Читать книгу The Token Wife - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 8

‘LOUISE—are you up there? What on earth are you doing?’

Louise Trentham, on her knees in the loft, surrounded by open trunks full of elderly clothing, heard her stepmother’s querulous tones from the landing below, and grimaced faintly.

‘I’m looking for thirties evening dresses,’ she called back. ‘For the Village Players.’

‘Well, come down, please,’ Marian Trentham said sharply. ‘I can’t conduct a conversation peering up into a hole.’

Lou sighed inwardly, but made her way over to the hatch, and swung slim, denim-clad legs onto the loft ladder.

‘Is something wrong?’ she enquired as she made her way down. ‘I made up the rooms as you told me, and did the flowers. And all the food is in the refrigerator, ready for Mrs Gladwin.’

‘That’s the trouble,’ Mrs Trentham said crossly. ‘She’s just telephoned to say her eldest child is ill again, and she won’t be able to cook dinner tonight. And she knows how important this evening is.’

Lou reflected drily that there probably wasn’t a soul in the known universe who wasn’t aware that Alex Fabian was coming for the weekend. And why.

She said, ‘It’s hardly her fault. Tim can’t help being asthmatic.’ She paused. ‘Why don’t you have dinner at the Royal Oak instead?’

‘At a public house?’ Mrs Trentham reared back as if her stepdaughter had suggested a visit to a burger joint.

‘A very upmarket one,’ Lou pointed out. ‘With a restaurant in all the food guides. In fact, you’ll be lucky to get a table.’

‘Because it’s intended to be a quiet family meal,’ Marian Trentham said tartly.

‘Offering Alex Fabian a preview of domestic bliss?’ Lou’s cool face relaxed into a sudden grin. ‘From what I hear, he’d prefer the Royal Oak any day of the week.’

Her stepmother’s lips thinned. ‘Please don’t be more irritating than you can help, Louise. On an occasion like this, the right atmosphere is essential.’

‘Shouldn’t he and Ellie create their own ambience?’ Lou enquired mildly. ‘Especially when he’s sweeping her off her feet into marriage?’

‘Well, I don’t intend to stand here arguing about it,’ Marian Trentham said with finality. ‘I simply came to say that you’ll have to stand in for Mrs Gladwin, and do the cooking.’

Lou had seen this coming a mile off, and she had no real objections. But the word ‘please’ would not have come amiss, she thought wryly.

‘Shouldn’t Ellie do it?’ she suggested straight-faced. ‘Convince him that she has all the wifely virtues?’

‘He’s more likely to run out of the house, screaming,’ Marian said, with one of her rare glimmers of humour. ‘Ellie could burn boiling water. Not that it matters, of course,’ she added, reverting to briskness. ‘When she’s married, there’ll be staff to attend to that kind of thing.’

‘Of course there will,’ Lou murmured. ‘Silly me.’

There’s staff here too, she thought. And I seem to be it.

‘So that’s settled, is it?’ said Marian. ‘You’ll cook tonight’s dinner? I thought you might do that mushroom soup you’re so good at—and an orange sauce with the ducks.’

‘Fine,’ Lou said equably. ‘And, having done so, am I expected to join this quiet family party?’

Marian hesitated for a micro-second too long. ‘But of course. If you’d like to. It’s entirely up to you, naturally.’

Lou took pity on her. ‘Actually, I think I’ll pass. Odd numbers and all that. And anyway, I have to go out. There’s a rehearsal at the village hall, and I need to get these costumes settled.’

Marian’s eyes took on that slightly glazed look which appeared when village matters were under discussion. Marian was a big-city woman. She liked the idea of a weekend country home—something to mention casually in conversation, and invite people to—rather than the reality of it. And she took a minimal part in local activities.

‘Well, just as you please,’ she said, adding, ‘Lou, dear,’ as an afterthought. ‘And see if you can find something for Ellie to do, would you?’ She attempted a silvery laugh. ‘She’s getting absurdly nervous, silly girl.’

