Читать книгу By Request Collection April-June 2016 - Оливия Гейтс - Страница 29

CONTRARY to what Melanie had expected after Forde’s call the day she had visited his mother, the next four weeks passed by without further contact with him. She visited Isabelle twice more during the time she was finishing the other contracts, and they ironed out exactly what was required to their mutual satisfaction.

On her second visit, Melanie took James along with her. He was fully acquainted with the circumstances but—James-like—had taken it all in his stride as though it were the most natural thing in the world for an estranged wife who was seeking a divorce to undertake a major job for her mother-in-law.

Melanie could tell Isabelle was a little taken aback at first when she met James. He was something of an Adonis with a smile that could charm the birds out of the trees, but, just so her mother-in-law didn’t put two and two together and make ten, she took her aside at one point when James was busy measuring this and that at the other end of the garden and made it clear theirs was a working relationship and nothing more.

‘Of course, dear,’ Isabelle said sweetly, as though the thought of anything else hadn’t crossed her mind, but Melanie noticed her mother-in-law’s smile was warmer the next time she conversed with James. For his part, James was his normal, sunny self and by the end of the afternoon he had Isabelle eating out of his hand, which boded well for the future.

The night before they were due to start work at Hillview, Melanie didn’t sleep well. The August heatwave had continued into an Indian summer, and it was even hotter in September if anything. Everywhere, the ground was baked dry, and, although this was slightly preferable to working in drenching rain and mud, it wasn’t ideal. But it wasn’t the pending job that had her giving up all thought of further sleep at four in the morning and going downstairs to make a pot of coffee, which she took outside into the courtyard; it was Forde.

There had scarcely been a waking minute he hadn’t invaded her thoughts since the night they’d slept together, and even when she’d fallen asleep he was still there, carving his place in her subconscious. And she hadn’t heard from him. Not a word. Not a phone call. Nothing. She’d submitted a ridiculously low estimate to Isabelle as he had requested once she’d worked out the pricing of the job, and a realistic one to him via his office rather than his home, thinking this emphasised the businesslike nature of the arrangement. His secretary had called the next day to say that Mr Masterson was happy with the estimate and his confirmation of acceptance would arrive by return of post. Which it had. A signature in the required space. Great.

Melanie wrinkled her nose in the scented darkness. He’d finally cut his losses and moved on, that was plain to see. The last ridiculous scenario when she’d all but begged him to make love to her and then frozen him out the next morning had been too much. She didn’t blame him. How could she? Why would any man put his hand up to take on a nutcase like her? And it was what was necessary, what she’d been aiming for, so why did it feel as though her heart were being torn out by its roots?

She sighed heavily, swigging back half a cup of coffee and looking up into the dark velvet sky above, punctured by hundreds of twinkling stars. She had to get a handle on this. Her dream of a happy-ever-after ending had been smashed to pieces months ago so why was she dredging up the past? She wasn’t like anyone else—that was what Forde didn’t understand. And it wasn’t his fault he’d married a jinxed woman. But she would never let herself get close to anyone again; that way she couldn’t be hurt and neither could anyone else.

Finishing the last of the coffee, she continued to sit on as the sky lightened and the birds woke up, her limbs leaden. She hadn’t really slept well since Forde had come back into her life again—not that he’d ever left, if she was being brutally honest. She might not have spoken to or seen him those seven months before he had written to her, but he’d only been a heartbeat away, nonetheless.

This had to get better, she told herself miserably. It must. She couldn’t spend the rest of her life feeling like this. Her grief and remorse about Matthew would always be with her; she had come to terms with that and in a strange way almost welcomed it. If she couldn’t do anything else for her darling little boy she could mourn him, and as long as she was alive he would never be forgotten but cherished in her heart. But the sense of loss about Forde was different and much more complicated.

Stop analysing. She shut her eyes, letting the first gentle rays of the sun warm her face. By ten or eleven o’clock it would be baking hot and less of a blessing, but right now it felt comforting. She felt so tired—physically, mentally and emotionally—but she had to keep going. And there were people so much worse off than she was: folk with terminal illnesses or severe health issues. At least she was young and strong and fit. She mustn’t turn into a whinger—she’d always hated them.

The silent pep talk helped a little, enough to get her on her feet anyway. After leaving the coffee tray in the kitchen she went upstairs to shower and change, and by seven o’clock was on the road. After picking James up from the house he rented with three friends—it was pointless them both driving the hundred-mile round trip each day—they drove to Hillview on roads not yet traffic logged with morning traffic, arriving at Isabelle’s house just after eight.

