Marriage Under Suspicion (9 page)

'What's the rush?'

'I'm horrendously late,' Kate threw over her shoulder as she went into the kitchen. 'I must

have slept through the alarm.'

'Actually, I turned it off.' He followed, and stood watching as she flicked the switch to re-

boil the kettle, threw a tea bag into a beaker, and began to hack at a lemon. 'Here, let me

do that.' He strolled forward and took the knife from her hand.

'Why?'

'Because you're still half asleep, and I don't want you to cut your wrist instead of the

lemon.' His mouth twisted ironically. 'Besides, bleeding all over the units could damage

our property values.'

'Not that,' Kate dismissed impatiently. 'Why did you turn off my alarm?'

'You seemed to need your sleep.' Ryan added the lemon slice to the tea bag, and covered

both with boiling water. 'And, as you were sick yesterday, I thought you might want to

take today off, anyway.'

Her heart skipped a beat. 'Do you think I should?' 'I'd say that's your decision.' He turned

and gave her a long look. 'You know how you feel.'

'Mmm.' She fidgeted with a spoon, glancing at him sideways, from under her lashes. 'But

don't you prefer the flat to yourself when you're working?'

'Actually, I shan't be here.' Ryan discarded the tea bag, and handed her the fragrant-

smelling beaker, which could have contained dishwater for all her interest in it.

'I see.' Kate made an elaborate business of taking a cautious sip. 'Doing anything

interesting?'

Trying to sound pleasantly casual, when she wanted to knock him to the floor and torture

the truth out of him with lighted cigarettes, was not easy, she decided grimly.

'This and that.' He rinsed out his empty mug, and stood it in the drying-rack.

Did this bitch realise what a house-trained paragon she was getting? Kate wondered

furiously.

'Later on I'm having lunch with my editor,' he went on.

'Oh.' Kate relaxed ever so slightly. He wouldn't stray very far with Joe Hartley, who'd

been his editor ever since he joined Chatsworth Blair. Joe was a relaxed, humorous,

razor-witted guy, with a wife he adored. Ryan needn't think he'd find any sympathy in

that quarter. Joe would be far more likely to bawl him out, to make him see what he was

throwing away.

‘That's terrific,' she continued, with genuine warmth. 'How is old Joe?'

Ryan paused. Then, 'He's fine.'

Kate thought she detected an odd note in his voice, and looked at him swiftly, but he

looked calm, even slightly smiling, and this emboldened her.

'Tell you what,' she said. 'I'm not doing anything for lunch today. Why don't I join you?

It's ages since I've seen him.'

'Not this time, darling,' Ryan said pleasantly. 'It's a strictly editorial lunch. I'm handing

over the first draft of the new book, and we'll be discussing that rather than social

niceties. And you know how bored you get with literary chat.'

Kate flushed, and took another sip of lemon tea. 'That's not true,' she protested. 'I take

enormous interest in your work.'

'Yes, when it's wearing a jacket and on sale in Harrods.' His smile took any sting from the

words. 'But you're not too enamoured by all the mysterious processes that get the words

on to the paper. Admit it.'

'Perhaps not,' she said slowly. 'But that's because they take you away from me.'

It wasn't what she'd meant to say at all. She hadn't even been aware of the thought

formulating.

'I'm here, Kate.' Ryan's voice was soft, and oddly intense. 'I've always been here. Writing

is a solitary craft. You're the one who goes out to work, who meets the people, and does

the deals.'

What was he trying to tell her? she asked herself, with a sudden stab of desolation. That

even when he'd gone she would still have a life—of sorts?

She shivered, pulling a condemnatory face at the inoffensive lemon tea. 'And if I don't get

cracking there won't be any deals.'

He was watching her again. 'Sure you feel up to it?'

'Fighting fit.' She sounded bright enough to dazzle. 'Is the bathroom free?'

'It's all yours.' He ran a hand round his chin. 'I shaved after I had my shower.'

On impulse, she put down her beaker and went towards him, reaching up on tiptoe. 'Let

me sniff.' She kept her voice light.

It was one of the small jokey intimacies they'd always shared, this gentle inhalation of the

scent of his skin, so familiar to her that if she'd been presented, blindfold, with a hundred

other men, she would pick him without hesitation.

From their earliest time together, it had filled her with delight.

'Oh, God.' She could remember nuzzling him, nipping him softly with her teeth, unable to

get enough of him. 'You smell wonderful.'

And him turning to her, gathering her up in his arms, his hands urgent, his voice husky.

'And so do you, Kate—Katie...'

Often—so often—this tiny nonsense had led to them falling back into bed together,

uncaring of the time, or other obligations. Oblivious, indeed, to everything but their

mutual need, and it’s heated, ecstatic fulfilment.

No one's marriage could survive at that pitch for ever, Kate reminded herself. But it

would do no harm to remind him of what they'd had together. And what they could still

have.

She breathed deeply, burying her nose in his lean cheek, even as her senses alerted her

sharply to a difference.

She stepped back. 'You've changed your cologne.'

'Yes, it's one I bought at the airport on the last trip. Do you like it?'

'I—I don't know.' Nor did she. It was much lighter and more floral than the usual one.

Did she—'X', the unknown quantity—like it? she wondered.

She said hurriedly, 'Perhaps it's a bit young.’

His grin was sardonic. 'Aren't you the flatterer? Go and dress while I polish my Zimmer

frame.'

She flushed. 'I didn't mean that as it sounded. It just doesn't seem to be—you.'

'Ah,' he said lightly. 'But perhaps this is the beginning of a whole new me.’

Yes, Kate thought, as she trailed back upstairs. That's what I'm afraid of.