Left to herself, Lou replaced the loft ladder thoughtfully. She didn’t mind being part-time caretaker in the house where she’d been born and keeping it pristine for the occasional descents from London by the rest of her family. But sometimes she felt a flicker of resentment at being taken so much for granted.

But it wouldn’t be for much longer, she thought, giving herself a mental shake. Because she too was getting married, and would be moving to the tall Georgian house in the main square which belonged to David Sanders, her future husband, who would be furious if he discovered she was acting as head cook and bottle-washer again.

‘They’re just using you, darling,’ he told her over and over again. ‘And you’re too sweet to mind.’

Lou had never regarded herself as particularly sweet, but it was nice to hear, she acknowledged contentedly.

She shrugged. ‘It’s no big deal. And it gives me something to do when you’re away.’

David worked for the regional office of a national firm of auctioneers and valuers. A recent promotion had involved him in a lot more travelling, and attendance at a series of courses in London, which had left Lou to her own devices more than she cared for, if she was honest.

Her own day job was working as a paralegal at the leading firm of solicitors in the nearby market town. The plan was that she would go on working until they started a family.

She loved the sound of that. Loved the thought of the future they would have together. It seemed to her that there had never been a time when David had not been a part of her life. They’d played as children, fought and made up again as teenagers, and rediscovered each other when he came back from university. And for the past year they’d been unofficially engaged.

It would have been put on a formal footing with a party for family and friends but for the sudden death of David’s father, and his mother’s subsequent refusal to cope with anything that approximated to ‘happy’.

‘She will come to the wedding, won’t she?’ Lou had asked at one point, with a faint irony that was lost on David.

‘Of course,’ he’d said, kissing her. ‘She just needs time, that’s all. Be patient.’

Secretly, Lou found patience difficult with David’s mother, whom she suspected to be milking widowhood for all it was worth. For one thing, it provided her with an excuse not to leave the family home, which now technically belonged to her son, and move to the bungalow in Bournemouth that she was to share with her sister. Something which had been planned forever, but which now seemed to have been shifted to the back burner.

But it would have to happen sooner or later, Lou assured herself. Because she was congenitally unfitted to share a roof with Mrs Sanders, and David knew it.

So, for the time being, she occupied Virginia Cottage in peace, most of the time, occasionally allowing herself memories of the time when she’d lived there with her mother, enjoying much the same placid existence, with her father coming home at weekends from Trentham Osborne, the independent publishing company which he ran in Bloomsbury.

But following Anne Trentham’s shocking and unexpected death after a two-day illness from a strain of viral pneumonia, Lou’s whole life had changed. She had been sent away to boarding-school, and her holidays had been spent with Aunt Barbara, her mother’s only sister, her big farmer husband and their rowdy, kind, loving family.

But no sooner had she become adapted to this new set of circumstances than they changed too. Her father, his eyes sliding away in embarrassment, had told her that he was getting married again, and she would have a stepmother and sister. Ellie would be going to the same school, and the rest of the time would be divided between the flat in London and Virginia Cottage.

In retrospect, Lou could see that her father had been involved with Marian long before her mother’s death, and that Ellie might well be her half-sister, but by the time she was old enough to realise this, it no longer seemed to matter that much. Marian could be kind enough when she remembered. And Ellie—well, Ellie truly deserved David’s epithet ‘sweet’.

She was blonde like her mother, but lacked Marian’s statuesque build. She was small, blue-eyed and shy, with a pretty, heart-shaped face, in total contrast to Lou, who was taller, and thin rather than slender, with a cloud of unruly dark hair. Lou had pale, creamy skin, and long-lashed grey eyes that were undoubtedly the best feature in a face that she herself dismissed as nondescript. And she had learned, over the years, to appear calm and self-contained.

At school she had soon found herself Ellie’s unofficial protector, and she seemed to have carried this role into their adult lives, although, admittedly, she didn’t see as much of her stepsister these days, as Ellie lived and worked in London as a copy-editor for Trentham Osborne.

