Suddenly one of Jack’s hands was reaching for mine. A warm palm folded around my fingers. It was so unexpected, and so totally electrifying, I nearly shot out of my stilettos.
‘Holly,’ he said, his face deadly serious, ‘I meant what I said. Every single word.’
As my hand fizzed and popped within his, I looked at him. Properly. Searched his face for truth and saw it shine out from his eyes. There were no twinkles right now, just absolute sincerity. I gulped, suddenly tongue-tied, and was relieved when Sir Digby interrupted everyone, speaking into a hand-held microphone, welcoming all, and inviting them to take their seats for dinner.
From this point on the evening became pleasantly blurry around the edges. I’d drunk a couple of champagnes on an empty stomach and was feeling nicely fuzzy, the sensation of which I clung to. It helped me forget that my husband might as well have nominated me for an award of Most Boring Person in the Universe. I didn’t want to think about that, or Annabelle hanging onto my husband’s arm, or her “complicated” relationship, or ponder who the hell her lover was. Circumstances had pushed Jack and I together for the next few hours, and as he was so charming, witty, and attentive, I’d make the most of it. The fact that he was sex on legs was the icing on the cake of good company.
As we sat at our table, we were duty-bound to make small talk with those around us but, bit by bit, the lights dimmed on the crowd so that it felt as though the two of us were in our own spotlight of a moment. We’d discussed everything and nothing, from childhood memories, when his parents and mine had sometimes got together and we’d all set off to the coast on sunny Sundays, catching minnows in fishing nets and pointing out tiny crabs in rock pools, Jack always a bit weedy and puny back then, and me – tall for my age – towering over him, whilst Simon minced about in the shallows. Yes, even then my brother had been a mincer. Nobody was surprised when he came out at fourteen. The conversation progressed to the awkward teens and, eventually, dating.
‘So, you and Annabelle?’ I asked nosily. ‘How did you meet?’
‘She was a patient,’ Jack smiled.
I raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t think doctors could date their patients.’
‘Let me rephrase that. She was once a patient. She was referred to me via a consultant. I was the surgeon who performed her micro-vascular decompression at London’s Wellington Hospital.’
‘Good heavens.’
‘The op went well, she was duly discharged, and that was that. But I bumped into her about eighteen months later, quite by chance, at The Royal London where I was doing skull base surgery and neural-oncology. We just happened to be in a lift together, and she recognised me. Annabelle was there visiting a friend who’d had her appendix out and said how very grateful she was to me for changing the quality of her life. She asked if I was available for coffee? I was no longer her doctor, she was no longer my patient, and a considerable time had elapsed in accordance with the updated doctors’ handbook. It’s called “Good Medical Practice”, if you’re interested.’
I wasn’t. I just wanted to hear how they’d met and become romantically involved.
‘Patient groups,’ Jack continued, ‘welcomed the change, saying it was about time the watchdog moved into the twenty-first century, so I thought, why not accept her invitation? She was very attractive, so we went for coffee.’
‘Splendid,’ I said, trying to keep the sour note out of my voice. I could imagine Jack and Annabelle together. Her, beautiful and glamorous. Him, handsome and swoon-makingly swoon-making. I was swooning quite a bit myself now and sat up straighter in case I swooned across the short distance between us and nose-dived into his groin.
‘The coffee turned into dinner, which led to a date, and then another one, and suddenly she’d moved in with me and proposed marriage.’
‘She proposed?’
Jack laughed. ‘Yes, welcome to modern times, Holly. I do believe there are women out there who are prepared to go down on one knee.’
‘Wow. So, you were all set to live happily ever after. What went wrong?’
Jack paused. He was too much of a gentleman to rubbish his ex-fiancée, that much was clear.
‘Annabelle might be pretty, but she’s also extremely high maintenance.’
Oh good. I was keen to get off the bit about Annabelle’s gorgeousness and far more eager to hear about her not-so-attractive side.