The first thing Melanie noticed was Forde’s Aston Martin parked in the driveway. Her stomach somersaulted, but James was unfurling himself out of the truck and stretching, and didn’t glance at her before starting to unload some of the equipment in the back of the pickup. By the time she joined him on the drive she was in command of herself, but angry. Forde had promised he’d stay away when she was around, and she didn’t believe for a moment he wasn’t aware she was starting work today. This was so, so unfair.

She heard the front door open and knew by some sixth sense Forde was standing there, but she didn’t glance his way, continuing to help James until they were done. By that time Forde had walked down the drive from the house to where they were parked, some yards from the Aston Martin.

‘Good morning.’ His voice was cool, clipped, and as she looked at him she saw the silver-blue eyes were cold and he wasn’t smiling.

Her anger went up a notch. How dared he look at her like that when he shouldn’t be here? Her tone matching his, she said pointedly, ‘Good morning, Forde. I’m starting work on the garden today or had it slipped your memory?’

‘No, it hadn’t slipped my memory,’ he said evenly, holding out his hand to James as he added, ‘I’m Forde Masterson, Melanie’s husband. I take it you’re James?’

She’d forgotten she’d employed James after she’d left Forde and the two men hadn’t met. She watched James take Forde’s hand almost gingerly and she didn’t blame him; Forde was making no effort to be friendly, his face straight and his eyes narrowed.

James mumbled a polite hello and then extracted his hand, saying he’d start taking some of the equipment to the back of the house before scampering off with armfuls of tools.

‘You spoke about your assistant as though he was a young lad just out of school and wet behind the ears,’ Forde said accusingly. ‘He’s a grown man of what—twenty-four, twenty-five?’

‘What?’ Why was he talking about James when he knew full well he shouldn’t be here?

‘And he looks to me as though he knows his way about,’ Forde added grimly. ‘In every sense of the word.’

‘James backpacked round the world for three or four years with his friends after leaving uni, and I have never suggested he was a young boy.’ Melanie glared at Forde. ‘Not that that’s any of your business. And why are you here this morning anyway?’

‘So I was right. He’s twenty-four, twenty-five?’

Why this obsession with James’s age? ‘He’s twenty-six, and, I repeat, why are you here?’

‘Answering an early-morning summons by my mother because she thought she had a bird down the chimney,’ Forde answered shortly. ‘OK? And before you ask, no, there was no damn bird.’

Since an incident some years ago when a large wood pigeon had fallen down Isabelle’s chimney and then positioned itself on a ledge a few feet up from the fireplace where it had cooed frantically until Forde had arrived and got it out, along with a cloud of soot and grime that had covered the room in smuts, there had been several such fruitless summonses by Forde’s mother. Isabelle lived in horror of inadvertently lighting the fire and burning a bird alive, even though Forde had told her repeatedly that the stainless-steel mesh bird cowl he’d had installed in the top of the chimney to prevent just such a catastrophe made it impossible. When she had still lived with Forde he had been convinced that the wood pigeon he’d rescued took a fiendish delight in sitting on the roof and calling down the chimney to fool his mother and cause him grief.

‘Oh.’ Melanie nodded, feeling guilty of her suspicions, and—although she would rather die than admit it, even to herself—a little piqued that his presence had absolutely nothing to do with a desire to see her.

‘So this James.’ Forde raked back his hair with an impatient hand. ‘Is he married? Got a long-term girlfriend? What?’

He was jealous. As the light dawned Melanie stared at him in amazement. He surely didn’t think… She didn’t know whether to take it as a compliment or an insult that he thought a handsome, virile, young stud like James would bother with a married woman two years older than himself and with enough baggage to fill umpteen football stadiums. She decided on the latter. ‘James’s personal life is his own business,’ she said icily. ‘He works for me, that’s all, Forde. Got it?’

Forde looked spectacularly unconvinced.

‘He favours statuesque brunettes who can play tennis and squash and all the other sports he’s mad about as well as he does, and who can stay up all night dancing in clubs and then go sailing after breakfast,’ Melanie stated firmly. ‘But even if I was his type, and he mine, it still wouldn’t be an option. I’m his employer, he’s my employee. End of story.’

She watched him expel a silent sigh. It was a completely inopportune moment to feel such a consuming love for him it stopped her breath. She dropped her eyes, scared he might see what he must not see. He clearly hadn’t stopped to shave before he’d left home and the black stubble accentuated his rugged good looks tenfold. Combine that with the casual clothes he was wearing—open-necked shirt showing a hint of dark body hair and beautifully cut cotton trousers—and he was any maiden’s prayer. Their mother’s and grandmother’s too.

