’s sake. It was certainly no more sinister than her lunch with Steve. The whole thing was utter nonsense. She was just edgy with him because of that stupid row. And if he had sold the Degas because of financial worries, that would certainly explain his reluctance to start a family, his reluctance for her to give up lucrative assignments. If only he had explained, trusted her. Trust. The word seemed to be everywhere today.

Happier, she was even willing to concede that his reaction to her immediate desire for a baby had been justified. She had been so full of her plans that she had expected him to leap into line without a thought. Well, she could start the necessary reorganisation of her life without making an issue of it. In fact she had already begun. No more overseas assignments.

She would tell him all about it when they were at the cottage. A couple of weeks at Ty Bach would give them a chance to talk when they were more relaxed, time to discuss the future properly. She should have waited until then to broach her plans. And, feeling considerably happier, Abbie stood up, dusted herself off and walked briskly back to the flat.

Yet Grey’s key in the lock just after six brought an unexpected nervous catch to her throat.

‘Abbie?’ He came to the kitchen doorway and leaned against the door, smiling a little as if pleased to see her there. ‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’ A little shy, just a little formal. ‘You’re early.’

‘Mmm,’ he agreed. ‘I asked the boss if I could leave early so that I could take my wife out.’

‘Idiot,’ she murmured, laughing softly. ‘You are the boss.’

‘Obviously a very good one …’ he said, walking across to her and resting his hands lightly about her waist. There was only the slightest tenseness about his eyes to betray what they both knew. That this was a peace overture. ‘I said yes.’

So that was the way he was going to deal with it. Pretend last night had never happened. Love means never having to say that you’re sorry? Maybe. She lifted her hands to his shoulders, raised herself a little on her toes and kissed him, very lightly. ‘Thank you for the rose.’

‘I’m glad you liked it.’ His face relaxed into a smile. ‘I risked life and limb climbing over the park railings to pick it for you.’

‘Grey!’ she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth at the idea of a sober-suited solicitor clambering over the park fence at dawn. ‘You didn’t!’ He lifted one brow. ‘Idiot!’ she exclaimed. ‘Suppose someone had seen you?’

‘If it made you happy it was worth the risk.’ He put one arm about her to draw her closer, and with his other hand he raked back the thick fringe of hair that grew over her brow and dropped a kiss there. ‘Besides, I know I could rely on you to bake me a sponge with a file in it and ingeniously smuggle it into jail. Your cakes are so heavy that no one would suspect a thing.’

‘Idiot!’ she repeated, but this time flinging a punch at his shoulder.

‘Possibly,’ he agreed. ‘And I’ve got something else.’ He produced a pair of theatre tickets from his inside pocket and held them before her eyes. ‘You did want to see this?’

‘Grey! How on earth did you manage to get hold of them?’ she demanded, eagerly reaching for them so that she could see for herself. ‘They’re like golddust.’

He smiled at her reaction. ‘You’ll have to retract the “idiot” first,’ he warned her, holding them tantalisingly out of her reach.

‘Unreservedly. Heavens, all this attention will go to my head,’ she said happily, leaning her head against his chest.

‘Oh? And who else has been spoiling you?’

‘Only Steve Morley. He took me out to lunch,’ she added, lifting her head to look into his eyes. Was she hoping for some immediate confession about his own lunch date? If so, she was disappointed.

‘Lucky Steve,’ he said, with just a touch of acid in his voice. It was not lost on Abbie. Grey had never said anything, but Abbie sensed a certain reserve in his enthusiasm for that particular journalist and his newspaper. But then, since they took particular relish in hounding his brother, Robert Lockwood, a politician and the most glamorous member of the government front benches—including the women—that was hardly surprising.

‘Did he take you somewhere nice?’ She told him and his brows rose to a satisfactory height. ‘Spoilt indeed,’ he said, releasing her and crossing to the fridge to extract a carton of juice. ‘He must have been very pleased with your feature.’

‘Very—in fact he immediately offered me a month in America.’

‘I’m impressed,’ he said, without much enthusiasm, as he tipped the juice into the glass.

‘And so you should be,’ she declared, and, just a little peeved by the lack of congratulations, didn’t bother to tell him that she had turned it down. ‘You’re apparently married to one hot property. Steve was talking about awards for the tug-of-love story.’

