course,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘There’s always a next time.’
Only there hadn’t been. Ryan had carried out a number of promotional tours since, but she’d been included in none of them, although she could have accompanied him with Louie’s goodwill.
‘You’re a fool,’ her partner had commented when Kate had told her what had happened. ‘If Ryan belonged to me, I wouldn’t let him roam off alone.’
‘He’s not alone,‘ Kate had protested. ‘He has people with him—a publicist, for one.’
‘Male or female?’ Louie had sent her a beady look.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then I’d get to know. I’m only a single woman, but it seems to me like the kind of information a caring wife should have at her fingertips.’ Louie had adjusted her scarlet-rimmed spectacles. She was taller than Kate, and built on more Junoesque lines, with a mop of dark curly hair.
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ Kate had said impatiently. ‘I trust Ryan implicitly.’
Nevertheless, when Ryan got back she’d heard herself asking, ‘How did you get on with the publicist?’
‘Grant?’ Ryan had shaken his head. ‘Nice lad, but I think I was his first author. We carried each other.’
‘Oh,’ Kate had said, despising herself for feeling relieved.
The kettle whistled imperiously, bringing Kate back to the present with a start.
Not exactly the kind of trip down Memory Lane that I wanted, she reflected wryly as she made her coffee.
And it must have been sparked off by her encounter with Peter Henderson. His questions had re-opened several cans of worms which she’d thought closed for ever, and that was vaguely disturbing.
So, she hadn’t wanted Ryan to jettison his City career. She could hardly be blamed for that. But no one was more delighted than herself when the gamble paid off.
We’re both doing what we want. We have a wonderful life, and a strong marriage, she told herself as she made her way back to the living area. Things really couldn’t be better.
There was a small stack of mail beside the telephone, junk and bills by the look of it, she thought, wrinkling her nose as she flicked through the envelopes. There was only one she couldn’t categorise quite so simply. An expensive cream laid envelope, typewritten, and addressed quite starkly to ‘Kate Lassiter’, with a central London postmark.
Kate slit open the envelope and extracted the single sheet of paper it contained.
She unfolded the letter, reaching casually for her coffee cup as she did so.
There was no address, and no greeting. Just two lines in heavy black script. Seven words which leapt off the page at her with a force that left her stunned.
Your husband loves another woman.
A Friend.
CHAPTER TWO
KATE felt totally numb. There was an odd roaring in her ears, while from a distance she heard the tinkle of crockery, and flinched from the scalding splash of liquid on her feet and legs.
She thought detachedly, I’ve dropped my coffee. I ought to get a cloth and clear it up before it stains the floor. I ought . . .
But she couldn’t move. All she could do was read those seven words over and over again, until they danced in front of her eyes, reassembling themselves in strange meaningless patterns.
She felt her fingers curl round the paper, crushing it, reducing it to a tight ball which she threw, violently, as far as her strength allowed.
For a moment she stood, almost absently wiping her hands down the sides of her coffee-stained skirt, then, with a little choking cry, she bolted up to the bathroom where she was briefly and unpleasantly sick.
When the world had stopped revolving, she stripped off her clothes and showered, using water almost hotter than she could bear, as if scouring herself of some physical contamination.
Then she towelled herself dry, and re-dressed in leggings and a tunic.
She seemed to be looking at a ghost, she thought, as she combed her damp hair into shape. A white-faced spectre with shocked, enormous eyes.
Downstairs, she fetched a dustpan and cleaning materials, and set about cleaning up the spilled coffee, almost relishing the physical effort required to scrub at the stained floorboards. The cream rug was marked too, she noticed, frowning, and that would have to go to a specialist cleaning firm.
She stopped right there, with a tiny gasp. Her marriage was in ruins, and she was worrying about a bloody rug?
She knelt staring into space, aware of a deep inner trembling. Knowing that it was composed equally of anger and fear.
Heard her voice, hoarse and shaken, say, ‘It’s not true. It can’t be true, or I’d have known. I’d have sensed something, surely. It’s just a piece of random filth. Someone who hates us. Who’s jealous of our happiness.’
The conclusion made her flesh crawl, but it was infinitely preferable to any other possibility, she realised, grimacing painfully.
She got to her feet, and took the china fragments into the kitchen for disposal. The champagne bottle in the wastebin jarred her. Before she could stop herself, she was standing by the sink, lifting the flutes to the sunlight, studying them minutely for any tell-tale signs of lipstick.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, she derided herself. Don’t let someone’s malice turn you paranoid.
She put the glasses away, emptied the wastebin, and cleaned it meticulously. Then she deliberately made herself another cup of coffee, and carried it through to the living area, seating herself on one of the cream and maize striped sofas.
Normally, the panorama of the river fascinated her, the boats, the buildings which crowded the banks, the play of light on the water. Now, she gazed at it unseeingly, her mind running in aching circles, as she drank her coffee. It burned all the way down, but the inner chill remained.
She thought, I don’t want this to have happened. I want everything back the way it was before . . .
In some ways, she wished she hadn’t come home. That she’d accepted Peter Henderson’s offer and stayed for dinner in Gloucestershire.
But that would have made no difference. The letter would still have been there, awaiting her eventual return.
She needed to find some way to deal with the situation. Work out some plan of action. Yet she felt totally at a loss.
She could always go for straight confrontation, she acknowledged, frowning. Just hand Ryan the letter and watch his reaction.
She put down the empty cup, and retrieved the crumpled ball of paper from its corner, endeavouring to smooth out the creases.
