by Liz Fielding
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes. Sorry. I’m waiting for someone to ring,’ she said helplessly.
‘I got that bit.’ He didn’t wait for her to reply but said, ‘You sound as if you’ve just run a marathon.’
‘Nothing that easy,’ she said. Then, a touch desperately, ‘Can this wait?’
‘It’s okay, I won’t stop you working. If you’ll just buzz me up…’
Buzz him up? She looked at the phone, then put it back to her ear. ‘Where exactly are you?’
‘Right this minute? Standing on your doorstep.’
She crossed to the tall French windows, standing open to the small balcony to let out the smell of paint, and looked down. There was no BMW parked at the kerb behind her own smart little convertible. Only a van.
Clearly he’d guessed she was lying doggo earlier so this time he’d stopped further down the street and used his cellphone to establish that they both knew she was in before he revealed his presence. Smart.
‘I’m really busy,’ she said. ‘Can’t you just push the post through the letterbox?’
‘The stuff I’ve got here won’t go through the slot.’
Which was why he’d had to come back. Now she just felt bad and, out of excuses, she buzzed him up, but, having left the flat door open, she abandoned all thoughts of making a hot drink and retired to the top of the stepladder, ensuring a safe distance between them. If he saw she was working, he’d get the message and wouldn’t linger.
She heard him walking across the bare boards in the hall. ‘Just dump it there,’ she called, hoping he’d take the hint.
‘One more load.’
What?
She frowned, turned, too late. She could hear him taking the stairs two at a time.
One more load of what?
Had he got tired of waiting for her to pick up her belongings and decided to bring them over?
She swallowed down the painful lump in her throat. This was her decision. She should be grateful, she thought, jabbing at the cornice with her paintbrush. He was saving her a job.
She heard him put something down. ‘That’s it.’
‘Could you leave it in the hall?’ she said, aware that he was watching her but resolute in her determination not to get drawn into conversation. To even look at him.
‘It won’t be much use there.’
And he had her. Curiosity…
Ivo had a weekend wardrobe to go with his weekend car. Expensive casuals, cashmere sweaters. He might carry on working at the weekend, but he didn’t consider it necessary to wear a suit when he was at home. Mostly.
Today he was wearing stuff she’d never seen before.
Really old form-hugging jeans that clung to his thighs and sent a whisper of heat whiffling down her spine. And, under a rubbed to the nap leather bomber jacket, a T-shirt that had once been black but was now so faded that even the logo promoting some eighties’ rock group was barely discernible.
She tore her gaze away from his body to look at the box he’d set on the floor. It contained not post, not clothes, but paintbrushes, brush cleaners, sandpaper-tools a decorator might use.
Startled, she said, ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’
‘The ceiling will take half the time with two of us doing it. I’ve brought my own stepladder,’ he added, before she could tell him that he wasn’t sharing hers.
While she balanced, open-mouthed, inches from the ceiling, he fetched it from the hall and set it up in the far corner of the room. Then he took a paint kettle from the box, helped himself to paint from the tin she was using and, without waiting for her to thank him, or tell him to get lost, he set to work.
‘No,’ she said, when her mouth and brain finally reconnected. ‘Stop.’
He paused. Glanced across at her.
This was too weird. Ivo didn’t do this stuff. If something needed fixing, Miranda summoned someone from her list of ‘reliable little men’ to deal with it.
‘Haven’t you got more important things to organise? A takeover, a company launch or something,’ she added a little desperately.
He almost smiled. ‘All of the above, but I can spare a couple of hours to give you a hand with this,’ he said, then carried on with what he was doing.
No doubt. Leaving some CEO to sweat out his future while he calmly painted her ceiling as if he had nothing more on his mind than…painting her ceiling.
‘No,’ she repeated, putting down her paintbrush and climbing down the ladder. If he had time to spare he could go ‘spare’ it somewhere else.
She didn’t want him turning up, taking over. This was like the thing with the car. Treating her as if she didn’t know what she was doing. This was her life and she could handle it.
He took no notice, carrying on as if she hadn’t spoken. For a moment she stood beneath him, watching as he stretched to stroke the brush across the ceiling, apparently hypnotised by the bunching and lengthening of the muscles in his arm. The low autumn sun slanting in through the window gilding the fine sprinkling of dark hairs on his forearm.
‘If you’ve got an hour or two to spare,’ she said, dragging herself back to reality, ‘world peace could do with some attention.’
‘I can do a lot more with ethical company practice than I could ever manage with political hot air.’
‘Can you?’ Then, because getting into a debate with him was not her intention, ‘How did you know I’d be decorating?’
He stopped, looked down at her.
‘I noticed the colour cards on Monday and when I came by earlier you’d taken down the curtains.’ He dipped the brush into the paint. ‘It seemed like a reasonable assumption.’
‘I might have had decorators in.’
‘You have,’ he agreed. ‘Grenville and Davenport. No job too small.’