And now, with amazing suddenness, Ellie was going to be married, and someone else would be looking after her. Someone called Alex Fabian.

‘I met him at the office,’ she’d confided to Louise only a few weeks before. ‘Apparently he’s a banker, and Daddy and he were doing some kind of business deal.’ She frowned. ‘I didn’t think he’d really noticed me, but he rang the next day and asked me to go to the theatre.’

‘Terrific,’ Lou said absently, focusing rather on the words “business deal”. ‘Is Dad looking to re-capitalise?’ she enquired.

Ellie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But we are bringing out the new art and architecture list, and they say times are hard for independents in publishing.’

‘They always were,’ said Lou.

Gradually, through Ellie’s artless disclosures, she began to build up a picture of this Alex Fabian. He was, it seemed, absolutely gorgeous. There wasn’t a club where he wasn’t a member, or a restaurant where he couldn’t get a table. He was usually seen out with models, actresses and rich girls-about-town. Everywhere they went, he was recognised.

Why, only the other evening they’d gone to the launch of a new brasserie, and this stunning woman, tall with red hair and a fantastic figure, had come up to their table. Alex hadn’t seemed very pleased to see her, but he’d called her ‘Cindy’ and she’d asked him if this was the sacrificial lamb.

Ellie had mentioned this later, and Alex had said that Cindy had a sense of humour all her own, and Ellie wasn’t to worry about it. But wasn’t it strange?

‘Weird,’ Lou had agreed with total sincerity.

As she went downstairs she found herself wondering yet again what someone like Alex Fabian was doing with Ellie, who was gentle to the point of naïveté, and certainly no party animal. In fact, she still lived at her parents’ flat under Marian’s watchful eye.

And what was Ellie’s slant on all this? She talked about fabulous meals she’d eaten, and celebrities she’d met. She mentioned the opera, and the ballet, and private viewings at art galleries.

But she said nothing about Alex Fabian himself, the man who was providing all these earthly delights. And demanding—what, in return? Just, it seemed, the pleasure of Ellie’s company.

Maybe he’d recognised her intrinsic innocence, and decided to respect it, although that kind of consideration seemed unlikely from someone who clearly lived his life on the fast track.

So, perhaps it was just the attraction of opposites. Whatever, he was coming down this weekend to become formally engaged to Ellie, having apparently first sought the permission of her mother and stepfather.

Very dear and old-fashioned of him, Lou thought, wrinkling her nose in a faint unease she was unable to explain.

And it had resulted in a string of frenetic instructions from Marian, who wanted Virginia Cottage at its quaint and sparkling best, to provide the perfect setting for such a momentous event.

Lou found Ellie in the drawing room, curled up in the corner of a sofa. She didn’t fit her mother’s description of ‘silly’ at all. Instead she looked remarkably serious—rather like a small creature caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

‘Hey there,’ Lou said gently. ‘Come and peel some potatoes for this man of yours. I thought I’d do rosti with the duck.’

‘OK. Fine.’ Ellie summoned a wan smile as she followed her to the kitchen. She sat at the table, staring without enthusiasm at the bowl of vegetables awaiting her attention.

‘Isn’t this a little early for bridal nerves?’ Lou enquired, surveying her with concern as she handed over an apron and a paring knife, then began swiftly and deftly to prepare the mushrooms for the soup. ‘You aren’t even engaged yet.’

‘No, but I will be in a few hours’ time.’

‘But only if that’s what you want,’ Lou countered, frowning. ‘So—is it?’

‘Of course.’ Ellie tilted a charming chin. ‘How could it not be?’

‘You tell me,’ Lou said wryly. ‘You look like someone under sentence of death.’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ Ellie said shortly. ‘Alex is an incredible man, and I’m going to have an amazing life with him. No one in her right mind is going to turn that away.’

