by Jill Mansell
Piers had observed the marriages of his peers and known that his father was right. Those of his male friends who had tied the knot with beautiful, sparky, witty girls were either divorced within a couple of years or suffering all kinds of difficulties, whereas the few who had made sensible matches seemed far more content. A good wife was a definite asset, and besides, there were always plenty of less suitable girls eager to supply excitement when it was needed.
Juliet was perfect marriage material, and he had never, until now, regretted making her his wife.
Until now.
Until he had met Camilla, who was, in his eyes, perfect in every way. Beautiful, capable, sexy, and a devoted mother, she encompassed all the best qualities of both kinds of women, and since meeting her, he had been unable to prevent himself comparing her with Juliet. Juliet wore clothes that didn’t suit her. She seldom bothered with makeup, no longer shaved her legs, and hadn’t been to a hairdresser for months. She had put on about fifteen pounds in the past year. She could carry on a conversation about which he would later remember nothing. She never joked, or teased, or giggled.
And in three years, those good childbearing hips had failed to fulfill their promise.
Chapter Fifty-Five
“You’re married,” said Camilla, and he saw the pain and anger in her eyes, heard it in her low voice, and felt his own happiness begin to crumble. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t…
“Separated,” he corrected easily, while his mind raced on ahead. How had she found out? Laura knew, of course, but she and Christo were still away on their honeymoon. “My wife and I are separated, darling. Surely that doesn’t bother you?”
Camilla, searching his face for the truth, shook her head. Unable to remain sitting, she jumped up and began pacing the room with halting, uneven steps. “You told me you were divorced. It was a lie. And now I don’t think you’re even separated…” She hesitated; that wasn’t what she had meant to say. She knew—didn’t she—that he was still living with his wife?
The significance of that brief hesitation wasn’t lost on Piers. He decided to bluff it out. Assuming control, he said bluntly, “Well, you’ve been misinformed. Camilla, maybe I was wrong to tell you that I was already divorced, but my wife and I have been living apart for so long that I feel divorced. It simply didn’t occur to me that you’d react like this, and as for thinking that I might not even be separated…well, if that’s what you think, then maybe there’s no point in our seeing each other again. If we don’t have trust, what do we have?”
He saw her weaken. “But…”
“Tell me,” he demanded more gently, “why you think that. The explanation will be so simple you’ll wonder why you ever even let it concern you.”
Please God, he thought in desperation, let it be something he could explain. He couldn’t lose Camilla, couldn’t bear to even contemplate the possibility.
In reply, she nodded toward the walnut table beside the sofa upon which he sat. Following her gaze, Piers saw his wedding ring and almost laughed with relief.
“Darling, I was married! I haven’t worn that for almost a year. Where on earth did you find it?”
“Marty. He was in your car. You know what a magpie he is.” But she sounded only fractionally less tense, and Piers, realizing that more was to come, braced himself.
“Last night, Loulou phoned your house in Bath and spoke to your wife,” she said slowly. “She asked to speak to you, and your wife said you weren’t at home at the moment.”
The emphasis on the last three words was unmistakable, but Piers was gaining in confidence now. He smiled and relaxed, rising to his feet and taking Camilla’s cold hands in his own warm ones. “My darling,” he said tenderly, “is that what’s got you into this state? Of course Juliet said that; she always says that when she’s alone in the house. I was the one who explained to her how burglars—and worse—operate. A woman alone is in a vulnerable position, but if she makes it sound as though her husband’s due home at any moment, they’ll certainly think twice before paying a visit. And if you don’t do the same,” he added seriously, stroking her wrists as he spoke, “then you certainly should. There are some pretty nasty people out there, you know.”
“Oh, Piers,” sighed Camilla, burying her face against his shoulder so he wouldn’t see her tears of relief and swallowing hard as his hold tightened. “You were right, there was a simple explanation, and I’m just so glad…”
Triumphant, and equally relieved that for now at least he had successfully quashed her doubts, Piers kissed her damp cheeks and realized how very fond of Camilla he was in danger of becoming. If he was honest, it had already happened, and if he had been the forward-planning kind, he would be thinking ahead to what might happen in the weeks to come.
But he never did plan ahead, instead allowing each day to spring its surprises. Less than a week ago, it had sprung Camilla into his life, after all. He would cope with the next problem when it arose and meanwhile enjoy what he already had.
“I have to be in the office by nine thirty tomorrow,” he said, his lips moving to her earlobe and then to the sensitive area below it. “But I could stay here with you tonight if you like and drive back early in the morning.”
“I do like,” murmured Camilla, winding her arms around his neck and giving him her most irresistible smile. “I’d like that very much indeed.”
* * *
Sitting bolt upright at the kitchen table, clutching a mug of tea that was no longer even vaguely warm, Juliet continued to stare at the clock on the wall. Nine o’clock. Thank goodness she had had the foresight to take the phone off the hook—the thought of having to listen to one of Piers’s rambling, convoluted excuses was more than she could stomach.
