Читать книгу Marriage Under Suspicion - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

KATE felt totally numb. There was an odd roaring in her ears, while from a distance she heard the tinkle of crockery, and flinched from the scalding splash of liquid on her feet and legs.

She thought detachedly, I’ve dropped my coffee. I ought to get a cloth and clear it up before it stains the floor. I ought . . .

But she couldn’t move. All she could do was read those seven words over and over again, until they danced in front of her eyes, reassembling themselves in strange meaningless patterns.

She felt her fingers curl round the paper, crushing it, reducing it to a tight ball which she threw, violently, as far as her strength allowed.

For a moment she stood, almost absently wiping her hands down the sides of her coffee-stained skirt, then, with a little choking cry, she bolted up to the bathroom where she was briefly and unpleasantly sick.

When the world had stopped revolving, she stripped off her clothes and showered, using water almost hotter than she could bear, as if scouring herself of some physical contamination.

Then she towelled herself dry, and re-dressed in leggings and a tunic.

She seemed to be looking at a ghost, she thought, as she combed her damp hair into shape. A white-faced spectre with shocked, enormous eyes.

Downstairs, she fetched a dustpan and cleaning materials, and set about cleaning up the spilled coffee, almost relishing the physical effort required to scrub at the stained floorboards. The cream rug was marked too, she noticed, frowning, and that would have to go to a specialist cleaning firm.

She stopped right there, with a tiny gasp. Her marriage was in ruins, and she was worrying about a bloody rug?

She knelt staring into space, aware of a deep inner trembling. Knowing that it was composed equally of anger and fear.

Heard her voice, hoarse and shaken, say, ‘It’s not true. It can’t be true, or I’d have known. I’d have sensed something, surely. It’s just a piece of random filth. Someone who hates us. Who’s jealous of our happiness.’

The conclusion made her flesh crawl, but it was infinitely preferable to any other possibility, she realised, grimacing painfully.

She got to her feet, and took the china fragments into the kitchen for disposal. The champagne bottle in the wastebin jarred her. Before she could stop herself, she was standing by the sink, lifting the flutes to the sunlight, studying them minutely for any tell-tale signs of lipstick.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, she derided herself. Don’t let someone’s malice turn you paranoid.

She put the glasses away, emptied the wastebin, and cleaned it meticulously. Then she deliberately made herself another cup of coffee, and carried it through to the living area, seating herself on one of the cream and maize striped sofas.

Normally, the panorama of the river fascinated her, the boats, the buildings which crowded the banks, the play of light on the water. Now, she gazed at it unseeingly, her mind running in aching circles, as she drank her coffee. It burned all the way down, but the inner chill remained.

She thought, I don’t want this to have happened. I want everything back the way it was before . . .

In some ways, she wished she hadn’t come home. That she’d accepted Peter Henderson’s offer and stayed for dinner in Gloucestershire.

But that would have made no difference. The letter would still have been there, awaiting her eventual return.

She needed to find some way to deal with the situation. Work out some plan of action. Yet she felt totally at a loss.

She could always go for straight confrontation, she acknowledged, frowning. Just hand Ryan the letter and watch his reaction.

She put down the empty cup, and retrieved the crumpled ball of paper from its corner, endeavouring to smooth out the creases.

I can’t pretend to treat it lightly—make a joke of it, she thought. As soon as he sees what I did to it, he’ll know it mattered—that it upset me. I can’t let him know that. Not until I’m sure. One way or the other.

She stopped abruptly, with a small gasp, aware of how far and how fast she had come from her original total disbelief.

She found herself remembering an article she’d read in a magazine at the hairdressers. Titled ‘His Cheating Heart’, it had detailed some of the ways to check if a man was being unfaithful. And one of the chief danger signs, she recalled, her heart lurching sickly, had been long, unexplained absences.

She said aloud, huskily, almost desperately, ‘Ryan—where the hell are you?’

No, she thought, setting her jaw. She would not let herself think like this. Five years of love and trust could not be destroyed by a single act of malice. She wouldn’t allow it.

So she wouldn’t mention the letter at all, she told herself, drawing a deep breath. In fact, she would make believe she had never seen it. That it didn’t exist. She would make no wild accusations. Drop no veiled hints. She would act completely naturally, she thought fiercely. But—she would also be on her guard.

She tore the letter in half, then into quarters, before reducing it to strips, and thence into a mound of minute fragments which she piled onto a saucer and burned.

She flushed the ashes down the sink, and wished the words could be erased from her mind with equal ease.

She chose a bottle of Ryan’s favourite Bordeaux from the rack, and opened it. A nice, wifely gesture to welcome him home, she thought, biting her lip. Except there was no positive guarantee that he would be home . . .

If he didn’t return, of course, that would be a whole new ball game. But she would deal with that only when she had to.