Lou reached for another mushroom. That, she thought, didn’t sound like Ellie at all. More as if she was repeating something she’d been told. Something that had been impressed upon her.

I detect Marian’s fine white hand in this, she told herself grimly.

She said quietly, ‘Ellie—you do love him, don’t you?’

‘Naturally.’ Ellie hacked the skin from an inoffensive potato. ‘It’s all happened a little fast—that’s all.’

‘Then tell him you need more time. If he cares for you, he’ll understand.’

Ellie shook her head. She said, ‘Time is something I—don’t have.’

‘Oh, God.’ Lou came to an apprehensive halt in her preparations. ‘Ellie—you’re not pregnant, are you?’

Ellie stared at her in astonishment. ‘Of course not. How could I possibly be?’

Lou shrugged uncomfortably. ‘People in love are usually—lovers too,’ she suggested. ‘And accidents happen.’

Her stepsister flushed. ‘Well, not in our case. Because we—don’t…’

‘Oh,’ Lou said, adding mendaciously, ‘I see.’

Although she didn’t know why she should be so surprised, she thought, turning back to the mushrooms. After all, sex before marriage wasn’t obligatory. And in a sharp-eyed village, where any kind of privacy was at a premium, and your beloved still resided with a mother who tracked his every move, it was virtually impossible, as she knew to her cost.

But, as David had said ruefully, there was no real hurry when they had the rest of their lives together. And what could she do but reluctantly agree?

However, Alex Fabian didn’t live his life under the spotlight of parental disapproval, she thought. On the contrary. So, why this uncharacteristic restraint?

She said, ‘Then what’s the matter? Because there’s clearly something.’

Ellie was silent for a moment. She said, ‘He—he scares me a little. To be honest, he always has.’

‘Then why on earth did you go out with him?’ Lou demanded, bewildered.

Ellie shrugged. ‘Oh, I wasn’t very happy at the time,’ she said evasively. ‘I thought it might—take my mind off things.’

‘And did it?’

Ellie’s laugh sounded a little forced. ‘Well, of course. Alex demands—total concentration at all times. And now we’re going to be married,’ she added brightly. ‘So everything’s worked out for the best.’

‘In this best of all possible worlds,’ Lou murmured with irony. ‘And maybe you should leave the potatoes to me, love. There’ll be none left at the rate you’re going.’

‘Oh, Lou, I’m sorry.’ Ellie looked with contrition at the results of her labours.

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Lou rinsed her hands. ‘The future Mrs Fabian will never have to bother with such mundane tasks, anyway. So go and make yourself look gorgeous for him.’

‘Yes,’ Ellie said slowly. ‘I suppose so.’ She looked up at the clock, her expression blank. ‘He’ll be here soon. Time’s running out.’ And she wandered off, leaving Lou staring after her, perplexed, and frankly worried.

Ellie, she thought, bore no resemblance to a girl about to say ‘yes’ to the man she adored.

She wondered if she ought to talk to Marian about it, then dismissed the idea, knowing that it would be seen as interference rather than intervention.

And Ellie wasn’t a child any more. She had to work out her own salvation. And whether that would include Alex Fabian was entirely her own decision.

Left to herself, she worked steadily, and competently. Soon the ducklings were waiting on their rack, the vegetables prepared, the soup simmering, and a bowl of Chantilly cream whisked up to accompany the dessert of fresh local strawberries.

As David’s wife, she might always have to do her own cooking, she thought with faint amusement, but she didn’t have one iota of envy for Ellie’s carefree future. David was her rock, and she’d never entertained the slightest doubt about him.

Dinner was to be served at eight o’ clock, so she now had a breathing space to go back into the loft and choose the dresses to take down to the village hall later.

It was a fascinating task. Like most lofts, it was crammed with remnants of the past, including a lot of old photograph albums, and Lou was constantly being sidetracked.

‘Oh, hell,’ she muttered as she glanced at her watch. ‘It’s time those ducklings were in the oven. I’d better get cracking.’

