A Wife On Paper

by Liz Fielding

  She’d been so sure that Guy wouldn’t come today. It had been pure relief when his secretary rang to tell her that although she’d finally managed to get the news to him he was unlikely to make it home in time, even for the funeral. Easy enough to assure the woman that she understood, decline all offers of assistance.

  She should have known he would move heaven and earth. Steven had once told her that his brother was a man who simply refused to contemplate the impossible, that only once had he backed down, retreated from the challenge to get what he wanted. Guy Dymoke was a dark, unseen shadow that had seemed to haunt Steven. She should have, could have, done something to change that, she thought guiltily. Made an effort to bridge the gulf that had opened up between them, but an uneasy sense of self-preservation had warned her to leave well alone.

  ‘Why don’t you go and put your feet up, Fran? You look done in.’

  Grateful to Matty for distracting her, she finally allowed Toby to escape. The one thing she mustn’t become was a clinging mother, weeping over her child. ‘I’m fine, really. Where’s Connie?’

  ‘She’s tidying up the drawing room.’

  ‘You’ve both been wonderful. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

  ‘I wish I could say that the worst is over.’

  ‘It is. I just have to see the solicitor tomorrow. Sort out the will.’ She didn’t anticipate any difficulty. Steven had told her that he’d made sure she and Toby were taken care of; he must have known he was dying then, despite the fact that neither of them had ever acknowledged it and she had to believe he meant it.

  Her real problem was his business. What was going to happen to that?

  ‘Just remember that you’re not alone,’ Matty continued, distracting her. ‘I’m here, and Connie will hold the fort with Toby—’

  ‘It’s not necessary, really.’ She’d been forcing her mouth into a smile, her voice into soothing tones of reassurance for so long that it did it on automatic. But she was determined not to worry Matty. She’d made an amazing recovery but she was still far from strong.

  ‘She wants to help, Fran. To be honest I think she’s terrified you’ll move away and won’t take her with you.’

  ‘No! I couldn’t… I wouldn’t…’ Even as she said it she realised that Matty was appealing for reassurance too. ‘She’s family,’ she said.

  ‘Of course she is. That’s what I told her. And Guy Dymoke looks like the kind of man a woman in trouble could lean on.’ Then, while she was still trying to get her head around the idea of leaning on Guy, ‘Is there going to be trouble?’

  Francesca was drained, exhausted, tired to the bone, but it wasn’t over yet and she forced the smile into a grin. ‘Are you kidding? I’ve got a company to run and the most challenging thing I’ve had to think about for the last three years is the menu for the next dinner party. That sounds like enough trouble for anyone.’

  ‘Don’t undersell yourself, Fran.’ Matty reached out, took her hand, held it for a moment. Then, ‘I need to know. Is there going to be trouble?’

  She wanted to say no. Absolutely not. The way she had to Guy. But she’d encouraged her cousin to come and share the house after her accident. Steven hadn’t been wildly keen, but the house was huge, far too big for the three of them. Matty had needed to be in London for treatment, needed to have someone close she could call on in an emergency, and there was no one else. Nowhere else. And it wasn’t a one way bargain. She was company during Steven’s absences abroad seeking out the merchandise he imported.

  The truth was, she just didn’t know. Steven had never talked about the business. Had always brushed aside her interest, her questions, as something she needn’t bother her head about, until she’d stopped bothering to ask. She wished she hadn’t allowed herself to be so easily distracted, but he obviously hadn’t wanted her involved, and she had Toby and Matty…

  ‘I don’t want to think about it,’ she said. ‘Not today. Let’s have that Scotch.’

  ‘But what about the house?’

  She heard the fear and knew it was a fair question. Matty had an investment in the house. She’d spent her own money on the conversion of the lower ground floor into a self-contained flat suitable for her wheelchair. A talented illustrator, she’d extended it to make a studio so that she could work there.

