Marriage Under Suspicion

Although it hadn’t all been plain sailing, she was bound to admit. She still remembered the day Ryan had told her about the author tour which had been arranged in the States for the launch of Justified Risk.

‘Every major city,’ he told her jubilantly. ‘Book signings, TV and radio interviews. And, while I’m working, you’re going to be taken shopping and sight-seeing.’

‘I am?’ Kate’s smile faded. She bit her lip. ‘Darling, I can’t go with you.’

‘What are you talking about? Of course you’re coming. It’s all arranged.’

‘Then it’ll have to be un-arranged,’ Kate returned crisply. ‘After all, I wasn’t even consulted about this.’

‘I wasn’t included in the planning stage either,’ Ryan said with a touch of grimness. ‘These are the kind of hoops I’m expected to jump through, and be grateful. It’s certainly the kind of opportunity you don’t refuse.’

‘Of course not, and I’m sure you’ll be wonderful.’ Even to her own ears, her voice held a slightly brittle note. ‘But I’m far too busy at work to take that amount of time off.’

‘Louie would understand—if you explained.’

‘There’s nothing to explain.’ Kate lifted her chin. ‘Like you, I have a career, Ryan—and a life. I’m not just an—appendage to be trailed round in your wake.’

‘No indeed,’ he said, too courteously. ‘You’re my wife, and I’m looking for a little support here.’

‘So, I just drop everything and run?’ Kate shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Ryan, but that isn’t how it works.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps if I’d had more notice . . . ’

‘I’ve only just heard myself.’ He paused ‘Kate, I need you with me—please.’

‘It’s impossible,’ she said stubbornly. She saw the utter bleakness in his face as he turned from her, and added hastily, ‘Next time, maybe . . . ’

‘Of course,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘There’s always a next time.’

Only there hadn’t been. Ryan had carried out a number of promotional tours since, but she’d been included in none of them, although she could have accompanied him with Louie’s goodwill.

‘You’re a fool,’ her partner had commented when Kate had told her what had happened. ‘If Ryan belonged to me, I wouldn’t let him roam off alone.’

‘He’s not alone,‘ Kate had protested. ‘He has people with him—a publicist, for one.’

‘Male or female?’ Louie had sent her a beady look.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then I’d get to know. I’m only a single woman, but it seems to me like the kind of information a caring wife should have at her fingertips.’ Louie had adjusted her scarlet-rimmed spectacles. She was taller than Kate, and built on more Junoesque lines, with a mop of dark curly hair.

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ Kate had said impatiently. ‘I trust Ryan implicitly.’

Nevertheless, when Ryan got back she’d heard herself asking, ‘How did you get on with the publicist?’

‘Grant?’ Ryan had shaken his head. ‘Nice lad, but I think I was his first author. We carried each other.’

‘Oh,’ Kate had said, despising herself for feeling relieved.

The kettle whistled imperiously, bringing Kate back to the present with a start.

Not exactly the kind of trip down Memory Lane that I wanted, she reflected wryly as she made her coffee.

And it must have been sparked off by her encounter with Peter Henderson. His questions had re-opened several cans of worms which she’d thought closed for ever, and that was vaguely disturbing.

So, she hadn’t wanted Ryan to jettison his City career. She could hardly be blamed for that. But no one was more delighted than herself when the gamble paid off.

We’re both doing what we want. We have a wonderful life, and a strong marriage, she told herself as she made her way back to the living area. Things really couldn’t be better.

There was a small stack of mail beside the telephone, junk and bills by the look of it, she thought, wrinkling her nose as she flicked through the envelopes. There was only one she couldn’t categorise quite so simply. An expensive cream laid envelope, typewritten, and addressed quite starkly to ‘Kate Lassiter’, with a central London postmark.

Kate slit open the envelope and extracted the single sheet of paper it contained.

She unfolded the letter, reaching casually for her coffee cup as she did so.

There was no address, and no greeting. Just two lines in heavy black script. Seven words which leapt off the page at her with a force that left her stunned.

Your husband loves another woman.

A Friend.

CHAPTER TWO

KATE felt totally numb. There was an odd roaring in her ears, while from a distance she heard the tinkle of crockery, and flinched from the scalding splash of liquid on her feet and legs.