She picked up the armful of dresses she’d chosen. They were too bulky to manage safely on the ladder, she decided. Much better for them to go first.

She dropped them through the hatch, and was about to follow, when a startled cry reached her from below.

Glancing down in sudden apprehension, Lou saw the dresses seemed to have taken on a life of their own. Were, in fact, on the move. And under their concealing folds a muffled male voice was swearing angrily.

‘Oh, God.’ Lou scrambled down the ladder at neck-breaking speed. She grabbed a handful of satin, and hauled it away. ‘I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise anyone would be there.’

Her victim shook himself free, his impatient glance flicking over her. ‘Really?’ he drawled. ‘I thought it might be some bizarre rite of passage.’

And Lou realised, horrified, she was taking her first look at Alex Fabian. In the flesh, she thought, swallowing.

He was tall and lean, with broad shoulders and endless legs. His hair, dishevelled from its close encounter with several pounds of fabric, was thick and tawny, and curled slightly. Lou remembered Ellie once saying that his nickname in the City was the Lion King, and could understand why.

He was not conventionally handsome, but he was arrestingly, dynamically attractive, with high cheekbones, glinting green eyes under heavy lids, and a firmly sculpted, almost insolent mouth.

And he was frighteningly, effortlessly sexy. A man who did not have to try, she thought instantly, and wondered how she could possibly know.

A shiver traced its way down her spine. And she thought, ‘Poor Ellie.’

Alex Fabian was looking at her too. Lou recognised with shock that she had been stripped, assessed and dismissed in one devastating and totally male glance. A conditioned reflex, she told herself angrily. That’s all it was. See a woman—imagine her naked. He probably can’t help himself.

But all the same she resented it, even as she realised he was speaking to her again.

He said softly, ‘And who are you?’

Lou gave him a bland smile. ‘The cook.’

‘Indeed?’ His brows lifted. He stirred the mass of shimmering cloth at his feet with the toe of a polished shoe. ‘Is it part of the job to dress for dinner?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘These are for the local drama group. They’re doing a revue—An Evening with Noël Coward.’

‘Dear God,’ said Alex Fabian, and his lips twitched into an appreciative grin. ‘A little ambitious, wouldn’t you say?’

Lou had thought exactly the same when the idea was first mooted, but she stonily refused to share his amusement. Particularly when his smile had sent his attraction quotient soaring into some sexual stratosphere.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said crisply. ‘You won’t be expected to buy a ticket.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I’ve just realised. You’re Louise, Ellie’s stepsister. How do you do? I’m Alex Fabian.’

Lou dived to pick up the dresses, pretending not to have seen his outstretched hand. It occurred to her that she did not want to touch him. That even a polite handshake might carry some inherent risk, like making contact with a force field. And that she could not afford to find out.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’d gathered who you were.’ She hoisted the pile of silks and satins into her arms, using them as a barrier. ‘Now you must excuse me. Duty calls.’

‘You mean you really are doing the cooking?’

‘Well, don’t sound so surprised. Someone has to.’ She gave him a swift, taut smile. ‘Reliable staff is hard to come by round here. But I promise not to poison you.’

‘I’m completely reassured.’ He paused. ‘Before I was booby-trapped,’ he said, ‘I was looking for the guest bathroom.’

‘Second door on the left.’ She edged round him.

‘One moment,’ he said, and a sudden tremor went through her as she felt his hand brush her hair.

She practically jumped backwards, nearly flattening herself against the wall. She said breathlessly, ‘Just—what do you think you’re doing?’

‘Relax,’ he advised, a sudden glint in those amazing eyes. ‘You had a cobweb in your hair. See?’ He showed her its remains on his fingertips. ‘Some poor spider is now homeless.’

‘A banker with a caring side,’ she said. ‘I’m impressed.’

‘Now, why do I find that so hard to believe?’ Alex Fabian said musingly. ‘But I won’t detain you now for any further discussion. You have your pots and pans to get back to. So, as Noël Coward himself would have put it, Miss Louise Trentham, I’ll see you again.’

