he appreciated far more. Her acceptance.
His eyes still held hers. ‘It has been good, non?’
Laconic to the last. She, too.
‘Yes, it has.’
Briefly, like swansdown, she leant forward to brush with the lightest touch his cheek.
‘I wish you well.’
Then she stood back.
‘Goodbye, Guy,’ she said.
For one last time her eyes held him. Then, with the merest nod of acknowledgement of her farewell, he walked out.
Out of her life.
She did not watch him go. Instead she shut the door. Slowly—very slowly. As if it weighed more than she could bear. Then slowly—very slowly—she leant back against it, staring expressionlessly across the hallway. There was no sound. Not even his footsteps descending the flight of steps.
Guy was gone. The affair was over.
Slowly—very slowly—her fingers curved into the palms of her hand.
Gouging deep.
Guy’s car was waiting for him at the kerb. He’d phoned for it as he dressed, knowing that he would want it there for as soon as he’d told Alexa what he must. He had put it off for as long as it was possible. Until it was no longer possible to stay silent. As he walked down the stone steps from the front door of the terraced house of which Alexa’s apartment occupied the top floor, his driver got out and came round to open the rear passenger door for him. He got in, barely acknowledging the gesture.
As he sank back into the soft leather seat his face remained expressionless.
Well, it was done. Alexa was out of his life. And she wouldn’t be coming back.
Guy reached for the neatly folded copy of the Financial Times his driver had placed carefully beside him, and started to read.
There was no expression in his face. His eyes.
He would permit none.
Alexa was cleaning the bathroom. She should have been working, but she couldn’t. She’d tried. She’d mixed colours, got herself ready, put up a brand new canvas, dipped her brush in the colours, lifted it to the canvas.
But nothing had happened. She’d hung, frozen, like an aborted computer program, unable to continue.
Jerkily she’d lowered the brush, eased off the surplus paint, and stuck it into turps. Then she’d blinked a few times, stared blankly ahead for a moment, before turning on her heel and walking out of her studio.
She’d walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. But for some reason she hadn’t been able to make a cup of tea. Or coffee. Or even run the tap for a glass of water. After a little while she’d gone into the bathroom.
She’d seen the bath could do with a clean, so she’d set to. That had seemed to work. Then she’d moved on to the basin, then the toilet pedestal, then the rest of the surfaces and walls. She rubbed hard, using elbow grease and a lot of household cleaner foaming on the sponge. It seemed to take a lot of cleaning, and she rubbed hard.
Harder and harder.
And as she rubbed and scrubbed her brain darted, like dragonflies scything across a pond with sharp, knifing movements. She wondered what the dragonflies in her brain were. Then she knew. Knew by their iridescent wings, their flash as they caught the light.
They were memories.
So many memories.
Stabbing and darting through her head. Memory after memory.
As sharp as knives.
Working backwards through time, taking her back, and back, and back.
Chapter One
Six months earlier.…
‘DARLING! You’ll never believe who I’ve bagged for you!’
Imogen’s voice came gushing down the line. Alexa, the receiver crooked under her ear, concentrated on catching the sheen on a petal that was proving tricky.
‘Alexa? Are you there? Did you hear what I said? You’ll never believe who—’
Alexa, who knew that Imogen could no more be halted in full flight than she herself could be dragged to the phone when she was painting by anyone other than her friend and business manager, interrupted.
‘Who?’ She knew Imogen was dying to be asked, so she could give the dramatic answer she was clearly bursting to give.
‘He’s absolutely devastating!’ gushed Imogen. ‘A million, zillion miles from any of the usual boring old suits.’
An extravagant sigh wafted down the line. Alexa wondered what Imogen was on about, then went back to working on the petal. She was dimly aware that Imogen was still in full flow, but didn’t pay attention. Imogen loved to gush, and Alexa let her get on with it while she focussed on what was important at the moment.
Finally there was silence on the line.
‘So?’ came Imogen’s prompt a moment later. ‘Are you over the moon or what?’
Alexa frowned absently. ‘What?’
An exasperated sign came into her ear. ‘Darling, do pay attention! Put the paintbrush down and listen for two minutes. Even you are going to be impressed, I promise. Guy de Rochement phoned. Well,’ Imogen temporised, ‘not him personally, of course, but his London PA.’ She paused. ‘So, tell me you’re impressed. Tell me—’ her voice changed and adopted a husky timbre ‘—you’re quivering all down your insides.’
Alexa, her paintbrush reduced to hovering over the canvas, intensified her slight frown.
‘Quivering?’ she echoed. ‘What for?’
The exasperated sigh came again. ‘Oh, really, Alexa, don’t do that Little Miss Supercool with me! I’m not a bloke. And don’t even think you’ll be able to get away with it with Guy de Rochement. Not even you could do that. He’ll have you swooning just like the rest of the female population.’
Alexa’s brow furrowed. ‘Am I supposed to know who this guy is?’
Imogen gave a trill of laughter. ‘Darling—a pun! His name is Guy in English, but of course he’s French—well, mostly—so it’s pronounced with a long “ee”. Guy.’ She gave it a Gallic slant. ‘Sounds so much sexier…’ She gave another gusty sigh.
Alexa cut to the chase. She hadn’t a clue what was going on, and didn’t want any more of her time wasted.
‘Imogen—who
