by Sara Craven
She might even stop living out of freezer cabinets and delis. Buy some real food, and learn to cook it herself on that almost-new stove. And she could even ask Mrs Wade to write out some of her favourite recipes, although she’d better make sure the good woman was sitting down first, she thought wryly.
She cleared away, and came back into the living room. The silence in the flat was beginning to feel faintly oppressive. But she’d always been fine on her own in the past, and would be again. This—edginess was just a temporary thing.
However, it would have been good to travel down to Gracemead tomorrow, she thought wistfully. But that was impossible, as she could hardly show up, a bride of two days, without her husband.
In a few weeks’ time, it would be different. She could find excuses for his absence, and pretend she was dashing back eagerly to be reunited with him, she told herself, stiffening against the renewed pain that slashed at her.
She could do—whatever she had to.
And when Gracemead finally belonged to her, it would all seem worthwhile. Her temporary marriage little more than a bad dream. The telephone rang and she jumped, hurrying over to answer it. ‘Tessa.’ Her voice lilted. ‘How lovely. When did you get back? Oh, I’m fine—same as ever, you know. Lunch on Sunday? That would be great.’
Something really to look forward to, she thought, as she replaced the receiver, and tried to forget that just for a moment, when she’d heard her friend’s voice, she’d felt a sharp stab of disappointment.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘A RE you really all right?’ said Tessa.
Harriet met her scrutiny with an assumption of calmness. ‘Don’t I look it?’
‘No, frankly you look—peaky. More so than when we went away.’
‘Then it’s as well I brought a tonic.’ Harriet deposited the bottle of champagne she’d brought on the kitchen table. ‘You, of course, look amazing,’ she added, admiring her friend’s delicate golden tan displayed in a strapless top and brief shorts. ‘And I’m probably just starving. What’s that heavenly smell?’
Tessa shrugged. ‘Roast beef and the usual trimmings,’ she returned wryly. ‘It’s too hot for that, really, but Bill put in a special request, and, as you know, I can deny him nothing.’
She jerked a thumb towards the glass doors which stood open on to the patio, and the sound of distant and muffled cursing. ‘He’s putting up a bird table.’
She lifted her voice mellifluously. ‘Leave that, darling. Harriet’s here, and she’s brought fizz.’
Her husband joined them, sucking his knuckles. ‘Damn all birds.’ He dropped a kiss on his wife’s hair on his way to open the wine. ‘Everything all right, Harry, love?’ His glance was questioning. ‘You look…’
‘Peaky,’ Tessa supplied helpfully as he hesitated.
‘Well, certainly in need of a break.’ He poured the champagne, and handed round the glasses. ‘You ought to try Greece, sweetheart. Great place to unwind.’
Harriet smiled brightly. ‘I’ll have to take your word for that.’ Because it’s the last place on earth I’d ever choose.
‘All the same,’ Tessa said, ‘it’s good to be back.’
‘So, what’s new with you, Harry?’ Bill asked, leaning back in his chair. ‘How’s the on-going battle with your grandfather? Persuaded him to see reason yet?’
You don’t want to know what I’ve done, thought Harriet, studying the rising bubbles in her glass. Aloud, she said, ‘Let’s say that I—live in hope.’
Bill downed his champagne and stood up. ‘And I’d better get back to my hammering.’ He looked at Harriet. ‘Care to lose a thumb in a good cause?’
‘Love to,’ Harriet murmured. ‘But I’m actually going to stay here, and watch your wife perform her magic. See if I can pick up a few tips for the future.’
Tessa’s eyes gleamed. ‘You’re planning to start cooking? My God, are you telling us that at last you’ve met someone?’
For a moment, Harriet was seriously jolted. They don’t know—they can’t know… Somehow she managed a tone of surprised amusement. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘Well,’ Tessa said, ‘apparently, when the man comes into your life, the first thing you want to do is feed him. Which was certainly true in our case. I couldn’t wait to impress Bill with my culinary skills.’ She paused, looking across at her husband and smiling, her face suddenly dreamy. ‘And the second thing, it seems, is to have his baby.’
