sat back in her seat, and gave him a straight look. ‘I presume that’s not the royal “we” you were using there? That you’re quoting your father?’
‘Naturally it’s been discussed.’
She bit her lip. ‘Jeremy—the wedding may have got away from us, but this is our marriage, and you must make him see that.’ Her voice deepened in intensity. ‘I have no intention of letting you down, or failing to provide you with the support you need in your career. All I ask is that you do the same for me. Is that so very hard?’
There was a silence, then he said, ‘I suppose—not when you put it like that. I’ll talk to Dad again. Which reminds me …’ He glanced at his watch and pulled a face. ‘I should be going. I’m due to meet him with some people at The Ivy.’
He paused. ‘Sure you won’t come with me? It’s no problem.’
Maddie got to her feet, forcing a smile as she indicated the slim-fitting jeans and white shirt she was wearing. ‘Except I’m not dressed for dinner at a top restaurant, which might create its own difficulty. Another time, darling.’
‘So what will you do?’ He sounded anxious.
She shrugged on her navy and white checked jacket and reached for her canvas shoulder bag. ‘Oh—have a girlie night in, washing my hair, giving myself a manicure.’
And I have just told my fiancé, the man I love, my first deliberate lie. Because actually, I’m going back to the office to do some more work on Floria Bartrando, but I doubt it would be politic to say so at this juncture.
Jeremy pulled her to him and kissed her. ‘We mustn’t fight,’ he muttered. ‘We can work things out. I know it.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course we can.’ And kissed him back.
Outside the wine bar, she watched him hail a cab, then waved goodbye before beginning to walk slowly back towards the street where the Athene television production company was based.
She supposed that the recent confrontation had been inevitable, but knowing that made it no easier to handle. Somehow, she had to convince Jeremy that she could succeed as a working wife, a task handicapped from the outset by his father’s forthright and openly expressed opinions to the contrary.
Maddie had known the Sylvesters pretty much all her life. Beth Sylvester, an old school friend of her mother, had been her godmother, and, as a child, Maddie had spent part of every summer at Fallowdene, the Sylvesters’ big country house.
It had always seemed idyllic to her, but in retrospect she could see there’d been undercurrents which she’d been too young to pick up.
But somehow she’d known instinctively from the first that while her godmother would always be ‘Aunt Beth’, her husband would remain ‘Mr Sylvester’ and never become ‘Uncle Nigel’.
Fallowdene was not in itself a beautiful house, yet to Maddie it had always seemed an enchanted place, especially when Jeremy, the Sylvesters’ only son, seven years her senior and light years older in every way, was there to be shadowed adoringly.
But she’d never allowed him to get away with any implication that they’d been childhood sweethearts.
‘Arrant nonsense,’ she’d teased, the first time it was mentioned. ‘You thought I was a total pain in the neck, and went out of your way to ignore me.’
‘But I’ve made up for it since,’ he’d whispered, drawing her close. ‘Admit it.’
Yet her most abiding memories were not of Jeremy at all, even though her initial crush had lasted well into her early teens.
What she recalled very vividly was the way the atmosphere of the house underwent a subtle change when Nigel Sylvester came home.
He was a man of just above medium height, who somehow gave the impression of being much taller. He had gone prematurely grey in his late twenties, or so Jeremy had told her, adding glumly, ‘I hope it doesn’t happen to me.’
Maddie had stroked his cheek, smiling. ‘You’d look extremely distinguished.’
But if she was totally honest, she’d always found Nigel Sylvester’s silver hair, which he wore slightly longer than was fashionable and swept straight back from his forehead, to be in odd and disturbing contrast to his curiously smooth, unlined face, and dark brown heavy-lidded eyes.
Nor was it just his appearance that used to unnerve her. His standards were exacting, he missed nothing, and although she had never heard him raise his voice in displeasure, Maddie often thought it would have been better if he had shouted occasionally.
Because, there was something about his quietness which dried Maddie’s throat when he spoke to her, and made her stumble over her words. Not that she ever had too much to say to him. She’d divined fairly soon that her presence at Fallowdene was tolerated by him, rather than welcomed, and tried to keep out of his way.
It wasn’t too difficult. She’d been given the old nursery as her room, and this contained a glass-fronted bookcase, crammed with children’s books by well-known authors in a range that appealed from tots to teens.
At first, when she was very young, Aunt Beth had read them as bedtime stories. Later, she’d been happy to while away solitary hours in their company.
But her happy childhood had been brought to an abrupt and tragic end one terrible winter night when an icy road and a driver who’d drunk too much at an office party had fatally combined to take both her parents from her.
She’d been staying with Aunt Fee, her mother’s younger sister, at the time, and her aunt had immediately assumed charge of her, only to be approached after the funeral by Aunt Beth with an offer to adopt her god-daughter.
But the offer had been refused. Instead Aunt Fee and Uncle Patrick, her big genial husband had been quietly adamant that Maddie belonged with them, and she’d been loved, allowed to grieve then eventually find healing in their comfortable untidy house.
Her visits to Fallowdene, however, continued as before, although the question of adoption was never raised again and, in hindsight, Maddie was sure that Nigel Sylvester had probably opposed the idea from the outset.
She realized since that, although she’d been too young to recognize it at the time, he had represented her first brush with real power.
And she’d often wondered what had persuaded her godmother, with her quiet prettiness and sudden mischievous, enchanting smile, to marry him.
She had been in her first year at university when Aunt Beth died very suddenly in her sleep of a heart attack. She’d attended the funeral with her aunt and uncle and haltingly attempted to express her sorrow to Mr Sylvester, who’d muttered an abrupt word of thanks, then turned away.
And she was realistic enough to know that she would no longer be welcome at Fallowdene.
A week or so later she was astonished to receive a letter from a law firm informing her that Aunt Beth had left her a sum of money substantial enough to get her through her degree course without having to seek a student loan, with an additional bequest of the entire book collection from the nursery, which somehow meant far more than the money.
‘Oh,
