“You’ve been together for eighteen months; it’s time for him to put up or shut up. Force him to make a decision. Make him choose. You or the wife. And you know something? You’re really asking him to be fair to both of you, because right now, he’s being neither fair nor truthful with either one of you. You’re looking for commitment now, not vague promises for the future. And the best commitment he can give you now is to be with you on Christmas Day.” Izzie paused and put down her drink. Then she took both of Stephanie’s hands in hers and stared deep into her troubled eyes. “Is that unreasonable? No, it’s not. Is it unfair? Sure, he may tell you it is, but you know something—it’s not. What’s unfair is leaving you dangling. What’s unfair is lying to you.”
Deep in her handbag, Stephanie’s phone started to ring. She was almost grateful for the opportunity to break away from Izzie’s savage intensity. It took her a few moments to locate the phone and snap it open.
“Hello?”
“Hi. Is this Becky?”
“No, you have the wrong number.” She hung up, then sat for a moment looking around the bar, watching the various couples laughing, enjoying themselves, touching one another, holding hands, being close and intimate with one another, unafraid who was watching, not caring who saw them.
She wasn’t able to do that with Robert. Not in Boston anyway. He was afraid that people would see. Afraid that they would tell Kathy, and then . . .
And then what?
What would happen if Kathy knew? What would she do?
“What are you thinking?” Izzie asked quietly.
Stephanie shook her head, and her smile was touched with pain. “I know you’re right. All you’ve done is put in words what I’ve been trying to articulate.” She leaned forward and kissed Izzie’s cheek. “Thank you. I think I’m going to head home. Talk to Robert.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Ask a question and demand an answer.”
“And if you don’t get one you like?”
“Then we’re done.”
CHAPTER 38
The phone buzzed as she turned onto Green Street. She glanced at the screen and was surprised to see the three X’s across it. “I was just about to call you,” she began.
“Where are you?” Wind whipped away some of Robert’s words.
“Heading home. I met Izzie for a drink at Clink. Is everything all right?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll meet you at home. I’m just heading out of the North End; I left the car outside the office. It’ll take me forty-five minutes.”
“Robert . . . ,” Stephanie began, but the call ended, and she wasn’t sure if it she’d lost the call or he’d deliberately ended it. He sounded—strange. Not drunk; Robert drank very little and, although she’d seen him tipsy, she’d never known him to be falling-down drunk.
Stephanie pulled the car in front of the house and climbed out. She didn’t need to be a genius to guess that something must have happened during dinner with Jimmy.
“There you are, dear.”
Stephanie jumped with fright as Mrs. Moore materialized out of the shadows. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“That’s no joking matter,” Mrs. Moore said sternly. “A heart attack took my Frank.”
“I wasn’t joking,” Stephanie said seriously.
Mrs. Moore looked over the bags in Stephanie’s hands, then glanced into the car.
“Can I help you, Mrs. Moore?”
“Did the lady not catch up with you then?”
“What lady?”
“The lady with the Christmas present. She said she had to deliver it to you personally.”
“And she had this address?”
“Yes. She had it on a sheet of paper.”
That was odd; very few people had her home address. She directed just about everything to the office address. Possibly something from Robert . . . No, he’d give it to her himself. Then, it could only be something from home. Maybe that was it: a care package from her mother.
“I didn’t get it. I’m sure it’ll come tomorrow. Good night, Mrs. Moore,” she said, moving past the older woman to put her key in the lock and push open the door.
She took a quick shower before Robert arrived. If the evening went anything like the other nights they’d spent together, he’d want a quick shower before they made love—and she had no doubts, despite his earlier reservations and protestations, that they would make love. They simply couldn’t help it when they were together. Then they’d probably share a bath before falling asleep in one another’s arms, and then wake early in the morning and do it all again. She grinned.
Before he went home to his wife.
The smile faded.
She had just climbed out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her head when she heard the doorbell. He had a key; why didn’t he use it? She grabbed the first item out of the closet, her peach-colored silk robe, and pulled it on. The flimsy material immediately stuck to her damp body—but she didn’t think that Robert would mind. She hurried downstairs to open the door.
“I really wasn’t expecting you.” And she hadn’t been; she had thought he’d end up spending the night with Jimmy.
“There was a change of plans.” He kissed her quickly, casually, and brushed past her into the apartment, and she knew then that something was definitely amiss. She could almost feel the tension and something else—anger?—vibrating off him.
“You look like you need a drink.” She headed into the small kitchen, wondering if she had any whiskey in the apartment.
“Coffee, no alcohol.” He came and stood in the door of the kitchen, arms folded across his chest, one foot in front of the other, ankles crossed. One didn’t need to be an expert in body language to know that he was wound up as tight as a spring.
She pulled open the fridge. “Are you sure? I’ve got a nice Pinot chilling. . . .”
“I’d better not. I’m driving.”
“You’re not staying?” That shocked her; Robert usually took any excuse offered to spend the night with her.
“No, not tonight. I can’t.”