‘She has a huge circle of friends, all frightfully well-connected, from society types to influences with royalty. She’d think nothing of demanding I cancel a patient’s operation to attend a garden party at Buck House, which I simply wouldn’t do. It caused terrible rows. A surgeon’s life doesn’t blend well with a fiancée endlessly on the social circuit and enjoying the party life. In the beginning, I did my best to join in, but excusing yourself at ten o’clock at night because of operating the following morning and needing your eight hours’ kip didn’t go down too well. She was a bit of a diva.’
I could imagine only too well Annabelle stamping one Louboutin-shod foot at not getting her own way over spending the weekend at Lord and Lady La-de-da’s country pile, rubbing shoulder pads with the local gentry.
‘Anyway, I knew things weren’t working, and rather hoped Annabelle would call time on our relationship.’
‘Why didn’t you end it?’
‘She’s terribly proud – she’d have been devastated telling people I’d called off the engagement, that she’d been dumped. Much better for her to be seen as the one in the driving seat, the one to do the dumping. When the post came along in Africa, I jumped at the chance, knowing full well Annabelle would be horrified. No way on earth would she give up her weekly nail appointments, regular highlights at a top London salon, or the hot yoga classes. It was my escape route from the relationship, and I grabbed it with both hands. She threw the ring at me, but then scrabbled about on the floor to reclaim it saying she’d be buggered if she didn’t get some money for it, and I went off to Heathrow Airport heaving huge sighs of relief. I stayed away long enough for her to meet someone else and for her to move on with her life.’
‘And now you’re back.’
‘Now I’m back,’ he acknowledged, his eyes locking on mine.
He was playing havoc with my heart which, one way or another, was getting a very good work-out right now, both from the chemistry with Jack, and the anxiety over Annabelle and my husband cosying up together. I could see Alex in my peripheral vision across the room, his arm slung casually along the back of Annabelle’s chair. They looked for all the world like a couple. And indeed, after rousing speeches from Sir Digby, Annabelle, and actress Harriet Montgomery, it seemed only natural that my husband should take Annabelle in his arms and whirl her around the dance floor. I’d had no idea my husband could waltz. What else didn’t I know about him?
‘Shall we?’ said Jack, standing up and holding out one hand.
‘I’d be delighted,’ I twinkled. Oh yes, he wasn’t the only one with the monopoly on gleaming eyeballs. Mine were positively shining as he led me onto the dance floor. And there we stayed, pausing for the occasional champagne refill, before the music switched to smoochy songs. Annabelle was now draped over my husband like a limpet, arms tight around his neck, cheek against his. I should have been astonished that Alex hadn’t signalled to a fellow mate to look after Annabelle so he could at least have one dance with his wife, but strangely I didn’t care. Instead I was quite happy being held in Jack’s arms – arms that felt peculiarly right as they gently wrapped around my body. I even dared to copy Annabelle and let my head rest against Jack’s shoulder. I wasn’t tall enough to do the cheek-to-cheek thing, but this was very nice. Very nice indeed. And it got even nicer when I felt Jack gently drop a kiss on my head. It was so soft that at first, I thought I’d been mistaken, but my body was telling me otherwise, revving up like a car starved of petrol for so long, feeling fuel rush along its injectors, roaring the engine into life. Any moment now I’d be saying brmmm brmmm. I recognised that I was tipsy en
ough to have dropped my guard, and a little voice in my head cautioned me not to embarrass myself. The last thing Jack needed was Alex’s wife untying that dickie-bow with her teeth, leading him over to one of the tables, tumbling him backwards amongst the discarded china, and snogging him senseless.
‘I need to visit the restroom,’ I gasped and, not waiting for an answer, broke away, hastening towards the big double doors, then out of the charity’s suite, back through the foyer, around the corner to the Ladies by that huge potted palm and … oh! I skidded to a halt, heart clamouring unpleasantly now as I took in the couple doing their damnedest to blend in amongst the fronds.
‘I can’t take any more,’ the woman was sobbing into the man’s dinner jacket. Her head was buried in his shoulder, and his arms were firmly around her narrow waist, pulling her tight against his body. ‘Why can’t she be the one to leave?’ the woman cried. ‘I just want her gone so I can live my life without all this ducking and diving.’