His voice came low and intense. ‘This should be the moment when I say I’m sorry and I have no right to ask, but I’m not sorry and I have every right to ask. You’re my wife.’

It was one of the hardest things she’d ever done to raise her gaze to his without betraying herself. ‘It’s over, Forde.’

‘It will never be over,’ he said roughly. ‘It wasn’t a piece of paper that joined us, Nell, or a man of the cloth saying a few words and two gold rings. You’re mine, body, soul and spirit. I love you and I know you love me.’

He watched her face as he spoke but all the barriers were up and he couldn’t read a thing.

‘We can’t go back to how it was,’ she said with a quietness that was more final than any show of emotion.

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘We can’t. We had a son together and he died, and he’ll for ever be a part of us and a sadness that’s shaped us into the people we are today. But you and I, that is a thing apart. This punishing yourself for something that wasn’t your fault has to end.’

‘What?’ She reared up as though he had slapped her.

‘That’s what you are doing, Nell, whether you acknowledge it or not, and you’re punishing me too,’ he said, feeling incredibly cruel to face her with what he believed. But he would lose her if he didn’t start to force her to take stock.

‘You don’t understand anything.’

He flinched visibly, telling himself to keep calm. How she could come out with something like that when all he’d done since Matthew’s death was understand, he didn’t know. ‘This is not all about you—have you considered that?’ He could hear her damn assistant coming back, whistling some pop tune or other, and wanted— quite unreasonably—to punch him on the nose. ‘I loved Matthew too.’

‘But you didn’t cause his death.’

‘Neither did you, for crying out loud.’ He hadn’t meant to shout, he’d told himself before he walked out of the house he was going to be calm and rational, but at least the whistling had stopped.

She turned away, her soft mouth pulling tight in a way he knew from past experience meant she was digging her heels in. ‘I’ve work to do.’ She glanced up to where James was standing some distance away, clearly uncertain of whether he was welcome in what was obviously a danger zone. ‘James, come and help me with the rest of this.’

Knowing if he didn’t leave fairly rapidly he was going to say or do something he’d be sorry for, Forde turned on his heel and walked back to the house without another word. His mother was waiting for him in the hall, just inside the open front door.

‘I heard you shout.’ Isabelle’s voice was gently accusing.

He loved his mother. She was a strong-minded, generous soul with the faintly old-world charm and dignity of her generation, and for that reason he bit back the profanities hovering on his tongue and said curtly, ‘It was that or strangle her, so be thankful for the shouting.’

Isabelle’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to say something and then clearly thought better of it.

‘I’m going.’ Forde bent and kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll ring you later.’

When he left the house again Melanie and James were nowhere to be seen, although he could hear voices beyond the stone wall that separated the drive and the front of the house from the gardens at the rear. He glanced at the side gate for a moment and then decided there was nothing to be gained from saying goodbye. Striding over to the Aston Martin, he opened the door and slid inside, starting the car immediately and swinging it round so fast the tyres screeched.

That hadn’t gone at all as he’d intended, he thought, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles showed white. He hadn’t expected her assistant to look like a young George Clooney with muscles for one thing, or for Melanie to be so… He couldn’t find a word that satisfactorily described her mix of cool hauteur and wariness and gave up trying.

Once he’d reached home he prowled round the house like a restless animal instead of showering and getting changed for the office. Everywhere he looked there were reminders of Melanie; she’d so enjoyed having the team of interior designers in when they’d first got married and stamping her mark on the house. And he loved her taste. In fact he loved everything about her, damn it, although there had been moments after she had left him when the pain had got so bad he’d wished he’d never met her.

He had never imagined there would be a problem in life where he couldn’t reach her, that was the thing. He’d been confident whatever befell them he’d be able to protect and nurture her, see her through, that they would face it together. But he had been wrong. And it had cost him his marriage. He walked through to the massive kitchen-cum-breakfast-room at the back of the house and slumped down at the kitchen table.

He was still deep in black thoughts when Janet let herself into the house at gone ten.

‘Mr Masterson, what are you doing here at this time in the morning?’ She had always insisted on giving him his full title even though he’d told her to call him Forde a hundred times. ‘Are you ill?’

He lifted bleak eyes to the round, robin-like ones of the little woman who was a friend and confidante as much as his cook and cleaner. Janet’s life was far from easy but you’d never have guessed it from her bright and cheery manner, and in the ten years she’d worked for him since he had first bought the house they’d grown close. She was a motherly soul, and he looked on her as the older sister he’d never had. For her part, he knew she regarded him like one of her sons and she had never been backward in admonishing him, should the situation call for it. He could tell Janet anything, unlike his mother. Not that Isabelle wouldn’t have understood or given good advice, but since his father’s death he’d always felt he had to shield his mother from problems and worry.