‘Just as well I didn’t leap at the chance of fatherhood, then.’ He sipped the juice. ‘So when will you be going?’

‘You wouldn’t mind?’ she asked, heart sinking just a little. ‘I’ve never been away that long before.’

‘We made a deal, Abbie. I’m not going to start coming the heavy husband now you’re on the brink of something special. You have to be available if you’re going to be a star.’

Being a star was becoming less attractive by the day. ‘I thought being good meant that you were able to pick and choose your assignments,’ she said. ‘Besides, what about our holiday? I’m looking forward to having you to myself for a couple of weeks.’

‘You’d trade two weeks at an isolated cottage in Wales for a month in the States?’ She would trade anything for two weeks alone with him, and it didn’t matter where, but he didn’t wait for her answer. ‘Anyway, there’s been a bit of a hitch about the cottage.’

‘Oh? I thought it was all arranged.’ Before she had gone away he had been full of plans. Most of them involving lying on the beach and doing absolutely nothing except making love for two weeks. He must have seen her disappointment, because he put down the glass and crossed to her.

‘I’m sorry, but Robert wants to use the cottage this summer, Abbie. It’s the one place the Press don’t know about; even if they found out, it’s hardly the easiest place to find, and the locals have a way of forgetting how to speak English when anybody starts getting nosy. He needs to spend some time with his family.’

Abbie felt a little stab of guilt. She had a very soft spot for her brother-in-law. Grey’s older brother was good-looking, brilliant—the youngest minister in the government. He should have been the happiest man alive. But he had a wife who kept him glued to her side with the threat of a scandal that would wipe out his career should he take one step to end their disastrous marriage. So he continued to play happy families for the benefit of the media, although he spent as much time as possible at his London flat and Jonathan, their son, was now at boarding-school.

‘How is Robert? I saw his photograph in the newspaper when I was on the plane. I thought he looked more at ease than I’ve seen him for a long time. Has there been some kind of reconciliation?’ she asked. ‘Is Susan going to the cottage with them?’

Grey didn’t answer, although his mouth hardened into a straight line. ‘Come on, let’s go out and enjoy ourselves.’ And it was only later, as she drifted off into sleep, that she remembered about the painting.

It was three days later that Abbie saw Grey with his ‘pretty piece’. She had been shopping and had decided to drop in and see if he could join her for lunch in a local wine bar they occasionally went to.

Her cab had just dropped her off outside the office when she saw his tall figure heading purposefully along the road and then turning into the small park in the square around the corner from his office. She set off after him. If he’d bought sandwiches to eat in the park she would happily share them.

The good weather had brought out the office workers in droves, and they were sitting on benches and lying on the grass, soaking up the sun. Abbie lifted her hand to shade her eyes and swept the area for Grey. For a moment she didn’t see him. Then she did. And in that moment she wished, more than anything in the world, that she hadn’t seen him. That she hadn’t followed him. That she had decided to stay at home and do some dusting. That she was anywhere but this small green City oasis.

A ‘pretty piece’ Steve had called her. Steve was right. But then he had a well-tuned eye when it came to a woman. She was small, with a delicate bone structure and the translucent complexion that so often went with very dark hair—hair that hung down her back, straight and shiny as a blackbird’s wing. Abbie felt a sharp stab of jealousy as she recognised that special kind of fragility that made men feel protective—the kind of fragility that she had never possessed as a self-consciously gawky teenager, a tall young woman.

Grey was the only man she had ever known who had to bend to kiss her, but never in the way he bent now to tenderly kiss the cheek of his dark beauty. Then he put his arm about her shoulder as he leaned forward over the padded baby buggy she was wheeling, reaching out to touch the tiny starfish fingers of the infant lying there. It was a scene of such touching domesticity that if he had been some unknown man she would have glanced at the pair of them and thought what a perfectly charming picture they made.

Abbie shrank back into the darker shade of the trees, her heart beating painfully, her throat aching with the urgent desire to scream, her hand clamped over her mouth to make sure she didn’t. She wanted to leave. Walk away. Run away from that place. The idea of spying on her own husband was so alien, so disgusting that she felt sick. But she remained rooted to the spot, unable to make her feet move, to tear her eyes from the two figures, or the baby lying gazing up at its mother, as they walked almost within touching distance of her on their slow circumnavigation of the path that rimmed the little park.

