off her clothes, she had a wash with the hard green soap, which was as ancient as the washbasin, before drying herself with several of the paper towels in the rusty dispenser. Dressing quickly, she brushed her hair and redid her ponytail before applying plenty of the sunscreen she always carried in her handbag. Brushing her teeth would have to wait.
She was about to leave the cloakroom when she glanced at herself in the mirror again and then drew closer, arrested by the look in her eyes. She blinked, unnerved by the haunting sadness. Was that what Forde had seen? Worse, was that why he had stayed and made love to her? He’d stated quite clearly that the only reason he had come to see her was to discuss the work he wanted her to undertake for Isabelle. Had he felt sorry for her? He had left her severely alone since the time she’d threatened to take out a restraining order; maybe he was seeing other women now?
Feeling emotionally sick, she left the cloakroom and went into the main part of the café. The lorry driver had left but a group of motorbike enthusiasts were clustered around three tables, talking and laughing. She saw them glance her way but, after one swift glance, kept her head down. Dressed in leathers and with tattoos covering most of their visible flesh, they were a little intimidating, as were the huge machines parked outside next to her beaten-up old truck.
The waitress brought her sandwich and tea immediately as she sat down. Aware her eyes were still puffy from the storm of weeping, Melanie forced down the food as quickly as she could and drank one cup of tea before standing up to leave. She had just reached the door when someone tapped her on the shoulder and she turned sharply to find a huge, bearded biker behind her.
‘Your bag, love,’ he said, holding out her handbag, which she realised she’d left on a chair, the keys to the car being in her pocket. And then, his eyes narrowing, he added, ‘You all right?’
‘Yes, yes, th-thank you,’ she stammered, feeling ridiculous.
‘You sure?’
His blue eyes were kind under great winged eyebrows, and, pulling herself together, Melanie managed a smile. ‘I’m fine, and thank you for noticing the bag,’ she said, silently acknowledging this was an apt lesson in not going by appearances.
He grinned. ‘I’m well trained, love. My girlfriend’s the same. Forget her head, she would, if it wasn’t screwed on.’
Once on the road again, Melanie gave herself a stern talking-to. The biker had asked if she was all right and the honest answer would have been no, she doubted if she would ever be what he termed ‘all right’ again, but that was nobody’s fault but her own. She should have known better than to marry Forde and try to be like everyone else. She wasn’t like everyone else.
She passed a young mother pushing a baby in a pushchair and bit hard on her lip. It still hurt her, seeing mothers with babies. Like a knife driven straight through her heart.
Throughout her life, every person she had loved had been taken from her in the worst possible way. First her parents, then her grandmother, even her best friend at school—her only friend, come to it, because she hadn’t been a particularly sociable child—had drowned while on holiday abroad with her parents. She could still remember the numbing shock she had felt when the headmaster had announced Pam’s death in assembly, and the feeling that somehow the tragedy was connected with Pam’s friendship with her.
If she hadn’t married Forde and wanted his baby, Matthew wouldn’t have died. She had tempted fate, thought she could escape the inevitable and because of that Forde’s heart had been broken as well as hers. She would never forget the look on his face when he’d held that tiny body in the palms of his hands. That was the moment she had known she had to let him go, make him free to find happiness somewhere else. Forde had said last night that she would have given her life for Matthew’s if she could and he was right, but she hadn’t been able to. But she could protect Forde from more hurt by exiting his life. Once the divorce was through she would move again, far away, perhaps even abroad, and in time he would meet someone else he could commit to. Women fell over themselves to get his attention and he was a passionate and very physical man. Whatever the cost in the present, this was the right thing to do for the future. And there could be no more incidents like last night.
Her mind irrevocably made up, Melanie felt slightly better. She had to be cruel to be kind. It was the only way.
Forde awoke suddenly with the presentiment that something was wrong. For a moment he couldn’t reconcile where he was and then he remembered, turning to see that the place next to him in the bed was empty. The house was quiet and still, no sound from the bathroom or downstairs, and he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
Glancing at his watch, he saw it was gone nine o’clock and he swore softly, cursing the fact he hadn’t woken before her as he swung his feet out of bed, running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. Damn it, this was exactly what he’d wanted to prevent. But maybe she was having breakfast in the tiny courtyard garden they’d sat in the night before?
As naked as the day he was born, he took the stairs two at a time, but even before he opened the back door and looked into Melanie’s tiny garden snoozing in the sun he knew she wasn’t around. The small house was devoid of her presence, as if the heart of it was missing.
Cursing some more, he retraced his steps, and this time, as soon as he entered her bedroom, he saw the note on top of his clothes, which she had folded neatly for him. It was a single piece of cream-coloured paper and, sitting down on the side of the bed, he began to read it.
His stomach muscles contracted, as though a cold, hard fist was squeezing his gut. So nothing had changed. After all they’d shared last night, the fire, the passion, she was still intent on divorcing him.
Screwing the paper into a ball, he flung it across the room before getting to his feet and reaching for his clothes. He needed to get out of her house fast before he gave in to the crazy urge to break something.
Once downstairs again he relocked the back door and left by the front one, which had a Yale lock, slamming it hard behind him. His Aston Martin was waiting for him in the small car park and after sliding into the car he sat, the door wide open and his hands on the steering wheel.
Where did he go from here? This morning had been a repeat of so many mornings when he’d awakened from erotic dreams of their lovemaking and reached out for her across an empty expanse of bed, only for reality to slam in. But this morning had been different. Last night had been real. She’d been silk and honey in his arms, her body opening to him and accommodating him perfectly as he’d thrust them both to a climax of unbearable pleasure. But it wasn’t just his body that burnt for her, hot and fulfilling though their lovemaking had always been. He wanted her, his Nell.
He watched a black cat saunter across the car park, stopping for a moment when it noticed him, its green eyes narrowing before it dismissed him as unimportant and continued with its leisurely walk. The cat that walked alone, he thought fancifully. Like Nell. She’d come to the same conclusion about him as that damn animal, whereas he needed her in every part of his life. He wanted to share waking up together at the weekend and reading the Sunday papers in bed while they ate croissants and drank coffee, watching TV with a glass of wine after a hard day’s work while the dinner cooked, going to the theatre or to a film, or simply taking a long walk in the evening arm in arm. In the early days they’d done all those things and they had talked about anything and everything—or so he’d thought. Now he realised there was a huge part of her psyche she’d kept from him.
He started the car, frowning to himself.
He’d known she’d been damaged by her earlier life when he’d got to know
