in town?’ Marianne said now. ‘Can we meet up for lunch or something?’
‘Great. Do you want me to come round to the apartment?’ Pat asked briskly.
Marianne glanced round the suffocatingly exquisite interior and shut her eyes tightly for a second before she said, ‘No, we’ll eat out. My treat. There’s a great little French place a few blocks away: Rochelle’s, in St Martin’s Street. I’ll meet you there at twelve if that’s okay?’
‘Terrific. See you then. And, Annie—?’
‘Yes?’ she asked carefully.
‘Are you all right?’
Marianne took a deep breath and said quietly, ‘No, no I’m not all right, Pat.’
‘Didn’t think you were. Twelve, then.’ And in characteristic fashion the phone went dead.
Oh, Pat. Marianne replaced the receiver and stood staring at the telephone for some moments as a great flood of relief and expectation swept through her. She hadn’t realised just how much she needed Pat’s down-to-earth common sense and no-frills approach to life until this very second, but now she couldn’t wait to see her.
She glanced at the small gold wristwatch Zeke had given her for her twenty-first birthday, a few months after she had married him. Eight o’clock. Four hours to go. But suddenly the day which had stretched endlessly in front of her just minutes before had been transformed.
A long, hot soak in the bath. Marianne nodded to the thought, and, leaving the breakfast table just as it was, walked through to one of the two guest bedrooms which both had their own en suites.
She rarely used the master bedroom’s en suite—even though it boasted an Olympian Jacuzzi bath—unless Zeke was around, and then she only did it to avoid yet another row. She couldn’t quite explain it, but the flamboyant, lavish black-and-silver bathroom always seemed to emphasise everything that was wrong in their marriage and just how far they had grown apart in two years.
She was still in her silk nightie and négligé, and now she discarded the flimsy wisps of material on the floor as she ran herself a bath liberally doused with expensive oils.
Once in the warm, silky water she lay back with a soft sigh, and for the first time in months allowed her mind to drift back to how it had been when she had first told Pat about Zeke. In spite of the direness of her present situation a small smile played round her mouth as she recalled Pat’s words.
‘And all this has happened in the eight weeks I’ve been in Canada?’ Pat’s voice had been distinctly miffed. ‘But nothing ever happens in Bridgeton, Annie.’
‘What can I say?’ She’d been smiling as she’d taken in her friend’s woebegone face. ‘He came, he saw, he conquered. Zeke’s like that.’
‘And he’s rich and good-looking?’ It had been almost a wail. ‘Tell me he’s got a brother, please.’
‘Oh, Pat.’ She had been openly laughing, but as she’d stared into the pretty face of her best friend—the girl she’d grown up with and who lived just a few hundred yards away—she’d admitted to a secret feeling of amazement herself.
That Zeke Buchanan, millionaire property developer and entrepreneur extraordinaire, should have fallen in love with her was something fairy tales were made of. And it had all happened so quickly.
She’d glanced down at the enormous cluster of diamonds on the third finger of her left hand and felt the same giddy rush of excitement as when Zeke had placed it there seven days before.
A whirlwind romance. Everyone, everyone was talking about it—the whole village had been agog that a girl from their little backwater should have caught a big fish from the capital. But she had. He loved her and she loved him, more than life itself.
She’d raised misty eyes to Pat’s fascinated face as her friend had said, ‘I want to hear every little morsel, all right? From the first time you laid eyes on him until he put that great whopper of a ring on your finger. Everything, mind! There was little old me thinking I was having a good time in Canada when instead it was all happening at home! I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. That’ll teach me to go camping in the mountains for weeks on end—the most I saw was a moose and the rear end of a bear.’
‘But you did have a good time?’
‘I thought I had.’ Pat’s face had been comical. ‘But compared to you… So, come on, spill the beans.’
‘There isn’t really much to tell.’ They had been standing on the doorstep of her father’s rambling old house, and she had drawn Pat into the hall before leading the way through to the large country kitchen at the back of the aged property. There she had said, ‘Zeke came to have a look at that land on the outskirts of the village, Farnon’s Farm, that’s been designated for housing and a new school and so on. He was driving through the main street—in his Ferrari,’ she’d added as she turned round from putting the kettle on and dimpled at Pat, who’d given an envious groan, ‘when he saw me leaving the village shop.’
‘And?’
Marianne had turned back to fix the coffee tray and Pat had grabbed hold of her arms as she’d said, ‘Leave the flipping coffee, for goodness’ sake, Annie, and tell me!’ determinedly pushing her down in one of the straight-backed chairs placed neatly round the huge old kitchen table.
‘And he stopped and introduced himself and we chatted for a while, and then he asked me out to dinner that night,’ Marianne had said matter-of-factly, clasping her hands together in her lap. ‘And then we just started seeing each other.’
And she had been transported into another realm, another dimension, a place where even the most ordinary, mundane aspects of living took on a thrilling quality because Zeke loved her.
‘You jammy, jammy thing.’ Pat had exhaled very slowly. ‘But I have to say if anyone deserves a decent break it’s you, Annie. There’s not many girls with your intelligence and looks that would have given up the chance of university and spreading their wings to keep house for their father, not to mention taking on the job as general dogsbody at the surgery.’
‘It’s not like that. I enjoy what I do,’ Marianne had responded quickly as she’d stood up to make the coffee.
‘Hmph!’ The exclamation had said it all.
The two girls had been bosom friends from when they could toddle, and the fact that they were both only children and their birthdays were just days apart had meant they had tackled all the important childhood milestones together.
Nursery school, big school, youth club—the two of them had braved each one hand in hand, and Pat, more than anyone else in the world, knew how hard it had been when Marianne’s beloved mother had died horribly suddenly of a brain haemorrhage just as Marianne had been set to leave for university two years before.
Josh Kirby, Marianne’s father, had been devastated, and she had had to bear the added weight of seeing her normally cool and composed doctor father go to pieces on top of her own consuming grief.
Marianne’s mother had been receptionist, secretary and—as Pat had pointed out—general dogsbody in Josh’s small but busy surgery, which