She sat curled up on the sofa, sipping her wine, and watching television, aware of the light fading from the sky above the river. But the words and images on the screen passed her by, as if she were blind and deaf. Her mind was occupied only by her own heavy thoughts.

It was with a sense of shock that she discovered that it was now completely dark, and realised how long she must have been sitting there. She uncoiled herself stiffly, forcing herself to move around the big room, switching on lamps, and drawing the voluminous drapes across the windows. Closing out the night, and the thousands of lights which twinkled at her like small prying eyes. Reinforcing the fact that she was still, unaccountably, alone.

She thought, with anguish, He’s not coming back. And how am I going to bear it . . . ?

The sudden sharp rattle of a key in the door made her wheel round, her heart pounding.

She said with a gasp ‘Ryan? Oh, Ryan, it’s you.’

‘You were expecting someone else?’ He spoke lightly, but the glance he directed at her across the intervening space was searching. He shut the door behind him, and put down his briefcase.

‘Of course not, but I was getting worried. I didn’t know where you were.’

‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t know you’d be around to worry.’ His brows lifted questioningly. ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’

He was wearing, she noticed, his favourite pale grey trousers, topped by a white shirt, a silk tie in sombre jewel colours, and his black cashmere jacket. Not his usual casual weekend gear at all.

She swallowed. ‘Oh, the bride got cold feet and cancelled. A Special Occasions first. All that lovely food, and the prettiest marquee in England, and no takers.’ She realised she was beginning to babble, and bit her lip.

‘Ah, well,’ Ryan said lightly. ‘It’s probably a blessing in disguise. One less mistake to chalk up to experience. One less digit to add to the divorce statistics.’

She stared at him, suddenly and totally arrested. ‘That’s a very cynical viewpoint.’

‘I thought I was just being realistic.’ He paused. ‘Did it cause you a lot of problems?’

‘Enough.’ Kate shrugged. ‘But it also gave me the weekend back.’ She hesitated in her turn. ‘I did phone and leave a message. You must have been out all day.’

‘Pretty well,’ he nodded, discarding his jacket and tie and tossing them on to one of the sofas.

Kate watched him release the top buttons of his shirt with a swift, primitive yearning. How long was it since they’d last made love? It must be all of three weeks, she realised with an inward grimace. Just before she’d been taken ill with that twenty-four-hour tummy bug, when she thought back.

But I’ve been out a lot on business, she reminded herself defensively, and Ryan often works late into the evening, so that I’m asleep when he comes to bed.

But not tonight, she promised herself. Tonight, she would take infinite care to stay awake.

She smiled at him. ‘Would you like a glass of wine? I—I didn’t know what to do about food. . . ?’ She turned it into a question.

Ryan shook his head. ‘I’ve eaten, thanks. But some wine would be good.’

She poured carefully, and handed him a glass. ‘You look very smart.’ She kept her tone casual. ‘Have you been with Quentin?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I had some research to do.’

‘Oh.’ Kate refilled her own glass and sat down. ‘I thought you did that on the Internet.’

‘Not all of it.’ He didn’t come to sit beside her, but prowled restlessly round the room. He paused by the phone. ‘Have there been any other messages?’

‘Apparently not.’ Kate sipped her wine. ‘Were you expecting anything in particular?’

‘Not really,’ he returned. ‘There was some mail for you, by the way. Did you find it?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Oh, yes, thank you.’

He continued his pacing, then halted abruptly, his brows flicking together in a frown. ‘What happened to the floor? And the rug?’

‘That was me being clumsy.’ She managed to laugh. ‘I had a fight with a cup of coffee and lost. Does it look too obvious and awful? I’ll get the rug cleaned, and there’s some special stuff for the woodwork.’

‘No, leave it,’ Ryan said, his mouth twisting. ‘I rather like the fact that we’ve actually put our mark on the place at last. I’d begun to think we were going to pass through without one blemish.’

‘Pass through?’ Kate echoed. ‘That’s an odd thing to say.’

He shrugged. ‘Just a figure of speech.’

‘And it’s not “the place”,’ she went on, with a touch of fierceness, feeling uneasy, wanting, obscurely, to challenge him. ‘It’s a home. Our home.’

He laughed. ‘Is it, my darling? I thought it was some kind of statement.’

‘Can’t it be both? Is it wrong for our environment to express who we are—our aspirations and achievements? ’ She could hear her voice rising.

‘That,’ he said, ‘might depend on the aspirations and achievements. Although no one, seeing all this, could possibly doubt what a success we both are.’ He lifted his glass in a mocking toast, swallowing the rest of his wine. ‘Quod erat demonstrandum.’

My God, she thought. We’re almost quarrelling, and that’s the last thing I want.

