Marriage Under Suspicion (7 page)

them? Are you, Kate?' She snapped her fingers. 'Hey, have you gone into a trance?'

Kate, who'd been staring unseeingly at the page of figures in front of her, jumped guiltily.

'I'm sorry, Lou. I—I was thinking about something else. What were you saying?'

'These menus, love.' Louie gave the papers in her hand a disparaging look. 'Supreme of

chicken in mushroom sauce—minted lamb chops—beef casserole. Are we awarding

prizes for originality here?'

Kate sighed. 'I thought I might use them for this retirement dinner next month. According

to his wife, the guest of honour has a funny tummy, and only likes plain food.'

'There's plain, and there's downright ugly,' Louie grumbled. 'We do have our reputation to

consider.' She patted Kate on the shoulder. 'But you know best.' Do I? thought Kate,

bitterly. I wonder. She said quietly, 'I suggest we try them once, and see how it goes.'

She looked up to find Louie giving her a narrow over the top of her glasses.

'You look, my dear, as if you've been washed, wrung out, and drip-dried.' She winked,

naughtily. ‘Sleepless night, you lucky girl?'

Kate flushed slightly. 'No, nothing like that,' she said with constraint. You couldn't be

further from the truth, she added silently, suppressing a wince.

She forced a smile. 'Actually, I think I spent too long in the sun yesterday, and it's given

me a slight headache.'

Louie looked surprised. 'I thought you were the original lizard. Drape you over a rock,

and let you sizzle gently all day.'

'Not any more, apparently,' Kate returned, transferring her attention determinedly back to

her work.

But Louie lingered. 'Are you sure you're all right?' she persisted. 'You look like a woman

with problems.'

Silently, Kate damned her friend's perception. She was sorely tempted to pour out the

whole story, starting with the anonymous letter, but something held her back, warning her

that once the genie had escaped from the bottle it would never be possible to confine it

again. That a confidence, once given, could never be retracted, and that a time might

come when she would wish every word unsaid.

If there was a crisis in her marriage, it was something she should deal with alone—unless

it reached a stage where it was impossible to hide the truth any longer.

If Ryan left her, for example, she thought, feeling slow pain twist inside her.

She pulled an exaggerated face. 'Can't fool you, babe. I put myself through Sunday lunch

with the in-laws yesterday. I'm still recovering.'

Louie frowned. 'I thought you liked them.'

'I do—really. But that doesn't stop me feeling like an outsider looking in when I’m in

their company for any length of time.' Kate was astonished at the depth of feeling in her

voice. She was conscious of the previous day, hanging over her like a shadow. And the

previous night.

'Does Ryan know how you feel?'

Kate shrugged defensively. 'Ryan and I seem to be having slight communication

problems at the moment.' She managed a brittle laugh. 'I gather these are normal, and that

all the best marriages have them.'

'Well, you certainly have one of the best marriages,' Louie told her levelly. 'So you

should know. But I'd make sure it's only a temporary hiccup.'

And, with another, more admonitory pat, she departed.

As the door closed behind her, Kate slumped back in her high-backed leather chair,

twisting her pen restlessly in her fingers.

It was good advice, she thought, if only it was possible to take it. But how could she

communicate with someone who'd apparently surrounded himself with a wall of glass,

leaving her to batter herself against it fruitlessly, time after time?

It wasn't as if he'd quarrelled with her, or even been dismissive. He hadn't told her that

she'd had no business to follow him, or made any hurtful remark, for that matter. He'd

simply been, in some strange way—unreachable.

She wished with all her heart that she hadn't gone down to Whitmead after all. The whole

day had been an unmitigated disaster. The food, as usual, had been delicious, but Kate

had felt she was chewing cardboard and sawdust. And there were so many awk-

wardnesses and embarrassed silences that she'd almost lost count. Once, as she'd entered

the sitting room, she'd interrupted a low-voiced conversation between Mrs Lassiter and

Sally which had ceased abruptly the moment she'd appeared.

As if they all knew something that I didn't—and certainly weren't prepared to discuss it in

front of me, she told herself miserably.

As indeed they might have been, she had to admit. Ryan was close to his parents and

always had been. He wouldn't have her misgivings about sharing his problems.

Perhaps if her own mother were near at hand, instead of living in Spain with her second

husband, she would do the same.

Kate bit her lip. No, she thought sadly. No, I wouldn't. Mother and I have never had that

kind of relationship. We were always too busy trying to keep our heads above water

financially,

A mixture of pride and bravado had kept her at Whitmead until early evening. She'd left

just after Ryan himself, but hadn't taken the direct route back to London. She'd told

herself she had too much to think about, but in her heart she'd known the real reason was

that she didn't want to arrive back home at the empty flat.

As she'd driven, she'd decided that things could not go on as they were. That she had to

confront Ryan, and demand the truth, no matter how painful the result might be.

When she'd got home, a gleam of light under the closed study door had told her that Ryan

was in there, presumably working.

Or simply keeping me at bay, shed thought miserably. She'd toyed with the idea of

marching in there and demanding to know what was going on, but the habit of leaving

him in peace was too strong.

Or was it rock-bottom cowardice? she asked herself now, defeatedly. Was she afraid to

ask the question in case she couldn't live with the answer?

When he'd finally emerged, she was sitting apparently engrossed in a television

programme.

'Any good?'

'Total rubbish,' she lied, not wanting to admit she hadn't absorbed one word or one image.

She got to her feet. 'I've made a Waldorf salad for supper. Would you like hot French

bread with it?'

'It sounds too good to be true.' Ryan sat down and became immediately absorbed in the

television.