  ‘He always promised me that the house was safe.’ Always promised that he would never use their home to raise finance. She wanted to believe that he had meant that, but if the company was in any kind of trouble—and what company wasn’t these days?—and the bank wanted its pound of flesh…

  She and Toby could live anywhere, but Matty would never be able to find another home in London. Not like the one she had with them, especially converted to her needs. With the space. Room for her drawing board…

  ‘I’m sorry. Of course he did. It was your palace—he said so often enough, and you were his princess.’ Matty looked around. ‘I wonder how he raised enough cash to buy it at the top of the property boom?’

  ‘He didn’t have to. His father left him some money. Nothing like the fortune Guy had in trust from his mother, of course—especially after some City fraud put a major dent in the family finances—but there was enough for this house. He just wanted everything to be perfect for me.’

  As if he had something to prove. There had only ever been one person he needed to prove himself to—and, torn between relief and fury that Guy had never bothered to show up and be impressed by his success, she declared, ‘And it was. Perfect.’

  But she couldn’t quite meet Matty’s eye as she said it.

  Guy paid the cab driver, peeled off the parking ticket stuck to his windscreen, tossed it into the glove box and headed for the echoing space of the Thames-side loft apartment that he’d lavished time and money on, but which only served to remind him of the emptiness at the heart of his life.

  He poured Scotch into a glass, sank into the comfort of a soft leather armchair and stared out across the river. He wasn’t seeing the boats, didn’t notice the lights that were coming on as dusk settled over the city, blurring the familiar skyline. All he could see was Francesca Lang. Not sombre in black with her hair coiled up off her neck, but the way she’d looked the first time he’d set eyes on her.

  He sipped the whisky, but its heat didn’t warm him. There was nothing in the world that could warm him other than the arms of a woman who was forbidden him in every code he lived by. A woman who today had looked at him as if he was something that had crawled out from under a stone. He’d anticipated a frosty reception, but he hadn’t anticipated this level of animosity. Every single word she’d uttered had felt like a blow. He’d been taking them from her all afternoon and he felt bruised to the bone.

  He abandoned the whisky—there was no help for what ailed him in a bottle—got up and walked restlessly across to the window, seeking distraction. Finding none.

  He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, closed his eyes. Running the endless loop of memory that was all he had of her.

  If he’d had any idea what was coming he’d have been on his guard, but the moment Francesca had appeared in the doorway of that restaurant she’d stolen his wits as well as what passed for his heart, blind-siding him, so that he’d been exposed, vulnerable, and Steve—clever Steve—had instantly picked up the signals and positively revelled in the fact that, for the first time in his life, he had something that his half-brother wanted, something he could never have.

  He hadn’t blamed him for that. He had just wanted to be somewhere else, a million miles from the restaurant, but there had been no escape. There had been an entire evening to get through first and all he could do was pull down the mental shutters, shake Steve’s hand, brush Francesca’s cheek with his lips as he welcomed her into the family, congratulated her. It had been a quiet torture then and the slow drip of it had never left him.

  His mind, stuck in an endless re-run that he couldn’t escape—didn’t want to escape—continued to play that moment ove
r and over every time he stopped concentrating on something else. Every time he closed his eyes.

  The peachy softness of her cheek. A subtle scent that hadn’t come from any bottle but was a fusion of her hair, the warmth of her body, her clothes, the fresh air she’d brought in with her, all enhanced by a touch of something exotic and rich. He’d had three years to analyse it, reduce it to its constituent parts.

  All he had been able to do was wish them well, be glad that Steve had finally found what he’d always been searching for. Someone who loved him. Someone who would always be there. A family of his own.

  And live with it.

  Attempt to carry on a normal conversation.

  ‘Where are you planning to live?’ he’d asked. ‘Steve’s flat isn’t big enough for two, let alone a baby.’ It was like prodding himself with a hot needle.

  ‘We’re looking around for just the right place…’ Then, with a casual shrug, Steve added, ‘Fran and I looked at the Elton Street house yesterday.’

  His heart missed a beat as he forced himself to turn to Francesca, include her in the conversation. ‘Did you like it?’