She put down her glass and went to him, sliding her arms round his waist, inhaling luxuriously the familiar male scent of his skin.

‘Well, I love our success.’ She spoke with mock-defiance, smiling up at him. ‘And our happiness even more. And, as a bonus, we get to spend tomorrow together.’ She traced the open neck of his shirt with her forefingers. ‘Sunday, sweet Sunday, all by ourselves.’ She lowered her voice temptingly. ‘We can get up as late as we want. Walk in the park, or stay in with the papers. Find somewhere new to have dinner. Just like we used to.’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, my love, not tomorrow. I’m going down to Whitmead to have lunch with the family.’

‘Oh?’ Kate stiffened instantly. ‘May I know when this was arranged?’

His voice was equable. ‘My mother telephoned during the week.’

‘You didn’t mention it before.’

He gave her a meditative look. ‘I didn’t think you’d be particularly interested.’

He didn’t add ‘After the last time’. He didn’t have to, Kate thought, wincing. The implication was right there.

She made her tone placatory. ‘Darling, I didn’t mean the stupid things I said on the way home. I—lost my temper. We both did.’ She shook her head. ‘I wish your mother could just understand that if and when we start a family it will be our own personal decision, taken when we’re good and ready. And without any prompting.’

‘It was just a casual remark, Kate. She didn’t mean to interfere. Or start World War Three.’ He paused. ‘After all, when we first got married, a baby was very much on the cards. And we made no secret of it.’

‘Yes, but everything changed when you gave up your city job,’ Kate protested. ‘I had to work while you established yourself as a writer. You know that.’

‘I’m established now,’ he said mildly.

‘And so am I,’ Kate reminded him. ‘Which makes it more difficult now to find an appropriate time. Something that will fit in with our career demands. Surely your mother must see that.’ She hesitated. ‘And you remember what Jon and Carla Patterson were telling us about the nanny situation the other night. They’ve had one disaster after another.’

‘So it seems.’ His voice was noncommittal.

‘Therefore it isn’t something we can rush into,’ she went on. ‘And your mother has got your sister’s children to fuss over, after all,’ she added with a touch of defensiveness.

‘Undoubtedly,’ he agreed. ‘But I can’t promise she won’t drop any more hints.’ His mouth twisted slightly. ‘I’m afraid we’re just not a very reticent family.’

‘Maybe not.’ She pinned on a smile. ‘So, does all this mean that I’m excluded from tomorrow’s invitation? ’

‘On the contrary,’ he said quietly. ‘Everyone would be delighted to see you, but I assumed you’d be tied up at the office once you got back from Gloucestershire, and made your excuses.’

‘You’re quite right of course,’ she agreed colourlessly. She detached herself from him, and turned away. ‘I have got a load of paperwork to complete. So, next time, perhaps.’

‘That might be best.’

Did she imagine it, or did he actually sound relieved?

My God, she thought, biting her lip. Am I really such a bitch?

She swung back towards him, smiling brightly. ‘Shall we have some more wine?’

‘I’d better not.’ He sounded regretful. ‘I need to keep a clear head.’

‘You’re not going to work tonight, surely?’ Kate made no attempt to hide her disappointment.

‘I have some editing to do. It won’t take long.’

Kate knelt on the sofa, reaching forward to take his hand. ‘Couldn’t it wait until the morning?’ Her voice was husky, almost wistful. ‘I—I’ve missed you.’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve got to make an early start to Whitmead. I need to get it done now.’ He disengaged his hand, then ran a finger down the curve of her cheek. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

‘Is that a promise?’ Kate drawled the words, looking up at him through her lashes.

‘Behave.’ He bent and dropped a swift kiss on top of her head. ‘I’ll see you later.’ He collected his briefcase and went into the office, closing the door behind him.

Kate stayed where she was for a moment, staring blankly in front of her, then she collected the wine glasses and took them into the kitchen to rinse them out. She could see her reflection in the window above the sink, pale-skinned, taut-mouthed, and wide-eyed.

She thought, with a sense of shock, I look—frightened.

And yet there had been nothing to be scared of—had there?

Admittedly, it hadn’t been the ideal reunion under the circumstances. Ryan’s reaction to her unexpected return hadn’t been the one she’d hoped for. But then he was always preoccupied when the book he was working on reached a certain stage. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have given it another thought.

But life was no longer ordinary. The anonymous letter had changed all that . . Those seven words had removed the certainties, and replaced them with doubts. And with the fear she saw in her own eyes.

He’d been doing research, he’d said. But what kind of research would he dress up for? And the meal he’d mentioned—had he eaten it alone?

Why didn’t I ask him? Kate thought, twining a strand of hair round her finger in a gesture left over from childhood. Why didn’t I find out exactly where he’d been? Got him to name the restaurant even?

