She lifted her chin. ‘Don’t let me keep you, Anatole,’ she said.
It was nothing more than an expression, and yet she heard it echo savagely in her head. No, she had not been able to keep Anatole, had she?
Because I committed the cardinal sin in his book. The one unforgivable crime.
Her mind sheared away. Why remember the past? It was gone, and gone for ever.
She headed determinedly towards her car, but Anatole was there before her, opening her door. Then, to her consternation, as she got inside as quickly as her long gown permitted Anatole followed.
‘I’ve dismissed my own car. I’ll see you to your destination. Where are you staying?’
He realised he had no idea. Had Vasilis acquired a London base? He did not use his father’s hotel suite—that he knew.
The suite I never went to that fatal night I took Tia into my arms—into my life.
No, don’t remember that night. It was over, gone—nothing was left of that life now.
He heard her give with audible reluctance the name of a hotel. It was a top hotel, but a quiet one—not fashionable. Ideal for his uncle, Anatole acknowledged.
He said as much, and Christine nodded.
‘Yes, Vasilis always liked it. Old-fashioned, but peaceful. And it has a lovely roof garden—you’d hardly know you were in London—’
She stopped. Memory sprang, unwanted, of Anatole’s verdant roof terrace at his London apartment, of him saying that he did not care for cities.
There was a moment of silence. Was Anatole remembering too?
Well, what if he is? So what?
Defiance filled her, quelling the agitation that had leapt automatically as he’d got into the car. She was sitting as far away as possible, and even knowing the presence of Mr Hughes behind his glass screen was preventing complete privacy with Anatole, her heart was beating hectically. She tried to slow it—she must retain control, composure. She must!
I am Vasilis’s widow. He can protect me still simply by virtue of that. That is my identity now.
She pulled her mind back—Anatole was speaking.
‘I wanted to tell you,’ he was saying, his voice stiff, as if the words did not come easily, ‘how impressed I was with you tonight. You handled the occasion very well.’ He paused. ‘You did Vasilis proud.’
Christine’s turned her head, her eyes widening. Had Anatole really just said that? Anatole who thought her the lowest of the low?
‘I did it for him,’ she said quietly, and looked away, out of her window, away from Anatole.
She could feel his presence in the car as something tangible, threatening to overpower her. How many times had she and he driven like this, through the city night? So many nights—so many cities...
It was so long ago—five years ago. A lifetime ago. And I am not the same person—not by any measure. Even my name is different now. I have been a wife, and now I am a widow—I am a mother. And Anatole can mean nothing to me any more. Nothing!
Just as she, in the end, had meant nothing to him.
Memory stabbed at her of how Anatole had sat her down, talked to her, his face tense, the morning she had told him she wasn’t pregnant after all.
‘Tia—this is something you have to understand. I do not want to marry and I do not want to have children. Not with you—not with anyone. Now, if either or both of those things is something you do want,’ he’d continued in the same taut voice, ‘then you must accept that it is not going to happen with me. Not voluntarily.’
His voice had twisted on that word. He’d been sitting opposite her, leaning forward slightly, his hands hanging loosely between his thighs, an earnest expression on his face as if he were explaining something to someone incapable of understanding.
And that was me—I couldn’t understand. So I learned the hard way...
He’d taken a breath, looked her straight in the eyes. ‘I like you Tia. You’re very sweet, and very lovely, and we’ve had a really great time together, but...’ He’d taken another breath. ‘What I will not tolerate is any attempt by you to...to get pregnant and force me to the altar. I won’t have that, Tia—I won’t have it.’
He’d held her eyes, making her hear what he was telling her.
‘So from now on make sure there is no chance of another scare like this one, OK? No more getting “muddled up” over time zones.’ And then an edge had come into his voice, and his eyes had had a look of steel in them. ‘If that is what really happened.’
He’d got to his feet, his six-foot height dwarfing her seated figure, and she’d looked up at him, her throat tight and painful, her hands twisted in her lap.
‘If you want a baby, Tia, accept that it cannot be with me.’ His expression had hardened. ‘And if it’s me you want one with—well, then you had better leave, right away, because it’s over between us—over.’
He’d left the apartment then, heading to his office, and she’d watched him go. Her vision had grown hazy, and she’d felt feel sobs rising. The moment he’d gone she had rushed into the bathroom, releasing the pent-up tears, hating it that Anatole was being like that—hating it that she’d given him cause.
What she longed for so unbearably was what he did not want, and her heart felt as if it was cracking in pieces.
Her red-rimmed eyes had fallen on the little rectangular packet by the basin. It had been delivered the day before but she had dreaded using it. Dreaded finding out. Finding out whether what she had once thought would be a dream come true was instead turning into a nightmare. Was she forcing a child on Anatole—forcing him into a loveless, bitter marriage he did not want to make.
Then her period had arrived after all, making the test unnecessary.
She’d stared at the packet. Fear in her throat.
I’ve got to be sure—absolutely, totally sure—that I’m not pregnant. Because that’s the only way he’ll still want me.
She’d shut her eyes. She needed Anatole to want her on any terms at all. Any terms.
So she had done the test. Even though she hadn’t needed to. Because she hadn’t been able to bear not to.
She had done the test...and stared at the little white stick...
* * *
Christine’s car was pulling up at the hotel. Anatole leant across, opening her door for her. The brush of his sleeve on her arm made her feel faint, and she had to fight to keep her air of composure, dangerously fragile as it was.
She turned to bid him goodnight. But he was getting out too. Addressing her.
‘I need to speak to you.’ He glanced at the hotel entrance. ‘In private.’
He