  ‘It’s a beautiful house,’ she said, not quite meeting his eyes.

  ‘Fran fell head over heels in love with it,’ Steve said emphatically. ‘I’d like to come and see you tomorrow. Talk about it.’

  He ignored the opening his brother had left him.

  Maybe he was the one avoiding eye contact. Avoiding a repeat of that moment when, with one look, the entire world seemed to slide into place and lock with an almost audible click; the kick-in-the-stomach pain that went with the loss of something precious.

  He forced himself to look directly at her.

  ‘You would like to live there?’ he asked.

  For a moment something shimmered between them as, very quietly, she said, ‘It felt like home.’

  He dragged himself back from the edge. From stepping off. From saying, Come with me and I will give you everything your heart desires. The house, my heart, my life…

  ‘Then I’m sure Steve will find a way to give it to you.’

  ‘It depends on the price. Unlike you, brother, I don’t have unlimited means at my disposal.’

  ‘No one has unlimited means.’ But he’d got the picture. The reason for the invitation to dinner. The last time he’d had a call from his half-brother—make that every time he’d had a call from him—it had been to ‘borrow’ money, on the last occasion to ask for start-up funds for his latest business venture. He’d assumed tonight was going to be more of the same, but clearly it wasn’t to help with some half-baked business plan he wanted this time.

  ‘Have you set a wedding date?’ he asked, evading a direct answer and Steve didn’t push. He clearly didn’t want Francesca to know that he was asking for help with finance. But then why would he push? In the past all he’d had to do was lay out his desires and wait for guilt to do the rest.

  ‘Wedding? Who said anything about getting married?’

  ‘Isn’t that the obvious next step?’ He looked at Steve. A youthful marriage was the one mistake he hadn’t been called to bail him out of, but anything was possible. ‘Unless there’s some good reason why you shouldn’t?’ He managed a grin of sorts. ‘Is there something you haven’t told me?’

  Steve grinned right back. ‘Relax, Guy. I don’t have a secret wife or three tucked away. Fran’s the only woman I’ve ever wanted to settle down with.’

  ‘Then what’s your problem?’ If Francesca Lang had been his, nothing on earth would have stopped him from swearing his undying love in front of as many witnesses as he could cram into one room. Making that public vow to love and honour and keep her, in sickness and in health, for as long as they both should live… ‘If you’re setting up home together, having a baby…’

  It was like poking a sore tooth. Something he knew he’d regret, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, listen to yourself. Marriage is meaningless in this day and age. An anachronism. Outdated. Just a way of keeping lawyers fat when it all goes wrong.’

  He glanced at Francesca to see how she was taking that ‘when’, but she was looking down at her plate.

  With no clue as to her feelings, he shrugged and said, ‘I believe you’ll find that even in the twenty-first century it offers some benefits.’ What they were, beyond the special bond that swearing till-death-us-do-part vows to one another, he couldn’t immediately summon to mind. But then that would be enough for him.

  ‘The chance to dress up and have a party? I don’t think we need to go to church first, do you?’ Then, ‘Look, you know the kind of nasty divorce Dad went through with my mother. Fran’s been through much the same thing with her parents.’ Steve leaned across and took her hand, grasping it in his, emphasising their relationship. ‘We’re allergic, okay?’

  Guy fastened his gaze on some point in the distance. ‘If you believe that not getting married will protect you from the fallout of a disintegrating relationship, think again. Once property and children are involved…’

  ‘Guy, I hear what you’re saying, but that stuff is just for rich people.’ He didn’t add …like you. He didn’t have to.

  ‘It’s your decision, of course,’ he said, wondering if Francesca felt quite as strongly on the subject—she’d remained silent—but he didn’t dare look at her again. He didn’t want to see the love shining out of her eyes. Not when she was looking at another man. ‘Just don’t discount it without real thought.’

  ‘We have thought about it.’ He lifted Francesca’s hand to his lips and kissed it. Then, with a smile, he said, ‘But if you want to play the big brother you can pay for the champagne.’

