had no time to probe, however—he’d told himself he would get this damn board meeting out of the way and then take her on holiday somewhere. The prospect had cheered him. But not enough to lift the perpetually grim expression on his face as he’d prepared for the coming ordeal.
Now, today, over breakfast, he was running through his head all that had to be in readiness for the meeting that morning,
As well as the official business his family would expect a lavish celebratory lunch, to be held at one of the best hotels in Athens where his father liked to stay. His mother, predictably, never stayed there, but at a rival hotel. They ran up huge bills at both, for they both put their stays on the business account—much to Anatole’s irritation.
But his parents had always been a law unto themselves, and since he wanted as little to do with them as possible he tolerated their extravagance, and that of their current respective spouses, with gritted teeth. The only person he actually wanted to see was Vasilis, who’d been preoccupied in Turkey for some time now, helping one of the museums there in salvaging ancient artefacts from the ravages of war in the Middle East.
He’d invited Vasilis to lunch the day after the board meeting, knowing that even though his scholarly uncle would be far too academic for Tia his kindly personality would not be intimidating to her.
He reached for his orange juice and paused. Tia was looking at him, her fingers twisting nervously in the handle of her coffee cup, with an expression on her face he’d never seen before in the many weeks they’d spent together.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
She didn’t answer. Only swallowed. Paled. Her fingers twisted again.
‘Tia?’ he prompted.
Was there an edge in his voice? He didn’t mean there to be, but he had to get on—time was at an absolute premium today, and he needed to eat breakfast and be gone. But maybe his tone had been a bit off, impatient, though he hadn’t intended it to be, because she went even whiter. Bit her lip.
‘Tell me,’ he instructed, his eyes levelling on her.
Whatever was troubling her, he would deal with it later. For now he’d just offer some reassuring words—it was all he had time for. He set down his orange juice and waited expectantly. An anguished look filled her eyes and he saw her swallow again, clearly reluctant to speak.
When she did, he knew why. Knew with a cold, icy pool in his stomach.
Her voice was faint, almost a stammer.
‘I... I think I may be pregnant...’
CHRISTINE CLIMBED OUT of the car. Her legs were shaking. How she’d get indoors she did not know. Mrs Hughes, the housekeeper, was there already, having left the church before the committal, and she welcomed her in with a low, sad voice.
‘A beautiful service, Mrs K,’ she said kindly.
Christine swallowed. ‘Yes, it was. The vicar was very good about allowing him a C of E interment considering he was Greek Orthodox.’ She tried to make her voice sound normal and failed.
Mrs Hughes nodded sympathetically. ‘Well, I’m sure the Good Lord will be welcoming Mr K, whichever door he’s come into heaven through—such a lovely gentleman as he was, your poor husband.’
‘Thank you.’
Christine felt her throat tighten, tears threaten. She went into her sitting room, throat aching.
The pale yellow and green trellis-pattern wallpaper was in a style she now knew was chinoiserie, just as she now knew the dates of all the antique furniture in the house, who the artists were of the Old Masters that hung on the walls, and the age and subject of the artefacts that Vasilis had so carefully had transferred from Athens to adorn the place he had come to call home, with his new young wife.
This gracious Queen Anne house in the heart of the Sussex countryside. Far away from his old life and far away from the shocked and outraged members of his family. A serene, beautiful house in which to live, quietly and remotely. In which, finally, to die.
Her tears spilled over yet again, and she crossed to the French window, looking out over the lawn. The gardens were not extensive, but they were very private, edged with greenery. Memory shot through her head of how she’d been so enchanted by the green oasis of Anatole’s London roof terrace when he’d switched the lights on, turning it into a fairyland.
She sheared her mind away. What use to think...to remember? Fairyland had turned to fairy dust, and had been blown away in the chill, icy wind of reality. The reality that Anatole had spelt out to her.
‘I have no intention of marrying you, Tia. Did you do this to try and get me to marry you?’
A shuddering breath shook her and she forced her shoulders back, forced herself to return to the present. She had not invited anyone back after the funeral—she couldn’t face it. All she wanted was solitude.
Yet into her head was forced the image of the grim-faced, dark-suited man standing there, watching her at her husband’s grave. Fear bit at her.
Surely he won’t come here? Why would he? He’s come to see his uncle buried, that’s all. He won’t sully his shoes by crossing this threshold—not while I’m still here.
But even as she turned from the window there came a knock on the door, and it opened to the housekeeper.
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, Mrs K, but you have a visitor. He says he’s Mr K’s nephew. I’ve shown him into the drawing room.’
Ice snaked down Christine’s back. For a moment she could not move. Then, with an effort, she nodded.
‘Thank you, Mrs Hughes,’ she said.
Summoning all her strength, and all her courage, she went to confront the man who had destroyed all her naive and foolish hopes and dreams.
* * *
Anatole stood in front of the fireplace, looking around him with a closed, tight expression on his face, taking in the objets d’art and his uncle’s beloved classical statuary, the Old Masters hanging on the panelled walls.
His mouth twisted. She’s done very well for herself, this woman I picked up from the street—
Anger stabbed in him. Anger and so much more.
But anger was quite enough. She would be inheriting all Vasilis’s share of the Kyrgiakis fortune—a handsome sum indeed. Not bad for a woman who’d once had to take any job she could, however menial and poorly paid, provided it came with accommodation.
Well, this job had certainly come with accommodation!
The twist of his mouth grew harsher. He had found a naïve waif and created a gold-digger...
I gave her a taste for all this. I turned her into this.
Sourness filled his mouth.
There were footsteps