How easy it would be to let that go. Just shut up and let him get on with it. Working towards each other. A team. This was, after all, what she had always wanted. The two of them getting close over the ordinary things that other people did.
People, courtesy of the gossip magazines, thought she had the perfect life with Ivo, but she would have willingly surrendered the luxury just to fall into bed with him at the end of a hard day, too tired to do anything but sleep.
‘If you want to set up in the decorating business, Ivo, you’re going to have to find another partner. And somewhere else to practise.’
Ivo, who had relied on speed and determination-skills that had served him well in the past-to override her initial objections, certain that in retrospect she’d be glad of his help, stopped what he was doing, finally listened to her.
‘You really mean that, don’t you?’
‘I really mean it.’
‘You don’t want my help?’
‘I don’t want anyone’s help. I want…I need to do this myself.’
He didn’t just listen to her, but heard what she was saying. Understood that she wasn’t rejecting him. She just wanted to do it herself. To prove something to both of them.
It was a light bulb moment.
‘You’ll be sorry,’ he said. He was sorry too, but only for himself. There was something about Belle’s new determination, new independence that made him intensely proud of her.
He climbed down the ladder, looked around. ‘This is a lovely room. Good proportions.’
‘It will be when I’ve finished. When the new carpet is down.’
He looked at the tacks and staples, the junk left behind by earlier floor coverings. ‘These should come up.’
‘It’s on the list.’
‘Do you want me to leave the tools?’
Belle, looking down, caught a glimmer of something in Ivo’s grey eyes. Need? Could it really be need? It was so swift that she couldn’t be sure, only that it made her regret her swift rejection. To be needed by him was all she had ever really wanted.
And she’d made her point, she rationalised.
That if he stayed it would be on her terms, no
t because she couldn’t cope. Not even because he thought she couldn’t cope. And, as he sorted out pliers, a small hammer, a screwdriver, she said, ‘On the other hand, I suspect it’s going to be a tedious and painful job. Nail hell.’
‘Painting a ceiling isn’t much fun,’ he pointed out. But he left her to it while he began to tackle the floor.
The phone rang three more times while they were working.
The first time Ivo looked, but made no effort to get up. The caller hung up without leaving a message.
The second time it rang he said, ‘Do you want me to get that?’
‘No, thanks,’ she said. It was another hang-up.
The third time they both studiously ignored it.
When she was done, she climbed down the ladder, her fingers so stiff she could barely move them. He didn’t say a word, simply took her brush and the one he’d briefly used and washed them out under the tap. She didn’t protest since the alternative was standing shoulder to shoulder with him at the sink. That was when the phone rang for the fourth time.
‘Do you get a lot of hang-ups?’ he asked, turning to her. ‘This is an unlisted number?’
‘It’s nothing. One of those computer things,’ she said. ‘A silent call. I’ll contact the phone people. You can register to put a stop to them.’
‘Silent calls don’t listen to the answering machine message,’ he pointed out. ‘They hang up as soon as the phone is answered.’
‘Do they?’
‘It sounds to me as if someone likes listening to your voice.’
‘What?’ Then, blushing, ‘What are you suggesting?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing.’ He squished more soap on to the bristles. ‘Only that you might consider changing your number.’
‘I can’t…’ she began. Too vehemently. ‘I can’t be bothered. It’s too much trouble to let everyone know.’
‘Well, so long as it stops at hang-ups. Nuisance calls can get nasty. Who knows you’re living here on your own?’
She shrugged. ‘Not many people. My agent. You.’
Daisy…
Could it be Daisy calling just to listen to her voice? Building up courage to get in touch…
‘And someone else,’ he suggested, working the soap into the bristles with his long fingers, although the brush looked pretty clean to her. ‘I’ve been expecting to read all about this…’ he made a gesture with his head that indicated the flat ‘…in the newspapers.’
‘Have you? Yes, well, it’s a smoke and mirrors thing. The new image has distracted them for the moment.’
That and the fact that the split had all been so unbelievably civilised. There had been no drama. No tears. No sordid triangle spilling out into the public arena. Nothing to draw attention to what had happened.
The flat below her was between tenants and her ground floor neighbours, if they had actually noticed her comings and goings, presumably thought she was just doing some work on her empty flat.
It was almost as if the idea of her leaving Ivo was so unbelievable that while the world, if it looked, must plainly see what had happened, it collectively refused to believe its own eyes.
‘Better make the most of the breathing space,’ she advised him. ‘It’ll happen soon enough.’ Then, because he had to find out sooner or later, ‘With luck my other news will save you from the worst of it.’
He stilled.
‘Other news?’
‘My departure from breakfast television.’
‘What?’
‘Welcome to the club.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘The “What?” club,’ she said, making little quote marks with her fingers, although he’d sounded surprised rather than shocked, which had been the standard response. As if he’d been anticipating something different, although if he really thought she was having an affair why would he be here today, helping her decorate? Presumably that would be the ‘lover’s’ prerogative. ‘So far the membership is pretty exclusive. The network executives. My agent. When the news breaks I imagine it’ll be standing room only.’