Glancing around at the pristine beige-and-white kitchen, every surface gleaming, not so much as a teaspoon out of place, she wondered what more Piers could possibly want of her. Did he even begin to realize the extent of the torture she suffered each time he “amused” himself with another woman?
Deep down, however, she knew he was aware that she knew. That was what hurt more than anything else. She was supposed to be grateful to him for being discreet and accept the situation with ladylike good grace, silently acknowledging it as a necessary part of their life together. It was the done thing, apparently; men had affairs and their wives arranged flowers.
As the thought rattled through her mind, Juliet’s gaze fell upon the bowl of flowers adorning the Welsh dresser. Their heady scent mingled with the dusty aroma of potpourri and the more clinical odor of Ajax floor cleaner. In a frenzy of hyperactivity, she had risen at five thirty and scrubbed the already gleaming quarry tiles on her hands and knees.
The house was perfect, and Piers hadn’t come home.
But this time, thought Juliet with bitter triumph, this time she knew where he was.
Pushing back her chair so its legs grated raucously against the scrubbed stone floor, destroying the oppressive silence, she crossed to the dresser and selected a medium-sized, bone-handled knife from the top, left-hand drawer.
Then, with systematic thoroughness, she beheaded each of the flowers, scattering them on the floor she had scrubbed so thoroughly earlier.
So men had affairs and their wives arranged flowers, she thought idly, staring at the scattered petals and running the blade of the knife experimentally across her hand. Well, this wife had arranged flowers for long enough.
* * *
Surfacing slowly, unraveling her legs from the tangled duvet and savoring its seductive warmth, Camilla half opened her eyes and realized that she was smiling. The memory of last night had stayed with her in sleep; when Piers had left at six thirty he had taken her into his arms and kissed her with such spine-tingling tenderness that she had been tempted to pull him straight back into bed.
“I know,” he had murmured in her ear. “I don’t want to leave either.”
/> “It isn’t fair on you,” she said, stroking his just-shaved cheek and breathing in the soap and shampoo smell of him. Then shyly, she had added, “When the children are staying with Jack, I could always come down to Bath.”
His dark eyes had softened with affection. “I’ll hold you to that.”
When Camilla eventually trailed downstairs, she spotted the note Loulou had propped up against one of last night’s empty champagne bottles. Ostensibly from Lili, it said:
Rocky and I have taken Mum off to the zoo. She’s borrowed your yellow jacket. Looks to me as if she’s tarted herself up in the hope of catching a man. I told her she was far too old for that sort of thing. Anyway, I’ll bring her back at about five. Love, Lili. PS Hope you had a good bonk.
Camilla grinned and switched on the radio. One of Nico’s songs was playing, a slow and sensual track from his last album, and just for a moment, she forgot Piers, remembering instead the happy times she and Nico had shared. Her feelings for him, she realized with a pang of regret, were still as strong as ever, but nothing could have come of them. He was married and Piers was free. Once more, at last, life truly seemed worth living, and she wasn’t going to waste a single moment of it by regretting what could never be.
And since Charlotte and Toby were away for the next few days staying with Jack’s parents in Shropshire, Camilla decided with renewed vigor to drive over to the hospital and pick up Marty. It was simply too good a day to spend alone.
* * *
Nico, making his way back to the bungalow at around eight o’clock, reflected that he was doing so with little pleasure and a depressing sense of duty. Since Jake had mentioned to him this morning that Caroline had been talking to Susie, and that Caroline was “slightly pissed off” by the number of hours he was putting in at the studio, his conscience had continued to nudge him. When the rest of the band had left its cool confines shortly after six, he had planned to stay on as he usually did, but the thought of Caroline sitting alone inside the bungalow steadily prodded away at his conscience. Eventually he had called it a day and left. He would do the decent thing and take her out to dinner; then he would at least be able to reason to himself that he had made the effort.
Jesus, he thought despairingly as he kicked at the sand beneath his feet and watched his lengthening shadow move steadily along ahead of him, why did it have to be an effort? Why couldn’t he be like Jake with Susie, deliriously happy and so relaxed in each other’s company that it never even crossed their minds not to be together?
But I could be like that, he thought with a trace of resentment as the glaring white bungalow, flanked by spindly palm trees and thickly banked scarlet hibiscus bushes, came into view. I could be like that. With Camilla.
Having made every effort not to think about her since leaving London, the full force of his loss now struck him with savage suddenness. If it could really be termed a loss, of course. But seeing Camilla again in London, feeling that they were finally coming together once more after so long apart, and then her refusal to meet him or even contact him the very day before he was due to leave had shattered his hopes more brutally than he had imagined possible. The sense of loss was for something exquisite and fragile, so fragile that it had scarcely even existed.
And now it was gone, but he couldn’t accept that it would be gone forever. If he worked hard, he could rebuild it, surely. Maybe a jokey postcard to begin with. Something light and unimportant to re-establish that slender, delicate link between them…
Cheered by the idea, Nico ran up the steps onto the verandah. A scarlet towel, hanging over the back of a chair, flapped gently in the sea breeze, and a half-empty jug of something-and-orange was gathering flies on the low cane table.