‘Oh.’ Harriet stared at them both, beginning to smile too. ‘Does this mean…?’
‘It certainly does,’ said Bill. ‘Harry—you’re going to be a godmother.’
‘Oh.’ Harriet took a deep breath. ‘But that’s—just wonderful,’ she said huskily. ‘I’m so happy for you both. When did you find out?’
‘It was confirmed just before we went away. So we had the whole two weeks to talk about it, and make plans.’ Tessa paused. ‘For starters, I’m handing in my notice at work.’
‘But you love your job.’
‘They’ve been good years,’ her friend agreed. ‘But now I have other priorities. And I’m tired of racing the other rats.’ She sighed. ‘Love, I’m sure you won’t approve, or understand, but I feel it’s right for me, so please try.’
‘You mean from my position as hard-faced career bitch?’ Harriet went round the table and hugged them both fiercely. ‘Sorry, guys, but I think it’s a great decision.’
‘Oh, babe.’ Tessa gulped mistily. ‘I wish I could see you as happy.’
‘I will be,’ Harriet promised. ‘Just not in the same way, that’s all.’
It was a marvellous lunch, a celebration full of sunshine and laughter, with delicious food, from the chilled cucumber soup, through the perfectly cooked beef, and down to the summer pudding with clotted cream.
Harriet found she was watching the pair of them in a whole new way, her consciousness heightened as she saw how they interacted with each other, the way they looked and spoke. The small private smiles—the tender awareness.
Real people, she thought, swallowing past a painful lump in her throat, in a real marriage. And a million miles from the doomed pretence that I’ve brought on myself.
She was assailed by a sudden vivid memory of the strong beat of Roan’s heart under her cheek—the way he’d drawn her closer, when, in truth, she hadn’t wanted to escape at all. Falling asleep feeling so safe—so strangely secure in his arms.
Then waking to find it was an illusion.
I want what you two have, she thought, pain twisting inside her. But something tells me I’m never going to be that lucky.
It was late in the afternoon when she finally tore herself away, promising that they’d all meet up again very soon.
But, sitting huddled in the back of the cab, she felt the joy of the day fading to be replaced by an overwhelming bleakness, and knew suddenly but very surely that she didn’t want to go back to the isolation of the flat.
That she had a very different destination in mind.
Abruptly, she leaned forward and directed the driver to take her to Hildon Yard.
Just to see him again, she told herself. That’s all. To sit down and talk—properly for once. Maybe attempt to work out if anything can be salvaged from this—non-marriage. Not living together, of course, she added hastily, but—seeing each other sometimes. As friends and—perhaps, occasional lovers.
If that’s possible. I—I don’t seem to know any more. Can’t figure what’s happening to me.
On the other hand, she could always abandon the subtle approach altogether, and throw herself at him, ripping his clothes off as she did so.
A third possibility was that he might not be there at all, and she would have to leave another message on his mobile phone, and hope that he picked it up. Arrange another meeting on neutral territory, to try and reach some understanding.
There was also a chance that he might not want to see her—or he might laugh when he learned why she’d come to him.
But to spen
d the rest of her life wondering if things could have been different would be far worse.
Even though it was Sunday afternoon, the yard was busy, and Harriet skirted gingerly round its edge, grimacing at the noise from the wagons as they were being loaded.
She stopped to allow one to reverse, pressing herself against the wall. As she waited, she realised that the door to the studio had opened, and Roan was walking out on to the staircase. But not alone.
She saw the gleam of his companion’s blonde hair in the late afternoon sunlight, as they stood talking, heads bent. Watched as the girl put up a hand and touched his cheek, and he took her in his arms and held her.
Harriet stood, transfixed. She thought stupidly, But it’s the weekend, and she’s married. Where does her husband think she is? Or doesn’t she care? And then, more cogently, Oh, God, I’ve got to get out of here—now. Before I’m seen.
She retreated slowly back the way she’d come, telling herself she should be thankful that she hadn’t arrived earlier. That she hadn’t barged in and—found them together. At least she’d been saved that particular humiliation. But not the agony of her own imaginings.