She thought detachedly, I’ve dropped my coffee. I ought to get a cloth and clear it up before it stains the floor. I ought . . .

But she couldn’t move. All she could do was read those seven words over and over again, until they danced in front of her eyes, reassembling themselves in strange meaningless patterns.

She felt her fingers curl round the paper, crushing it, reducing it to a tight ball which she threw, violently, as far as her strength allowed.

For a moment she stood, almost absently wiping her hands down the sides of her coffee-stained skirt, then, with a little choking cry, she bolted up to the bathroom where she was briefly and unpleasantly sick.

When the world had stopped revolving, she stripped off her clothes and showered, using water almost hotter than she could bear, as if scouring herself of some physical contamination.

Then she towelled herself dry, and re-dressed in leggings and a tunic.

She seemed to be looking at a ghost, she thought, as she combed her damp hair into shape. A white-faced spectre with shocked, enormous eyes.

Downstairs, she fetched a dustpan and cleaning materials, and set about cleaning up the spilled coffee, almost relishing the physical effort required to scrub at the stained floorboards. The cream rug was marked too, she noticed, frowning, and that would have to go to a specialist cleaning firm.

She stopped right there, with a tiny gasp. Her marriage was in ruins, and she was worrying about a bloody rug?

She knelt staring into space, aware of a deep inner trembling. Knowing that it was composed equally of anger and fear.

Heard her voice, hoarse and shaken, say, ‘It’s not true. It can’t be true, or I’d have known. I’d have sensed something, surely. It’s just a piece of random filth. Someone who hates us. Who’s jealous of our happiness.’

The conclusion made her flesh crawl, but it was infinitely preferable to any other possibility, she realised, grimacing painfully.

She got to her feet, and took the china fragments into the kitchen for disposal. The champagne bottle in the wastebin jarred her. Before she could stop herself, she was standing by the sink, lifting the flutes to the sunlight, studying them minutely for any tell-tale signs of lipstick.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, she derided herself. Don’t let someone’s malice turn you paranoid.

She put the glasses away, emptied the wastebin, and cleaned it meticulously. Then she deliberately made herself another cup of coffee, and carried it through to the living area, seating herself on one of the cream and maize striped sofas.

Normally, the panorama of the river fascinated her, the boats, the buildings which crowded the banks, the play of light on the water. Now, she gazed at it unseeingly, her mind running in aching circles, as she drank her coffee. It burned all the way down, but the inner chill remained.

She thought, I don’t want this to have happened. I want everything back the way it was before . . .

In some ways, she wished she hadn’t come home. That she’d accepted Peter Henderson’s offer and stayed for dinner in Gloucestershire.

But that would have made no difference. The letter would still have been there, awaiting her eventual return.

She needed to find some way to deal with the situation. Work out some plan of action. Yet she felt totally at a loss.

She could always go for straight confrontation, she acknowledged, frowning. Just hand Ryan the letter and watch his reaction.

She put down the empty cup, and retrieved the crumpled ball of paper from its corner, endeavouring to smooth out the creases.

I can’t pretend to treat it lightly—make a joke of it, she thought. As soon as he sees what I did to it, he’ll know it mattered—that it upset me. I can’t let him know that. Not until I’m sure. One way or the other.

She stopped abruptly, with a small gasp, aware of how far and how fast she had come from her original total disbelief.

She found herself remembering an article she’d read in a magazine at the hairdressers. Titled ‘His Cheating Heart’, it had detailed some of the ways to check if a man was being unfaithful. And one of the chief danger signs, she recalled, her heart lurching sickly, had been long, unexplained absences.

She said aloud, huskily, almost desperately, ‘Ryan—where the hell are you?’

No, she thought, setting her jaw. She would not let herself think like this. Five years of love and trust could not be destroyed by a single act of malice. She wouldn’t allow it.

So she wouldn’t mention the letter at all, she told herself, drawing a deep breath. In fact, she would make believe she had never seen it. That it didn’t exist. She would make no wild accusations. Drop no veiled hints. She would act completely naturally, she thought fiercely. But—she would also be on her guard.

She tore the letter in half, then into quarters, before reducing it to strips, and thence into a mound of minute fragments which she piled onto a saucer and burned.