No, she thought with relief. No, you won’t.

Tonight she would be at the village hall, and tomorrow she would persuade David to take her out for the whole day. And on Sunday she’d invent a headache, and stay in her room until they’d all gone back to London.

She muttered something unintelligible into the pile of dresses, and headed off to her room.

Once safely inside, she leaned back against the door panels, and whispered, ‘Phew.’

So that was Alex Fabian, she thought weakly. Hell’s bells, he should carry a government health warning. No wonder Ellie was becoming flaky at the prospect of marriage with him.

Nor was he a picture of the eager suitor. He was a cool operator. She had seen no kindness in that smiling mouth, no warmth to soften the sensual speculation in the green eyes. For Alex Fabian, women were no more than a commodity to be enjoyed. And what happened when a particular commodity began to pall?

Did Ellie really have the emotional and mental stamina to cope with someone like him? Or was she too glamoured—too beguiled by his looks, charisma and money to care?

She should turn him down, she told herself vehemently. Instantly, and without a second thought. It was a question of survival—pure and simple.

A description which could never be applied to the bridegroom-to-be, she added, her mouth twisting wryly.

She left the dresses on her bed. As she turned away she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and realised there was a smudge of dust on her cheek that Alex Fabian had not seen fit to mention.

Thank God he didn’t try to remove it as well, she thought caustically as she went down to the kitchen, or I’d probably be a gibbering wreck by now.

She was concocting the orange sauce for the ducklings when Marian came in.

‘Is everything under control?’ she demanded, glancing sharply around her.

‘In here, it is.’ Lou added a dash of Cointreau. ‘I can’t speak for the rest of the house.’

Marian stared at her. She was elegant in amethyst jersey, with pearls at her throat and in her ears, and her blonde hair was drawn back into an elaborate chignon. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘I met Ellie’s intended,’ Lou returned. She paused. ‘Are you really going to let her marry him?’

Marian’s brows lifted haughtily. ‘I think that is a decision that we can safely leave to them.’

‘I don’t agree.’ Lou met her gaze calmly and directly. ‘I think it’s like handing a lamb over to a tiger.’

‘What a dramatic turn of phrase,’ her stepmother said mockingly. ‘Perhaps you should be writing melodramas for your little village group.’

‘Better melodrama than tragedy,’ Lou said curtly. ‘Marian, she’s not in his league. You must see that.’

‘I see that she’s marrying a very successful man, who will soon be chairman of Perrins Bank,’ Marian retorted.

‘So you’re not pretending she loves him.’

Marian laughed. ‘Oh, I think she’ll find it very easy to love him—in the ways that matter to a man. After all, she’ll have an expert teacher.’ She paused. ‘Are you quite sure, Lou, dear, that you’re not just a tiny bit jealous?

‘No,’ Lou said steadily. ‘Because I have a man that I can love in all the ways there are. Not just those that happen in the bedroom.’

‘You’re really a little prude, aren’t you?’ Marian drawled. ‘I’m sure you and David will suit each other admirably.’ She glanced at her diamond watch. ‘Are you leaving yourself enough time to change?’

‘I’m going to a village-hall rehearsal, not Glyndebourne.’ Lou tasted her sauce, and nodded with satisfaction.

‘But you can’t serve the dinner in jeans and an old sweater.’

‘I’ve no intention of serving it at all,’ Lou retorted curtly. ‘I said I’d cook, and that’s it. You and Ellie can manage the rest between you—unless, of course, you want Alex Fabian to end up with a lap full of mushroom soup,’ she added menacingly. ‘No? I thought not. And I presume you know how to load the dishwasher as well,’ she called after her stepmother as Marian flounced out.

A minor victory, she thought, but what did that matter when the war was already lost?

