she’d had an augmentation and a lift she still felt crinkly and unattractive. Instinctively she tensed.
‘Jimmy, I …’
‘Just take it easy,’ he soothed, his hand moving ever lower until it arrived at the band of her bikini briefs. As he sneaked a finger in and felt the brush of hair there, she pulled away.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, rolling on to her side and pulling a sheet up to cover herself. ‘I just don’t want to.’
There was a brief silence, and before Kate could stop herself she spilled, launching into a monologue about how she thought the problem was that he didn’t make her feel wanted, loved, all those things that mattered. She talked about how she felt old and washed-up and how she knew he preferred a younger model and how was she supposed to compete? Still she couldn’t bring herself to raise the issue of his affairs, but it was the next best thing to air what was on her mind. They said the bedroom was the place for intimacy, and right now this was exactly the kind of intimacy she needed.
Minutes later she wound to a halt, feeling exhausted but definitely lighter.
‘Well?’ she said softly. ‘Does that make sense to you?’
A moment passed before he began to snore.
‘Jimmy?’ She turned over to see his prostrate form, mouth hanging slack, a rivulet of drool escaping down one side.
‘Oh, fuck it!’ she fumed, swinging her legs off the bed. Was this what her marriage had come to? It was almost as much of a joke as the years she’d spent with Cole. At least that hadn’t involved any … expectation.
Wrapping a towel around her, she slipped from the room, closing the door quietly. She would use a guest bedroom to bring herself the pleasure she knew, deep down, she deserved. These days it was the only way.
21
St Tropez
Elisabeth Sabell stood from the table and tucked in her chair. She and Robert were dining with investors at La Parisienne, an exclusive harbourside restaurant favoured by the rich and famous.
‘Everything OK, puss?’ asked Bernstein, firing Robert an accusing look.
‘Fine,’ said Elisabeth, ‘if you’ll just excuse me.’ She made her way through the tables and into the cool marble of the bathroom. She felt queasy. Pushing open an empty cubicle, she closed the door and leaned back, breathing deeply.
The trip had been extended. Stupidly she hadn’t brought next month’s Pill. She’d been ready to tell Robert that they’d need to use other precautions, before thinking at the weekend, Why should we? They both wanted kids, they’d discussed it before. Since arriving in France conversation had been so scant that sex was the only real communication they were sharing. Perhaps a baby would help get things back on track.
Now her period was late.
She extracted the test from her purse.
For the first time since she and Robert had got engaged, she wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted it to say.
Robert St Louis was trying to ignore the fact that one of his investors’ wives, a sharp-featured English woman with a tightly drawn chignon, had been giving him the come-on all night. Earlier, on the way to the restroom, she had pushed herself up against him and promised in a husky upper-class voice, ‘Later.’ Somehow he knew that later would never come.
The waiter came to take their order. It was a big table: as well as Robert, Bernstein and his two daughters, they were dining with three key financiers and their immaculately groomed wives. But what was taking Elisabeth so long?
‘Here she comes,’ droned Jessica, stirring her martini.
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