When she got outside, her taxi was just drawing away, and she chased after it, waving and calling to the driver. Then saw with relief the brake lights come on.
‘Something wrong, love?’ The man peered curiously at her as she appeared beside him.
‘No.’ Harriet spoke breathlessly, stumbling over the words. ‘I’ve changed my mind, that’s all.’ She paused, before adding in a voice she didn’t recognise, ‘Just—changed my mind.’
CHAPTER NINE
H ARRIET stared at the telephone she was holding as if it had turned into a black mamba.
She said, articulating the words with immense care, ‘Gramps—you—are coming to the exhibition at the Parsifal?’
‘Naturally,’ Gregory Flint returned with a touch of impatience. ‘Surely Roan told you I’d been invited?’
No, she wanted to scream. Roan has told me nothing, because I’ve had no contact with him since our…Since we…
And when my own invitation arrived, I tore it into very small pieces and binned them. Not that he’d sent it, of course.
She said almost pleadingly, ‘But you hate London.’
‘As a general rule,’ her grandfather agreed. ‘But this is something of a special occasion. The evening when we all discover if your faith in your husband’s artistic prowess is justified. You must be nervous.’
I wasn’t, she thought grimly, until I took this call.
‘Besides,’ he went on more genially, ‘I want to see how married life agrees with you both. It’s important to me, as I’m sure you realise.’
In other words, she was not out of the wood yet, Harriet thought, her stomach beginning to churn. Because she was being warned that he expected to see a display of marital harmony along with the paintings. Which under the circumstances was a sick joke—and she wasn’t laughing.
She said woodenly, ‘Yes, of course. And it’s a lovely surprise.’ She paused. ‘And I’d be delighted to dine at your club. Shall we say six-thirty?’
‘I look forward to it, my dear,’ he said, and rang off.
Oh, God, Harriet thought, sinking limply on to the sofa. What the hell do I do now? Another lousy day at work, and now this.
But there was only one genuine course of action open to her, and she knew it. She would have to talk to Roan, however painful that promised to be. Have to come to some accommodation with him, or her plans for Gracemead—and her entire future with it—would collapse in ruins.
I’ll do it now, she thought. Before I have a chance to think what I’m doing, and talk myself out of it. Besides, Roan can hardly refuse to cooperate as it’s entirely his fault that Grandfather’s coming to London.
But would he see it that way?
It was irritating beyond reason to realise that he seemed to have ignored her strictures to avoid all contact with Gregory Flint. On the other hand, who was to say who’d made the first approach? Two men, she thought broodingly, with wills of their own.
The studio door was shut as she walked up the iron staircase.
She knocked loudly, and waited. If Roan was with his mistress, it would at least give them a chance to get their clothes on, she thought stonily, resisting the inevitable stab of anguish. But the door opened without any hasty scuffling, and Roan confronted her, barefoot, but otherwise fully clad in the usual shabby jeans, and an elderly blue shirt. For a moment, he stared at her, his face without expression.
Then he said slowly, an odd note in his voice, ‘Harriet—it’s you. What are you doing here?’
‘I’m sorry if it’s an inconvenient time, but I need—to talk to you.’ How was it possible to speak when her mouth was so dry? ‘If—if that’s all right.’
‘Of course.’ He gave a slight shake of the head. ‘I—did not expect…But no matter,’ he added more briskly. ‘Come in.’
‘Oh.’ As she entered, she checked, looking round her. ‘Nearly all the paintings have gone.’
‘They have been disappearing at intervals over the past week,’ he said, drily. ‘But you, of course, would not know that.’
‘Yet you still have the angry painting.’ She walked across and looked at it. ‘The one that was hanging in Luigi’s restaurant. I thought it was sold.’
‘It is. The owner collects it tomorrow morning.’ He came to stand beside her. ‘You think it shows anger? You are perceptive.’
She was deeply conscious of how near he was to her. But reluctant to betray it by moving away.