Up in her room, she went across to the window to close the curtains against the gathering twilight, and paused, alerted by a movement in the shrubbery below her. To her surprise, she saw it was Ellie, pacing up and down, and talking on her cell-phone.

What on earth is she doing out there? Lou asked herself in bewilderment. ‘I’d have thought Marian would have had her chained to Alex Fabian’s wrist by now.’

She was about to rap on the window—attract Ellie’s attention—then held back. Even in the poor light, she could see that her stepsister looked strained. Every gesture, every restless movement betrayed her agitation.

Maybe she’s decided she can’t go through with it, she thought. But who is she talking to? The Samaritans?

She went back to the bed and began shaking out the dresses, folding them with care and placing them in large carriers.

On her way out to the car she would have a word with Ellie, she decided. Tell her that she, at least, was on her side.

But when she got outside, there was no one about. As she went past the dining-room window she glanced in, and saw Ellie sitting next to Alex Fabian at the candlelit table, talking and laughing as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

The Samaritans must do a wonderful job, Lou thought with a resigned sigh, and went to her rehearsal.

The carrier bags were seized on joyfully by the female cast members and taken off to the women’s dressing room. Lou found a chair and sat down to watch while she waited for David to arrive. He didn’t act in any of the village productions but he helped with scenery and lighting, and he was coming to discuss the design of the set with Ray, the producer.

Lou hadn’t attended any rehearsals for a couple of weeks, and she was amazed to find what progress they’d made. Even Ray who was also playing Noël Coward, was far better than she’d expected.

Then the girls came back in the evening dresses she’d brought, and paraded them on stage for Ray to make a final choice, and it was only when she was re-packing the rejected ones that she realised how late it was getting.

‘Where on earth is David?’ she asked Ray.

For a moment he looked blank, then, ‘Oh, he phoned earlier, just before you got here, love. Said something had cropped up, and he couldn’t make it.’

Lou frowned. ‘He didn’t call me.’

‘He probably took it for granted I’d tell you,’ Ray said peaceably. ‘Which I now have.’

‘He didn’t say what the problem was?’

‘No,’ Ray admitted. ‘But I expect his mother’s thrown another wobbly. He’d hardly want that generally known.’ He paused. ‘You haven’t got any tailcoats or top hats in that loft of yours, by any chance?’

She forced a smile. ‘I didn’t notice any, but I’ll have a good look tomorrow.’

She took the long route back to Virginia Cottage, going through the square, but David’s house was all in darkness, so she drove on without stopping.

Perhaps Ray had been quite right about his mother, she thought. And once David had managed to get her calm again, he’d decided to have an early night. Well, she couldn’t blame him for that, and nor would she.

But all the same, it was disappointing not to have seen him, and she wished very much that he’d rung her to explain. No doubt he’d ring in the morning, and they’d arrange to spend the day together then.

To her surprise, all the lights were out at Virginia Cottage too. She’d expected to find a party going on, but perhaps there was nothing to celebrate after all.

She parked at the rear, beside the low, sleek sports car that looked so alien in the cobbled yard, and went in through the back door. Her immediate intention was to make herself a hot drink, but that was before she saw the state the kitchen was in.

Clearly Marian had decided the dishwasher was unknown territory after all, she thought grimly, because all the plates, cutlery, dishes and pans used for the meal were piled haphazardly on every surface.

She was half tempted to leave them there, except for the knowledge that they would still be waiting for her in the morning, and she hated that.

David is quite right, she thought, smouldering. They do use me. But this is the last time.

She filled the kettle and set it to boil, then began the dreary task of rinsing the crockery, and putting it in the dishwasher.

The running water disguised the sound of the kitchen door opening behind her, and she only realised she was no longer alone when Alex Fabian said, ‘Good evening, Cinderella. Did the ball end early?’

He was standing just behind her. Close enough, she thought, to touch.

Her whole body clenched in sudden, uncontrollable panic, and the dish she was holding slipped from her hands, and smashed into fragments on the quarry-tiled floor between them.

Then there was silence.