ache, she began to search the ’net for information on how she could find her sister.
The good news was that new legislation meant that not only mothers could register to contact children given up for adoption, but family too.
The bad news was that Daisy had to make the first move.
Unless she’d signed up to find her birth family—and, for the life of her, Belle couldn’t imagine why she would want to—there would be no connection.
Ivo could help…
The tempting little voice whispered in her ear. He would have contacts…
She shut it out, filled in the online form with all the details she had. If that produced no results, there were agencies that specialised in helping to trace adopted family members.
She’d give it a week before she went down that route. Right now, she had a more pressing concern. She had to call her hairdresser and grovel.
‘Eeuw…’ George, her stylist, a man who understood a hair emergency when he saw it, picked up a dry blonde strand to examine its split ends and shuddered. ‘I knew it was going to be bad but really, Belle, this is shocking. What have you being doing to it?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I suppose that would explain it. I hope you haven’t got any plans for the rest of the day. It’s going to need a conditioning treatment, colour—’
‘I want you to cut it,’ Belle said, before he could get into his stride.
‘Well, obviously. These ends will have to go.’
‘No. Cut it. Short. And let’s lose the platinum blonde, um? Go for something nearer my real colour.’
‘Oh, right. And can you remember what that is?’ he asked, arching a brow at her in the mirror.
Vaguely. She’d started off white blonde, like her sister, but her own hair had darkened as she’d got older. She’d reversed the process as soon as she’d discovered the hair colouring aisle in the supermarket, but if she was going for ‘real’, her hair was as good a place as any to start.
‘Cheerful mouse?’ she offered.
‘An interesting concept, darling. Somehow I don’t think it will catch on.’ Then, having examined her roots, presumably to check for himself, he said, ‘Have you cleared this with your image consultant? Your agent?’ When she didn’t respond, ‘Your husband?’
The mention of Ivo brought a lump to her throat.
She fought it down.
It was her hair, her image, her life and, by way of answer, she leaned forward, picked up a pair of scissors lying on the ledge in front of her, extended a lock of hair and, before George could stop her, she cut through it, just below her ear. Then, still holding the scissors, she said, ‘Do you want to finish it or shall I?’
CHAPTER THREE
SHOPPING was not Belle’s usual method of displacement activity, but when she’d finally woken on Sunday the reality of what she’d done, of being alone—not just alone in her bed but alone for ever—had suddenly hit home and the day seemed to stretch like a desert ahead of her.
Finding herself sitting at her computer, waiting for an email with news of Daisy, leaping on an incoming message, only to discover it was some unspeakably vile spam, she forced herself to move.
She didn’t know how the Adoption Register worked, but it was the weekend and it seemed unlikely she’d hear from anyone before the middle of the week at the earliest. More likely the middle of next month.
For the moment there was nothing more she could do and, besides, she had a much more immediate problem. She had nothing to wear for work on Monday.
Clearly, she rationalized, the sensible thing would be to call Ivo and arrange to go and pick up at least part of her wardrobe. She had a new pale pink suit that would show off her tan, look great with her new hair colouring. And she had to have shoes. There were a hundred things…
Or maybe just one.
Last night she’d felt so utterly alone. She had yearned for that brief flare of passion in Ivo’s eyes. To know that there was one person in the world who needed her, if only for a moment.
Pathetic.
But if she went back today, if he launched another attack on her senses when she was at her lowest, she suspected she would not be strong enough to resist. And what then?
If, by some miracle, she found Daisy, she would be torn in two. She would have to deny Daisy a second time or tell him everything. Tell him that, far from being up front and honest with him, she had lied and lied and lied. That he didn’t know the woman he’d married.
And she’d lose him all over again.
At least this way she retained some dignity, the possibility that if, when, the truth came out, he would—maybe—understand. Be grateful for the distance. Even be happy for her.
Which was all very well and noble, but it still left her with the problem of what she was going to wear tomorrow.
Since she needed to get out of the flat before she succumbed to temptation, she dealt with both problems in one stroke and called a taxi—no more chauffeur on tap—and took herself off to one of the vast shopping outlets that had sprung up around London and lost herself among the crowds.
She had been told often enough that the golden rule was to change your hair or change your clothes but not both at the same time. As she flipped through the racks of clothes, she ignored it. She was done with living by other people’s rules.
She fell in love with an eau-de-nil semi-tailored jacket. Exactly the kind of thing her style ‘guru’ had warned her not to wear. She wasn’t tall enough or thin enough to carry it off, apparently. On the contrary, she barely made five and a half feet and her figure was of the old-fashioned hourglass shape. But all that cycling had at least had one good outcome—she was trimmer all over. And with her hair cut short she felt taller.
She lifted the collar, pushed up the sleeves and was rewarded with a smile from the saleswoman.
‘That looks great on you.’ Then, ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you look a lot like Belle Davenport?’
‘No,’ she said truthfully. Then, ‘She wouldn’t wear something like this, would she?’
‘No, but you’re thinner than her. And taller.’
Belle grinned. ‘You think so? They do say that television adds ten pounds.’
‘Trust me, you look fabulous.’
She felt fabulous, but she was so accustomed to listening to advice that she had little confidence in her own judgement. But the other jackets—neat, waist-hugging ‘Belle Davenport’ style jackets in pastel colours—that she’d tried were more expensive, so the woman had no incentive to lie.
‘Thank