Inside, there was no sign of Caroline. Nico paused for a few seconds, gazing around the bedroom that had been tidied to perfection by one of the cheerful maids. He considered calling on Paddy, persuading him to join him up at the hotel for a drink, then decided against it. He would go alone, pick up some postcards, and dream up a witty and suitably casual message for Camilla. God knows, even that would give him more pleasure than having to pretend to enjoy the company of his wife over dinner.
* * *
When the cab finally drew up outside the house, Juliet sat without moving for a while, rechecking that the number tallied with that written on the scrap of paper in her hand.
This was it, then. This was where the woman lived, and there was her car parked on the graveled driveway. So Camilla Lewis had money, did she? And plenty of it. What else, wondered Juliet, did Camilla have that other women like herself didn’t?
The urge to see what Piers’s mistress looked like was almost overwhelming now. Paying off the cab driver and adjusting her gray suit jacket as she stepped onto the pavement, she couldn’t help smiling. This was what she had wanted to do so many times before, and now it was really happening. The man she had hired from the detective agency had obtained the information so much more easily than she had imagined…and now she was really here. Instead of sitting at home crying, she was doing something about it. The others may have gotten away with it in the past, but Camilla Lewis wasn’t going to.
When Camilla answered the front doorbell, she assumed at first that the woman in the flannel suit, American-tan panty hose, and sensible, low-heeled shoes was collecting for some charity or other. She was already reaching for her handbag, which stood on the hall table, when the woman said in a strangely panicky voice, “May I come in, please? It’s very important.”
Automatically, sensing the urgency in her voice, Camilla stepped back into the hall. Maybe there had been some kind of accident in the street…
The woman closed the door quietly behind her, and Camilla hesitated, experiencing the first pangs of misgiving as she found herself being stared at with peculiar intensity. The woman was plump, with straight, very shiny brown hair and gray eyes that seemed to be drinking in every detail. Then her gaze switched abruptly to the hall itself, observing the toys that littered the floor and the bizarre flower arrangements on the carved oak dresser beneath the curving staircase. Was this, then, what Piers longed for—not perfectly arranged cultivated flowers but dandelions, thrust ludicrously into heavy silver bowls?
“What was it you wanted?” Camilla inquired politely, feeling terribly English and wondering if the woman had some kind of psychiatric problem. She could hardly be a burglar, after all.
“Wanted? What do I want?” echoed Juliet, sounding faintly surprised and glancing once more with evident disapproval at the jumble of toys on the parquet floor. So she had a child—a very young child, judging by the toys and the dandelions—and possibly a husband as well. Some women, it seemed, wanted it all: a husband, children, and a lover with which to enliven their pampered lives…
She was beautiful, as Juliet had expected, although slightly older than she’d imagined.
But still, inescapably beautiful. Glamorous, too, in an obviously expensive white dress, with gold chains around her neck and glittering diamond studs in her ears. Her eyes were a dazzling peacock blue, her streaky gold-blond hair fastened up with gold combs. No doubt her child was equally perfect…
“I’ve come to see you,” she said at last, walking past Camilla into the sitting room and clutching her handbag tightly in both hands. “You see, my name is Juliet O’Donoghue.”
“Juliet…?” For about a tenth of a second, Camilla was confused. Then it all became horribly, sickeningly clear. “You’re his wife.” It came out as a statement rather than the question she had intended, and Juliet’s eyes narrowed with anger. Feeling ill and frozen to the spot with horror, Camilla said, “I’m so sorry. I swear I didn’t know. Really.”
“Really?” echoed Juliet, pacing the sitting room and surveying it as thoroughly as she had the hall. An empty coffee cup balanced on the edge of the mantelpiece, more toys littered the floor, scribbled-on paper and uncapped felt pens covered the co
ffee table… The woman was a slut, no doubt far too busy conducting her illicit affairs to have time for a few hours’ honest housework.
She might be beautiful, considered Juliet almost pityingly now, and she might live in a big house in Belgravia, but when it came down to it, she was still nothing but a slut.
And a lying one too.
“I am a decent person, Mrs. Lewis,” she said aloud, marveling at the steadiness of her voice as she turned to face her once more. “A decent woman, and an excellent wife. Look at me,” she added sharply as Camilla bowed her head in distress. “Why should Piers keep on doing this? He punishes me when I’ve done nothing to deserve it. When really I should be punishing him…”
“I’ll never see him again,” said Camilla rapidly, her heart hammering against her chest, her face pale. “And please listen to me: I know how you must feel. I understand—”
“You do not understand,” snapped Juliet, still clutching her handbag against her stomach. “How can you possibly understand how I feel? Just look at you. You have everything and you don’t even realize how lucky you are, because if you did, you wouldn’t want my husband as well. You have children.” She nodded jerkily at the clutter of toys. “And I’m sure they’re just as perfect as you are. Your husband—he’s got to be better than Piers, for God’s sake. He certainly can’t screw around as much as Piers does…”
“I’m sorry,” said Camilla once more, appalled by the entire situation and realizing that she didn’t know how to cope with it.