Was it, maybe, because I didn’t want to hear the answers? Because I was afraid to pursue them?

She shivered, and turned away from the strained face confronting her in the glass.

Ryan might not have been overwhelmed to see her, but they were hardly newly-weds, for heaven’s sake. It didn’t make him guilty of anything. And there was no real reason for him to change his plans either. They were both adults with their own lives.

And she could well do without a family Sunday at Whitmead, she told herself, pulling a face. The perfect roast, the home-grown vegetables, the seriously alcoholic trifle all ordained beforehand, and produced without a hitch, even when extra guests turned up, as they often did. The afternoon spent playing croquet or French cricket, or taking the dogs for a walk, to build up an appetite for the equally sumptuous tea. The noisy games of cards or Trivial Pursuit during the evening. It was all like a cliché of English country life.

Oh, come on, she chided herself. That really is bitchy. You really don’t want to go in case Sally and Ben are there with the children, and comparisons are drawn. Be honest about it. You don’t want another row with Ryan on the drive back.

And she shouldn’t be derogatory about Ryan’s parents, even in thought, she added ruefully. Because she liked them both—even if Mrs Lassiter’s warmth, charm and unbounded energy did make her feel slightly inadequate at times.

She simply wasn’t used to the overt family affection, the candour about personal issues, the lively arguments, and the casual but whole-hearted hospitality.

Her own upbringing, she thought, had been so very different.

With a silent sigh, Kate wandered back into the living area, and stood for a moment, staring at the closed door to Ryan’s office. There was nothing in the world to stop her crossing the space that divided them, of course.

She could open that door, go into that room, and ask how much longer he was going to be. She’d done it before, after all. And on more than one occasion she’d left her clothes on the floor first.

But even as her mouth curved in a reminiscent smile she knew she would not be doing so this evening.

When she’d gone to Ryan earlier, put her arm around him, he’d held her in return. But there’d been no passion in his response. No kindling intimacy in his touch. Once, he would have drawn her close against his body, found her mouth with his, his hands rediscovering all the sweet, sensuous routes to their mutual desire.

She had never before offered herself, and been rejected.

Although it hadn’t been a real rejection, she assured herself quickly. After all, he’d said ‘Later’, hadn’t he?

But, although this was later, she knew she wasn’t going to risk it. She would let him set the parameters tonight.

She went up to the bedroom. In her lingerie drawer, she found the nightgown she’d bought the previous month on an impulse, but not yet worn. She unwrapped the layers of tissue and looked at it with satisfaction.

It was ivory satin, and classically simple, the bodice deeply slashed beneath shoestring straps, the skirt cut cleverly to cling.

Seductive, she thought, without being obvious. And there would never be a better time to try its effect

She changed into it, brushed her hair loose over her shoulders, and added a breath of Patou’s Joy to her throat, wrists and breasts.

Then, leaving one shaded lamp burning, she lay down on top of the bed to wait for him.

And we’ll just see if he makes that early start for Whitmead, she thought, smiling to herself. Or if he’ll have to ring his parents, and tell them he can’t be there after all. Such a shame.

It was the kind of situation that usually she’d revel in, but somehow she found it impossible to relax—to think herself into the appropriate frame of mind.

She was planning to ravish her own husband. She wanted him to find her warm and willing, not nerve-racked and clammy-skinned. She needed to feel anticipation, not uncertainty.

She found she kept turning her head restively towards the stairs, every sense alert for a sound, or sign of movement. But there was nothing. Ryan had said he wouldn’t be long, but the time seemed endless.

She remembered the deep breathing learned at her Yoga classes at college, and its calming effect. She let herself sink into the mattress, counting silently to herself as she inhaled, held the drawn breath then slowly released it.

Gradually, she felt her inner tension ease, but at the same time her eyelids began to grow heavy.

Sleep, she thought drowsily. I mustn’t go to sleep. I have to wait—wait for Ryan. . .

It was the cold that woke her eventually. She sat up with a shiver, one glance at the bed beside her telling her that she was still alone. The numbers on the clock radio informed her it was the early hours of the morning.

She slid off the bed, put on her robe and went downstairs.

Ryan was lying, fast asleep, on one of the sofas. Nearby the television still hummed gently, its screen blank.

Kate turned off the power, before bending over her husband, shaking his shoulder gently.

‘Ryan,’ she whispered. ‘Darling, you can’t stay here. Come to bed—please.’

He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, but he didn’t stir, not even when she shook him again, harder.

She waited for a moment, then trailed slowly and defeatedly back to the gallery.

Even under the covers, the king-size bed felt frigid and unwelcoming.

She thought, So, he fell asleep in front of the television. It happens. It’s no big deal.

And suddenly found that she wanted, very badly, to cry. Because it was a very big deal indeed.