On the other hand, maybe she was too much the same, she thought as she surveyed

herself, dressed and ready for another working day. The brief navy skirt, the immaculate

silk blouse, the scarlet double-breasted blazer were almost like a uniform. She wore a

similar version of the same thing every day. Not too formal for the office, but smart

enough to take her to meetings with clients. But not bloody exciting, that was for sure.

She hardly thought Ryan's eyes would light up when he saw her.

And she was right, because when she got downstairs he was talking on the telephone, and

didn't even notice her.

'Fine,' he was saying briskly. 'One o'clock. I'm looking forward to it.' He replaced the

receiver, wrote something swiftly on the pad next to the phone, tore off the sheet, and

stuffed it into his pocket.

'Chatsworth Blair?' She gave him an enquiring glance.

He nodded, his expression already preoccupied, going ahead of her into the solitary world

he inhabited where she could not follow. 'Confirming lunch.'

He picked up his briefcase, and headed for the door. 'I'll see you later.'

'Have a good day,"' she called after him. 'Give my love to Joe.'

But he was already closing the door, and didn't seem to have heard her.

Kate collected her own briefcase and bag, and went over to switch on the answering

machine. She stood for a moment, looking down at the blank pad. There'd been a scene in

a film she'd enjoyed—something by Hitchcock and Cary Grant—where he'd read a mes-

sage he wasn't supposed to see, simply by running a pencil over the indentations in the

next sheet of paper.

Almost idly, as if acting outside her own volition, Kate picked up the pencil, and brushed

the lead over the marks on the pad.

'Amaryllis,' she read aloud, then paused, frowning.

But that's the new restaurant that opened in Denbigh Street a week or two ago, she

thought, puzzled. And Joe Hartley always takes Ryan to Scotts, because they both love

fish. It's like a ritual for them.

Slowly, she tore the sheet from the pad, and stowed it in her bag.

Everything seemed to be changing, she thought, from the vitally important to the

relatively trivial. She felt like a child, robbed of its security blanket, and she didn't like it.

It was an edgy morning altogether. Kate was dreading an interrogation from Louie on

how the previous evening had gone, but—perhaps fortunately—her partner was dealing

with the crisis of a last-minute replacement for their favourite florist, who'd broken her

wrist and would be unable to undertake the promised arrangements for a looming

wedding.

Kate completed a couple of quotations, dealt with a letter from a disgruntled client,

convinced that inferior sherry had been served at his daughter's reception, and finalised

the menu to be served at the celebration lunch for a venerable detective novelist's fiftieth

book.

But at the same time her mind was churning, reviewing everything that had happened,

and finding little for her comfort.

She was particularly concerned over Ryan's reason for turning down her company at

lunch. Did he really think she was uninterested in his work? she wondered, chewing the

end of an inoffensive pen.

I don't altogether understand it, and I may resent it, she told herself honestly, but it

doesn't bore me.

But could this have driven the first wedge between them, and rendered him prey to this

other relationship? she asked herself uneasily. Did 'X' sit at his feet, perhaps, reading

every word and offering helpful critiques? Was this how she'd got to him?

It was Debbie, the PA, putting her head round the door to ask if Kate wanted the usual

sandwiches for lunch that brought her to an abrupt decision.

'No, thanks, I'm going out. And could you bring in the folder with the reviews on new

restaurants, Debs?'

I'll go and join them, she thought. I've always got on with Joe, and we can have one of

our mock flirtations—make Ryan see me as a woman again. And show him that I do care

about what he does. I'll knock him sideways with my intelligent interest.

She read what the critics had to say about the Amaryllis twice. No minimalist chic here, it

seemed. 'Luscious French cooking, and decor to match,' was one quote. 'Lots of red

velvet and discreetly intimate booths,' said another, adding, 'A kind of gastronomic

bordello.'

'Is it, indeed?' Kate muttered under her breath. It didn't sound the likeliest place to hand

over a manuscript either. And it clearly called for something other than her neat but not

gaudy office gear.

Her favourite boutique came up with the very thing, a clinging jersey dress the color of

warm honey, with a deep V-neckline, tiny sleeves and a skirt flaring from mid-thigh, and

slashed for extra swing. Kate added bronze pumps and a matching clutch purse and

bundled her workaday clothes into a carrier for collection later.

She got the cab-driver to drop her at the end of Denbigh Street. As she walked slowly

towards the restaurant, a workman painting a shop front whistled at her—a politically

incorrect move on his part which, nevertheless, warmed the cockles of Kate's unhappy

heart.

The Amaryllis didn't simply protect the privacy of its clientele with red velvet. The

smoked-glass windows were guarded by a small rainforest of green plants in vast ceramic

tubs.

Kate, under cover of reading the selection of fixed-price menus displayed outside, tried to

make a preliminary reconnaissance by peering between the fronds, but had to give it up

as a bad job.

'Can I help you, madame’

Kate, startled by the unseen approach of the head waiter, jumped so violently that the

heavy wrought-iron stand holding the menus began to rock.

'I'm so sorry,' she muttered, appalled, as they steadied it between them. It wasn't the cool,

understated entrance she'd planned. 'I'd like to have lunch.'

The waiter spread his hands. 'I much regret, madame, but we are fully booked. Perhaps

you would like to make a reservation for another time.'

His tone was not over-effusive, suggesting that after her performance with the menu

stand he could visualise her clumping through the place, wreaking havoc on the red

velvet drapes, and anything else that stood in her way.

Kate bit her lip. 'Actually, I'm joining my husband,' she said with an attempt at crispness.

'Ah, yes, and his name, madame’

'I think the booking will have been made by Chatsworth Blair.'

The waiter consulted a book as large as a family bible, and shook his head. 'Alas, we

have no reservation in that name.'

Kate, who'd followed him into the shadowy interior, said, 'Well—Joe Hartley, then.'