She flushed the ashes down the sink, and wished the words could be erased from her mind with equal ease.

She chose a bottle of Ryan’s favourite Bordeaux from the rack, and opened it. A nice, wifely gesture to welcome him home, she thought, biting her lip. Except there was no positive guarantee that he would be home . . .

If he didn’t return, of course, that would be a whole new ball game. But she would deal with that only when she had to.

She sat curled up on the sofa, sipping her wine, and watching television, aware of the light fading from the sky above the river. But the words and images on the screen passed her by, as if she were blind and deaf. Her mind was occupied only by her own heavy thoughts.

It was with a sense of shock that she discovered that it was now completely dark, and realised how long she must have been sitting there. She uncoiled herself stiffly, forcing herself to move around the big room, switching on lamps, and drawing the voluminous drapes across the windows. Closing out the night, and the thousands of lights which twinkled at her like small prying eyes. Reinforcing the fact that she was still, unaccountably, alone.

She thought, with anguish, He’s not coming back. And how am I going to bear it . . . ?

The sudden sharp rattle of a key in the door made her wheel round, her heart pounding.

She said with a gasp ‘Ryan? Oh, Ryan, it’s you.’

‘You were expecting someone else?’ He spoke lightly, but the glance he directed at her across the intervening space was searching. He shut the door behind him, and put down his briefcase.

‘Of course not, but I was getting worried. I didn’t know where you were.’

‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t know you’d be around to worry.’ His brows lifted questioningly. ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’

He was wearing, she noticed, his favourite pale grey trousers, topped by a white shirt, a silk tie in sombre jewel colours, and his black cashmere jacket. Not his usual casual weekend gear at all.

She swallowed. ‘Oh, the bride got cold feet and cancelled. A Special Occasions first. All that lovely food, and the prettiest marquee in England, and no takers.’ She realised she was beginning to babble, and bit her lip.

‘Ah, well,’ Ryan said lightly. ‘It’s probably a blessing in disguise. One less mistake to chalk up to experience. One less digit to add to the divorce statistics.’

She stared at him, suddenly and totally arrested. ‘That’s a very cynical viewpoint.’

‘I thought I was just being realistic.’ He paused. ‘Did it cause you a lot of problems?’

‘Enough.’ Kate shrugged. ‘But it also gave me the weekend back.’ She hesitated in her turn. ‘I did phone and leave a message. You must have been out all day.’

‘Pretty well,’ he nodded, discarding his jacket and tie and tossing them on to one of the sofas.

Kate watched him release the top buttons of his shirt with a swift, primitive yearning. How long was it since they’d last made love? It must be all of three weeks, she realised with an inward grimace. Just before she’d been taken ill with that twenty-four-hour tummy bug, when she thought back.

But I’ve been out a lot on business, she reminded herself defensively, and Ryan often works late into the evening, so that I’m asleep when he comes to bed.

But not tonight, she promised herself. Tonight, she would take infinite care to stay awake.

She smiled at him. ‘Would you like a glass of wine? I—I didn’t know what to do about food. . . ?’ She turned it into a question.

Ryan shook his head. ‘I’ve eaten, thanks. But some wine would be good.’

She poured carefully, and handed him a glass. ‘You look very smart.’ She kept her tone casual. ‘Have you been with Quentin?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I had some research to do.’

‘Oh.’ Kate refilled her own glass and sat down. ‘I thought you did that on the Internet.’

‘Not all of it.’ He didn’t come to sit beside her, but prowled restlessly round the room. He paused by the phone. ‘Have there been any other messages?’

‘Apparently not.’ Kate sipped her wine. ‘Were you expecting anything in particular?’

‘Not really,’ he returned. ‘There was some mail for you, by the way. Did you find it?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Oh, yes, thank you.’

He continued his pacing, then halted abruptly, his brows flicking together in a frown. ‘What happened to the floor? And the rug?’

‘That was me being clumsy.’ She managed to laugh. ‘I had a fight with a cup of coffee and lost. Does it look too obvious and awful? I’ll get the rug cleaned, and there’s some special stuff for the woodwork.’

‘No, leave it,’ Ryan said, his mouth twisting. ‘I rather like the fact that we’ve actually put our mark on the place at last. I’d begun to think we were going to pass through without one blemish.’