“That wasn’t the initial plan.” She smiled, trying to tease out what was wrong.
“The plan changed.”
She turned back to the sink and poured water into the coffeemaker. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him lean forward, and she realized that the front of her robe had gaped open, exposing her breasts. She started to close the robe.
“Don’t,” he pleaded.
She smiled, knowing then that everything was going to be all right. “You’ve seen them before.”
“The day I get tired of looking at them is the day I’m dead.”
“Tell me what happened?” she said softly, allowing the robe to remain open. “I presume it’s something to do with Jimmy, since you were fine—more than fine—when I left you a couple of hours ago. Is he okay?”
“He’s far from okay. His life’s a mess.”
“Honestly, I think he thrives on the drama,” Stephanie remarked. “He’s an actor, remember?” She despised the misogynistic Jimmy Moran and everything he represented, with his extraordinary arrogance built on far too little talent.
“He’s not getting any younger. And this time the mess is bigger than usual. His wife’s finally giving him the divorce he’s wanted.”
“Well, that’s good news. . . .”
“And taking half of everything he owns.”
Stephanie looked at him sharply, surprised by the disapproving tone in his voice. “Good for her. That’s her right,” she reminded him.
“You heard that Frances, the girlfriend, had a baby?”
“I heard something about it.”
“Well, he’s going to marry the girlfriend and raise the child with her.”
“So he should.” Again she was surprised, and just a little disappointed, with his reaction. Surely he accepted that Jimmy had treated his wife abominably and had a duty to his girlfriend and her child. “You don’t look so
sure,” she added, watching him closely.
“Frances sold her story to the press. She used him to get free publicity, hoping she’d get that movie part.”
Coffee started to percolate, and the rich aroma of Kenyan filled the small kitchen.
“That was really the beginning of the end for him and Angela.”
“But he’s still with Frances,” Stephanie said, pulling open cupboard doors and plucking two Stevia packets from the box. “He went back to her, got her pregnant.”
“You haven’t got sugar, have you?”
Without saying a word, Stephanie turned away and tore open the packets and poured them in the mug. It was her mission to make this man healthy, whether he liked it or not. “Sugar is bad for you.”
Robert shrugged. “Frances ruined Jimmy’s reputation in return for fifteen minutes of fame.”
Stephanie laughed, shocked by the bitter tone in Robert’s voice. He seemed to be blaming Frances for Jimmy’s problems. But wasn’t that what men did: blame the woman? “She did not. He had no reputation to ruin. So he was a big deal back in Dublin. So what? Here, he’s just another actor. And not even a good one, and actors are a dime a dozen. And he has a reputation as an alcoholic womanizer.” She handed Robert the coffee. “Everyone knows about him,” she added.
Robert accepted the mug from her hand and sipped it, making a face at the bitter taste. “People know about us, Stephanie,” he said quietly. “Jimmy told me tonight.”
So he knew. That’s what was behind his attitude. She poured herself a large glass of wine and carried her glass past him into the living room and curled up on the sofa, tucking her bare legs beneath her, pulling her dressing gown tightly across her body.
Robert followed her into the room and sat down facing her. “Did you hear what I said?” he said almost accusingly. “People know about us.”
What was that she was hearing in his voice? Anger . . . or fear?
Ghostly wind chimes coming from the disc in the CD player filled the silence between them.
“You knew.” He looked as if he had been struck. “You knew and you never told me.”
“Yes, I knew.”
“How long . . . I mean, why didn’t you . . . what about your office. . . ?”
“There have been rumors floating around about us for the last couple of months,” she said simply. “I ignored them. This business of ours thrives on innuendo and gossip. And when two people are regularly seen together, tongues wag, even if there isn’t truth to the rumors.”
“And your boss? Does he know?”
She took a long sip and said simply, “About a month ago, Charles Flintoff himself asked me outright if you and I were an item.”
“You said no,” Robert said immediately.
“I said yes.”
Robert looked at her blankly.
“Having a relationship with you is one thing—he doesn’t give a damn about that. Putting business your way is another. But as long as everything was aboveboard, well, that’s still marginally okay. However, lying to my boss was out of the question. The very fact that he was asking me the question suggested that he already knew the answer. I told him the truth.”
Robert’s mouth was opening and closing, but no sound was coming out.
“And it was the right thing to do. He had the contracts for the jobs I’d given you, plus the estimates. He’d done some comparisons with the other bidders and had gotten an independent assessment of the final result.” She shrugged. “He could find no fault with it.”
“So how many people know?”
Stephanie frowned. “Jesus, Robert. I could have lost my job over this.” She was shocked at how selfish he was being. He was obsessed with trying to prevent people from finding out about them. Or was he obsessed with trying to prevent his wife from finding out about them? “Why? What’s the problem?” she demanded.
“Because if people know, then it’s only a matter of time before Kathy finds out.”
She had her answer.
Stephanie let the silence hang over the room. There was so much she wanted to say; however, she was determined to make him speak first. She swirled her wine, watching the light dance off the spinning liquid.