‘If there’s anything else you need, Emma, just ring me,’ Grey said as they passed, blithely unaware of Abbie standing motionless in the shadow of the trees. The girl murmured something that Abbie couldn’t hear and he shook his head. ‘At the office unless it’s an emergency.’ Then the girl looked up at Grey, her dark eyes anxious. ‘Yes, she came back a couple of days ago.’ There was apparently no need for further explanation. ‘I’ll take you down to the cottage as soon as …’

As they moved on, turned the corner, his voice no longer reached her. The cottage. He had arranged to take this girl called Emma to Ty Bach. All that talk about Robert had been lies … lies …

No wonder he had wanted her to go to America. He had other plans for his summer vacation. And it was hardly surprising that he didn’t want her to have a child. He hadn’t wasted much time in arranging for a job-share wife, it seemed. But obviously one family at a time was enough.

No, Abbie. A small voice inside her head issued an urgent warning. You’re leaping to conclusions. There might be a rational explanation. Must be. This was some girl from the office who had become pregnant, needed help. Or someone from the law centre. A client. No, not a client. He had kissed her, and kissing clients—even on the cheek—was asking for trouble. But something. Please God, something—anything. Think! But her brain was as responsive as cotton wool.

When the pair reached an unoccupied bench on the far side of the park, Emma sat down and Grey joined her, his arm stretched protectively along the back of the seat. They chatted easily for a while, laughed at some shared joke. Then Grey, glancing at his watch, produced an envelope from inside his jacket pocket. Emma took it, stowed it carefully in her bag without opening it and then, when Grey stood up, got quickly to her feet and hugged him. He held her for a moment, then, disengaging himself, he looked once more at the sleeping child and touched the baby’s dark curls before turning to walk briskly back towards the gate.

There had been nothing in their behaviour to excite interest. No passionate kiss, no lingering glances. They had looked for all the world like any happily married couple with a new baby, meeting in the park at lunchtime.

Abbie instinctively took a step further back into the cover of the bushes as Grey approached the gate, but he looked neither to left nor right. Then he crossed the road and stopped at a flower stall to buy a bunch of creamy pink roses, laughing at something the flower-seller said as he paid for them. A moment later he had disappeared from sight, and Abbie finally stepped out into the dazzling sunlight.

For once in her life—her ordered, planned, tidy life—Abbie didn’t know what to do. And then quite suddenly she did. It was perfectly clear. She was a journalist. Not the foot-in-the-door investigative kind, but nevertheless a trained observer, with a mind cued to extract information as painlessly as possible from even the most reluctant of interviewees. If this were a story she would go across to where the girl was still sitting on the shady bench and find some way to strike up a conversation.

It shouldn’t be difficult, for heaven’s sake. Babies and dogs were a gift—guaranteed to make the most reserved people open up. She didn’t want to do it, but she had to. And on legs that felt as if they were made of watery jelly, Abbie forced herself to walk towards the girl her husband had put his arm around and called Emma.

She had nothing in her mind. No plan. No idea of what she was going to say. But it wasn’t necessary. As she approached the bench the girl looked up and smiled. No, not a girl. Close up, Abbie realised that she must be hearer thirty than twenty. A woman.

‘It’s really too hot for shopping, isn’t it?’ she said as she saw Abbie’s bags. Her voice was silvery, light and delicate, like the rest of her.

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ Was it hot? She felt so terribly cold inside that she couldn’t have said. But it was an opening and she sat down.

‘Did you buy anything nice?’

A simple question. Difficult to answer, but she managed it. ‘A shirt and a sweater. For my husband,’ she added, unable to help herself. No! Put the woman at her ease—talk to her, her subconscious prodded her. Forget that this is personal. Treat it like any other story. ‘And socks,’ she continued. ‘Men never seem to have enough socks, do they?’ Smile. Make yourself smile. ‘I have this theory that there is a conspiracy between the washing machine manufacturers and the sock-makers …’

Apparently the grimace that locked her jaw had been somehow convincing, because Emma laughed. ‘You could be right. But I wouldn’t care if I could only just go out and buy a pair of socks for my man. Unfortunately he has the kind of wife who would notice.’

