it, had made all other love pale into insignificance. Now she really understood her ex-husband in a way she hadn’t done before. When real love hit you everything else vanished.
But she wouldn’t think about that. She had to get some sleep. She had a busy day ahead tomorrow.
She thought about work instead, and slowly fell asleep.
Next day she was up very early. She showered, dressed in an elegant, pale coffee-coloured silk dress, blow-dried her hair into its usual style, had coffee, orange juice and a slice of toast, and at eight o’clock was waiting for Paddy and Fred to pick her up in their van, which was crammed so full of antiques that she had to sit squeezed into the front with them.
‘Sorry there isn’t much room,’ Fred apologised, so close that she was almost on his lap as he drove. ‘I brought everything I thought we might sell.’
‘And then some,’ said Paddy, grinning.
‘Well, you never know!’ Fred defiantly told her. He was a gentle giant of a man; over six feet, curly-haired, with broad shoulders and huge hands that were astonishly deft and sensitive.
By contrast Paddy was even smaller than Kit, barely five feet tall, tiny and fragile-looking, yet she had a muscular strength that belied her size, and could carry heavy furniture or packing cases for miles if required.
They weren’t married but they were planning a wedding in just six weeks and meanwhile were getting a home together in an old terraced cottage down near the river. Kit had often had supper there with them, helping out with their work on the cottage before they ate a meal together—usually a casserole slow-cooked in the oven by Paddy for hours.
They had hardly any furniture yet. They were both keen on do-it-yourself—Paddy was a marvel with a sewing machine and had made all the curtains and chair covers; Fred had done some of the plumbing, and was putting in a fitted kitchen and building a wall-to-wall wardrobe in the bedroom.
They worked on their future home at weekends, and of course their furniture was all antique—not necessarily very valuable, but always well made and handsome to look at. Paddy could pick up objects for a song and refurbish them—mending chair legs, replacing torn materials, French-polishing surfaces that had been scarred or rubbed away.
Kit’s partner, Liam Keble, was proposing to give them a Victorian bedroom set that he had noticed them coveting in the shop—tallboy, bed and dressing-table, all mahogany, in very good condition. Paddy and Fred had been over the moon when he’d told them it would be their wedding present.
Paddy had hugged Liam. Fred had kissed Kit, hugging her so enthusiastically that he had almost crushed her ribs.
‘I suppose Liam’s meeting us at the market?’ asked Paddy, breaking in on Kit’s thoughts.
She nodded. ‘I imagine so; he didn’t say he wouldn’t be there.’
He wasn’t saying anything to her at all but she didn’t tell Paddy that, although the other woman had undoubtedly noticed the atmosphere between the two partners.
Liam lived in an elegant Georgian house on the edge of town, a few minutes from the little village where today’s market was being held in an old school. The early Victorian building was sited beautifully, looking down over the village of Great Weatherby, and framed by trees and fields.
As they drove towards it Kit thought how wonderful it must have been for small children to start learning in such surroundings, where their parents and grandparents and great-grandparents had all gone before them. No wonder local people had been up in arms over the loss of their school, but there had only been sixty-odd pupils, and however violently parents had protested they had been defeated by economics.
Now the children all went by bus to the next village, some three miles away, and the old village school was to be sold. In the meantime it was being used for a monthly market in antiques and secondhand furniture.
When Fred drove into the school car park the yard was already crowded with cars—mostly other dealers who had got there early.
Fred began moving the heavier items while Kit carried a box of lighter objects into the high-ceilinged old Victorian hall.
As she walked in she heard a deep voice and her heart turned over instantly. Liam!
Her green eyes searched for him among the crowds of people milling about. He was standing beside one stall, picking up a delicate French clock which, even at this distance, she registered as nineteenth century and exquisitely enamelled. His black head gleamed in the watery sunlight streaming down from arched windows set high in the panelled walls.
Kit looked at him with pain and yearning, walking towards him, waiting for him to see her. They had quarrelled a week ago and Liam was still furious. How would he look at her today?
For two years he had been her entire life, but Kit wasn’t sure how much she meant to him, and it was eating her up.
‘How about dinner tonight?’ she suddenly heard him ask and stopped in her tracks, staring at the woman behind the stall that he was visiting.
‘Dinner?’ the woman repeated, smiling a curling little smile.
Kit had never seen her before. Slender, elegant, with dark red hair styled in light, waving ringlets, she had a pre-Raphaelite look to her, and a cool, acquisitive face too, with a witchy, pointed chin and sharp, cat-like yellowing eyes.
‘There’s a very good French restaurant in the market square in Silverburn,’ Liam murmured.
‘Is there? I love French food. I haven’t discovered many of the local restaurants since I moved here. I’d love to have dinner tonight, Liam.’
Kit felt sick suddenly. She can’t be much above thirty, she thought. She’s young and beautiful, and Liam is staring at her as if she’s what he’s been looking for all his life. I know that mesmerised look—I saw it in Hugh’s face when he fell for his blonde.
When Hugh had walked out on her for a younger woman it hadn’t hurt like this, though. Nothing in her life had ever hurt like this.
LIAM turned and saw Kit a second later. His smile died instantly to be replaced by a frown. She wasn’t surprised—he had been scowling at her for days—but it still saddened her, angered her too—how dared he look at her like that? It wasn’t she who was behaving like a spoilt child, wanting to have everything its own way. But then wasn’t that just like a man?
She looked at him with love and anger, wanting to smack him hard. His well-brushed black hair showed only fine streaks of silver although he was fifty himself now; it wasn’t fair, thought Kit, wishing she didn’t feel that deep surge of emotion just looking at him. Why did men retain their looks long after women’s had begun to fade? Liam didn’t look fifty. He was still lean and vibrant—a tall man with powerful shoulders, long legs and a lot of energy.
Paddy whispered to her, ‘Oops! Someone’s in a bad temper again! Whatever is the matter with him these days?’
Kit didn’t tell her. She couldn’t possibly have confided in Paddy—in anyone. The quarrel between her and Liam