“I wanted to be in a position to tell her myself,” he finally said. Was there a tinge of embarrassment in his voice? She remained silent until he finally added, “When the time was right.”
“And when would the time be right, Robert?” Stephanie finally snapped.
“When it’s right,” he muttered.
“And when would that be?”
Robert concentrated on his coffee and would not look her in the eye.
“We’ve been lovers now for eighteen months, Robert. Where do we go from here? What’s the future?”
He wrapped his hands around the mug and stared into it.
“You’ve told me how unhappy you are at home. You suggested to me—no, more than suggested, you told me that you would leave Kathy. . . .”
“I never said that.”
“Maybe not in those words, but that was my clear understanding. I would never have gotten involved with you otherwise. You told me you would leave her when the time was right.” She remembered the moment clearly. They’d been lying upstairs in her bed, exhausted after a bout of strenuous lovemaking. He’d made the announcement out of the blue, with no prompting from her. “I’ll be with you,” he had said. “I’ll sort things out and come to you when the time is right.” The words were etched on her consciousness. He might have forgotten; she hadn’t.
“Well, when is the right time? This month? No, it can’t be this month because it’s Christmas, and you don’t want to ruin Kathy’s Christmas. Of course you have no trouble ruining my Christmas, but that’s another story.” She was unable and unwilling now to disguise the bitterness in her voice. “So, when? Next month? No, that’s the New Year, not an ideal way to kick off the New Year. What about February? No, that’s Theresa’s birthday, and that’s not the sort of gift you want to give your daughter. Do you want me to go through the whole year? Do you? There is never a right time, Robert.”
Stephanie stopped abruptly. Exhaustion, leaden, bone-numbing exhaustion washed over her, and suddenly she did not want to speak to him anymore. “Look, I’m tired and feeling incredibly bitchy, and my period’s overdue. I don’t want to be having this conversation with you now.”
Robert nodded. It was obvious that he didn’t want to have it either.
“I had a drink with Izzie earlier. . . .”
“Does she know?”
Stephanie wanted to hit him. “Of course she knows! Do you think I could handle this alone? Without a girlfriend to confide in, to get advice from? Izzie’s been my rock; she knew from the very beginning; she was the first to know. And she warned me, right from the start, not to get involved with a married man. She explained to me exactly what would happen, and you know what? So far, she’s been right. Just spot-on.” The room fractured into a rainbow of crystals as tears filled her eyes. She was angry with herself; she always felt that tears were the cheap option, and she was not going to give in to tears.
“Stephanie,” Robert began, “maybe this isn’t a good time. We’re both tired. Let’s get some sleep.”
“I think that’s a really good idea.” She stood up smoothly and picked up his coat. She wanted him out of the house. Right now.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll talk.”
She laid a hand on his arm. “I don’t want to think that you’ve been making a fool of me. I don’t want to think that you’ve been using me. Maybe I just want to think we have a future together.” Then she leaned up and brushed her lips against his. “Tomorrow. Tell me the truth.”
She closed the door behind him and listened to him shuffle down the stairs. Normally, she would have walked him out, but she didn’t want him to see the tears now rolling down her cheeks. Automatically, she turned out the lights and headed upstairs to bed. Without even brushing her teeth, and still wrapped in the robe,
she crawled under the thick covers. A moment later, she heard a car engine start in the courtyard outside and wondered if it was Robert’s. And then she realized that she didn’t care.
He had one last chance; Izzie would say that it was one too many. Tomorrow night—she’d know for sure by tomorrow night.
The car drove away, a lonely fading sound.
CHAPTER 39
Saturday, 21st December
She slept remarkably well. Considering.
When she’d crawled into bed, she’d felt as if she’d been beaten and almost physically bruised. Sitting across from Robert, watching him act and react, she’d gradually realized that he was a coward, that he was never going to leave his wife, and that she’d been naïve to even dream of it.
He wanted her to keep their secret, to not even confide in her best friend. Didn’t he realize the emotional toll the affair was taking on her as well? If she didn’t have Izzie to talk to, she’d be going crazy by now. Robert’s selfishness, his fear, made him weak. The alarm bells had gone off when she’d seen how he’d sympathized with Jimmy Moran—philandering, lying, cheating Jimmy Moran. She’d seen how he’d reacted to the news that Jimmy’s wife was looking for her share of Jimmy’s money, and he’d been upset that Frances expected Jimmy to pay child support. If he couldn’t accept or understand the women’s side of the story, then how could he ever comprehend what she was going through?
She felt him slipping from her, and there was nothing she could do about it. Had she been mistaken about him? Was he, as Izzie suggested, no different from any other married man with a younger mistress? Had he been using her?
But she didn’t—couldn’t, wouldn’t—allow herself to think that. Not just yet.
He had to commit to her; she’d already committed to him. She didn’t feel guilty asking him to choose her over his wife; according to him, he’d already done that. She wasn’t asking him to do anything he hadn’t already agreed to do.
But the man who had sat across from her the previous night, the man who had said little, had almost been like a stranger to her.
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