‘Oh?’ Would she? Would she query strange socks in the laundry? Yes, she rather thought she would.

‘I can’t even keep things for him at my place. It would be so easy to get them muddled up.’

‘I suppose so.’ Abbie felt herself blushing at such unexpected frankness, yet she was well aware of how easily some people would talk about even their most intimate lives to perfect strangers. Especially if there were constraints on talking to family or friends. But the last thing on earth she wanted to discuss with this woman was her ‘man’s’ wife.

She stared at the buggy. ‘A baby is rather more personal than a pair of socks,’ she said, forcing the words from her unwilling lips. But she had to be sure. ‘The greatest gift of all.’

The woman’s smile was full of secrets as she leaned forward and touched the child’s fingers. ‘That’s what he said. And, while he may leave me one day, I’ll always have his child.’

‘How old is he?’ Abbie asked hoarsely, as jealousy, like bile burning in her throat, swept over her.

‘Twelve weeks.’ The woman called Emma brushed back the mop of dark hair that decorated his tiny head. ‘He was born just after Easter.’

When Abbie had been steeping herself in the miseries of an African refugee camp. Had Grey been with this woman, holding her hand, encouraging her as she went through the pangs of giving birth to his son? No! Her heart rebelled. Surely it was impossible. And yet … She leaned over the buggy, letting her hair swing forward to cover her expression, and as she came face to face with the sleepy child she felt the blood drain from her face.

‘He’s beautiful,’ she said, her voice coming from somewhere miles distant. As beautiful as his father had been as a baby.

Abbie remembered her laughter as they had looked through a pile of old family photograph albums that they had found when they had cleared his father’s house last year. Grey had been a bonny, bright-eyed baby, with a mop of black curly hair. The child lying in front of her might have been his twin.

‘What’s his name?’ she asked, wondering that she could sit there and pretend that nothing was happening. Grateful for the numbness that somehow stopped her screaming with pain …

‘Matthew.’

‘Matthew?’ Not Grey. At least he hadn’t done that to her. But it was bad enough as with every painful scrap of hard-won fact she became more certain of just what he had done.

Matthew Lockwood. Founder of Lockwood, Gates and Meadows, solicitors. Grey’s father, her dear, kind father-in-law, who had been dead for just a year. The child had been named for him.

‘It’s a lovely name,’ she said quickly, as she saw that some response was expected. ‘Your …’ What? What could she call him? Friend? Lover? Her mouth refused to frame the word. ‘He must be very happy.’

The woman leaned forward and touched the child, and his little hand tightened trustingly about her finger. ‘Yes. He’s thrilled with the baby—sees him whenever he can. But it’s difficult for him.’ She gave an awkward little shrug. ‘His wife would never give him a divorce.’

And that finally broke through the pain and at last made her angry. ‘Wouldn’t she?’ Abbie asked, a little grimly.

Now she knew, was absolutely certain, that Grey had been having an affair, deceiving her for at least the better part of a year. And in a way he was deceiving this woman too, with his lies. What had he said about her? How had he described her? Did the mother of his child know that when he left her bed, when he came home, he made sweet love to her as if … as if she was the only woman in the world?

Except that she wasn’t. How could he do that? The man she loved, had thought she knew, was suddenly a stranger. A stranger who could, it seemed, smile as if his heart was all hers, tell her that he loved her, with the taste of this woman’s kisses still upon his lips. The very thought was like a knife driving through her heart. How could she not have suspected? Not have seen the deceit in his eyes?

Only anger made her strong enough to sit there and carry on as if her world wasn’t disintegrating about her, kept her head high as she turned to Emma, determined to discover just how far his lies extended. ‘Has he asked his wife for a divorce?’

The woman gave the tiniest little shrug, the bravest of smiles. ‘I wouldn’t let him. A messy divorce would cause problems. With his job.’ She gave a little shake of the baby’s hand, turning her head away to hide the sparkle of tears. ‘And we can’t let Daddy have that, can we, sweetheart?’ And the baby gave a broad, gummy smile.