‘I saw Melanie this morning,’ he said flatly. ‘It wasn’t an… amicable exchange.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Janet bustled over to the coffee maker and put it on. ‘Have you eaten yet?’

He shook his head.

Once he had a mug of steaming coffee and a plateful of egg and bacon inside him, he felt a little better. Pouring him a second cup and one for herself, Janet plonked herself opposite him at the kitchen table. ‘So,’ she said companionably. ‘What happened?’

He told her the gist of the conversation and Janet listened quietly. After a moment, she said, ‘So you think Mrs Masterson is having an affair with her assistant?’

Forde straightened as suddenly as though he’d had an electric shock. ‘Of course not.’

‘But you’re going to give up on her, nonetheless?’

‘Of course not,’ he said again, getting angry. ‘You know me better than that, Janet.’

‘Then why are you sitting here moping?’ Janet said, giving him one of her straight looks.

The penny dropped and Forde smiled sheepishly. ‘Right.’

‘I told you when she left like that it was going to be a long job and you needed to be patient as well as persistent, now didn’t I?’ Janet poured them both more coffee. ‘The way she was that day before the ambulance came, it was more than the normal shock and despair someone would feel in the same circumstances. Mrs Masterson really believes there’s some sort of jinx on her that touches those close to her.’

Forde stared at her. Janet had mentioned this before but he hadn’t given it much credence, thinking that Melanie was too sensible to really believe such nonsense. ‘But that’s rubbish.’

‘You know that and I know it,’ Janet said stoutly, ‘but as for Mrs Masterson …’

Forde leant back in his chair, his eyes narrowed. ‘She’s an intelligent, enlightened, astute young woman, for goodness’ sake. I don’t think—’

‘She’s a young wife who lost her first baby in a terrible accident and she blames herself totally. Add that to what I’ve just said, bearing in mind the facts about her parents, grandmother and even a friend at school she mentioned to me, all of whom were taken away from her, and reconsider, Mr Masterson. Melanie had a miserable childhood and became accustomed to keeping everything deep inside her and presenting a façade to the rest of the world. It doesn’t come natural for her to speak about her feelings, not even to you. And, begging your pardon, don’t forget you’re a man. Your sex work on logic and common sense.’

Forde looked down at the gold band on the third finger of his left hand. ‘Let me get this right. You’re saying she thinks if she’d stayed with me something would happen to me?’

‘Mrs Masterson probably wouldn’t be able to put it into words but, yes, that is what I think. And there’s an element of punishing herself too, the why-should-I-be-happy-after-what-I’ve-done syndrome.’ Janet shrugged. ‘In its own way, it’s perfectly understandable.’

Forde stared at her. ‘Hell,’ he said.

‘Quite.’ Janet nodded briskly. ‘So you save her from herself.’

‘How?’ he said a trifle desperately. ‘Exactly how, Janet?’

Janet stood up and began to clear the table. ‘Now that I don’t know, but you’ll find a way, loving her like you do.’

Forde smiled wryly. ‘And here was I thinking you had all the answers.’

‘She loves you very much, Mr Masterson, that’s what you have to remember. It’s her Achilles’ heel.’

‘You really think that? That she still loves me?’

Janet smiled at the man she had come to think of as one of her own brood. As big and as tough as he was, Mr Masterson had a real soft centre and that was what she liked best about him. Some men with his wealth and looks would think they were God’s gift to womankind, but not Mr Masterson. She didn’t think he wasn’t ruthless when it was necessary, mind, but then he wouldn’t have got to where he was now without a bit of steel in his make-up. ‘Sure she loves you,’ she said softly. ‘Like you love her. And love always finds a way. You remember that when you’re feeling like you did this morning.’ She wagged a finger at him. ‘All right?’

Forde got up, his silver-blue eyes holding a warmth that would have amazed his business rivals. ‘You’re a treasure, Janet. What would I do without you?’

‘That’s what my hubby always says when he rolls back from the pub after one too many,’ Janet said drily, ‘usually after helping himself to what’s in my purse.’

‘You’re too good for him. You know that, don’t you?’

Janet smiled at him as Forde left the kitchen. Be that as it may, and she certainly didn’t disagree with Forde’s summing up of her Geoff, Mr and Mrs Masterson were a perfect match. She had always thought so.

Her smile faded. She just hoped they could work their problems out, that was all. In spite of her encouraging words to Mr Masterson, she was worried Mrs Masterson would never come home, short of a miracle.