I gulped, and held on to my evening bag tightly, as if it were a lifebelt in a choppy sea. I could only presume the weeping woman was talking about me, wishing I’d leave my husband, for the couple in front of my astonished eyes were Annabelle and Alex.
43
I awoke on Sunday morning feeling sick. And it wasn’t just from the mild hangover pulsing behind my eyes. I felt sick from the suspicion that my husband was having an affair with not one, but two, women. My God, he certainly knew how to spread himself about. Did the weeping Annabelle who had asked why I wouldn’t do the decent thing and leave my husband, have any idea that even if I did go, she’d still have somebody else vying for his attention? That other woman, of course, being my best friend Jeanie.
I felt numb. Shattered. Disbelieving. Hurt. Angry. And any other word you can think of to describe yet another duplicity. My mind conjured up several possible scenarios on how to deal with my husband, from reclaiming last night’s stilettos and stamping all over his privates whilst he was asleep in bed, to walloping him with the frying pan while he tucked into his morning bacon and eggs. Equally, I veered from those emotions to wanting to fall at his feet and beg him to end both relationships, even wondering if we could sell up and start afresh elsewhere. Put the past behind us. I would be willing to do that. I’d do anything to save my marriage. I wanted my daughter to grow up with two parents. I wanted my husband to love me again, as I loved him.
Although now, with yet another calamity, I was also starting to dislike my husband too. And then I chastised myself. How could I not like my own husband? The fact that I was so desperate to stay married to him surely proved that not to be the case. Really? argued the little voice in my head. And what exactly is so lovable about a man who puts you down in public, gets his rocks off over sexting, and shags two different women with a – very occasional – third thrown into the mix? A man who looks down his nose at your friends, deeming them never quite as classy as his, and can’t stand your own brother visiting? When put like that, it made me wonder. Certainly, Alex had done nothing of late to endear himself. So why was I hanging on so tightly to this marriage? Was it because – as Alex had said only the other week – we had a comfortable life together? That rocking the financial boat would simply cause further upset? Well, the latter wouldn’t be so awful for me, but definitely less agreeable for him. If we went down the divorce route, he’d lose half his treasured pension for a kick-off.
I couldn’t think straight. Not with this champagne-induced headache. My mind lurched back to last night. From the moment I’d been seated with Jack, everything had felt magical. Even now, as I cleared away the breakfast detritus, I could remember the touch of his hands on my back as we danced. The warmth of his breath against my skin. The kiss that he’d dropped on my head. I paused, and gripped the breakfast table, as the memory zinged through my body, lighting my innards up like the National Grid. Flipping heck, that had been a bit daring hadn’t it? Kissing me like that in front of Alex? But then again, perhaps I was getting ahead of myself. Jack was an old friend from childhood days. Maybe it was perfectly permissible to lightly brush one’s lips against a female friend’s hair in such a situation. I tried to imagine Simon doing the same. Despite our love-hate relationship, when he was being charming and caring, I could imagine him doing such a thing, and it would be nothing more than brotherly affection. But… oh. I contemplated the salt and pepper pots with disappointment. Jack’s kiss had been nothing more than that. A bit of ‘brotherly’ affection. You fool, Holly.
I pressed my mouth into a thin line as the realisation dawned. Too much drink, and too much time spent with a gorgeous guy who was, remember, simply looking after you because his plus-one wouldn’t have anything to do with him. There was no imagined lust. Well, plenty on my part, but not on Jack’s. And the only reason I’d felt my loins twanging was because my own husband was neglecting me not just physically, but mentally and emotionally too.
I slipped on my yellow rubber gloves, grabbed a cloth and began energetically wiping down all the kitchen surfaces. I didn’t know what to do. Many a woman would shriek, ‘LEAVE THE TWO-TIMING BASTARD!’ But the simple truth was, I was too scared to do it. So, it was a case of shut up and put up. For now, I told myself, as I began stacking plates in the dishwasher. Just for now. Best not to get on the internet looking up Family Law solicitors when the hangover headache was threatening to renew its efforts. Maybe wait until after Christmas, depending on whether we came to blows over the turkey in front of our combined families… ? I poured myself a glass of water and downed it swiftly, just as Alex came into the kitchen. He had his jacket on.