‘Pass through?’ Kate echoed. ‘That’s an odd thing to say.’

He shrugged. ‘Just a figure of speech.’

‘And it’s not “the place”,’ she went on, with a touch of fierceness, feeling uneasy, wanting, obscurely, to challenge him. ‘It’s a home. Our home.’

He laughed. ‘Is it, my darling? I thought it was some kind of statement.’

‘Can’t it be both? Is it wrong for our environment to express who we are—our aspirations and achievements? ’ She could hear her voice rising.

‘That,’ he said, ‘might depend on the aspirations and achievements. Although no one, seeing all this, could possibly doubt what a success we both are.’ He lifted his glass in a mocking toast, swallowing the rest of his wine. ‘Quod erat demonstrandum.’

My God, she thought. We’re almost quarrelling, and that’s the last thing I want.

She put down her glass and went to him, sliding her arms round his waist, inhaling luxuriously the familiar male scent of his skin.

‘Well, I love our success.’ She spoke with mock-defiance, smiling up at him. ‘And our happiness even more. And, as a bonus, we get to spend tomorrow together.’ She traced the open neck of his shirt with her forefingers. ‘Sunday, sweet Sunday, all by ourselves.’ She lowered her voice temptingly. ‘We can get up as late as we want. Walk in the park, or stay in with the papers. Find somewhere new to have dinner. Just like we used to.’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, my love, not tomorrow. I’m going down to Whitmead to have lunch with the family.’

‘Oh?’ Kate stiffened instantly. ‘May I know when this was arranged?’

His voice was equable. ‘My mother telephoned during the week.’

‘You didn’t mention it before.’

He gave her a meditative look. ‘I didn’t think you’d be particularly interested.’

He didn’t add ‘After the last time’. He didn’t have to, Kate thought, wincing. The implication was right there.

She made her tone placatory. ‘Darling, I didn’t mean the stupid things I said on the way home. I—lost my temper. We both did.’ She shook her head. ‘I wish your mother could just understand that if and when we start a family it will be our own personal decision, taken when we’re good and ready. And without any prompting.’

‘It was just a casual remark, Kate. She didn’t mean to interfere. Or start World War Three.’ He paused. ‘After all, when we first got married, a baby was very much on the cards. And we made no secret of it.’

‘Yes, but everything changed when you gave up your city job,’ Kate protested. ‘I had to work while you established yourself as a writer. You know that.’

‘I’m established now,’ he said mildly.

‘And so am I,’ Kate reminded him. ‘Which makes it more difficult now to find an appropriate time. Something that will fit in with our career demands. Surely your mother must see that.’ She hesitated. ‘And you remember what Jon and Carla Patterson were telling us about the nanny situation the other night. They’ve had one disaster after another.’

‘So it seems.’ His voice was noncommittal.

‘Therefore it isn’t something we can rush into,’ she went on. ‘And your mother has got your sister’s children to fuss over, after all,’ she added with a touch of defensiveness.

‘Undoubtedly,’ he agreed. ‘But I can’t promise she won’t drop any more hints.’ His mouth twisted slightly. ‘I’m afraid we’re just not a very reticent family.’

‘Maybe not.’ She pinned on a smile. ‘So, does all this mean that I’m excluded from tomorrow’s invitation? ’

‘On the contrary,’ he said quietly. ‘Everyone would be delighted to see you, but I assumed you’d be tied up at the office once you got back from Gloucestershire, and made your excuses.’

‘You’re quite right of course,’ she agreed colourlessly. She detached herself from him, and turned away. ‘I have got a load of paperwork to complete. So, next time, perhaps.’

‘That might be best.’

Did she imagine it, or did he actually sound relieved?

My God, she thought, biting her lip. Am I really such a bitch?

She swung back towards him, smiling brightly. ‘Shall we have some more wine?’

‘I’d better not.’ He sounded regretful. ‘I need to keep a clear head.’

‘You’re not going to work tonight, surely?’ Kate made no attempt to hide her disappointment.

‘I have some editing to do. It won’t take long.’