  The message came over loud and clear. Steve was saying, This is nothing to do with you. It’s my baby she’s carrying…

  That had been the only thing he’d been able to think about all through that terrible evening. Francesca was pregnant and he’d have given everything he possessed to change places with his brother. His career, the company he’d built up with a group of friends, the fortune that had been left to him by his own mother, just to be sitting on the other side of the table with his arm draped protectively over the back of her chair, knowing that the baby she carried was his.

  Total madness. He’d only just met the woman. Had exchanged barely more than a dozen words with her. The briefest touch of her cheek against his lips. The moment she’d realised who he was, the hundred watt smile had been dimmed to something more reserved. Steve had obviously given her chapter and verse on all his grievances. Real and imagined. Told her all about his older, more fortunate half-brother who had everything, including a mother who’d loved him. Especially a mother who’d loved him…

  It made no difference. Even the forty-watt version lit up his soul.

  ‘Are you going to be all right on your own?’

  ‘I’ve got to get used to it, Matty. Today seems like a good day to start.’

  Fran smoothed her collar, regarded her image in the hall mirror. Black suit, perfectly groomed hair. Apart from the dark shadows beneath her eyes, she looked every inch the businesswoman. Steven would have approved. He had always said that image was everything. The trick was to ignore the butterflies practising formation-flying in your stomach; if you looked confident, looked as if you knew what you were talking about, people would believe in you. Okay, so it was three years since she’d set foot in an office, but her brain hadn’t atrophied just because she’d had a baby—well, not that much anyway.

  Right now a load of people were sitting around in the office waiting for someone to say, It’ll be all right. Let’s get on with it. And there was no one but her.

  ‘I’ll get the paperwork sorted out with the lawyers first,’ she said. ‘And then I’m going into the office.’

  ‘What is he doing here?’

  Guy had only just arrived when a secretary announced Francesca’s arrival. She came to an abrupt halt in the doorway when she saw him, but there was no stop-the-world m
oment this time. No out-of-control hairstyle, no clinging dress to ride up and no yard of leg. And she didn’t pause to look up at him with a smile caught on her lips.

  He hadn’t realised just how much weight she’d lost. Her hair was paler too. More grown up than the corn gold he remembered. Maybe that hadn’t been her natural colour, either, but he preferred it.

  That night she had been all vibrant colour, now she was monochrome, the pallor of her skin emphasised by dark hollows beneath her eyes, at her temples. It made the quick angry flush as she saw him all the more noticeable.

  ‘Why is he here?’ she said, ignoring him completely and looking directly at Tom Palmer, the family lawyer, who’d come around his desk to welcome her.

  ‘Guy is your…is Steven’s executor, Fran. It’s his responsibility to see that the will is properly executed.’

  Now she turned those lovely grey eyes on him. ‘So that’s why you raced back from the back of beyond,’ she said. ‘To secure your assets.’

  ‘I have no doubt that Steven left everything he possessed to you and Toby. It’s my sole responsibility to ensure that his wishes are carried out and I will do that, no matter what they are.’

  Tom, who had undoubtedly witnessed family discord on such occasions many times over a long career, intervened with a quiet, ‘Please, come and sit down, Fran. Would you care for some coffee…tea, perhaps?’

  ‘Nothing, thank you. Let’s get this over with. I’ve a full day ahead of me.’

  ‘Of course. The will itself is a simple enough document.’ He opened a file. ‘First, Guy, Steven left this letter for you.’

  He pocketed it without comment.

  ‘Aren’t you going to read it?’ Francesca demanded.

  ‘Not now,’ he said. If Steve, the least organised person in the world, had chosen to write him a letter when he knew he was dying, he wanted to be alone when he read it. ‘Tom?’

  Prompted, Tom Palmer began to read the will.

  While he’d been in a position to make conditions, Guy had insisted that Steve make a will in favour of Francesca. It had not been altered, and her relief, though contained, was nevertheless evident for those with eyes to read the small signs. The briefly closed eyes, the slightest slump in her posture as the tension left her.