‘I’m popping out,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ I replied, my brain whirring. Where was he going? For a Sunday bonk in the car with Jeanie? Or to meet Annabelle for a party post-mortem? ‘Where are you off to?’
‘Bluewater. I want to get myself a couple of new shirts.’
‘Lovely!’ I said, peeling off my gloves. ‘If you wait a second, I’ll come with you.’
‘Whatever for?’ said Alex, looking aghast.
‘Because it would be nice to spend some time together,’ I said, giving him my sunniest smile.
‘I’m buying shirts, Holly. Man shopping. You’ll be bored rigid.’
‘No I won’t!’ I protested. ‘I’ll help you choose a colour, and then we can have a coffee together. Pull up a chair somewhere and watch the world go buy. Have a bit of “us” time.’
‘We had “us” time last night.’
‘No we didn’t,’ I countered, annoyance whooshing upwards like soup in a blender without the lid on. ‘You spent the entire time with Annabelle Hunt-Me-Down-Milf wrapped around you like bindweed.’
‘Here we go,’ said Alex, looking pained.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I snapped. Careful, Holly, don’t antagonise him. Not while you’re hungover. Wait until you have your wits about you. But I was finding it jolly difficult. Hurt was getting the better of me.
‘For a start,’ said Alex, ‘Annabelle is not a “milf” because she’s too young and doesn’t have children and—’
‘Bugger Annabelle!’ I screeched, hoping to God he hadn’t. ‘You completely ignored me throughout the entire evening. Fancy not asking your own wife to dance!’
‘I was looking after Annabelle,’ said Alex, his teeth visibly clenching.
‘Is the woman so helpless she can’t look after herself?’
‘She was upset, Holly.’
‘AND SO WAS I!’ I roared, smacking the rubber gloves down on the worktop and resisting the desire to stride over to Alex and slap them around his face. ‘And how DARE you embarrass me in front of that supercilious cow.’
‘What the heck are you talking about now?’
‘You insinuated I was boring!’ I shouted.
‘I did no such thing!’ Alex protested, ‘but surely you can understand the guy was expecting the company of a plus-one with a degree in Science, not finding himself partnered-up with the mother of a teenager.’
‘I’ve had enough of this conversation, Holly,’ said Alex, moving towards the kitchen door. ‘Frankly your jealous outbursts are both childish and draining.’
I rushed over to the kitchen door and blocked Alex’s exit.
‘You’re not leaving here until we’ve sorted this out,’ I hissed, eyes narrowing dangerously.
‘There is nothing to sort out,’ said Alex, calmly.
But there was no reasoning with me now. I was on a mission. A mission for truth.
‘I saw you both, Alex,’ I said, my tone deadly.
‘Yes, that would figure,’ Alex replied, affecting an air of boredom. ‘You were there last night, remember? Or are you totally losing the plot, Holly?’
‘I saw you with Annabelle in the foyer.’
Alex looked at me, puzzled.
‘Does the potted palm ring any bells, Alex?’ I enquired. ‘If not, let me refresh your memory. The two of you were hiding behind it whilst in your amorous clinch.’
Alex rolled his eyes. ‘Do me a favour,’ he snorted. ‘I was comforting Annabelle.’
‘Yes, I did see that,’ I sneered. ‘I also heard WHAT she was distressed about. Well you can tell her from me, Alex, that I’m not giving up.’ I marched over to him and waggled a finger in front of his nose. I’d decide if – and when – I was getting out of this marriage. And right now, I wasn’t upping and leaving just to suit flaming Annabelle. ‘I’m not going anywhere, COMPRENDEZ?’ My eyes were blazing now, as was my brain. My head felt so hot, I thought it might explode.
‘Have you finished shouting your preposterous nonsense,’ Alex demanded, ‘or are you going to shut up and hear an explanation as to why I took Annabelle out to a quiet spot?’‘Go on,’ I scoffed, folding my arms across my chest, ‘let’s hear what excuse you’re going to rustle up now. I’m all ears!’
What Holly's Husband Did Page 21