‘“Make me a willow cabin at your gate!”’ Simon quoted under his breath.
Olivia looked round.
‘Arnaud,’ she smiled, crossing the floor with her hand extended, as if she were greeting a stranger. ‘What are you doing here?’
Her lack of reaction disorientated him. She was meant to come running, with that familiar frightened look. Instead she took his arm and moved him firmly into a room covered with photographs of dustbins. And once she’d cordoned him off from the rest of society, she stopped, staring up at him expectantly with her large blue eyes.
Arnaud hadn’t looked at his wife in a while. He didn’t expect her to be so attractive. He was surprised by how young, how slim and compact she was. She was wearing a thin cotton eau-de-Nil Oxford shirt and a pair of mannish black linen trousers, a steel-blue cashmere pullover tied loosely around her waist. It was a casual, artless ensemble and yet oddly sexy. Her shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing a taut forearm and tiny wrists. There was something about a woman’s wrists, he noted; the way they tapered into the hands. He was particularly drawn to her long graceful fingers. Olivia’s flitted towards her neck and his eyes followed. Her shirt was unbuttoned, her neck unadorned. Naturally his gaze wandered to the deep V below her throat where her cleavage began. He wondered if she was wearing a bra, almost hoping she wasn’t. Something within him stirred.
How irritating to find her sexy! It disrupted his plans for the evening. There was a girl half her age preening and plucking herself into oblivion right now in anticipation of his arrival. Also it dulled his anger; he felt exposed, unarmed. Even more upsetting was her serenity.
‘Well?’ She crossed her arms in front of her chest so that her breasts sat firmly on top of them. Was she trying to drive him mad?
‘I wanted to know … the thing is …’ Having come all this way, he was now at a loss. Feeling wrong-footed in any way made him furious and, with the rush of feeling, he recovered himself. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.
‘Working.’
‘Working? Why?’
‘What else am I to do?’
It was an oddly valid point.
‘But it’s late! What about supper?’
‘Are you offering to take me out?’ she countered.
He furrowed his brow in an attempt to look beleaguered and put upon. ‘You know I have to meet with Pollard this evening,’ he lied.
‘Ah, yes,’ she smiled, ‘Pollard.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s meant to mean, “Ah, yes, Pollard.”’ He could feel her concentration going; her eyes scanning the room. ‘At any rate, I’m not hungry. But thank you for thinking of me. Send Pollard my very warmest regards.’
And she strolled away from him, back to where Simon was overseeing the installation of a ten-foot-tall aluminium teddy bear.
Arnaud knew that now was the time to leave; he’d made a fool of himself and a speedy exit was required. But internally he felt himself dig in for the long haul.
He followed her, glaring at Simon (who tried to shake his hand) and sneering at the young artist who was nervously trying to right his ridiculous creation.
‘Pollard and I are involved with some very tricky negotiations,’ he barked, to no one in particular.
Olivia made a small adjustment to the plinth and the teddy bear righted itself.
‘Well done!’ Simon patted her on the back.
‘The Asian market is a nightmare!’ Arnaud continued, trailing after Olivia as she walked into the next room. Suddenly he stopped. ‘Wait a minute.’ He had an odd feeling of déjà vu. ‘This sofa looks like ours … My God! It is ours! This is our furniture!’ He wheeled round. ‘This is our drawing room!’
Olivia was waving to a tiny red-haired girl in the far corner.
‘Yes,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Comes off rather well, doesn’t it?’
‘What?’ he spluttered. ‘Are you mad? What are we meant to sit on at home?’
She sighed. ‘No one ever uses it, Arnaud. And here it’s part of a work of art. I’d like you to meet the artist. Red Moriarty, this is my husband, Arnaud.’
He ignored the girl and pulled Olivia to one side. ‘What’s got into you? I will not have my private home life on show for every snot-nosed student to paw over!’
She shook him loose. ‘It’s going to be reviewed tonight, Arnaud. The art critic from The Times is coming for a sneak preview. Red Moriarty is going to be a household name, if I have anything to do with it. She’s incredibly, uniquely talented!’
That word again! He rolled his eyes.
‘Finally,’ she continued, her voice strained with feeling, ‘I’ve found something worthy of my energy and efforts. This is deeply important to me, Arnaud. And I will not have you destroying what you don’t understand!’
‘Don’t understand? Don’t understand! What do you think I am? An idiot?’
She was silent.
‘Right!’ he raged. ‘That’s it! I’m moving my things out tonight!’
No reaction.
‘This is it!’ He waved his phone in the air. ‘I’m ringing Gaunt right now!’
‘Fine.’
She marched away, heels echoing across the parquet floor, disappearing into the throng of activity in the main gallery. And Arnaud found himself stranded in the middle of his own drawing room which had washed up in Mayfair, complete with some strange girl in it.
He closed his eyes and clenched his fists in rage. Something worthy of her energy and efforts! What was he? Wasn’t he completely worthy of her undivided attention and devotion? How dare she replace him with this … this … ridiculous show!
He rang Gaunt. ‘I want you to move everything of mine out of my bedroom into one of the spare rooms, do you understand? And I mean absolutely everything!’
‘Very good, sir.’
He clicked his phone shut. That would show her!
But instead of feeling back in control, terror took hold.
She was leaving him.
After all his years of devotion!
It wasn’t fair! He was the victim here – of her unstable emotional condition.
He wanted her back; she belonged to him.
But it had to be on his terms. He wasn’t prepared to be dictated to by anyone.
Arnaud