It was a nightmare. A waking nightmare from which there could never be the escape of knowing that, no matter how dreadful, it had all been nothing but a horrible dream. But still Abbie pushed herself. The greater the betrayal, the more it hurt her, the better. With every thrust of the knife the easier it would be to do what she had once thought impossible and hate him.

‘A divorce is no big deal these days, surely?’ she insisted, denying herself any avenue of escape. Then she added hopefully, ‘Unless he’s your doctor?’

‘Oh, no!’ Emma exclaimed, horrified. ‘He’s …’ She hesitated, as if she shouldn’t say what he was. ‘He’s a lawyer.’

‘I see.’ And she did see—all too clearly. She had wanted to be sure and now Emma’s words rang like the clang of doom, slamming the door closed on any possibility of doubt. His confession written in blood couldn’t have been more convincing.

One of Grey’s associates had been obliged to resign from the firm a year or so back, after having an affair with one of his clients. Her husband had turned nasty. She looked at the hand linked with the baby’s fingers and she could see the telltale mark where a wedding ring had once rested. Was that how she had met Grey? Sobbing out her heartbreak in her husband’s office? How impossible to refuse this fragile creature a comfortable shoulder to cry on. How easy to become emotionally entangled when your wife was away for weeks at a time.

‘I don’t mind, really. I knew all along that he would never leave her and I accepted that. At least I have Matthew.’

‘Maybe it will all work out,’ Abbie said dully. ‘You mustn’t give up hope. Things change.’

‘Do you think so? I do sometimes dream about it.’ Emma gave a little smile. ‘Sometimes we can be together for a while and pretend. He has a cottage in the country that he shares with his brother. They’re very close, and he’s been so good about us using it …’ She glanced at her watch and leapt to her feet. ‘Is that the time? I must be off—it’ll soon be time for Matthew’s feed.’ She kicked off the buggy’s brake, then paused to look down at Abbie, her face creased in concern. ‘Are you all right? You look rather pale. Would you like a drink? I’ve got a can …’

‘No!’ She made an effort to pull herself together. ‘Really, I’m fine. Thank you.’

Civilised behaviour. She should be scratching the woman’s eyes out … but what good would that do? The woman called Emma smiled uncertainly. ‘If you’re sure?’

‘Don’t keep Matthew waiting for his lunch,’ she said, forcing a smile. For a moment she remained where she was, watching Emma wheel the jaunty little buggy around the bright flowerbeds. Then she too stood up and walked away, leaving her shopping behind her on the bench.

It was just after three when she arrived at the flat. Plenty of time to put the matter beyond all doubt before Grey came home. Not that there was any doubt left in her mind, but the evidence so far was purely circumstantial. She knew enough of the law to know the dangers of convicting on that.

She took the ring binders from the shelf and flicked back through the credit card accounts, meticulously filed month by month and paid on the dot. April. The day after she had flown out to Africa. Petrol purchased at a service station just inside the Welsh border. The same date. A trip to a supermarket in Carmarthen. She and Grey had shopped there the last time they had stayed at the cottage.

May. Where had she been in May? Two days on an oil rig in the north sea. More petrol. Another trip to the supermarket. She wondered what had headed the shopping list. Disposable nappies?

June. Another trip to Wales. Each entry was a knife wound in her heart.

The July account had not yet arrived, but the slips were there to prove his lie. On the day he had told her he was working in Manchester he had filled his petrol tank on the M4 near Cardiff. She remembered that he had been wearing jeans the day she’d come home, the scent of woodsmoke clinging to them. For a moment misery threatened to engulf her as she clung to the desk. Then, taking a deep breath, she forced herself to go on. There was no time for misery. Yet.

She put the file back on the shelf and took down the one containing the statements for Grey’s personal account.

He hadn’t even bothered to disguise his transactions. Large single payments of exactly the same amount for the last three months. And, remembering the envelope she had seen him pass to Emma, she had presumably witnessed another of those payments today. Tucked into the correspondence pocket of the file was a letter dated two days earlier from the bank, confirming that a trust fund had been set up in the name of Matthew Harper, using the proceeds of the sale of the Degas …

She had asked him what had happened to the painting. He had told her that it had been sold to help Robert out of a financial jam. And she had believed him.