Kate knelt on the sofa, reaching forward to take his hand. ‘Couldn’t it wait until the morning?’ Her voice was husky, almost wistful. ‘I—I’ve missed you.’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve got to make an early start to Whitmead. I need to get it done now.’ He disengaged his hand, then ran a finger down the curve of her cheek. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

‘Is that a promise?’ Kate drawled the words, looking up at him through her lashes.

‘Behave.’ He bent and dropped a swift kiss on top of her head. ‘I’ll see you later.’ He collected his briefcase and went into the office, closing the door behind him.

Kate stayed where she was for a moment, staring blankly in front of her, then she collected the wine glasses and took them into the kitchen to rinse them out. She could see her reflection in the window above the sink, pale-skinned, taut-mouthed, and wide-eyed.

She thought, with a sense of shock, I look—frightened.

And yet there had been nothing to be scared of—had there?

Admittedly, it hadn’t been the ideal reunion under the circumstances. Ryan’s reaction to her unexpected return hadn’t been the one she’d hoped for. But then he was always preoccupied when the book he was working on reached a certain stage. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have given it another thought.

But life was no longer ordinary. The anonymous letter had changed all that . . Those seven words had removed the certainties, and replaced them with doubts. And with the fear she saw in her own eyes.

He’d been doing research, he’d said. But what kind of research would he dress up for? And the meal he’d mentioned—had he eaten it alone?

Why didn’t I ask him? Kate thought, twining a strand of hair round her finger in a gesture left over from childhood. Why didn’t I find out exactly where he’d been? Got him to name the restaurant even?

Was it, maybe, because I didn’t want to hear the answers? Because I was afraid to pursue them?

She shivered, and turned away from the strained face confronting her in the glass.

Ryan might not have been overwhelmed to see her, but they were hardly newly-weds, for heaven’s sake. It didn’t make him guilty of anything. And there was no real reason for him to change his plans either. They were both adults with their own lives.

And she could well do without a family Sunday at Whitmead, she told herself, pulling a face. The perfect roast, the home-grown vegetables, the seriously alcoholic trifle all ordained beforehand, and produced without a hitch, even when extra guests turned up, as they often did. The afternoon spent playing croquet or French cricket, or taking the dogs for a walk, to build up an appetite for the equally sumptuous tea. The noisy games of cards or Trivial Pursuit during the evening. It was all like a cliché of English country life.

Oh, come on, she chided herself. That really is bitchy. You really don’t want to go in case Sally and Ben are there with the children, and comparisons are drawn. Be honest about it. You don’t want another row with Ryan on the drive back.

And she shouldn’t be derogatory about Ryan’s parents, even in thought, she added ruefully. Because she liked them both—even if Mrs Lassiter’s warmth, charm and unbounded energy did make her feel slightly inadequate at times.

She simply wasn’t used to the overt family affection, the candour about personal issues, the lively arguments, and the casual but whole-hearted hospitality.

Her own upbringing, she thought, had been so very different.

With a silent sigh, Kate wandered back into the living area, and stood for a moment, staring at the closed door to Ryan’s office. There was nothing in the world to stop her crossing the space that divided them, of course.

She could open that door, go into that room, and ask how much longer he was going to be. She’d done it before, after all. And on more than one occasion she’d left her clothes on the floor first.

But even as her mouth curved in a reminiscent smile she knew she would not be doing so this evening.

When she’d gone to Ryan earlier, put her arm around him, he’d held her in return. But there’d been no passion in his response. No kindling intimacy in his touch. Once, he would have drawn her close against his body, found her mouth with his, his hands rediscovering all the sweet, sensuous routes to their mutual desire.

She had never before offered herself, and been rejected.

Although it hadn’t been a real rejection, she assured herself quickly. After all, he’d said ‘Later’, hadn’t he?

But, although this was later, she knew she wasn’t going to risk it. She would let him set the parameters tonight.

She went up to the bedroom. In her lingerie drawer, she found the nightgown she’d bought the previous month on an impulse, but not yet worn. She unwrapped the layers of tissue and looked at it with satisfaction.

It was ivory satin, and classically simple, the bodice deeply slashed beneath shoestring straps, the skirt cut cleverly to cling.

Seductive, she thought, without being obvious. And there would never be a better time to try its effect

She changed into it, brushed her hair loose over her shoulders, and added a breath of Patou’s Joy to her throat, wrists and breasts.