'Did I tell you that Quentin thinks the last book is going to be made into a mini-series?' he

said, as she came back with a tray.

She gasped. 'Darling—that's marvellous news. Or isn't it?' she added, seeing his ironic

smile.

'I think it's too early to say. It rather depends how they hack it around, and who gets to

play the lead. Quentin says I should take the money and run, but I'd like to retain a

vestige of artistic control, if I can.'

'Well, I still think it's terrific. We should celebrate.' Kate paused, about to place a foot

squarely on thin ice. 'Have we got any champagne?' Her tone was almost too casual.

There was a pause, then he said, 'I wouldn't think so for a moment. But there's rather a

good Pomerol I've been waiting to open. Will that do instead?'

She wanted to say, But you do drink champagne sometimes—don't you? But she didn't

dare. And what kind of fool did that make her?

Instead, 'Yes,' she agreed, tonelessly. 'Yes, of course, the Pomerol will be fine.'

When the wine was poured, she raised her glass to him in a toast. 'Here's to our side.' She

paused. 'Did Quentin phone this evening? Surely not.'

'No,' he said. 'I've known for a few days.'

She stared at him. 'And you didn't bother to tell me.’

He shrugged. 'We've both been pretty occupied.'

'Well, thanks for remembering me at last.' Her voice rose a notch.

'You're welcome.' He smiled at her, totally un-fazed. 'Did I ever tell you that you make

the best Waldorf salad in the world?'

'Once or twice.' She put down her fork. 'Ryan— don't shut me out.'

The words were instinctive, forced from her. And if he made some joke back she would

probably die.

But his face was totally serious. 'Is that what I'm doing?'

You tell me. Aloud, she said, 'I—I don't know. We just don't seem to have the same

amount of time for each other any more.'

He said drily, 'We're not still honeymooners. And our lives have changed. We both have

demanding jobs.'

She played with the stem of her glass. 'Couldn't we have a second honeymoon?'

'Back to Bordeaux to buy some more wine?'

'Not necessarily. And I didn't know that had been the main purpose of the exercise,

anyway.' She paused, 'I thought—an island, somewhere.'

He was silent for a moment. 'I'm fully tied up for some time ahead. Maybe we could

manage a few days in the autumn.'

'Maybe.' Her smile was taut. 'We'll compare diaries.'

But that's not what I want, she thought, picking at her salad. I want you to fling a couple

of air tickets at me, and tell me to pack a bikini and a dress and forget my underwear. I

want us to say to hell with deadlines and clients, and just—take off together like we used

to.

But you could never go back, she thought. Only forward.

There was a time when she'd seen their future together like a straight and shining path on

which they walked side by side. Now, it seemed to be turning into parallel lines.

She collected their plates together. 'There's cheese and fruit.'

'Nothing more for me, thanks.' He smiled at her.

'Are you going to work tonight?' She saw his brows lift and hurried on. 'Because I

thought we could put on some music. It's ages since we've done that.'

It's ages since we've done a lot of things.

'Okay,' Ryan agreed. 'But with a few preconditions.' He ticked them off on his fingers.

'We choose turn and turn about, and we don't whine at the other one's selection, or talk

through it, or fall asleep...'

'I did that once,' Kate said indignantly. 'And just for that I'll pick first.’

She made her own selections carefully, choosing pieces that had some special, intimate

meaning for them both. Willing him silently to remember, as she sat beside him on one of

the sofas. She was intensely conscious of his relaxed, graceful body stretched out beside

her. She wanted him to reach out and pull her close, pillowing her head on his shoulder.

But he stayed as he was, his arms crossed behind his head.

Her last choice was, she thought, inspired. It was one of the first compact discs they'd

bought while they were living at the old flat. Rachmaninov's Variations on a Theme by

Paganini, and they'd made sweet, soaring love on the rug in front of the fire while the

glorious, romantic sweep of the Eighteenth variation filled the room.

He couldn't have forgotten, surely, she thought, stealing a sideways glance at him from

under her lashes.

Only to catch him smothering a yawn.

He grinned at her apologetically. 'Sorry, darling, but I'm bushed. That fencing of Dad's

was too much like hard work.'

She hid her disappointment, smiling determinedly back at him. 'Well, you go to bed, and

I'll clear up down here.'

When she went up to bed, he was lying on his side reading.

Not asleep, she noted exultantly. Waiting for her, perhaps?

She undressed in the bathroom. She didn't bother with the ivory nightgown. Instead, she

just touched her pulse spots with Patou's Joy.

When she returned to the bedroom, Ryan had put down his book, and extinguished his

lamp.

So far, so good, Kate thought, as she slid into bed, and snuggled up to him, her bare

breasts pressed against his naked back, one hand sliding coaxingly over his smooth flank.

'Rub my back for me, Katie?'

He hadn't called her that for a while, Kate thought triumphantly, as she reached into the

drawer of her night table for the small bottle of scented oil she always used. She knelt

beside him, pouring a little of the oil into her cupped hands. She applied it lightly to his

back, then began to work, her palms sweeping up the length of his spine to the nape of his

neck, and across his shoulders, her fingers firm on the knotted muscles. Listening to his

murmur of pleasure and contentment as she repeated the movement over and over again,

finding the tension points and loosening them.

Kate herself was far from immune from what she was doing. The sensation of his skin

under her hands carried a deeply erotic charge. She was aware of her nipples hardening.

Of the delicious, sensuous ache in the very core of her womanhood.

She bent her head, and slowly retraced the path her hands had taken, this time with her

lips. She nibbled tiny kisses up his neck, and tugged gently at his ear-lobe with her teeth.

She said softly, 'Why don't you turn over, and let me cure all your aching muscles?'