‘Undoubtedly. Breakfast will never be the same again. Have they got anyone else lined up?’
Was that it? Mild surprise and who’s taking over from you?
‘For the moment they’re refusing to believe it,’ she said. Rather like his response to the fact that she’d left him. ‘They think I’m angling for more money.’
‘And are they offering it?’
‘I’m getting the impression that I can pretty much fill in the blank, which is ridiculous. No one is irreplaceable.’
‘You think?’ For a moment she thought he was going to say more, but he let it go. ‘Do you have anything else lined up?’
‘I’m taking a break. It’s not for the want of offers,’ she added. Pride talking. ‘Including a six-figure advance for my biography.’ It would be ghost-written, Jace Sutton, her agent, had assured her, assuming that her horrified response was due to the thought of having to put pen to paper herself.
‘I’d save that one for the pension fund.’
‘Don’t panic; I have no intention of washing my dirty linen in public.’
‘What dirty linen would that be?’
‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s just an expression. Neither do I see myself as the host of a daytime game show.’
‘What about that project you’re working on?’
‘Project?’
‘Something about adoption?’ he prompted, regarding her with a look that left her floundering.
How did he know?
‘You were researching the subject the other day.’
‘Oh, right. Yes.’ She cleared her throat. ‘It’s in the very early stages.’
Actually not such a bad idea, she thought, recalling some of the stories she’d read. The desperate searches. The joyful reunions. The heartbreak of a second rejection. Maybe she could put together something that would really help people like her, like Daisy.
Realising that Ivo was expecting more, she said, ‘Perhaps I should make producing my own documentary a condition of staying on. That would really test the network’s resolve.’
He frowned. ‘You’re joking, surely?’
‘Well, yes, obviously…’
‘Unless they’re complete fools, they’d jump at it.’
He thought that? Really?
‘But why bother?’ he went on.
Obviously not.
‘If it’s something that you’re passionate about, you should set up your own production company.’
She stared at him.
‘My own company?’
‘If you’re moving on, it’s the next logical step. You could do what you wanted without the bean counters pulling the strings. If you’re interested I’m sure Jace would know who to approach for finance.’
‘No.’
She wasn’t one of those high-flying women with a first from Oxford.
‘Making television programmes is expensive,’ he said, misunderstanding her response.
‘I know, but who on earth would risk money on me?’
‘People trust you, Belle. The public love you. I…’
His voice faltered and in a second the atmosphere had slipped from a relaxed working relationship to something else as heat, like the opening of an oven door, flared between them.
‘You?’
‘I should be going.’
CHAPTER FIVE
HE’D nearly blown it. Ambushed by a four-letter word that he didn’t know the meaning of.
After her initial rejection of his help, he’d been so careful to keep it casual. Didn’t even know what was driving him to hang in there when he understood only too well why she’d left him. He had, after all, been waiting for the moment ever since he’d fled their honeymoon in an attempt to right the wrong he’d done her, intending to tell her the truth when he’d put it right. But there were some mistakes that were beyond repair.
Belle had been right to leave him.
It was just that he couldn’t let
her go. Winning her back was never going to be easy. He knew her; it would have taken far more than a fit of pique to screw her to the point that she could walk away from a marriage that, by her own admission, had given her everything she’d ever wanted. Bar one.
Marriage should have been the last thing on their minds. Somehow it had been the only thing on his and her terms had made it so easy for him.
‘Marriage?’ She’d laughed at the very idea. ‘The only reaon I’d marry is for security. A man so rich that I’d never have to think about money for the rest of my life. Never have to worry about whether the network were going to renew my contract…’
And he’d said, ‘So, what’s your problem? Just say the word and I’ll buy the network.’
‘What about love? Don’t you…?’
‘We’re adults, Belle. Love is for adolescents.’
‘But why marriage?’ she’d pushed.
‘It keeps the taxman at bay.’
It had been that easy. Too easy…
He should have known that nothing good was ever won that lightly and now he was going to have to put in the hard work.
Easier said than done. He was so bad at the emotional stuff.
It was second nature to Belle. She could reach out, touch people. She’d done it to an entire country for heaven’s sake; he’d turned to look at her out of curiosity, never suspecting the danger. Certain that he was immune.
Ivo had always prided himself on total honesty in business, but obsessed with her, with the need to own her, keep her for himself, he’d behaved like the worst kind of corporate raider, taking advantage of her vulnerability, her insecurity, instead of digging for its cause. Sweeping her away on the promise, the one thing that he could offer her, that, as his wife, she’d be safe from the vagaries of an uncertain business.
He’d just thanked his lucky stars that she hadn’t asked for more and for a whole week had lived in the bliss of a happiness he’d thought beyond him. Bliss that had been shattered when, in the sleepy aftermath of intimacy, she’d babbled happily about a future that he’d never envisaged. A rose-coloured picture of family life that he knew did not exist.