‘That’s a pretty sandal,’ she commented, trying to sound casual. ‘Expensive too. The owner must have been sorry to lose it.’
‘I think she had other issues to concern her at the time.’ There was a cynical note in his voice. ‘Not that it matters any longer.’
He sent her a level look. ‘But I am sure you did not come here to discuss my work, or its motivation.’ He paused. ‘Would you like to sit down? May I offer you some coffee—a glass of wine?’
‘No, thank you,’ she returned crisply, turning away. Putting space between them. ‘This isn’t a social call.’ But he could well be expecting company, she thought, swallowing. One quick, all-encompassing glance had shown her that the clutter and mess from her previous visit had been removed along with the pictures. The place looked clean and tidy, and the screened-off bed appeared to be made up with fresh white linen. But perhaps that was a refinement insisted on by his most frequent visitor, she thought with a pang.
‘And I prefer to stand,’ she added, ignoring the sofa with its invitingly plumped cushions.
‘As you wish.’ He watched her, hands on hips, the black linen skirt and tunic that was her working gear dismissed in one derisive glance, which turned to a frown as he noted her bare left hand. ‘So, what is the problem, Harriet mou? Have I contravened some other precious, unwritten code?’
‘Pretty much,’ she said shortly. ‘I discovered a short time ago that my grandfather is coming to the opening of your show at the gallery. And that he expects to see us there—together. As if we were really married.’
‘But we are really married, yineka mou.’ His tone was harsh. ‘Even if you still refuse to wear my ring. Do you wish me to—jog your memory, perhaps?’
For a moment, she felt her body quiver in sheer yearning. Knew that if he drew her down on to the floorboards, she would welcome him into her. Would take as completely as she gave.
But it wasn’t going to happen. She had to fight this devastating weakness, she thought, lifting her chin defiantly. ‘I’d really prefer you to disappear from my life altogether, but you’ve made that impossible.’
‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘I am planning to return to Greece. Will that put sufficient distance between us, or do you wish me to consider possibilities in Australia?’ His voice bit.
Greece? For a moment, Harriet felt dizzy. He was leaving, she thought. Going away. And if he did, it was probabl
e she would never see him again, and he must not—must not—see that it might matter.
She said coldly, ‘Just now, my primary consideration is how we’re going to get through the next twenty four hours without blowing our deal sky-high.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘I wasn’t actually planning to attend the opening, but now it seems I must.’
She ignored whatever it was he’d muttered under his breath in his own language, and went resolutely on. ‘I must also pretend that you and I have—a relationship. But I can’t do it alone. I need you to—back me up.’
‘Why, Harriet mou,’ Roan said mockingly, ‘have you come here to ask me a favour? I am overwhelmed.’
‘If you’d kept your distance from Grandfather, as I requested, it wouldn’t be necessary,’ Harriet said tautly.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he said with sudden curtness. ‘And don’t take him for one either. You think he would have just accepted a marriage to some mysterious husband it was never convenient for him to meet? Never.’
He paused. ‘In fact, I am the one who has been trying to establish that you and I are together and happily in love, with no help from you.’
Harriet bit her lip. ‘Are you saying you’re prepared to—continue with the pretence—in front of my grandfather. That you’ll help me?’
He shrugged. ‘Why not? It’s only one evening. But you have to play your part too.’ His dark gaze met hers. Held it as he spoke briskly. ‘Don’t flinch if I touch you. When I kiss you, offer me your lips, and don’t be too ready to break away. Remember that we are lovers, newly married, who know what pleasure their bodies can share, and who cannot wait to be alone.
‘And no black shrouds,’ he added harshly. ‘Wear a dress—something that makes you look like a woman. A woman who expects—and wants—to be undressed later in the evening. Understand?’
Yes, she thought, her throat tightening. Oh, yes, she understood.
She didn’t look at him. ‘I—don’t have anything like that.’
‘Then buy it.’ His tone was clipped. ‘After all, it’s a big night for me, pedhi mou, and my wife will be expected to do me credit, so wear some make-up too. Paint your nails, and put my ring on your hand as if it belonged there.’