no one you’d know,’ said Regan vaguely, not about to confess that she didn’t know either. For all her funloving personality, Saleena had a tendency to be a little overprotective where Regan was concerned, perceptive enough to realise what a culture shock it had been for her to move from a ritzy house in the suburbs to a cramped inner-city flat with two gregarious bachelorettes.
‘OK. Have a good time.’ No one could claim that Saleena Patel couldn’t take a subtle hint to mind her own business. She flashed a cheerful smile. ‘Did Lisa at least do the food shopping for tonight, do you know?’
‘No, but after I listened to her message I went and got a few things down the road.’ Regan was halfway out of the door before she recognised a serious flaw in her plan. She hurried back to find Saleena in the kitchen, unpacking the small plastic shopping bag that Regan had left on the bench-top.
‘By the way, if Cleo asks, tell her not to worry—everything’s sorted out as far as Derek’s concerned and she can forget all about it, because the whole thing was apparently all off anyway…’
‘What thing?’ Saleena asked, opening a packet of dry pasta, and when Regan’s face pinkened betrayingly she grinned and rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, one of Derek’s high-flying pals was supposed to be in town looking for some action, huh? No wonder Cleo’s yowling so loud in there—she thinks she’s missing out on her next jewellery fix!’
‘You know about that?’
‘Sure,’ Saleena admitted casually, snacking on a brittle strand of spaghetti. ‘She even tried to get me interested in joining Derek’s swinging circle at one stage, but I told her I’d rather choose my own partners, thanks…’
Saleena was so blasé in her acceptance that Regan was once more made aware of her embarrassing naivety. What had been a shock to her was already common knowledge to her flatmates, and probably most of their friends. None of them was married, and all of them seemed to be sexually active, so doubtless they didn’t see anything so shocking in Cleo’s behaviour.
Regan contrived to act blasé now, as Pierre ushered her further into the huge, fan-shaped living space dominated by a wraparound view of the city skyline. Soft up-lights on the smooth walls and on slender free-standing lamp-bases revealed a room that was a symphony of delicate colour—subtle, warm hues blended and contrasted to present an impression of exquisite harmony. Outside the full-length windows, the wide, sweeping curve of a marble ledge echoed the various curves within—the round support pillars, the round marble coffee table centred between two long, half-round couches in blush-coloured leather and the semi-circular padded chairs dotted about the room, facing the fanned-out city. Away to one end, a few more steps led up to a raised dining area with a huge oval wooden table, and beyond that, presumably, to the kitchen. At the other end of the room was a curving corridor whose even subtler lighting suggested…the bedrooms?
Regan hastily turned her head, forcing herself to concentrate on the main room.
‘It’s beautiful!’ she murmured, and then was annoyed with herself for sounding awed. A sophisticated woman of the world would take such beauty for granted. Knowing Cleo, the first thing she would have done was demand an ashtray! ‘Monsieur has impeccable taste,’ she added, with a suggestion of dry mockery.
‘Merci.’ Pierre shifted his bandy legs, clicking his polished black heels and inclining his head. ‘This is a corporate apartment, used by many executives, so it must fulfil many functions. It was I who hired the interior designer and advised on and approved her designs, as well as supervising the physical decorating work.’
‘You!’ This time her jaw did drop at the idea of this ugly little man helping create such beauty.
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ he replied modestly, unoffended.
Tell me about it! thought Regan evilly, her hand spasming on her purse as another spurt of anger shot through her veins. Michael had been blessed with sunny good looks—blond hair, boyish features, guileless blue eyes, and a white smile that predicated a charmingly frank and open manner.
Who would have believed that behind that golden façade had been a lying tongue and a cheating black heart—a man without honour? Not Regan. Right up to the night that Michael had wrapped his precious BMW status symbol around a tree she had believed that they had a secure and happy marriage, with only minor problems to cloud their shared contentment. She had admired her husband’s dedication to work and respected his ambition to succeed. Only after he had died and the huge, unexpected bills had started to roll in had she begun to re-examine her former contentment, and come to realise that her willingness to overlook the flaws in their relationship had played right into Michael’s cheating hands.
Over the following months, as the mess his lies had created had grown to staggering proportions, she had gradually been forced to the painful conclusion that, to all intents and purposes, she had been sleeping with a stranger for the four years of their marriage!
So what she was going to do tonight was not so very different after all, she thought bitterly, as she watched Pierre begin to put his personal orders into action.
He moved across to open the curved doors of a teak cabinet, revealing a wide-screen television and the most complex stereo system that Regan had ever seen. Concealed in a false support pillar next to the cabinet were racks of video tapes and CDs, arranged with alphabetical precision. Pierre settled her on one of the demi-couches with the remote controls and furnished her with a vodka and tonic with a twist of lime in a chilled crystal glass, setting it down on a round side-table on top of a deftly folded cocktail napkin. He told her that the bathroom was down the curving corridor to her right and if she had a question, or required a refill for her drink, she could summon Pierre merely by pressing one of the hidden buttons strategically placed around the room, or she could help herself from the superlatively stocked bar which opened out from yet another mock-pillar.
Left alone, Regan drank her vodka quickly, in the hope that it might help her to relax. Except for warming the pit of her belly it didn’t seem to have any appreciable effect, so she guiltily fixed herself another, embarrassed at the idea of summoning Pierre back so soon…he might think he had a rampant alcoholic on his hands!
Sipping more slowly, she ignored the television and chose a CD of smoky ballads from the wonderfully eclectic selection of music, and after a bit of clumsy experimentation managed to get the remote control to set the volume and balance at the perfect level for her position in the room. As she lounged back on the feather-soft couch in her splendid isolation she reflected that she could get used to being ultra-rich!
The most difficult part about flatting was the lack of privacy. As an only child Regan had been closely monitored by her over-strict mother, but Michael had worked such long hours—or at least, he had said that he was working—that during her marriage she had got used to the quiet freedom of having the whole house to herself for hours on end. In the flat there seemed to be a constant flow of visitors and phone calls and emotional upheavals, accompanied by the loud, head-banging music that Lisa adored.
However, all the activity did serve as a welcome distractionfrom her own weighty problems, Regan acknowledged. And although Lisa and Saleena outstripped her in street-smarts, Regan was the one they turned to when they wanted down-to-earth advice on practical matters—like how to get a pizza stain out of a silk camisole or how to fill in their tax returns. Because she had studied law, she was a valuable source of information for friends who had disputes with their landlords or whose sleazy boyfriends had stashed a joint in their handbags. It didn’t matter to them that Regan had dropped out of her degree the previous semester, a year before she was due to graduate, it only mattered that her informed opinion
